Chapter Ninety-Three: The Warning (Part Two)

Since the Treaty of Chanyuan, the annual tribute paid to the Liao Empire included bolts of cloth, making the weaving industry’s role as the imperial merchant a constant source of dilemma.

An annual demand of 300,000 bolts of silk is no small figure. Without dividing the order into smaller portions, no single cloth merchant could handle it. Even when broken down, the court still set enormous quotas. Yet, despite such vast quantities, the government’s purchase prices were far from generous; these weren’t luxury goods prices—in fact, the rates were often lower than market prices.

Each year, the palace did acquire some precious silks and brocades, which were treated as luxury goods with correspondingly higher profits. But compared to 300,000 bolts, that demand was negligible. Becoming the imperial merchant certainly came with certain privileges, so among the large merchants, some would reserve capacity to fulfill the tribute orders, either accepting low profits to sustain volume or even disregarding profits entirely, leveraging court-granted privileges to develop other business areas.

The Su family’s foundation in this regard was somewhat lacking. Of course, they could handle a small portion of the order, but proactively requesting the entire contract would be quite troublesome. The Su family already had numerous businesses to maintain, and once they accepted the imperial order, the court cared little about whether they needed time to ramp up production—they demanded delivery on schedule. To avoid disrupting their already saturated supply chain, the Su family had to guarantee sufficient production capacity well in advance.

In other words, they had to prepare new workshops and new sources of raw materials early on. These tribute orders offered little profit, though they might bring privileges. However, the effort to expand new workshops would stretch the Su family’s capacity to the limit; even with privileges, they wouldn’t have the energy to grow further.

On the other hand, if a merchant could secure a portion of the tribute cloth business and had quality fabrics, the palace would also open up a portion of the demand for valuable silks and brocades, which was more profitable. Everyone coveted this segment, but aside from a few nationally renowned rare silks, merchants seeking to offer their fine silks also had to bundle in some low-profit tribute cloth, plus various miscellaneous fees to smooth over official channels. Pure profit from this was rare; only the largest, most resourceful merchants could leverage privileges to grow their business significantly.

There were many large cloth merchants in the Bianliang area. Although Jiangning was also a prosperous weaving center, the imperial cloth business was generally handled by a few mid-sized merchants who had fixed contracts. They transitioned into this niche but gained only modest prestige, their standing in the weaving guild comparable to the Wu, Xue, and Su families. Occasionally, they would share some of the orders. It wasn’t that only mid-sized merchants handled the tribute cloth trade, but that those who became imperial merchants usually remained mid-sized due to the heavy burden and low profits of the tribute business.

The best solution to this problem lay in technological improvement. Xi Junyu sensed some of Su Tan’er’s efforts in this regard—she had worked hard for several years and had likely made some progress. Yet, just as things were looking promising, new problems arose.

“If in previous years you could have further lowered tribute cloth costs and increased efficiency, you could have taken the entire contract without issue,” Xi Junyu said. “Of course, within a year or two, there would be envious competitors. But the problem is that since last year, relations between Liao and Jin have soured. Everyone is waiting for war to break out. Once it does, with the two tigers clashing, our dynasty will certainly mobilize troops and cease paying tribute to the Liao. The 300,000 bolts of cloth? The loss falls on us.”

“But if the tribute ends, the imperial merchants’ contracts will consist solely of palace brocade orders. The Xue and Wu families are surely already pursuing those. We might surpass the Xue family, but not the Wu family—they have entrenched connections within the palace and are well acquainted with the officials of the Weaving Bureau. I know you’ve worked hard preparing these past years, but under these conditions, the odds of success are slim. The main issue is tribute cloth—even if your silks are excellent, palace demand is limited; without tribute cloth, they won’t buy from you. You’ve invested heavily in new workshops that will be left empty, but if you don’t prepare and tribute demand returns next year, what then?”

After Xi Junyu finished, Su Tan’er was silent for a long moment before speaking: “The Xue and Wu families face the same difficulties with tribute cloth, don’t they?”

“If tribute is demanded for another year, they will stubbornly hold on, not increasing their stakes. They will cede some market share for now, and when war breaks out next year or the year after, they will turn hostile. Then, with palace brocade contracts and imperial merchant privileges, they will reclaim their market share. But you’re improving looms, taking risks, investing heavily. A few years ago, I would have supported you, but now, on the surface, you probably won’t win. This is no longer a lucrative business; it’s better to withdraw early.” He sighed. “This isn’t a miscalculation on your part, just unfortunate timing.”

Because of the tribute cloth business, being an imperial merchant was no longer a coveted position. For truly capable large merchants, it could help them grow bigger, but for families like the Su or smaller ones, it was a burden—even poison. Just as Su Tan’er was ready to make a move, war was looming. Just when hope appeared, the tribute might disappear, and the Xue and Wu families would come to compete, rendering the Su family’s investment a joke.

Hearing this, Su Tan’er frowned slightly and shook her head. “Manager Xi, what do you think will happen after this war?”

“Uh?” Xi Junyu was momentarily taken aback, then said, “After the war…” He paused, suddenly understanding her implication: “You mean…”

“I’ve lived under this tribute system since birth,” Su Tan’er lowered her voice. “Some things are embarrassing to admit, but they seem endless. Of course, I hope we can defeat the Liao. But… we haven’t won. The Treaty of Tanyuan over sixty years ago, the Treaty of Heishui seven years ago, and now the Jin dynasty has entered the picture. What will happen if they fight? Two tigers battling to the death would be ideal, but will it really happen?”

She shook her head. “Everyone says the Liao are barbaric and cruel, the Jin are coarse and uncultured, while our great Wu dynasty is grand and civilized. I… I like hearing such stories too. When I was young, I’d laugh heartily at them in teahouses. But if it were truly so…I don’t believe it. There are wise people everywhere. If we can’t defeat them, it only means they are stronger—and when someone is stronger, you must accept it…”

“Only those who can admit defeat can win back what’s lost. I’m a merchant—losing is losing, money lost is money lost. No excuses help. Excuses are for others. When you know how your opponent acts and guard against it, while acknowledging your own flaws, then you can see yourself clearly. Manager Xi, seven years ago the Liao forced us into the Treaty of Heishui, and now the Jin dare challenge the Liao. When they fight, will no one notice the Wu dynasty watching?”

“Nowadays, when I wander the teahouses and taverns, hearing scholars discuss how our Wu dynasty will reap the benefits, how the Liao and Jin are barbaric, coarse, foolish, how they provoke each other to madness—I’m a woman, but I’d never be so shortsighted as to think the Liao and Jin are that stupid. Our dynasty has been oppressed for nearly a hundred years, yet these scholars happily call our oppressors fools. Have we really been crushed by a bunch of fools for so long? Maybe it’s because these literati tell endless tales of Wu heroes defeating Liao barbarians that our dynasty has grown so weak…”

Her expression darkened. “If war breaks out, the best outcome would be mutual destruction, so our dynasty no longer needs to pay tribute. By then, the improved looms will still serve us well. But there are other possibilities. If Liao wins, our tribute payments will increase under their demands. If Jin wins, do you think they won’t want tribute? That’s too good to be true. I hear much of the friction between Liao and Jin stems from Jin wanting to trade with our Wu dynasty. It’s also possible they cease fighting, and our dynasty ends up paying tribute to both. But one thing is certain—there will never be tribute flowing from them to us.”

“I hope we win. If the army marches one day, the government will surely come asking for money. My grandfather and father are already prepared. But if we lose… then what?”

Xi Junyu was silent for a long moment. The Jin-Liao situation was tense; the whole nation believed that when two tigers fight, one will be wounded, giving the Wu dynasty a chance to breathe. Even if the result was poor, it wouldn’t be worse than now. To think Su Tan’er held such a view—was she too pessimistic or too clear-sighted? Reflecting on her past, her soft exterior concealed a resolute spirit. Truly…

He felt a slight tremor of admiration.

Still, Xi Junyu believed the Wu dynasty wouldn’t worsen. Continuing to improve looms and taking on large tribute orders to reduce costs and raise profits was a straightforward, honorable strategy. But such profits wouldn’t last. Usually, secret dyeing or stitching techniques lasted longer, but loom improvements would be known within a year or two. Once others adopted them, profits would be driven down. Often, great effort yielded little reward.

As he prepared to voice these thoughts, applause suddenly rang out. A figure emerged from the shadows at the corridor’s end, clapping. Su Tan’er’s serious words had gone unnoticed by Xi Junyu until now. Juan’er exclaimed in surprise: “Master, what are you doing here?”

The figure in the dark was Ning Yi, holding an oiled paper umbrella in one hand and two bundles of rustic mountain goods in the other—smoked wild rabbit, among other things. He smiled and gestured toward where a horse carriage was parked nearby.

“I was waiting for dinner and went to the kitchen to check. Passing by here, I remembered some things left on the carriage. This is from Xiao Chan’s hometown folks for Guard Geng, just grabbed it along as a favor. Otherwise, the carriage handlers might have helped themselves. Then I heard voices.”

He smiled, pointing at Su Tan’er: “You’re wrong. You’re unpatriotic.”

Xi Junyu had intended to comment on this matter but frowned at Ning Yi’s remark. Ning Yi was also a scholar, and despite his literary talents, he was no different from the sort of people Su Tan’er criticized—always fond of telling tales of Wu heroes defeating Liao barbarians. Logically, what Su Tan’er said was sound, though not wholly applicable to business changes.

He turned his head and saw Su Tan’er chuckle softly—a rare smile in Gu Yanzhen’s memory. Vaguely, it seemed the woman behind her was laughing too, merging with Su Tan’er’s mirth.

She smiled somewhat wryly, turning her head, eyes still on Ning Yi, her tone teasing but not coquettish, more like friendly banter: “Darling…”

Meanwhile, elsewhere in the city, amid the pouring rain along the Qinhuai River bend, a figure knocked on the brightly lit stilt house door. Nie Yunzhu opened it to find Yuan Jin’er, shivering, drenched by the rain.

That day, Yuan Jin’er had fled the Golden Wind Tower wearing thin cotton pajamas, soaking wet after the downpour. The lights revealed her soaked clothes clinging to her body, almost transparent. To Nie Yunzhu, a fellow woman, this only made Yuan Jin’er look smaller and more fragile. The usually lively young girl smiled, wiped rain from her face, then shook her long hair fiercely, sending droplets flying, and yawned.

“Ah… Sister Yunzhu, I’m amazing— I pretty much swam all the way from the Golden Wind Tower. Even so… hehe, I want to sleep so badly. Sister Yunzhu, where’s your room? I can sleep on the floor…”

She covered her mouth, yawning wildly, then coughed a few times, clearly exhausted. Nie Yunzhu was momentarily stunned, then swiftly embraced her. “No, you must take a hot bath first… Huta, hurry and boil water.”

“Mmm… no bath… the water tastes awful. I’m about to turn into a soaked raccoon… Hehe, Sister Yunzhu, you’re so warm…”

Yuan Jin’er melted into her arms, wrapping her hands around her neck, eyes closed, murmuring with a smile. She wiped her face on Nie Yunzhu’s shoulder, contentedly leaning in, soon to fall asleep. Then, from the storm outside came a voice: “Miss, miss…”

Kou’er, also nearly drenched, carried a small bundle and hurried over.

Shortly after, Nie Yunzhu gave a wry smile as she looked at the completely soaked girl sleeping soundly on her bed, wrapped in her quilt. She roughly understood the situation’s full story…