Chapter Fifty-Eight: Making Ice with Saltpeter

Wang Qun was unsure whether it was merely his imagination. Ever since his last conversation with Zhen Qian about the possibility of dividing the family, during which he laid bare the current situation of the Zhen household and quietly cautioned him about the consequences such a split would bring, Zhen Qian seemed to have calmed down. He no longer asked about the matter, yet Wang Qun knew that Zhen Qian had never relaxed his vigilance over Xing’s family and the steward, having already amassed a considerable collection of evidence against the latter. Still, nothing had happened—every ten days or so, Zhen Qian would appear before Xing’s family, speaking with utmost respect, showing no sign of any imminent action.

The more Zhen Qian behaved thus, the deeper and more unfathomable he seemed to Wang Qun, like a hunter lurking in the shadows, locked on his prey, poised to strike at any moment.

Of course, Wang Qun could not mention that the steward’s ambitions were not limited to Zhen Qian, but extended to his own position as chief steward. Zhen Qian was surely aware of this, yet never addressed it openly.

Now Zhen Qian brought up the matter of the ice cellar again, his tone calm and measured, as if speaking of some other household’s affairs, showing no rage nor cursing. This only heightened Wang Qun’s sense of impending storm; perhaps the moment when the blade would finally be revealed was drawing near.

The group, shaded by trees, conversed idly and dozed, waiting until the sun began to dip westward. Wang Qun, seeing that the hour was late, set out for the county town.

As the caravan approached the end of the mountain valley, a startled shout rang out from ahead, prompting the convoy to halt. Zhen Qian, lying inside his carriage with a damp cloth over his face, sensed the stop and sat up to ask, “What’s happened? Why has the caravan stopped?”

“It seems something happened up ahead,” a coachman replied.

Zhen Qian leapt from his carriage and strode to the front, where Wang Qun stood by the roadside. Several coachmen were carrying a man onto a wagon. The man’s clothes were tattered, his eyes tightly shut, and two bundles of firewood lay scattered on the ground.

“What happened here?” Zhen Qian inquired.

Wang Qun directed a coachman to pour water from a skin into the man’s mouth, then turned, saying, “Young master, this woodcutter has collapsed from heatstroke. It doesn’t look good.”

“Heatstroke?” Zhen Qian pushed through the crowd and peered at the man on the wagon, asking, “Has he shown signs of vomiting or convulsions?”

“No, none so far,” Wang Qun replied, scrutinizing the man. “We found him already unconscious by the roadside, with some dry provisions nearby. He must have come to the mountains for firewood and collapsed from exhaustion while resting.”

“So long as it’s not serious.” Zhen Qian observed the man, noting his slim build but surprisingly powerful appearance. “Are you sure he’s a woodcutter?”

Wang Qun examined him closely. Instinct told him this man was not as simple as he appeared. Checking his hands, Wang Qun frowned, “I doubt he’s always been a woodcutter. His garb differs from the usual, and the calluses on his hands are thick and well-defined, as if he once wielded a blade. His hatchet was freshly used, but his technique suggests little experience with mountain work. I suspect he may have served as a soldier.”

Zhen Qian had also harbored suspicions. A true woodcutter, accustomed to mountain labor, would rarely succumb to heatstroke. Moreover, his attire was peculiar: plain linen with wide sleeves, ill-suited for woodcutting. And his musculature, though not conspicuous, was harmoniously developed, unlike the uneven build of woodcutters accustomed to chopping and climbing. It suggested martial training.

“I feel the same. Give him some lightly salted water, ensure ventilation, and check for fever. Use a damp cloth to wipe his body.”

If there were no signs of vomiting or convulsions, the heatstroke wasn’t severe. With some rest, he should recover.

“What do we do with him now?” Wang Qun asked, glancing at the unconscious man. “It’s getting late; if we don’t hurry, we may not reach town by nightfall.”

“Take him along. If he wakes en route, all the better. If not by the time we arrive, bring him to the Drunken Immortal Tavern.”

“That’s all we can do,” Wang Qun agreed, and ordered the caravan onward.

Zhen Qian was not overly sentimental, but to abandon a man to die unattended in the wilderness was unconscionable. Moreover, leaving him here would risk his life overnight. It was unlikely, in the Tang dynasty, that one might encounter a fraud feigning distress, nor need he fear being ensnared for helping an elder, as later generations sometimes did. So he resolved to see the good deed through to the end.

They hurried back to town, but the man did not regain consciousness. On arrival, they sent him straight to the Drunken Immortal Tavern, instructing someone to fetch a physician. Zhen Qian did not wish for anyone to die in his establishment; even if it didn’t bring trouble with the authorities, it would weigh on his conscience. He then returned to the Zhen residence.

Upon entering, Zhen Qian shed his garments and gulped down cool water from the table. He closed the door, unconcerned about decorum, for the two young maids were long accustomed to his ways. They giggled as they fetched cold well water to wipe him down, grumbling all the while.

“The god of fire lashes his dragon south, banners blazing, burning the sky red. At noon the sun hangs unmoving, all the world trapped in a fiery furnace.” Zhen Qian recited Wang Ju’s “Lament of the Heat,” recalling how he had once read it in an air-conditioned room, holding icy watermelon and sipping cool drinks, never feeling the torment of true summer heat.

The ancients typically used blocks of ice to keep cool, much as ice was placed in exam rooms during summer entrance tests. Later, when exams moved to June, such practices dwindled. Wealthy families built “cool rooms,” often beside water, where water-powered wheels would circulate air, like a rural waterwheel, sending cool draughts indoors. Sometimes water was poured over the roof, cascading down eaves to form artificial “water curtains,” cooling the house.

Yet such cool rooms could only be built in places with hills and streams; few urban homes enjoyed such conditions. Most relied on blocks of ice, placed in walls or ice chests, to cool rooms.

Little Bamboo fetched Zhen Qian a “half-sleeve” shirt, an ancient equivalent of a short-sleeved garment. The two young maids wore thin, sheer, and revealing “bare-chested” outfits, beloved by Tang dynasty women, even more daring than modern avant-garde fashion. But such attire was not worn everywhere—never in crowded gatherings, lest it provoke the lust of rascals. Zhen Qian, not particularly steadfast, often flirted with the girls, and sometimes those playful moments escalated.

Zhang Yimou’s film “Curse of the Golden Flower” featured the so-called “** costume,” criticized online for being excessively bold, yet its design was inspired by the Tang dynasty’s bare-chested attire.

“It’s so hot—why hasn’t anyone brought ice?” Zhen Qian wrapped an arm around Little Bamboo’s slender waist.

She wriggled in his embrace, only to be held tighter, and pouted, “Yes, both Little Plum and I find it odd. It’s midsummer, but when we asked Steward Xing, he said it’s not yet the hottest time, and we must wait a few more days.”

Zhen Qian mused inwardly, keeping a calm face, “In past years, was ice already delivered to the household by this time?”

“Mm,” Little Bamboo thought for a moment. “Usually by now, ice would have been sent to each wing. I heard Lady Xing moved to the ice room in the rear courtyard days ago. Damn!” Suddenly remembering something, her expression turned cold. “Could it be that Steward Xing is withholding ice from our courtyard again?”

“Let him withhold it, then,” Zhen Qian replied, rising. “I recall there’s an ice chest in the courtyard. Have someone clean it and bring it here.”

“What does the young master intend?” Little Bamboo asked, puzzled.

“To make ice, of course. Surely no one would die of thirst with ice at hand,” Zhen Qian laughed.

Just then, Little Plum entered, dressed in the same revealing attire as Little Bamboo, though with a darker gauze draped outside, veiling her fair chest and lending her an alluring air.

“Sister Plum, the young master mentioned the summer ice—do you know what’s going on?” Little Bamboo, still concerned, asked.

Zhen Qian had ceased to inquire, but Little Bamboo persisted. Little Plum’s face changed, her tone frosty. “Young master, Steward Xing has gone too far. I was waiting for your return to discuss this, and now Little Bamboo has asked. Yesterday I visited several Zhen family branches nearby and saw ice had been delivered. When I questioned the servant, he said the ice cellar was nearly empty, so priority was given to the old, young, and ladies of the main house. This year, no one else will get any.”

“Oh? Did Steward Xing say this himself?” Zhen Qian recalled Wang Qun mentioning the ice cellar: last year’s warm winter meant less ice was harvested, the reserves were down by a third, but it shouldn’t reduce his own summer supply.

Little Plum stamped her foot. “At first I didn’t believe it, but several servants said the same. I had to accept it.”

“Don’t worry. Tomorrow, you and Little Bamboo visit the other wings and find out the truth. If it really angers you, confront Steward Xing directly. Ask why we’ve been denied ice this year. Make a fuss if you wish,” Zhen Qian said, his tone sharpening. “If Steward Xing thinks he can flaunt his power before me with such tricks, he’s underestimated me.”

At the suggestion of confronting Steward Xing, Little Plum grew anxious, “Young master, if he claims the reserves are low and says the main house should get priority, wouldn’t making a scene make us seem ill-mannered?”