The Market (2)
“It’s like a real marketplace brawl down here.”
“Because it is a market.”
The market rang with constant squabbles and angry shouts of protest. It was nothing out of the ordinary.
We bought two bowls of binggua and ate them while wandering around. Cheongsu didn’t lift a finger. Talking to the merchants and checking out the goods was all on me.
“Fine quality,” I said, sniffing the medicinal herbs.
The herb seller immediately rubbed his hands and tailed me.
“Of course! All the herbs we handle have been certified as upper grade by the Market Supervisor’s office.”
“I see. Mind if I browse elsewhere?”
“Go right ahead, young master. But you won’t find better than ours.”
I handled the merchant smoothly and moved on. I visited nearly every row of shops. More precisely, just two per row: the one in the prime spot and the one in the crappy spot.
“Are you really just sightseeing?”
Cheongsu finally snapped at me. I’d left him standing there like a sack of barley while I chatted with merchants, and it had gotten under his skin.
“If you’re just gonna do this, I’ll head back to the inn and rest.”
“What are you talking about? I’m showing this to you, True Person.”
“Showing me what?”
“The market. A market’s a living thing.”
I gave Cheongsu a lofty look.
“So, did you feel anything?”
“Feel what?”
“You didn’t sense anything?”
I let disappointment color my tone. Cheongsu looked ready to interrogate me on the spot, so I hurriedly added,
“The goods were either middle or upper grade, no lower. And the actual quality matched the labels.”
“Isn’t that obvious?”
“It’s not. You know they grade the same item upper, middle, or lower and price accordingly, right?”
“What, you think I’m some ignorant bumpkin who knows nothing? The Market Supervisor inspects and assigns the grades.”
The Market Supervisor was a government official dispatched to oversee the market. No goods could be sold until inspected and assigned one of the three grades: upper, middle, or lower.
“Exactly. That’s why the vibe of a market depends entirely on who the Supervisor is. In some markets, you’ll see shoddy lower-grade stuff slapped with upper labels everywhere. That means one of two things: either the Supervisor has no eye for quality, or they’re corrupt and taking bribes to fudge the grades.”
“What’s your point?”
“That’s why I say the market is alive. Not all markets are the same. Today, we got a read on what kind of person the Supervisor here is. We didn’t see them in person, but at least we know they don’t sell grades for money—they’re honest and have a good eye. In short, competent.”
“And?”
“But there was something off.”
“Something off?”
“Yes. Normally, the Supervisor gives the best spots to sellers of the finest upper-grade goods. It maximizes the market’s profits.”
“Makes sense.”
“But not this market. The prime spots had merchants with middling grades, while some in the bad spots sold top-shelf stuff.”
“So they’re selling spots for money?”
“If so, it should be the opposite. Merchants with the best goods have the most cash, so the prime spots should go to them.”
“So they’re deliberately hurting the market? Going against the natural flow?”
“Yes. Exactly.”
Cheongsu’s face clouded over in confusion at my words. The puzzle I’d posed must have stumped him.
I’d just praised the Supervisor as honest and capable, only to point out this weird stall assignment. No wonder he was mixed up.
“I’m not quite following.”
“Here’s a clue. The shops in the best spots had one thing in common: the Yichang Guild Hall mark.”
“So the Supervisor’s from Yichang and favoring his hometown folks?”
“Bingo.”
“Then they’re not exactly impartial.”
“Supervisors are human too. A little hometown bias is par for the course. The other merchants won’t complain—everyone gets that treatment back home.”
Cheongsu’s expression turned puzzled. I was teaching him the rules and pulse of the market.
“So what’s the takeaway?”
“Tomorrow, we visit the Supervisor. With a gift. Today’s tour was to figure out what kind.”
“A gift? You mean a bribe?”
“Come on, that sounds crude. Call it a token of appreciation.”
“Everyone knows that’s a bribe.”
Martial artists had this annoyingly rigid streak. But a little flexibility was the oil that kept society running smoothly.
“From what I saw, the Supervisor has a good eye, so we need something valuable and rare. And with strong hometown pride, a Yichang artisan’s work would be perfect. Nothing too easy to get locally, of course. Part of why I kept wandering was scouting gifts.”
“Tricky. A Yichang artisan’s piece.”
“Pottery and weapons are stamped with the maker’s name. Not hard to spot.”
“How do you know it’s from a Yichang guy?”
“There’s a famous Yichang smith. He’s based in Beijing now, but his stuff sells here too. Grab one of those, and the Supervisor will love it.”
“……You really know the merchant world inside out. I thought as Curved Sword Pavilion Master, I knew more than most martial folk.”
No matter how much they handled money, martial artists had their limits. To grow in commerce, you had to mingle with people and breathe the world’s air. Cheongsu, holed up on Wudang Mountain, couldn’t keep up.
“Tomorrow’s packed anyway, so let’s turn in early. I’ll rest too.”
“Hmph. Martial artists shake off fatigue with one round of meditation. No need for sleep.”
“Still not as good as actual rest, right?”
“Quiet. If I say so, it is.”
I’d probably bruised his pride by schooling him. But no martial artist could know commerce better than me.
The next day, we rose early and got moving. The market opened at noon, but we needed to sync our route and plans by the hour.
As soon as it opened, I hit the weapon shop and bought a sword stamped with the name Yi Wi-jong. Blades, bows, pottery—all bore the maker’s mark.
“But the Supervisor’s no martial artist. What’s he gonna do with a sword?”
“It’s decorative. Ivory’s pricey not for utility.”
We grabbed the sword and headed straight to the market center, where the Market Hall stood.
As expected, the Hall bustled with people. If disputes arose in the market, this was the only place to settle them.
“Can we even get a meeting like this?”
“Perks of Wudang. You lead the way, True Person.”
Cheongsu hesitated but stepped inside. The mood shifted instantly. No Hubei local could miss a Wudang Taoist’s robes.
“What brings a Wudang Taoist here?”
“Don’t they hate places like this?”
Of course. They did. Cheongsu only came because he handled money as Pavilion Master; someone like Cheonghwa would’ve called it shady and stayed away.
“Ahem.”
“To what do we owe the visit from a Wudang disciple?”
Cheongsu cleared his throat, and an official asked cautiously. Nine Great Sect martial artists made anyone uneasy.
“We’d like to see the Supervisor.”
“Ah, yes. I’ll pass it along.”
The official ducked inside. Cheongsu scratched his head awkwardly.
“Is it okay to just show up unannounced?”
“Not for me. But for Wudang’s Curved Sword Pavilion Master? Absolutely.”
The same official rushed back.
“You’re cleared to enter.”
Even a Supervisor benefited from connections with big shots. Especially in Hubei, where none outranked Wudang. He’d clear his schedule for this—Wudang headquarters folk rarely visited the Market Hall.
Guided inside, we met a neat-looking middle-aged man. Looks weren’t everything, but his face suggested efficient work.
“I’m Jeon Ok-geun, Market Supervisor of Yichang.”
“Cheongsu, Curved Sword Pavilion Master of Wudang.”
“Oh? The Pavilion Master himself. An honor.”
His attendant poured tea at once. Cheongsu sipped and looked mildly surprised.
“Fine tea.”
“Luan Guapian from Anhui. I hope it suits a guest of your stature.”
The Supervisor’s tongue was well-oiled, as befitted an official.
“So, what brings you?”
“I’ll take it from here.”
He eyed me in surprise at my interruption. He’d pegged me as mere baggage.
“As you’ve heard, the Shanxi merchants are about to stab the Jiangnan folk in the back.”
“……How did you know? That was confidential, relayed to me privately.”
Because I relayed it. Through the lay disciples’ caravans.
“I know the gist too. Something about abolishing the middleman law.”
“Yes. That’s it.”
Publicly spilling Beijing’s secrets could mean reprimands for the Shanxi merchants. So we’d do it privately, through trusted channels.
“I’ve already tipped off the brokers.”
That figured. Brokers bridged local and out-of-town merchants. Even speaking the same Zhongyuan tongue, dialects varied; customs and measures differed slightly. Brokers smoothed it all.
Shanxi men were outsiders here, forced to deal through brokers. If brokers stonewalled, even Shanxi couldn’t sell their salt.
Cheongsu shot me a stunned look, as if asking when I’d set this up. Pride kept him from blurting it out.
“Yes. We’re here to ask you to rein in the brokers. Shanxi has deep pockets—they might buy them off.”
“Haha. To bring Wudang into this? I had no idea they cared about merchants.”
The Supervisor laughed, pleased. Even aloof Nine Great Sects paying attention flattered him.
“No worries. Our brokers here are all Yichang natives, fiercely loyal to home.”
“Good to hear. And this is a token from us.”
I handed over Yi Wi-jong’s sword. The Supervisor’s eyes widened.
“Oh!”
He inspected it and gasped.
“Yi Wi-jong’s work! I know him personally. He’s made it big in Beijing—must cost a fortune. Such a treasure……”
“Nonsense. For your trouble, it’s the least we can do.”
“Haha. They wouldn’t anyway, but I’ll crack down harder.”
The Supervisor and I shared warm laughs. Cheongsu gawked between us. This was merchants’ talk.
Suddenly, the door burst open. The Supervisor scowled.
“We have esteemed guests—how rude……”
“Sorry. Riot at the Shanxi salt merchants’ stall. It’s big; you’ll need to see it yourself.”
I, Cheongsu, and the Supervisor exchanged glances. As if on cue, we all stood.