Worn and shabby, patched and mended, decrepit and creaking, the river boat sat low in the deep water, moving without hurry toward Jindian.

A night had passed, and She Wanlin finally realized he seemed to have been taken for a fool.

Ever since being smuggled out of the Qingfeng Mansion, this whole journey had felt like a steady slide downhill — at first they called him Little Prince, then Little Noble One, then Young Master, and now they called him… shop boy?

Only now did She Wanlin understand that in this world, people were respected according to their clothes. Old Chou’s robe hung past his knees, so he was the head steward and had to be respected. As for himself, wearing a short blue cloth jacket that barely reached his knees, he was just a errand boy sent along to help the shopkeeper do business in Jindian — even though they claimed to be of the same clan bloodline, he’d gotten no respect for it.

That head steward slept on the wooden bed, while he himself could only sleep on the deck of the cramped cabin. And they called him little brother, little fellow, little pal, little Yi-zi?

To hell with all that!

Traveling together four hundred li of waterway to Jindian, the head steward paid two strings of cash, while he, the errand boy, was only worth eight hundred coins?

Normally meals came from the communal pot, with private meals paid extra — yet that bastard Old Chou, whether on purpose or not, ate his private meals while leaving him to share the communal pot with this troupe of actors.

Early in the morning, a bowl of bland fish soup plus three large hard flatbreads — and even that, the others envied him for! Meanwhile the child actors doing chores only got one flatbread each.

And at night, the Wufu Troupe had prepared only one set of bedding, clearly never considering that he too needed to sleep.

By this point, She Wanlin finally understood — if you weren’t born into a good womb, you weren’t even entitled to a bed before you’d made something of yourself.

The children learning opera weren’t even allowed to touch the costume trunks. When the boat sailed, they took turns rowing in the lower hold; at night they took turns sleeping on deck; when it rained, they huddled together in the hold clutching their belongings.

And yet, the people in this troupe always seemed happy, laughing and smiling all day long.

It seemed everyone judged from his clothes and his age that he wasn’t fit to sleep in a bed, so they assigned him to hard labor, and even the older ones scolded him — look how your uncle has spoiled you rotten, and you still won’t behave filially toward him?

Filial toward him? She Wanlin wanted nothing more than to strangle him.

The kitchen, which held power of life and death, was both foul and fragrant — the smell of food mixed with the smell of feet wasn’t anything special. She Wanlin was used to it by now, and could endure it.

The window by the railing was open. The child actors were well-behaved, lining up with their wooden bowls to get their food. She Wanlin’s status wasn’t good enough now — it wasn’t yet his turn to eat. He was the one serving others.

His head steward wanted to invite the string player, the flute player, the percussionist, the troupe leader, and two of the star performers for drinks — and he had to serve them, carrying plates and dishes?

Fine, serving people was serving people — but even his ears got no peace. Mixed in as he was now, anyone could order him around.

“Hey, you, boy, hurry up! Take this over to your clan uncle! Hah — I don’t know what the old gentleman sees in you. No tact, no wits, a blindfolded old donkey grinding grain has more sense than you. And you’re supposed to become a second-tier manager someday?”

She Wanlin, holding the tray and not quite sure what was happening, was being scolded by the kitchen chef of the Wufu Troupe. The man’s surname was Zheng, and his given name was Laoxue — Xue as in “boot.” He had a younger brother named Erpi. Their family used to make shoes, though no one knew why they’d both ended up in the opera trade instead.

They weren’t even that good at singing opera, so they scraped by with the Wufu Troupe, without a household or property of their own. When the troupe was short of hands for a scene, the two brothers would take the stage from either the entrance or exit door; if they were still short, they could fill in themselves, playing a household guard, a constable, a servant, or the like.

Don’t look down on this kind of work — since they had no indenture contract with the troupe but a bonded contract instead, they earned three shares of pay. Still, neither brother could afford to marry. As Old Chou put it: just endure it — anyone who reaches thirty or forty without ever having known a woman’s scent is bound to develop a foul temper.

Ever since Old Chou and She Wanlin had boarded this opera boat of the Wufu Troupe the previous evening, She Wanlin felt as if a new door had opened in his life.

Hm — well, quite a few doors had been opening lately. He was getting used to it.

Old Chou was a remarkable man. His most remarkable trait was that, though he used to spend every day loitering on Quanhou Street, once he arrived somewhere unfamiliar he could quickly befriend everyone. Whatever business went on inside an opera troupe — he knew it! All of it!

No one knew how he knew it, which baffled She Wanlin to no end.

So he’d just crouch by his side and listen to him ramble. He wanted to sit, but no one gave him that privilege. At his age, still learning a trade, sitting on the ground was all he was entitled to.

The whole night, accompanied by the silent river and the cawing of crows on both banks, he listened to Old Chou hold forth on the great opera troupes of the Three Rivers region — the Fuxi Troupe, the Sanyuan Troupe, the Jinxi Troupe, the Laishun Troupe… there wasn’t a single troupe he didn’t know.

Don’t underestimate the Wufu Troupe just because it had some property — even its own troupe leader wasn’t nearly as well-informed, and he too listened wide-eyed.

Like how the lead painted-face performer of the Sanyuan Troupe once got drunk, and while performing the Grand Star God, fell off the stage right onto the birthday banquet table of the county magistrate’s old mother — and got himself killed in the fall! The old troupe leader spent a lifetime’s savings on compensation and it still wasn’t enough; in the end he was only released after receiving thirty strokes of the cane…

Or how there was a young female-role performer in Yandu named Lai Xiaoyun, said to be the most beautiful figure in the entire opera world of his generation. Whenever he performed “Startled from a Dream,” he needed a whole new set of red robes, soft capes, and cloud shoulders, even the twin phoenix hairpin crafted by master artisans from the Craftsmen’s Street workshop — a single set of such costume pieces cost at minimum a hundred strings of cash, yet his admirers among the nobility kept lining up, begging in tears to be the one to fund it.

Now that — that was a true star.

This made the two star performers of the Wufu Troupe so envious they couldn’t eat, yet they kept listening anyway.

He went on — in Yandu, an ordinary troupe performing a six-day birthday celebration, running through the full set of sixteen pieces from “Longevity Mountain, Blessed Sea,” “Heavenly Officials Bestow Blessings,” “Three Origins, A Hundred Blessings” and so on, would earn no less than eighty strings in reward money — and that was just the standard rate.

But this Wufu Troupe, wandering the rivers, had once earned the grandest reward of its career performing a birthday celebration — fifty strings, at the very peak of its fortunes.

Both troupes made their living the same way, yet the comparison left a sour taste in the air on the boat.

Zheng Laoxue, for one, felt he’d wasted his life. Not daring to argue with Old Chou, he took it out on the errand boy instead, muttering on and on as he sliced a piece of pork head meat — less than two liang — paper-thin, somehow managing to stack it into a whole large plate.

He also added boiled green soybeans, cold-mixed lotus root, braised river snails, plus the pork head meat — four dishes to go with the wine — and finally pulled down six triangular-mouthed two-liang wine flasks from beside the stove. All of it he shoved toward She Wanlin, and when She Wanlin didn’t know how to take it all at once, the man nearly exploded with anger.

Whoever controlled the fate of the kitchen, throughout history, was either cunning and sly, cunning and fat, or cunning and brutish. In short, seeing She Wanlin not moving, Zheng Laoxue raised his hand to strike him — but She Wanlin merely glanced at him lightly, and he suddenly felt his shoulder grow strangely heavy…

With so many child actors watching, Zheng Laoxue shouted to save face: “Still standing there waiting? Want me to feed it to you myself? Want me to lay out another whole banquet for you? You tactless thing, get it over there! Get out of my sight!”

She Wanlin turned to look at the river, half-wishing he could throw the man in — and indeed, he was about ready to.

That quick-witted Zheng Erpi came over smiling, plucked a piece of meat from the plate and stuffed it into his mouth, saying with a grin: “Good boy, don’t mind him, he gets like this after a few too many cups. Go on, go on, your old uncle must be waiting.”

The already-corrupted little prince had already learned to forgive people. His anger dissipated, he clicked his tongue, and swaying slightly, carried the tray toward the deck.

Once he’d walked far enough away, Zheng Erpi turned to his brother and complained: “Why do you bother with him? However lazy he is, that’s Steward Ping’s own business — it’s not your place to lecture him.”

Zheng Laoxue, both angry and anxious, pointed at the doorway: “Hey, I’ve seen lazy before, but never this lazy — that dog can’t even hold his own back straight, he leans against my doorframe the moment he walks in, it makes me so mad—”

Zheng Erpi, having hidden away another piece of pork head meat from who knows where, stuffed one piece into his brother’s mouth and one into his own, chewing as he said: “Brother, mind your own business, why get so worked up? He’s not one of the boat kids — if you can’t earn your keep in this trade, sooner or later you starve, that’s their problem. But look at that kid’s neck, his hands — not a single patch on his clothes. That’s a young master from a wealthy family. Who do you think you are to lecture him?”

Only then did it dawn on Zheng Laoxue. He smacked his own forehead and said: “Ah, forgot about that. Look at this head of mine…”

Across the long stretch of river, some ten-odd boats were moored sideways in front of a certain checkpoint, blocking passage. Countless boats sat stalled, waiting to be searched.

No one knew how long the wait would be. Old Chou spent money buying wine and meat, inviting everyone out to keep listening to him talk.

She Wanlin went over, having learned his lesson, not wanting anyone else to nag him either. He bent to set down the wine and dishes, and with some resentment in his heart, set the plate down on the table with a loud clatter, drawing everyone’s eyes to him.

Old Chou watched with a smile, while She Wanlin fumbled about with a wooden expression. Once finished, he sniffed and turned to leave, but heard Old Chou call from behind: “Wait, wait.”

He turned to look back, and Old Chou picked up his chopsticks, lifting a thin slice of meat, saying to him: “Good nephew, come here, have a bite, sweeten your mouth.”

She Wanlin looked away from him, but Old Chou, his face full of doting affection, chided: “Tsk, this child, still shy? Come here quickly!”

Laughter erupted around the table. She Wanlin had no choice but to lower his head and go over. Old Chou stuffed a piece of meat into his mouth, set down his chopsticks, and pulled out a handful of copper coins from his sleeve, pressing them into his hand: “Go play. In a bit some little boats from nearby will come selling fruit — buy some and treat the little friends in the troupe. Go on, go on…”

The head of the Wufu Troupe was named Zhang Shuangxi. He had once been a star performer himself, had saved up some property over the years, and once he grew older, bought a river boat and built up the Wufu Troupe.

Though he was already past fifty, he still dared not grow a beard, and his voice remained soft and delicate, almost like a woman’s.

Seeing how Steward Ping doted on the boy, he laughed: “Oh my, why the long face?”

Old Chou chuckled, the large mole on his face bobbing up and down, and as he lifted the wine flask to fill everyone’s cups, he explained: “How could I not be upset? I’m plenty upset!”

The flute player, a man named Cheng Dakui, disapproved of this display and said: “Oh? Angry while learning a trade?”

That was hardly proper.

Old Chou raised his cup, led everyone in the first drink, wiped his mouth and laughed: “Ah, this matter — you really can’t blame my good nephew here! The boy’s been clever since he was little, a true scholar in the making. But alas, my old brother’s family — pitiful, really — by this generation, though they still have a shop or two and a hundred mu of good farmland, not that they can’t afford support, it’s just — he’s the only son in the family. If he doesn’t come out to learn a trade, who will? Who’ll take up the ancestors’ legacy? He couldn’t keep up with his studies, so he came out with me to learn business instead. Tell me, isn’t that enough to make anyone upset?”

The troupe members, hearing this, immediately understood and felt for the poor boy, consoling him: “It’s nothing, these days merchants aren’t looked down on like they were in the previous dynasty — merchants are hardly worse off than farmers now…”

Let them talk among themselves. She Wanlin ran to the kitchen, retrieved his own breakfast from those bothersome hands, and carried it to sit at the stern, dangling his feet over the edge of the boat, eating listlessly, bite by bite.

The Wufu Troupe’s food wasn’t tasty, but it was filling. The hard flatbread, dusted white with flour, had to be torn apart facing away to eat properly — eat enough of it, and you might just develop a set of teeth like bronze and silver.

As he ate, some of the child actors, seeing the troupe leader in a good mood that day, and with the bow of the boat too crowded to rehearse anyway, took the rare chance at freedom. A few bold ones, favorites of their masters, quietly came up behind She Wanlin.

The tallest one, a young martial-role performer named Zhang Yongchun, was among the earliest children the troupe had purchased and had been raised half as the troupe leader’s own son. Emboldened by this, he dared strike up a conversation with She Wanlin, even daring to pat him on the shoulder.

Having done so, he looked back proudly at his little friends in the troupe, raising his eyebrows.

The other boys were naturally full of admiration.

Don’t underestimate this little opera boat — a troupe of fewer than sixty people from top to bottom still had its various ranks and hierarchies.

She Wanlin, holding his flatbread in one hand, turned with a somewhat foolish look and said: “Huh?”

The boy before him had proper, handsome features, bright round eyes, a high nose bridge, a somewhat wide mouth, and two red pimples on the tip of his nose mixed with small freckles.

He grinned and struck up conversation: “Hey kid, I heard your steward say that back in Yandu, an ordinary opera troupe gets eighty-some strings of cash just for a birthday performance?”

Several boats from far away slowly came to a stop, trailing behind the opera boat at a distance. Far off, a few small skiffs entered the shallow river — those were the water-dwelling fruit sellers…

She Wanlin, in all his years, had never once considered how much money a troupe would need to perform a birthday celebration. Those people simply invited him to the seat of honor, then handed him the playbill, and whatever he pointed to, they performed.

How would he know anything about eighty strings of cash?

Just as he was pondering this, his shoulder was tapped again. The boy sat down beside him, quite familiar already, and even snatched a bite of his hard flatbread, gnawing on it as he asked: “I’m asking you something!”

She Wanlin blinked: “Asking me?”

The boy swallowed his mouthful of bread, looking utterly exasperated: “I’m asking — in Yandu, does an ordinary troupe really get eighty strings for a birthday performance?”

She Wanlin hesitated, but ultimately nodded: “Ah, yes! That much, at the very least that much!”

His aunts back home were pleased with such things, and the rewards given out were never less than that amount.

Zhang Yongchun was thoroughly envious. Seeing She Wanlin eating slowly, he pointed at the other large flatbread and asked: “Can’t finish that one either?”

She Wanlin nodded, reached out, and broke off the bread in his hand to hand over: “Can’t finish this one either.”

“Ah, now that’s a man of taste and manners! Much obliged!”

The boy took the bread happily, waved his hand back to his friends, and two more boys came over. Zhang Yongchun introduced them — the delicate, fine-featured one destined to play the young female lead was Zhang Yongbao, and the one who would play the elderly female role was Zhang Yongqing.

Their troupe was still young — only one generation deep, all sharing the character “Yong” in their names.

The boys split up the bread, and instantly the free-spending errand boy became fast friends with all of them. Everyone was pleased, gathering around to gnaw on their bread together with the “rich boy.”

By the end of this whole meal, without even needing to be asked, they’d given away all their secrets, including exactly where the troupe leader kept his private savings jar.

She Wanlin listened, dumbfounded, feeling that true human warmth, it seemed, was worth no more than a few flatbreads — and hard ones at that.

That boy Zhang Yongbao was adorable, grinning foolishly at She Wanlin as he gnawed his bread, his girlish mannerisms already well-developed — he looked just like some dark, delicate girl from a neighboring alley on Quanqian Street.

She Wanlin, thoroughly charmed, wanted to give him something as a reward, but when he reached for his belt — ah, no belt. He wasn’t even entitled to a belt; all he had was a coarse cloth waistband.

Embarrassed, he turned to cough at the river, mortified — though thankfully, no one else noticed.

Zhang Yongchun laughed and said: “Once I become a star, I’ll take our Wufu Troupe to Yandu to perform that eighty-string birthday show! By then, if you all want pork head, you’ll get pork head — if you want roast chicken, I’ll buy you whole ones!”

Such grand ambitions.

Once he finished, everyone around cheered. She Wanlin, being about the same age as them, heard this unrealistic dream and asked earnestly: “You all — want to go to Yandu?”

Zhang Yongchun’s expression froze for a moment, then he laughed, patting his shoulder: “In the future, I mean in the future…” He tore off a bite of bread sideways with his teeth, chewing as he said: “Heh, once our troupe leader gets old and can’t perform anymore, I’ll support him in his old age. By then I’ll be in charge, and I’ll build Little Bao into a great star — he’ll surely become famous in Yandu sooner or later. By then, hmph! Eighty strings? That’ll be nothing!”

Another bite of bread.

She Wanlin, by nature, was an honest, simple child — his mind didn’t run in clever directions, especially not toward manipulating children like these.

Hearing them talk of wanting to go to Yandu, he asked earnestly, based on his own experience: “Then — then for the seasonal opening, there are eighty-eight seasonal plays. How many of those can your troupe perform?”

What a wicked question!

The boys all gasped in unison, stopped chewing their bread, and tilted their heads back to stare at She Wanlin.

She Wanlin, not understanding what was going on, bared his teeth and tilted his own head back too. What was wrong?

Our little prince didn’t understand the rules of the opera world, but he did know that every time a program booklet was sent to him, it listed specific plays. For example, on the Buddha’s Bathing Day, the plays were fixed — “The Sixth Patriarch Lectures on Scripture,” “Buddha Transformed into a Golden Body,” “The Radiant Throne Opens” — those few pieces.

For the Ghost Festival, the list would be “The Demon King Answers Buddha,” “Ksitigarbha’s Vow”…

New Year had its own plays, Mid-Autumn had its own repertoire — that was the rule. Any troupe that dared try to make a living in the capital had to have at minimum eighty-eight seasonal plays as their foundation — not something any ordinary troupe could manage.

And the Wufu Troupe — what kind of troupe was it? Just one scraping by along the riverbanks. Ask them if they knew the seasonal plays — sure, at most one play per occasion. That was practically an insult.

Every household had some traditional repertoire pieces tucked away, and besides, every region had its own style and tune — whether people in Yandu would even enjoy it was another matter. And yet here he was, asking if they knew all eighty-eight?

What a wicked question!

Yet the little prince, utterly oblivious, kept gnawing his bread and continued: “If you can’t manage the seasonal plays well, you could just make do in Qingfeng Mansion instead — the troupes there are easier to get by. Three hundred and eighty-eight two-character minor variety plays — if you know a hundred of those, plus a good flute player, you could earn decent reward money…”

The three boys gasped cold air through their teeth. This person was too cruel!

Variety plays were small pieces like “Touring the Garden,” “Worshipping the Moon,” “Sweeping the Pine Grave” — short in length, but you needed a lead performer capable of carrying the whole show, someone who alone could hold up the stage and support the whole troupe.

The Wufu Troupe did have such a star — that man named Li Deyi who’d been drinking earlier. He used to perform the role of Xiaoqing in another troupe’s version of “The Broken Bridge,” but he wasn’t good enough, got pushed out, and ended up becoming the star of the Wufu Troupe instead.

But even having become their star, everyone knew — his stage presence was decent, but the variety plays he knew numbered only some twenty-odd pieces, ones that even Little Bao already had memorized by heart…

This little errand boy was truly wicked — telling them that knowing a hundred plays would get them into Qingfeng Mansion — wasn’t that just rubbing salt in the wound?

They wanted to learn more, sure, but their household didn’t even have a proper teacher.

The boys fell silent. She Wanlin, too, realized he’d said something wrong. Oh no, what to do now.

He glanced left and right, and spotted a small official boat approaching. As if finding salvation, he shouted: “Look, an official boat!”

The boys startled and scrambled to run down into the hold.

Anyone could tell at a glance there were plenty of unregistered persons hiding below.

Unregistered persons didn’t have to pay taxes.

Not long after, an official with a large beard, sword at his hip, boarded the Wufu Troupe’s opera boat.

The troupe leader, smiling obsequiously, personally carried over the boat’s one and only chair for the leading official to sit, even wiping it down with his sleeve. But the official didn’t sit, instead asking with obvious displeasure: “Where’s this boat from?”

The troupe leader, bowing carefully, replied: “We wouldn’t dare deceive you, sir — we’ve come from the docks at Yiyuan Prefecture. There was originally a birthday celebration there…”

At this, the official’s expression changed. He shoved the man aside and waved his hand at the men behind him: “Search it!”

Alarmed, the troupe leader hastily pulled a small ingot of silver from his sleeve — roughly two liang by the look of it.

He held it out pleadingly: “My lord, my lord, we’ve done nothing wrong, what’s this about? What’s this about? We’ve got people relieving themselves down below, the smell…”

“Get out of the way!”

The official shoved him aside; the troupe leader stumbled backward and fell. The silver ingot dropped onto the deck, and the official stepped on it, glaring down coldly: “Consider yourself lucky. We’ve received orders from above — there’s a fugitive wanted for grave crimes fleeing somewhere around the Yiyuan Prefecture docks. Every boat from Yandu to Jindian, especially those passing Yiyuan Prefecture, is to be searched doubly hard. Watch yourselves — if we catch even a hint of trouble on you, we’ll have a long talk down at the station, and there’s an old cell with your name on it.”

Before long, a string of people was driven out from every hidden corner by the soldiers, all lined up on deck for inspection by these officials.

Ancestral registration, place of origin, occupation — question after question rained down. Those without problems suddenly had problems; those who already had problems were scared out of their wits.

She Wanlin and Old Chou were at the very back of the line. Neither was worried, though Old Chou said: “Don’t move about carelessly. This is just a mess — some wild men from who-knows-where, bullying the opera troupe to shake them down for money.”

She Wanlin craned his neck to look: “Shake them down?”

Weren’t these soldiers?

Old Chou nodded: “Ah, this place isn’t like where you’re from. We’re near Jindian now — this area’s been chaotic since ancient times, and now, hmph, in the hands of the Tan family, it’s even worse. The mountains are high and the emperor is far away — the closer to Jindian, the darker things get.

You think they’re after you? Hmph, dream on. These days, whoever’s after you won’t be from the imperial court — they wouldn’t dare go after someone from the Nine Provinces domain. This is just them relying on their positions to bully common folk. This is the waterway to Jindian, nothing to do with anywhere else…”

Just as he was speaking, wailing broke out up ahead. Zhang Yongbao, lacking household registration, had been singled out and dragged aside. He was terrified, stammering incoherently, and got slapped twice for it.

She Wanlin immediately wanted to step in and stop it, but Old Chou grabbed hold of him.

Old Chou asked: “Where do you think you’re going?”

She Wanlin: “They’re… they’re…”

Zhang Yongchun tried to shield Little Bao, stepping forward — and paid the price for it, kicked down by the official and then whipped repeatedly, drawing blood with every strike.

The boy’s body ached, but he stayed tough, gritting through his pain as he held his little junior close.

Everyone wanted to cry out, wanted to shout, but no one dared make a sound.

She Wanlin’s hands trembled with anger. Old Chou said helplessly: “Things like this will only happen more and more from now on. How many can you save? How many can you help? This isn’t Yandu, and it isn’t Qingfeng Mansion either. These men aren’t from the Old Blade Office, nor the Imperial Guard. You need to remember — once you leave home, you’re worth less. Surviving in this world means enduring a few beatings first.”

She Wanlin bit his lip: “Uncle Chou, why don’t you just give them a couple of those leaves, and we’ll get out of here quickly.”

Old Chou laughed at him, exasperated: “Tsk, you hand out gold like that and it’ll bring us nothing but disaster.”

She Wanlin glared at him. Old Chou leaned in close to his ear: “My lord, from now on stop reading those idle storybooks — what nonsense have you been learning? They’ve already got a weakness on us, and you still want to hand out money? If you have one, you’ll have two — once this whole boatload sees wealth, no one gets to walk away clean. That’s not how this works…”

Having said this, he elbowed She Wanlin lightly. “Watch, and learn.”

He finished speaking, wiped his face with his hand, and put on a beaming, Buddha-like smile, calling out: “Ah! Ah ha!” The frightened crowd parted, and Old Chou rushed forward, shouting: “Wait, my lord! We’re all friends here, friends—ah…”

He didn’t quite manage his lunge and fell clumsily onto the deck.

The official looked down at him, noted the silk lining of his inner robe, and sneered: “Friends? Who’s your friend? Who are you? Do you even know which office I’m from?”

Old Chou sat up nimbly, his expression fawning and obsequious, and slapped his own face: “I deserve a beating for my cheap mouth, daring to call myself friends with an official.”

Then he raised his sleeve and wiped it several times across the official’s boots: “My lord, you and I are friends through these boots of yours.”

As he spoke, his eyebrows wriggled like cicadas, comical and endearing to watch.

The soldiers on board couldn’t help laughing at the sight of him, and after the wave of laughter, the official, half-amused and half-exasperated, kicked out at him: “What nonsense are you spouting? Are you some kind of fool?”

Old Chou nimbly dodged, and while doing so slipped a two-liang ingot of silver into his own hand, saying: “No lie, my lord — these boots of yours are made from top-grade sheepskin, with old ox-tendon soles cured south of the river. Making a pair like this takes fifteen years of a master craftsman’s skill at the Ping family’s renowned workshop — only found in the best prefecture-city shops. Fifteen strings of cash, at the very least.”

The official paused, looked down at his own boots and gave a cold laugh: “Oh? An expert, are you?”

“Not at all, not at all, wouldn’t dare deceive you, my lord — my humble surname is Ping, given name Chou, from the Ping family of gilded bronze work. That’s how I recognize your boots.”

At these words, the ring of soldiers went silent for a moment, and finally the official laughed: “Oh? Surname Ping — a big family, eh!”

“Oh my, hardly a big family!” Old Chou clapped his hands, and in doing so, one two-liang ingot became five two-liang ingots. Having pulled off the trick, he raised his eyebrows and said: “My lord, the Ping family’s scattered far and wide, branches everywhere — some in Yandu, some at Wucheng Pavilion, even some at Zuoliang Pass. As for my own branch of the Ping family — well, you can see for yourself, we don’t even have a proper big boat, going about relying on others for rides…”

Having said this, he called out to She Wanlin: “Yi-ge’er, we’ve run into old acquaintances — hurry and fetch some of those medicine samples we’re carrying for these gentlemen.”

She Wanlin blinked, then nodded and ran to the cabin, rummaging through the luggage until he found several bottles of emergency medicine that Hongxiu Men had prepared for him.

It didn’t take long. When She Wanlin returned with the medicine, Old Chou took seven or eight small porcelain-packed medicine vials, along with the silver, and pressed them all into the official’s hands: “What a coincidence — we’re actually carrying medicine samples to show the pharmacy owners in Jindian.

Ah, it’s just that our family’s medicine trade isn’t very sharp-eyed, coming up with something this expensive that’s hard to sell at a regular counter — that’s why we ended up on this trip. You gentlemen work hard out here year-round, bumps and bruises are only natural. Since we have such good things, and given our old acquaintance, of course we should offer it to you first.”

This official, wearing fifteen-string boots, wasn’t impressed by the ten taels of silver Old Chou offered, but he did seem somewhat interested in the medicine.

He shook the vial and sneered: “Expensive, is it? How expensive? Are you trying to fool us?”

Old Chou, face full of wronged innocence, exclaimed: “Ah, how would I dare, sir! It really is costly — hundred-year-old ginseng, no, that’s impossible, but top-grade ten-year ginseng, that’s certainly in there. A single bottle like this costs ten strings just to get out of the warehouse — by the time it makes it to Jindian and gets sold, no less than thirty strings at the counter, and we don’t even dare stock too much of it, it’s that expensive!”

As he spoke, he glanced around, spotted a hairpin on the head of the young female-role performer Li Deyi, snatched it, and swiped it across his own arm — blood immediately welled up.

People nearby gasped in alarm; She Wanlin, too, was startled. He watched Old Chou lift a bottle, bite off the stopper, spit it into the river, then pour the medicine onto his arm. After sprinkling on a layer of powder, in no time at all, the bleeding simply stopped…

Out in the world, who didn’t run into some disaster or misfortune now and then? Silver was everywhere, but good medicine like this was hard to find.

The leading official’s expression grew steadily better, until finally he laughed, casually pocketing the silver and the medicine, then asked his subordinates: “Anyone else below?”

His subordinates said there was no one else. The official nodded, and said to Old Chou with a smile: “Alright, you’ve had good luck today, running into us. Not to hide it from you — we serve under the Jindian Provincial Administration Commission…”

She Wanlin’s eyes sharpened. He glanced at the surrounding waterway — this place was still far from Jindian, yet their reach clearly extended this far already.

The official pulled a blank slip of paper from his sleeve, glanced back at his subordinates, then smiled as he looked toward Old Chou’s sleeve. Old Chou gritted his teeth, pulled out a five-tael ingot, and with a trembling hand as if his very heart were breaking, handed it over: “Please, at least leave us enough for a shared bunk tonight.”

The official laughed softly, shook his head, but finally stamped the paper, patted Old Chou’s shoulder and said: “Be sharper from now on. The rules in Jindian aren’t the same as out here.”

With that, he led his men off the opera boat and back onto their official vessel.

As they cast off, Old Chou walked over and called out loudly: “Ten thousand blessings, my lord! Safe travels, my lord! Many thanks for your guidance!”

The official, in good spirits, called back: “You’re welcome.”

Once they’d sailed off into the distance, She Wanlin’s face darkened as he asked Old Chou: “Wasn’t that medicine for chills and stomachaches?”

Old Chou waved energetically toward the distance, grinning through his teeth: “Ah, for a small cut, even a handful of dirt would’ve stopped the bleeding.”

Having said that, he tore something off his arm — a piece of fake skin — and placed it in She Wanlin’s stunned hand, laughing: “Let me teach you something useful. In the rivers and lakes of life, it’s not enough to look three times before and behind you — you need to look ten times if you want to survive.”

He finished, hopped up onto the railing, and shouted toward the distant official boat: “My lord, I can sing too! If you let our boat go ahead of you, I’ll sing you something lovely!”

From the distance came laughter and agreement.

Old Chou waved his hand, and the child actors quickly went below to start rowing. As they passed alongside the official boat, Old Chou clung to the mast and belted out at the top of his lungs:

“The cold wind rises! The snow falls! I come home from collecting debts and see her there, my wife who loves me so, the moment I hold her! Oh so soft and round, so warm and full, so fragrant and glowing, so tender and fresh, half a year apart and I missed her so, oh so deep and thick, so wet and slick, so sweet and bright…”