Chapter 009: Bookkeeping Methods and the Art of Printing

Wei Yan left the county seat of Nanzheng with his three sons and arrived in Mianyang. His purpose was not merely to inspect the counties; the most crucial task was to prepare a campsite for the imminent arrival of Chancellor Zhuge and his great army. This time, the Chancellor was leading more than a hundred thousand troops into Hanzhong for a massive northern campaign; without a sufficiently large encampment, it simply would not do. Mianyang, situated on the northern bank of the Mian River at the eastern foot of Yangping Mountain, at the westernmost edge of the Hanzhong Plain, directly connects north to the ancient Chencang road into Guanzhong, or westward into Longyou, and south to the Jinniu Road leading straight to Chengdu. It was truly the strategic key to western Hanzhong, making it the most suitable place for an army camp.

By day, Wei Ba followed his father through mountains and plains, studying the terrain, listening to Wei Yan explain the lay of the land, how to arrange sentries and set up camp. At night, he pored over maps, reviewing everything he had learned, frantically shoring up his military basics. The worries he’d once had about calligraphy and official documents quietly faded away. His father, Wei Yan, and his eldest brother, Wei Feng, were not scholars by any means. Their handwriting was atrocious—no better than his own, only more practiced. Their official documents were simple, direct, utterly lacking in literary flair. After comparing these with the papers sent from Chengdu, Wei Ba felt somewhat abashed. The documents written by others were true works of literary Chinese; no wonder the Wei family men were seen as uncouth military brutes—such a reputation was not unearned.

Wei Ba did not dare to criticize his father, but he could offer suggestions. One evening, as father and sons chatted after dinner, Wei Ba broached a request with tact.

“Father, I’d like some money.”

“What for?” Wei Yan, wine cup in one hand and an account book in the other, frowned deeply. He was not in the best of moods. Without looking up, he asked in passing.

“I want to buy some books.”

“Books? What kind?”

“‘The Art of War,’ and also ‘The Classic of Filial Piety,’ ‘The Spring and Autumn Annals,’ and if there’s anything left, perhaps some poetry collections.”

“‘The Art of War’ and ‘The Classic of Filial Piety’ are both in Nanzheng; I’ll fetch them for you when we return.” Wei Yan snorted, slamming the account book shut and tossing it to the floor. He barked, “What a mess of accounts! Take them away and have them recopied clearly before bringing them back!”

Wei Feng hurried to pick up the account book, a wry smile on his face. Wei Yan turned to Wei Ba. “‘The Spring and Autumn Annals’ is good for learning history; it’s not a bad read if you have the time. But what’s the use of the Book of Poetry? Why bother buying it?”

“Reading poetry broadens one’s understanding and improves literary style. Didn’t the Master say, ‘Words without refinement travel not far’?”

“Nonsense!” Wei Yan spat. “Writing is for making things clear. What’s the use of style alone? Like these account books: what matters is clarity about goods and inventory. If not, everything else is rubbish, no matter how flowery the language.”

Wei Ba fell silent. He knew his father was using this as an excuse to vent his disdain for Yang Yi. The Yang family were a great clan in Xiangyang, and their writing was, of course, impeccable. Many official documents from the Chancellor’s office in Chengdu were penned by Yang Yi. Yang Yi likely meant to humiliate the Wei men, often slipping obscure allusions into his writing, which infuriated Wei Yan.

“Especially for us as generals: victory in battle is our foundation. What’s the point of fancy writing? Your father can write official papers, but there are those who can’t even read, yet still lead armies.”

Wei Ba lowered his head, not daring to meet his father’s gaze. He realized he had overstepped. A few days earlier, he had seen a dispatch about Governor Ma Zhong’s meritorious service and inquired about him, only to learn Ma Zhong was barely literate—a half-illiterate, really—while another, the yet-unknown General Wang Ping, was a complete illiterate, unable to recognize even a handful of characters. In other words, the Wei men’s ability to read and write official papers already made them learned compared to others.

Those less skilled than me are, of course, lacking; but those more skilled are not necessarily more useful—this was Wei Yan’s frame of mind.

Wei Feng nudged Wei Ba with his elbow, signaling him to drop the subject. “Funds are tight these days. Buying books can wait.”

Wei Ba nodded in understanding and glanced at the account book in Wei Feng’s hand. “What’s that?”

Wei Feng gave a rueful smile. “The accounts just sent from the magistrate at Mianyang. They’re a tangled mess—impossible to sort out quickly. It’s a real headache.” He shot a glance at his father’s angry face and whispered, “The Chancellor is coming soon, and Yang Yi is sure to audit the books. If we can’t have them in order, he’ll humiliate us.”

Wei Ba’s brow twitched as he took the account book and flipped through a few pages, instantly feeling overwhelmed. These were all running accounts, recorded transaction by transaction in chronological order, with only a final tally at the end—whether that tally was accurate, heaven alone knew. To verify it, one would have to recalculate the entire ledger from the beginning, without a single mistake, or else start over. No wonder Wei Yan was in such a bad mood; even Wei Ba felt dizzy at the thought. And with a thick stack of ledgers just delivered by the Mianyang magistrate, Wei Ba’s temples began to throb. To have all these accounts ready before Yang Yi arrived was nearly impossible. In short, they were certain to be mocked by their old adversary.

No wonder Father was so irritable.

Wei Ba pondered for a while, then said suddenly, “These accounts are hard to check. We could design a new form and have them recopy everything—it might make things easier.”

“A form?” Wei Feng was taken aback, looking at Wei Ba in surprise. Even the brooding Wei Yan glanced over. Wei Ba smiled, picked up his chopsticks, dipped them in wine, and sketched a diagram on the table, describing the format he remembered from his previous life. Wei Yan’s eyes lit up, and he nodded repeatedly. Wei Feng, however, voiced a concern: “It’s a good idea, but where will we get so many forms in a short time? They seem rather complex—if people have to draw each one by hand, no one will want to do it.”

Wei Ba realized this was true. To recopy all these ledgers would require thousands of pages, and drawing each form by hand would be a daunting task. If only there were a copier—or even a mimeograph! With one template, thousands of copies could be printed.

Wait—while there were no mimeographs, it wasn’t hard to carve a printing block. Suddenly, Wei Ba remembered woodblock printing. As the earliest stage of printing, woodblock was primitive compared to later movable type, but it remained in use for centuries—even in the twenty-first century, things like New Year’s prints still used color-block techniques. Wei Ba had once visited the Woodblock Printing Museum in the ancient city of Yangzhou; as a technician by instinct, he had taken an interest in this time-honored craft.

“This isn’t a big problem. I can prepare ten thousand pages of forms in two days. The issue is having each county recopy their accounts…”

Wei Yan stroked his beard for a moment. “If it’s a good idea, I don’t fear their reluctance. My concern is whether this method might have flaws and give others grounds for reproach—leaving us open to attack.”

Wei Ba smiled. Even if this system wasn’t perfect, it was certainly far better than the current running accounts. Wei Feng, with more experience, thought for a moment and said, “Father, it’s simple. We can invite Secretary Li and the clerks from each department to discuss whether Ba’s method is suitable. They’re old hands at finance—they’ll know right from wrong.”

Wei Yan nodded vigorously. “Feng is right. Go at once. If it works, Ba can take charge of the matter. Whatever you need, say the word. The Chancellor is coming, and time is short—the sooner it’s done, the better.”

Without delay, Wei Yan summoned the clerks and officials traveling with them. Most had worked all day and were just enjoying a rare moment of leisure; a few elderly ones were already in bed, but they dared not show displeasure before Wei Yan and stood silently in the hall.

Wei Yan was irked by the looks on their faces and scowled. Wei Feng quickly stepped forward to greet them, lest his father offend them at the outset.

“Gentlemen, apologies for calling you so late, but there is a matter to discuss.” Wei Feng pointed at the stack of account books. “These are the ledgers just sent from Mianyang. I’m sure you’ve all reviewed them. As veterans of administration, what are your impressions?”

Chief Secretary Cheng An, from a prominent family in Nanzheng and nearly fifty, was the senior clerk of the Hanzhong Prefecture. Even Wei Yan, for all his arrogance, treated him with respect. At Wei Feng’s words, all eyes turned to Cheng An, who lifted his head and gave Wei Feng a cool glance. “We’ve seen them—there’s nothing wrong as far as I can tell. Or has the young general noticed some problem?”

“I haven’t found anything out of place. The accounts are complex—if there is anything wrong, it would be hard to spot. Since you all see no problem, naturally I have no doubts.” Wei Feng smiled. “But Adjutant Yang Yi from the Chancellor’s office is a master of figures. What we fail to see, he may well discover. Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Cheng?”

Cheng An’s grey eyebrows twitched and his lips tightened, but he said nothing. He understood Wei Feng’s meaning. As chief secretary, Cheng An had often reported to the Chancellor’s office, and Yang Yi’s sharpness and cunning left a deep impression. Yang Yi’s barbs were aimed at Wei Yan, but it was always Cheng An who bore the brunt in person. Being rebuked by a man not yet forty was galling for someone of his age. Yet, as Wei Feng said, Yang Yi’s skill in calculation was unassailable—any flaw in the accounts, and he would spot it, a fact even a seasoned veteran like Cheng An could not dispute. He had reviewed this mound of ledgers and found nothing amiss, but that didn’t mean Yang Yi wouldn’t.

Was Wei Feng simply being cautious and asking them to re-audit everything? At this thought, Cheng An’s heart tightened.