The Apothecary Diaries - Volume 5 - Chapter 9

Chapter 9: The Paper Village

After traveling westward two days by carriage, they reached the village that was the quack doctor’s hometown. It sat adjacent to some mountains and a forest, downstream of the source of the great river that divided the country in half. Ditches followed the river, but it looked like only weeds were growing in the fields.

Maomao looked at them intently and the quack, who loved to talk, was kind enough to explain. He kept his voice down, perhaps out of deference to Basen, who was sitting diagonally across from them. Jinshi sat beside Basen, but the quack still hadn’t figured out who he was.

“That’s barley,” he said.

“Barley, sir? It seems extraordinarily well irrigated.” The ditches ran all around the fields, but Maomao didn’t think barley was supposed to need that much water.

Maomao, the cat, was at her feet. She had tired of riding in her basket and alternately lounged on the doctor’s knees and peered out the window. She, for one, seemed to know who Jinshi was, and occasionally cuddled up against his ankles. Basen kept his distance from her—maybe he’d never dealt with cats before. There seemed to be a lot of things he didn’t cope with very well.

“Those are for the summer rice season. They grow two crops each year here, you see, rice and barley.”

“Ahh.”

“Stick to wetland rice, and you can grow another crop in the same field without exhausting the soil,” the quack added.

Growing two crops in the same year meant taking that many more nutrients from the soil—but the water for rice paddies actually restored nutrients in the ground, protecting against depletion. An ideal form of farming for such a water-rich area.

As they got beyond the fields, the forest came into view, the village nestled nearby it.

“There seems to be a wide range of natural resources around here,” Maomao remarked. So many, she thought, that there didn’t seem to be a compelling reason to focus on making paper; but there were other factors at play.

“When we arrived here, the flatland already belonged to someone else,” the quack explained. “But they hadn’t given the forest a second look.”

That forest, with the water from the nearby mountains running through it, provided the resources for the village’s paper industry. There wasn’t enough to allow them to produce in bulk, but they had been able to succeed by focusing on quality instead. Happily, the river also served as a convenient way of transporting their product. The two groups made different things, so the villagers got along well with the land’s original inhabitants.

“When we got here, the landowner was quite a fine fellow,” the quack said.

Something bothered Maomao, however. As they were passing by the fields, her eyes had met those of a farmer stomping on the barley. That was a way of making the grain stronger, yet the way he did it seemed almost angry. The look he had given her was sharp, dark.

Maomao had pretended she hadn’t seen him, instead turning back to continue her conversation with the doctor.

When they arrived at the village, they were greeted by a woman who looked to be around forty. The softness of her eyes, and the way they sort of drooped, reminded Maomao of the quack himself. The woman must be the quack’s younger sister, she surmised.

The quack passed the cat to the woman, who smiled and stroked its fur. He must have told her ahead of time that he would be bringing the animal. He evidently had not, however, let her know that he would be traveling with an entire entourage, for she looked at Maomao and the others with surprise.

“Ah, Elder Brother, welcome home,” she said.

“Yes, thank you, it’s good to be back.” The quack sounded calm enough, but tears beaded in the corners of his eyes. It was hard to blame him, a man seeing his home again for the first time in more than ten years. “I’d like to go visit the graves,” he said. “You know, Father and...”

They must have died while he was at the rear palace. He sniffed audibly.

“Yes, of course. But if you don’t mind my asking—” The woman glanced at Maomao and the others. “Are these...friends of yours?” Maomao realized, as the woman looked at them, that she was seeing a housewife mentally calculating dinner preparations.

“Ah! So this is your superior from your workplace, and your assistant. You could have said so sooner.”

So I’m his assistant now. That wasn’t exactly true—but it wasn’t exactly untrue either. The same could be said of the word superior, but as Basen elected not to say anything, he apparently meant to play along.

Auntie Quack (she’d told them her name, but it had been hard to catch and Maomao frankly didn’t remember it, so she simply resolved to think of the woman this way) was busily loading the table with food. Steamed freshwater fish with herbs, baozi in a steamer basket, and golden-sparkling fried rice all looked delicious. They looked perfect, in fact, considering she’d had to make them on short notice to account for the size of the party. There was even a concoction of fish and congee for the feline Maomao, who ate heartily and without the dignity one normally associated with cats. She would certainly have grabbed the fish off the table if she’d thought she could get away with it.

“I must say, I never expected a eunuch like you to come home with such a lovely young bride.”

“Ha ha ha! No such thing, I’m afraid.”

“I suppose not!”

The teasing bit of banter was accompanied by the sound of a bowl striking something hard. Maomao looked over to find that Jinshi had dropped his tray.

“Goodness! No worries, I’ll get you a new tray right away,” Auntie Quack said, refusing to ignore the man with the unsettling burn wound. In Maomao’s opinion, if Jinshi was really going to play the part of a servant, he should have stayed with the carriage and eaten field rations or something. Basen probably hadn’t allowed it. Jinshi’s disguise was perfect—Maomao hoped that they wouldn’t give themselves away through some small slip like this.

By the time all the food was on the table, Auntie Quack’s family had arrived. There were two younger men and a middle-aged man with a kerchief wrapped around his head. Presumably the middle-aged man was Auntie Quack’s husband, and the others were sons.

“Brother-in-law. Long time, no see,” the husband said, removing his kerchief and greeting the quack respectfully.

“Yes, quite a long time,” the quack replied, smiling.

One of the sons followed his father in greeting the doctor—but the other ignored the quack entirely, instead sitting down and starting in on the meal with a passion.

“Stop that! How dare you not even say hello!” Auntie said, glaring at the boy.

“Elder Brother...” the other son said, giving the young man an agonized look. So he was the younger, and the man with the nasty attitude was the older brother.

Quack Nephew No. 1 broke open a baozi and took a bite. It was full of pork filling, making Maomao’s mouth water.

“You say I should respect my uncle? He’s a eunuch who hasn’t been home in ages. What’s he doing here now? And dragging a whole crowd of visitors with him?”

At that, the quack produced one of those eyebrow-drooping, uncomfortable smiles he seemed to specialize in. By now he was used to being ridiculed for being a eunuch, but to suffer such mockery from his own nephew must have been painful. Even Maomao found herself put off by the boy’s attitude. Was she going to stand by and let this guy mouth off and eat all the good food? She was not! She sat down firmly in her chair.

“If you don’t mind, I’ll get started before it goes cold,” she said, and then expertly snatched the exact piece of food the nephew had been going for. He shot her a nasty look, but she didn’t care. She knew plenty of menservants and soldiers much bigger and burlier than this guy. Basen had looked like he wanted to speak up, but appeared to calm down when he saw Maomao handle the situation. Jinshi, for his part, maintained his composure.

Auntie Quack was obviously angry, for when she brought the congee and soup there were portions for everyone except her older son. Her husband and younger son, obviously knowing what was best for them, chose not to comment. The older son, perhaps feeling aggrieved at the way his family was treating him, grabbed another baozi and stalked out of the room.

When the boy was gone, Auntie Quack’s husband, scratching his head in embarrassment, bowed to the quack doctor. “I’m very sorry, Brother-in-law. He doesn’t know how hard you’ve worked for this village, how much you’ve sacrificed. And in front of your superior, no less.”

“Oh, it’s quite all right. I’m not bothered. I’m used to things like this,” the quack replied, although he seemed quite conscious of Basen. Maomao jabbed Basen with a fingertip, and he jumped slightly before saying, “We’re the ones who should apologize, showing up so suddenly.”

So he could at least be polite when the situation called for it. That was a relief. He was probably encouraged to mind himself by the relentless stare Jinshi was giving him.

“Good, good, then all’s well,” the quack said, sipping some congee appreciatively.

To him, the claim that he was “used to things like this” was an offhanded remark, but Auntie Quack was clearly troubled by it. It was to save her from being sold into the rear palace that the quack had submitted to becoming a eunuch. And this even though their parents presumably prized a son above a daughter.

“However...I know I didn’t come here just to have dinner. Isn’t there something you’d like to talk about?” the quack said. The rest of the family fell silent. They had reached, it seemed, the real reason he’d come back.

As far as Maomao was concerned, she was simply part of the audience, so she had no intention of stopping eating. The steamed fish was perfectly salted, and the herbs came through beautifully. She would have to ask Auntie what she’d done to it.

The husband set aside his chopsticks and looked at the quack—and then, after a beat, lowered his head. “Brother-in-law, we hear you’ve become a renowned physician, so famous that you even delivered the Emperor’s own child. You must have His Majesty’s ear—and we beg you ask a personal favor of him.”

“Huh?!”

Delivered the Emperor’s child, did he? Maomao thought. It had, in point of fact, been her adoptive father Luomen who had performed the delivery—but knowing the quack, he might have embellished the story in one of his letters. Even Maomao, though, had enough decency in her to keep quiet at this moment. Basen frowned a little, and Jinshi appeared to be looking at some point in the distance.

The quack, for his part, set down his own chopsticks, his eyebrows drooping even further than usual. “To ask His Majesty to listen to me would be far beyond my station.”

“Even though you attended the delivery of the royal consort?”

It was impossible. Even the highest officials were only sometimes allowed to speak with the Emperor; even to seek a personal audience with him might be considered an act of disrespect and cost the quack his head. Maomao herself had been graced with the opportunity to speak to the Emperor on several occasions, but each time it was because His Majesty had personally permitted it. And now Gyokuyou was no longer just a consort, but the Empress. Getting in touch with her would be difficult.

At this rate, the quack looked likely to find the task foisted upon him regardless—and if Basen decided to break in with some awkward rejoinder, it wouldn’t help matters. So Maomao decided to take over the conversation. “A previous physician of the rear palace involved himself in business that wasn’t his responsibility, and he found himself punished with mutilation and then banished from the palace,” she said.

The others looked startled.

“Rumor has it he was foolish enough to learn something he didn’t need to know—they say that’s why he got in trouble.”

She was talking about her own father, true enough, but she wasn’t really lying. She wondered briefly whether it was safe for her to say as much as she had, but there was no reaction from Basen or Jinshi, and she was glad she hadn’t inspired any shenanigans on their part.

Auntie Quack and her family swallowed hard and looked at each other uneasily. Their shoulders slumped.

The quack, however, leaned forward, waving a hand. “It’s true I probably can’t speak to His Majesty, but there are other people I might be able to reach out to. Tell me what’s on your mind.”

Auntie Quack and her husband shared a glance. Maomao wondered if maybe she was imposing, but she’d come this far—she wanted to hear the rest. Jinshi and Basen, evidently of the same mind, showed no sign of moving.

“Please, speak. I can’t promise how much help we might be able to offer, but we can at least hear you out.” This urging came from Basen. The words more properly belonged to Jinshi, but here Basen was speaking on his behalf.

The quack looked at them, nodded, and then said, “You can trust these people.” It was that rare moment when he said the right thing at the right time.

“Well... If you say so,” Auntie Quack said slowly, and then she began to speak. “The problem has to do with land rights in the village.”

The land on which the village was built, she said, was actually rented. The owner, who had lived nearby, hadn’t been using it, so he had been willing to rent it to them cheaply—but as the years went on, the two sides began to talk about selling the land outright. The landlord at the time had been an easygoing man who got along well with the villagers, or so Auntie said.

Some years ago, however, that man had died, and his son had taken over as landlord—whereupon things began to change. Unlike his father, the new landlord despised outsiders and had an ugly habit of looking down on craftspeople. When the village received an Imperial commission to supply paper to the court, he could barely stand it.

Back when the quality of the village’s paper had dipped, the new landlord had come several times demanding repayment of the debt. According to the contract with the previous landlord, the land and forest were lent to the villagers for twenty years. The amount of payment was clearly stipulated, and the village always paid on time.

“But he kept insisting that the rice harvest was down because we were polluting the water. Kept saying they didn’t have enough water to make rice,” said Son No. 2, an agonized look on his face. “Recently it’s gotten even worse. He’s told us to pay immediately or else to get off his land.”

There were another five years left on the contract. The village could hardly come up with five years’ worth of money all at once, and on such short notice. But they were dealing with their landlord. Much like Maomao couldn’t boss the old madam around, the village had to tread carefully.

“If we have to leave, our houses and most of what’s in them would have to stay here. And who knows how long it might take us to find a new place to live?”

“We think they simply want to drive us out of the village so that they can move in and start making paper themselves.”

“Why in the world would they do that? They know how to make rice and we know how to make paper, and we should stick to our businesses,” the quack said, his thin mustache waving gently. Maomao the cat, done with her meal and with nothing to do, saw it and crouched, preparing to spring on the facial hair.

“You might think so,” Auntie said, shaking her head. “But the tax on grain suddenly shot up this year.”

“While the tax on our paper went down a couple of years ago. You’d better believe that hasn’t improved relations.”

Ah, so that’s it.

The relaxed tax on paper was clearly because of the desire to make paper more universal and ultimately improve literacy. As for the increased rice tax, the thinking had probably been that it wouldn’t be too much of an imposition on an area that produced two crops a year, and meanwhile it would shore up reserves for what was coming.

Maomao stole a glance at Jinshi. He looked calm enough, but she could see him fidgeting a little.

This must be about dealing with insect damage, she thought. Sending crops from abundant regions to the hardest-hit places would mean fewer people starved. She knew it was simply Jinshi and the entire government trying to do what they could, and she didn’t think they were wrong to do it—but the people who found their taxes raised were understandably unhappy. They must have felt they had to make up the difference in other ways. By putting the screws to this village, for example.

As the quack suggested, however, it wasn’t as if one could simply move into the village and start making paper. There were certain things one had to know; how to do it right wasn’t obvious without experience.

“Thing is, we have another problem too—him,” said the husband, evidently referring to the young man with the bad attitude. “For certain reasons, he’s more on the side of the farmers here.”

“My brother, he...” The younger brother smiled uncomfortably. “How do I put this? He’s been blinded.” He sounded like he could barely bring himself to say the words.

“I’m embarrassed to admit it, but the boy doesn’t know much. He thinks all officials are the same.” So that was why he had lashed out at the quack—he must have thought of eunuchs as indistinguishable from the bureaucrats who had raised the taxes. “This is why we need your help.”

The request was this: get them to lower the taxes.

Not happening, Maomao thought. It was impossible, even though Jinshi was sitting right there. If an order given in the morning was rescinded in the afternoon, it would throw the country into chaos. It might have been one thing if these people had been on the edge of starvation, but from what she could see, it just didn’t look like things were that bad.

This put the quack doctor in a very awkward position as well. There was, truly, nothing he could do to help. The cat sat on his knees, batting at his quavering mustache, leaving scratch marks on his chin.

“I’m afraid I’m just a eunuch, you see...” he said.

The family’s shoulders slumped at that. The husband rallied himself from his disappointment, though, and said, “There’s to be a conference tomorrow. Perhaps you could at least accompany us?”

“Yes, that much I could do...” He glanced at Maomao. She passed the look along to Basen.

“Might I be able to attend as well?” Basen asked. He affected nonchalance, but he could hardly help being interested; he was, in his own way, directly involved in the matter. “I’d like to be present as a third party,” he explained.

“Well...” the husband started, but he didn’t say more than that. Most likely, he was perfectly happy to have Basen along, but suspected the landlord would object.

“I’ll simply stand in the back and keep out of things. I’ll only speak up if the other party gets too aggressive,” Basen said. Then the husband nodded, still reluctant.

“And I’ll be there, of course,” the quack said.

Not that he’ll be any help, Maomao thought. She did wonder, though, if she herself might be allowed to be present. She grabbed the other Maomao off the quack’s knees just as the cat was delivering a fresh scratch.

Auntie Quack’s husband was the village headman, and the family’s house had space enough to put up some visitors for the night. Maomao’s group had been planning to stay at a roadside inn, but they ended up staying right where they were. Maomao was given a single small room, while the quack was put in the master bedroom, with Jinshi and Basen in a large guest room. The bodyguards with them were housed in an annex. There were more than enough beds and sleeping mats; day laborers would be hired when taxes were due, and there were plenty of furnishings on hand.

Auntie Quack offered to prepare the bath for them—they were guests, after all—but Basen declined, saying they had already put her to more than enough trouble. Frankly, Maomao would have liked to wash up, but she couldn’t contradict Basen, who must have been acting on quiet instructions from Jinshi.

Instead, Maomao asked for a bucket to be brought to her room, and she wiped herself down with a hand towel. She just took the sweat off—the water was too cold to want to do much more—but she did decide to wash her hair, which was starting to get oily. For that purpose, she put hot water in the bucket, but just a cup’s worth. She let down her hair, and then when it was good and wet she added some soap. She rubbed her scalp gently, methodically, working out the grime.

She rinsed away the suds and wrapped her sopping hair in a towel to dry. Her feet were cold, so she dipped them in the water, which was still warm. While she was assiduously wiping her hair, there was a knock at her door.

“Come in,” she said, but there was no response from outside. Puzzled, she opened the door a crack and looked out. She was greeted by the sight of an unsettling man with a burn standing there.

She didn’t say anything, just opened the door, and the unsettling man—that is, Jinshi—came in. The window of her room was closed—she’d been washing, after all—and the next room over belonged to Jinshi and Basen. The next room past that was some distance away.

“You can talk. I don’t think anyone’s going to hear us,” she said.

“Did I interrupt you washing?” he asked. His voice had its characteristic heavenliness. Evidently he hadn’t decided to try to alter it this time, which would explain why he’d been staying silent.

“Just my hair. I’m sorry for not being more presentable,” Maomao said, continuing to pat her head as she moved the bucket to a corner of the room. It was a cramped space, and the bed was about the only place to sit down, so Maomao remained standing, looking at Jinshi.

“You should sit down,” he said.

“My hair’s still wet,” she replied, giving him a look that she hoped meant, Why are you here, anyway?

Jinshi, touching the burn on his cheek, showed her a cloth-wrapped package. “I’d like to get rid of this thing for a while. Do you think you could replicate the makeup?”

The package contained red dye, glue, and a white powder. The glue used carefully crushed rice and was on the tacky side. On inspection, she could see Jinshi’s scar was starting to thin out; one sweated even when it was cold, and when he lay down to sleep it would start to rub off.

“Probably. I think I can do it,” she said. She could use dyed glue to pucker the skin, then layer the white powder on top of it to get more or less the right effect. Adding some shadows to make his face look sallow would complete the illusion.

“If you would, then. Remove it for now.” He dipped a kerchief into the bucket.

Oh...

“What is it?”

“Let me prepare fresh water.”

“No, that would be too much trouble. This is fine.”

Maomao didn’t say anything more, but stared at the bucket. It didn’t look too filthy, but...

“Is something the matter?” Jinshi asked.

“No, sir, nothing.”

She’d dipped her feet in the bucket after washing her hair, but she could keep that to herself. Jinshi didn’t seem bothered by the used water, so she decided there was no need to trouble herself getting more.

She took the damp kerchief and rubbed at his face. It was a nice, new cotton handkerchief, but it swiftly grew grungy with dye and glue. It was a waste, Maomao felt; the cloth was unlikely to come clean of the red color even with diligent washing. She wished he’d had a less pristine rag on hand to use for this.

Jinshi closed his eyes and let her work, seemingly enjoying the feel of the warm, damp cloth. He looked so thoroughly unguarded, she worried he might find his head chopped clean off, the assassin laughing all the while.

Athlete’s foot can’t spread to the face, can it?

Not that Maomao had athlete’s foot, to be clear.

The glue dissolved, revealing Jinshi’s bare skin, which was smooth and healthy—although it had another wound, a real one, that was still visible, slashing across it. There was still some redness around the scar; it would likely fade with time, to an extent. But it would never go away completely; it would be with him the rest of his life.

“Master Jinshi?”

“Yes?”

“Why are we stopping by the master physician’s house?”

And with Maomao in tow, no less.

“It’s on the way to our destination. I thought we might as well have a look, as long as we were going to be passing through anyway.”

“On the way to our destination?” To her, that meant: going home was going to take even more time than coming out. Where in the world are we headed?

“Honestly, it’s convenient timing. It gives me a chance to see the reaction to the increased taxes firsthand.”

“That much is true.”

Each year when taxes were collected, the quantity of the harvest was considered compared to the local population, and the ratio checked to ensure that no one was facing an undue burden. But those were ultimately just numbers; they could only be trusted so far.

“Besides, there’s something strange going on around here.”

“What’s that, sir?”

“I’m afraid I don’t quite know. I only know that your cousin brought that abacus of his to bear, and he thinks something is off.”

Lahan’s fixation on numbers was legendary. He was a card-carrying eccentric who worked day and night seeking ever more beautiful numbers, even if he couldn’t make them quite perfect. If he had brought the matter to Jinshi, there was almost certainly something going on.

“He claims there’s an aberration in the amount of rice they’ve shipped these past few years.” Eccentric Lahan might be, but he wasn’t apt to be mistaken on a point like that. “That’s what brought me here—but look what else we found. We can’t have professional paper producers replaced with a bunch of know-nothing amateurs just as we’re trying to ramp up production.”

So this was more than just a sightseeing diversion; he was doing real work. Now she felt especially bad as he washed his face with her foot-water.

Jinshi must have been getting sleepy, for he gradually slumped on the bed until he was lying down. Thinking what a lot of trouble he could be, Maomao sat on the bed and began gently stroking his hair. He wasn’t wearing perfume, yet a faintly floral scent still wafted from him. Just how much like one of those celestial maidens was he, anyway?

“Shall I redo your burn now? Or would you rather wait until morning?”

“Now, please.” His drowsy voice was more alluring than normal. Reflecting that she could cause a veritable disaster if she were to kick him out of her room right now, Maomao stirred the glue and dye with her finger. She added some water to give it the right consistency, then began to daub it around his scar.

I wonder who thought of this. It looked awfully convincing. It might not stand up to getting wet, but they were in the dry season, when it very rarely rained.

“Couldn’t Master Basen do this?”

“He doesn’t quite have the talent.”

“So this is why you brought me along?”

“It’s not the only reason.”

Jinshi seemed to like physical contact. He closed his eyes like a child as she spread the glue around with the tips of her fingers.

“Don’t fall asleep,” she warned him. “I’ll call Master Basen first.”

“How helpful do you think he’d be if you did?”

Not very, admittedly. Unlike his father Gaoshun, Basen didn’t have the knack yet. Frankly, she felt he lacked a certain forcefulness as Jinshi’s assistant.

“Why is he your assistant, anyway?” she asked before she could stop herself. Part of the problem was that she hadn’t seen Gaoshun for quite a while, and she missed the restorative effect he had on her. She missed the middle-aged man’s occasional mischievous streak.

Jinshi slowly opened his eyes a little wider; the dark pupils showed a shade of surprise. “Hmm. I know how he can seem, but he’s...well, perfectly competent when it matters.”

“If you’ll forgive my saying so, sir, you don’t sound very convinced.”

Maybe Jinshi was a little soft on Basen; they were milk brothers, after all. Then again, if Basen was genuinely comfortable around Jinshi, that was a sort of talent in itself.

Maomao finished the burn makeup, and was about to wash her goopy hand when she had a thought. With her clean hand, she reached for her luggage and pulled out the bronze sheet she used as a mirror. Then she tried painting the stuff around her mouth. She grinned, looking like a monster.

“That is positively awful,” Jinshi laughed. Maomao, figuring she could simply wash the goop off again, was seized by the desire to paint it around her eyes and cheeks as well. Now a truly disturbing face floated on the bronze plate, almost corpse-like.

Jinshi, completely sucked into the spectacle, was trying desperately not to laugh. She felt bad for him—he was practically in pain—but she leaned over to finish the job.

Just then, there was a knock on the door and Basen called out, “I’m coming in.” The door opened before they could stop him. His widened eyes were greeted by the sight of Jinshi, apparently doubled over with pain, and Maomao leaning toward him, her face and hand covered in something red.

He didn’t say anything.

They didn’t say anything.

Shortly thereafter, Basen couldn’t say anything. Just as he was about to shout for someone, Maomao crammed the handkerchief into his open mouth, while Jinshi pinned him down. It was the most coordinated thing they’d done since the day they’d met.

Come the next day, Maomao was in attendance at the discussion with the others. They were at a restaurant in the village where the landlord lived, not far from the papermakers’ own village. It probably wouldn’t have taken an hour to walk between the two.

The dreary eatery was nonetheless fairly large. The place doubled as an inn; it probably normally catered to travelers on the highway, not locals. In fact, perhaps Maomao would have found herself staying here last night had they not ended up lodging at the quack’s home.

Present were the quack’s brother-in-law and his two sons, along with three middle-aged men from their village. Throw in Maomao, Basen, and Jinshi, and you had a party of ten in total. Maomao had her doubts about whether Basen could properly protect Jinshi if things turned ugly, but then again, Jinshi seemed pretty capable of protecting himself. It would probably be all right.

Across from them were no fewer than fifteen well-built guys, one of whom was a middle-aged man who sat imperiously in the middle of the group, stroking his facial hair.

The old man and woman who ran the establishment were watching them with undisguised annoyance. They’d probably picked the place on the understanding that things might get violent, and it was a choice that couldn’t have pleased the owners.

The quack was visibly shaking. Other than the restaurant owner’s wife, Maomao was the only woman around, and he seemed worried about it. No one else, though, seemed to take any interest in the scrawny chicken-girl in their midst; if anything, a few of them seemed to be chuckling amongst themselves and puzzling about why she was even there.

It had, in fact, not been easy for Maomao to come. Auntie Quack had tried to stop her, pointing out that though she might not look like much, she was still an unmarried young woman, and it would be awful if some terrible fate awaited her at this restaurant. More than anything, though, she said Maomao simply didn’t belong at this meeting.

Be all that as it may, Maomao had the quack looking piteously at her; and besides, she was curious about this alleged contract. “I have some acquaintances who are knowledgeable about these kinds of things,” she ended up saying. “Couldn’t I let them know what I’ve seen?” She was, in a way, stretching the truth, but it would have to do.

When she put it that way, Auntie, seemingly imagining that Maomao knew some kind of legal officials, reluctantly agreed. Maomao was actually referring to Jinshi and Basen, who happened to already be with them, but there was no reason to mention that.

And so Maomao found herself sitting in a seat a short distance from the main group. The woman of the establishment brought her tea, but the place smelled of alcohol—maybe there was a tavern here too—and Maomao only barely managed to keep herself from ordering some. Jinshi and Basen were seated at the table with her.

“Was it really necessary for you to be here?” Basen asked, rehashing the subject of what had already been a rather protracted argument between Auntie and the quack. If he objected, he should have said so then.

“The master physician requested my presence; it would have been inhumane of me to abandon him.”

“Listen to you talk...” Basen sounded like he wanted to press the issue, but the quack had been stealing glances at Maomao ever since they’d gotten here, and so he dropped the subject. Instead he looked around and remarked, “I have to say, there’s an awful lot of alcohol here for a place this size.”

The shelves were packed with wines, but the main offering seemed to be an unrefined or “cloudy” wine that was stored in a large barrel in the kitchen; a murky, whitish alcohol. In the capital, “clear” or distilled spirits were the drink of choice; this stuff looked like classic “countryside wine.” Presumably travelers were offered the stuff off the shelves, while the locals were served out of the barrel.

While Maomao had been distracted by the drinks, the discussions had begun.

“Did you bring the money?” asked—naturally—the imperious middle-aged man, sounding like a third-rate villain in a stage play. Maomao wasn’t sure if the rough-looking men around him were tenant farmers or hired muscle. Brother-in-law and his sons and friends were well-built, but clearly outnumbered. She looked around, thinking about where she would run if things turned violent.

“There was still supposed to be time. Can’t you reconsider?” the quack’s brother-in-law asked meekly. Between him and the landlord sat a piece of paper, presumably the contract.

“What’s there to think about? I’m not just lending you that land out of the goodness of my heart, you know. If you can’t pay, then I want you out.” He was giving no quarter. It sounded like this wasn’t the first time they’d had this conversation. The man went on: “Look, I like to think we’re being flexible. We offered to wait until next year. We just asked you to teach us a thing or two in the meantime.”

Ridiculous, Maomao thought. So the craftspeople could either leave immediately, or next year—and if they chose to wait, it would only mean giving the other villagers time to learn the papermaking techniques. They obviously had nowhere to go now, but if they waited, they would be forced to give up their trade secrets. The farmers probably hoped to take the Imperial commission too, slotting neatly into the craftspeople’s former lives. It was enough to make a person angry—but it wouldn’t normally have gone unchecked. The proof was right there on the table.

Something was odd, though. Why make the papermasters teach a bunch of farmers how to make paper and then force the craftsmen out? Why not use the debt as leverage to force them to work for the farming village? Did they really hate outsiders that much? Maomao watched the middle-aged man, who was looking scornfully at the people from the papermaking village. The sons in particular seemed to be the objects of his wrathful look.

Maomao trotted over and stood behind the husband. The quack was beside them, his mustache quivering.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Basen hissed, but Maomao roundly ignored him.

The contract had been written more than ten years ago, but the paper still appeared in excellent shape. Had it been of lower quality, it would have grown ragged over so much time. The contract did indeed stipulate monthly payments in a specified amount over the course of twenty years, and at the end of it there appeared the huaya of the individuals concerned—so-called “flower marks” that served in lieu of signatures, showing that the document was valid and proper. With everything so obviously in order, Maomao couldn’t fathom why the landlord would be pressing them this way.

The younger son—a perceptive and thoughtful man—quietly filled her in. “He claims the contract’s invalid,” he said—even though it had been written by a scribe and everything.

“Even though it has flower marks on it?”

“Yes. They’re real marks, but... Well, the last landlord, he couldn’t read.”

“He was illiterate?” Maomao asked. That was hardly unusual, but it was puzzling. Landlords often had to review paperwork like this, and were usually educated for the task.

“He was a son-in-law.”

Ah.

Now it made sense. If he’d been adopted into the family to take things over, all the pieces would fit. He’d probably been the son of an industrious tenant farmer—he wouldn’t have had time to study, and his hours would only have become more precious after he got married, even if it had occurred to him to try to learn.

“He never used to go to a scribe; his wife handled those things for him.” But this contract, evidently, had been concluded after the wife’s death.

Hmmm. Maomao wanted to believe that it was indeed a real contract. The younger son claimed the flower marks were legitimate, which implied the contract had been concluded in the presence of the previous landowner.

“Is the scribe still around? Or the witness?”

“They’ve both passed, I’m afraid.” The contract had been signed fifteen years ago, and neither had been young men even then.

This just keeps getting worse, Maomao thought. While she had been getting up to speed, the landlord had continued pressing the impossible choice on the quack’s brother-in-law. The other farmers were grinning nastily, and the craftspeople seemed to shrink. The brother-in-law’s older son, though, was biting his lip, a conflicted expression on his face.

“If you don’t think you can get out right away, I guess that only leaves one choice. We’ll send a couple of the youngsters over tomorrow. They can help you, and you can teach them the job. You’d better teach them. By next year.”

The craftspeople’s fists were shaking. The quack had come along, but he was never going to be of any help; he was as impotent as the rest of them. Only Maomao looked around, substantially less concerned than the others. She really was curious about that wine. She’d have to order some later—but even she knew better than to do it right now, in the middle of all this.

The papermakers looked like they were at a funeral. The landlord, however, obviously feeling festive, began ordering drinks. “A round for me and all my boys,” he said, his generosity eliciting a cheer from the farmers. The mistress of the establishment grudgingly brought trays full of wine cups for the drinkers.

Maomao sniffed. Huh? She looked at the wine the farmers were drinking. It wasn’t the cloudy stuff—it was clear spirits. The landlord himself was drinking something else again, an amber-colored liquid that was obviously some kind of distilled alcohol. The stuff had come from one of the shelves. Evidently he could hold his liquor.

The landlord, she could understand; of course he would drink whatever was his favorite. But to order distilled liquor even for the tenant farmers—that was extremely generous. And this when there was more than enough of the only slightly less distinguished cloudy wine right here.

Maomao thought about it for a moment, then—although she felt bad for the woman who was carting the drinks around, obviously annoyed—she raised her hand and called the mistress over.

“What is it?”

“I’d like a cup as well, please. Of the wine.”

The woman all but shrugged and gave her a drink.

“Young lady, of all the times...” The quack looked downright exasperated with her, as did his brother-in-law. As, needless to say, did Basen—but Jinshi motioned for her to order more.

Ah. So he’s caught on? Maomao ordered cups for Jinshi and Basen. Then she drained her drink. It had a sweet flavor and good body. It wasn’t as refined as the stuff available in the capital, but it wasn’t bad. For all the mellowness of the flavor, though, it had a distinct alcoholic sting.

If it had tasted bad, that would be explanation enough. But instead... Maomao licked her lips. So they had an eating establishment that was forced to accommodate unruly customers, and a whole barrel of cloudy wine. Yet that wasn’t what they served to the unruly landlord and the farmers. Huh. So that’s the story, Maomao thought. She turned to the quack’s brother-in-law, who still looked exasperated. “Pardon me, but is there a distillery around here?”

“No, nothing of the sort, as far as I know...”

“I figured as much.” Maomao’s lips twisted into a smirk, and she went and stood, cup in hand, before the chattering, merrymaking landlord and his buddies. Maomao put the cup on the table with an audible tok and gave them a smile that looked like nothing so much as a wild animal.

“What do you want, little girl? Gonna pour us a drink?” The landlord gave her a mocking grin, then burst out laughing.

“Y-Young lady!” The quack practically clung to her, trying to understand what she was doing. Basen nearly stood up himself, but at a discreet tug on his sleeve from Jinshi, he sat back down.

Maomao chuckled and said to the landlord, “How about a drinking contest, my good sir?” She smacked her chest demonstratively.

“A drinking contest! Hah! You’ve got some nerve, I’ll give you that!” the landlord said, amused by the saucy young woman who’d appeared before him. The farmers all laughed uproariously, the papermakers looked despondent, and the quack doctor was practically beside himself. Only Jinshi and Basen, both accustomed to Maomao’s typical behavior, appeared unmoved.

“You can’t be serious!” the quack’s brother-in-law said. He and his sons looked deeply worried.

“It’ll be all right. But I have a question: how much is left on your debt?”

After a second the man replied, “It’s a thousand silver pieces a year, and we’ve already paid half this year’s amount, so that would make it 4,500.”

Hmm. That was, indeed, not an amount that just anyone would be willing to lend. Imperial commission or no, the village wasn’t suited to large-scale production, and wouldn’t exactly be raking in the cash.

All she said, however, was “I see.” She seated herself assertively across from the landowner. “Since we’re doing this, how about a bet?”

“A bet! Attagirl!” Now the landlord, obviously confident in his drinking abilities, was simply making fun of her. “So, do you have anything to wager?”

“Yes—you’ve already seen it.” Maomao smacked herself in the chest again. “If you sell me to a procurer, I’ll bring at least three hundred silver.”

Several of the farmers spat out their drinks, while the craftspeople were speechless. There was a clatter that turned out to be Jinshi jumping out of his chair. Maomao, though, simply nodded as if to indicate her calm confidence.

“Ha ha ha ha ha! Three hundred! That’s a big number for such a little girl. Do you have any idea how the market works, kid?”

Well, yes; that was why she’d said it. She felt she’d seen her fair share of young ladies being sold off.

“The most perfect jewel in the world don’t sell for more than a hundred, and you think you—” The landlord was laughing so hard, spittle flew from his mouth; he was enjoying himself to the hilt now. His friends, likewise, were good and drunk—perfect.

Maomao looked at them and then laughed. “Pff!” She made sure they knew that it was a mocking sound. The drunken men picked up on it, as she had hoped, and a good half of them began to glare at her.

“You only think that because a daikon fresh out of the dirt will never go for more than fifty silver,” Maomao declared. “To think, you don’t even realize that!”

She felt her body jerk as someone grabbed her by the collar, pulling her up until she was standing on her tiptoes. Ah: her rather unflattering comparison of country girls to root vegetables hadn’t gone unnoticed. Jinshi was about to make a move, but she shot him a look out of the corner of her eye. If he involved himself now, it would only make things more complicated.

“Just you say that again!” howled a farmer—call him Farmer No. 1—red in the face and coming for her with his fists raised. His clenched hands were blackened with the dirt of the fields, and she could see that if he hit her, it was not going to be pleasant.

But I may have to live with it, she thought. She’d come this far; she couldn’t back down now.

The quack had collapsed, while his fellow villagers watched with looks of horror.

“You can’t even read or write,” Maomao continued. “Heh! You’ll never even use paper—let alone do a decent job of making it, even if they did teach you.”

The fist launched at her—but it never hit her. Instead there was a thwack of something striking the table. Someone had interposed himself between Maomao and the aggrieved farmer. A substantial purse was on the table now—and Jinshi was standing between the two of them.

He turned the purse over, and a veritable hail of silver poured out, jangling noisily. Everyone in the room looked at it with eyes wide and mouth agape, including Basen, whose mouth was opening and closing uselessly, aghast. What, he seemed to wonder, was Jinshi doing?

“Three hundred silver would be cheap at the price for this girl,” Jinshi said. He had pitched his voice lower than usual, and he used his handsome but unsettling looks to keep the room in check. He almost casually brushed away the hand of the man holding Maomao.

Don’t go flashing your silver like that! Maomao thought, but she had no choice but to roll with it. She straightened her collar, planted a foot on the chair, and stuck out her chest (such as it was). “You see? Men who know value know what they’re looking at when they’re looking at me.”

The farmer who’d been about to hit her growled and gave her a baleful glare instead. Maomao and Jinshi both gave the farmers their most galling smirks.

“We don’t have to put up with this, boys! Let’s teach ’em to mind their manners!” one of the other farmers exclaimed—but the landlord held up a hand. “Don’t get ahead of yourselves,” he said, and the other farmers flinched and shrank back. “You’ve put real money on the table. As far as I’m concerned, you’ve got yourself a bet.”

So he was on board. Maomao smiled—an expression that might have looked out of place at that particular moment—and removed her foot from the chair. “Very good. Who’s first, then?”

The people from the papermaking village stared at Maomao like they couldn’t believe what was happening. The man and wife who ran the establishment appeared anxious at best. The quack doctor was still flat on the floor. Jinshi, meanwhile, was giving Maomao a look that communicated that he was very upset about this; Basen looked upset that Jinshi was upset. The bag full of coins sat on the table.

“Let me be the first to take her on!” cried the man who had almost hit Maomao.

Perfect.

Empty wine bottles littered the floor, along with three large men—the fourth was just now joining them.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” said the quack’s nephew, who was tending to his incapacitated uncle.

“My, my, done already?” Maomao asked, draining what was left in her cup. It was a distilled liquor that burned as it went down. Much better than anything you’d normally expect to find at a rustic establishment like this one—but still hardly more inebriating than water for Maomao, who was used to drinking much stronger stuff.

It was their mistake, thinking they could dispense with her quickly by challenging her with the highly alcoholic distilled spirits. The men themselves weren’t accustomed to drinking such potent stuff, and it saw them each under the table quickly. (They were thoroughly soused, but nobody was going to die.) Maomao had no intention of taking it easy on them.

“Three hundred? Not a bad bargain,” Jinshi said at her ear. Imagining that he might try to “buy” her again only strengthened her resolve not to lose this contest. It might be worth pointing out for the record that a procurer prepared to drive a hard bargain might get a village girl for just twenty silver. Jinshi truly had a skewed sense of value.

In any event, with Jinshi by her side she had outdrunk the first farmer. The second had made the mistake of assuming Maomao would be nearly drunk by then, and had challenged her with rich alcohol—which put him out after a single cup. The third and fourth men went down in similar fashion. It was true that she was, in principle, at a disadvantage because she was taking on a succession of opponents; but unfortunately for them, Maomao exceeded all their expectations.

That makes four, she thought. Three hundred for one, six hundred after the second man, and 1,200 after the third. With four down, her take was now 2,400 silver. The remaining farmers were glowering at her, red-faced. They couldn’t read, but maybe they could do a little math. There were several of them left, but if Maomao could beat out just one more of them, her problems would be over. The papermakers’ debt was supposed to be 4,500 silver.

She was glad the other parties had been drunk. She’d gotten them to sign a simple contract without thinking too hard about it. Four contracts, in fact. The farmers probably thought they were just scraps of paper—she could tell because even the esteemed landlord himself had been about to use them for wastepaper.

Speaking of the landlord, he was growling and frowning, and finally he sat down across from her. “Care for a match?” The mustachioed man was smiling, but his eyes were hard.

Maomao patted her belly. Hope I can swing another one. Even she was starting to feel the effects after drinking four people into unconsciousness. The landlord appeared to know how to hold his liquor, as befitted someone who normally drank distilled spirits. He smirked at Maomao’s evident discomfort, then glanced at the contract. “If you think I’m gonna be another lightweight, think again.” Then he scrawled a signature on the contract and slammed it on the table. “Hey, brother, you won’t try to stiff me on my money, will you?” he said. Jinshi stood silently with his arms crossed.

“No one’s going to be stiffing anyone,” Maomao said. Then, feeling it was her only option, she produced a small bottle from the folds of her robe.

The landlord’s entourage immediately set up a ruckus. “Hey! What the hell is that?”

“I’m just a little tired of the taste of this wine. I thought I’d freshen it up a little,” Maomao said, and tapped some of the contents of the bottle into the amber liquid in her cup.

The landlord leaned toward her. “Well, now, hold on. Not going to share?”

Well, if he insisted... Maomao passed the bottle to the landlord, who looked at it critically, then emptied the remaining contents into his own cup. “Let me guess... A little something to help you hold your liquor?” He grinned at her.

Maomao, expressionless, brought the cup to her lips and drank. The landlord watched her drain it and then, when he saw she was unaffected, he smirked again and drank his own cup dry. Glug, glug, glug...

Crash. The landlord fell over. One of the farmers rushed to him and helped him sit up, but the middle-aged man was obviously in something of a stupor.

“Hey, you! What’d you do to him?”

“I didn’t do anything. I put the same stuff in my own drink; you all saw me.” The landlord had ended up flat on his back for one reason and one reason only: he was dead-drunk. “I believe this means I win the bet.”

There was a collective silence, during which Maomao stood up and took the contracts her drinking opponents had signed. She went over to the quack’s brother-in-law without so much as a stumble in her step and gave them to him. Finally, she turned to the proprietress of the establishment. “Excuse me. Where is the bathroom?”

“Out there and to the right.”

“Thank you kindly.”

Maomao exited the restaurant at a brisk trot. She’d emptied several bottles of wine; who could blame her if she needed to use the facilities? And even she wasn’t so shameless that she would relieve herself in front of a crowd.

“Say, uh, what did you do back there?” the quack’s brother-in-law, still clutching the sheaf of contracts, asked with a perplexed look.

“Nothing much. Like I said, I wanted a fresh flavor, so I added some alcohol.”

Maomao usually kept some herbs and other medical supplies with her—including alcohol for sanitizing purposes. Being intended for sanitizing, it was far more concentrated than your average wine; most people would go down after just a mouthful of it, and the landlord had poured it into his drink gleefully.

“May I ask you something?” the man said after a moment.

“Yes?”

“You put the same stuff in your own drink, right?” He frowned slightly.

“Yes. It was an amount I knew I could handle. I was just hoping things would be over quickly.” Maomao had suspected that if she did anything that looked the least bit suspicious or unusual, her opponents would be drawn in by it. She was sure glad it had worked. She could have outdrunk the landlord the traditional way...but she hadn’t been sure she could hold it that long.

“I’m just glad I made it to the toilet in time,” she said.

“Er... Yes, that’s important. Listen, I know you were feeling confident, but I question you risking your own freedom—and for us, no less.”

“I’m sorry, I think there’s been some kind of misunderstanding.” Maomao took the folded contracts from the man. “These are my take. Oh, but I do have to return the original capital.” She grinned.

The brother-in-law couldn’t speak, but the quack, who had finally started to come around, exclaimed, “N-Now, just a second, young lady! You’re talking about our livelihoods!”

“That’s as may be, but I don’t have any real obligation there, do I? And anyway, you didn’t let me finish talking.” She glanced over to where the landlord was getting up off the ground with the help of one of his lackeys, clutching his head and swaying unsteadily. From the vomit on the floor, she gathered they’d forced out the alcohol to help him regain consciousness. “You don’t think it would have been better to let him sleep a little longer?” she asked.

“That bet doesn’t count!” he cried. Ah. She’d expected this. “It was just a way to have a little fun drinking. I was never serious about it.”

“And yet I have contracts here. Signed, with witnesses. You’re not going to tell me you couldn’t read these either?”

“Who cares about a contract? Those are invalid, I say!”

Maomao crossed her arms and positioned herself in front of the restaurant’s wine barrel. “I see we’re left with no choice.” She patted the barrel and smirked at Jinshi and Basen. “We’ll just have to tell the government that you’ve been cheating on your taxes.”

You could have heard a pin drop in the restaurant. The landlord looked at her with his mouth open, and the farmers—those who were still on their feet—swayed with the shock. The restaurant owners looked simultaneously anxious and relieved. As for the papermakers, they looked at each other, then at Maomao. The quack simply cocked his head, confused.

This was the source of the mismatched numbers that had so concerned Jinshi.

“Cheating on their taxes? What is that supposed to mean?” the rebellious older son finally managed.

“Making wine requires permission from the government. Doing it for personal consumption might be one thing, but to serve it for profit at a restaurant? Surely that should be subject to taxation.” Any business had to pay taxes, and the rate was always higher on creature comforts and luxury items. A bar was taxed more highly than a restaurant (and the rate shot up if you were running a brothel, as Grams never tired of complaining).

Maomao had wondered why this restaurant had been willing to host the discussion with the landlord. She’d thought perhaps it was because they were tenants of his, but it was the copious quantity of wine that had drawn her attention. Wouldn’t it be a blessing for a restaurant if they could stock a large amount of excellent alcohol at a discount price? It was the sort of offer one couldn’t ignore, even if it brought a certain amount of trouble along with it.

This, Maomao suspected, was why the landlord hadn’t ordered this cloudy wine when he’d wanted a drink. The farmers were probably the ones producing the wine—why would he go out of his way to order something he’d already drunk his fill of?

“And maybe the ingredients are off the books too?” she said. Making wine required rice or barley or the like—in this case, it appeared to be rice. That reminded her of the landlord’s alleged grievance: “They’re polluting the water and bringing down the quantity of the rice harvest. There isn’t enough water to grow the rice,” she said, repeating the claim. “But that’s not true, is it? If anything, the rice harvest is better than ever.”

If the fields used to grow the rice were nourished by the earth and leaf litter that came with the water from upstream, it would help prevent the soil from becoming exhausted. It wasn’t as if the papermakers were putting anything toxic or unhealthy into the water; all that would wind up downstream of them was the rice bran they were using in their glue, and maybe the wood shavings that served as the basis for their paper. Excellent fertilizers, in Maomao’s opinion. She even thought this might be the reason the previous landowner had been willing to consider selling the land to the villagers outright.

The farmers may not have understood exactly why their rice harvest was suddenly so good, but they clearly knew that it was—and someone had decided to keep the villagers around. Then at some point they had decided to hide the extra income, and to turn it into wine. That would be double tax evasion, a pretty serious matter.

To say all this aloud would have been against her father’s teachings, so she kept it to herself—but the expressions on the faces of the landlord and the other farmers made it pretty clear she had the right idea.

“D-Do you have any proof?” one of the farmers demanded.

“Yeah, that’s right! Can you prove it?” another said.

Prove it? Maybe, maybe not. But Jinshi was standing right there, so she did have witnesses.

“Don’t worry,” Maomao said. “If you’re innocent, then presumably you wouldn’t mind if an official were to search your houses?” She made extra sure to smile as she said it. The farmers, who had been so vociferous in their objections until that moment, fell silent. Ahh. Bingo.

“You’ve got guts, girlie,” the landlord said, clutching his still spinning head. “But if you think you can talk like that and get away with it...”

Maomao stood looking down at the landlord. “I might say the very same thing to you. Take a look around, and then consider your words carefully.” At least a third of his hangers-on were collapsed with drink—for that matter, so was he. The rest might still be on their feet, but they were far from sober. Meanwhile, Maomao’s party included six well-built men who hadn’t drunk a drop. (She wasn’t including the quack in this number, of course; he was never going to be any help in a fight.) Above all, they had Jinshi and Basen with them—along with the bodyguards who would come rushing in from outside if anything threatened either of them.

The proprietors of the restaurant were obviously trying to keep themselves out of this as much as possible. Maomao didn’t specifically want to resolve things with violence, but if the farmers decided to get physical, she suspected her friends would respond in kind.

She waved the contracts in the farmers’ faces, smiling her most disparaging smile. “Feel free to go call for help. And while you’re doing that, we’ll send these to the officialdom on the fastest horse we have.” She was so happy, she was practically singing the words. As it happened, someone much scarier than any random official was right there with them.

“Young lady, you seem a little...different from usual,” the quack said, but she decided to ignore him. Instead she looked around at the landlord and the other farmers, none of whom had any answer for her. Finally she whispered in the landlord’s ear: “If you’re going to play the game, at least be ready to get as good as you give.”

She could practically hear him grinding his teeth. She looked coldly at the landlord where he was still lying on the ground and said, “What did the villagers ever do to you, anyway?”

No sooner had she spoken than the door of the restaurant came flying open with a bang. Standing there was a young woman in a tidy robe. The moment she saw the scene inside, she went pale, then came rushing over to the toppled landlord. Just when Maomao thought she was going to stop and tend to the man, the young lady instead dropped to her knees and bowed her head. “I’m sure my father’s been making outrageous demands again,” she said. “But please! He doesn’t deserve this!” She bowed even more deeply—not to Maomao, but to the paper craftsmen.

“Er... It wasn’t us,” the younger son said, shaking his head, but the young woman didn’t move. She stayed with her forehead pressed into the floor, ignoring the fact that her hair was a mess.

“I’m so sorry. Please forgive him. Please forgive my stupid, pigheaded father.” It was as if she didn’t hear what anyone else was saying.

It was then that the older son made his move. “We wouldn’t mistreat anyone. Sure as hell not your old man.” He took the young woman by the shoulders, calming her and urging her to raise her head. The tears still streamed from her eyes, but she looked at him and nodded.

The landlord reacted with scandal. “You! You nameless nobody from nowhere! Stay away from my daughter!” He tried to scramble up, but his feet were still unsteady and he crashed back to the floor.

“Father!”

“Father-in-law!”

“I’m not your damn father-in-law, and I never will be!”

Well, well, well. Maomao sobered up on the spot. Quack Nephew No. 2 was looking at his brother with some exasperation.

“Don’t tell me...” Maomao said.

“At this point, I doubt I have to,” he replied.

It was suddenly obvious both why the older son was on the farmers’ side—and why the landlord hated the outsiders and was so eager to get rid of them. As much as Maomao was glad to have the mystery resolved, she couldn’t help thinking she might have been just as happy never knowing. It was like watching a bad comedy unfold before her eyes. It hardly warrants describing.

“My brother’s very...earnest.”

“A lot of good it’ll do him if he destroys his whole village with his devotion,” Maomao said, speaking what was on the minds of all the papermakers present. They all nodded along with her. It had been a mistake, she thought, to bring the older brother to this discussion at all—but then, on further reflection, she remembered that he was a relative of the quack’s. And so, well, he would be what he would be.

Wait... Am I going to settle for that?! Was she going to stand by and watch an entire village be wiped out because of some ridiculous farce?

There was just one problem: the people involved didn’t see it as a farce. To them, it was completely serious. Could it get more absurd? More idiotic? More stupid?

Finally Maomao, at the end of her rope, sat down firmly in a chair. “Bring me some wine,” she said, gesturing emphatically to the proprietress.

“You’re going to keep drinking?” the woman asked.

“Oh, I’m nowhere near my limit.”

A collection of disbelieving gazes settled on her when she said that, but it didn’t bother her.

Maybe the wine really had gone a little more to her head than she’d thought: it was only after she’d sobered up that she realized she’d been far more voluble than usual.

In the end, it was agreed that the craftsmen’s village would be allowed to pay the remaining debt over the next five years, as had originally been agreed. As to the matter of the landlord’s payments to Maomao, they were settled with the understanding that he would send a specified quantity of rice to the Verdigris House regularly for the next ten years. Maybe that was taking it a little easy on him, but in any case she strongly suspected government officials would be by to conduct an inspection before too long. It was said they wouldn’t look to recoup past losses, however, which was more than generous.

And what became of the quack’s nephew and the landlord’s daughter?

Like I care!

And that’s all there was to say about it.