When Zhao An appeared before his great-uncle Wang Defa once again, the term "travel-worn" could not have been more appropriate.
He was a mix of genuine exhaustion and feigned urgency. His mental state was much like that of a man who, upon stepping off a coach, realizes the county magistrate is just ahead and he must hurry to catch up.
"Why were you away so long?"
Having waited several days without seeing his grand-nephew, Wang Defa was naturally disgruntled. He had already put in a good word with Commissioner Ding, praising his grand-nephew to the heavens, and the Commissioner had agreed to have the young man come in for a look. Yet, after several days, the boy had not shown up, forcing Wang to repeatedly offer excuses to the Commissioner.
"Great-uncle," Zhao An explained, using the excuse he had prepared on the road. He cited the need to settle his household affairs with his neighbors; though his home held little of value, he could not simply leave it unattended. "I thought of how the Qingming Festival is almost upon us. Since I rarely get the chance to return home once I’m in Yangzhou, I decided to take the time to tidy up my parents' graves. That ended up delaying me."
In this context, "tidying up the graves" meant exactly what it sounded like: reinforcing the earth mounds that had been worn down by rain, ensuring they wouldn't disappear by the time the year-end ancestral rites arrived. This was a task that had to be completed before Qingming, as local custom forbade breaking ground on old graves after the festival.
Upon hearing this explanation, Wang Defa let out an "Oh," his frustration dissipating significantly. People of his generation placed great importance on filial piety; seeing that his grand-nephew possessed such a virtue made him feel quite satisfied.
Madam Ma set out a few dishes, and the two men sat drinking and discussing the matter. According to Wang Defa, he had already spoken with Commissioner Ding and smoothed things over with his colleagues; all that remained was for Zhao An to come in for an "interview." As long as he passed that, the position was a one-hundred-percent certainty.
"Great-uncle, once I join the Tax Bureau, what exactly will I be doing?" Zhao An was quite concerned about his specific duties.
Wang Defa laughed. "Don't worry. You won't be sent out to run errands or patrol the stalls. You’ll be working in the office just like your great-uncle. You'll start as an assistant in the Accounting Office to gain some experience, then we'll see after you're familiar with the ropes."
The Accounting Office was the Tax Bureau's ledger room—a crucial department responsible for calculating annual tax collections, reductions, and the tax amounts due, as well as managing the bureau's expenditures.
Zhao An was very pleased with this arrangement. If one didn't work in a department with actual authority, where else would one go—tending the gate and selling newspapers for the guard? While he wasn't an expert with an abacus, he knew the basic multiplication tables, and he was confident he would be a proficient hand after a few days. Even in the worst-case scenario, he could simply perform the calculations himself, and he was certain he wouldn't make any errors.
With his department settled, the next concern was his compensation. A formal position was out of the question; the Commissioner of the Ganquan County Tax Bureau was merely an unranked clerk. If the head of the office could barely manage to be listed under the Ministry of Personnel, there was no chance for the subordinates to have official status.
Zhao An knew that, in reality, county-level offices in the Ming and Qing dynasties did not live off the central government’s coffers; they lived off the county’s own finances. This "county finance" was not a fixed budget, but rather money collected by the magistrate through various means. If collections were high, there was money for the staff; if low, everyone suffered.
He recalled that "fire loss"—the surcharge added to taxes to cover the melting and recasting of silver into ingots—was a primary benefit for county officials. The surcharge added during collection was always higher than the actual melting loss, with the difference staying with the local officials. In some areas, this could reach twenty to fifty percent, adding a heavy burden to the people. Although the Yongzheng Emperor later implemented a policy to "turn fire loss over to the public," this reduced the income of local officials, forcing those in poorer regions to borrow money just to pay their staff's "wages."
If officials couldn't support their staff and were forbidden from keeping the fire loss, what could they do? Thus, the "salary-nourishing silver" was born. But the source of this silver was still the local taxes—the wool still came from the sheep. It was the same old wine in a new bottle.
None of this mattered to Zhao An; he only cared that he would receive a salary. The pay was not high: for the first year, he would only receive one tael and two mace per month, totaling less than fifteen taels a year. To put that in perspective, rice cost ten *wen* per pound, and one tael of silver was one thousand *wen*—meaning one tael could buy one hundred pounds of rice. In his previous life, that would be roughly equivalent to five or six thousand yuan a year, or less than five hundred yuan a month.
It was clearly a low wage, but Wang Defa’s next words made him stop worrying about the base salary. "Your monthly allowance is a bit low, but don't complain. You’re just starting out in the bureau. Once you’ve been there a while, even if you can't afford to buy a house in Yangzhou, you’ll have no trouble taking a wife."
There were things Wang Defa didn't state explicitly, nor could he. Working in the government office wasn't just about the fixed monthly stipend. Even he, a scribe, made only a few dozen taels a year on paper, but after the private "gifts" he received, he cleared at least a hundred taels annually.
Who gave these gifts? The merchants, of course. The Tax Bureau collected commercial taxes. Which shop was large, which was small, who had high profits, who had low, who paid more, who paid less—there was an art to all of it. When you knew people in the office, everything was negotiable.
"I have no objections, great-uncle. I will follow your lead in everything!" Zhao An, being no fool, immediately raised his glass to toast Wang Defa.
"You are my grand-nephew; I will naturally look out for you. But once you're inside, you must strive for yourself. Learn everything, ask if you don't know, and never act on your own authority. Whatever anyone in the bureau asks you to do, do it. Never clash with others, and don't be temperamental."
After a few more drinks, Wang Defa told Zhao An to get some rest so he would be sharp the next morning for their trip to the Tax Bureau. Zhao An readily agreed and helped Madam Ma clear the dishes; his diligence earned a slight nod from Wang Defa. He didn't mind trouble, but he feared that his aunt’s only remaining blood relative would be an incompetent fool. Fortunately, the boy seemed capable enough.
Nothing more was said that night. Before dawn the next day, Wang Defa woke Zhao An to wash up and then led him toward his workplace—the Ganquan County Tax Bureau.
Even as a person of some standing, Wang Defa didn't have his own sedan chair or carriage, so the two walked. Along the way, they stopped at a noodle shop frequented by Wang Defa and ordered two baskets of soup dumplings. When they finished, Wang Defa didn't pay; Zhao An didn't ask questions, but as they left, he noticed the shop assistant recording something in a ledger. It seemed they were running a tab to be settled at the end of the month. This was the advantage of being an "important person" in an office; if Zhao An had tried to leave without paying, he would have been made to squat in the corner and face the consequences.
The Ganquan County Tax Bureau was located in the bustling Xiaguan district of Yangzhou, over three miles from Wang Defa’s home. Along the way, Wang Defa repeatedly instructed him on how to conduct himself before Commissioner Ding. Zhao An nodded along, all the while wondering if the Tax Bureau office would be as impressive as the ones in his past life.
When they finally arrived, he realized it was just a small courtyard covering a few acres, with not even a guard at the entrance. It looked exactly like a rural primary school from his previous life—a dozen rooms enclosed by a perimeter wall. If not for the plaque hanging at the gate, it felt exactly like a village committee office.