Chapter Sixty: The Veteran of Anxi (I)

“Eldest Brother’s idea is truly brilliant!” Before Wang Qun could speak, Wang Sheng, standing nearby, broke into a cheerful laugh. “People say that scholars who excel in the imperial examinations are stars descended from the heavens, but in my eyes, not only is Eldest Brother a star of literary talent, he’s also a god of wealth incarnate. No one else could possibly come up with such ideas—I admit I’m thoroughly convinced!”

Zhen Qian, however, remained neither smug nor elated. After all, these were not inventions of his own making, but rather the result of a millennium of accumulated knowledge he possessed beyond others. Even without him, such things and ideas would have inevitably surfaced in due time. He felt no particular pride in his intelligence.

“You all flatter me too much. If I were truly as capable as you claim, would I be stuck here with nowhere to fully realize my ambitions? Well, since everyone agrees the venture is promising, let’s go to Drunken Immortal Pavilion tomorrow. Let’s seize the summer to turn a hefty profit, and aim to double the size of the place by year’s end!”

Though Zhen Qian spoke thus, inwardly he knew his plans were not so easy to realize. These were no longer the early days of the Tang, and the two capitals were crowded beyond measure—so too was the prefectural seat of Hengzhou, Zhendin. The population of the flourishing Tang had swelled to eighty or ninety million. While Zhendin was not overflowing with people, land was at a premium. Even Song Yi’s modest restaurant required two to three hundred strings of cash to acquire; anything larger or better situated would demand over a thousand. Did he have such funds to spare?

The night passed uneventfully. At dawn the next day, the group arrived at the back entrance of Drunken Immortal Pavilion. The establishment now enjoyed a measure of fame, and it was no longer appropriate for Zhen Qian to use the front door.

The Song family lived in the rear courtyard and were busy preparing the day’s ingredients when they saw Zhen Qian and his companions enter through the back. After a brief moment of surprise, Song Yi hurriedly bowed and greeted them. “Young Master Zhen, have you come to see the woodsman brought in yesterday?”

Zhen Qian smiled and nodded. “How is he faring? What did the physician say?”

Song Yi pointed to a small side room. “He’s inside. After your men brought him yesterday, I summoned a doctor. The diagnosis was exhaustion compounded by old injuries, with severe debilitation, and sunstroke due to the heat—that’s why he lost consciousness. He’s been prescribed several doses of medicine. He woke this morning, managed a little porridge, and took a bowl of calming soup. Now he’s asleep again and may not wake for some time.”

“Did you ask about his origins—where he lives, whether he has any family?”

“I did,” Song Yi replied, his expression stiffening slightly. “He said he’s from Xixi Village west of the city, thirty-four years old, childless, with a younger brother and sister who’ve been away for years. There are relatives in the village within five degrees of kinship, but they’re not in contact. I was wondering if I should notify his family to come take him home.”

Zhen Qian’s expression grew subtle. He continued to ask, “If he has no close kin and hasn’t sought out his brother elsewhere, is there something more to his story?”

“I asked him that too,” Song Yi sighed deeply. “I’d seen this man twice before. Before the pavilion opened, he came in for liquor—so I recalled him when he asked about the place and the spirits we sell. He’s not talkative, seems weighed down by troubles. I learned he’s a discharged veteran from Anxi, sent home two months ago. His name is Yan Ming. He’s older now, has no particular skills, and couldn’t find work, so he took to chopping wood and selling it in town. He collapsed from sunstroke and was saved by you, Young Master.”

“Anxi veteran!”

Zhen Qian recalled that last year, in the battle of Talas, the Tang army had suffered a crushing defeat. Gao Xianzhi had been recalled to the capital, and Feng Changqing appointed military governor of Anxi. Outwardly, Gao and Feng were on good terms, with many rumors circulating about them. Gao often left Feng as his deputy when campaigning; Feng was known for his talent and decisiveness, and for his strict discipline.

History offered both men high praise, but Zhen Qian knew that many things were left unrecorded, and that battlefield achievements were not always a measure of character. It was all too easy to form a biased opinion from fragmented accounts.

Now curious about the discharge of the Anxi veterans, Zhen Qian recalled that Wang Peng had hinted yesterday that the sunstruck man seemed like a soldier. So it was.

He would have liked to question Yan Ming himself, but the man was still weak and had just taken sedatives—he would not wake soon. So he asked, “Uncle Song, has this hot weather affected business at the tavern?”

At this, Song Yi’s expression grew uneasy, his smile tinged with bitterness. “You were away from the city the last two days, Young Master. About a month ago, the foreign merchant who bought over a hundred stones of spirits sent someone to ask if we could supply five hundred stones of our strongest liquor every three months, with some of our other spirits as well. The quantity was so large I didn’t dare agree at once—I told him to wait a couple of days.”

After the initial order from the foreign merchant, Zhen Qian had tried many ways to promote the spirits, sending Wang Qun to connect with local merchants in Zhendin. The response was tepid at best—most said they would try a little, but interest was low and sales at Drunken Immortal Pavilion remained sluggish. Zhen Qian had even had Song Yi craft modern drinking vessels, but it had little effect.

Song Yi had asked customers for their opinions. Reactions were mixed, but all agreed the spirits’ intense, spicy flavor was off-putting. Some liked it, but the drink had little reputation and little public response, making promotion exceedingly difficult.

So it was a surprise when the foreign merchant returned, seeking five hundred stones of the strongest liquor. It was odd indeed.

“Were you able to find out where these merchants are selling the spirits?”

“I did,” Song Yi replied, a note of pride in his voice. “This time a Han steward came. I served him several signature dishes and drinks. Though he wouldn’t say who the buyers were, he did mention they were northern tribesmen, and that sales were very good. He brought one hundred taels of gold and wanted to buy all our strongest spirits, promising to return every three months and urging us to prepare more…”

Zhen Qian was speechless. Sales had been dismal due to the taste, so he’d been reluctant to produce more—if it couldn’t be sold, it would tie up precious capital he couldn’t afford to risk.

“A miscalculation…”

He had suspected the spirits would find a market in the north, but lacking any connections there, and given the tangled relations among the northern tribes, he hadn’t dared get involved. Now the outcome had caught him off guard.

“How much of the strongest spirits do we have left?”

Song Yi’s face turned awkward. “We delivered sixty jars last time, and sold less than ten. There are fifty left in the storeroom.”

Nearly a month and only ten jars sold. If not for that large purchase by the foreign merchant, Zhen Qian might have thought this whole business with the spirits was a wild fantasy.

Introducing spirits was going against the grain. The taste didn’t suit Tang sensibilities at all—a fact even his household attendants had stated plainly. Habits and palates were not so easily changed. People from Hunan liked spicy food, those from Chongqing liked numbing flavors, and those from Wuxi favored sweetness—none of these habits formed overnight. Tang wines were light and sweet, completely unlike the pungency of spirits. Change would not come easily.

He had kept this in mind when developing the spirits, pushing the milder “triple ferment” variety. Even so, sales had not taken off. Part of this was due to brand recognition and high pricing, but the main issue was lack of acceptance.

He reminded himself silently that all things required a gradual process, and that new things could not succeed overnight—but he still harbored hope.

He hadn’t expected the flowers to bloom inside the wall but give off their fragrance outside. The irony left him quietly sighing.

“I have over a hundred jars of the strongest spirits myself. Together, nearly two hundred. We can produce more in the coming days. Negotiate with him; if we can sign a long-term contract, we can guarantee five hundred jars every three months. Also, see what goods they trade with the north—tell them we’d like to buy some to sell locally, and ask about possible discounts.”

Song Yi grunted in acknowledgment, uncertain what Zhen Qian was plotting, but didn’t press. He went on, “Business at the tavern has been as usual, not because of our food, but because guests find our environment less comfortable. With the recent heat wave, other taverns have stocked ice to cool their rooms. We sell spicy spirits, so guests complain it’s too hot. Should we buy some ice as well? Otherwise, business will suffer this summer.”

Zhen Qian belatedly realized he’d underestimated the heat of a Hengzhou summer—his lack of knowledge about Tang dynasty climate was at fault.

“That was my oversight. No need to buy ice from outside. I came here today precisely for this matter. Call your two sons and daughters-in-law—I have important instructions for you all.”