Entering the city, they were finally safe.
The two Sculptors were the first to speak. "Third Master, the two of us plan to make a quick trip to the market."
"Hmm, go ahead. But be sure to assemble at the city gate first thing tomorrow morning. We'll travel back together. Do not, under any circumstances, try to return alone. You saw how dangerous the roads were, didn't you?"
The two Sculptors nodded furiously. On the way here, they had narrowly escaped being chopped into pieces by bandits—they wouldn't dare risk a solo journey back.
They bowed, offered a quick apology for the inconvenience, and carrying their small bundles, headed straight for the marketplace.
The Grand Opening of Heavenly Goods
Due to the great drought, people's livelihoods were crumbling, and merchants were scarce. There were vendors selling various, mostly useless, daily sundries, but very few selling food. Items like side dishes and, especially, spices and seasonings were virtually extinct.
The two Sculptors staked out a corner of the market, unfolded their bundles, and displayed some of the superior goods graciously bestowed by the Heavenly Venerate.
The moment they set up, a thunderous WHOOSH! of people encircled them.
"This… this is sugar! Pure, snow-white, transparent sugar!"
The white sugar granted by the Heavenly Venerate was of the highest quality—large, crystal-like chunks. The Sculptors, however, were not fools. At home, they had already ground the large blocks into a powder. But this "modern-process" sugar was so much whiter than the sugar produced by ancient methods that it clearly wasn't from the same dimension, let alone the same farm.
The two Sculptors beamed, their faces practically glowing. "It's good stuff, isn't it?"
"Give me one qian of it!"
"I'll take two qian!"
"I suppose I should have one qian as well."
The city dwellers were far wealthier than the villagers, but even they dared not buy too much. Forget weighing by the jin (pound) or even the liang (ounce)—they could only afford a qian or two just to satisfy a desperate, years-long craving.
The first Sculptor was having a brisk trade in sugar, and the other Sculptor was similarly swamped: "And this… is this pork lard?"
The Sculptor replied, "It is! The finest pork lard. Smell it! Doesn't it sing a melody to your nose?"
"What year is this? How on earth do you still have pork lard?"
"People are starving! And yet your family can still afford to raise a pig? What kind of high-roller dynasty are you running?"
City folk certainly couldn't raise pigs themselves. They relied on country villagers to bring lard into the city. But since the drought began, the number of pig farmers had dwindled to near zero, causing a complete disruption of supply.
These people didn't know the last time they had tasted real pork fat.
"I… I'll have three qian of this."
"Give me five qian!"
Everyone bought sparingly, as the goods were incredibly expensive, but the sheer volume of customers made up for it. In no time, the entire stock brought by the two Sculptors was completely sold out, leaving them with two bulging pouches of silver fragments.
The two Sculptors weighed the money bags, giddy with joy, and exchanged a look. "Now we can afford the 'Artisan Class Silver'!"
The Price of Freedom
It turned out that these two Sculptors, like Li Da, belonged to the Artisan Class (Jiangji).
The difference was that Li Da was a "Stationary Artisan" (Zhuzuo Jiang), requiring him to "punch the clock" like a modern worker and physically report to the official government workshops—his personal freedom was severely restricted. This is why Li Da was desperate to escape his status.
The two Sculptors, however, were "Roster-Cycle Artisans" (Lunban Jiang). They were more free, only being required to rotate into the official workshops every three to five years. They typically worked for three consecutive months, which then bought them three to five years of rest, making their lives comparatively more flexible.
In the forty-first year of Jiajing's reign (1562 AD), the court reformed the Artisan Levy System, permitting Roster-Cycle Artisans to opt out of physical labor entirely. To do so, they simply had to pay the "Artisan Class Silver"—four qian and five fen annually. The court would then use this money to hire replacement workers.
Previously, the two Sculptors couldn't afford this fee, forcing them to obediently take their rotation. But now, with the Heavenly Venerate's generous gift of valuable goods, they conceived the idea of turning those items into hard currency and buying their freedom by paying the Artisan Class Silver.
This was why they dared to risk their lives following Thirty-Two on the trip to the county seat.
Now, with the money secure, their pockets were heavy, their confidence soared, and they marched, chests out and a wind beneath their steps, toward the official workshops.
The Artisan's Farewell
They entered the compound, walked through the main hall, and saw every kind of artisan imaginable: carpenters, sawyers, tilers, blacksmiths, tailors, painters, bamboo-workers, pewterers, engravers, founders, screen-makers, floral-weavers, twin-thread weavers, masons, silversmiths, drum-makers, armorers, ink-kiln workers, bucket-makers, five-ink workers, dragon-carvers, leather-tanners, calico-workers, clay-modelers, paper-makers, glass-workers…
(P.S.: Of course, not all these artisans would be in the same compound at once. This list is merely to show readers the variety of artisan classes in the Ming Dynasty.)
The official workshop was a veritable gathering of talent—many sharp-witted and skillful characters.
These men, who saw each other daily, mostly recognized one another. Spotting the two Sculptors, they waved in greeting. "Hey, is that you two? I thought you finished your rotation last year. You shouldn't be here this year, should you?"
The two Sculptors grinned proudly. "We earned some money and are here to pay the 'Artisan Class Silver,' hehehe."
This announcement immediately drew a wave of envious, resentful glances.
Who wouldn't want to pay for freedom?
Yet, very few could afford it.
The artisans were notoriously poor, their lives often miserable. Far from saving enough for the Artisan Class Silver, most had to pawn or mortgage their own children just to scrape by.
Hearing that the two Sculptors had managed to pay the fee, a crowd gathered around them. "Where did you strike it rich? What's the secret? Tell us, too! We also want to pay the 'Artisan Class Silver' and then just dust off our trousers and walk away!"
The two Sculptors were not so naive as to shout their secrets to a crowd. Such things were for private whispers. Instead, they chuckled mysteriously and declared:
"We have the patronage of Dao Xuan Tianzun!"
(Note: Tianzun is a classical Daoist title meaning Heavenly Venerate or Celestial Worthy, denoting a figure of supreme spiritual power.)
Without offering further explanation, they strode directly into the inner hall to see the supervising Master Artisan.
"Master Artisan, we are here to pay the 'Artisan Class Silver.'"
The Master Artisan, an old man, snorted from his nostrils. "How many years of the levy are you planning to pay at once? I must remind you: you are on a three-year roster cycle. If you want to skip your next shift, you must pay the full three years' silver—that's thirteen qian and five fen. That is no small sum, mind you."
Before the old man could finish, the two Sculptors spoke in unison:
"We are paying for thirty years! That way, we won't have to show up for the next ten rotations. Master Artisan, you may never see the likes of us again in this life."
"Pffft!"
The old man nearly sprayed his tea. "Thirty years?! That's a staggering eight liang and five qian of silver! What right do you two paupers have to produce eight liang and five qian of silver?"
The two Sculptors stood rigidly straight, their faces bearing a mysterious, confident smile. They reached into their clothes, pulled out two large money bags, and slammed them onto the table. The silver clattered loudly: WHAR-A-LANG!
The old man knew by the sound alone that the bags were heavy.
He opened them and, sure enough, they were brimming with silver fragments. He weighed them in his hand and knew there was more than enough—in fact, enough for him to pocket a nice little cut.
The old man was thoroughly convinced. He pulled out a thick ledger, flipped to the "Clay-Modeler" page, found their names, and wrote a triumphant entry: "Has paid Artisan Class Silver for thirty years." He then marked the date and drew a circle.
The two Sculptors took their receipt and proudly declared, "Master Artisan, we bid you farewell. Never to see you again in this lifetime!"
The old man simply waved his hand, speechless, watching them stride away, disappearing beyond the gates of the official workshop.
…
(PS: The official Ming Dynasty profession for these two men was "Clay-Modeler" (捏塑師). For easier reader comprehension, they have been consistently referred to as "Sculptors" (雕塑師) throughout this book. Please be aware of similar simplifications in the text.)