Historical records were bound to differ somewhat from reality, and Shen Zheng’s knowledge of the Great Qian was hardly comprehensive.
Seeing his brows draw together slightly, Wen Zhuo explained gently, “Prefectural Granary Commissioners are generally appointed alongside local prefectural administrations. Originally, they were ninth-rank minor officials responsible for managing local grain revenues and expenditures and maintaining granary facilities. But with the changes of the past two dynasties, they have also begun overseeing the inspection and acceptance of tribute goods delivered from various regions to the court.”
Huang Ting lifted his eyelids and looked at Wen Zhuo. “I am sure the Academy Director already understands: though a Prefectural Granary Commissioner may be no more than a sesame-seed official, it is a genuinely lucrative post.”
Mo Shu and Shen Zheng exchanged a glance, both seeming to grasp the implications.
There was a trace of mockery in Huang Ting’s voice. “Take Mianzhou as an example. Every year, the quality of tribute aromatics it supplies to the court—ambergris, benzoin, and the like—is determined entirely by a Prefectural Granary Commissioner’s word. If he is inclined to pick faults, local officials and commoners alike will suffer. Often, even if they submit ten portions of fine goods, they are fortunate if one portion is recorded as passing inspection. In Nanzhou, Huizhou, and elsewhere, countless local officials rack their brains to curry favor and offer bribes. It has long been an open secret.”
“On a side note, Academy Director, do you remember why the Prefect of Huizhou impeached you back then?” Huang Ting asked. His lean, gaunt frame only made his shrewd eyes stand out all the more.
Wen Zhuo replied, “He believed that Bozhou had stolen Huizhou’s Songluo tea trade.”
“That was only one reason.” Huang Ting took a sip of tea before continuing slowly. “By regulation, tribute tea from every region must be delivered to the Ministry of Rites by a stipulated deadline, with an annual total of roughly four thousand jin. Huizhou is a core tribute-tea producing region, and that prefecture alone must shoulder two thousand three hundred and fifty jin. One can well imagine the burden borne by its people. The remaining one thousand six hundred and fifty jin are divided among Liangzhou, Kanzhou, Luzhou, Tangzhou, and Gezhou. Yet Bozhou, where you served, was planting ever more Songluo tea, and still bore none of this quota. You could take from the people and use it for the people as you pleased. How could the Prefect of Huizhou not resent that?”
This was the first Wen Zhuo had heard of that hidden detail. It seemed that the ways of officialdom were a world apart from his own field.
“I see. Back then, I merely wished to find a way for the people of Bozhou to make a living. Yet without intending to, I avoided the annual tribute quota and did not share their burden.”
“Precisely.” Huang Ting set down his teacup and turned to Shen Zheng. “But Your Highness may not know that the Prefectural Granary Commissioners in Mianzhou, Liangzhou, and the like cannot be bought off. They are all Prince Xian’s men. Tang Guangzhi holds the power of appointment and dismissal in the Ministry of Personnel, and he has long placed his own people in these key, profitable positions. Each year, when they compile and submit their registers, all they need do is tighten their standards by a single degree to reap profits many times over. It is exceedingly difficult to catch them with proof. At most, one can only say that they are excessively strict in inspecting tribute goods and conscientious in serving the court.”
Wen Zhuo’s affectionate eyes glimmered with a smile as he casually added, “Even if evidence were found, it would not matter. Bu Zhangyi, who is responsible for auditing the granaries, is in the same boat as they are.”
Huang Ting shut his eyes briefly and nodded emphatically. “The Academy Director truly is wise.”
Shen Zheng fell into thought. “So this is how Prince Xian amasses wealth. It is not bribery, then—it is an abuse of power.”
“...”
The term was a novel one. Fortunately, everyone in the study was quick-witted, and after a moment’s consideration, they understood what he meant.
Wen Zhuo asked curiously, “With so many ‘substandard’ tribute goods stockpiled, Prince Xian must find an outlet for them. Did the Crown Prince never think to investigate this angle?”
“One portion was naturally used to win people over and sent as gifts to officials of every rank. As for another portion…” Huang Ting paused before saying, “Prince Xian has long since secretly sent men to open innumerable shops across the prefectures of the Great Qian: teahouses, embroidery workshops, inns, game parlors—every sort of business imaginable. On the surface, none has the slightest connection to him, so there is simply no way to trace them back to him. Besides, those ‘substandard’ tribute goods never reach the capital at all. They are quietly disposed of locally. Back then, the Crown Prince had too few people in the provinces to keep Prince Xian’s faction under surveillance. That was why he had no choice but to use the Cao faction’s methods of amassing wealth on a grand scale, cultivating his own trusted followers.”
Mo Shu’s expression grew grave. “This truly is a difficult matter.”
“When His Majesty assigned Your Highness to provide disaster relief this time, I was deeply worried at first.” Huang Ting stroked the sparse beard on his sharp, narrow chin, a look of satisfaction appearing on his face. “But fortunately, Director Wen is one of us. With the contributions from Mianzhou’s incense merchants, grain purchased locally, and the one million taels in disaster-relief funds allocated by the Ministry of Revenue, it should be enough. Prince Xian is destined to gain nothing from this assignment!”
The Crown Prince’s downfall had dealt Huang Ting a severe blow. Now that he saw his old enemy thwarted, he was happier than if a fortune had fallen from the sky.
Mo Shu added, “My late father once went to provide relief in Qianzhou. According to him, conditions in disaster-stricken regions are exceedingly complicated. Mobs, bandits, and thieves are mixed together, impossible to distinguish from one another. The members of the Mo family who escaped Qianzhou at the risk of their lives in order to send me word back then can accompany Your Highness on this journey.”
Huang Ting said joyfully, “That would be excellent!”
“Everyone.”
The candle flame on the desk was dancing brightly. Seeing that they had nearly finalized the plan, Shen Zheng could not help interrupting. “Aren’t we being a little too optimistic?”
Three pairs of eyes turned toward him in unison, their owners plainly puzzled.
Choosing his words with care, Shen Zheng wore what he hoped was a suitably tactful expression. “There is a very real possibility that Mianzhou has no grain to sell—and that it is the most severely afflicted of all the prefectures.”
Huang Ting blurted out, “How can that be? Mianzhou has always been exceptionally prosperous, with abundant fertile fields and well-stocked granaries.”
Wen Zhuo’s brows furrowed slightly. He only said, “There was indeed no memorial reporting a disaster in Mianzhou among the court bulletins.”
But then he recalled what Gong Zhiyuan had said in court.
He was not surprised that Gong Zhiyuan had now aligned himself with Shen Chen and Xie Langyang, for in his previous life, Shen Chen had not dealt with the father-in-law who had always looked down on him.
He had removed Gong Zhiyuan from the position of Grand Chancellor and made him the judicial officer presiding over Wen Zhuo’s trial, forcing him to spend his days buried in case files and witness statements.
That day, Gong Zhiyuan had suddenly brought up Mianzhou, and Xie Langyang had also desperately tried to steer him toward Mianzhou. Could the hidden problem in Mianzhou be the concealment of a disaster?
If that was the case, they would not be able to buy grain at all. Shen Zheng’s mission would be ruined, and once refugees from several prefectures began rising up and rebelling, the situation would inevitably spiral beyond control.
And if Mianzhou collapsed, Prince Xian would lose his purse strings, the common people would become starving corpses, and Shen Zheng would be doomed to lose the Emperor’s favor forever.
Shen Chen’s move was vicious indeed.
Wen Zhuo sneered inwardly. He had long been prepared for Shen Chen’s malice, but he had never imagined that, in barely half a year, Xie Langyang had fallen so low as to treat the lives of millions of common people as worthless grass.
Mo Shu also asked, “Why does Your Highness say so?”
Naturally, Shen Zheng could not say that he had transmigrated here and read it in historical records. He had to think of another explanation.
So he reached into his sleeve and took out a map of the Great Qian that he had prepared in advance. He unfolded it across the table and pinned the corners down with teacups.
Then he took a brush from the brush stand, dipped it into the inkstone, and began marking circles. “Here are Xingzhou and Jingzhou. And here are Zhenzhou, Pingzhou, Gezhou, Liuzhou, Liuzhou, and Huizhou—all places that submitted memorials reporting locust plagues last month.”
After marking every affected location, Shen Zheng paused with his brush.
“The locusts this time came from the desert locusts of Adan. The flight paths of locust swarms are generally influenced by geographical conditions, monsoon patterns, and their need for survival. So, look here.”
The tip of Shen Zheng’s brush tapped Pingzhou, the closest location to Adan. “In summer, the southwest monsoon blows, carrying the swarm from Adan to Pingzhou and Zhenzhou, which is why both places were affected. In autumn, the northeast monsoon moves southward, forming stable air currents across southern and southeastern China. The swarm was then carried to Gezhou.”
Wen Zhuo leaned closer, his lashes lowered as he studied the map. Although many of the terms sounded strange to him, he understood that Shen Zheng was saying the wind direction determined where the locusts went.
Seeing that Wen Zhuo had not objected, Shen Zheng drew a route and continued. “By then, there were no more extreme weather conditions such as torrential rain or typhoons. The swarm could ride the gentle winds onward. From Gezhou to the two prefectures of Xingjing, it was all river valleys and plains, without even a proper mountain to obstruct them. The locusts encountered virtually no resistance.”
Wen Zhuo understood that much. Locusts could not cross natural barriers.
“The most crucial point is here.” The tip of Shen Zheng’s brush landed heavily on Mianzhou, the ink spreading into a small blot. “Mianzhou lies by the sea. During the day, the land is warm and the sea cool, so the wind blows toward the shore. At night, the opposite happens, and the wind blows back toward the sea, forming… well, a localized coastal circulation.”
Afraid that the others might not understand, he drew a diagram. “This back-and-forth current traps the swarm here.”
Wen Zhuo understood. It made perfect sense. The only problem was Shen Zheng’s handwriting. He had never seen such a bold and unruly script before, as though its writer rarely used a brush.
Shen Zheng did not stop. Following the line south from Mianzhou, he drew a smooth curve. “As it happens, this is also Mianzhou’s autumn harvest season. Having caught the scent of grain, the insects will swarm in large numbers. They will devour the crops to store energy, lay their eggs in the soil, and, once they have rested enough, continue gliding along with the shifting air currents. That means the next places to suffer will be Liuzhou, Liuzhou, and Huizhou.”
A single ink-filled curve linked the affected prefectures together, with Mianzhou standing prominently among them.
“Mianzhou is certain to be hit. We cannot borrow grain from there,” Shen Zheng said firmly.
Wen Zhuo gazed silently at Shen Zheng, his eyes brighter than the slanting evening sunlight.
He had glimpsed something amiss from Gong Zhiyuan and Xie Langyang’s unusual behavior, but he had not expected Shen Zheng to determine the locusts’ route so clearly without ever setting foot in Mianzhou—simply by studying a map, discerning the wind direction, and recognizing the terrain.
Shen Zheng felt a gaze fixed upon his face, steady and unwavering, as though Wen Zhuo were examining a stone carving. He simply leaned forward and asked in a low voice, “Does Wanshan believe me?”
He knew there was some embellishment in his explanation. Monitoring locusts required scientific equipment; an analysis based solely on words could never be completely accurate.
But accuracy was not his goal. Persuasion was.
Wen Zhuo’s lashes trembled slightly, apparently reacting to the name Wanshan. Yet he did not point out the intimate overfamiliarity. His gaze shifted first from Shen Zheng’s face to the map spread across the desk, lingered there for a moment, then suddenly returned to him.
“I do.”
Shen Zheng felt his heart sway with Wen Zhuo’s gaze, drifting wherever it led. Only when Wen Zhuo spoke did it finally take root.
He chuckled inwardly. The little cat had tacitly approved. From now on, he could call him “Wanshan” as often as he pleased.
Slow-witted as Huang Ting was, he could not help worrying. “If there is no grain in Mianzhou, then isn’t this matter doomed to fail?”
Just as slow on the uptake, Mo Shu analyzed the situation. “Unless we can uncover the source of Prince Xian’s grain shipments. Since Bu Zhangyi dared to take on this assignment before the entire court, he must have made preparations long ago.”
Huang Ting’s spirits sank. “How could we possibly learn of such a secret?”
Shen Zheng, who possessed the advantage of having crossed over, thought: I know.
Wen Zhuo, who possessed the advantage of having lived through this once before, thought the same: I know.
Wen Zhuo lifted his tea and took a sip to hide his expression. His tone remained calm and unhurried. “My guess is Liangzhou.”
Of course, he could not admit that he had experienced this once before. Fortunately, he could fabricate a whole basketful of explanations in the blink of an eye.
“The grain is in Liangzhou, and the batch of ‘substandard’ tribute goods he embezzled should be there as well.” Wen Zhuo glanced at Shen Zheng. Seeing that he was listening attentively, he continued, “The military commander of Liangzhou is one of Prince Xian’s trusted men and controls military forces, so he can act conveniently and securely. Since Palace Attendant Huang said the tribute goods never reached the capital, and Prince Xian intends to use them to win people’s hearts, Liangzhou—the prefecture closest to the capital—is the ideal place to hide them.”
Huang Ting lowered his head and pondered for a moment before slapping his thigh. “That makes sense!”
Shen Zheng gave a soft laugh. “There’s another layer to it. Prince Xian can use the court’s name to borrow money from his own businesses to purchase grain from Liangzhou for disaster relief. Once the disaster has been brought under control, the Ministry of Revenue can reimburse those businesses. That way, all the wealth he has amassed over the years becomes perfectly legitimate.”
What a smooth little money-laundering trick for the ancients.
Huang Ting suddenly understood. He stamped his feet in frustration. “When I discussed this with the Former Crown Prince, how did I never think of Liangzhou?”
He was filled with regret, but then he suddenly realized the difference between them.
The matters they had agonized over for so long had been unraveled in only a few words within this study.
Perhaps the Crown Prince truly was not suited for the heir’s position. Whether in strategy or bearing, he was far behind the Fifth Prince.
“It will still be difficult now that we know this.” Mo Shu ran a hand over the map, his brows tightly furrowed. “There has been no word from Mianzhou to this day, which shows how powerful the local officials are. If we go farther afield and request grain from Liangzhou, we must give His Majesty a compelling reason. If we merely repeat what Your Highness has said, His Majesty may not fully believe it. He might even suspect that Director Wen is unwilling to give away his entire fortune and deliberately changed the destination for the grain. But the time wasted while he sends people to verify the matter could cost countless commoners their lives.”
Wen Zhuo braced himself against the chair and pondered for a moment. A flash of insight lit his eyes.
“I have a way.”
Mo Shu was in the middle of rolling up the map. He stopped halfway and turned to look at him.
Wen Zhuo said, “I need to borrow some men from General Jun.”
Mo Shu nodded. “Very well. I’ll convey your request when he returns to his residence.”
After Wen Zhuo carefully explained the plan, night had fallen. He rose and smoothed his sleeves, preparing to return through the secret passage.
Huang Ting said, “Your Highness, shall we leave as well? It’s getting late.”
“You go on ahead,” Shen Zheng said.
Huang Ting was puzzled. “My residence is near the imperial city. It’s on the way.”
“I’ll see my teacher out.” Shen Zheng’s tone was utterly natural.
Huang Ting paused at that. He thought of the Crown Prince in days past, who was accustomed to taking from his teachers while showing them little respect. At times, he even acted imperiously, like a spoiled child.
By contrast, Shen Zheng’s respect for his teachers and impeccable manners were truly worthy of admiration.
Huang Ting immediately straightened and cupped his hands, a few traces of respect appearing in his eyes.
“Your Highness is considerate. I was the one who failed to think things through.”
Shen Zheng accepted the praise without the slightest embarrassment. “It is only right.”
Wen Zhuo stood to one side, feeling that he ought to say, “There’s no need to see me out.” Yet for some reason, the words reached the tip of his tongue only to be swallowed back down.
Shen Zheng followed him into the secret passage.
The stone door clicked shut, and the surroundings instantly fell silent. Only the candle flame remained, flickering and crackling.
Shen Zheng knocked on the stone wall beside him and suddenly sighed with feeling. “Teacher, this secret passage is quite impressive. You can’t hear a thing from outside. It’s like an extended version of an underground room.”
Wen Zhuo caught the fondness in his tone and could not help feeling slightly concerned. “Has Your Highness been reminded of the burial passage from years ago?”
“…”
Shen Zheng truly had no idea what expression he ought to make.
When Wen Zhuo received no response, he immediately stopped and turned around.
Who would have thought that Shen Zheng, absorbed in considering how to phrase his answer, would fail to stop in time? The two of them collided solidly.
Fortunately, Shen Zheng reacted quickly and caught Wen Zhuo by the waist.
Warm, soft, yet resilient beneath his hand, pressed close against the curve of his body—Shen Zheng forcibly let go and made himself calm down.
“Why did you suddenly stop…? Did I hurt you?”
“It’s nothing.” Wen Zhuo’s expression remained unruffled as he turned and continued onward.
Inspired by this incident, Wen Zhuo suddenly found it amusing. Every so often, he would deliberately slow his pace for an instant, catching Shen Zheng off guard and making him bump lightly into his back.
After it happened several times, how could Shen Zheng not understand?
He rather liked the playfulness hidden beneath Wen Zhuo’s composed exterior—it was a rare, private side of him—but he also found it funny, as though he were being put through some sort of reaction-speed training.
At last, Shen Zheng gave a low laugh, his voice echoing softly through the hidden passage. “If Teacher finds this amusing, then I won’t return to the palace today. I’ll keep Teacher company in this secret passage until you’ve had your fill of playing.”
The candlelight immediately set Wen Zhuo’s ears burning. Pretending not to have heard him, he quickened his pace and walked away as fast as he could.
