HE With the Cold Male Protagonist C71

Chapter 71: Prefect Yan’s Admonition, and the Brewing of the Broth

The round moon hung high in the heavens, and in the pitch of night the cold wind howled mournfully. Even Jiang Baiye, who was like a blazing furnace, shivered faintly. “What is it now?”

He Jun made to step inside, and Baiye thought little of it, until suddenly he heard the faint stirrings from the next chamber. At once he started, spine rigid. “No—speak at the threshold. What matter presses you?”

“You feel no chill?” He Jun, swathed in several layers of heavy garments, could scarce contain his astonishment.

“You know I am cold, and yet come seeking me in the dead of night. Out with it—what matter?”

He Jun handed him a casket. Baiye opened it, and within lay a thick sheaf of silver notes and a ledger. His eyelid twitched at once.

“This is the net profit of Jichun Apothecary in the month and more of your absence. As you instructed, wages for apprentices and masters were paid with commission added. With winter upon us, herbs grow scarce, and the profits of the workshop fell much diminished. Yet in this time we still gained…”

“Six thousand taels,” Baiye counted swiftly. Clutching the heavy stack of notes, he no longer minded being roused at such an hour. He was content—until He Jun, with utmost diligence, meant to recite each detail of the workshop’s operations.

“Enough, enough! I trust the ability of Eldest Young Master, and am most grateful for your stewardship. Here—your wage.” He drew a note at random, saw it was five hundred taels, hastily drew it back, and offered instead a single note of one hundred.

To one of He Jun’s station, a hundred taels was naught. Yet Baiye deemed it ample reward, and He Jun accepted without complaint, though still wishing to explain all thoroughly.

Baiye made to shut the door. At last he understood this man’s manner—swift, unyielding, relentless. “On the morrow, when there is leisure, we shall speak again. These trifles are not urgent.”

He Jun frowned faintly, puzzled that he was neither anxious nor troubled. “Shengyao Apothecary fares ill in Xuancheng. Days past, they moved their business to Chongzhou, famed as a ‘Little Capital of Medicine.’ Moreover, their venture upon Mount Daheng brought many deaths and losses; several times they paid dear. Now they seek to sell their rights to the mountain, though perchance they still desire to stand against us, and so search for a buyer.”

At this, Baiye stilled, his interest piqued. “Chongzhou?”

Was this not the very place where, during the canal works, some had urged him to set up a workshop? Was it not also the place where he himself meant to purchase land?

Truly, he had no intent to stand against Shengyao Apothecary—yet if fate had driven them both to Chongzhou, what choice was there?

Chongzhou and Xuancheng lay beneath the same provincial seat, but Chongzhou touched the warmer southern climes. Save for that one arid tract Baiye had marked, the land was fertile, blessed with a climate near perpetual spring. In truth, it bore faint advantage over Xuancheng both in geography and in trade.

Should Baiye wish to extend his business into the markets of Jiangnan, Chongzhou was the perfect stepping stone.

Yet even this was less weighty than his need for sleep. He stifled a yawn, while He Jun, oblivious, pressed on; unless he spoke his piece, he would not rest. Such was his conscientiousness.

Baiye almost thought to gift him another hundred taels—he was indeed the very opposite of He Lin!

“And what has He Lin busied himself with of late?” Baiye mused. At first, he had entrusted matters to He Lin, being more familiar with him. Yet He Jun, though often burdened with his father’s affairs, had managed with such skill that the apothecary prospered.

He Jun hesitated, and Baiye knew at once that fellow had done nothing of substance.

“Speaking of Chongzhou, I intend to purchase land there. Would you have interest, you may accompany me in days to come. I mean to fashion the place into an estate—a retreat for leisure, with diversions and rustic amusements.”

“Rustic amusements?”

“On the morrow,” Baiye said, his weariness at its limit. At last He Jun perceived the hint and departed. Yet midway, he remembered the most pressing matter he had meant to tell, and sighed at his own lapse. Thoughts of a certain maiden left him both gladdened and troubled.

The next day, Baiye slept until the sun rode high. When he asked the hour, he was told it was already mid-forenoon.

Lu Lizhi had left him a note: he had gone to pay respects to his teacher, and to deliver gifts of local produce gathered upon their journey. Such gifts were also sent to Shopkeeper Ning and to Elder Yi, though of lesser grade than those meant for Prefect Yan, yet still of generous weight.

At Yan’s residence, the prefect was absent on official business, and Lizhi waited long before he returned—only to be questioned on his studies. Lizhi rejoiced that he had not grown slack in his time away, and passed, though barely.

Yet Prefect Yan admonished him sternly. “Though you have done some good works, a scholar must hold the examinations as his foremost aim. Only by gaining office can you truly benefit the people, only with power may you render true service. Were it not for my intercession, few would remember your deeds. Do as much as you will—without rank, it is but wasted toil!”

Lizhi’s quiet dissent turned at once to fear. Prefect Yan had indeed exerted effort on their behalf. Without him, would Baiye’s labors have borne fruit? Perhaps. Lizhi believed so. Yet he could not but feel gratitude, and for the first time grasped the weight of rank and office. Nay—one must not merely hold office, but high office, to wield true power of speech!

“Make haste to enter the Academy. Should you aim for next year’s county examinations, the path will be hard. Know this: former top scholars—Tu Huanwen of Chongzhou, Fang Kaiyuan of Huaiyang, Chen Jian and Wu Yong of our own prefecture—these are your fierce rivals. They have prepared for years, and their advantage is great.”

In speaking thus, the prefect revealed his highest expectations. To pass the county trial was naught. To seize the very first place, to become jieyuan—that was true success. And with the wisdom of his sire, surely his son could do no less. Pressure must be applied.

Lizhi felt his chest constrict, tight with unease.

“Your father once sought the title of jieyuan. See that you do not disappoint him,” Prefect Yan said, striking the final blow.

In that moment, even his dumbness seemed of lesser weight. More than aught, he longed to return to study at once.

Yet the prefect softened his tone. “You are a worthy child. In temper and conduct, I am reassured. I need say little more. Only, I would not have you squander your talent for other matters. History tells of many who, like Zhongyong, wasted away.”

Lizhi wondered if the prefect suspected aught. His heart ached. For Jiang Baiye—everything concerning him—was no trifling matter. It was of utmost import, more precious even than his studies. Baiye was not his hindrance, but his greatest strength!

Leaving the prefect’s residence, his spirits lightened upon meeting Shopkeeper Ning and Elder Yi. Now he understood more than ever Baiye’s choice: wealth was indeed a joy. To earn coin so easily, almost at leisure—what delight!

“It is most wondrous,” Shopkeeper Ning said with glee, “the fervor for your works! Even with countless imitations flooding the market, readers shun them all, and flock only to our Yongyuan Bookshop. Here are two months’ dividends.” He placed before Lizhi a ledger and silver notes.

Lizhi did not bother to tally them. Ning was shrewd, but dared not cheat him. In hand lay notes worth five hundred taels.

Step by step—from tens, to hundreds, now to five hundred—the name of “Lord Qingyuan” spread across the province. Each book of his never faded swiftly, but burned anew with each new wave of readers.

Prefect Yan knew not his identity, yet perchance those very rivals he had named had read his works. Lizhi thought, perhaps he ought to place some faith in himself.

Elder Yi’s share was smaller: “The new Hanmo Pavilion teahouse opened, and I was hard pressed. With fewer performances and the teaching of apprentices, I earned but two hundred taels.”

He was abashed, yet even so, the sum was beyond Lizhi’s imagination. He handed over two new short story volumes and the fourth of The Wind Asks of Love, discussing matters of publication. He would not, could not, be wholly idle.

Elder Yi eagerly sought his counsel, wishing to capture the true spirit of characters and design, lest his adaptations stray. To have one so willing to heed his intent was Lizhi’s delight.

While they spoke, Shopkeeper Ning sat aside, eyes gleaming over the manuscripts. Yet the thought of handing them all to Baiye made him inwardly wail. He longed to complain to Lizhi, but remembering the younger man’s caution, he kept his grief silent.

At the end, Ning recalled a matter. Chasing after him, he cried: “My brothers wish to open new branches of the bookshop in other cities. They know not your identity, nor would they reveal it. Might this be permitted?”

Lizhi assented lightly. His mind was elsewhere—on the seven hundred taels in hand. Was it enough for half a house? Perhaps not. He still had three hundred at home.

By the time he left Yongyuan, the sky was dim. Fewer and fewer cared who Lord Qingyuan truly was. Many suspected Lu Qinghong, and Ning and Yi had fumed at the thought.

Lizhi’s heart was calm. He had given the man chance enough. Should he persist in the fraud, the more who believed him, the harder his fall. It touched Lizhi not at all.

As he walked back, a servant found him, hurrying him to the He estate. The tailor had waited all afternoon, needing only to take his measure.

“Indeed, most exact,” the old tailor muttered, setting aside his tape. “Young Master Jiang knew each of your measures to perfection.”

Lizhi’s cheeks warmed. He was certain Baiye had not gauged by eye alone.

In the kitchen, He Lin too was puzzled. “How know you Lu Lizhi’s form so well?”

“A wild guess,” Baiye answered.

“You were most certain. You two are friends most close indeed! Perhaps you even know the hue of his undergarments,” He Lin said sourly.

Baiye thought bitterly, He has seen all of me, yet I have not seen all of him… Was it possible—was he too small, too ashamed? A man’s pride, perhaps?

Enlightenment struck him. Aye, were it himself, he too might feel humbled. Well, he must improve his art, so that Lizhi would yield beneath him willingly, tasting boundless delight.

He would buy more books to study…

Resolving thus, he stirred steadily the great pot of crimson broth before him.

“How rich the fragrance—ah, cough, cough!” He Lin drew a breath, only to be overcome by the spice. “What is this—beef suet, what did you call it?”

“Beef tallow hotpot. I am brewing the base of the broth,” Baiye replied, coughing himself, yet determined. For the sake of his purpose, he must bring forth his finest skill.

Even as he spoke, his gaze flickered, all but idly, toward the doorway—yet in his smile there lay a hidden mirth.