The black wooden door of the Hu Family Salt Warehouse stood open, its hinges creaking mournfully from rust, like the low moan of a trapped beast, blending with the clatter of pestles and mortars from the dyeing workshop next door into a decrepit melody. The morning mist had not yet dissipated, transforming into tiny droplets of water that clung to the spiderwebs on the door lintel. People, clutching polished copper coins, lined up to buy salt. The crunch of their shoes against the salt crystals in front of the door, mingled with the dark, wet lines of dew on the bluestone slabs, creating a painting soaked in tears. A notice about the price of salt at eighty wen per bushel was posted diagonally on the doorpost. Morning dew slid down the edge of the paper, making the word "eighty" appear particularly bright and clear, reflecting the smiling faces of the people - there was relief in those smiles after surviving a disaster, and the wrinkles at the corners of their eyes still showed the fatigue of queuing last night, and more importantly, there was a longing for the salty fragrance of the stove to return, as if they could already smell the aroma of pickled vegetables and stewed tofu.
Nian Li squeezed into the crowd, the hem of her coarse skirt brushing against a sack filled with official salt, leaving it covered in a layer of fine white frost, like a sprinkle of sparkling stars. She saw Hu Wanguan standing before the scale, his face dusty and dusty. His once sleek braid was half loose, a few strands of dry hair clinging to his sweaty forehead. Sweat trickled down his hairline, leaving two distinct streaks on his dusty cheeks. His jade-inlaid belt buckle had tilted to his waist, and as he trembled, it clattered against the salt bag with a muffled "clacking" sound, a sound that mimicked his frantic heartbeat. The ivory scale, once used to weigh gold and silver, now swayed unsteadily in his hands, its star blurred by years of salt grains, much like his now muddled eyes, no longer the same brilliance they once had when weighing wealth.
"Fat Uncle!" Nian Li shouted, standing on tiptoe. The pomegranate-red pompadour in her hair brushed against the bun of the woman in front of her, startling the dewdrops that had settled in her hair. The dewdrops drew a silver streak in the air and fell into the salt bag in front of Hu Wanguan. "Where's the mountain of silver in your house?"
Hu Wanguan's head shot up, his gaze piercing the throng of heads, landing on Nianli's frosted face. His face, once slick with pride, instantly turned the color of pig liver from a soy sauce factory, as if he'd been slapped hard. He opened his mouth, his Adam's apple bobbing, but no sound came out. It wasn't until the yamen runner behind him rapped the salt bag with a water and fire stick, his gruff voice piercing the air: "What are you dawdling about! Weigh it!" Only then did he duck his head, his voice tinier than the falling salt grains: "All... all confiscated..." Between his pale fingers, salt grains rustled, landing on his patched trouser legs, where they quickly melted into a small wet mark in the dew, like a mark of shame that could never be washed away.
Siyan squatted in the corner, his little finger scratching across the bluestone slab. The abacus beads at his waist jingled with his movements, as if keeping time with his thoughts. He stared at the account books carried out by the yamen runners—they were tied with thick hemp rope and were half a man's height. The gold-stamped letters "Hu Ji Salt Warehouse" on the cover were blackened by the salt fumes, and the yellowed pages were exposed at the curled corners, with traces of oil stains and salt crystals still visible on them. "One hundred and seventy thousand taels," he wrote, his brow furrowed in concentration, sweat streaking the soot on his face. "Based on the 60% drop in salt prices, I'm losing two hundred and twenty wen per dou. Eight thousand yin of salt..." Suddenly, as if remembering something, his brow furrowed even deeper. He turned to look at the porters loading salt onto the boat, their bare arms covered in salt stains. "No, we also have to consider storage losses, porter fees, and..." He tilted his head, a grain of salt on the tip of his nose. "Shouldn't the porters' withheld wages also be counted as losses? Grandfather said that withheld wages should be subject to a 30% interest charge."
Just then, an elderly man with a goatee slid through the bustling crowd. The cuff of his long, blue cloth gown was embroidered with an exquisite gardenia. The stitching was as fine as silk, and each stitch revealed the ingenuity of a Jiangnan embroiderer. It was the very pattern my grandfather often used. He approached Su Jinli and, as he bowed, the gardenia on his sleeve brushed against the hem of her skirt, bringing with it a faint scent of soapberry, mingled with the faint aroma of ink, as if he had just emerged from a study, his fingertips still stained with wet ink.
"But is it Mrs. Jiang from the capital?" The old man's voice was clear, like the canal water hitting the stone bank. There was a smile in the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. His eyes were as clear as the canal water, reflecting Su Jinli's slightly stunned expression, as if he could see through the doubts in her heart.
Su Jinli looked at him. His temples were frosted, yet he looked energetic. He wore an oilcloth bag tied around his waist, revealing a half-broken ledger page with what appeared to be an abacus. "Are you... Uncle Hu?" She recalled the mutton-fat jade token her grandfather had given her. The warmth of its touch lingered on her fingertips. The words "Jinji Hu Bo" on the back seemed to still carry the moisture of Jiangnan, glowing slightly in the morning light.
"That's right," Hu Bo nodded with a smile, pulling a letter from his sleeve. The brown paper envelope was stamped with a vermilion ink from the Wanxiangju brand, its edges tinged with the ambergris her grandfather always used. The scent instantly reminded her of the gardenias in his grandfather's yard. "Master Lin has already written to me, saying that if his wife comes to Yangzhou, I must take good care of her." He raised a hand and pointed at Hu Wanguan, who was wiping his sweat, his goatee trembling slightly with anger. "This brat is taking advantage of the little money his ancestors made from salt to bully others. When he hoards salt, he even deducts 30% from the porters' wages. In winter, he doesn't even give the farmhands a hot meal. It's time someone put a stop to his arrogance."
Jiang Yan stepped forward and bowed, saying, "This time, Hu Wanguan was brought to justice, thanks to Hu Bo's secret help, and the account book was successfully delivered to the Censorate." He remembered that morning, an old man in a green robe quietly stuffed a stack of account books into the hands of the guard. The edges of the account books still had ink marks of Si Yan's miscalculations.
Hu Bo waved his hands repeatedly, his gaze fixed on Nian Li, who was munching on maltose in the crowd, and Si Yan, who was squatting on the ground doing the accounts. A kind light shone in his eyes, as if he saw Lin Canghai in his youth. "Madam and the young master and young lady should be thanked." He squatted down and pulled out two crystal-clear blocks of maltose from his sleeve. The candies were still covered with fine sesame seeds, which showed the craftsmanship of a long-established brand. "Master Lin often said that when Madam was a child, she was even more aggressive than Miss Nian Li. If she saw a wicked servant bullying a little maid in the backyard, she would chase him three blocks away with a broom, singing her own slang nursery rhymes that exposed those dirty deeds, just like Miss Nian Li's nursery rhymes."
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