Elder Councilor Shen’s crimes had been laid bare for all to see. With his execution, the demon tract case came to a close.

The court grew considerably more peaceful.

The Emperor seemed in no particular hurry to fill the court’s vacant positions, still carefully weighing and evaluating his options. The most the civil and military officials could discern was that of the two openings in the Grand Council, one of them ought to go to the Minister of War — the Emperor had been seeking out Minister Zhang for consultations so frequently of late that he was all but treating him as a Grand Council Scholar already.

As for the other vacancy, it would still inevitably be drawn from the Six Ministries — whether it would fall to a Xu or a Pei, the Emperor’s intention had not yet been made clear.

This year’s summer was somewhat cooler than usual. The Minor Heat had already passed, yet still the oppressive heat had not arrived. The mornings were faintly chilly, and dew often gathered on the windowsills.

Zhang Lingyi received a confidential military dispatch from the Jiangnan region and hurried into the palace to confer with the Emperor in the imperial study — only the two of them, with even Eunuch Xiao dismissed from the room.

“Your Majesty, the timber has been transported to Taicang Prefecture. The shipyard has begun construction,” Zhang Lingyi reported.

Ships built by the Ministry of War were naturally warships. According to the blueprints, these were three-thousand-liao black-tailed warships with twelve upright sails spanning several dozen feet in length — colossal vessels, surpassing even the largest produced by the Treasure Ship Yard in Yingtian Prefecture.

Zhang Lingyi further reported: “Twelve openings have been left on each side, which can accommodate fire-dragons or cannon platforms. The Divine Strategy Battalion and the Armaments Bureau have already received orders and are in production.” In sea battle, those who approached close would be destroyed by fire-dragons; those at a distance would be bombarded by cannon.

The Emperor’s eyes and brow brightened with pleasure. He asked Zhang Lingyi: “How many can be built this year?” If three-thousand-liao black-tailed warships could truly be constructed, Da Qing would gain another powerful weapon for sea combat.

“In reply to Your Majesty: timber is plentiful. At minimum, three vessels can be built.”

“Excellent.” The Emperor rose, his bearing tall and commanding. Envisioning the black-tailed warships traversing the open sea without obstruction, and then picturing Da Qing’s merchant and civilian vessels plying the waters in busy prosperity under the protection of those warships — a vast, peaceful realm of sea and river — ambition surged within him. He declared: “With three thousand liao, we may aspire next to five thousand. When warships enter the water, they shall stand upon the sea like the Eastern Sacred Peak — proud and indestructible. Why should we fear those petty enemies from across the sea? Da Qing can build great ships, while the pirates can only steal them. How could it ever be right for those who build ships to be driven by those who steal them?”

“Your Majesty speaks with utmost correctness,” Zhang Lingyi replied.

“Those last few lines were not my words — they were Boyuan’s.” The Emperor chuckled, and seeming to feel he had not been quite sufficiently dignified just now, added: “Spending so much time with Boyuan, I find myself feeling considerably younger.”

After the two of them finished discussing the construction of warships, they moved on to the matter of selecting military officers to drill the naval forces, and the hour reached midday.

Zhang Lingyi, fearing he would delay the Emperor’s meal, was preparing to take his leave — but then he heard the Emperor abruptly change the subject and ask: “Beloved Official Zhang, how do you regard the achievements of Pei Zhizhou over the years?”

Among all the prefectural governors in the land, the only one the Emperor would refer to by surname alone was naturally Pei Bingyuan, the heir apparent of Jingchuan.

Zhang Lingyi’s greatest virtue was his straightforwardness of speech. He replied with a smile: “In reply to Your Majesty: the Ministry of War’s ability to hold its head up among the Six Ministries these past years is due in nearly half to the Pei father and son — in the south, the Taicang Shipyard; in the north, the Baoquan Silver Bureau. Furthermore, this subject has heard that the region around Taicang Prefecture is prosperous and its people live and work in contentment, with some jokingly referring to it as ‘Little Yangzhou.’ So, if Your Majesty asks this subject’s view — this subject believes that Pei Zhizhou has been diligent and conscientious over these years, and has achieved a great deal. His accomplishments ought to rank among the foremost of all officials serving in posts outside the capital.”

The more Zhang Lingyi spoke, the more the Emperor’s expression took on a look of regret, which made Zhang Lingyi’s heart grow uneasy. He began to wonder if Pei Bingyuan had somehow committed an offense, and started calculating how he might say a few more words in his favor.

The Emperor drew a memorial from the desk and extended it to Zhang Lingyi, saying: “Have a look.”

The moment Zhang Lingyi opened it, he exclaimed in some surprise: “A petition for retirement on grounds of illness?” His tone carried the same note of regret as the Emperor’s.

The Emperor nodded and said: “We could simply have rejected it and kept him on. However, his devotion to his son is profound, and his dedication to the state is steadfast, making it difficult for us to put brush to paper.”

And so Pei Bingyuan’s petition had remained without a reply.

Zhang Lingyi continued reading. The memorial read: “…Reflecting on the past, the ancients and those of today are all like water — the new ever urging the old forward.” This seemed to speak of yielding his office to those who came after — yet the lines that followed read: “…The bells and drums ring out, the Huai River flows swift and strong. The slender trickle of Tongbai has grown to surge mightily to the sea, yet the waters of Hongze Lake remain confined to their original place.”

The Huai River rises in the Tongbai Mountains and flows eastward, emptying directly into the sea.

Zhang Lingyi understood at once: Pei Bingyuan did not wish to obstruct his sons’ paths forward. He had compared himself to the waters of Hongze Lake.

It was by no means rare for father and son to both serve as officials in the court — but cases like the Pei father and son were uncommon. Pei Bingyuan had entered officialdom too late, while Pei Shaohuai’s rise had been too swift.

At the end of his petition, Pei Bingyuan wrote: “…This subject wishes to resign his post and enter the National Academy as an instructor, devoting whatever remains of his strength to what he can still accomplish. As I have only passed the three stages of the preliminary examinations and my scholarship is modest, I dare not presume to the position of Lecturing Official. I would be willing to serve as an administrator, leading the academy students out on practical learning assignments — for water conservancy and agricultural cultivation in the various counties — contributing in whatever small measure I can.” He was willing to bring these academy students out for hands-on experience, and to generously share everything he himself had lived and learned.

Zhang Lingyi’s eyes grew moist. He closed the memorial with both hands and respectfully returned it to the Emperor, bowing his head and saying: “Pei Zhizhou is upright and magnanimous of heart. This subject is ashamed to compare himself. This subject ventures boldly to submit that Your Majesty ought to approve this matter — Da Qing has more than just one Taicang Prefecture.” Da Qing had more than one Yuchong County and one Taicang Prefecture; the National Academy had more than one “veteran student.” One need not hope for every man to be a Pei Bingyuan — but even if only one more flood disaster could be managed, the matter would be worthwhile.

It would also fulfill one of Pei Bingyuan’s heartfelt wishes.

“We understand.”

Only then did the Emperor dismiss Zhang Lingyi.

In the archive room of the Ministry of War, perhaps because the dust within the room had been disturbed, or perhaps because someone had just spoken his name — Pei Shaohuai sneezed several times in quick succession.

Heavy maps yellowed with age hung across the walls: the Map of Ten Thousand Nations, the Map of Canal Waterways, the Map of Northern and Southern Relay Stations, and others including the Map of the Nine Frontier Garrison Encampments and the Map of the Eastern Coast’s Zhenhai Guard Posts… Any single one of these, if leaked, would cost a man his head.

The Emperor had given Pei Shaohuai special permission to view any of them at will.

The maps had been drawn quite crudely — only the directions were roughly accurate — and so Pei Shaohuai struggled considerably to read them, spending more than an hour before he had gone through all the charts. Selecting five of the most suitable maritime trade ports was no simple matter: water transport, land transport, harbor conditions, and military defenses all had to be taken into account.

Guangzhou, which connected to the Southern Ocean and the Western Ocean, and Mingzhou, which connected to the Eastern Ocean — these two locations were certain.

The Fujian Administrative Commission lay between Guangzhou and Mingzhou. The viable choices within it were Quanzhou, Zhangzhou, and Jiahe Island — all naturally excellent bays. Pei Shaohuai wrote down the two prefectures and one island.

Jiahe Island was what later generations would call Xiamen. At this time it was still relatively undeveloped, with only a single thousand-household garrison stationed there and two official ferry crossings — Wutong and Dongdu — making it an unremarkable little place. In terms of either land transport or water transport, it was not particularly convenient. Yet Pei Shaohuai placed it first on his list.

Of the three choices, one was to be selected. After a moment’s consideration, Pei Shaohuai drew a decisive line through the other two.

“Knock knock” — a rap at the door. This area was under strict security, and the number of people with clearance to enter was small. Pei Shaohuai set down his brush and went to open the door, calling out as he did: “Who is it?”

“Boyuan, it is I.” Zhang Lingyi’s voice.

Pei Shaohuai opened the door and said: “Teacher.”

“Have you eaten the midday meal?” Zhang Lingyi asked.

Pei Shaohuai glanced at the light outside and only then realized the hour for the midday meal had already passed. He smiled sheepishly.

“No matter how pressing official matters may be, you must take care of yourself.” Zhang Lingyi offered this counsel as he handed Pei Shaohuai a packet of pastries, saying: “His Majesty instructed me to bring these to you — eat a couple of pieces to tide yourself over.”

Zhang Lingyi stepped inside and immediately noticed the words “two prefectures and one island” on the paper on the writing desk — with a decisive stroke of the brush having crossed out “two prefectures,” leaving only “one island.”

Pei Shaohuai had chosen Jiahe Island, setting aside Quanzhou and the Zhangzhou Moon Harbor.

After waiting for Pei Shaohuai to eat the pastries and drink some tea, Zhang Lingyi finally asked: “Boyuan, why did you make this choice?” Whether Quanzhou or Zhangzhou, either was far more prosperous and established than a small Jiahe Island.

“Does Teacher know why the Taicang wharf could be built within two years?” Pei Shaohuai answered his own question: “Because the old wharf there had long fallen into disuse, and everything began from scratch… Going from nothing to something may appear difficult, but in truth it is far simpler than ‘replacing the old with the new.'”

A single remark that struck to the heart of the matter.

Pei Shaohuai continued his analysis: “The port at Quanzhou has flourished since the Song dynasty. With the Maritime Trade Supervisorate established there, the official merchants have settled and entrenched themselves over time — roots and branches intertwined in dense complexity. The court has already dispatched the Ministry of Personnel to oversee and govern Quanzhou in advance. However, even the swiftest blade has threads it cannot sever cleanly. If maritime trade were opened there, I fear there would always be unexpected obstacles arising. He had no desire to waste time on such complications.”

The two locations were not far apart — as one declined, the other would flourish. Once Jiahe Island prospered, Quanzhou’s problems would resolve themselves without needing to be directly addressed.

“And Zhangzhou?” Zhang Lingyi asked.

Zhangzhou lay at the point where the Jiulong River entered the sea. Its harbor was shaped like a crescent moon, earning it the name Moon Bay.

This location had no Maritime Trade Supervisorate, nor was it an official ferry crossing. Rather, it was a smuggling port — the crescent harbor was sheltered from strong winds and waves, with small islands scattered throughout. Smuggling merchant vessels wove among the islands, and it was exceedingly difficult for official ships to apprehend them.

“Sheltered from sea swells — it is indeed a fine harbor,” Pei Shaohuai observed. “Yet officials, civilians, merchants, and pirates have all gathered within the port and long since established a balance of power, each occupying their own domain.” All the good ground had been claimed. To take command of Moon Harbor would require driving all of them out.

Among the five new maritime trade ports to be established, the one in the Fujian Administrative Commission was the one Pei Shaohuai regarded as most important — and so he was especially deliberate in his consideration of it.

Zhang Lingyi smiled with admiration: “This official has learned something new again today.”

Pei Shaohuai replied: “Your student is presently only speaking theoretically. To actually bring this to completion, it will likely be necessary to go there in person before anything can be determined with any specificity.”

“Over at the Taicang Shipyard, construction has already begun — three-thousand-liao black-tailed warships are within sight,” Zhang Lingyi said — he had come precisely to relay this news to Pei Shaohuai. He then added: “The message has been delivered. This official will not keep you from your work any further.”

The two took their leave of one another.

As summer yielded to the southerly winds, the capital’s wharves saw returning vessels daily, most arriving via the Grand Canal from the Jiangnan region. After two years’ absence, the officials dispatched by the Ministry of Personnel to survey land fields across the various regions were returning one by one, assembling at the Ministry of Revenue to reconstruct Da Qing’s comprehensive Fish-Scale Land Registry.

Pei Bingsheng, returning to the capital once again, was gaunt in figure, his complexion sallow and dark — though only two years had passed, he appeared to have aged by a decade.

In the Pei Minister’s residence, Pei Bingsheng spoke to his father of the hardships along the way, his words no longer carrying the arrogance of former times — now tinged with considerably more hesitation and tentativeness. After a long pause, he bowed his head and said: “Father… when your son was in Suzhou Prefecture… he received his help.”

Pei Jue had already anticipated this and said nothing — the second branch had, in the end, lowered its head once more.

When he finally spoke, what he said was: “Write your letter of resignation today and submit it tomorrow. Within a few days, your father will also be heading south, leading the team to oversee and inspect the Administrative Commissions of the various regions.”

The son had just returned home, and the father was already leaving again.

“Father, His Majesty has already pardoned me…” Pei Bingsheng did not understand why his father would take on such a dangerous assignment.

“But he has not pardoned the Minister’s residence.” Pei Jue was furious at his son’s failure to live up to his expectations. He had meant to speak calmly and patiently, but could not suppress the urge to berate him: “Your son has studied diligently for over twenty years — and his official career has not even begun before you, his own father, have already cut it off.”

All the court officials assumed Pei Jue’s journey south to conduct inspections was a bid for entry into the Grand Council. In truth, Pei Jue sought nothing more than to allow his youngest grandson to participate in the spring examinations and the Palace Examination.

The Emperor had many men in his service — but certain tasks could only be cleanly accomplished by a blade as dark as this one.