Chapter Seventy-Five: Scattered Feathers (Part One)

The tenth day of the twelfth lunar month, at Guanghua Gate—banners fluttered like hunting falcons, people streamed like water, horses surged like dragons; the spectacle was grand beyond compare.

Quan Ce, the Junior Minister of the Grand Herald Office, led the officials of his bureau in procession out of the city—dozens clad in crimson and deep-green robes. Among them was Deng Huaiyu, the Senior Clerk of the Commerce Bureau, bustling about, for this departure was meant as a send-off for foreign merchant caravans, falling squarely within his purview.

Directing his subordinates, Deng Huaiyu meticulously verified every detail, liaised with the gate keepers to register those leaving the city. Despite the busyness, there was no chaos; each command was issued with precision, underlings dashed to and fro, and the merchant caravans gradually formed neat lines—even camels, wagons, and beasts were queued up in order.

Once affairs were running smoothly, Deng Huaiyu allowed himself a moment’s respite. He glanced at Quan Ce, astride his fine steed, surrounded by attendants, exuding authority and grandeur. Deng could not help but inwardly grumble: young men of privilege share the same faults—ambitious and fond of spectacle. The Commerce Bureau had labored for ages to assemble such a massive caravan, all for his moment of glory.

“Clerk Deng, are you ready?” Quan Ce urged his horse forward, towering above.

Deng Huaiyu turned and replied, “Reporting to the Junior Minister, only a few government-dispatched caravans remain unverified.”

“I have urgent matters to discuss shortly; time cannot be wasted. Skip the verification for the official caravans,” Quan Ce commanded, his gaze intense.

Deng Huaiyu raised his head, stung by that gaze, and quickly bowed. “I obey, sir, but the gate keepers…”

“Tell them it is my order. If there are objections, they may seek me directly,” Quan Ce replied, displeased.

Deng Huaiyu went to arrange matters. The gate keeper, upon receiving the order, immediately had his soldiers cease identity checks and assist in maintaining order. He hurried over to pay his respects—it turned out the gate keeper was a Captain of the Left Guard, subordinate to Lu Jiong, who often spoke of Quan Ce and admired him greatly.

Though from different branches, Quan Ce dismounted and chatted briefly with the captain, feeling a kinship as he eyed the military uniform. When he first arrived, he too had been a Captain in the Left Guard, wearing that very style.

With everything ready, Deng Huaiyu, following the conventions of officialdom, stepped forward to invite, “Junior Minister, the caravans are prepared. Would you address them?”

Quan Ce strode forward, hands behind his back, and raised his voice: “Gentlemen, you are merchants, and what you seek is profit. Yet you are no ordinary merchants—you traverse the world, journey to foreign lands. In pursuit of gain, you must still remember your duty to the nation, unite the strength of our vassal states… Wherever you tread under heaven, do not lose the honor of China’s noble lineage; be cautious in word and deed, never forget the attire of the Celestial Empire… I have heard, ‘the fox dies, its head faces its home hill.’ May you take this to heart: foster good relations, make friends far and wide, spread the elegance of the Tang Dynasty, uphold the dignity of our nation. You travel the breadth of the earth, but your heart must always turn to China.”

Deng Huaiyu had expected the usual empty official rhetoric—but not a single word was hollow. These were direct, unprecedented demands for foreign merchants to help manage affairs of the vassal states. He’d long had this idea, but every time he proposed it, it was rejected; in the hierarchy of society—scholars, farmers, artisans, merchants—merchants had never been highly regarded. Foreign traders dealing with barbarians, journeying for months, held even lower status. Previous ministers of the Grand Herald Office refused contact altogether. His Commerce Bureau was always the coldest of cold offices.

But this Junior Minister’s approach seemed to signal a turning point. Deng Huaiyu felt his heart stir.

The merchants were stunned for a long moment, until a well-educated elder stepped forward, “Sir, rest assured—even though we practice a humble trade, we have not forgotten our roots. Today, being honored with your guidance, we are proud to pledge ourselves to serve. Wherever our business takes us, we will sow the glory of the Tang Dynasty.”

“Rest assured, sir,” echoed the merchants, voices overlapping.

Quan Ce laughed heartily, “Excellent! But do not only sow glory—bring back riches and goods as well. You have seen much abroad, and I am interested in all you observe—the customs, the nobility, the rulers. Write to me often, let me walk this journey with you.”

The merchant caravans erupted in excitement, crowding around Quan Ce, eyes alight with enthusiasm.

Quan Ce was not displeased, moving among them with ease, exchanging pleasantries, laughter, and farewells. The send-off delayed departure by a full two hours.

Deng Huaiyu, stirred to admiration, was so moved he forgot all about Quan Ce’s earlier insistence on not wasting time.

The caravans were bound for every direction: north to the Turks, west to the Western Regions, east to Japan and Silla, south to Tibet and Langu Qiongzhao. Quan Ce’s candle merchant caravan was among them, led by a steward carefully selected by Quan Li, accompanied by a couple and their child. They were to settle in Han Prefecture in Jianan Circuit, seeking the method for making shaochun liquor.

After seeing off the caravans and returning to the office, Quan Ce convened the chief clerks of the Ceremonial Bureau and the Vassal Affairs Bureau for a collective meeting, to discuss arrangements for the West Turk Khusro’s submission. On New Year’s Day, as always, the Empress would go to the Temple of Myriad Phenomena for the grand feast; the Spring Bureau’s schedule was already packed, and the vassal envoys were to attend. Adding a ceremony for the West Turk’s submission was simply too much—it would need separate arrangements, and Khusro must not feel slighted.

“Junior Minister, a summons has arrived from the palace. Her Majesty requests your presence at the Penglai Hall for discussion,” the court scribe announced outside the meeting room.

Quan Ce rubbed his temples and stood. “Continue your deliberations and draft a preliminary plan. Clerk Lu, prepare a summary—I’ll want to see it when I return.”

Lu Zhaoyin bowed in acceptance. The others rose to see him off, showing great respect. The Grand Herald Office was now almost entirely under Quan Ce’s command. His methods were decisive and swift, not much for formality, but extremely strict about procedures and results. The system of accountability was clear; rewards and punishments were fair, responsibility was apportioned without regard to rank or favor. In a short time, the bureau had been reshaped, its atmosphere transformed. Quan Ce himself, despite his youth, enjoyed exceptional prestige.

Quan Ce hurried to the outer gate of the Xuanzheng Palace, where Xie Yaohuan awaited him. He quickly stepped forward to salute, “Thank you, Lady Official.”

Xie Yaohuan smiled, shook her head, and gestured for him to proceed. As they walked, she teased, “Junior Minister Quan, you are so devoted to your duties. Your memorials and documents are steady and mature, every phrase precise and beneficial to the state, but utterly lacking in spirit. It’s worrisome—when you can no longer compose poetry, what then?”

Seeing her relaxed, Quan Ce felt reassured. This summons must not be for anything unpleasant, and even if it was, it would not concern him. He replied with a smile, “Lady Official, you are mistaken. Quan Ce is buried in paperwork, surrounded by rough men all day, and so spirit is reserved. If only I had more chances to meet refined ladies like yourself, my poetic spirit would surely flow without end.”

Xie Yaohuan giggled, covering her mouth, “You’re certainly sweet-tongued. At your wedding, every poem was wrung out one half-line at a time. Many poets have lost sleep over it. In the Phoenix Pavilion and Luan Terrace, it is said your verses are ‘soul-piercing poems’—impossible to continue, yet impossible to let go.”

Quan Ce was not embarrassed by this; he grinned broadly, shaking his head with exaggerated satisfaction.

Xie Yaohuan silently scoffed and ignored him, leading him into the Penglai Hall.

“Your servant Quan Ce, greets Her Majesty.”

Taking stock of those present, he immediately had a sense of the situation: Wu Chengsi, Wu Sansi, Wu Youxu, Yang Shouyu the Prefect of Jingzhao, and the senior officials of the Ministry of Justice, the Court of Judicial Review, and the Censorate.

The tree wishes for calm, but the wind will not stop. Wu Youxu would like to shrink away and play the tortoise, but the other two would hardly let him off lightly.

For reasons unknown, of the three involved, the most agitated was the most powerful—Wu Chengsi.