Ever since the Treaty of Chanyuan, because the annual tribute payments to the Liao state included a quota of cloth and silk, becoming an imperial merchant in the textile trade had always been a fraught proposition.
The annual demand of three hundred thousand bolts of silk was no small figure; unless broken up among many suppliers, no single textile merchant could possibly fulfill it alone. And even broken up, the court’s allotments to each supplier were still substantial. Yet despite such enormous demand, the court’s purchase price could never be a true premium—this wasn’t being bought as a luxury good, and the price offered was often even lower than market rate.
Each year the palace also purchased a certain amount of fine silk goods, and these were priced as true luxury items with real profit margins—but compared to the three hundred thousand bolts, that portion of demand wasn’t large. Becoming an imperial merchant did carry certain privileges, so among the major merchant houses, some were willing to set aside spare capacity to take on tribute-cloth orders, working on thin margins or even foregoing profit altogether, using the privileges granted by the court to develop business in other areas instead.
The Su family’s foundation wasn’t quite substantial enough for this. Taking on a small portion wouldn’t be a problem, but actively seeking the position themselves would be a considerable undertaking. The Su family already had a great deal of business to maintain as it was; once an imperial order was accepted, the court wouldn’t care about any need for buffer time—when the deadline came, the goods had to be delivered. To avoid disrupting their already-saturated existing supply and demand, the Su family would need to guarantee sufficient additional production capacity well in advance.
Which meant preparing new workshops ahead of time, securing new sources of raw materials—all for business that wouldn’t yield much profit, offering only certain privileges in return. But the effort required to build out these new workshops would itself push the Su family’s expansion capacity to its true limit; even with privileges granted, they’d have no strength left to expand elsewhere.
On the other hand, if one could take on part of the tribute-cloth business and also happened to produce a particularly fine grade of cloth, the palace might open up some demand for precious silks as well—and that smaller portion carried better margins. Everyone wanted a piece of that business, but aside from a handful of nationally famous rare silks, other merchants wishing to offer up their fine silks to the court also had to bundle in a share of the unprofitable tribute-cloth quota, on top of all the miscellaneous costs of greasing various official channels. Making pure profit off this was genuinely difficult—really only a maneuver for already well-resourced major merchant houses to expand further once they’d secured the privilege.
Around Bianliang there were many large textile merchants of this sort; Jiangning, while also a thriving center of the textile trade, generally had its imperial merchant business handled by a few fixed mid-sized textile houses. They took on this line of work for the prestige of it, though in terms of standing within the trade they were no different from the Wu, Xue, and Su families—of course, occasionally some of the business would trickle down to the bigger houses too. It wasn’t that the same mid-sized merchants always ended up handling tribute-cloth deals by choice—rather, whoever became an imperial merchant inevitably ended up capped at mid-size, precisely because the burden of tribute cloth was too heavy and the margins too thin.
The best solution to this problem really lay in technical improvement. Xi Junyu could sense, to some degree, the effort Su Tan’er had been putting into this over the years—effort that had gone on for several years now, and by this point likely had some results to show. But it was precisely now that the problem had emerged…
“A few years ago, if you’d been able to further lower the cost of tribute cloth and raise efficiency, you could have taken on this whole business without any issue… of course, within a year or two, others would inevitably grow envious.
But the problem is, starting last year, tensions between Liao and Jin have escalated. Now everyone’s just waiting for that war to break out. Once it does, with the two tigers fighting, our dynasty will certainly send troops, and after that we surely won’t be sending tribute to the Liao anymore. That three hundred thousand bolts of cloth—any losses on it, you’d have to absorb entirely on your own…”
“But if there’s no more tribute payment, then all that’s left for an imperial merchant to supply is silk sent into the palace itself, and the Xue and Wu families are certainly already moving on that. We might be able to beat the Xue family, but not the Wu family—they already have connections within the palace, and know the officials at the Weaving Bureau well. I know you’ve spent years preparing for this, but given the current situation, the odds are no longer in your favor. The main issue is still the tribute cloth—no matter how fine the silk you offer up, palace demand for it isn’t high. But if they stop needing tribute cloth at all, and you’ve already poured resources into new workshops, you’ll be wiped out in one stroke. And if you don’t build those new workshops, but tribute demand continues for another year, what then…”
After Xi Junyu finished, Su Tan’er was quiet for a long while before speaking. “Isn’t the tribute-cloth problem just as difficult for the Xue and Wu families?”
“If there’s still a year of tribute-cloth demand ahead, they mean to grit their teeth and hold on—without raising the stakes, they’ll cede some market share for now, and once war breaks out next year or the year after and things turn hostile, they’ll use their silk business and imperial-merchant privileges to claw that market share back. But you’re improving the looms, you’re taking a gamble, you’ve invested too much. If this were a few years ago, of course I’d support you, but as things stand now, you may well not win out in the open market—this is no longer a sure profit. Better to pull back while you still can.” He sighed. “This isn’t a miscalculation on your part—it’s simply bad timing, and there’s nothing to be done about that…”
In the past, because of the tribute-cloth burden, the imperial merchant position hadn’t been anything sought after—for the truly capable major houses, it let them grow even larger, but for the Su family, or smaller houses still, it was a burden, even poison. And now, just as Su Tan’er was ready to make her move, war was on the horizon; she’d seen an opening—the tribute cloth might disappear—only for the Xue and Wu families to come rushing in as well, turning the Su family’s investment into something of a joke.
Having heard him out, Su Tan’er frowned slightly and shook her head. “What does Manager Xi think will happen after this war, once it’s fought?”
“Eh?” Xi Junyu was briefly taken aback, then said, “After the fighting…” He paused there, suddenly grasping her meaning. “You mean…”
“Ever since I was born, the tribute payments have been made every single year.” Su Tan’er lowered her voice. “It’s not a flattering thing to say, but it feels like it’s been going on forever without end. Of course I hope we can defeat the Liao. But… we’ve never won. The Treaty of Chanyuan over sixty years ago, the Heishui Accord seven years ago, and now there’s the Jin state on top of it—how will this fighting actually go? If the two tigers destroy each other, that would certainly be wonderful—but will it really turn out that way?”
Su Tan’er shook her head. “Everyone says the Liao are savage and brutal, the Jurchen crude and uncivilized, and that our Wu Dynasty is a great and mighty realm. I… I like hearing stories like that too. As a child, listening to storytellers at teahouses, I could never help clapping and laughing along. But whether it’s really so… I don’t believe it. Talented, capable people exist everywhere. If we can’t beat them, that only means they’re stronger than us. Strength is strength—you have to accept it…”
“Only those willing to admit defeat can ever win it back. I’m a merchant—a loss is a loss, money gone is money gone, no excuse changes that. Make excuses for someone else’s failure, and you never learn what they’d need to do to avoid losing again—you never learn to guard against them, to see your own weaknesses clearly, and only then can I truly see myself clearly. Manager Xi, seven years ago the Liao could still force us into the Heishui Accord—now the Jin can stand up and challenge the Liao directly. When they go to war, does anyone truly believe our Wu Dynasty, watching from the side, will simply be ignored?”
“These days when I go to teahouses and taverns, I hear scholars and men of letters going on about how our Wu Dynasty will sit back and profit while the Liao and Jin tear each other apart, calling them savage and brainless, discussing how to provoke the two states into fighting to the death… I’m only a woman, but if I were born in Liao or Jin, I wouldn’t be so shortsighted. Our dynasty has been oppressed for nearly a hundred years, and yet they still gleefully call the other side stupid animals—could we truly have been oppressed this long by a pack of stupid animals? Perhaps it’s precisely because these scholars keep telling stories of our Wu Dynasty’s heroes defeating the Liao barbarians that our dynasty has grown so weak…”
Her expression darkened slightly. “If war truly comes, the best outcome would of course be that they genuinely destroy each other, and we’d never have to pay tribute to anyone again—then the improved looms would still be worth something. But there are other outcomes too. If Liao wins, they’ll come demanding accountability, and our tribute to them will only increase. If Jin wins, do you really think they won’t want tribute either? How could it possibly be that good? I’ve heard that a good part of the friction between Liao and Jin is actually because Jin wants to trade with our Wu Dynasty. It’s entirely possible both sides could stop fighting, and our Wu Dynasty ends up owing tribute to both Liao and Jin at once. But the one thing that will never happen… is either of them paying tribute to us…”
“I hope our dynasty can win too. If one day the army marches out, the officials will surely come to our household demanding money, and Grandfather and Father are already prepared for it. But if, in the end, we can’t win, then… what do we do…”
Xi Junyu stood there stunned for a good while. With tensions between Jin and Liao running high now, the whole country was saying the two tigers would surely wound each other, giving the Wu Dynasty a chance to catch its breath. Even in the worst case, things couldn’t turn out worse than the present situation. He hadn’t expected Su Tan’er to hold such a view. Was she being too pessimistic, or too clear-eyed? Thinking back on how this woman had always conducted herself, beneath that soft exterior, her approach to things had always been remarkably firm.
Truly… he felt a faint tremor inside… utterly admirable.
But even so, in Xi Junyu’s own heart, he still held to the belief that the Wu Dynasty wouldn’t end up worse off. Improving the looms, using the freed-up capacity to take on a large volume of tribute-cloth business, lowering costs to raise profit margins—this really was as legitimate and aboveboard a strategy as one could ask for. But such profits wouldn’t last long. Generally speaking, secret techniques in dyeing or stitching could be maintained for longer, but loom improvements—within a year or two the method would leak out, and once word got around, everyone would improve their own looms, and profits would be squeezed down again. Often, after all that effort, the reward simply wasn’t there.
He was just opening his mouth to say all this when, suddenly, the sound of clapping rang out beside them—a figure in the darkness of the corridor beyond had begun applauding. Su Tan’er had been speaking so earnestly that Xi Junyu hadn’t even noticed anyone nearby. Juan’er spoke up in surprise: “Young Master, when did you get here?”
The figure in the darkness was indeed Ning Yi, an oil-paper umbrella in one hand and, in the other, two rather rustic-looking bundles of mountain goods—smoked wild rabbit and the like. He grinned and gestured back toward the small square where the carriage was parked. “I was waiting for dinner, went to check on the kitchen, and remembered on the way that I’d left something in the carriage… ah, this is something from Xiao Chan’s fellow villagers for Bodyguard Geng, just a token of goodwill, figured I’d grab it before whoever’s unloading the carriage decides to pocket it. Then I came this way and heard you talking.”
He grinned, pointing at Su Tan’er. “You’re wrong. Unpatriotic.”
Xi Junyu had originally meant to say a few words on the matter himself, but hearing Ning Yi open with that line, he frowned slightly inside. This fellow, scholar though he was and however skilled with essays, was really no different from the sort of person Tan’er had just described—the kind who loved telling stories all day about Wu Dynasty heroes defeating Liao barbarians. Purely on the logic of it, what Su Tan’er had just said made perfect sense; it simply couldn’t be applied one-to-one to business matters.
He turned his head aside, only to see Su Tan’er beside him unable to hold back a burst of laughter—a kind of laugh Xi Junyu had rarely seen from her, because, faintly, it seemed as though that other woman behind her was laughing too, merging seamlessly with the Su Tan’er before him.
She laughed like that, then turned her head with mock irritation, though her gaze stayed on Ning Yi, her tone lightly scolding—not coquettish, just natural and teasing, like between friends: “Husband, honestly…”
At the same time, elsewhere in the city, in the rain-soaked bend of the Qinhuai River, a figure knocked on the door of a lit stilt-house. When Nie Yunzhu opened the door, she found Yuan Jin’er standing there, arms wrapped around herself, soaked through from head to toe.
When she’d leapt out of the Golden Wind Pavilion earlier, she’d been wearing only a thin cotton sleeping shirt and pants, and after being drenched the whole way here, the fabric clung to her under the lamplight, nearly transparent. Of course, in the eyes of Nie Yunzhu, another woman, this state only made Yuan Jin’er look smaller and more delicate. The girl, usually so lively and youthful, now wore a smile, reaching up to wipe the rain from her face, then bowing her head to shake out her long, waterweed-like hair vigorously, sending droplets flying, before letting out a yawn.
“Ah… Sister Yunzhu, I did great, I basically… uh, swam almost the whole way here from the Golden Wind Pavilion. Even so… ugh, I’m so sleepy. Sister Yunzhu, where’s your room? I can just sleep on the floor…”
She covered her mouth with one hand, yawning repeatedly, then coughed a few times, clearly exhausted to the point of collapse. Nie Yunzhu, only briefly startled, immediately reached out and pulled her into an embrace. “No, you need a hot bath first… Hutao, hurry and heat some water…”
“Mm… don’t want a bath… the water tastes awful, I’ve practically been pickled into a bun already… hehe, Sister Yunzhu, you’re so warm…”
Yuan Jin’er went limp in her arms, hands wrapped around her neck, eyes already closed, mumbling and laughing softly, before rubbing her face against the fabric of Nie Yunzhu’s shoulder a few times, settling in contentedly, clearly about to fall asleep. Just then, another voice called out through the pouring rain: “Miss, Miss…”
Kou’er, nearly as soaked as her mistress, came running up clutching a small bundle.
Not long after, Nie Yunzhu looked with a wry smile at the drenched woman now asleep in her bed, clutching her blanket, and had a fairly good sense of how all this had come about…