Chapter Forty-Seven: Means of Making Money

As soon as Zhen Qian returned home, he immediately sought out Wang Qun to discuss matters. He recounted how a group of foreign merchants had purchased over one hundred and forty stones of distilled liquor earlier that day, then continued, “Listening to the conversation between those merchants, I suddenly thought of something: our market here in Zhendin is still too small. Even for a restaurant to sell two or three hundred stones in a year would be difficult, yet these merchants bought over a hundred stones in one go. If we could promote distilled liquor to other prefectures and counties, even if each place only sold a few dozen stones a year, with enough regions, the total quantity would be impressive. What do you think, Uncle Wang?”

“That’s a good idea,” Wang Qun affirmed, but then shifted the conversation. “But have you considered, if I’m the one to approach the traveling merchants here in Zhendin, the secret that the liquor comes from the Zhen family might not be kept for long!”

Zhen Qian immediately realized Wang Qun was right. Reluctantly, he said, “If you can’t come forward, and I can’t either, those merchants probably won’t be willing to help sell our liquor. What should we do?”

Wang Qun pondered for a moment before replying, “It’s not impossible. If I secretly contact one or two merchants, and then they reach out to others, we could convince quite a few to try their hand at selling it. Of course, we’ll have to share some of the profits…”

Isn’t this just like the general distributor system of later generations?

Of course, such terminology didn’t exist in the Tang Dynasty, but Zhen Qian was not opposed to this kind of marketing method. After all, he couldn’t personally reach every corner of the empire, nor did he have the same network as the merchants. He agreed at once, “Let’s do it. We can offer those merchants eighty percent of the liquor’s price, and as for them, we’ll only ask for seventy percent. We won’t interfere with what price they sell to others. All we require is a stable volume of sales, and the only condition is that they cannot sell within Hengzhou’s counties!”

Business practices in the Tang Dynasty were not much more primitive than those of later times, except that no systematic theories had been developed. Zhen Qian explained the general distributorship model to Wang Qun, and though it could not yet be widely implemented, having the concept made things much easier for Wang Qun.

“So, does that mean we’ll need a general distributor in every prefecture, or even in every circuit? How will you select and manage these people? Have you thought about this?” Wang Qun asked.

“There’s no rush. I can draft a set of rules for general distributorship, and you can consider them at your leisure. Now isn’t the time to push this model yet. First, contact those two merchants you mentioned. They may have their own concerns. With half a year left, we can reach out to more merchants. If I can leave the Zhen family this year, next year we can try this model in the surrounding prefectures.”

Distilled liquor had not yet gained enough recognition in the market; launching a distributorship model now would likely fail. Better to wait another half year.

They discussed how to increase production. The yard had been filled with the strong aroma of liquor lately, and if things continued this way, the Zhen family would inevitably discover the secret. Fortunately, the Qin family’s distillery was nearly complete, and Zhen Qian planned to move the distillation workshop outside the city. That way, large-scale transactions would no longer have to take place within the city, reducing the tolls and extortion at the gates.

“Any news from the slave market?” Zhen Qian had asked Wang Qun to find the slave trader Cao Renyi to buy slaves skilled in weaving and carpentry. It had been twenty days, but there was still no word, making him anxious.

“Such things aren’t easy,” Wang Qun replied. “Slaves with skills are usually taken by officials or reserved in advance. Cao Renyi has already asked others to look into it. We’ll hear something soon.”

Zhen Qian sighed inwardly. In every era, skilled people were in high demand, even if they had become slaves.

“And what about the children under sixteen I asked for?”

“There are plenty of those, but your requirements are rather strict. You want clever and obedient ones, with no family ties and a clean background. Such children are hard to find. Cao Renyi has four or five, but getting twenty might not be possible!”

“Four or five will do. Have them brought to the Song family outside the city and ask Cao Renyi to keep looking.”

Wang Qun didn’t say anything aloud, but inwardly he wondered. Most people bought slaves who could work, craftsmen with skills, or attractive maids and singers. But Zhen Qian wanted children who hadn’t even grown up yet. Though cheap, what use were they? They’d have to be trained from scratch just to serve. He really didn’t know what Zhen Qian was thinking.

As they parted, Zhen Qian said suddenly, “Uncle Wang, help me buy a few carts of saltpeter soon. I’ll need it.”

Wang Qun nodded without asking what it was for. He was curious, but Zhen Qian always had strange requests—one more was nothing.

When Zhen Qian went upstairs, he saw Xiao Zhu and Xiao Mei teaching Song Yi’s granddaughter to use the abacus, their fingers clicking away. Seeing Zhen Qian enter, they both smiled.

“What’s making you so happy?” he asked.

Xiao Zhu waved the account book. “Master, the business at Drunken Immortal Pavilion has been good these past three days. Excluding drinks, we’re taking in three or four strings of cash a day. At this rate, annual revenue will exceed a thousand strings. Isn’t that great?”

“Only a thousand, and that’s just revenue…” Zhen Qian was speechless. He didn’t see what was so exciting, but not wanting to dampen their spirits, he said, “Still, that’s much better than the Song family’s little eatery.”

Xiao Mei noticed his lack of enthusiasm. “What’s wrong? Aren’t you satisfied?”

He sat down, took a sip of cool water, and asked, “Tell me, with three or four strings in daily revenue, how much are we actually earning?”

The girls fell silent. Xiao Mei fiddled with the abacus, showing her potential as a housekeeper. “We owed merchants eighty-three strings before opening. If we ignore that, and just look at revenue minus food and labor costs, we make about one hundred and eighty coins a day, or over six hundred and fifty strings a year.”

“Really?” Zhen Qian smiled. “You forgot a few things: regular taxes and bribes to both the authorities and the underworld. That’s at least two hundred strings a year. Even if we ignore depreciation, in terms of future growth, the top ten restaurants in Zhendin each cost over two thousand strings. How long would it take us to get Drunken Immortal Pavilion into the top ten?”

The two girls were left dumbfounded. They’d never dealt with such matters and suddenly realized business was more complicated than they thought.

While they were at a loss, Song Qian, Song Yi’s granddaughter, spoke up, “That’s not fair, Master Zhen. If Drunken Immortal Pavilion can save up enough in six or seven years to buy a top ten restaurant, that’s already very fast. There’s no such thing as overnight riches in business.”

Being corrected by a little girl, Zhen Qian realized he’d been too easygoing. Song Qian had been with him less than a month and was already bold enough to argue with him.

“You’re right,” he replied without anger. The girl had a real talent for business. If she’d been trained in the modern era, she’d be a formidable businesswoman. “There’s a saying: ‘Time waits for no one, seize the day.’ You don’t understand it yet, but when it comes to making money, getting rich overnight isn’t impossible. Xiao Mei, why don’t you tell Xiao Qian about the distillery’s business?”

The distillery’s operations were Zhen Qian’s secret. Even Wang Qun and Song Yi knew little, and Song Qian knew nothing at all.

Song Qian was speechless, not realizing what this meant, but she would soon understand why Zhen Qian was willing to share his secrets with her.

Xiao Mei took a locked iron box from the cabinet, unlocked it, and pulled out an account book, somewhat reluctantly. “Master spent fifteen strings on brewing equipment. We signed contracts with various taverns to supply us with one hundred stones of crude wine each month, plus transport costs, totaling thirty-five strings. If all one hundred stones are distilled into liquor, we get ninety stones: fifteen stones of first-grade, fifty-five of second-grade, and thirty of third-grade. Based on our restaurant’s prices, that’s over a hundred and ninety strings in sales, earning a profit of one hundred and sixty strings after expenses…”

Song Qian couldn’t believe her ears. Turning one hundred stones of crude wine into a hundred and sixty strings of profit—five times the investment—seemed miraculous.

Xiao Mei continued, “If we brew our own crude wine, we can make twenty more strings per hundred stones. And as Master’s distilling techniques improve, we’ll use cheaper grains instead of rice. Then, each hundred stones will yield over two hundred strings in profit. Master also says aged liquor becomes more fragrant, and after cellaring, the price will at least double. That’s when the real wealth starts rolling in!”

Song Qian’s mind was racing. She’d seen Zhen Qian brew over a hundred stones of liquor in a month. That meant he could easily earn over two thousand strings a year. For Song Yi’s craftsman family, this was beyond their wildest dreams.

“Hearing that, Master Zhen, doesn’t that mean you could buy a top ten restaurant in just a year?” she exclaimed.

Zhen Qian knew that for a farm girl like Song Qian, saving even a few dozen strings a year was a cause for joy. But different people have different perspectives. For the Zhen family, annual expenses ran to five or six thousand strings—a number that would terrify Song Qian.

“Look at you, so easily satisfied,” Xiao Mei teased. “Do you think our master cares for a few thousand strings? As he always says, you have to look further. The farther you see, the broader the path beneath your feet becomes…”