Chapter 1620: Voices from the Provinces

After the clamor comes tranquility. With the Jiaqing Festival concluded, the Eastern Capital naturally settled back into calm, returning to its usual plain and ordinary atmosphere.

A moment of celebration and joy could not change the toil of the Eastern Capital's scholars and commoners. Everything went on as before—ordinary households still labored tirelessly for their livelihoods, without a moment's rest. Those who danced and sang continued to dance and sing; the suffering of the mortal world had nothing whatsoever to do with them.

As for the court above, filled with fine robes of crimson and purple, there were indeed some dissenting voices—voices from the regions beyond the capital. Perhaps to prove that the great frontier officials and pillar ministers of state had not come to the capital merely to offer birthday congratulations and satisfy his personal desires, Emperor Liu issued an edict ordering Crown Prince Liu Yang and Chancellor Zhao Pu to organize a half-month session of state deliberations in the Guangzheng Hall, with both court and regional officials in attendance.

This followed established precedent. Every year after the Lantern Festival holiday, the court conducted similar political activities, except that the participants were always the local officials who came to the capital to report on their governance. Their main task was to report and to submit to questioning and scrutiny. Their weight was considerable in the localities, but in the capital, it counted for little.

But this time was different—the heads of military and civil administration from all regions, if not all present, at least seventy or eighty percent of them had arrived. These men were a different matter entirely. They were the political elite of the Great Han, the core strength of its vast governance system, and they naturally had a say in matters of state.

Although the Great Han was currently in a state of highly centralized power, this did not mean the regions were completely subservient to the central government. The great officials of the circuits often held enormous authority, and as the realm trended toward peace and stability, the prestige of regional magnates had only grown more entrenched.

They might not dare to directly defy the central court, but if they were truly dissatisfied, they had no shortage of means and measures to respond. It was just that such situations were quite rare.

To say nothing of others, take Lu Duoxun—whether in Hexi or in Liangzhe, he had already been subtly competing with Zhao Pu. And Zhao Pu was the Chief Chancellor of the Great Han; his every word and deed represented the court.

There was also Lei Dexiang, the Administration Commissioner of Hexi. When he had been posted to Lanzhou years ago, he had clashed with Wang Qiwu, and during his tenure in Hexi, he had frequently criticized Zhao Pu and various court policies.

Even earlier, there had been the friction between Wang Pu and Li Tao. Over certain personnel appointment issues, these two Dukes had traded barbs across the distance, even taking their dispute all the way to Emperor Liu.

Thus, even to this day, the authority of the central court remained firm and unshakable, but the great frontier officials could hardly resist "pushing back" from time to time.

Of course, their resistance was not about rebellion or insurrection—it was merely about fighting for more benefits for the regions under their governance, to make their own positions more comfortable. And this situation, when reflected in this session of state deliberations, produced extremely fierce disputes.

The Great Han's territory was vast, with numerous circuits, prefectures, and counties, and the conditions of the people were complex. Each region had its own circumstances and its own demands. Whether poor or rich, populous or sparse, all hoped to receive support from court policy.

The concept of policy support had only appeared in the Great Han in recent years. Its origin, aside from a casual remark by Emperor Liu, was most directly exemplified by the development of the Andong region.

In less than ten years, that bitter, cold land of Andong, where barbarian tribes mingled, had achieved such remarkable development and transformation, with the light of civilization and propriety beginning to shine. This was by no means solely the painstaking management of the Andong Governor-General's Office under Liu Xu.

Behind it all, the court's support was crucial. Without that precondition, everything would have been but flowers in a mirror, moons in water. The court collected no taxes from them, and every year still provided subsidy funds; even the gold and silver they presented in tribute received corresponding acknowledgment.

Andong lacked population, so they were permitted to recruit freely from the interior circuits and prefectures, with local governments forbidden from obstructing them. Policy-wise, the green light was wide open, with no restrictions imposed, making it the region with the greatest autonomy under the Great Han's rule.

The Great Han had never abandoned the development of frontier regions, but no place had ever reached the level of the Andong region. The most important factor in this was the court's lenient policy restrictions and tolerant treatment. Other places had neither such investment nor such preferential treatment.

With Andong as an example, how could the bureaucrats of the other circuits and prefectures not have thoughts on the matter? They were equally under the Great Han's rule, equally subjects of Emperor Liu—how could they be treated so differently?

It had always been true that people do not fear scarcity but fear inequity. If the court was willing to spend resources to develop a wild frontier like Andong, why not bestow a little grace upon them as well? Wouldn't it be more beneficial to develop those populous, temperate, choice lands even better?

As for the other poor and remote places, they wore an even more desperate, hungry look—circuits like Yunnan, Qianzhong, Guangxi, and Yulin were exactly like this. And those like Anxi and Annam, whose situations resembled Andong's, had even more to say.

Compared to Andong, Annam had been administered for longer. Although remotely located, whether in climate, environment, or the taming of the native peoples, it was clearly superior to Andong.

After more than a decade of development, Annam was already able to regularly contribute money, grain, and taxes to the court. Of course, this carried a certain colonial character, but its potential could still be discerned.

The current Administration Commissioner of Annam was Li Shoujie, son of Li Yun, the Marquis of Chenyang. He had transitioned from military to civil service—after garrisoning Annam for many years, he had been converted in place to Administration Commissioner, and had served until now.

In the Guangzheng Hall, Li Shoujie meticulously laid out Annam's situation and development potential, hoping the court would increase its support, and painted a rosy picture of the money, grain, and taxes Annam could contribute to the court each year.

Anxi was the same. Although remotely located, it sat on the vital thoroughfare of East-West exchange. Relying on the Silk Road, it had no fear of poverty—it was only that years of constant warfare had thinned its population.

But even so, with the pacification of the Great Han's western frontier and the improvement of relations with the Kara-Khanids, the trade routes between the Great Han and Central Asia had been completely opened and were growing increasingly prosperous. Thus, the Anxi region was showing renewed vitality day by day—these were their advantages.

As for the other circuits and prefectures, they too had their say. Of course, these places also understood that Andong was, after all, a special case that could not become the norm, and that the court could not possibly give free rein to other places, especially the core governing circuits.

But bargaining was bargaining—they had to let the court hear their voices and know their thoughts. They dared not aspire to what Andong had, but for other matters, there was still some room for negotiation.

Zhang Yong, who had been promoted to Administration Commissioner of Jiannan, proposed that the court consider reducing the tax burden of the Jiannan region to an appropriate degree. Ever since Chuanshu had been pacified, the region had always paid its taxes to the court in full and on time, with reductions only granted during times of disaster.

In the past period, the taxes that Chuanshu remitted to the court each year accounted for more than twenty percent of the entire realm's total. This was truly an enormous proportion, and it also meant suffering for the people of Chuanshu.

Later, the court had made adjustments to a certain degree, making the burden more reasonable and reducing the exploitation of Chuanshu. But even so, Chuanshu's annual tribute still ranked among the foremost of all the realm's circuits and prefectures. And looking at the southwest region, only Jiannan was watched most tightly by the court. There was no helping it—who told you that in the southwest, only Jiannan Circuit was prosperous?

Zhang Yong had served as an official in the southwest for over a decade, rising from Prefect of Chengdu to Administration Commissioner of Jiannan. Naturally, he had developed feelings for the place, had formed an interest group he represented, and wanted to secure some benefits for the people of Jiannan and make a name for himself.

Of course, unlike others, he did not simply cry poverty and complain about injustice. He merely made the reasonable request that the Finance Commission, when setting tax quotas, consider making appropriate adjustments. Adjustments were made every year, but for a land of plenty like Jiannan, the room for adjustment each year was minimal. Not increasing the burden was already a favor—Zhang Yong wanted to decrease it.

If Zhang Yong was considering the people of Jiannan and seeking to lighten the burden on the officials and populace under his governance, then there were others who were seeking power and profit for their local administrations.

Among them, the most fiercely contested issue was unquestionably the annual retention of local tax revenues. More than one circuit administration had raised the point that the annual retention rate of twenty percent was simply too little, already insufficient for local administrative expenditures, and was even beginning to affect the functioning of local government.

Wang Renshan, the Administration Commissioner of Liangzhe, cited examples, saying that officials in some prefectures and counties in southern Zhejiang had already experienced arrears in salary payments. Officials, especially those at the grassroots level, were having a hard time.

This was clearly nonsense. Other places might have an argument, but if the Jiang-Zhe region was crying poverty, then wouldn't the other impoverished circuits be absolutely up in arms?

On the matter of retained tax revenue lay the most critical contradiction between the central government and the regions. Facing these voices from the localities, Liu Yang and Zhao Pu also felt some pressure.

However, their attitude was equally resolute. Tax retention was a bottom line for the central government that could not be broken. This was not merely a question of tax amounts—it involved the authority of the central government and the court's control over the regions.

Political power could be appropriately relaxed, but military power and financial power had to be firmly held in the court's hands. For the court, this was absolutely necessary.

Moreover, considering expenditure alone—such a vast court, so many officials, so many nobles, so many troops, plus various public works and natural and man-made disasters—the fiscal demands were far greater than the financial pressure of any single circuit or prefecture.

The fiscal stringency of the past was deeply etched in the memory of every central minister. Therefore, anything touching on this matter naturally struck their sensitive nerves.

Thus, Zhao Pu, representing the court, issued a forceful rebuttal. Having himself risen from local service to become chancellor, he was a formidable figure with solid grounding—he had a deep and thorough understanding of regional conditions.

In Zhao Pu's view, those who sought to reach into retained tax revenue were mostly motivated by private interest or suffered from severe local protectionist thinking. This precedent absolutely could not be lightly established. Otherwise, once there was a first time, there would be a second. If financial power were to be shaken, then sooner or later other powers would also be eroded. If that happened, the institutional framework the court had maintained for decades would be undermined. This would not be conducive to national stability—and, most critically, it would affect the authority of the central court.

However, in contrast to Zhao Pu's stance, Lu Duoxun chose to support the demands of the regions, and said with a sneer that Zhao Pu had spent too long in the Hall of State Affairs, that he didn't know the situation in the localities, and that he should show more consideration for conditions on the ground...

As a result, another fierce clash erupted between Zhao and Lu. After the Yangzhou incident, this was another serious conflict between the two, and it had to happen at such a time.

Hearing about something a hundred times is not as good as seeing it once. So the rumors were not just rumors—and the struggle for chancellorial power at the center was even more intense than they had imagined. The circuit and prefecture magnates who had come to the capital got a full meal of gossip, and Lu Duoxun's "betrayal" also earned him Liu Yang's deep displeasure.