“Let’s not talk about these unpleasant matters,” Elder Zou said with a smile. “With your breadth of vision and your abilities, you will certainly find a way to handle things.”
He gathered the silver coins from the table and said, “Why not make the most of this moment of clarity the old man has, and enjoy some tea and conversation together? Since you left Taicang Prefecture, Zhongyai and Ziheng came and went, and this old teacher’s heart has had nowhere to rest for quite some time.”
Elder Zou had only just lifted the teapot’s handle when Pei Shaohuai raised his cup with both hands to meet it, saying with a smile, “Your words have been a revelation to this junior.”
The old man and the young man spent the entire day in lively conversation — speaking of the imperial court, then of the people’s livelihoods, and of the long winter that had blown its chill all the way to Jiangnan.
When two people walk the same path, even years of separation cannot hinder the meeting of minds.
The moon climbed over the eaves and cast its light upon the bare branches. The night had grown deep.
“Brilliance slips through the fingers like sand, yet even the gnarled and leafless tree is a part of one’s years,” Elder Zou raised his head, gazing at the bare branches in the moonlight as he recited.
Even the twilight years of life are a part of one’s span — what a profound and open-hearted way to see it.
Elder Zou was the first to bid farewell. He said with a smile, “It’s getting late. You should head back and rest, young friend.”
Perhaps Pei Shaohuai would remain in Jinling for a few more days, but once this night was over and morning came, there was no telling whether Elder Zou would be clear-minded again.
And so Elder Zou preferred to bid farewell properly at this moment. He took a sip of tea, then borrowed a line that people had repurposed from an old poem: “‘Chase the wind, catch the moon, do not linger; beyond the flat and open plain lies a mountain of spring.’ The road this old man walks is nearly at its end, yet yours, young friend, still stretches far beyond that mountain of spring. There is no need to tarry here any longer.”
The words were serene. This parting carried no sorrow — only a quiet sense of peace.
“Elder Nanju…” Pei Shaohuai’s eyes reddened slightly at the corners. What people dread in parting is not the farewell itself, but the fear that one day there will be no one left to send a letter to, no one to pour a cup of tea for.
“This timid awkwardness is quite unlike you, young friend,” Elder Zou laughed warmly. “Are you afraid that when peace and prosperity finally come, this old man will not live to see it?”
“Elder Nanju will surely live a long and blessed life.”
Elder Zou held Pei Shaohuai’s hands in both of his own — hands that had burned incense and turned the pages of countless books across decades, aged yet clean, the thick calluses left by years of holding a brush still there. He said, “Boyuan, you must walk your path with unwavering resolve. What you are doing is not for my eyes, nor for anyone else’s — it is for the eyes of all the people under heaven. Even if one day this old man truly departs this world…” Elder Zou pointed toward the bright moon above, his voice carrying a faint tremor. “Is there not still the moon to be seen, so that one might entrust words to the clear breeze to carry them before the graveside?”
Only now did a note of grief enter Elder Zou’s voice. He instructed, “This old man is entrusting his dearest wishes to you. Do not feel it is too heavy a burden, young friend.”
Pei Shaohuai felt the strength in that aged grasp, and answered with solemn sincerity: “What you have entrusted to me, Master, this student does not dare forget.”
In Pei Shaohuai’s eyes, Elder Nanju was a devoted and sincere idealist — a rare and precious kind of person. He had once believed with absolute conviction that knowledge and scholarship could transform the world, and so he had sown the seeds of everything he had cultivated, guiding countless students, hoping only that they would bring benefit to the people of their regions. He had never thought to use his students to build his own influence or power.
After his defeat in the factional struggles, he would rather retire and live in seclusion than lower his head and compromise — for if he had been willing to do that, why would the Emperor have ever let him go?
Elder Zou set aside his grief and let a smile return to his face. He said, “Then go back to the capital soon. Root out those weeds, stop being tangled up in internal strife, and lead the people of Da Qing to look outward at the wider world.”
“Everything that needed to be said has been said. The night is deep. Go rest in your quarters, young friend.”
The next day, Elder Zou woke from his sleep and became muddled again — though not so severely. He could still tell his son from his grandson, but he had entirely forgotten who the northern guest was.
That day, after the offices closed at noon, Huang Di came to the Zou residence again.
He had only just stepped through the gate and had not yet had a chance to speak with Pei Shaohuai when the muddled Elder Zou called him over, pointed to his half-acre of rice paddies, and said, “Little Xu, get down into the field and pull out those barnyard grass weeds for me.”
Then he added, “If you don’t work the land, you won’t know the hardship of farming. You can’t just hide under the eaves and read books.”
Huang Di smiled, sat on the threshold, began removing his boots and rolling up his sleeves and trouser legs, and said to Elder Zou, “Teacher, I am Qingxing — your student knows the hardships of farm life.” He had come from a farming family — how could he not know farm work?
When he finished speaking, he waded into the paddies and set seriously to work pulling out the barnyard grass. In no time at all, he had gathered a large bundle — a clear sign that quite a few weeds had been hiding in that field.
“Whatever kind of aquatic plant you may be, the point is that today if you don’t pull every last one of them out for me, it simply won’t do,” the muddled Elder Zou grumbled from the edge of the field. Only once he saw the paddy tidied and cleared did a smile spread across his face.
At the midday meal, upon learning that Pei Shaohuai would be departing for the capital before long, Huang Qingxing suggested, “It is rare that you have come all this way to Jinling. If Your Excellency Pei has the leisure, why not let me accompany you into the old imperial city for a look around? When you later oversee the administration of the auxiliary capital, it will be useful to have firsthand knowledge of conditions there.”
“Then I will have to trouble Deputy Minister Huang to make the arrangements.” Pei Shaohuai agreed.
For one thing, what Huang Qingxing said made some sense — now that he was right here, it would truly be a pity not to go inside the old palace city and have a look. For another, since Pei Shaohuai had already promised Madam Zou, how could he recommend this Deputy Minister Huang for a recall to the capital without knowing how much merit and ability the man actually possessed?
“Why not agree on tomorrow at the hour of Chen? I will have someone come and escort Your Excellency Pei.”
“Excellent.”
And so it was settled.
That afternoon, the autumn air was crisp and clear. Pei Shaohuai took his wife and children out for a stroll, taking in Jinling’s bustling streets and tasting the local delicacies, while telling Xiao Nan and Xiao Feng about the history of Jinling. Without realizing it, they had wandered all the way to the northwestern city wall.
With his fifth-rank official’s plaque, Pei Shaohuai ascended the city wall.
Standing atop the River-Gazing Tower, he gazed into the distance, and it seemed as though the vast Yangtze River lay right at the foot of the city walls.
The river’s surface was calm, reflecting the glow of the setting sun. Boats large and small, racing against the last light of day, sought out docking points where they might moor for the night. Once ashore, they busied themselves hanging lanterns at the sterns of their vessels to alert passing boats to keep their distance.
Small pole-boats laden with cargo, pushing deep and shallow with their poles, made their way from the river docks into the inner and outer Qinhuai River, following the moat waterway as they hurried back into the city.
Both banks of the Qinhuai River had lit up early with lanterns, and the winding moat glimmered with clusters of light stretching into the distance — dazzling and fantastical, like the luminous dragons of the Lantern Festival. Many painted pleasure boats drifted at the center of the Qinhuai River.
The sheer busyness and congestion of this waterway, with its constant coming and going of vessels, far surpassed what could be found in Suzhou or Hangzhou.
The reason was simple: Jinling was the hub of Da Qing’s inland canal transport network, and the granary of the south that fed its officials, its army, and its people.
Yang Shiyue gazed into the distance alongside her husband, and her own heart opened wide as well. She said with feeling, “Ten thousand boats converge like clouds, the floating vessels bright as midday — I had thought the capital was already the pinnacle of prosperity and splendor, but had I not come to see Jinling for myself, I could never have grasped the true extent of such magnificence.”
“Well said. As the saying goes, ‘All the wealth of the realm flows out of the southeast, and Jinling is where it all converges,'” Pei Shaohuai replied.
He then pointed to several official grain transport vessels flying “grain” banners, explaining to Shiyue: “After Da Qing relocated the capital to the northern city, the southern reserves were kept at the Nanjing granary, and the northern reserves were established in the Jing-Tong granary. Grain stored in the north and south alike serves as a strategic foundation for Da Qing. Now that the autumn harvest is here, it is once again the time when each prefecture and region submits its grain tax. Tax grain from the Southern Metropolitan Region, Huguang, Jiangxi, and Zhejiang all converges here in Jinling, and in another half month, these waterways will likely be even more crowded.”
“No wonder we were so frequently stopped and searched by officials on the way here,” Yang Shiyue said.
After descending from the city wall, Pei Shaohuai sent Chang Fan back to the Zou residence to pass word that they would not be returning for the evening meal, asking Madam Zou not to wait for them. He then found a tastefully decorated wine house with Shiyue, ordered several local dishes, and the two of them shared half a flask of osmanthus wine.
Just as he was about to call the server over for the bill, Pei Shaohuai overheard the lively conversation at the neighboring table. From the manner of their speech, they seemed to be scholars. He slipped the silver coin back into his sleeve, poured himself a cup of tea, and continued to listen.
“There are so many scholars in Jiangnan that the path of the imperial examinations is far harder here than in the north. Given your age, Elder He, why confine yourself to the provincial autumn examinations? You might do better to look for other avenues,” someone was advising.
From the sound of it, this Elder He held the title of licentiate.
“Alas, what other avenues are there for a scholar besides the examinations?” Elder He sighed. “If I were to become a private tutor for some clan, I would never be content with that.”
“Elder He writes Yunjian-style verse with exceptional skill, and some measure of reputation has already spread. Why not make a trip to Raozhou Prefecture? The two places are not so far apart.”
“Brother Liu, are you speaking of… the Huai Prince’s household?”
“Precisely,” Brother Liu replied. “The Huai Prince has a deep passion for Yunjian-style verse and treats resident scholars with great generosity — Elder He has surely heard as much. With Elder He’s refined and elegant literary style, why not submit a notable composition and try your luck? Whether it succeeds or not, surely the outcome could not be worse than your present circumstances.”
He continued, “And if you truly were to enter the Huai Prince’s household, for one thing it would relieve Elder He of the worry of firewood and rice at home, giving your father the means to recover from his illness. For another, meeting a few people from the official world and being guided by them — if that were to help you pass the provincial examinations, who could say what fortune might lie ahead? It is always better to move one step forward.”
“Thank you for this counsel, Brother Liu — it has awakened me completely,” Elder He said.
As for the Yunjian style, it was a school of lyric poetry in Da Qing that favored elegant and graceful phrasing, and proclaimed its ambition to revive the lyric arts of the Song dynasty.
Brother Liu went on to advise, “It is my view that Elder He’s composition ‘Fallen Blossoms Fill the Courtyard, None to Gather Them’ is quite excellent — it subtly conveys the sentiment of a talented man whose gifts go unrecognized.”
The group inside the private room continued to drink and soon drifted to other topics.
This small interlude caught Pei Shaohuai’s attention and lodged itself in his mind.
Raozhou Prefecture lay in the northern part of Jiangxi, with the fish-rich Poyang Lake to its west and the renowned porcelain capital of Jingdezhen to its east, with the Rao River threading through the middle. By any measure, this was a place of extraordinary abundance.
A fitting name indeed, “Rao” meaning richly endowed.
It stood to reason that the prince enfeoffed in such a place would be no ordinary figure. The one enfeoffed in Raozhou Prefecture was the current Emperor’s second legitimate son, Yan Jiandao. When Yan Jiandao was young, the Empress had already been making arrangements on his behalf, and he had also earned a measure of the Emperor’s favor — and so he had been granted this prosperous princedom.
That the Huai Prince had a fondness for Yunjian-style verse was a well-known fact. When Yan Jiandao was still in the capital, many officials were aware of it.
What puzzled Pei Shaohuai was this: princes were enfeoffed at fifteen and took up residence in their princedoms at twenty. The Huai Prince had been in Raozhou for only six or seven years — how had his reputation already spread all the way to Jinling?
Had the Huai Prince spread it himself, or had others done so deliberately?
After all, for a prince of the blood to take in advisors and clients — even a group of scholars who merely studied Yunjian-style verse — was hardly a favorable thing.
What concerned Pei Shaohuai was not the matter itself, but the reason behind it. Regrettably, Yan Chengzhao had already gone to Wuchang Prefecture, and he had no skilled informants of his own at hand. Otherwise, this would truly have been worth “looking into.”
Back at the Zou residence that night, Pei Shaohuai lay awake, unable to sleep.
“Is something weighing on your mind, husband?”
“Everything I saw and heard today — I feel as though something is trying to come together in my mind, yet I cannot find the key, and it sits heavy on my chest, unresolved,” Pei Shaohuai replied.
“Why don’t I help you sort through it?” Yang Shiyue offered. “Is it the ten thousand boats returning that you saw from the city wall? Or the Qinhuai River blazing with light on both banks? Or the conversation you overheard in the wine house?”
“It’s the boats.”
“Is it the bustling throng of vessels, or the grain in the transport ships?”
“The grain transport ships.”
Pei Shaohuai sat up suddenly, uncharacteristically animated, his face full of excitement but his voice kept low. “I found the key.”
The ledger that Xie Jia had kept — how could one look only at the amounts, and overlook the entire process of the transactions?