The Prince and Ai - 6. Chapter 6

Ai
Zhu Cilang’s Workshop, Forbidden City, Beijing
Eleventh Month of the Seventh Year of Chongzhen (December 20^th 1634)

Hard winds, dry air, and coal smoke cover Beijing as winter begins to descend. Six Wooden Ox and Flowing Horse Chariots stand inside Zhu Cilang’s workshop, each built to the improved pattern prepared for the journey to Fengyang City.

Emperor Chongzhen’s decision to grant Zhu Cilang greater freedom and broader access to materials allows the workshop to produce steel wire, iron frames, and other components with concealed military uses. The Ming code reserves gunpowder and saltpeter for official arsenals, so Zhu Cilang cannot manufacture matchlocks, explosive charges, or other firearms without exposing the entire project to scrutiny.

That restriction forces us to rely on tools and weapons made from materials that can be acquired without suspicion. Bamboo, limestone, fern spores, tung oil, and several grades of cloth enter the workshop under the stated purpose of preparing ancestral offerings, while selected quantities are reserved for protective supplies, and weapons that do not require gunpowder.

The sixth chariot stands before us with its rear wheels raised on wooden blocks. Li Tianjing presses one treadle by hand and watches the sequence beneath the frame move through the treadle, connecting rod, crankshaft, gear, axle, and wheel.

“The left bearing is heating,” Li Tianjing says. Li Tianjing keeps the treadle moving for several more turns before adding, “It will not seize yet, but it is wasting effort.”

Zhu Cilang kneels beside Li Tianjing and touches the wooden housing. Heat reaches our fingertips, and I compare it with the bearing on the opposite side before Zhu Cilang answers.

“The shaft is not centered,” Zhu Cilang says. “The rear brace is pulling it to the left.”

Li Tianjing examines the brace and nods. Several weeks of work have ended Li Tianjing’s surprise when Zhu Cilang identifies a defect before an older scholar notices it, and the demands of production leave little time for disbelief.

A carpenter loosens the rear mounting while a blacksmith prepares a thinner iron spacer. Three months of controlled work now fill the room with six completed frames, replacement gears, spare treadles, prepared axle pins, iron rims, and wooden patterns for every standard component.

No single craftsman receives the complete design. Separate groups make the crankshaft assemblies, connecting rods, gears, springs, axles, and frames, while the most demanding iron parts use metal refined beyond the quality produced by ordinary layered forging.

Impurities in common iron cause deformation, fracture, and rapid wear under repeated stress. A captured chariot might reveal the general arrangement, but copying it without the measurements, metal preparation, and production sequence would require extensive trial and repeated failure.

The vehicles are no longer isolated curiosities. Every part follows fixed dimensions, every craftsman understands the acceptable range of error, and damaged components can be replaced without rebuilding the entire transmission.

This production system matters more than the six completed machines. Six chariots cannot change the movement of an empire, but the workshop can now reproduce, repair, and improve them without starting again after every failure.

Their immediate military value remains limited, and I have explained those limits to Zhu Cilang without qualification. The chariots cannot replace horses on broken ground, pull heavy artillery through mud, or endure long marches without maintained roads and regular repairs.

Within cities, fortified compounds, and established courier routes, however, the chariots can carry written orders, supplies, tools, or wounded soldiers without consuming fodder. Their greater value lies in training craftsmen to produce interchangeable parts and teaching officials that organized mechanical power can reduce dependence on animal labor.

Zhu Cilang understands the distinction and does not demand more than the design can provide. Zhu Cilang also refuses to let court enthusiasm turn an experimental fleet into an extravagant military proposal.

The repaired brace settles into place, and Li Tianjing tests the treadle again. After several rotations, Li Tianjing places a palm against the bearing housing and waits.

“The temperature is stable,” Li Tianjing says. “This chariot is ready.”

“It is ready for storage,” Zhu Cilang replies. “The final adjustment can be made after the wood contracts.”

Li Tianjing glances toward the open doors, where two eunuchs stand beyond easy hearing. Zhu Cilang rises, wipes the dust from his hands, and leads Li Tianjing behind a partition crowded with drawings, calculations in Arabic numerals, and scale molds.

Our absence from the workshop begins in two days. Ceremonial duties, family observances, and lessons arranged by Emperor Chongzhen will occupy most of Zhu Cilang’s time, while the attention surrounding the chariots makes frequent visits increasingly unwise.

Li Tianjing must therefore direct the next stage without us. Li Tianjing’s responsibilities now extend from mechanical production to the commercial enterprises that will finance further work.

A large sheet of paper covers the central table. The plan divides a soap works into areas for raw-material storage, ash filtration, boiling, fragrance preparation, molding, cutting, and drying.

Li Tianjing’s value lies in the ability to treat scientific knowledge and commercial discipline as parts of the same undertaking. Li Tianjing understands that a sound design still fails when materials arrive late, accounts are false, workers are poorly trained, or revenue is removed before the next production cycle begins.

Li Tianjing places one finger on the row of brick furnaces on the secret plans for the commercial workshop that will manufacture our first product soap. “The fire pits should be farther apart. If the dividing wall remains this narrow, the heat will crack the bricks.”

“Then the building must be extended,” Zhu Cilang says. Zhu Cilang studies the roof measurements before adding, “The higher initial cost is smaller than the cost of rebuilding the boiling room.”

Li Tianjing reviews the figures beside the plan. Li Tianjing does not reject an expense merely because it increases the first payment.

“The boiling room’s outer wall should also be doubled,” Zhu Cilang says, pointing to the ventilation plan we developed. “The two walls will contain the heat, while the narrow space between them will carry it outside the building.”

“That requires more bricks,” Li Tianjing replies. Li Tianjing reaches for the brush and adds the cost without objecting.

Li Tianjing watches Zhu Cilang revise the plan without commenting on its disciplined columns of measurements. The proposed furnaces are simple, but their arrangement demands precision if workers are to control heat across repeated batches.

Each iron cauldron rests above a regulated coke fire. Clay-lined channels carry heated air beneath the rounded base before directing smoke toward a chimney, and iron gates control the air entering each fire pit.

A worker can strengthen or weaken the flame without moving the cauldron. This reduces the chance of scorching the oil or allowing the mixture to cool before the reaction is complete.

The lye requires a separate process. Hardwood ash is packed into tall filtration chambers, and measured amounts of water pass through it before draining into ceramic vessels below.

The first liquid is weak and returns to the top for another pass. Later collections become concentrated enough for boiling, but every batch must be tested before it reaches the cauldrons.

Modern instruments cannot be placed in the hands of the workers, so I devise weighted bamboo floats. The depth at which each float rests in the liquid provides a consistent measure of concentration when every float is cut, sealed, weighted, and marked from the same pattern.

Li Tianjing insists that the floats be numbered and stored under supervision. Experience has taught Li Tianjing how easily merchants dilute liquids, replace ingredients, and alter measurements when no second record exists.

“Every stage requires a written account,” Li Tianjing says. “We must record the ash received, water added, lye collected, oil used, fuel consumed, and soap poured. Otherwise, we cannot distinguish theft from error or poor materials.”

The cauldrons receive rendered tallow or tea-seed oil according to the grade of soap. Tallow is cheaper and suitable for common household bars, while tea-seed oil produces a milder product that can command a higher price.

Both mixtures require steady agitation. One worker can stir a cauldron with a hand paddle, but exhaustion creates irregular pauses, and uneven mixing leaves portions of the batch poorly combined.

Zhu Cilang and I discuss this problem through Mohism’s principle of conformity, which offers an existing language for uniform production. Mozi had argued for common standards centuries earlier, and the principle supports fixed measurements, interchangeable products, and reduced waste without requiring Zhu Cilang to explain concepts that have no accepted place in this century.

Achieving that consistency requires partial mechanization rather than dependence on individual skill. The solution uses the same mechanical principle that drives the chariots: treadles turn a crankshaft, and the crankshaft maintains continuous rotation through gears and shafts.

In the soap works, that rotation turns wooden paddles inside the cauldrons, raises containers through pulley frames, drives ventilation fans near the cooling beds, and pulls cutting grids through finished slabs. The mechanism becomes more useful each time it performs another task without requiring a separate source of power.

The stirring rig uses two treadles and a counterweighted beam. One worker maintains the motion, while the counterweight carries the paddle through the portion of each rotation that requires the greatest force.

Iron gears moderate the speed and increase the force delivered to the central shaft. The paddles move slowly enough to prevent caustic liquid from splashing, yet steadily enough to keep the oil and lye in contact.

Controlled heat and continuous agitation complete the main reaction within hours instead of leaving the mixture for days with uncertain results. The soap still requires cooling and drying, but the cauldrons can begin another batch without a prolonged delay.

Zhu Cilang traces the lines connecting the treadle rigs to the cauldrons. “One shaft for two vessels would reduce the cost.”

“One failure would stop both vessels,” Li Tianjing says. Li Tianjing studies the coupling points while Zhu Cilang and I prepare a response.

“One shaft with separate couplings,” Zhu Cilang proposes. “Either cauldron could be disconnected for cleaning or repair without stopping the other.”

Li Tianjing reviews the arrangement and finds no immediate defect. Even after reaching the same conclusion, Li Tianjing refuses to approve the entire system before a practical test.

“Build one pair with shared power and separate couplings,” Li Tianjing says. “The remaining cauldrons will keep separate shafts until the first pair proves reliable.”

Li Tianjing records the decision in the margin. Li Tianjing does not treat caution as opposition or mistake a trial for a permanent commitment.

The fragrance room presents a different set of problems. Agarwood and sandalwood can be processed in ceramic steam-distillation units, where heated water carries fragrant compounds through curved pipes into cooled receiving jars.

Jasmine cannot endure the same treatment without losing much of its scent. Fresh petals must be renewed repeatedly in warmed oil before the fragrant oil is separated and added to the prepared soap base.

The additional labor creates a premium product. Li Tianjing proposes that the finest bars contain a limited amount of jasmine fragrance, while common grades remain unscented or use less expensive botanical extracts.

“Some households will pay more because the supply is limited,” Zhu Cilang says. Zhu Cilang studies the expected yield before adding, “The higher price must cover the labor without consuming oil needed for the common grade.”

Li Tianjing gives a satisfied nod. “Then we can set separate prices and production limits for each grade.”

The finished mixture pours into tiered wooden beds. Removable boards divide the beds by batch, allowing several grades to cool in one building without mixing their fragrances.

Treadle-driven fans pull air through hanging wet cloths and direct the cooled air across the surface. Evaporation lowers the temperature during dry weather and helps each slab set evenly.

Before the slabs become too firm, each one passes beneath a frame fitted with parallel iron wires. A lever draws the wires through the soap, producing bars of consistent width and reducing the waste created by knives.

A second grid cuts the bars to length. Workers stamp each bar with the workshop mark before placing it on slatted shelves inside open-sided drying warehouses.

The soap remains there until excess moisture leaves and the weight stabilizes. The delay protects customers from paying for soft soap that cannot survive transport.

Li Tianjing initially objected to the size of the proposed warehouses. After calculating the number of batches that would be drying at the same time, Li Tianjing doubled the shelf capacity without further argument.

Producing the first batch is manageable, but paying for later batches creates the greater obstacle. New materials must be purchased while earlier production remains in storage and has not yet generated revenue.

Li Tianjing points to the line for working capital. “Your imperial workshop can provide the initial raw materials. Sales from the first batch can finance the second, but the third batch will require new purchases before the second is ready for market.”

“Then the second expansion must use my imperial workshop’s existing capacity,” Zhu Cilang says. “The craftsmen can now produce the basic treadle and crankshaft assemblies without my supervision.”

Zhu Cilang opens a smaller inventory list beside the plan. “I will leave a supply of rotating shafts, gears, and several blueprints for the stirring arms and cutting tools. The stock should support expansion through six production cycles and meet the workshop’s needs for the next seven months.”

Li Tianjing reads the inventory twice before setting it beside the main ledger. Li Tianjing’s expression remains controlled, but the careful review confirms an understanding of the responsibility Zhu Cilang is placing in Li Tianjing’s hands.

We establish three protected accounts. The first retains enough revenue to purchase ash, oil, tallow, wood, ceramics, iron fittings, fuel, and replacement equipment, while the second covers wages, injury payments, and emergency assistance for workers’ households.

The third repays the capital advanced for buildings and tools. Li Tianjing argues that repayment must remain flexible during the first year because fixed withdrawals could halt production during a shortage or delayed sale.

Only the remaining surplus can support other projects. Zhu Cilang wants that money placed under a central production office that can finance several enterprises without revealing their full connection to any official, merchant, or court faction.

The next dispute concerns inspection. Zhu Cilang studies the staffing table and crosses out several proposed clerk positions before Li Tianjing can object.

“A production line cannot rely only on laborers and artisans,” Zhu Cilang says. “Separate ledgers, separate seals, and independent inspections are necessary, but the inspectors must not become another idle office.”

“Then the inspectors should be trained scholars who passed the county examinations,” Li Tianjing replies. “They would understand accounts, written orders, and official forms.”

“We do not need examination graduates in every room,” Zhu Cilang says. “Each active batch will receive one rotating inspector during material collection, production, and warehousing. At our present scale, three inspectors are enough.”

Li Tianjing raises both brows. “Your Highness intends to create an office with only three clerks?”

“Emperor Chongzhen already commands offices with more clerks than duties,” Zhu Cilang says. “I intend to preserve the useful parts of the system without paying men to obstruct the people who produce the goods.”

Li Tianjing cannot suppress a laugh. The sound passes through the partition and causes one distant attendant to glance toward us, but Li Tianjing lowers his voice before continuing the discussion.

Our work will move beyond soap because soap is only the first commercial test. The enterprise must prove that disciplined production can create steady revenue, maintain quality, and employ people who would otherwise depend on irregular labor.

The present operation remains modest. It supports several dozen workers directly and provides additional income to ash collectors, woodcutters, carters, oil merchants, potters, and carpenters.

That number cannot alter Beijing’s economy, but it is enough to demonstrate that an organized industrial and commercial system functions better than private or palace workshops governed by custom alone. Workers receive wages for measured tasks, materials enter through recorded accounts, finished bars leave in counted lots, and protected reserves keep production operating without repeated gifts from the palace.

Li Tianjing values this evidence more than theory. Li Tianjing has seen ventures begin with enthusiasm, consume their capital, and end when creditors seized the tools.

Li Tianjing’s solutions still reflect the political realities of the present dynasty. Protection moves through households, retainers, marriage ties, and private agreements because formal institutions do not reliably defend a profitable enterprise from powerful men.

An unprotected enterprise can be confiscated, while an enterprise dependent on one protector can collapse when that protector loses office. We therefore identify suppliers who can provide materials without learning the larger plan and officials whose attention must be avoided.

No names appear beside the most sensitive categories. Li Tianjing no longer asks questions whose answers would create unnecessary danger.

We return to the main workshop after the final plans are sealed. The sixth chariot now rests on the floor, and Li Tianjing mounts the seat to drive three slow circuits between the benches.

The steering remains steady, and no grinding reaches my hearing. When Li Tianjing stops, Zhu Cilang orders the craftsmen to record the chariot as accepted and prepare enough spare parts to refit two additional vehicles for every completed quadricycle.

No one celebrates because completion has become a recorded stage of production. The absence of ceremony confirms that the design no longer depends on novelty or excitement.

The following afternoon, Cao Huachun arrives for Zhu Cilang’s calligraphy lesson. Cao Huachun carries brushes wrapped in silk, two inkstones, and several sheets of paper selected for rapid cursive strokes.

Cao Huachun’s stated purpose is to teach xingcao for correspondence and administrative drafts. Cao Huachun takes justified pride in the quality of the script, and Zhu Cilang’s admiration requires no deception.

Cao Huachun’s characters remain clear even when written at speed. Pressure changes within each stroke without interrupting the motion, while disciplined spacing allows another reader to follow the text.

I can reproduce the visible shape of Cao Huachun’s writing through Zhu Cilang’s muscles, but copying forms does not create mastery. Cao Huachun understands how each stroke positions the wrist for the next, and that knowledge emerges only through repeated practice.

The lessons also create a reason for regular private contact. Since the race, new maids, cleaning servants, lamp attendants, and body servants have entered the Eastern Palace, and their placement reveals a coordinated pattern rather than ordinary reassignment.

Several remain near doors without assigned duties. Others appear whenever Li Tianjing, Cao Huachun, or craftsmen connected to the chariots visit Zhu Cilang.

I identified the observers during the first week, and Cao Huachun noticed them soon afterward. The Eastern Depot has almost certainly placed them under Zheng Zhihui’s direction, although many servants may know only the limited task assigned to them.

Cao Huachun never looks directly at the listeners. Zhu Cilang never lowers the voice while discussing brush pressure, paper grain, or the proportion of water added to ink.

They practice formal characters, correct the angle of hooks, and compare the drying time of different mixtures. Several lessons pass without any discussion beyond calligraphy, and the servants gradually lose interest in approaching the table.

One maid yawns while Cao Huachun explains the transition between two cursive strokes. The maid turns away at once, but Cao Huachun’s brush pauses long enough to show that he noticed her boredom.

During the next lesson, Zhu Cilang places a small ceramic bottle beside the inkstone. Cao Huachun does not ask about it, and Zhu Cilang offers no explanation while the observers remain near the doors. To them, it looked no different than any bottle of ink.

Zhu Cilang mixes a clear liquid from the bottle with a prepared solution of alum and vinegar. Zhu Cilang dips a clean brush into the mixture and writes four characters on a blank sheet.

The wet strokes remain visible for a moment and disappear as the paper dries. Cao Huachun continues grinding ink while watching the sheet from the edge of Cao Huachun’s vision.

Zhu Cilang waits until no trace remains, then passes a brush dampened with clean water across the paper. The characters return in pale but readable lines, and the surface shows no damage beyond temporary moisture.

Zhu Cilang rinses the brush, seals the bottle, and pushes it across the table. Cao Huachun examines the bottle once, slips it into a sleeve, and selects another sheet of paper.

“Your final stroke is too heavy,” Cao Huachun says. “The brush should leave the paper without hesitation.”

Zhu Cilang rewrites the character and glances toward Cao Huachun. “Is this better?”

“Much better,” Cao Huachun replies. Cao Huachun begins the next example without acknowledging the hidden exchange.

The observing servants witness only a calligraphy lesson, and the Eastern Depot receives nothing useful from it. The exchange communicates more than any spoken conversation Cao Huachun and Zhu Cilang have risked in recent weeks.

Zhu Cilang knows the broad course of Cao Huachun’s investigation because Zhu Cilang’s memories extend beyond the present year. My historical records also confirm the known events, although neither source contains every private action that produced them.

Cao Huachun is building a case against Zheng Zhihui. The investigation traces Zheng Zhihui’s alliances, exchanges with court officials, and influence over the decisions that elevated General Chen Qiyu.

Chen Qiyu had been appointed Supreme Commander of the Five Provinces and entrusted with suppressing the rebel armies. At Chexiang Gorge, Chen Qiyu accepted an amnesty arrangement and allowed Li Zicheng’s trapped forces to leave.

That decision ended an opportunity to destroy a weakened rebel army. Li Zicheng survived, rebuilt his forces, and continued the campaign that would later reach Beijing.

Chen Qiyu has already fallen from power, but Zheng Zhihui remains in office behind relationships that cannot be broken by one failed command. Cao Huachun’s investigation must connect the military disaster to the factional maneuvering behind Chen Qiyu’s appointment.

The evidence must also pass through a palace filled with men whose positions depend on controlling what Emperor Chongzhen learns. The invisible ink therefore assists Cao Huachun without forcing Zhu Cilang to declare support, reveal foreknowledge, or preserve a direct accusation under Zhu Cilang’s own seal.

My records show that Cao Huachun will replace Zheng Zhihui as head of the Eastern Depot next year. The change will follow an attack in which Li Zicheng’s forces loot and burn the Ming imperial tombs at Fengyang City, known also as Zhongdu.

Zhu Cilang cannot safely allow those events to occur again, but Zheng Zhihui must be replaced as head of the Eastern Depot. Thus, Zhu Cilang can improve Cao Huachun’s ability to transmit evidence without interception through giving him access to invisible ink, a cryptographic material develop by Renaissance Italian city-states nearly a hundred years earlier. Zhu Cilang and I modified the original formula, so messages would appear by applying water rather than requiring acid or heat, making it simpler. Providing Cao Huachun with tools for covert espionage would allow him to exchange findings under the surveillance of Eastern Depot agents.

I approve of Zhu Cilang’s restraint, but the danger remains unchanged. The destruction of the tombs will damage Emperor Chongzhen’s authority, provoke demands from rival court officials creating more factional strife, and expose the weakness of local defenses for future rebel attacks.

The consequences will deepen one year later. The Manchus will use the destruction of the imperial tombs and Fengyang City, which operates as the spiritual capital of the Ming dynasty, to claim that the Zhu imperial family has lost the Mandate of Heaven and to justify forming the Qing dynasty in opposition.

Our suspicion that Zheng Zhihui may be a Manchu agent embedded within the Ming dynasty’s highest intelligence office makes the approaching attack more dangerous. Zheng Zhihui may have manipulated reports to prevent Fengyang’s commanders from learning that a rebel army of more than one hundred thousand men was marching from Henan into Anhui, where Fengyang is located. It is perhaps one of the greatest intelligence failures of Chinese history. Historians would debate centuries later how a rebel army of that size could march undetected for a thousand li or five hundred kilometers. If Zheng Zhihui is a Manchu agent, then the intelligence failure was an enemy nation’s intelligence action.

Zheng Zhihui’s manipulation could hide Li Zicheng’s army heading toward the Ming imperial tombs while keeping the city unprepared by limiting the supply of arms and limestone for defensive construction. Due to the high profile intelligence failure, Zheng Zhihui might later be arrested and his role as an enemy agent uncovered after the attack, it would not restore the the authority lost with Fengyang City.

“I know you want to warn him about our suspicions, but Zheng Zhihui cannot be alerted to our plans. At the moment, your appearance at Fengyang City would provide an extra incentive for Zheng Zhihui to aid the rebel army. We must lure the snake out of its hole,“ I tell Zhu Cilang after Cao Huachun leaves.

“I know,” Zhu Cilang replies within our shared consciousness. “Cao Huachun will have to remove Zheng Zhihui through methodical investigation, while we protect the Ming Dynasty legacy.”

Zhu Cilang answers without hesitation. Zhu Cilang does not treat recorded history as a sequence that must be preserved for personal advantage.

We have already considered measures that can be taken before the end of the year. Local watch posts can be repaired, reserve grain can be inspected, and fresh mounts can be assigned along the nearest courier routes. The problem is that all of them can be intercepted by the surveillance of the Eastern Depot.

As long as Zheng Zhihui remains head of the Eastern Depot, however, any indirect preparation may be detected and obstructed. Even successful preparations cannot guarantee victory, but they can delay the attackers and preserve communication long enough for a coordinated defense.

Zhu Cilang will travel to Fengyang City before the first month of next year with materials that may improve those odds. The greater weakness is the absence of a loyal military force capable of using what we have created.

The Eastern Palace will send thirty guards, ranging from the age of sixteen to twenty-two, whom I have vetted for loyalty and trained to operate and maintain the quadricycles. Thirty young guards remain far too few to influence a battle against more than one hundred thousand opposing troops; even armed with weapons designed with future techniques.

Fengyang’s garrison numbers fewer than ten thousand men, and the officials responsible for the city are notoriously corrupt. Our only possible course is to strengthen the defenses we can reach and prepare Zhu Cilang to rally local forces after arriving. By my estimate with the weapons and other tools, we need only around five thousand men to rout the rebel army.

Near dusk, palace servants begin lighting the lamps when an outer attendant announces Zhang Xianyong’s arrival. Zhang Xianyong has not requested an audience, and no message preceded the visit.

Unannounced visitors do not ordinarily reach the inner grounds of the Forbidden City. Zhang Xianyong’s religious authority and recent ceremonies for relief from drought have granted access that most officials would be denied.

Zhang Xianyong does not come alone. A cart stops outside the workshop courtyard, four disciples stand beside it, and two others hold a heavy cloth over a reinforced cage.

Zhang Xianyong enters with measured steps and bows to Zhu Cilang. Zhang Xianyong’s formal robes remain orderly after the journey, and the composed expression reveals nothing about the object outside.

This is not Zhang Xianyong’s first visit since the race. Zhang Xianyong has presented astrological readings, demonstrations, and arguments intended to persuade Zhu Cilang that Heaven has marked Zhu Cilang’s future, while Jesuit priests introduced through Li Tianjing have offered clocks, glassware, and scientific instruments.

Zhu Cilang and I have answered both groups with equal courtesy and limited commitment. Zhang Xianyong receives fever-reducing ointment after the visits, while the Jesuits receive water-soluble powdered tea, giving both groups practical reasons to maintain their relationships with the Eastern Palace.

That does not mean we grant every group equal access to the Eastern Palace. During the three months since the race, the Jesuit missionaries have exchanged far more gifts with us than the Daoists under Zhang Xianyong. These exchanges are not merely acts of courtesy. Jesuit officials such as Johann Adam Schall von Bell and Giulio Aleni maintain contacts with both Ming and European maritime merchants who can supply a crop we urgently need before departing for Fengyang: sweet potatoes from the southern ports of Guangzhou and Fujian. Historically, the Ming Dynasty’s demographic crisis reached its height during the Great Famine of 1636. Over the following decade, famine and the resulting turmoil killed between twenty and thirty million people across northern and central China, with a substantial portion of those deaths occurring during the first several years. The devastation weakened local authority, allowed rebel armies to seize territory, and enabled Manchu forces to conduct increasingly deep raids into Ming lands. Several tons of sweet potatoes distributed among strategic locations cannot save everyone, but they can establish emergency food reserves, reduce the desperation that drives peasants into rebel armies, and strengthen local resistance against Manchu raiders.

The hour makes this visit unusual, and the covered cage makes it more so. Zhu Cilang looks past Zhang Xianyong toward the courtyard before speaking.

“What gift requires six men and a cage?” Zhu Cilang asks. Zhu Cilang’s voice remains polite, but the attention stays on the covered shape.

“A rare child whose fate has become dangerous,” Zhang Xianyong replies. “My calculations indicate that only Your Highness can protect him.”

Zhang Xianyong offers no further explanation. At Zhang Xianyong’s signal, the disciples lift the cage from the cart and carry it into the courtyard.

They lower it before Zhu Cilang with deliberate care. Iron bands reinforce the wooden frame, and the bars stand too close together for a child’s head to pass between them.

Movement stirs beneath the cloth. A light scrape crosses the wooden floor, followed by shallow breathing that the men around us do not appear to notice.

Zhu Cilang’s breathing changes while waiting for the covering to be removed. Zhang Xianyong remains silent as one disciple unties the cords.

The cloth falls away and reveals a boy pressed into the rear corner of the cage. The child appears five or six years old, wears only a strip of cloth around the waist, and holds both knees against the chest.

Dark hair covers much of the child’s limbs and torso. Denser growth surrounds the face without obscuring the eyes, nose, mouth, or cheeks, while a tail extends from the base of the spine and curves across the floor near one ankle.

No one speaks for several breaths. The child lifts the head and watches Zhu Cilang, Zhang Xianyong, and the nearest open gate without striking the bars or making any threatening movement.

The stillness is deliberate, but tremors pass through the child’s shoulders. Zhu Cilang turns toward Zhang Xianyong, and the restraint in Zhu Cilang’s voice has vanished.

“Why is he confined in a cage?” Zhu Cilang asks. “A child who can understand fear can also understand restraint without iron bars.”

“The cage protects him from men who would kill him or display him for profit,” Zhang Xianyong replies. “He can read, write, and discuss difficult subjects beyond the ability of many of my disciples. He also senses changes in the weather long before ordinary signs appear.”

Zhu Cilang steps closer, and the child presses farther into the corner despite having nowhere to retreat. Zhang Xianyong watches without visible concern.

“I found him abandoned beside a road nearly five years ago,” Zhang Xianyong says. “I first believed his condition required a religious remedy, but his intelligence soon proved that judgment wrong. My disciples still fear him, and I can no longer keep him among them without placing his life in danger.”

Zhu Cilang’s voice turns colder. “Then you have brought him here because your own followers refuse to protect a child under your authority.”

“His arrival follows Heaven’s will,” Zhang Xianyong replies. “I have told Your Highness that the stars foretold many calamities for the Great Ming. At the beginning of this year, however, the star representing the crown prince brightened, and new stars appeared around it.”

Zhang Xianyong gestures toward the cage without looking away from Zhu Cilang. “This child’s star had remained dim, and the pattern indicated a life of isolation and suffering. Your Highness’s rising influence has changed that course and drawn the child here.”

Under ordinary circumstances, I would reject Zhang Xianyong’s claim immediately. Stars do not alter their positions or brightness on this scale without major cosmic events, yet the child in the cage requires examination before I dismiss every part of the account.

Zhu Cilang and I have already altered history. The Novikov self-consistency principle suggests that changes may produce compensating effects, and the butterfly effect permits small disturbances to generate remote consequences through systems too complex to calculate in full.

It is theoretically possible that the energy displacement associated with our arrival affected distant stellar events, although the probability cannot be measured with the information available to me. The child’s condition is also possible, but the combination of features is extraordinarily rare.

Congenital hypertrichosis can account for the extensive body hair. A human tail can result from a developmental abnormality, although the length and apparent control of this one suggest functioning nerves and muscles that require closer study.

If the tail responds voluntarily, the child’s nervous system may retain developmental structures absent or inactive in most modern humans. A genetic analysis would offer significant evidence concerning human development and inherited variation, but no instrument in this century can provide that analysis.

Explaining these possibilities to Zhu Cilang is difficult because Zhu Cilang still carries beliefs shaped by the traditions and supernatural accounts of this era. Zhu Cilang’s age also makes the idea of an extraordinary companion emotionally powerful, even when Zhu Cilang understands my scientific objections.

Zhang Xianyong folds both hands within the sleeves. “This child can thrive only in the presence of a sage ruler. The old teachings describe gifted disciples serving those capable of guiding them, and I believe the bond between Your Highness and this child will be unusually strong.”

Zhu Cilang does not answer the claim. Zhu Cilang walks to the cage and kneels before the bars opposite the child.

“Do not fear me,” Zhu Cilang says. “I am Zhu Cilang, Crown Prince of the Ming dynasty, and I will not harm you.”

The child studies Zhu Cilang’s face. The tail moves once and reaches through the bars until the soft end touches our cheek.

Through Zhu Cilang, I feel the warm appendage move against our skin. Zhu Cilang extends one hand through the gap and returns the contact with one finger against the child’s fur-covered cheek.

The hair feels soft and warm, with a texture different from ordinary human body hair. The child remains still while the nostrils widen and the eyes settle on Zhu Cilang’s finger, and the tail moves beneath Zhu Cilang’s chin.

After several breaths, Zhu Cilang moves the hand higher and places it gently against the hair above the child’s brow. The child flinches but does not retreat, and Zhu Cilang strokes the hair once before leaving the hand against the child’s head.

The child finally speaks. “I am Hou Zhi, Your Highness. Will you accept me into your service?”

Hou Zhi keeps both hands around the knees while continuing. “My master tells me that he can no longer shelter me because many disciples fear me. I know my appearance must remain hidden, and I know people may accuse Your Highness of keeping a demon, but I do not wish to corrupt or endanger Your Highness.”

Hou Zhi lowers the eyes, but the tail remains beneath Zhu Cilang’s chin. “I seek only a home and a chance to be useful.”

Inside our shared consciousness, I search medical literature, genetic records, historical chronicles, court accounts, private memoirs, religious collections, and reports of unusual births. I find conditions that explain parts of what I see, but no record accounts for Hou Zhi’s presence before Zhu Cilang in the Eastern Palace.

For the first time since awakening in this century, I confront an event that should have left a trace and did not. My calculations begin before Zhu Cilang speaks, and every possible explanation leads beyond the history I know.

1. I hope folks like the detailed description of a semi-mechanized factory. A lot of stories in the alternate historical genre skips ahead to steam-power machinery, but I want readers to see the organic progression from human powered machines. Industrialization doesn't happen in a vacuum, and a society needs to have frames of reference before you develop the next level of technology. 
2. General Chen Qiyu's incident of allowing the rebel general Li Zicheng freedom in exchange for a promise to never rebel again is a historical event that happened in 1634. Chen Qiyu would be criticized for his actions for many years as Li Zhicheng rose in the rebel ranks, culminating in the seizure of Beijing in 1644. Chen Qiyu's appointment to supreme commander of the Ming military is also an interesting historical footnote, he was elevated by various court officials without much military merit. I am borrowing the existing historical facts and actions that led to Chen Qiyu's promotion to create this plausible historical investigation by Cao Huachun against Eastern Depot head Zheng Zhihui, whose removal from office was not written down in the official histories of the Ming Dynasty.
3. The use of invisible ink is a novelty that was well within the capabilities of the Ming Dynasty. The original alum formula for invisible ink was developed in Italy in the 16th century during the Renaissance and infamously several spymasters from Italy to England would utilize this method of conveying information for both espionage and counter-espionage operations. Giving Cao Huachun access to this useful tool of spycraft will help set the stage for later events in the story.
4. Incorporating a child with genetic atavism is a bit fantastical, I admit. However, it does make sense thematically as Zhu Cilang will be going through a dangerous journey to a holy site for the Ming Dynasty. As Journey to West was written in the Ming Dynasty, I considered the idea to be a literary allusion to the Chinese classic, which featured the Monkey King. Also, the imperial surname "Zhu" actually means "Pig" in Chinese, so Zhu Cilang can be considered a replacement for the lustful piggy.  
Hou Zhi is a homonym in Chinese for "Monkey child".
Here's my Journey to the West reference/parallels for the upcoming journey to Fengyang City. Note I am trying to be opposite in characterization:
Sun Wukong= Hou Zhi, albeit younger, more innocent, and supportive opposite to the Journey of the West counterpart
Zhu Bajie = Zhu Cilang, he's not a pig but his name is. Also opposite, he's more determined, dedicated to the journey, and more intelligent
Tang Sanzang = Ai, An artificial intelligence is akin to a Buddhist monk, plus if you consider Ai left the universal system/divinity with reincarnation, he's a perfect counterpart. Again opposite to the novel character, Ai is worldly, has desires, and far more pragmatic. 
I am just missing Sandy, the cannibal sand demon, and the Dragon Horse