Chapter Forty-One: Gui Prefecture

Spring faded into summer, time flowing swiftly as water, and before long June had arrived. June marked the peak of summer, bringing sweltering heat, and nowhere was this truer than in Lingnan. The air here was oppressively humid, and after the blazing sun, sudden torrential rains would pour from the sky without warning.

Guizhou, with its inner city established during the Tang dynasty and expanded through repeated renovations, had grown to its present size. The entire city was built on relatively flat land nestled amidst mountains and rivers. To the east flowed the Dongjiang River, fast and wide, running north to south all the way to Yangshuo, and navigable by boat. Lofty, elegant peaks surrounded the city on all sides, with the mountains to the west and north pressing close against the walls. Even within the city, several peaks rose from the earth, while the remaining terrain lay flat. To the south, the city was bordered by the Nanyang River.

As the saying goes, “The scenery of Guilin is the finest under heaven,” and so it was that the vistas of Guizhou were naturally exquisite.

In the early Tang, prefectures and counties were established. Guizhou, together with Guangzhou, Rongzhou, Yongzhou, and Annan, comprised the “Five Military Commissions,” governing forty-five prefectures throughout Lingnan, and so were collectively called the Five Administrations of Lingnan.

During the Song, the administrative system was revised to include circuits, military prefectures, and counties. The Guangnan Circuit was divided into Eastern and Western routes, with the seat of the eastern route in Guangzhou, and the western in Guizhou.

Thus, Guizhou stood as one of Lingnan’s largest prefectures.

At this moment, a torrential rain was cascading down upon Guizhou, the pea-sized drops drumming against the earth and water with a crackling clatter. Dense rain struck the eaves of the city gate towers, forming lines of droplets that trailed off the corners like strings of beads, falling in a straight line. Where they hit the stone of the city walls and the ground, a constant patter echoed.

Beneath the gate tower, five or six Song officials stood huddled together, the red, green, and blue hues of their robes soaked through by the wind-driven rain.

“Heaven is unkind—these roads are muddy and hard to travel. It’s a hard lot for the scholars today,” said one official, about forty years old and dressed in crimson robes, as he gazed at the examinees braving the downpour to enter the city for their exams.

Because Guangnan West was remote and the roads difficult, it could not compare to the capital region or Kaifeng, where scholars were numerous and learning flourished. Here, not every prefecture held its own examination for the provincial selection. Instead, nearly all the scholars from the region’s prefectures converged on Guizhou for the exam, with some traveling for months from distant counties to arrive in time.

The examiners in Guizhou had little concern over fraudulent candidates sneaking in from other regions—such people would only seek out prefectures with more available slots, not trek over mountains to a remote, quota-poor place like this. In fact, many scholars from Guangnan West sought to take the exam in larger prefectures with more slots.

Naturally, the Song authorities had measures to guard against fraudulent examinees, such as requiring ten men to vouch for each candidate, but as always, those who wanted to circumvent the rules found ways to do so. The remote terrain and slow-moving information made it impossible to eliminate the problem entirely.

Even so, the situation in the capital, Kaifeng, was quite different. There, under the emperor’s nose, such fraud was exceedingly rare.

Another official in crimson nodded. “It seems June fifteenth will be the same.”

“Assistant Magistrate Lin, today is only June fifth—ten days remain until the fifteenth. Why are you certain it will rain then?” the first official asked in surprise.

“Governor Yin,” Lin replied, “I’ve lived long in Lingnan. This rain, on and off as it is, will not cease for ten days or half a month at least.”

The forty-something official was called Yin Mochuan, currently acting governor of Guizhou as well as chief examiner for this round of provincial exams.

Assistant Magistrate Lin’s full name was Lin Wencheng, serving as Guizhou’s assistant magistrate and also a chief examiner for the provincial selection.

“Magistrate Hu, how many scholars have registered for this year’s exam?” Yin Mochuan then inquired of a green-robed official named Hu Wenhai, the prefectural judge.

Hu Wenhai, as the chief examiner for this provincial selection, was subordinate to Yin Mochuan, and responded with due respect: “Reporting to the Governor, as of now, more than five hundred scholars have come to Guizhou for the exam.”

“So many?” Yin Mochuan exclaimed in surprise.

Lingnan was home to many ethnic groups: besides the Han, there were the Zhuang, Dong, Miao, Yao, Li, Liao, and others—hundreds of tribes in total. The Song court allowed all these groups within its domain to participate in the imperial examinations, and even established special schools for them. Yet, with Lingnan’s mists and fevers, its difficult roads, and many tribes still living a primitive life, most could not even read Chinese—how could they sit for the exams?

Thus, each round of the imperial examination was dominated by Han candidates; non-Han examinees were rare, and those of mixed heritage, like Li Sanjian, were scarcer still.

There were not many Han in Lingnan, and thus even fewer scholars. That more than five hundred had come this year was an unusually large number for Guizhou—most years, the figure hovered around two hundred.

“What good is mere quantity?” Hu Wenhai shook his head. “True talent is scarce in Lingnan. If even a handful out of these five hundred can pass the provincial quota, we’ll be fortunate indeed.”

Lin Wencheng laughed. “There are sixty slots this time. Magistrate Hu, are you really worried we won’t fill them? You think too much.”

“Even if we do,” Hu Wenhai replied, shaking his head, “how many will actually succeed in the capital’s Ministry of Rites exam? Besides…”

Here he broke off. At present, the New Policy faction controlled the court, advocating for the establishment of schools at all levels, and selection of officials through the San She system, which increasingly threatened to replace, even abolish, the examination system. As a result, the number of exam slots dwindled each year.

This time, only sixty provincial slots were allocated to Guangnan West—fewer than ever before—making it all but impossible for Lingnan scholars to succeed. For three consecutive rounds, not one from Lingnan had passed, which was one reason so few slots were given to Guangnan East and West. If anyone from these regions did pass, it would truly be breaking all precedent.

“Magistrate Hu speaks wisely,” Yin Mochuan sighed. “Regardless, we must do our utmost to select worthy men for the court, and bring honor to Guangnan.”

The number of successful candidates was one criterion by which local officials were assessed. In the Song, most local administrators served one-year terms, with three-year appointments; in remote areas like Guangnan, terms typically lasted two or two and a half years.

When an official’s term ended, the court would review his performance, evaluating increases in population, new households registered, absence of unjust cases, efficient tax collection, suppression of crime, relief for the poor, prevention of migration, advances in agriculture and irrigation, and other difficult matters. Success in the provincial examination was also included, contributing significant merit.

Only those with exemplary records could hope for transfer to more desirable or central posts, or even a summons to serve at court.

Lingnan was a wild and distant land, plagued by harsh weather, hardship, and—most dangerous of all—pervasive miasma and epidemic disease. Many officials perished here; few wished to serve in Guangnan, and to be assigned here was little different from exile.

Some were posted here for having offended powerful nobles, senior officials, or even the emperor himself.

Thus, leaving Guangnan was the fervent hope of many officials.

“We shall obey the Governor’s command,” the officials replied in unison.

“We must also look after the truly poor scholars,” Yin Mochuan added. “Let us arrange some assistance for their board and lodging.”

The officials all nodded in agreement.

The downpour had eased slightly, and the world was shrouded in mist. Rain veiled the city of Guizhou in a dreamy haze, lending it a unique charm. Most importantly, the rain left the air exceptionally fresh, invigorating all who breathed it.

“Magistrate Hu, shall we enter the examination compound?” Yin Mochuan asked with a smile.

For this examination, the sequestering of the compound was set for ten days before the exam, meaning that with the exams scheduled for June fifteenth, the officials would be locked in from June fifth. Typically, the provincial exam required ten days of seclusion; the Ministry of Rites exam in the capital lasted about a month.

This “sequestering,” or lock-in, was a precaution against cheating. All examiners appointed for the occasion had to move into the examination compound, where the gates would be shut and locked. There, they would set the questions, prepare the exam papers, and assign seating—none were permitted to leave until the examination was concluded.

Yet while secluded, the officials lived in considerable comfort, with special funds allocated for the purpose. They set questions, discussed scholarship, and enjoyed each other’s company. Apart from the absence of singers and dancers, almost every comfort was provided. In some especially remote prefectures, officials secretly brought in such performers to pass the time, but that was another matter.

Though the rain had lessened, it was still falling. Yin Mochuan gathered up the hem of his robe and tucked it into his belt, then removed his official boots and, standing barefoot in the water, grinned at Hu Wenhai and the others. “Shall we share in the fun?”

“Haha, as you command, Governor!” the officials responded merrily, shedding their boots and splashing through the water toward the examination compound.

A group of dignified, middle-aged officials, laughing and playing like children, made their way in high spirits.