Where there is profit to be made, it is a coveted post — everyone vies and scrambles for it. Where there is no profit to be gained, the work is done with slack indifference, and sleeping like a pig is the natural result. Such is the true mindset of low-ranking clerks.

Scaled up to the court, those high officials and wealthy nobles whose interests have been injured will do far more than merely “slack off and sleep like pigs.”

What’s more, Pei Shaohuai was young, and his rapid promotions and placement in important positions had already become a thorn in the eyes of quite a few people.

Huang Qingxing was not wrong: the successful implementation of the new policies, however meritorious, would not diminish Pei Shaohuai’s enemies — it would only cause him to make more.

Once the contradiction between the common people and the powerful nobility came to a head, should the court one day fall into turmoil, even the wisest of emperors would ultimately have to stand with the ranks of the officials — for “the officials are the branches, but the ruler is the trunk.”

It was precisely because Pei Shaohuai understood this that he had been so resolute in opening the sea routes.

By opening trade to the sea, a strong and prosperous Da Qing could temporarily redirect its internal contradictions outward; the steady flow of goods and resources arriving from abroad could meet the demands of all parties, giving this land — already with bows drawn and blades bared — a brief moment to catch its breath.

And with vessels carrying Da Qing’s goods outward into the world, driving productive capacity upward, there would come a day, eventually, when an opportunity would emerge to break through the current impasse entirely.

Huang Qingxing’s warning, far from generating goodwill in Pei Shaohuai, instead caused him to feel — his expression unchanged — a quiet, rising suspicion. Being a student of Elder Zou’s, reaching the level of understanding that “new policies create enemies” was not remarkable. But to emphasize on one hand that he came from a farming family, while on the other hand cautioning Pei Shaohuai to beware of making enemies, was something of a contradiction — a discrepancy between what was said and what was within.

It seemed likely that Huang Qingxing had not inherited Elder Zou’s unwavering resolve, and had instead settled into the compromise of self-preservation.

Pei Shaohuai paused his steps and clasped his hands in a bow toward Huang Qingxing, saying, “I thank Deputy Minister Huang for the warning. The waters of officialdom run deep — I can only probe my way through, one careful step at a time.”

“It is no warning at all — I only hope that Your Excellency will exercise caution, for the careful ship sails ten thousand years,” Huang Qingxing said. “Officials as upright and courageous as Your Excellency are few and far between.”

As they were about to exit the grain city, Huang Qingxing asked, “Is there anything else Your Excellency Pei wishes to see in Jinling’s main granary?”

There was, naturally — Pei Shaohuai had been keeping in mind the matter of the grain depot paying the common people for their grain with raw silver rather than coins. But bearing in mind Elder Zou’s caution — “the only one you can truly trust is yourself” — Pei Shaohuai changed course. He said, “We’ve gone through everything already. Let’s use the remaining time to go see the stabilization granaries.”

The silver matter was of great significance. If he were careless and startled the snake before it emerged from the grass, he would lose any further chance to catch the greedy serpent when it finally showed itself.

To mint and forge the massive quantities of currency needed, the Bureau of Currency had expanded more than tenfold over the years, with silver coins flowing out like spring water. The court had never placed restrictions on the exchange of raw silver for silver coins — and so raw silver that could only be exchanged through the hands of ordinary commoners must necessarily be silver that could not bear scrutiny: either of dubious origin, or of an alarmingly large sum, or both.

Huang Qingxing understood financial dealings and knew the significance of what was at stake. Yet it was precisely under his oversight that the grain depot had allowed this lapse to occur. Whether he had knowingly permitted what he knew he should not, or whether matters had grown too large to rein in and he had been deceived and blindsided by those beneath him — Pei Shaohuai could not presume to judge on suspicion alone, and could only remain on guard for now.

The two men boarded the carriage and headed north to the stabilization granaries.

Just as Huang Qingxing had described, the stabilization granary compound was nearly desolate. Wild grass grew throughout the city grounds; close to half of the storage houses were damaged to varying degrees — cracked walls, collapsed roofs. Those houses still standing intact had been left empty of grain, with only old, worn soldiers posted as caretakers.

“The stabilization granaries truly need to be repaired and restored to use,” Pei Shaohuai said.

Huang Qingxing’s face brightened. “If this matter could be accomplished, it would truly be a great blessing for the people.”

After leaving the stabilization granaries, dusk was settling in. Pei Shaohuai did not proceed to the Nanjing Ministry of Revenue, and instead parted ways with Huang Qingxing and returned to the Zou residence. Over the course of a full day spent in each other’s company and in conversation, Pei Shaohuai had formed a basic assessment of the accomplishments and abilities Huang Qingxing had demonstrated in his years of service.

“Rustling trees fade beyond the distant grove, and on half the autumn hills, the sun’s last light rests.”

There is no banquet under heaven that does not eventually end. All the way to the day of departure, Elder Zou never came to full clarity again. Yet though names had left him, his memory of reading and of tending rice paddies remained.

At the river dock by the shore, the Zou family came to see Pei Shaohuai off, and Huang Qingxing came as well.

Huang Qingxing presented Pei Shaohuai with a letter of self-recommendation. Both men understood each other without need for many words. Huang Qingxing said, “I am in your hands, Your Excellency.” He then added a customary exchange of courtesies.

“The court has great need of capable men at present,” Pei Shaohuai replied with the appropriate formal words. “I am merely fulfilling a modest duty to recommend talent — in the end, it is Deputy Minister Huang’s own merits that will decide.”

Elder Zou had snapped two bundles of willow branches from the riverside and twisted them into two circlets. He placed one cheerfully on Xiao Nan’s head and said, “Next time we meet, this little master from the north should already be grown up and sitting for the imperial examinations. We two shall follow the custom of men of letters — parting with the gift of willow branches.”

Xiao Nan had grown accustomed to being called “little master from the north.” Mimicking his father’s clasped-hands bow, he gave Elder Zou three deep bows and said in his young voice, “Thank you, Grandfather Zou. Until we meet again.”

When it came to Xiao Feng’s turn, Elder Zou had forgotten her name. He looked toward Madam Zou with a somewhat embarrassed expression, seeking help.

“It is Yunci, with the pet name Xiao Feng,” Madam Zou reminded him.

“Yes, yes, of course.” Elder Zou placed the second circlet on Xiao Feng’s head and said, “Women are in no way inferior to men — this little girl has such a bright and spirited look about her… Come here, Xiao Feng-Yunci, this one is for you.” In just those few moments, he had already mixed up Xiao Feng and Yunci into one.

Pei Shaohuai had been composed, but Elder Zou’s words “until we meet again” caused tears to fall without him noticing — it was only when they slid into his collar that he became aware of them.

The official vessel moved off into the distance. Pei Shaohuai watched as Elder Zou waved goodbye to Xiao Nan again and again, like a child — the very image of a merry old eccentric. A measure of peace settled in his heart.

Elder Nanju seemed to be using this way of parting to strip away the sorrow of farewell, leaving only warm wishes for the younger generation — and a heart full of joy.

Remembering what Elder Nanju had said — “In the green paddies, it is hard to tell the rice from the barnyard grass” — Pei Shaohuai wondered inwardly whether Elder Nanju had also sensed something amiss, and had deliberately kept so much unsaid for so long, waiting to speak it only to him.

If so, with the wound from the betrayal of years past still unhealed, salt had now been rubbed into it once more…

Pei Shaohuai’s chest ached at the thought. He could only hope, with everything he had, that Huang Qingxing was not so unworthy of trust after all.

The boat moved on; the shore grew distant in a haze of river mist.

Pei Shaohuai stood at the stern for a long time, gazing southward in a quiet daze.

Yang Shiyue came out with a cloak and draped it around her husband’s shoulders, saying, “Mind the autumn chill.”

She stood with him for quite a while. Even after only a few days, Yang Shiyue had come to feel the upright spirit that permeated the Zou household — and the chivalrous air that clung to the old man himself.

She said with feeling, “Having seen the old teacher and the friends of your past, I now understand — every part of who you are, husband, has a place it came from.”

Meanwhile, back in the capital, the Emperor had convened a grand morning court specifically to have the ten-thousand-name petition submitted by Shuang’an Prefecture read aloud — every civil and military official in the capital was required to attend, unless there was pressing business that prevented them.

The Chief Transmission Officer Supervisor’s skill at reading aloud was extraordinary — his voice resonant and powerful, comparable to the officials of the Court of State Ceremonial, yet without the drawn-out, lingering quality. And with the civil and military ranks assembled in full, the great hall filled with their presence, the proceedings took on something of the grandeur of the Imperial Examination Proclamation ceremony.

Officials who had long since heard of Pei Shaohuai’s achievements in opening the sea trade now heard it again from the perspective of the common people, and gained fresh understanding. Those whose information had not been so current, hearing it all for the first time, found themselves taken aback anew with each sentence the Chief Transmission Officer read — before they could even fully react, the next sentence had already been read.

The ten-thousand-name petition was astonishing enough on its own. They had assumed the entire document concerned a single matter — yet it turned out that every single sentence recorded a separate achievement.

It seemed that merit could be cited in an unbroken chain, one line after another.

Most records of achievement would describe the hardship of the process; Pei Shaohuai’s record of achievement consisted of nothing but cold, unadorned numbers — how many pirates had been eliminated, how much in maritime duties had been collected, how many schools had been built, how many people had been lifted out of poverty…

Especially among those newly arrived in the capital over the past two years — those who had heard mention of Pei Boyan and dismissed him with some indifference, thinking of him as a past glory, a fading flower — hearing this now, they realized it was they themselves who were the ones falling short.

If the civil officials could still put on a composed face, the military officials cared nothing for appearances, and let their feelings show plainly — Pei Boyan’s achievement in suppressing the pirates had landed on their cheeks like a resounding slap. Were it not for the Imperial Guard Commander Yan still providing them some cover, they would not have known where to put their faces.

It served as a sharp reminder.

Whatever other sentiments people might have been harboring, on the question of Pei Shaohuai’s merits, they were convinced. All of them were seasoned old foxes — one hearing was enough for them to know the weight of what had been accomplished and the difficulty of the tasks involved.

Afterward, the Ministry of Rites announced the Emperor’s rewards: silver, silk, ceremonial wine, and provisions were all included, as was the grant of one formal embroidered court robe decorated with the “battling bull” design, the bestowal of the fifth-rank honorary title of Lady of Propriety upon his wife, Lady Yang, and the privilege of granting exemption from examination for one descendant to enter official service.

In short, every category of reward that could be given had been given, without regard to whether or not Pei Shaohuai actually had a particular need for it.

The privilege of granting exemption from examination, for instance, was something Pei Shaohuai had little use for. Other officials sought this imperial grace when they were already old and grey, but Pei Shaohuai was only twenty-five.

The formal court robe Pei Shaohuai had worn at his wedding was a red brocade qilin round-collar robe, a fourth-rank granted robe — and now it had been elevated to a third-rank granted robe: the “battling bull” design. The “battling bull” was not an ox, but a horned serpentine creature capable of soaring through clouds; the name came from the fact that its horns resembled those of a bull.

At the end of the morning court, the Emperor commanded, “Transmission Office.”

“Your servant is present.”

“Have this ten-thousand-name petition reprinted in the Da Qing Court Gazette, published for three consecutive issues, and copies distributed to every prefecture and region — not a single character is to be omitted.”

“Your servant obeys.”

The Ministry of Rites was further instructed to make a transcribed copy and post it outside Chang’an Gate in the capital — the very same place where the gold roll of imperial examination results was posted. Anything placed there drew the most attention from scholars throughout the realm.

Every official present understood that all of this was merely the opening course. The real question — the reward everyone had been watching for — was what official post the Emperor would grant to Pei Shaohuai. Silver and wine, after all, made for a grand spectacle that passed quickly.

Three years ago, how delightedly they had seen off Censor Pei and wished him well, hoping he might remain in the south for several years more — and now, hearing news of his return, how complex were their feelings.

And when they reflected further that in the years since Pei Shaohuai had been away, without that particular “obstacle” present, they themselves had managed to accomplish nothing of any note — their feelings grew still more complicated.

The Emperor’s decision to summon him back several months early placed his return precisely at the time of the once-every-six-years Metropolitan Examination. It was clear this was to allow him to participate in the evaluation as a capital official.

Anyone could see it.

Whatever other calculations everyone might have running through their minds, the moment of the Metropolitan Examination was one that tested the acting abilities of capital officials to the utmost — whether to secure a good posting for themselves, remain in positions of influence, promote their own students, or build up their own factions. And provincial officials watched with hungry eyes, applauding the performances from afar, waiting for a chance to be assigned to a role of their own.

Such had become the prevailing custom.