Chapter Fourteen: The Mystery of the Stolen Venison

The attendant delivering the midday meal was, as always, impeccably dressed in a neatly tailored blue robe. His every movement was measured and composed, his demeanor respectful and courteous. The smile on his face seemed as if it had been carefully practiced before a mirror—warm enough to be inviting, but never excessive, lest it appear obsequious; never too little, lest it seem cold. It truly gave one the sense of being a most honored guest.

Xu You washed his hands and invited Zuo Wen and Qiufen to dine together. Spread across the table were a dozen or so dishes: butter, fermented bean curd, raw fish, pickled vegetables, steamed lotus root, bottle gourd soup, Qiang-style stewed venison head, and more. There was both meat and vegetables, dishes grilled and steamed. The exquisite white porcelain plates perfectly complemented the colorful array of foods. From the precision of the knife work to the artistry of the presentation, from the vibrant hues to the enticing aromas, every detail spoke of the host’s refined taste and thoughtful hospitality. It was like a masterful stroke of calligraphy—before the first bite, one’s mouth already watered.

Xu You tasted the pickled vegetables; they were silky and tender, instantly whetting his appetite. “This is excellent,” he remarked. “I've never tried it elsewhere—is it unique to your Qiantang?”

The attendant replied, “You are correct, sir. Nowadays, the people of Qiantang are especially fond of this pickled dish. But to trace its origins, it was brought to the south of the river by Hu people from Northern Wei many years ago.”

So it had roots in minority cuisine—no wonder the flavors were so bold. Xu You, intrigued, asked, “How is it made? Ah, unless it’s a trade secret of your establishment, in which case, say no more.”

The attendant smiled. “There’s nothing secret about it. The method for making pickled vegetables is well-known throughout Qiantang; the real skill is in perfecting the timing. One takes boiled goose, duck, and chicken, along with deer bones, cuts them into strips three inches long and one inch wide, places them in a bowl, and covers them with three or four pieces of dried seaweed. After pouring over salt, vinegar, and meat broth, it’s left to marinate for an hour before serving. However, this dish can be rather rich, so after sampling it, sir, you might try the steamed lotus root. The lingering savor of meat on your tongue, combined with the lotus root’s cool, soft texture, creates a quite distinct flavor.”

Xu You, following the advice, picked up a slice of steamed lotus root and chewed it slowly. As the attendant had promised, the interplay of two entirely different ingredients made for a most memorable taste.

“Steamed lotus root—this I know a little about. Wash the muddy roots with water, rice husks, and bran, remove the joints, fill the holes with honey, seal the ends with flour, steam until tender, then remove the flour, rinse off the honey, peel the skin, slice evenly, and serve. Is that correct?”

The attendant’s smile broadened. “Sir, you are most learned. Every word is true!”

“Such a smooth talker—very pleasing to the ear!” Xu You laughed heartily. “Fenghu, see to his reward!”

Zuo Wen produced a handful of coins, ready to hand them over, but the attendant bowed and respectfully declined. “Thank you for your generosity, sir! But we servants are deeply indebted to our master. To be able to serve honored guests is fortune enough—I dare not accept further reward.”

Xu You chuckled. “Is it that the reward is too little? Who in this world doesn’t care for money?”

On hearing this, the attendant hastily knelt, pressing his hands to his forehead. “You overpraise me, sir. I am well provided for here, with food and lodging, summer and winter clothes never lacking. Each month I receive wages seventy percent higher than elsewhere—more than sufficient for my needs. I do love money, but if I had too much, I wouldn’t know how to spend it. Better to be content with what I have.”

“There is no greater misfortune than discontent. To understand this is to live freer than most,” Xu You said. “If that’s the case, I won’t insist. Go now, and unless there’s cause, don’t enter the courtyard at random—I value peace and quiet and dislike being disturbed.”

“Yes, sir!”

After the attendant left, Zuo Wen sighed, “Now even I am curious to meet the proprietor of this inn!”

Xu You laughed. “Anyone who can train even the most ordinary servant to such a standard must be among the foremost figures in Qiantang. There’s no rush to meet him—we’ll have plenty of chances in the future.”

After their midday meal, Zuo Wen went out in search of a doctor, while Xu You lay down fully clothed for a nap. When he awoke and saw the sun setting outside the window, he asked Qiufen and learned that a doctor surnamed Liu had already been by to examine Lushuang. The diagnosis was internal cold, but the prescription was different—primarily medicinal, supplemented by dietary therapy, with seven days of medicine to be taken before a follow-up.

“Is there any improvement?”

“Mm, the doctor said, fortunately, the medicine was given in time, and there were no long delays on the river. With a little more rest, she should recover fully.”

Relieved, Xu You washed his face and strolled into the courtyard, standing beneath the ancient locust tree with his hands behind his back, gazing silently at the last streaks of crimson in the sky.

It looked like flesh and blood burning!

He did not know how much time passed before Zuo Wen, dust-covered and travel-worn, pushed open the courtyard gate and hurried over. “Sir!”

Xu You was startled from his reverie and smiled. “How did the search for a house go?”

“I asked the inn’s attendant to introduce a few brokers, but either the houses were too small or located in noisy markets with all sorts of unsavory neighbors. I visited five or six places and found none suitable.”

“There’s no rush for this. Take your time—eventually, we’ll find the right one. You must be tired; get some rest.”

The next morning, Zuo Wen went out again to find a broker, Qiufen tended to Lushuang, and Xu You, with nothing to occupy him, left the northwest courtyard. Guided by an attendant, he came to the main building, a teahouse that served both guests and locals. It was three stories high, every seat taken, the room filled with the clink of cups and the hum of conversation.

The attendant found Xu You a prime spot by the window on the third floor. He ordered two small dishes and a pot of tea—what they called flower tea, slightly sweet to the taste. Gazing into the distance, he could see, half shrouded in mist, the legendary Qiantang Lake, praised by poets throughout the ages.

He sat there until noon before descending. Turning a few corners, he passed by a guest room and suddenly heard an argument: “You still claim it wasn’t you? There are only the two of us in this room. My venison jerky is missing—how can you say you had nothing to do with it?”

Not all the lodgings in the inn were private courtyards like Xu You’s. There were also shared guest rooms, divided into upper, middle, and lower grades according to their luxury, as well as common dormitories for servants and retainers. Sometimes, travelers of modest means, unwilling to squeeze into the dormitory, would share a guest room with strangers to split the cost.

Since the chaos of the Five Barbarians, when north and south became divided, most government post stations had fallen into disuse, and private inns had flourished. Because they were privately run, they seldom cared much for the identities of their guests, which led to the prevalence of “crimes of all sorts” within their walls.

Disputes over lost property like this happened several times a day—no one found it unusual. Xu You shook his head to himself; venison jerky was no ordinary foodstuff—it could even be used as currency in the marketplace. No wonder the owner was so upset.

Just as he was about to leave, someone crashed through the door of the guest room and fell into the corridor. Xu You had no time to dodge and caught the person in his arms. A great force hit him, making him stagger back several steps until his back struck a pillar, sending a sharp pain through his chest, though it faded quickly.

A second man followed from the room. He was tall and, though once handsome, a large black mole inside his nostril marred his looks. He wore a folded headscarf, a wide robe, wooden clogs, and his face was twisted in anger. “If you don’t hand over the venison today, I’ll see to it you never leave Qiantang!”