Chapter 212: The First Shuntian Prefecture Clerical Examination

"Hey!"

Qian Changle pushed off with his feet, leaping clean over a puddle of filthy water slick with vegetable leaves and fish guts, and landed steady on the ground.

He glanced down at his half-worn cloth shoes — perfectly clean — and finally let out a relieved breath.

If they'd gotten soaked, holed up in an exam cell in this weather would've been miserable.

Dry them out, your feet freeze; leave them wet, your feet freeze. Pure torture either way.

Behind him lay Vegetable Market Street in the southern ward.

This place was at its worst when it rained, or in this neither-cold-nor-warm spell they were having now.

Rain, of course, needs no explanation — the whole place turned into a flood.

But this half-cold, half-thaw season was just as bad.

Once the winter sun came out, the ice ridges melted into water that mixed with dung, fish guts, and vegetable leaves, turning the pitted dirt road into a trap — a pit every three paces, a sinkhole every five. Unless you'd walked these streets for years, you'd never come out clean.

Qian Changle found a patch of hard ground, scraped the worst of the mud off his soles, tucked two copper cash behind each ear, and set off toward Xuanwu Gate.

With so many people entering the city, the gate toll wasn't collected one by one — you just tucked the coins behind your ears, and the guards would take them as you passed. But today, something was strange: the guards weren't taking them?!

Qian Changle couldn't help stopping in his tracks, astonished.

The guard rolled his eyes and snapped impatiently, "What are you staring at? Get in, quick — don't block the way!"

Qian Changle took a good look at the guard's face.

Hey — pale complexion, long face. Sure enough, it wasn't the same guard as last time.

Qian Changle chuckled inwardly; he understood now.

Ah — the Eastern Depot was back at work.

A virtuous policy of the new reign: by His Majesty's personal decree, all petty peddlers entering the city to sell their wares were exempt from the gate toll.

But policies from above always meet countermeasures from below.

The previous guard had held out for over a month, but in the end, his hand had reached out again.

At first it was just taking a little something, and then, before anyone knew it, the old two-copper-cash custom had quietly returned.

When Qian Changle had gone to the Shuntian Prefectural office to register, he'd been scolded for it once already — that's why he'd been so conscientious this time.

And yet —

In the end, nothing escapes the eyes and ears of the Eastern Depot.

Qian Changle stepped through Xuanwu Gate, and a stretch of brand-new, smooth flagstone road opened before him.

But looking ahead, it ran barely fifty-some zhang before turning back into a muddy quagmire, where a swarm of laborers were digging up earth with earth-shaking work chants, steam rising off them in the cold air.

The drainage ditches on either side of the road were still under construction too; some workers had dug pits, planted saplings, and were now filling in the soil and watering them.

Qian Changle shook his head, didn't look too closely, and turned eastward.

He'd never thought much of this new road-building policy.

Xuanwu Gate Avenue had been broad and level to begin with — why bother paving it with flagstones?

Tossing down several hundred thousand taels of silver to fix the mud pits on Vegetable Market Street in the southern ward, or to remit the taxes around the capital — either would've been better than this.

His Sacred Majesty was benevolent and sagely, no doubt, but he really did have a habit of throwing money around.

The reason Qian Changle was heading east was to reach the Examination Hall in the Mingshi Ward.

Yes — this exam was being held in the Examination Hall, the very same venue used for the provincial and metropolitan examinations.

The fact was, the number of applicants for this so-called "First Shuntian Prefecture Clerical Examination" had far exceeded everyone's expectations.

According to the figures published in the latest issue of the Great Ming Times, from the opening of registration on the second day of the tenth month to its close on the tenth, in just nine short days, two thousand four hundred and seventy-two eligible candidates had signed up.

This scale had even surpassed His Majesty the Emperor's own expectations.

What had originally been set as an examination administered solely by the Ministry of Personnel ended up being upgraded into a massive undertaking jointly run by the Ministry of Rites, with Shuntian Prefecture, the Ministry of Personnel, and the Directorate of Ceremonial all assisting.

As for why so many people had signed up — that was entirely the Great Ming Times' doing.

If the newspaper hadn't run issue after issue, page after page, arguing from every angle the importance of the clerical selection, extolling its benefits, prospects, and significance, the whole affair would never have caused such a sensation.

What was it His Majesty had said in the paper, again?

"Surveying the reforms of past dynasties, new policies often fail not from above, but from below. The clerks — who transmit Heaven's mandate above and touch the people's lives below — are truly the very keystone of the new policies!"

And after all that buildup, not only the literate newspaper-readers, but even illiterate old men could now wag their heads and mumble phrases like "the clerks are the foundation of the new policies" or "to break the strife between men and land, first break the clerks' collusion."

If it hadn't been for all that, he — a man who'd already resolved to apprentice himself at a shop — would never have put it off another dozen-plus days just to take a shot at this opportunity.

Qian Changle had just turned onto Chang'an Street and hadn't gone more than a few steps.

Bang! — a thunderous crash, and the gate of that barbarian temple beside the main road burst open as a figure charged out.

Startled, Qian Changle stopped in his tracks and looked over.

It was an old man in a crimson official robe, his face taut with fury, striding out in haste.

Behind the old man trailed several blue-eyed, high-nosed barbarians, anxiously shouting something that sounded like "Paolo" or "Xiongdi."

Qian Changle couldn't understand what they were saying, but he could read that official robe clearly enough — the peacock rank badge on it was something only a minister of the upper third rank could wear!

The old man gave a fierce shake of his sleeves, flinging the barbarians off, and roared, "What use is all this wrangling? Where there's concealment, there's deceit! I, Xu Guangqi, will find the truth myself! You cannot hide this!"

With that, he paid the barbarians behind him no further heed and came striding furiously in Qian Changle's direction.

Civil officials in the capital were as thick as rain, but Qian Changle had only ever heard of a handful — Grand Secretary Li Guopu of the Wei Zheng faction, the "Beheading Vice Minister" Huo Weihua, and a few others. He had no idea who this Xu Guangqi fellow was.

But seeing a third-rank minister bearing down on him in a rage, he still hurriedly stepped aside, bowed, and cupped his hands: "This young man greets His Excellency Xu."

Xu Guangqi had been striding forward, eyes fixed straight ahead, burning with fury — but out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of Qian Changle's attire, and his steps slowed slightly.

He looked him up and down, his gaze settling on the scholar's robe washed so pale its color had faded, and the anger on his face suddenly receded a little.

"Here for the clerical selection exam?"

Qian Changle hastily answered, "Yes, sir. This young man is from Centurion Ji's village in Wanping County, eighteen years of age — just meets the requirements."

Xu Guangqi nodded and clapped Qian Changle firmly on the shoulder: "Give it your best. Put your heart into it! With a sage sovereign above, the affairs of state are full of promise!"

"Thank you for your kind words, sir!" Qian Changle bowed deeply.

When he straightened up again, Xu Guangqi was already striding away as if on wings, having dashed more than ten zhang into the distance, leaving behind only a brisk, hurried silhouette.

Such behavior left Qian Changle utterly baffled. He glanced back at those barbarians, then looked again at Minister Xu. Only after a moment did he lift his feet and continue forward.

After walking for nearly another half-hour, the tall memorial archway of the Examination Hall finally came into distant view.

Before he even drew near, the clamor of a boiling crowd reached his ears.

On the open ground beyond the archway, dozens of long queues had already formed — a dense, dark mass, nothing but heads as far as the eye could see.

Today, the clerks' examination involved only one matter: identity verification and a search before entry.

As for the actual examination, that was tomorrow's affair.

Qian Changle picked a queue that looked slightly shorter and joined it.

Ahead of him in line were several young men in bright, fine clothing, clustered around a rich young master dressed in silk and draped in a brocade fur cloak.

They formed their own little circle within the queue, laughing and talking loudly, drawing frequent sidelong glances from those around them.

"————That official document personally annotated by His Majesty, the one by Xue the capital — I've already memorized the whole thing. Absolutely no problem!"

"But that's tens of thousands of characters! Brother Wang, your memory is truly remarkable!"

"For this exam's topic, I'm guessing 'The Maladies of the Capital' is a certainty — no escaping it!"

"I've heard that this batch of new clerks will have a separate personnel register, and their promotions won't be bound by the old precedents. Is that true?"

The rich young master laughed. "That's what the gazette says. But to rise to Vice Minister or Minister — unless one is a dragon among men, how could that be possible?"

"Still, for a person of average talent, if you grind it out, scraping your way to a proper rank of the seventh grade shouldn't be too hard."

"Why have clerks across the realm become so universally corrupt and grasping? Isn't it precisely because they have no hope of promotion, so the post merely passes from father to son, and they can only exploit the villages?"

"This very argument was repeatedly demonstrated in that memorial by Vice Minister of Rites Wen Tiren, published in the *Great Ming Times*."

"This promotion path for clerks, riding the wind of the New Policies, should open up somewhat — but only a little, nothing more."

Qian Changle listened as if drunk or entranced, unconsciously edging closer.

As a farmer's son, the most important figures he could normally encounter were the village head and Master Wang. How could he ever have heard such "inside information" concerning court politics and his own future prospects?

To say nothing else — those essential statecraft documents now required study in the capital, he had only copied down the final published versions of the memorials from the *Great Ming Times*.

As for the higher-level versions personally annotated by His Majesty, he had only heard of their name, never seen the texts themselves.

"Where's that coal-smoke smell coming from?" A young man with the air of a retainer suddenly covered his nose, frowning and looking around. His gaze finally settled on Qian Changle.

Qian Changle's body stiffened abruptly.

He lowered his head and instinctively used his palm to cover the patch on his chest — its color slightly too conspicuous — and stepped back two paces.

Though Yongchang coal was cheap, it always carried a pungent odor.

His elder brother, thinking he would be entering the city for the exam today, had specially burned a lump of it last night to keep him warm.

Yet this smell — which he himself no longer noticed — had truly soaked into his clothes.

The rich young master glanced over. He was, to his credit, fairly courteous, and said to his retainer, "Mind your manners."

Then he turned to Qian Changle, cupped his hands, and smiled. "Brother, my companion here has a blunt tongue. I hope you'll forgive him."

"It's nothing, nothing." Qian Changle waved his hands awkwardly, his cheeks burning. He stepped back another two paces, widening the distance.

Yet once the distance grew, he could no longer clearly hear what each person was saying.

This time, Qian Changle dared not draw near again. He could only faintly catch scattered terms like "Patrol Battalion," "residence tax," "lijia household registration," and the like, his heart filled with the deepest regret.

He did not know how long he had queued. Just as he was growing drowsy, his turn finally came.

The inspection was far less strict than he had imagined.

Qian Changle had once heard the farmers back in his village say that for the provincial and metropolitan examinations of the *juren* gentlemen, they would even probe a man's anal tract.

He had secretly been anxious about this for a long time.

But when his turn came, the soldiers merely rifled through his bamboo basket and writing materials, then had him remove his outer coat and searched his person before waving him through.

Had the villagers spoken wrongly, or was this clerks' examination more lenient than the provincial and metropolitan exams?

The minor clerk guiding him did not lead him directly over, but instead brought him to a secluded spot and spoke in a formulaic tone: "First-class cell: one tael. Second-class cell: five mace. Third-class cell: one mace."

He glanced at Qian Changle's Confucian robe, washed so often it had turned white, and considerately picked an option for him. "Well? Do you have one mace?"

Qian Changle, utterly mortified, pulled out every copper coin from his bosom.

The twenty *wen* his elder brother had given him, plus the eight *wen* he had saved himself — he held them all in his palm.

His face flushed deep red. "Sir officer, I wonder if twenty-eight *wen* — could it — could you possibly make an exception —"

The minor clerk glanced at the pitiful copper coins in his palm, but did not reach out to take them. He merely sighed and said, "It's not that I want to make things hard for you. This rule has been so since ancient times. The money I take isn't for my own use — it must all be shared out among the various gentlemen."

"Your twenty-eight *wen* — if it's not enough, it's not enough. There's truly no way to make an exception."

"Everything is done by the book. If by some stroke of luck you pass in the future, you mustn't come making trouble for me either."

With that, he led Qian Changle straight to the very end of a row of buildings, forcefully nailed his nameplate onto a cell, and left on his own.

What was a cell that cost no money like?

The size was the same, but the orientation and conditions were simply worse.

This cell was missing two roof tiles, and the neighboring unit was right next to the latrine. Wave after wave of years-old stench rolled in — truly a vile environment.

Qian Changle sighed helplessly. He set down the wooden chest he was carrying, took out a roll of bamboo blinds, and hung them at the cell door, barely blocking some of the stench and cold wind.

He then pulled out a few bundles of straw, climbed onto the desk, and did his best to stuff the gaps where the tiles were missing, while also praying that it would not rain or snow tomorrow.

Only after finishing these tasks did he jump down. He used his sleeve to carefully wipe down the dust-covered desk, laid out his bedding, and arranged his brush, ink, paper, and inkstone neatly one by one.

After all this bustling about, the cramped little space finally bore some resemblance to an examination venue, which settled his heart somewhat.

He rolled up his thin blanket, wrapped himself tightly in it, curled up against the ice-cold wall, and felt his body heat slowly returning.

Once his body had warmed a little, he fished out a bag of parched rice and, accompanied by cold plain water, silently swallowed it down mouthful by mouthful.

By the time he finished the parched rice, the sky had already turned completely dark.

By custom the candles would not be distributed until tomorrow, so every cell was now pitch-black.

From the next cell came muffled coughing; in the distance, other candidates murmured in conversation or recited texts, punctuated now and then by the night-watch soldiers sounding the hours — and, of course, the faint, ever-present stench of the latrine.

Qian Changle's thoughts, however, drifted far away.

What would be tested tomorrow? The "maladies of the capital" that the Great Ming Times had harped on again and again? Or that "statecraft official document" of which he had only copied out the final draft?

And what exactly were these "patrol battalions" and "residence taxes" the rich young men kept talking about?

What would the mathematics section test? Could it really be the field-area method the village head had mentioned?

And the classics section? They wouldn't set them the same topics the juren gentlemen had faced, would they?

Qian Changle's mind raced wildly, without a single answer, yet he could not stop himself from sinking into these fruitless reveries.

Without his noticing, exhaustion surged over him like a tide. In a daze, he drifted off to sleep.

That night held no dreams — and yet it seemed to hold them.

In any case, many years later, Qian Changle could no longer recall it clearly.