WSMTATMC C104

Chapter 104

The three of them slept until dusk, when a knock sounded to rouse them.

“The elder master awaits you in the front courtyard—please bathe and change, sirs, and come early.”

Chen Qingyan scrubbed his face and hurried up, but before he could find clean clothes, two pages came in bearing an armful of garments.

“These are clothes the Third Master prepared for the young gentlemen. We hope you won’t mind.”

“Not at all.” Chen Qingyan awkwardly accepted them; he didn’t need to look to tell by touch alone that the fabric was costly.

After bathing and changing and tying his hair, he came out to find his two younger brothers also in new attire—similar cuts with different colors, and an excellent fit. It showed the Third Master’s keen eye.

In the main hall, Master Liang sat in the seat of honor, with his three concubine-born brothers to either side. Seeing the three approach, he beckoned. “Come in. These are the three disciples I’ve taken.”

A somewhat stout man said, “Elder Brother’s eye never errs. These three are clearly bright and sharp—sure to win high honors in one stroke.” This was the second brother, Liang Botao.

Another nodded slightly—the fourth brother, Liang Bojin, whose features bore some resemblance to Master Liang. He was the youngest of the generation, seventeen years junior to the elder and only thirty-six now.

After the three bowed with clasped hands, they stood by their teacher.

Bo Jin said softly, “Elder Brother, will you be staying longer this time?”

Master Liang snorted. “If you want to ask something, say it plainly.”

Bo Jin’s expression froze; he bowed his head. “I dare not.”

Second Brother clapped his shoulder with schadenfreude. “Elder Brother has always been blunt—don’t take it to heart.”

“And you—don’t play the courteous act. Father lectured you how many times? That trick won’t work on me.”

Botao’s smile slipped; he dabbed sweat from his brow with a handkerchief and held his tongue.

Qingyan was briefly taken aback by his teacher’s firecracker temper, but soon settled; his master had always been this way, never showing a good face to what offended him.

The household head, Liang Bozhan, cleared his throat to ease the moment. “Elder Brother is here to take his students on a study tour; he must return later. These days, let us host them well—don’t harbor thoughts that shouldn’t be harbored.”

At word that the elder would be leaving, the fourth brother’s face didn’t improve; he lowered his head like a scolded child and fiddled with the thumb ring on his finger.

“I’ve booked dinner at the Wangyue Tower,” Bozhan said. “Will Elder Brother and the young sirs dine out, or at home?”

“Out. These three have not seen the world—let them glimpse Yangzhou by night.”

“I’ll have the carriages prepared.” Once Bozhan left, the second brother couldn’t sit still. “Elder Brother doesn’t care to see my face either—I’ll take my leave.”

Master Liang waved him off. He fled as if relieved of a burden. The fourth wanted to speak to hold him back, then thought better of it and sat quietly—plainly intending to go along.

Soon the carriages were ready. As teacher and students came out, Bo Jin stood at the door, hesitant as to whether he might join.

Master Liang took two steps, frowned, and said, “Are you waiting for me to invite you?”

Bo Jin promptly followed, joy showing on his face.

Two carriages had been prepared. Master Liang and the three students took the first; Bozhan and Bo Jin sat in the second.

The brothers seldom gathered; since his marriage, Bo Jin had moved out, and now served in the Records Office, rarely returning.

“Don’t dwell on Elder Brother’s words,” Bozhan said. “His temper is frank—there’s no malice.”

“I know.” Bo Jin wasn’t truly angry. Since childhood he had admired his brother; but with seventeen years between them, the elder had already been famed across Yangzhou when he himself was born. Later, in school, he was constantly compared to the “elder master’s younger brother.”

Still, he had felt more pride than envy. As a mere ordinary man, how else would he have met so many renowned literati?

Unfortunately, the elder was not close to them. In private, Bo Jin had asked his mother why he disliked them. From her he learned of an old incident:

In those days, the elder had been framed for cheating in the imperial examinations—by a close family member, since only intimate household members could enter his study and use his brushes and paper. The culprit had never been found, and after that, Master Liang’s feelings for his concubine-born brothers were cut off.

Bo Jin had been only two at the time; he could not have done it—he was merely caught in the after-anger.

“Whoa,” the coachman up front pulled the reins. “Masters, we’ve arrived.”

They climbed down to see the elder leading the students toward Wangyue Tower. Watching the three youths at his brother’s side, Bo Jin’s eyes held a trace of envy.

Wangyue Tower was among the finest riverside restaurants, set on the bank of the Huai. The building rose six zhang high with four floors; at night, each level was hung with colored lanterns—a dazzling sight.

The three followed in, glancing about.

No sooner had they entered than bright strings and woodwinds filled their ears. An ensemble was playing—qin, zhong, xiao—like celestial music.

Master Liang chuckled at their dazed looks and flicked Qingsong’s forehead. “Boy, don’t let the glitter of wine and song blind your eyes.”

The three started and lowered their heads, following on in shame.

A page led the way; Bozhan had booked a private room on the second floor. The best rooms were on the fourth, but they were hard to reserve—and it was hard on Master Liang’s legs besides.

The party was shown in. The room was lit as bright as day.

“So bright,” Qingyan said. “How many lamps do they have burning?”

Bozhan took the chance to introduce details. “I’ve heard Wangyue Tower burns more than three hundred tallow candles each night.”

Qingsong couldn’t help exclaiming, “Three hundred? How much does that cost?”

“A single tallow candle is four hundred cash. By simple reckoning… about a hundred and twenty strings per night.”

The three clicked their tongues. The sum they spent on candles alone would cover a year’s expenses at home.

Qinghuai asked, curious, “Why tallow candles? Wouldn’t ordinary oil lamps do?”

“Tallow burns brighter, lasts longer, and smells less—so it won’t offend patrons.”

The three nodded—better understanding the luxuries of the south.

Dishes arrived quickly. With each course, Bozhan patiently gave names, origins, and anecdotes—so thorough the three lads hardly dared lift their chopsticks.

Master Liang tapped the table with his chopsticks. “Enough. Sit down and eat your own food. They won’t remember it all.”

Bozhan smiled and took his seat, occasionally picking a dish for his elder brother.

Relieved, the three relaxed and ate.

Southern cuisine was exquisite but light; used to the hearty flavors of the north, the three found the taste ordinary.

The dessert, however, was excellent—fragrant, sweet, and tender. Qingyan couldn’t help taking another. He thought: If only I could take some out—to the field—for Ah Ying and Yuanbao to taste.

They ate until the Xu hour. As they thought the meal done, Bozhan told them to look out the window.

A clear flute sounded from outside. They rose and went to the window to see a great painted barge gliding to a halt mid-river.

The drums rose; a dozen maidens in gauzy dresses swept out, dancing on deck.

A courtesan beside them played the qin and sang “Night on the Qinhuai”—the soft Wu tones of Jiangnan, a languorous sound.

When the song ended, applause rose from the floors above; some tossed strings of coin toward the boat. At such a distance, they fell short and splashed into the river—thudding sounds that made one’s teeth ache.

Only after the music did the meal count as finished. On the way back, Qingsong’s face glowed as he prattled about Wangyue Tower. Qingyan and Qinghuai, by contrast, wore knit brows and were silent.

Master Liang asked the pair, “Why so quiet?”

Qinghuai said, “Though a place like that is fine to see once for knowledge’s sake, coming often would lead one astray.”

His father, Chen Jing, was a clean-handed official, and the son’s upright temper had been honed by constant example. He disliked such places.

Qingyan’s thoughts were on Wang Ying and their son—whether they had enough to eat and warm clothes. New in the prefectural city, who knew how they were faring? He had no heart for pleasure.

Qingsong flushed, belatedly self-conscious. But he was still very young, and Master Liang did not press him hard.

The elder stroked his beard and nodded slightly—rethinking his own measure.

Too many came to Yangzhou and could not resist temptation—losing their core. Such men, even if they entered office, would not be good officials, and would harm the people.

This time, he had brought them not only for study, but to broaden their sight—to learn to be men before learning to be scholars.

—

A thousand li away in Jizhou, though the Chen family could not taste Yangzhou’s delicacies, they ate quite well.

It was a cold day; Wang Ying made hotpot.

Fresh slices of mutton and pork swirled in the broth; vegetables from the experimental field; dried shrimp and scallops bought in town—all together, a flavor truly fresh and sweet.

Since moving to the prefectural city, the household had tightened its belt; it had been a while since they’d indulged in meat. Today, they filled their bellies; oil shone on every lip.

“Hotpot in cold weather is a blessing,” Li Shi sighed comfortably.

Qingyun agreed. “Yes—so long since we’ve had this. It’s a pity we didn’t bring our hotpot pan; we can’t do a yin-yang pot.”

They’d left in a rush and hadn’t brought many things. The current pot was a makeshift job—Chen Bo had fitted a small iron pot over an iron bucket and shoveled hot coals into it to make do.

“How’s the shop coming?” someone asked.

“It’s in order,” Wang Ying said. “Planned opening the day after tomorrow.”

The former bun shop had long hung with kitchen grease on the walls, and the floor tiles were cracked.

Wang Ying had the walls whitewashed and the floor re-laid, the windows repaired and papered, and a carpenter make four broad counters. It now gleamed, bright and clean.

He’d also ordered a large signboard—red background with white characters—for the old name: Wang’s Produce.

He had to admit, Ma Qianzi had been a great help—a natural born for trade.

A sweet tongue, good instincts, and able hands. Best of all, he took to business without needing to be taught.

Over these weeks, he had canvassed nearly every shop in Jizhou, helping Wang Ying set prices and saving much trouble.

There were still no fresh produce shops—only four selling dried goods. When they opened, it would be the first of its kind in the prefectural city!

Being unique was good—but Wang Ying had his worries. If the vegetables sold too well, they might draw unwanted eyes. Earning money might invite trouble.

The prefectural city was not the same as a market town. They were new, without roots. Wang Ying planned to call on the deputy prefect tomorrow—to find a backing of his own.