Lena Sanders returned to Fried Rice Alley and, smiling at the three who quickly gathered around her, said, "There's a business opportunity worth trying."
"Night soil—" Harris Ma blurted out halfway before Darren Chang clamped a hand over his mouth.
"Tomorrow at dawn," Lena continued, "Darren will leave the city—any direction will do. Follow the post roads and observe the relay stations. The nearest are about ten li apart, the farthest twenty-five. Travel a hundred, perhaps two hundred li, and see what you find.
Harris and Jack will stay in the city to gather information—how messages are delivered, how light goods are sent, what is done for heavier loads, how long deliveries take to reach various places.
Ask about the couriers too. They say they're all militia men—find out how much grain they're allotted each month, what clothing they're issued, how much they earn in a year, how they eat and sleep, what their daily expenses are. In short—find out everything there is to know."
Lena gave her orders cheerfully.
"Boss, you're thinking of getting into the postal business? But that's government work," Darren said, frowning.
"Just gather the information first," Lena replied with a sly, contented smile, her eyes narrowing with amusement.
The next morning, when Lena rose, Darren was already gone—he'd left behind a note saying he'd packed salted pork, chicken meatballs, and steamed buns, and was off to inspect the horse relay and postal stations.
Jack went out to buy breakfast. Harris brought in a copper kettle of hot water, poured it into the basin, then turned and leaned against the doorframe, watching Lena as she brushed her teeth.
"Boss, how could we possibly run a postal business? It's all under official supervision. Without a government token, they won't even let us through the gate. How could we get involved?
"And if we worked as letter-carriers, those folks are dirt poor—barely making enough to stay alive. Don't you remember? Two winters ago, that poor courier froze to death right at the Huang blacksmith's door. The man opened his shop one morning and nearly fainted—said it ruined his luck for a year…"
He stopped short as Lena cast him a sidelong glance, his neck shrinking like a turtle's.
"Not my place to worry," he muttered. "I'll go make you some tea."
After breakfast, Harris and Jack went off in different directions to make inquiries about the postal system.
Lena, too, left Fried Rice Alley. She wandered aimlessly for a while before deciding to visit Paul Denton. Yesterday he'd mentioned he was employed at the Ministry of Works.
She turned east toward Donghua Gate.
Outside the gate, she paid ten copper coins to have a message sent in. Before long, a servant dashed out, exchanged words with the guards, and led her inside.
"Is your Seventh Young Master busy?" Lena asked with a smile after the servant introduced himself as Tingxi.
"Our Seventh Young Master? Busy? Not once since he entered the ministry," Tingxi replied with a grin.
Lena stifled a laugh. "So, what sort of duties does he handle at the Ministry? Something related to construction? Yesterday he mentioned inspecting repairs at Wangjiang Post."
"Exactly that—repairs," Tingxi said cheerfully.
Lena let out a long, knowing "Oh." A repair post—now that was a lucrative position.
They soon arrived at the ministry. Tingxi led her through a side gate into two small adjoining rooms by the wall.
Paul Denton was sprawled face-down on a couch while an elderly physician with a greying beard smacked and kneaded his back.
Lena quietly found a chair and sat down, watching as the physician worked from head to toe, then back up again—three, four full rounds—before finally exhaling sharply. "Done!"
"Ahh, much better," Paul sighed, sitting up and thanking the doctor. As he slipped his shoes back on, he spotted Lena. "Eh? It really is you! I thought they'd brought me the wrong visitor!"
"What happened to you? You were perfectly fine yesterday," Lena asked, ignoring his question.
"Went to Wangjiang Post yesterday, remember? The main beam was said to be worm-eaten. I stood right under it, craning my neck to look up—and twisted it clean out of place. Then last night, fussing over the pain, I managed to twist my back as well. But I'm better now."
He rotated his neck and waist gingerly as he spoke.
Lena gave him a sympathetic smile. "You're far too diligent. Why not have them take the beam down for inspection?"
Paul chuckled. "Now that's the kind of talk I like! I wanted to—but they said once it's removed, even if it isn't rotten, it can't be used again. That beam's worth two or three hundred silver! A pity!"
"So, was it really rotten?" Lena asked, intrigued.
"How could I tell? That beam's twice the height of this room! I wasn't really there to find out—just to make a show of it. One has to look dutiful, can't seem lazy, you know." He turned his neck again and sighed with relief.
"Anyway, why did you come?" Paul asked, suddenly wary, his tone tightening.
"No reason. I was free today, figured you might be too. Thought I'd drop by for a chat," Lena replied sweetly.
Paul's eyes narrowed. He took a wary step back. "You're not trying to seduce me, are you? I'm warning you, I don't fancy your type—and my wife's a lioness!"
Lena almost choked on air. "Cough—! Don't worry, I don't fancy your type either. Besides, if I ever wanted someone, I wouldn't flirt—I'd hold a knife to their throat and pin them straight to the bed."
Paul burst into uncontrollable laughter, his shoulders shaking. "Pinned—ha! To the bed—with a knife! Hahaha!"
Lena calmly poured herself a cup of tea, sipping it while he laughed himself breathless.
"Oh, you'll be the death of me!" he gasped, wiping tears from his eyes. "Tell me—are you even a woman? Haven't you set your sights on Prince Heir?"
"I have," Lena said with a smirk. "But I haven't dared—he might just be stronger than me."
Paul howled again, pounding the armrest and stamping his feet.
Lena crossed her legs and watched him with a lazy grin.
"You—hah—stop it—my stomach—oh heavens!" he wheezed.
"All right, enough laughter. Let me ask something serious. You're a fifth-rank official—how much silver do you make a month? Enough to keep advisers on staff?"
Paul blinked, still wiping tears. "I've never counted. My stewards handle the pay, and the aides are paid elsewhere. I've no idea what they make—it's not my concern."
"So, you're not in it for the money? Then why be an official? For glory? For the empire?" Lena arched a brow in mock amazement.
"Ha! Glory? I've no head for the classics. I'm nearly thirty, married—can't idle around forever, can I? My father insisted I find something respectable."
He sighed deeply. "I envy people like you—free, unbound, living as you please, without caring what others think. Must be nice."
"Tell me, in the Ministry of Works—are there any lower-born officials who manage just on their salaries? Can they support a household?" Lena asked.
"Of course! Take Censor Cai of the River Bureau—grew up on charity meals, married a woman only slightly better off. Her dowry was just a dress, a pair of silver hairpins, and two bangles. Now he owns a three-courtyard estate here in Castleton!
"Our Great Qi isn't as stingy as the Southlanders. Our salaries are generous—enough to keep a family, easily!" Paul said proudly, crossing one leg over the other.
"River Bureau? They handle waterways? That must be a fat post. Bought with silver, perhaps?" Lena leaned forward, rubbing her fingers together.
Paul mirrored her movement, grinning. "Fat indeed—but Censor Cai's got no backing at court. Smart man, though. No matter how rich the post, he dares only look, not touch. Too many eyes watching those profits!
"Our Minister Xue—now there's a clever one. The juicy posts are always in the hands of those like Cai—or me." He clicked his tongue admiringly. "Brilliant man."
"And you?" Lena tilted her head, smiling. "Do you take a cut?"
"Me? Never. My family's not in need of such scraps," Paul said proudly, chin lifting.
"Quite right. If one's to make money, better make real money. Petty sums are beneath you," Lena praised, grinning.
A fifth-rank officer able to buy a three-courtyard home on salary alone—now that was telling. The Northrealm paid handsomely indeed.
Excellent. Very excellent. Wonderfully promising for her plans.
Lena and Paul chatted away until noon. Paul, warm and exuberant, insisted she stay for lunch—a fine meal from the imperial kitchens. They then spent another half-hour debating whether it was delicious or dreadful.
Finally, Paul swore she must return in two days to sample his household's food deliveries—so he could prove that imperial chefs cooked "nothing but royal-grade filth."
Two days later, Lena went back, enjoyed the "Prime Minister's box lunch," and left carrying gifts: ten cakes of tea, a handful of rare spices, several boxes of fine paper, a grand birdcage inlaid with ivory, and a new edition of The Golden Jade Classics.
News of her visit reached Gavin Shea the same day. By the following morning, when Lena had just left again, Ruby reported every detail: the hours she entered and exited, what she carried—a jade-and-ivory birdcage stuffed with tea cakes, spice sachets dangling from the handle, filling the air with fragrance. In her other arm, several rosewood boxes of high-quality paper, both raw and treated.
Gavin stared, eyes wide. Across from him, William Chen looked equally baffled.
"What in the world is she planning?" Gavin demanded.
William merely spread his hands. He hadn't the faintest idea.
———
Back in Fried Rice Alley, Lena hung up the birdcage and sat beneath the eaves, studying The Golden Jade Classics with great attention.
The postal regulations had existed since the previous dynasty, refined and perfected under the current one—at least, that's what Paul had told her. She read carefully, determined to understand every clause by heart.
When Harris and Jack returned one after the other, they first circled the birdcage admiringly before squatting on either side of her.
"Boss, are we keeping birds now? I'll go buy some—what'll it be? Mynas? Orioles? Thrushes?" Harris asked.
"Birds are too much trouble. The cage looks nice enough on its own. What vegetables do we have left?" Lena closed the book and asked.
"Bamboo shoots, celery—and the toon tree in the back's just sprouted, fine black-oil toons!" Jack said eagerly.
"Harris, boil some water and wash that salted pig's head. Jack, go pick some toons," Lena ordered, standing up.
With Darren away, the other two's cooking was barely edible—she would have to handle it herself.
Just as the pig's head was steaming in wine, heavy footsteps sounded outside—Darren had returned.
Jack hurried to stoke another stove, while Harris filled a large kettle for boiling water.
Lena handed Darren a teacup. "Drink first, wash up, then we'll talk."
He drained it in one gulp, tested the kettle's warmth, and went to bathe.
Soon, the kitchen filled with the aroma of fried dough and steamed meat. Jack flipped flatbreads as Harris kneaded more dough. Lena made porridge with salted pork and celery leaves, stir-fried bamboo shoots and toon eggs, and finally sliced the steamed pig's head to stir-fry with celery.
Starving, Darren grabbed two flatbreads, stuffed them with meat and celery, and devoured them in a few bites. He downed some porridge, then made two more wraps with the toons and eggs.
After five or six breads, he slowed, sighing in contentment.
"I started at the Old Song Gate—the horse depot's there. Anyone sending horses, north or south, must go through it. I stayed at a tavern nearby, listening to the post soldiers. Seems most letters go north—trouble there, constant skirmishes. The Riverton line's busy too—military traffic.
"Figured it best we avoid those. So I went south, toward Huainan. Rode when I could, walked when I couldn't—two hundred li in all, checked eleven relay stations, then another twelve on the return route."
He paused for a sip of porridge.
"There are three kinds of delivery: foot couriers, horse couriers, and express couriers.
Foot couriers carry anything—sixty li a day, or forty if the load's heavy.
Horse couriers handle only letters—one hundred fifty li daily, but there aren't many; horses are scarce.
Express couriers come in three grades—gold, silver, and wood.
Gold couriers run five hundred li a day, nonstop, staying only at relay inns. Horses and riders are prime stock. They wear bells—when one approaches, the next must be ready, mounted, waiting.
Silver couriers cover four hundred li, also nonstop, handing off at the gates.
Wood couriers travel three hundred li by day, resting a few hours at night.
I saw only two wood-grade expresses along the way.
As for pay—each courier receives one stone and five dou of grain monthly. Quality varies; even near Castleton, only one month last year brought fresh rice. The rest was old stock—some even moldy.
They get three sets of clothes a year, mostly converted to cash. Altogether, maybe six or seven strings of coins annually. The farther from Castleton, the fewer couriers—and the poorer they are. At the farthest post I reached, two hundred li out, they wore straw sandals on duty."
Lena listened intently. Their pay was lower than she'd imagined.
A good thing for her, though it left a faint pang of sympathy.
"Boss," Darren said after a pause, "you think Prince Heir will let us touch postal business? They say it's tied to the empire's lifeblood—military matters, even."
"We'll see," Lena replied carelessly. "If it works, good. If not, so be it."
"I still think the night-soil trade's better. Couriers are all broke," Harris muttered, chewing on his wrap.
"You're one to talk! When the boss first suggested that business, you said, 'Who'd pay for dung?'" Jack retorted.
"I—uh—Boss's pork's amazing! She turns stone to gold, you know? Gold!" Harris stammered, hastily saving face.