The Emperor had been curious at first, simply wanting to hear about the affairs of Minister Zhang’s household, but the longer he listened, the more he felt that Pei Shaohuai’s words carried another meaning entirely.

And so it was, just as he had anticipated — the other grandson had a story too.

Only Pei Shaohuai’s measured, unhurried voice: “The grandson living to the east of the city was even more audacious and lawless. In word he claimed to revere the Minister’s residence as his forebears, and on the surface showed every sign of respect — but in secret he went about stealing, killing, and plundering. Every year at year’s end, the grain from the Minister’s estate would be transported into the capital in cart after cart, passing through the eastern part of the city. This grandson had worked out the whole route, and, trading on the fact that he lived right there in the east, he had conceived a wicked plan. So he was all respectability and good conduct when at the Minister’s residence — but the moment he returned to his village, he changed his face entirely, put on the clothes of a brigand, and took to brigandry. He led his clansmen to lie in ambush specifically along the road that the Minister’s carts must travel, and waylaid Minister Zhang’s grain.”

The Emperor felt more and more that this story was being told about his own situation. He did not grow angry — rather, he sat in thoughtful silence and asked: “Is this truly only the household affairs of the Minister?”

“Your Majesty, it is only Minister Zhang’s household matter.” Pei Shaohuai performed a full bow. “Your subject is fearful of presuming too much. If anything in this account has been improper, he humbly begs Your Majesty’s pardon.”

The Emperor let it pass, and said: “Beloved Official Pei, continue.”

At the side, Eunuch Xiao, who had been listening with rapt attention, had let his whisk slip a few cun from his hand without even noticing.

“By day, Minister Zhang poured out his heart for these people’s benefit, and by night they robbed his grain — truly the most thankless of patrons.” Pei Shaohuai said with a sigh, and went on: “Later, this grandson also colluded with the estate managers and household servants in charge of transporting the grain, forming a faction with them, linking the outside to the inside. Over time, the Minister’s residence — outwardly impressive and stately — was quietly draining away to nothing.”

Pei Shaohuai paused, then continued: “When Your subject visited Minister Zhang, he also heard him speak of another matter. The Minister said that his household was short-staffed, and the purchasing of supplies had long been managed by a few senior stewards, without anyone noticing anything amiss. Then one day in the twelfth month, Lady Zhang, on a whim, asked the kitchen to prepare a bowl of osmanthus lotus-seed soup. She had barely taken a bite when she found that nine out of ten lotus seeds were bitter and unpleasant to eat — clearly inferior goods. After a thorough investigation, it turned out that several of the senior stewards had a monopoly on all the purchasing, buying low-grade goods at reduced prices while recording the price of premium goods in the accounts, pocketing the difference for themselves.”

The way Pei Shaohuai told it, the Minister Zhang’s residence seemed to have problems at every turn.

“No wonder Zhang, Our beloved official, needed half a month’s leave — with distant clan connections trying to take advantage from the outside, one stealing, one plundering, and brazen stewards, estate managers, and household servants causing trouble from within, it truly does need to be set in proper order.” The Emperor’s expression was no longer that of someone listening to an entertaining tale. He sat upright and said gravely.

The Emperor had now understood what Pei Shaohuai’s account was implying. As for Minister Zhang requesting leave to deal with household affairs — that was only a pretense. Zhang Lingyi was the Minister of War — how could he truly allow his own household to fall into such disarray? This was nothing but a pretext arranged in cooperation with Pei Shaohuai, to allow Pei Shaohuai to deliver this veiled memorial.

“Setting it in proper order” was the Emperor’s own position on the matter.

The imperial study was perfectly quiet. The Emperor was still turning things over in his mind. In the bitter cold, the palms of Pei Shaohuai’s hands were faintly damp, waiting for the Emperor to continue his questions.

After a long silence, the Emperor asked: “What does Beloved Official Pei think should be done about the Minister’s household?”

It was the affairs of Minister Zhang’s household — yet the Emperor was asking Pei Shaohuai how to handle them.

Pei Shaohuai’s heart gave a quiet leap of joy. The slight flicker of delight on his face did not escape the Emperor’s notice. The Emperor turned to Eunuch Xiao and remarked lightly: “Xiao Jin, Beloved Official Pei is smiling — does that not suggest that Our question has hit exactly upon what he was hoping for?”

Eunuch Xiao raised his whisk, smiled, and replied: “Your Majesty, it suggests that Official Pei the Compiler is young and upright, and cannot conceal his true feelings before the Son of Heaven.”

Pei Shaohuai started, and quickly said: “Your subject is presumptuous.”

“Beloved Official Pei, there is no need to be alarmed. Please share your thoughts.”

Pei Shaohuai steadied himself. Why had “Minister Zhang” originally taken it upon himself to support the “distant grandsons”? To demonstrate the magnanimity and benevolence of a great family. He said: “The Zhuangzi, in the Chuan Cheng – Chapter ‘Tian Yun,’ has it that a swan need not bathe each day to remain white, nor does a crow need to be dyed each day to remain black. If one seeks to instill virtue and righteousness as a means to guide one’s descendants, it is like — in the Zhuangzi‘s own words — one who beats a drum in search of a lost child. Your subject therefore believes that Minister Zhang’s generosity and disregard for what he gave away, in the hope of earning the reverence of distant clan members and in this way demonstrating the spirit and magnanimity of a great family, was not something that could ever be sustained — and in fact only caused those with ill intentions to keep their true nature even more deeply concealed.”

The Zhuangzi is not among the required texts for the imperial examinations, but these particular lines were precisely apt here.

Pei Shaohuai went on: “As for the subsequent thieving, ambushing, and faction-building — these are genuine offenses that cannot be left unpunished. The longer they go without punishment, the more emboldened they will become, until one day they set their minds on claiming the whole of the Minister’s residence as their own. The same principle applies to the corrupt stewards and estate managers within the household.”

The Emperor’s expression grew more severe the longer he listened.

“When a single group of stewards holds a monopoly over the purchasing of an entire household, it is exceedingly easy for them to deceive their masters and line their own pockets — leaving the Minister’s residence to spend silver without receiving quality goods in return. But suppose the Minister’s residence were to open its back gates widely and let it be known simply what quality and kind of goods were wanted: small merchants would come bringing their wares of their own accord. One could then compare offerings from three different suppliers and select the finest — now that would be fair and honest trade, free from any steward’s trickery and deception.” Pei Shaohuai said.

He had touched on only a few essential points, without spreading himself too thin. The Emperor had already grasped his meaning — and after this, he would surely think it through carefully in depth.

The Emperor picked up Minister Zhang’s memorial again, glanced over it, and said: “Minister Zhang has so many things to attend to in his household — tell him We grant this half-month’s leave.”

“Your subject receives the imperial command.”

Coming out of the imperial study, Pei Shaohuai felt somewhat lighter in his mind. At least the first step had been taken, and it had gone reasonably smoothly.

His ultimate goal was to open the sea and allow free trade — yet in everything he had said, and everything he had implied, he had not once mentioned the words “opening the sea.”

It seemed, on the surface, as though he had wandered entirely off the subject.

In truth: only by breaking open the two locks of “tributary trade” and “official merchant monopoly” could Da Qing possibly push forward a full opening of the sea. These two locks touched the interests of far too many at court — only if the Emperor himself moved to undo them could they ever truly be opened.

At present, Da Qing’s maritime ban was not a complete sealing off of the seas — two openings remained, one outward and one inward.

The “outward” opening was official ships going out to sea for trade — completely monopolized in the hands of government merchants. This was like the purchasing stewards of the Minister’s residence: once one faction held absolute dominance, power in its hands, corruption and misconduct naturally followed.

The “inward” opening was the small and large tributary states sending envoys to court, presenting tribute goods to the court, and then conducting trade within Da Qing — known as “first tribute, then trade.” This was a privilege Da Qing had granted to the tributary states.

In the early years of the Da Qing dynasty, in order to stabilize the court, cultivate friendly neighbors, and create the splendid spectacle of all nations coming to pay homage with the four barbarian peoples in submission, the court had been exceedingly generous toward tributary states and envoys, adhering to the principle of “give generously, receive little,” sending them home laden with ships and goods.

The founding Emperor had once said: “The foreign peoples, gazing up in admiration at Da Qing, do not shrink from crossing ten thousand li, braving terrifying waves and storms to come and offer the finest products of the four seas. It is only right that they be received with the grandest ceremony and the finest treatment.”

And so it had been passed down ever since.

When tributary states came to present tribute, their ships carried three things: first, the gold credential tablets issued by Da Qing to verify their identity; second, the formal tribute goods — offered to the Da Qing imperial household as an expression of reverence, most often gold and silver vessels, precious stones and agate, ambergris, sandalwood, and the like; and third, goods intended for trade and sale, sold at the Court of Diplomatic Reception in the capital and at maritime customs offices — any unsold remainder would be purchased by the court at a set price.

A business in which one was guaranteed never to lose money naturally attracted tributary states again and again, the number of ships increasing year after year.

And yet Da Qing was at peace — to continue this “tributary trade” was nothing but buying cheap and selling dear, a system of exchange that was manifestly unfair, benefiting the imperial house but not the common people.

The Lantern Festival in Da Qing was always somewhat more festive than the Spring Festival or Mid-Autumn — tributary states would not miss such an occasion, and most chose to send their imperial ships to present tribute before the festival. The maritime customs offices in the coastal regions and the Court of Diplomatic Reception in the capital were filled to capacity, and it was common to see people in the dress of foreign lands coming and going through the streets.

The people of Da Qing seemed to have long since ceased to find this unusual.

Since the receiving of tributary envoys fell to the Court of Diplomatic Reception, it was administered by the Court of State Ceremonial. On this morning at court, the chief official of the Court of State Ceremonial, as he did every year, presented the compiled register of tributary envoys and reported the full roster to the Emperor before the assembled court.

This matter was handled every year by a well-worn procedure, and drew little serious attention from the court officials — most of them let it pass in one ear and out the other.

Pei Shaohuai held a junior position and stood toward the back, but he listened with great care — because he noticed that the Emperor on the dragon throne had raised an eyebrow, leaned his body slightly forward, and was listening with great care as well.

When the chief official of the Court of State Ceremonial finished the reading and stood waiting for the Emperor to say the customary “proceed as per established practice” so he could step down, the Emperor remained silent for some ten breaths.

At this moment, every one of Pei Shaohuai’s words was turning over again in the Emperor’s mind, so that with each tributary state the chief official had named, the Emperor could not help but think: this grandson, or that grandson.

The impression had been far too vivid — it simply could not be forgotten.

The chief official of the Court of State Ceremonial ultimately received the Emperor’s question — and it was an unusually specific one: “Who has come from Joseon this year?”

Fortunately, the chief official was reasonably familiar with the register, and replied: “Your Majesty, it is the Crown Prince of Joseon who has come to pay homage and present tribute.”

Joseon had always been obedient and submissive toward Da Qing; the King of Joseon was Da Qing’s vassal, and thus the court had always treated Joseon with considerable generosity and indulgence. The chief official did not understand why the Emperor had suddenly inquired about Joseon today.

The Emperor, thinking of the grandson who had stolen the official robes, issued a direct command: “Send someone to the Court of Diplomatic Reception to have a look — see how many claws the dragon embroidered on his ceremonial robes, and whether there has been any presumption above his station.”

The King of Joseon held the rank of Commandery Prince, and the court had formerly decreed and granted him the four-claw dragon robe.

Joseon, upon learning that the princes of Da Qing all wore five-claw dragon robes, had set their hearts on the same, and over the past few years had submitted memorials several times requesting the Son of Heaven to graciously bestow five-claw dragon robes upon them as a sign of imperial favor and closeness. The Emperor had asked the Ministry of Rites to examine the ancestral regulations, and had not yet agreed.

It was not that the Emperor was ungenerous — it was that the Southern Embroidered Uniform Guard had once reported in a secret intelligence dispatch that the King of Joseon, without waiting for the court’s approval of the grant, had already privately commissioned replicas of the five-claw dragon robe within his own kingdom.

Just to satisfy the desire.

This had displeased the Emperor.

“Your servant obeys the command.” The chief official inwardly shook his head — without even going to look, he already knew. There was certainly something in excess of what was permitted.

Joseon officials wearing robes above their station was not the first time — only that in the past the Son of Heaven had been lenient, and had never taken issue with it.

The Emperor then continued: “What did the Siamese bring on their ships this year?”

“Your Majesty, five ships of bowl stones,” the chief official replied with a wary unease, already sensing that something was not right.

And indeed — the Emperor asked with an edge of displeasure: “Apart from their varied shapes, in what way do these stones differ from the river pebbles of Da Qing? Are they rare?”

The chief official stood for quite some time without knowing how to answer, and finally said: “Your Majesty, your subject also feels that… there is no difference.”

The Siamese envoys had sent five ships of stones to collect money, which reminded the Emperor of the grandson who had specialized in delivering rotten fish, shrimp, and spoiled fruit — and these stones were even less than rotten fish and shrimp.

Last time, the court had actually paid two hundred and fifty strings of cash per jin.

The Emperor was now angry — not only at the Court of State Ceremonial, but a little at himself as well.

The matter was still not over. The Emperor, suppressing a burning fury, continued to ask: “And the Wokou ships — did they crash and break again when they arrived? And are they requesting the court to grant them a great ship to carry them home?”