Shurui bought a fresh four-pound green fish at the market, along with a few ingredients, and returned to the inn with Lu Ling. It was still before noon, so they could use the kitchen without interrupting the lunch rush.
He took out the chef’s knife he had brought from the Bai household for protection. A good knife served many purposes: for travel, it was defensive; for cooking, it was essential. Fortunately, he had brought it, or he would have had to buy another, which was costly—a decent knife could range from a few hundred coins to several strings of cash. The one he had bought after learning to cook cost two strings of cash, not extravagant, but familiar and reliable.
With practiced hands, Shurui scaled and filleted the fish into two thick pieces, scraping the meat from tail to head along the grain.
One of the kitchen boys, Sun Qing, barely fifteen or sixteen, had round, eager eyes. Watching Shurui’s skillful work, he ran over, fascinated. “Master Shao, are you cooking?”
Shurui nodded. “Making fish balls.”
While talking, he crushed ginger and scallions, soaking and straining the juices. The scraped fish became half a basin of paste, salted lightly, then stirred vigorously in one direction with one hand holding the bowl. Slowly, he added the strained liquid in portions, stirring thoroughly each time until the paste became glossy, sticky, and held together.
He mixed in some starch, then shaped the fish paste into balls, dropping them into clear water. When the balls floated, they were perfectly formed.
Qing watched, eyes wide with admiration, before remembering the two empty buckets he had been carrying. He set them down and helped stoke the fire.
Shurui quickly made two egg sheets, sliced them, and sautéed the remaining scallions and ginger in oil before adding water to make the soup. He added the fish balls, seasoning and finishing with a handful of celery leaves.
“It smells amazing! Master Shao, you’re a real cook!” Qing exclaimed, eyes sparkling as he inhaled the aroma.
Shurui smiled and ladled a bowl for Qing. The boy hesitated, embarrassed to eat, but Shurui insisted. Qing tasted the broth first—so fresh it made his eyes widen—and then a fish ball. It was bouncy, smooth, and dense. Delicious.
“If you set up a stall, everyone else selling fish balls would be out of business,” Qing said, eating three balls before pausing. “How can they taste this good? Not a hint of fishiness—only freshness and flavor!”
Shurui laughed and shared some cooking tips: using only white fish meat and stirring carefully. Qing listened eagerly, impressed by his skill.
He stored the remaining half bowl to take home for his siblings, declining any more from Shurui, who insisted he eat before the inn’s cook, Mrs. Wang, arrived.
Shurui carried two bowls to the main room, calling Lu Ling down for lunch.
Lu Ling, seeing the steaming fish ball soup, suddenly felt very hungry. He moved forward, but Shurui glared. “Wash your hands.”
He did so, returning slightly wet-handed. Shurui tossed a rough cloth. “You didn’t dry them!”
Lu Ling caught the cloth and sat down. “How do you know I washed them?”
“Suit yourself. Anyway, the food’s going into my mouth.”
Lu Ling picked up a ladle and ate quietly.
By noon, inn guests came down to eat, and seeing the fragrant fish soup, tried to order it, only to find it was gone.
After lunch, Shurui rested briefly before taking advantage of the quiet streets to visit a few tile workshops, comparing materials and prices.
Sun Qing had told him the tiles on Sweet Well Street at the Charcoal Bridge Workshop were good, so he went to check.
It was midday; most shops were quiet. One clerk was eating a simple meal of mixed grains, salted fish, and scrambled eggs. Seeing Shurui, he wiped his mouth and warmly invited him in.
It was now May, summer in full swing. Frequent rains made roof repairs urgent, keeping tile workshops busy. Otherwise, the clerk wouldn’t have been eating just now. Shurui encouraged him to finish first and went to inspect the tiles.
He carefully weighed and tapped them with a small stick. The tiles were heavy, solid, and produced a clear, crisp “clang” when struck, showing quality firing and density. Comparing several tiles, they fit snugly without warping, ensuring no leaks when installed.
“You know your stuff,” the clerk said. “You’re welcome to examine them all.”
After checking a few shops, Shurui decided the Charcoal Bridge Workshop’s tiles were the best. The other shops’ tiles were uneven, mismatched, and often had fine cracks—lightweight, likely to break before reaching the roof. These were clearly superior.
Satisfied with the tiles, Shurui asked, “How much do your tiles cost?”
“The good, thick ones you’re looking at are ten coins a piece, a hundred pieces for nine hundred sixty coins,” the clerk replied.
Shurui fell silent for a moment. The other shops he had visited were cheaper—six or seven coins per tile—but the quality was clearly lower. He knew well that cutting corners now would mean buying cheap tiles that might warp or break within a few months, costing more to repair later. Buying better tiles now, though slightly more expensive, would save trouble and money in the long run.
Since the shop was his own and not rented, investing in durable materials made sense.
“I’m planning to repair my shop soon,” Shurui said. “I’ve looked at several workshops, and yours is by far the best. But fixing up the old place will cost everywhere, and my funds are tight.”
He didn’t directly complain about the price but expressed his sincere intention to buy: “Could you give me a little discount? I’ll also tell my neighbors your tiles are excellent, and they’ll come to buy from you.”
The clerk smiled. “You’ve got a keen eye, sir. A coin’s worth its value. You’ve seen many workshops, and you know their goods, as well as ours. Being a little more expensive is justified.
“Don’t worry about the purchase. We’ve been on this street for over a decade, a long-standing workshop—not some fly-by-night operation selling inferior tiles for a quick profit. If anything goes wrong with the tiles, we can track it, deliver to your door, and even recommend a good tiler. The price is fair, already at cost—there’s no lower it can go.”
Shurui continued, “My shop isn’t small. Right now, I’m only repairing two roofs and the kitchen roof, which will need four or five hundred tiles. Later, the main hall roof will need several hundred more. I’ll buy them all from you and bring my own labor. Could you give me a special price under these conditions?”
The clerk paused, then laughed. “Ah, I see! You truly know how to bargain. You’ve asked so honestly, I can’t refuse. Nine coins a tile it is. If you delay, we’ll have to wait for the next batch.”
Shurui calculated quickly: saving one coin per tile on a hundred tiles was a hundred coins—not insignificant. He agreed. “Thank you. Business will be long-term. If you ever come to my shop, I’ll make sure you get a fair deal.”
“Only because you asked sincerely,” the clerk said. “Don’t tell anyone, or our old customers will come complaining!”
He guided Shurui to register the purchase and asked where the shop was and what kind of business it would operate. Shurui didn’t hide it: a small inn with some dining. The clerk promised to spread the word politely.
Shurui paid one string of cash as a deposit and planned to bring the tiles back with a donkey and cart. Five hundred tiles cost four strings and five coins. He didn’t want to buy the full amount yet, afraid of exhausting his funds before finishing repairs.
Hurrying back to the inn, Shurui went to fetch the donkey and cart—but after searching the stable, both were gone.
He asked Sun Qing, who replied, “About a incense-stick ago, your companion took the donkey and cart. I asked, but he didn’t answer. Don’t know where he went.”
Shurui frowned. Could that boy have tricked him, running off with his cart?