After Yan Chengzhao departed, Pei Shaohuai read through the imperial edict several more times with great care.

His thoughts returned to years past — the very first time he had entered the palace as a duty recorder, and the emperor had summoned him into the imperial study for a conversation. That day, the emperor had been dressed in his everyday casual robes, and had asked him directly about “the tens of thousands of acres of fertile land seized by imperial manors and official manors, leaving the common people with no land to till” — and what measures might be taken.

It seemed that even before that conversation, the emperor had already harbored thoughts of auditing and reclaiming the seized lands; he simply had not dared to act rashly, given how strained the imperial treasury was.

Now, the court had introduced two new policies — promoting silver coinage and allowing silver to substitute for tax payments — and with the additional revenue from the shipping tax collected at the Taicang and Shuang’an maritime customs offices, the imperial treasury had been gradually replenished. With no further worries pressing upon him from behind, the emperor had now taken the initiative to move against the princes.

By auditing and reclaiming the seized land, reducing encroachment, and increasing grain yields, the emperor was likewise seeking every means to help Da Qing endure the winters that had grown longer and harsher with each passing year. Nothing posed a greater threat to governance than a shortage of grain.

And taking back the lands that the princes had unlawfully seized could only be accomplished when the Emperor himself put his hand to it.

……

The ancient and celebrated “Song of the South Wind” contains the lines: “The breath of the south wind, how gentle it is — it can relieve the suffering of my people; the timeliness of the south wind — it can bring wealth to my people.” The south wind was celebrated as the voice of growth and flourishing.

Applied to Shuang’an Harbor in the fifth month of the year, the verse proved curiously fitting.

Carried in on the south wind, the merchant fleets that had set sail at the close of the previous year came surging back, their dark hulls cleaving through the waves, a thousand sails crossing the sea. The scene was so vast and magnificent that many townspeople climbed the banks on either side of Phoenix Tail Gorge just to watch the ships enter port in orderly procession from afar.

The ship’s captain stood at the prow. Seeing the harbor officials waving white flags to signal a reduction in speed, he gave a single shout: “Reef the sails — enter port!”

The crewmen took up the call as one: “Reef the sails — enter port!” The cry echoed across the entire harbor, telling their kinsmen: they had returned safely.

Thick ropes the width of a fist pulled taut, and the hard sails furled shut in an instant — the ships drew in their wings like birds returning to the nest.

Just outside the harbor, several multi-story buildings had been put up on the spot, and wine house businesses had taken root within them; throughout the entire fifth month, not a single seat was to be had. Wave after wave of sailors disembarked, and clan elders led their kinsmen to welcome them home with feasts and refreshment on the spot.

They crossed over the fire basin, had cinnamon branch water sprinkled over them, took a thorough bath, and then went into the wine houses to eat great mouthfuls of meat and drink great gulps of wine.

The coolies who labored with their backs each elected a capable and reliable foreman from among their own number. The foremen haggled with the merchant ship owners over prices, and once a fair rate was settled upon, they received half their wages upfront — only then did they lead their fellow workers to begin the unloading.

The inns within the town were likewise filled to capacity — with merchants who had come from all across the land, bringing sample goods, ready to strike deals on the spot with the maritime traders while they were still in port.

Once a contract was signed, they would send word back home at full gallop, ordering their workshops to accelerate production.

For the Jiahe Guard and the Shuang’an prefectural yamen, the task at hand was to maintain the order that had only just been established, and to refine and perfect the rules and procedures governing it all.

……

At the end of the fifth month, Pei Shaohuai paid a visit to the Shuang’an Harbor maritime customs office and reviewed the cargo manifests of the merchant ships that had entered port.

Before the vessels had set out to sea, Pei Shaohuai had encouraged the merchant fleets to purchase as much grain as possible on their return, and had promised reduced customs duties for ships that brought back grain. As a result, four or five tenths of the merchant ships had returned from Siam and Annam carrying large quantities of grain.

Not only were the granaries of southern Fujian filled to capacity, but grain merchants from other regions had also come in droves upon hearing the news.

Pei Shaohuai made a rough calculation: Shuang’an Prefecture would be able to remit close to eight hundred thousand taels in maritime shipping taxes to the court this year alone — a clear testament to how richly rewarding the opening of maritime trade had been.

Yan Chengzhao, who had come along, looked at the figures and exclaimed with admiration, “Pei Zhizhou came south to open maritime trade — His Majesty gave him eight hundred thousand taels as operational funds — and now, not three years later, Pei Zhizhou has already paid the shortfall back in full.”

He added with a teasing remark, “With such extraordinary talent, are you not afraid His Majesty will send you off to open several more sea routes?”

“That would be perfectly fine — so long as Commander Yan is also dispatched along,” Pei Shaohuai replied.

Back at the prefectural office, Pei Shaohuai had the chief secretary settle the year’s bonus silver for all the yamen staff and runners. Everyone received their rewards — and the amounts were quite generous — so all were overjoyed, talking among themselves in small groups, each saying they would continue to serve diligently under the Prefect’s leadership.

They did not yet know that their Prefect was preparing to return to the capital.

Pei Shaohuai smiled without a word. Yet within him, a small, quiet sorrow had begun to stir. He had only just grown familiar with these people — and already the time for parting had come.

As night fell, Pei Shaohuai remained in the official chamber, going through the case files and records of Shuang’an Prefecture page by page, with great care and thoroughness, so as not to leave any oversights for whoever came after him.

Crows and magpies grew weary and settled on the branches along the wall; a clear breeze swayed the shadows of candlelight under the moon.

When Pei Shaohuai’s mind settled into that quiet, he often lost track of the hour. By the time he had turned the last page and returned the files to the shelves, he looked up to find a sky full of stars outside the window. There were people on night watch within the yamen, yet the whole place was hushed and still.

He straightened his robes and walked outside. After shutting the door behind him, he turned — and found Deputy Prefect Li standing in the courtyard, waiting. Two food boxes sat on the stone platform. It seemed he had been there for some time.

“This official heard from Bao Bantou that the Prefect was occupied with official matters today and likely had not yet found a moment to eat. I have brought some homestyle dishes and would be honored to share a few cups of wine with the Prefect.”

Deputy Prefect Li had already come to know something of Pei Shaohuai’s character, and had not arranged a banquet at a restaurant — he knew the Prefect would find that too ostentatious.

“Now that Deputy Prefect Li mentions it, I do find I am rather hungry,” Pei Shaohuai said with a smile, walking over to take a seat at the stone platform with Deputy Prefect Li.

Deputy Prefect Li had earned his Jinshi degree at thirty-two, and had served as an official for ten years. Now past forty, his bearing and features were quite rugged — at first glance, he looked more like a military officer than a civil one. He had entered government service before Pei Shaohuai and was also somewhat older in age, yet in Pei Shaohuai’s presence he showed not the slightest trace of arrogance or self-importance. On the contrary, he was respectful and deferential, carrying himself like a man eager to learn.

A few cups in, the conversation turned to the matter at hand.

“The Prefect must know that I served previously in Changzhi County,” Deputy Prefect Li said. “In a place as strategically dangerous as that, my thinking was always focused on maintaining stability — I rarely gave thought to how to bring prosperity. Coming here to the coast has truly opened my eyes.” He continued, “I came tonight especially to seek the Prefect’s guidance.”

“Deputy Prefect Li is being modest — a man who can govern Changzhi is no ordinary official,” Pei Shaohuai said with humility. “I would not presume to call it guidance — let us simply exchange thoughts and explore the matter together.”

The red glow of the lantern on the wall lit up the admiration plain on Deputy Prefect Li’s face. He said, “The Prefect has governed Shuang’an Prefecture according to a set of thorough and well-considered principles. For this place to one day surpass Yangzhou in wealth is only a matter of time. To receive such a mandate from the Prefect’s hands makes me feel at once relieved and acutely aware of the weight on my shoulders. I wonder if the Prefect might offer some guidance to show me the way.”

A man of Deputy Prefect Li’s capability could not possibly be without his own ideas on governing Shuang’an Prefecture. What he was truly seeking through this “guidance” was to learn, from Pei Shaohuai’s own words, what attitude and expectations the court and the emperor held toward Shuang’an Prefecture.

“Encouraging the maritime merchants to bring grain back on their return voyages is a matter of great importance — I trust I need not elaborate at length,” Pei Shaohuai said, raising the matter of grain first.

Deputy Prefect Li nodded in agreement. “I have heard something of the matter of Da Qing’s increasingly prolonged winters in recent years.”

A look of hardship crossed his face. “Before I came south to take up this posting, the provinces of Shaanxi and Shanxi had already seen grain yields reduced by more than thirty percent in just the previous year alone. Near the northern frontier, the wheat fields were struck by a sudden cold snap while still shooting up their stalks — the harvest was a complete failure, not a single grain to be had. The granaries in a number of places have already run dry.” With the north producing less, the pressure on grain fell upon the south. Deputy Prefect Li said, “The Prefect is right — grain is a matter of the greatest importance. We must continue to encourage maritime merchants to bring in grain, and guard the grain transport waterways with strong force.”

“As for what Deputy Prefect Li called ‘surpassing Yangzhou in wealth’…” Pei Shaohuai paused, then said, “Yangzhou’s wealth stems from its position at the juncture of the north-south water transport routes — all of Da Qing’s merchants passing between north and south must pass through it. But Shuang’an Prefecture’s wealth connects the interior with the outside world. It lies not in ‘trade’ in the sense of moving goods between places, but in ‘markets’ — in having markets and having prices, so that the common people everywhere can find their own way to a livelihood. The combined strength of ten million people far surpasses the wisdom of a handful.”

When ice and snow are merciless and great mountains block the way — yet wherever a few rays of spring light find their way through, wild grass will burst forth in profusion.

Pei Shaohuai offered an analogy: “Shuang’an Prefecture’s wealth is like pooling the resources of an entire family to send one member to study — and when that person achieves success and fame, they lead the entire clan to shared prosperity.”

Deputy Prefect Li, holding his wine cup motionless, fell into deep thought. He was so absorbed that the cup tilted and spilled without him noticing.

“I understand now,” Deputy Prefect Li said, coming back to himself. He quickly refilled his cup, drained it, and said, “I will most certainly continue to develop the official roads and waterways, so that ever greater volumes of goods may be transported through Shuang’an Harbor.”

Let this “market” grow ever larger.

Wine poured from the ewer like a waterfall of silk; cups were raised and passed, toasting the stars.

After a cup or two had brought a slight warmth of wine, Pei Shaohuai rose and took his leave. “My young children at home still need looking after — another day we shall drink our fill together, Deputy Prefect Li.”

Deputy Prefect Li clasped his hands in a bow and smiled. “To be a clean and upright official in public, and a devoted father at home — it is truly a thing to be admired.”

Boarding the carriage for the journey home, Pei Shaohuai drew back the curtain to let in a little of the night breeze. The few cups of wine that evening made him feel all the more acutely that his remaining days in Shuang’an Prefecture were not long.

……

The prefectural examination in the sixth month was the last task Pei Shaohuai had to attend to before returning to the capital.

Pei Shaohuai did not serve as an examiner himself — the chief examiner for the prefectural examination was the Provincial Education Superintendent of Fujian — but he was required to accompany the Grand Academic Master in examining the local candidates and assist with all the various preparatory matters for the examination.

The Grand Academic Master had limited familiarity with the local scholars, and when selecting candidates for the title of licentiate, he often gave some weight to the opinions of the local chief official.

In the first ten days of the sixth month, when Pei Shaohuai received the official relay station dispatch reporting that the Grand Academic Master had already set out from Fuzhou Prefecture City, he was surprised to discover that the Grand Academic Master had been replaced — it was no longer the previous official, Mr. Meng.

And the person who had temporarily taken over the post was none other than Zou Xianjing — the eldest son of the venerable Scholar of the South.

In terms of scholarly learning and erudition, had Academician Zou harbored any ambition for an official career, he would long since have been appointed as Education Superintendent of a province. What puzzled Pei Shaohuai was this: had Academician Zou not been serving in the Hanlin Academy in the capital? How had he suddenly come to the south?

To encounter an old acquaintance in a far-off land — truly a joyful thing. On the day Academician Zou arrived in Quanzhou Prefecture City, Pei Shaohuai had gone out early to wait at the city gates to welcome him.

Academician Zou was just as Pei Shaohuai remembered — mild-mannered and affable, without any airs before others. He was, through and through, a man whose sole devotion was to scholarship.

The two of them entered the prefectural yamen and spoke in private.

Academician Zou wore an expression of regret as he explained, “Mr. Meng passed away suddenly from illness. When word reached the capital, I happened to be setting out southward toward Yingtian Prefecture. His Majesty issued me an imperial decree, and I accepted the temporary appointment as Education Superintendent of Fujian, to fulfill the duties Mr. Meng had left incomplete — after which I will continue on to Yingtian Prefecture.”

“What a loss,” Pei Shaohuai said with a sigh, his heart having understood the situation fully.

Da Qing placed great importance on scholarly culture and learning. For a provincial Education Superintendent, the position could not be entrusted to anyone who was not a man of clear moral principles, sound conduct, and honest, steady character — the court was always most careful and deliberate in recommending and selecting candidates.

It must indeed have been an unexpected circumstance, Pei Shaohuai reflected, for the emperor to have placed such a weighty responsibility upon Zou Xianjing’s shoulders. After all, the man’s character and learning were entirely beyond dispute among those at court.

Pei Shaohuai changed the subject: “Are the venerable Scholar of the South and Old Madam Zou keeping well of late?”

Academician Zou hesitated slightly, but thinking of the friendship Pei Shaohuai had shared with his father, he told the truth. “The reason I requested permission to come south and take up a post at the Nanjing Hanlin Academy is precisely because of my father.”

Pei Shaohuai’s heart lurched, and a sense of foreboding took hold.

“Please do not worry, Prefect Pei — my father’s health is quite good,” Academician Zou quickly added. “Only, with age, he has begun to forget things and fail to recognize people — he has his confused spells from time to time. And so I decided it would be best to be closer to him, to care for him in his later years.”