Tan Weixin left Daliang Palace, heavy with suppressed resentment, but the instant he stepped through the palace gates, the clouds on his face cleared, revealing a reserved, composed expression—every inch the image of a noble, accomplished young man, whatever anyone who truly understood the situation might think of him privately. To the outside world, he was the Daliang emperor’s most favored son-in-law and most trusted official.
His level of favor rivaled, and even surpassed, that once enjoyed by Zheng Aman, Li Jinggui, and Chang Lianfang.
The gate guard at the west gate today was one of Jindian’s old subordinates. Seeing him emerge, the guard personally helped him into his carriage.
Tan Weixin reached into his sleeve, drew out a piece of jade, and rewarded the gate guard: “I received this a few days ago—it’s yours now.”
The guard, overwhelmed, bowed so low his face couldn’t be seen.
By saying he’d “received it a few days ago,” most outsiders would assume it was a gift from His Majesty. In truth, nothing could be further from the reality—His Majesty had been financially strapped these past years, and what he gave Tan Weixin amounted to little more than stationery and other trifling items. What the emperor truly lavished gifts upon were his adopted sons; whatever rare item occasionally came Tan Weixin’s way, he hardly dared keep it for himself, let alone give it away—he wanted to display every scrap of prestige he had, deliberately letting others catch glimpses of it.
He was consistently generous and lavish in public, ambiguous in his speech, and over the years, people had come to call him the foremost favorite before the throne—so much so that even Zheng Aman and the others no longer received quite the same respect they once had.
Thunder and rain alike are the emperor’s grace—from Zheng Aman to Chen Dasheng to Tan Weixin, outsiders felt that imperial favor simply rotated this way, naturally.
Leaving the palace, Tan Weixin’s carriage headed back toward the princess consort’s mansion. Passing through Dou’er Street, his servant informed him that it looked like Uncle Wu’s carriage was stopped outside Taize Hall. Hearing this, Tan Weixin got out of the carriage.
Taize Hall presented itself outwardly as a chess club, but most of the nobility throughout Yandu knew that this was actually the largest gambling establishment in the city—in short, a major casino.
However, unlike ordinary gambling dens that dealt in dull games—backgammon, liubo, cuju, polo—this place offered none of that, and besides, the court had explicit prohibitions against officials gambling, so trading in gambling equipment wasn’t done here either. Outwardly, this was simply a chess society, ostensibly selling tea to chess players. But privately, Taize Hall’s actual wagers started at five hundred thousand strings of cash.
What kinds of bets did they take? Betting on when a long drought in some region would finally break with rain; betting on how many months it would take the young prince of Furui to recover from illness; betting on when the old Marquis Chang would be chased up to the roof by his own wife—Taize Hall’s odds were always entertaining.
What made it even more interesting was that the owner of Taize Hall was none other than Zheng Aman. Though the Zheng family had fallen from grace, this fellow still had connections and continued to enjoy himself in the world. No one played the game of life quite like him—as the house, if he lost, he simply paid up; if he won, he turned every last copper over to the imperial court, keeping not a single coin for himself. He was simply a man who sought amusement.
What’s more, he never dealt in business for the poor—only the wealthiest merchants, the most extravagant elites, and the nobility. Sometimes even the old ministers at court, mentioning this fellow, would find themselves caught between laughter and exasperation, unable to fathom what he was even after.
What was he after? Simply that he couldn’t bear to be idle. If you truly wanted to prosecute him under the law, you genuinely couldn’t—the law required a sum of ill-gotten gains and an identifiable victim. His “ill-gotten gains” were all handed over to the court—sometimes just a few hundred thousand strings, sometimes as much as a million. As for victims, the very people he won money from refused to admit they’d been victimized—they treated it all as a joke.
In any case, whenever anyone submitted a memorial against Zheng Aman, the Ministry of Finance’s senior official, Wen Fengshu, always objected. First, he was loath to give up the tens of thousands of strings of annual benefit. Second, Zheng Aman held a noble title, and crimes could be redeemed with gold—since he accepted the monetary penalty each time, there was nothing further to dispute.
Censors, too, drew their salaries from the Ministry of Finance, and over time, everyone simply grew too lazy to bother with this idler.
Tan Weixin entered Taize Hall and immediately noticed that a small wager board had been posted for the day—the house had opened a betting round on an ancient, notoriously difficult chess puzzle known as the “Soul-Severing, Blood-Weeping Formation,” inviting patrons to attempt to solve it, with the prize being three days of Zheng Aman serving as someone’s personal groom.
This “Soul-Severing Formation” was a puzzle of long standing—even His Majesty’s own court chess master might not be able to solve it. What hope did this crowd of amateur onlookers three layers deep have? Laughable.
Tan Weixin had no interest in participating—he wasn’t the same caliber as this crowd of fools. Instead, hands clasped behind his back, he made his way to the rear courtyard, following a corridor to a particularly elegant, refined little courtyard within Taize Hall.
Taize Hall wasn’t simply a chess pavilion—it was an enormous complex of chess courtyards, and within this complex, that upstart uncle of the Tan family, Wu Xiu, had rented out one courtyard at the price of a hundred thousand strings a year. Occasionally he’d open an amusing wager there himself, but most of the time, he simply gathered a crowd of dissolute cronies to carouse.
While others made merry, he didn’t join in—he simply watched, smiling faintly.
The fifth month weather being neither too cold nor too hot, Wu Xiu had ordered his mother-of-pearl inlaid ebony couch set up in the courtyard beside a small fountain. Today he was alone, having summoned a renowned opera troupe’s famous painted-face performer to sing “The Sister’s Wedding” for him.
He had dozed off, and the performers on the little stage didn’t dare move, standing frozen in place waiting for him to wake.
When Tan Weixin arrived, he roused Wu Xiu, and only then did the performance on stage resume its wailing tunes.
When Tan Weixin spoke, Wu Xiu couldn’t hear him clearly, so he waved a hand to stop the performance. A maidservant scattered a basket of silver ingots onto the stage, and the painted-face performer, somewhat overwhelmed with gratitude, bowed in thanks and withdrew.
That basket held at least two hundred taels—truly an extravagant gesture.
Tan Weixin suppressed a flash of envy, removed his outer robe, and reclined on the couch in his inner garments, leaning back among the embroidered cushions with a sigh of contentment. Half-sitting up, he noticed a small dish on the low table holding what looked like dried nuts, or perhaps not quite nuts—something resembling little rat droppings.
What day was it, that Wu Xiu would be eating something so ordinary?
Without thinking much of it, Tan Weixin picked up two pieces and popped them into his mouth, chewing as he asked, “What is this?”
Wu Xiu smiled and sat up slightly, as a strikingly beautiful young maidservant—clearly destined to become a stunning beauty—brought him a soft cushion to lean against. Smiling, he watched Tan Weixin swallow the two pieces before answering unhurriedly: “Fried wonder-tongue morsels.”
Tan Weixin, puzzled, picked up another piece and popped it in: “Wonder-tongue? What wonder-tongue?”
Wu Xiu chuckled: “Naturally, tongues so wondrous they linger in the air, silencing a hundred birds the moment they open—the tongues of songbirds.”
At this, Tan Weixin’s expression froze, and he immediately turned his head and spat repeatedly onto the empty ground.
Wu Xiu, in his characteristically sardonic tone, said: “Ruicheng valley thrush, winter tender-leaf warbler—I had eight servants take turns tending them day and night, spending forty or fifty thousand strings a year, and still they couldn’t out-sing that stray mynah Yue Chonghua bought for a mere five strings at the market. Isn’t that infuriating?”
Tan Weixin, even more incensed upon hearing this, cursed: “I say, Wu Xiu, have you lost your mind? That bird of Yue Chonghua’s is just a mynah!”
Wu Xiu, expressionless: “Mynah, thrush—aren’t they all just birds? Doesn’t matter. If you’ve eaten my food, you have to handle my business properly for me, don’t you think?”
He was always like this, showing no deference to anyone, sardonic with everyone. But he had money, so everyone had to put up with him.
Even his own father had to draw on his wealth to the tune of millions of strings every year, occasionally even having to write him IOUs when pressed for funds. Not just his father, but the entire Tan family, main line and branches alike, even distant relations, would find one excuse or another to come before Wu Xiu seeking money.
Wu Xiu was generous, giving every time without fail, with only one condition—the IOU had to be properly recorded. Depending on how important the relative was in the family hierarchy, these debts of relatives were all handed over to his nephew, Tan Xingye, to manage.
No one actually intended to repay him—even after writing the IOUs, everyone assumed they’d never actually have to pay it back. Not to mention others—even Tan Weixin himself, a marquis consort of modest means with a household to support, had received nothing when he’d branched off from the family. These past years, running his household had required money, paying respects to His Majesty required money, buying jewelry for the princess required money—Tan Weixin alone had borrowed no less than three hundred thousand strings from Wu Xiu.
Others didn’t care, but Tan Weixin still had some conscience left, and hoped to find some way to pay off this debt. Otherwise, facing his elder sister-in-law and young nephew in the future would always feel awkward, and he wouldn’t be able to hold his head high.
It was precisely because of this that Wu Xiu respected him and maintained a relationship with him.
Wu Xiu’s rise to wealth had been shrouded in mystery. Some said the Wu family had actually left behind a massive fortune, which he was only now drawing upon once the realm had settled into peace. Others said Wu Xiu had established connections with the foreign Madini people, and his business dealings kept growing larger. In Yandu these past years, whatever rare and exotic goods appeared, it was he who had brought them in—curved blades of the Gaofeixi people, famous horses of the Tan people, spices no one else could obtain, even golden-haired foreign women—he had them all, and thought nothing special of any of it.
Though he consumed and used only the finest things, no one in Yandu had ever seen him operate a single visible business. No one knew quite how he managed it, yet he only grew wealthier, rivaling entire nations in fortune.
Wu Xiu was chivalrously generous, making friends widely, never judging people by their status. Even after the old Zheng family had fallen on hard times and their mansion had deteriorated so badly that His Majesty found it awkward to simply give it away, having the Ministry of Finance sell it off instead—Wu Xiu had spent seven hundred thousand strings to buy it, then casually gifted it to Zheng Aman. But Zheng Aman refused it, and Wu Xiu, unbothered, simply left it aside; he didn’t live there either, and so the old mansion sat there decaying.
There were many such stories about Wu Xiu’s extravagant, careless generosity. Despite being a young marquis himself and enjoying imperial favor, Tan Weixin still envied him—sometimes, when he wanted to host a gathering, he too had to send a servant to ask Wu Xiu for the token to borrow this courtyard at Taize Hall.
Though this small courtyard was rented, once Wu Xiu moved in he’d had it entirely renovated—one courtyard connected to sixteen rooms including an opera stage, all built with the finest rosewood. The kitchen master here had once served as an imperial chef in the previous dynasty, renowned as a culinary master of his era. Even the wine cellar beneath this small courtyard held jars aged a full thirty years, wines of considerable renown… and as for the young manservants and maidservants who attended here, every single one was destined to become a stunning beauty in time.
As long as one had enough standing to borrow the token from Wu Xiu to entertain guests in this courtyard, all these luxuries were available for the taking. Unfortunately, the relationship between the Tan and Wu families remained difficult to mend—relatives on the surface only, like a donkey dropping polished to a shine—and so only Tan Weixin could ever borrow this token.
It was, in its own way, a mark of prestige.
Tan Weixin understood clearly: as long as his elder brother’s several sons by concubines continued to linger about Yandu, Wu Xiu would never return those old debts to the main Tan family. But the old marquis didn’t seem worried about this at all. After all, Wu Xiu still hadn’t settled down or established his own household—he didn’t even have a fixed residence in Yandu. Wherever struck his fancy, that’s where he’d stay—sometimes at Taize Hall, sometimes even in the chambers of some lowly brothel girl. He’d once had a proper residence, but after it burned down one day, reducing everything to ash, Wu Xiu simply gave up on the idea of having a home altogether.
Wu Xiu lived entirely according to his own whims, cutting a singular figure of extravagance throughout Yandu—one couldn’t help but wonder if his elder brother regretted things.
The reason the family could still maintain some relationship with him was that the Wu family’s former retainers had aligned themselves with Jindian, and his elder sister, Wu Ling, remained the official matriarch of the main Tan household. Her son, Tan Xingye, remained the Tan family’s eldest legitimate grandson by rites, even though this legitimate grandson had never been brought back into the family since leaving—by ceremonial law, he remained the heir-grandson.
She Shouyi had passed away, and his eldest son Tan Weitong had inherited the position of Founding Marquis. Once Tan Weitong himself passed, the position would have to go to Tan Xingye—unless he died first. In the past, there might have been those who wished him dead; now, with Wu Xiu around, no one dared make him disappear.
What’s more, Tan Xingye had proven himself capable in his own right, having entered officialdom through the imperial examinations and now serving as a scholar in the Ministry of Rites—an entirely different sort of refined gentleman compared to the rest of the Tan family, or the Wu family for that matter. These days, not even mentioning Wu Xiu, even the Tan family itself had begun taking this heir-grandson seriously.
Once so pitiable, now who wouldn’t envy him? Tan Weixin had heard that Wu Xiu had purchased property for his nephew in outlying prefectures, with landholdings alone exceeding ten thousand mu.
The Tan family’s internal affairs were not something one could speak of openly—everyone simply muddled through in their own confused way. Compared to his elder brother, it was actually Tan Weixin who got along best with Wu Xiu in this generation; his elder brother couldn’t draw a single coin from Wu Xiu, while Tan Weixin could.
Wu Xiu had grown increasingly distant from his own brother-in-law, sometimes too weary even to exchange words when they crossed paths—his contempt entirely undisguised.
But Tan Weitong had no way around it—there was no going back now. Besides, even if he tried to act as he once had, let alone Wu Xiu, even Wu Ling wouldn’t believe him. He could only watch as the Wu family’s vast fortune passed him by entirely, not a single coin coming his way.
Tan Weixin had no interest in engaging further with this eccentric fellow’s nonsense, and instead pointed at the small dish, saying: “Whatever it is, I don’t understand bird-keeping anyway. Get this thing out of here, it’s disgusting—watch out, or I’ll tell Xing’er about it tomorrow.”
Wu Xiu grinned, picking up several more of the so-called “wonder-tongue” morsels and popping them into his mouth: “You believe whatever nonsense I say? White Jade Peak, Green Jade Chamber—haven’t you heard that one? I made this myself, just overcooked it a bit.”
Tan Weixin froze, then suddenly bolted up, searching for somewhere to retch. Whatever nonsense others might casually consume, he himself firmly declined anything resembling cicadas, water bugs, centipedes, or snails.
Wu Xiu roared with laughter watching him, laughing until tears streamed down his face. Just then, someone outside suddenly called out: “Brother-in-law Man has posted a big wager, come quick and see! Brother-in-law Man has posted a big wager…”
At this, Wu Xiu’s manic laughter subsided, and Tan Weixin stopped retching as well. Given their status, neither would go out to gawk directly, so they sent a servant to check instead.
The idle folk of Yandu loved nothing more than this kind of spectacle. Zheng Aman hadn’t posted a wager in the past year—why now?
After waiting a while, the servant returned to report that indeed it was the imperial son-in-law who’d posted the wager, and this year’s wager concerned the fate of the Little Tan King—life or death.
That made things clear—betting on whether His Majesty would pardon, imprison, or execute the Little Tan King.
Wu Xiu pondered for a moment, glanced at the servant still standing there, and frowned.
The servant quickly added: “My lord, something seems to have happened up front.”
Wu Xiu asked: “What happened?”
The servant said: “The imperial son-in-law posted the wager but didn’t take the house position, so that spot is open. The fourth young master of the Duke Wei household and the fifth young master of the Duke Shen household are fighting over who gets it…”
Hearing this, Tan Weixin felt a stir of interest. Simple as this wager might appear on the surface, at its core it was ruthless and cunning. First, there was the matter of national enmity—the conflict between the Tan and Liang peoples was irreconcilable. Second, in the past, rulers typically handled captured prisoners by accepting their confession of guilt and willingness to submit as vassals. To demonstrate the grandeur of a great nation, prisoners would either be detained in the capital or sent back home, sometimes even granted gifts.
This was the single most significant matter of state for the newly founded Daliang, one meant to serve as a reference point for future generations and court officials alike—even His Majesty’s opinion on the matter wasn’t settled, let alone that of the senior ministers.
After sending the servant away, Wu Xiu leaned back against his cushions with eyes half-closed. After a good while, he heard Tan Weixin say: “Whether he’s killed or not is entirely up to His Majesty’s word.”
Wu Xiu opened his eyes, glancing sideways at him: “Broke, are you?”
Tan Weixin sighed with some distress: “Indeed. That sister of mine wants to build a new villa, and she won’t stop pestering me about it.”
Wu Xiu didn’t respond to that: “Tell me, why didn’t Zheng Aman take the house position this year?”
At this, Tan Weixin smiled, his expression full of the smug satisfaction of someone who’d uncovered a secret.
Waving away those nearby, and once he’d confirmed it was safe, he said: “A few days ago, His Majesty was in poor spirits, caught a chill, and took to his bed—didn’t even hold morning court. The rest of us didn’t dare be careless, arranged shifts with the princes even, keeping watch through the nights.
Ha, Zheng Aman only went to pay his respects the next day, and His Majesty was so angry the inner palace wouldn’t even let him in—turned him away. On the third day he went again to request an audience, and this time even the Grand Princess scratched up his face…”
Wu Xiu raised an eyebrow: “So he’s fallen out of favor?”
Tan Weixin took a breath, straightening slightly: “It’s not about favor or disfavor—there’s no such thing. You people, how would you know what really goes on inside? It’s all rumor! The smallest sesame-seed-sized matter gets out, and within days it’s blown up into some grand mystery.
Not to mention, His Majesty is far too wise a man—he can’t stand people who spend their days getting drunk out of their minds like some staggering cat, and you think that’s favor? I’d say even that diaper-wrapped brat from the old Chen family gets more of His Majesty’s regard than him.”
A flash of something crossed Wu Xiu’s eyes, and he asked with feigned indifference: “That indentured servant—His Majesty still takes him seriously?”
Tan Weixin laughed lightly, and after a long pause said quietly: “Good fortune, nothing to be done about it, right? Who could have known—change your father and it’s like your luck changes entirely, commanding wind and rain as you please.”
Wu Xiu smiled: “Third young master means yourself, doesn’t he? What, afraid Old Tan the Second will squeeze you out?”
Tan Weixin didn’t take the bait: “That was back when I was young—brothers having a little friction now and then is nothing unusual. Tomorrow it’ll probably be fine again. What about it, Uncle Wu—now that this big wager’s been posted, aren’t you going to compete for the house position? I won’t say for certain either way—pardon, imprisonment, or execution…”
Wu Xiu narrowed his eyes: “Let’s see. Really broke, are you?”
Tan Weixin laughed softly: “Broke! And not just me—His Majesty himself hasn’t much surplus either. This project to redirect the Panxi River back to its proper course is a massive undertaking—forget the treasury, even the reserves His Majesty built up in the early years have all gone into it. These past months, even Lord Wen has been grinding away at it daily, unable to squeeze out so much as a grain of rice—I’m afraid next year’s funds for the river works won’t even be allocated…”
Wu Xiu waved a hand, cutting him off: “Don’t discuss state affairs. I’m just an idle man—this is an idle place, meant for amusement and pleasure.”
Tan Weixin smiled: “Fine, then.”
Before long, the servant returned again to report that the two young dukes had heard someone bet five hundred thousand strings on pardon, and another bet two hundred thousand on execution, and so they no longer dared enter the fray.
That made seven hundred thousand strings total. Tan Weixin murmured softly: “If it were me… I’d take the position. Not to boast, but… that house is actually quite easy to run. Trust me, my days are truly hard—I spend more time in the palace than at home. His Majesty can’t go a moment without wanting to see me…”
Wu Xiu said nothing.
That night brought rain, and not a light one either. At the first quarter of the hour of Hai, Chen Dasheng sat alone in the back courtyard of Qinwei Alley, drinking, having sent all the household servants away.
He sat beneath the eaves, watching the curtain of rain to pass the time. After seven or eight cups of wine, Jixiang quietly came to report that Steward Ping had arrived.
Before long, Ping Shen entered the back courtyard, wrapped in a heavy bamboo hat and rain cloak, and upon seeing Chen Dasheng, bowed respectfully in the rain.
Chen Dasheng gestured for him to rise: “No need for such formality, Steward Ping. This wine is good—come warm yourself against the chill with a cup.”
Ping Shen smiled: “It’s fine, spring rain isn’t too cold, I can bear it.”
He removed his hat and cloak under the eaves, walked over, and sat across from Chen Dasheng, taking up the cup and drinking it down in one go.
After all these years of dealings between them, the initial wariness had long since faded.
Chen Dasheng lifted the wine jug and poured him another cup: “So, any leads?”
Ping Shen nodded, setting down what seemed to be a great weight off his mind: “Ah, back then it was you who took pity on Master Zheng and had me help him with this business. Who would have thought it would break open here? And who would have thought that upstart named Wu would have such ability, from nothing but empty talk at the start?”
Chen Dasheng chuckled.
Whatever nonsense about the Madini people’s trade, family inheritance—all of it was just Wu Xiu’s cover story to conceal something far murkier.
The ones who actually handled foreign trade in Yandu were the Ping family’s merchant house, and that connection ran through Gennu’er. As for the foreign horses and spices the Ping family handled… all of it had been monopolized entirely by Wu Xiu.
These years, Gennu had made no small amount of money off Wu Xiu, and Ping Shen along with him had grown considerably wealthy, striking it quite rich.
Chen Dasheng smiled and drank another cup: “You should be pleased—his money is easy to earn. It’s not your fault either—even running the top business in all of Daliang, you still can’t outmatch someone who can mint money out of thin air. His Majesty himself keeps hens laying golden eggs—what can we do about it?”
Ping Shen savored the taste of the wine in his mouth, saying with admiration: “I must say, this Wu Xiu really has an extraordinary gift. Never mind official talent—just look at his ruthless resolve these past years. No household, no property to his name, a man with nothing to lose, afraid of nothing, single-mindedly devoted to giving his brother-in-law trouble.
He’s lived quite well—eaten what he wanted to eat, enjoyed what he wanted to enjoy, and besides propping up his nephew and sister, even His Majesty doesn’t have it as good as him. And without even trying, he’s tied the Wu and Tan families together with one knot after another, so tangled up that even His Majesty can’t untie it. Let alone if he enters this wager—even if he doesn’t and his true dealings come to light, the old Tan family would still have no choice but to protect him.”
Chen Dasheng laughed softly: “His Majesty’s run short of funds.”
Ping Shen nodded: “Indeed. Time to kill the chicken for its meat—the time has come. This business of redirecting the river back to its proper course… oh, this humble one seems to have heard that your old home is still flooded?”
“Mm, it should come out now too. Otherwise, the old lady’s been suffering too much.”
Chen Dasheng nodded, lifting the wine jug to refill Ping Shen’s cup, then raising his own to toast him: “I trouble you, Steward Ping—let’s send the fish back on its way home.”
Ping Shen stood, raised his cup, and drank before asking: “Which path should the fish take?”
Chen Dasheng tilted his head back and drained his cup: “Whatever king it may be, once he’s come, he cannot stay. We push for execution; he goes for pardon.”
Ping Shen bowed low: “Understood!”