Chang Gate was the most important city gate on the western side of Suzhou. Just outside lay the canal docks, packed with merchant vessels and flanked by rows of warehouses. This was the main artery through which goods flowed in and out of Jiangnan. Carts, horses, boats, and porters came and went without pause, and as a result, the duties of the gate guards here were far more complicated than at the other gates.
By the time Zhang Si arrived, seven or eight men had already gathered beneath the gate tower. They were all gate runners like him, dressed in worn official uniforms, shoulders hunched, stamping their feet against the cold. The man in charge was Old Zhao, in his forties, who had worked at Chang Gate for nearly thirty years and had the longest seniority.
"Zhang Si's here?" Old Zhao glanced up at him. "You take the north lane today. Wang Wu's on the south. Stay sharp. I hear there might be an imperial censor snooping around Suzhou these days. Keep your eyes open and don't do anything stupid."
The men murmured their assent.
Zhang Si knew well enough that these so-called "secret inspections" were usually just rumors, but it never hurt to be careful. If the higher-ups caught you in a mistake, you could lose pay at best—or your post at worst. No one could afford that.
At seven fifty, the bell and drum atop the gate tower sounded together. Several runners worked the winch, and the heavy iron-banded wooden doors slowly swung open with a long creak. Outside the gate, people had already gathered: peddlers carrying shoulder poles, porters pushing wheelbarrows, mule-mounted traders, and a few mule carts loaded with goods.
As daylight strengthened, gray-white light filtered into the gate tunnel. Zhang Si took his place behind a wooden desk along the north passage. On the desk lay brush and ink, and a thick register. His job was straightforward: inspect goods, check travel permits, record entries, and collect the gate tax.
The first to approach was an elderly farmer carrying two baskets of greens. Zhang Si glanced at them and waved him through. Farmers selling their own produce usually weren't taxed—the goods simply weren't worth much. The old man thanked him and shuffled into the city.
Next came a peddler pushing a wheelbarrow stacked with needles, thread, rouge, and powder. Zhang Si flipped through the load and asked, "Permit?"
The peddler quickly pulled a crumpled sheet from his robe. It bore the seal of the Wu County yamen. Zhang Si checked the name, place of origin, and stated purpose, found everything in order, and wrote in the register: "Zhang San, resident of Wu County. Sundries trader. One handcart." Then he collected the standard gate tax—five copper cash.
The peddler counted out the coins, placed them on the desk, and wheeled his cart inside.
As the sun climbed, more and more people entered the city. Zhang Si repeated the same motions over and over—inspect, record, collect—occasionally glancing at the sky. Near the hour of si (around ten), a noticeably different group appeared in the crowd: three mule carts carrying over a dozen large wooden chests, each sealed with official strips and stamped with government seals.
The leader was a middle-aged man in a silk long gown, followed by four or five men who looked like hired hands. He stepped up to the desk without a word and handed over a document.
Zhang Si examined it. It was a tally issued by the Ministry of Revenue in Nanjing, stating that the cargo was raw silk bound for the Suzhou Weaving Bureau, exempt from inspection and tax. He carefully checked the seals and serial numbers. Satisfied, he waved them through.
The carts rolled through the gate tunnel, leaving behind a faint scent of silk.
Zhang Si had seen plenty of such official shipments. Suzhou was known as the "capital of silk," and its weaving bureau was one of the three major imperial weaving offices in Jiangnan, supplying the court directly. The emperor's taste for luxury showed no sign of easing, and shipments like this passed through Chang Gate several times a month.
"Busy, Officer Zhang?"
A familiar voice broke his train of thought. Zhang Si had just collected three copper cash from a group of farmers selling bamboo wares, his fingers stiff from the cold, and was warming them with his breath when he looked up. It was Boss Li, a cloth merchant who did business in this area year-round.
Boss Li was in his early forties, round-faced and slightly plump, dressed in an indigo silk-padded robe with a worn sheepskin vest over it. He always wore a genial smile, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes bending with it. He was smooth, knew how to handle people, and was on good terms with everyone at the gate. Each time he passed through, he would leave a bit of "tea money"—never too much, never too little, just enough for the guards to buy some wine and a bit of meat.
"Stocking up again, Boss Li?" Zhang Si asked, already flipping to a new page in the register.
"Yeah. Heading to Changshu to pick up some homespun." Boss Li produced his permit and handed it over with both hands. The paper was crisp, stamped with the bright red seal of Yuanhe County—clearly someone who handled permits often. "It's getting cold. Homespun's thick and durable. Poor folks rely on it to get through winter. I hear the cotton harvest wasn't great this year—prices are bound to go up. Better buy early."
Zhang Si checked the details: Li Decai, resident of Yuanhe County, Suzhou Prefecture, age forty-one, fair complexion, slight mustache… purpose: cloth trading. He glanced up to confirm the man matched the description, then wrote: "27th day of the 10th month. Cloth merchant Li Decai, leaving the city for Changshu. Two assistants. Three mule carts."
Then he pulled out a thinner ledger—the tax book. By regulation, cloth traders paid five cash per cart when leaving the city. Three carts meant fifteen cash.
Boss Li had already counted out the coins, but he didn't hand them over right away. Instead, he placed ten copper coins neatly in a row on the desk. They clinked crisply against the wood. This was the unspoken "tea money."
Zhang Si's expression didn't change. With the register still open in his left hand and the brush in his right, he casually swept the ten coins toward the edge of the desk. They fell with a jingle into the open wooden box below, already layered with copper coins and a few bits of silver.
Only then did Zhang Si record in the tax book: "Collected gate tax: fifteen cash."
Boss Li counted out another fifteen coins and paid the official tax. The whole exchange was smooth, wordless, understood by both sides.
By the Great Ming Code, officials who accepted money could be punished even if they bent no law—under one tael still earned sixty blows. But this "tea money" was an open secret at city gates throughout Suzhou, and indeed all of Jiangnan. As long as the sums were small and it was just a matter of convenience, higher officials usually turned a blind eye. After all, if you cut off even this little extra income, who would be willing to stand all day in the freezing wind? That would only invite trouble.
Zhang Si locked the official tax money away in a separate box, destined for the prefectural treasury.
He closed the ledger and looked over Boss Li's carts. Three mule carts, sturdy boards, the animals in good condition, all covered tightly with oiled cloth and bound with rope. Two assistants, one older and one younger, stood by with hands tucked into their sleeves, faces red from the cold.
"What're you hauling?" Zhang Si asked, purely as a formality.
"Old clothes, scraps of cloth, a bit of sewing stuff," Boss Li replied with a smile, lifting the edge of the cloth on the nearest cart. Beneath were bundles of worn garments in dull colors, clearly of little value. "I'll trade them in the Changshu countryside for homespun, or sell them outright. Rural folks are practical—patch them up and they'll still wear fine. Not much profit, just working the spread."
Zhang Si nodded and didn't look further. It was Boss Li's usual routine: cheap goods on the way out, valuable cloth on the way back. Everyone knew it. As long as it wasn't excessive, no one bothered digging deeper.
"Travel safe," Zhang Si said, handing back the permit.
Boss Li took it, but instead of leaving right away, he stepped half a pace closer. His smile faded slightly as he lowered his voice. "Officer Zhang, I wanted to ask you something."
Zhang Si straightened a little. "Go on."
Boss Li glanced around. It was close to eleven; traffic had slowed, with only a few farmers passing by. Zhang Si was alone at the north passage—Wang Wu had gone to eat and hadn't returned yet. A few runners leaned against the wall farther off, stamping their feet.
"I hear things haven't been too calm on the canal lately?" Boss Li whispered.
Zhang Si's heart stirred, but his face didn't show it. He gave a small nod. "There's been some talk. You hear something specific?"
"I won't lie to you," Boss Li said, pulling out a handkerchief and dabbing his nose—a habitual gesture more than anything. "I've got a cousin working on grain barges up in Huai'an. He sent word a couple days ago—north of Xuzhou, the canal's been rough. Several grain boats were stopped, 'inspected,' and held up for ages. No one hurt, but the cargo was delayed, losses piled up. And stranger still…" He leaned in close, almost to Zhang Si's ear. "I hear a convoy escorting autumn grain near Zhangqiu was actually intercepted by some unknown group. Most of the grain was recovered, but several soldiers were killed. They're keeping it quiet."
Zhang Si frowned, just slightly.
"You sure about this?" he asked, his voice lower now.
"My cousin's an honest man. He wouldn't make it up. And besides…" Boss Li hesitated. "I was planning to take part of the trip by water. Boat was hired and everything. But yesterday the boatman backed out—said he'd gotten a verbal notice from the transport office. Civilian boats are to avoid night travel for now, and even daytime runs should go in groups. Inspections are tighter than usual. That's why I switched to the road. Slower, but safer."
Zhang Si nodded thoughtfully. The transport office wasn't under the prefecture, but if word like that had reached boatmen, it meant officials were already moving—just not posting notices yet, to avoid panic and disruption.
"Things are still calm around Jiangnan, right?" Boss Li asked cautiously.
"For now, within Suzhou Prefecture, it's still peaceful," Zhang Si said slowly, half reassurance, half statement of fact. "The provincial and prefectural authorities are watching closely. And even if trouble does crop up, it usually targets grain, official silver, or lone wealthy merchants. You're hauling old goods in three carts—hardly tempting. Stick to the main road, travel by day, stop at proper inns or large towns before nightfall. You should be fine."
The advice was practical. Boss Li's expression eased, and his smile returned. "Hearing that from you puts my mind at ease. These days, doing business isn't easy—taxes on one side, risks on the road on the other." He slipped five more copper coins from his sleeve and set them gently on the corner of the register. "Just a little something for you and the brothers—to get a jug of wine and warm up. I'll be gone five or six days at least. When I'm back, I'll come pay my respects."
This time, Zhang Si didn't take the money right away. He looked at Boss Li and said slowly, "Boss Li, we've known each other what—seven or eight years now?"
Boss Li blinked. "Eight, exactly. You'd just taken over your father's post back then. I'd just inherited the family cloth stall. First time I passed Chang Gate, it was you who told me how to get a permit."
Zhang Si's gaze flicked to the coins, then back to Boss Li's slightly uneasy face. "This extra 'tea money'—it's for old ties, and for the convenience we offer standing out here in the wind. But there are a few things I need to say upfront."
"Please," Boss Li said seriously.
"If you do run into inspections on the road—especially transport or patrol officials—pay the usual fees, but don't flaunt wealth. Keep your permits and receipts in order. If strangers stop your carts, it's better to lose some goods than risk lives. Goods are small matters. People aren't." He spoke carefully, each word deliberate. "And on the way back—if you're bringing in more cloth than usual, you know what to declare. Things are tighter now. Gate inspections may be stricter. We're old acquaintances—I'll help where I can. But if there's a hard order from above, or a superior present, rules are rules."
This went beyond ordinary courtesy between a gate guard and a merchant. Boss Li understood. This was real advice, given in return for years of dealings—and for the warning he'd just shared.
He bowed repeatedly. "Understood. Thank you, truly. I won't forget this."
Only then did Zhang Si use the brush handle to sweep the five coins into the box below. "Go on, then. Make the most of the daylight. In Changshu, there's an inn called Yuelai outside the west gate—the innkeeper's a distant relative of mine. Mention my name. You'll get a better rate, and it's reliable."
Boss Li bowed deeply once more before turning to call his men. The mule carts creaked over the stone road through the gate tunnel and rolled away toward the official road.
Zhang Si watched until they disappeared, then sat back down. His fingers tapped the cold desk unconsciously.
Trouble on the canal… That wasn't coming from nowhere. The grain transport routes were tangled with officials, soldiers, laborers, and local strongmen. Intercepting state grain wasn't something ordinary thieves dared. Either desperate refugees—or something worse.
All he could do was guard this gate well: inspect carefully, open and close on time, neither meddling nor shirking. As for familiar faces like Boss Li, he'd offer a word of warning when he could. In unsettled times, everyone was just trying to make a living.
Just then, Wang Wu came back chewing on a flatbread. "Hey, Zhang—was that Boss Li just now? He's been running to Changshu a lot this year."
"Yeah," Zhang Si replied casually, opening the register again. "Cold weather. Homespun sells."
A gust of wind swept through the gate tunnel, lifting dust and dead leaves. From the distance came the muffled noise of the canal docks—masts like a forest, an artery carrying silver and silk, and just as much risk and story.
The noon sun barely broke through the clouds, casting a short band of light in the tunnel before vanishing again. Zhang Si rubbed his reddened ears and straightened his back.
After Boss Li's convoy, a few more familiar merchants passed through. Zhang Si inspected and waved them on. By midday, traffic finally thinned.