Chapter 317 — An Honest Price

CHAPTER 317

An Honest Price

A stale smell hung over the fine carpet in the Qiao house’s office. Qiao Shou sat behind an enormous abacus, comfortably dressed while the town’s furnaces stayed cold.

Shi Feng sat on a cushioned stool across the desk from Qiao Shou. Zhu Liu stood behind him with the receipt book, because Lin Langtian had said an inspector's second must always bring one. Sima Lan had stayed at the inn to read the town's tax records. Lin Langtian himself had said he was going to look at the weather.

“So,” Qiao Shou said warmly, pouring tea. “The Chief Disciple's junior brother wishes to speak about ore.”

“I do,” Shi Feng said.

“Please, speak,” Qiao Shou said, settling back to listen.

Shi Feng laid out what he knew. “Good bar iron from the Wujin road is worth two stones a bar at the forge. Bronze is five. Your sign says six and fifteen. That's three times the value, and the smiths can't pay it. If you lower the price to its real worth, the forges will burn again and you'll sell more.”

Qiao Shou listened, nodding. His smile didn't move.

“Honest,” Qiao Shou said. “Very honest. I admire honesty.”

“Then lower it,” Shi Feng said. “The smiths need ore, not praise for being honest.”

“I admire it,” Qiao Shou said. “Let me ask a few small questions. Where did you learn that two stones is the value?”

“From the Hall’s records,” Shi Feng replied.

“Records written when the Wujin road was open, and Wujin ore came to Qingtong cheaply,” Qiao Shou said gently. “Now the road is closed by the Palace's inspection. Who carried the risk of getting ore through? Whose men? Whose guards?”

“Yours,” Shi Feng said.

“Mine. Then freight, which has doubled. Storage. The Palace's protection fee, which I pay four times a year.” Qiao Shou counted each expense on his fingers, sounding deeply wronged. “Then the smiths' notes. Not a cruelty, young brother. A kindness. They have no stones to spare, so I carry their debt. Who carries mine?”

Shi Feng opened his mouth. He found he had nothing ready for the last question.

“You've been honest with me,” Qiao Shou went on, “so I'll be honest back. The price isn't what a bar is worth. It's what a man will pay when he has no other door. You've told me what it should be. You haven't told me why I should care.”

“Because you're being inspected,” Shi Feng said.

“Am I? By whom? The Chief Disciple, who's looking at the weather?” Qiao Shou smiled kindly. “Young brother, I've dealt with inspectors for thirty years, and old ginger is spicier. They come, they drink, they leave. Would you like more tea?”

Behind Shi Feng, Zhu Liu's pen scratched. He had written the sum of Qiao Shou's arguments, and it ran two lines long.

“…” Zhu Liu stared at the two lines he’d written.

“Another cup?” Qiao Shou asked.

“No,” Shi Feng said. He stood. “Thank you for the time.”

“Anytime. Come back when you've learned the price of things,” Qiao Shou said sweetly, and the abacus began clicking before the door shut.

Outside, Zhu Liu said, quietly, “Senior Brother Shi, you were right. About the value.”

“The value was right,” Shi Feng said. “But I asked him to give up his advantage without making him give it up. He knew that.”

Shi Feng walked away, frustrated with the failed negotiation. Fair value meant nothing while Qiao Shou controlled every other source of ore. I need to break that control, Shi Feng thought. He won’t surrender it because I ask politely.

That night the Copper Kettle Inn smelled of vinegar and wet dogs.

The inn had two good rooms and six poor ones. The best, at the back, had a clay stove and a real door. The Qiao house's brokers had taken it for the week. By the second hour after dark, three of them sat at a corner table in the common room with a cup of dice, and a visitor in a clean robe was explaining why he couldn't possibly play.

“I never gamble,” Lin Langtian said. “It's very unlucky.”

One broker challenged him to a round for the Chief Disciple’s honour.

“Well, I can’t refuse when you put it that way,” Lin Langtian said, sitting down. “What’s the stake?”

Laughing, the broker offered the back room against ten stones.

Shi Feng watched from the stairs with a bowl of cold noodles. He saw Lin Langtian pick up the cup, shake it with two fingers, and slam it down.

The brokers stopped laughing around the fourth round. As the saying goes, the mantis stalks the cicada, unaware of the oriole behind.

By the seventh, the best room at the Copper Kettle belonged to Lin Langtian, and the brokers were carrying their bags to the poor rooms by the stable. One of them looked very pale. Another kept asking his companions whether a Chief Disciple could possibly cheat. None of them had a comforting answer.

“Not at all,” Lin Langtian said, picking up the key. “I'm simply fortunate.” He glanced at the stairs. “Good night, Junior Brother. Sleep well. Remember, the weather's cold.”

“It is,” Shi Feng said.

The next morning, the back room was empty. The bed was made. The stove was warm.

Madam Tan, the innkeeper, stood at the foot of the stairs holding a bill. She was a short woman with flour on both arms.

“Your senior brother left before dawn,” Madam Tan said. “He said he was going to inspect something. He said you'd settle the account.”

“What account?” Shi Feng asked, putting down his bowl.

“Three rooms. Eleven meals. The stove wood.” Madam Tan held out the paper. “And a vinegar jar he borrowed to wash his hands.”

“I wasn't told,” Shi Feng said.

“He told me you'd say that,” Madam Tan said. “He said you're good for it.”

Sima Lan stood behind Madam Tan with the ledger ready. She looked irritated on his behalf, but her open book made it clear that the innkeeper still needed paying.

Shi Feng paid twenty-six stones.