Gao Zhongxiong was startled back by Han Jin several steps and collided with the railing behind him.
Han Jin, used to military campaigns, could not endure even mosquito bites, let alone the filth of a prison; this treatment went against his nature. Seeing Gao Zhongxiong’s expression, he could not help but wail loudly, crying out, “You villain! It’s because of you that I’ve fallen so low!”
Gao Zhongxiong dared not reply, pressing himself against the railing as he walked away.
Han Jin’s hatred flared, and he shouted, “You’ve allied with that traitor Shen, shameless wretch! A three-family slave serving a rebel! Gao Zhongxiong, you are nothing but a wandering ghost! Don’t leave, come back, you…”
Gao Zhongxiong clumsily pushed open the prison gate, shaking off the lingering spectral voice behind him. Outside, the cold wind cut through him, chilling his back. Scholars prized their reputation; who did not wish to be remembered as a man of integrity? The words “three-family slave” struck him so harshly he nearly collapsed. All the grievances in his heart turned into overwhelming nausea, and he vomited violently, leaning on the wall.
He emptied the contents of his stomach, the acid burning upward. Sliding down to sit against the wall, he stared blankly at the vast sky and thought of the people of Yuzhou. Wiping his mouth with a handkerchief was useless against the unceasing tears; he switched to his sleeve, then wrapped his arms around himself, curling into a corner and quietly weeping.
Who would willingly bow for mere grains of rice?
Gao Zhongxiong had no choice; without those five pecks, he would die. To survive, he had abandoned even his pride. Had anyone told him five years ago that he would one day bow to a magistrate just to work as a minor clerk, he would have preferred death. Yet now he not only did it, he even learned to flatter others for the smallest gain.
After an indeterminate amount of time, Gao Zhongxiong stood and tidied himself, walking along the wall. Passing the yamen, he felt the whispers all around directed at him—but he seemed unaffected, just as Yao Wenyu had said: the past was like a dream, and he had awoken.
“I am Gao Zhongxiong, styled Shenwei,” he said as he stepped into the yamen, bowing to the officials. “Recommended by the Tongzhi, I am here solely for writing. From now on, any proclamations or notices issued by the yamen will be drafted by me.”
By the end of August, Kong Ling and Yu Xiaozai had returned from Huaizhou. Their negotiations there had gone smoothly, though on the way back past Luoxia Pass, they noticed the guards’ demeanor had shifted subtly—far more courteous than before.
“The Luoxia Pass guards,” Yu Xiaozai said, “kept trying to probe for news of our Tongzhi, asking repeatedly about his marital status.”
“Perhaps they intend to propose on his behalf?” Zhou Gui thought of Xiao Chiye and hurriedly asked, “How did you answer?”
“I was going to say he already had family,” Yu Xiaozai admitted, “but Cheng Feng advised me not to. So we simply said he had not yet married.”
The two of them didn’t fully understand, but Kong Ling clearly did. Having learned that the northern heir’s consort had visited Cizhou, he noted the guards’ behavior on the return journey, discerning the reason for the change: someone from the north had given instructions. Whether it was the prince or the heir seeking information on Shen Zechuan, he knew.
Kong Ling lifted his teacup and said, “The Tongzhi is indeed unmarried. It’s best to state this plainly to avoid misunderstandings and gossip.”
As Zhou Gui was about to mention the recent inspection of the clerks, Qiao Tianya lifted the curtain. They all rose to greet him, calling out in unison, “Tongzhi.”
Outside, the rain fell. Shen Zechuan walked from the residence, getting wet despite his umbrella. Yao Wenyu had been bundled up and seated on a four-wheeled cart, looking thin and insubstantial. Gao Zhongxiong, following behind, wore simple attire and carried a writing booklet, half a shoulder wet.
“Please, all gentlemen, sit,” Shen Zechuan said, taking his seat and wiping the rain from his hands. “Cheng Feng and Youjing have worked hard on this journey. For the next few days, there is no need to hurry with duties; rest first.”
Kong Ling and Yu Xiaozai thanked him in turn.
“Shenwei, you may sit as well; no need to be formal,” Shen Zechuan gestured to Gao Zhongxiong. “This is Shenwei, newly joined under my command for writing. He is currently training in the yamen, and many matters still require Cheng Feng’s guidance.”
Kong Ling modestly declined and looked at Gao Zhongxiong. Today, Gao Zhongxiong’s hair was simply tied; now that he spent all day running errands at the yamen, practicality took precedence over scholarly appearance.
Setting down his booklet, Gao Zhongxiong bowed to Kong Ling. “I have long admired your reputation, Cheng Feng.”
Kong Ling rose in return.
Once everyone had taken their seats, Shen Zechuan said, “Huaizhou went smoothly, as did Chazhou. This year, everyone can have a good harvest. The clerks sent to measure the fields have completed the initial survey; two more verifications are needed to ensure accuracy. Once finished, it will be the end of the year. Fortunately, it will all be done before the winter. With the registry completed and Cizhou’s autumn harvest stored, we can soon discuss the distribution of land once the snow falls.”
Yao Wenyu spoke in turn: “Previously, the collection of taxes and corvée in Quzhou was in kind. After grain was stored, officials calculated its value and the labor cost of transport was added—never entirely accurate. Now in Cizhou, we remove transport costs, but must increase storage expenses; collecting miscellaneous taxes in silver is most suitable.”
“The grain trade cannot continue long-term,” Kong Ling said. “With Chazhou’s rectification finished this year, new fields can be cultivated in spring. Once that is done, harvests will be sufficient, and there is no need to trade grain with us anymore.”
“The other four prefectures still need it, though,” Yu Xiaozai, less familiar with the central administration, said. “I doubt Prince Yi can hold it long; Fan and Deng prefectures are so poor people eat one another. He is still giving out titles and favors to a messy group of court officials. If we don’t trade with Chazhou, we trade with them.”
The others laughed.
Shen Zechuan remarked, “Youjing is indeed from the Censorate.”
Seeing Yu Xiaozai confused, Kong Ling explained, “When you see people acting this way, you think of impeaching them. But remember, when they are so impoverished, where would they get money to buy grain from us?”
“The kidnappings in Fanzhou are rampant, and traffickers brutal. If we sell grain to them, they might barter even children. These people are despicable!” Zhou Gui shuddered at the thought.
“This must be suppressed, but the source is in Luoshan. As for Prince Yi, we cannot kill him,” Yao Wenyu relaxed slightly and smiled. “He now serves as our southern shield. Without him, we would face Qi Zhuyin directly.”
“Speaking of Qi Zhuyin,” Yu Xiaozai tugged at his sleeve, “I thought of Qi Shiyu. I heard news: when Third Miss Hua married, the old marshal, seeing the bride’s beauty, was so delighted he… lay down.”
Zhou Gui was stunned. “Lay down?”
Yu Xiaozai said, “Struck by a stroke!”
Whether Qi Shiyu’s stroke was real or feigned, it signaled he would not share a bed with Hua Xiangyi. The Empress Dowager secured the marital alliance with Qidong, yet could go no further. Hua Xiangyi would have no heirs, and Qi Zhuyin’s command would remain uncontested. With her mother in her hands, she had every reason to suppress her brothers.
“Heaven decides what man cannot,” Zhou Gui sighed. “Thankfully, Qi Zhuyin is not a man.”
They chatted about other matters. Today, Kong Ling and Yu Xiaozai had just returned; Shen Zechuan could not let them talk through the night. By roughly the hour of Chou, they dispersed.
Zhou Gui personally escorted Kong Ling back to the courtyard, briefly summarizing the inspection of clerks. He said, “They killed a corrupt clerk, and the yamen has been clean since. But rumors say the Tongzhi came to Cizhou to pressure me. I fear this gossip may reach the Tongzhi, causing misunderstandings.”
Holding his umbrella, Kong Ling said, “I already warned you: stop using the title ‘Zhifu’ (prefectural official). If this were before a suspicious person, we would have lost the Tongzhi’s trust.”
“But I—” Zhou Gui protested. “I don’t know what to call it!”
“Doesn’t matter what you call it. What matters is the attitude,” Kong Ling said, tilting his umbrella and instructing Zhou Gui to lift the lantern higher. “Cizhou is now established; you cannot be ambiguous. Your intentions may be pure, but rumors spread. Clarify the hierarchy quickly, so everyone knows Cizhou has changed hands.”
They walked up the steps in silence, the attendants following. Kong Ling paused at the corridor entrance, signaling them to lag behind.
“Calling it ‘Buzhengshi’ (administrative commissioner) isn’t appropriate; neither is ‘Governor’. Think of another title,” Zhou Gui said. “I can implement it tomorrow.”
“These were titles under Quzhou; naturally inappropriate,” Kong Ling said, momentarily stumped, then sighed. “Shen Wei is Jianxing Wang, but his rank and title were stripped; this lineage cannot be associated with the Tongzhi anymore.”
The two stood in the cold night, wind cutting through their garments, shivering. Kong Ling, tired and cold, urged, “Go back and think it over yourself.”
Two days later, Zhou Gui submitted a document requesting to change “Tongzhi” to “Fujun” (Prefecture Lord). His initial idea was “Shenjun,” but the character Shen connected with Shen Wei, so he adapted it to “Fu” for the prefecture. This character could be flexible, allowing future adjustments as the territory expanded. This marked the first clear recognition of Shen Zechuan’s authority in Cizhou, and Zhou Gui demoted himself to become Shen Zechuan’s subordinate within the prefecture.
The news immediately unsettled Prince Yi of Fanzhou, who issued several edicts denouncing Zhou Gui for allying with the rebel. Now with Gao Zhongxiong at Cizhou, able to write swiftly and persuasively, even falsehoods could be made to seem true. While denouncing Prince Yi for his cruelty and lavish lifestyle, Gao Zhongxiong also composed ballads for the four prefectures east of Zhongbo, describing Shen Zechuan’s provision of grain and the resulting hardship so movingly that listeners were brought to tears.
As the rumor reached Xiao Fangxu, it had already exaggerated into “severely injured” and “nearly lost an arm.”
Xiao Fangxu was shocked and dragged the exhausted Xiao Chiye awake in the middle of the night, asking, “Has his hand been broken?”
Half a month of continuous errands had finally allowed Xiao Chiye to fall asleep, only to be roused by his father. Half-conscious, he croaked, “Wh—whose hand?”
“Shen Zechuan’s!” Xiao Fangxu exclaimed.