Chapter Thirty-Three: The Rising Fortune Inn

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The twenty-eighth year of the Kaiyuan era—Summer—August 23rd, an auspicious day according to the zodiac.

Auspicious for: Travel and seeking fortune.

No taboos of any kind.

At dawn, after rising and washing, Li Zhao changed into brand new garments, dressing himself to resemble a nobleman’s son, and fastened at his waist the blue carp pouch that signified his status as a member of the imperial clan. This pouch hung from a multi-purpose Tang dynasty men’s belt known as a “tier-tier,” commonly made of calf leather, studded with many small iron rings convenient for hanging purses, fire strikers, wine flasks, and other such items. He also secretly slipped a sharp little paper knife into the shaft of his boot, a precaution against the unexpected.

Once all preparations were made, he joined Aunt Qing and Jin Bao’er for breakfast, played a while with the mischievous Little Demon, and at last, using the excuse of going out to clear his mind, left the ancestral Li residence on horseback with Bai Mo.

…

Outside the South Gate of Wu’an County town!

The Daylight Rat crouched at the base of the city wall, glancing about anxiously, his dark rings under the eyes betraying a sleepless night. This was hardly surprising: afflicted with a deadly poison, even the most iron-willed man would find food tasteless and sleep uneasy—let alone a timid and cowardly thief. Beside him, tied to a tree, was a green-maned horse rented from a city stable at a hefty deposit of ten strings of cash and a daily rate of a hundred wen.

As soon as Li Zhao appeared, the Daylight Rat hurried over. “Young master, you’ve come. I’ve been waiting for you.”

“Very good. Come with me to the Laoshui Wharf.”

“What are we going there for?”

“Don’t ask what you shouldn’t. Once we arrive, you’ll understand.”

“Yes, yes, I’m being impertinent—deserve a slap!” Not daring to ask further, the Daylight Rat gave himself two light slaps and obediently mounted his horse to lead the way.

After the time it takes to eat a meal, the three arrived near the Laoshui Wharf. It was Li Zhao’s first visit, and he pulled up his reins to take in the scene with keen curiosity.

He saw the surface of the Laoshui river bustling with boats of all sizes, a dense black mass upon the water. Most were merchant ships, ferrying the region’s porcelain, ironware, medicinal herbs, silk—and especially grain—ceaselessly to Chang’an, supplying the consumption of its million-strong populace.

At this vital waterway hub, people thronged in great numbers, and where people gathered, commerce flourished. Thus, the area around the Laoshui Wharf boasted a multitude of establishments—restaurants, inns, stables, brothels, pleasure halls, and theaters—lined up one after another, all designed to part passing merchants from their coin.

Though the nation was in mourning and all forms of public entertainment were officially banned, most of these shops had shuttered their front doors—yet a closer look revealed their back doors wide open, customers slipping in and out without pause, and business carrying on as usual.

…

“Cui Tong, find us a place. I want to have some fun!”

“Fun, eh?” The Daylight Rat grinned slyly. “Didn’t expect the young master to be so dashing at your age. There’s no shortage of brothels near the wharf—dozens of them. The girls there are all enchanting, no less alluring than the famous courtesans of Chang’an, and the prices are especially reasonable. You can’t go wrong seeking pleasure with them.”

“Bah! What are you thinking? I want to go to the gambling house and make a killing. Lead the way. If you keep talking nonsense, be careful or I’ll have you swallow a Stiff-Eyed Pill.”

“Understood, sir, I’ll lead the way right now.”

Receiving a sharp flick on the head, the Daylight Rat dared not speak further, and guided them through several twists and turns to the entrance of an inn: the Rising Fortune Inn.

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Of course, the inn was merely a front; inside lurked a gambling den. People streamed in and out—portly merchants, elegantly dressed noble youths, even a few wearing the boots of officials.

With all public amusements banned during the period of national mourning, restless souls had flocked here to indulge—eating, drinking, gambling, squandering their fortunes, creating a kind of pathological prosperity.

“Young master, this is the gambling house. But forgive my presumption—it’s best if you don’t go in.”

“Oh? Why not?”

“The place is crawling with all sorts, sir. I’m just concerned for your safety.” The Daylight Rat pointed to the inn’s entrance. Every merchant and young lord entering or leaving was accompanied by several sturdy guards, and most bore daggers, short swords, or Emei needles.

It was no surprise. No one entering a gambling den was innocent; violence over losses and winnings was routine, and blood was often spilled. Without some means of self-defense, few would dare play here.

Li Zhao was but fifteen, with only a single young attendant at his side. Such a pair stepping into the gambling den was like lambs entering a tiger’s lair. Losing was bad enough; winning could be even worse—one might not even escape with the money, and trouble would surely follow. At best, a beating; at worst, their corpses might float in the Laoshui.

If Li Zhao were to lose his life, who would give the Daylight Rat his antidote? Thus, he tried to dissuade him.

“Haha, don’t worry. Since I dared to come, I naturally have a plan for leaving safely. Come closer, listen carefully…”

Li Zhao whispered a few words into the Daylight Rat’s ear. He nodded repeatedly, his eyes filling with admiration, then leapt from the carriage and swaggered into the Rising Fortune Inn.

He was a regular here; coming and going was as easy as entering his own home.

A while later, Li Zhao and Bai Mo tied up their mounts and entered the inn as well. A young attendant greeted them, “Honored guests, will you be dining or lodging? Our best rooms are clean and spacious—guaranteed comfort.”

“Neither dining nor lodging.”

“Then may I ask—?”

“Controlling the reins.” (Underworld slang: gambling.)

The attendant understood at once—this handsome young lord was here to play. Yet, since he looked unfamiliar and these were unusual times, he probed further.

“First time at the post, may I have your name?” (Is this your first time here? How should I address you?)

“Folded arms, fire point, here to control the reins.” (My surname is Li; I have plenty of money and came to gamble.)

“Who’s your string-puller?” (Who introduced you?)

“Snowflake ten thousand, back again.” (A friend surnamed Bai, a regular here.)

…

Before entering, the Daylight Rat had explained all the house rules. Li Zhao remembered them well and replied fluently.

The attendant nodded, gestured for them to enter, and led them through a small door, across several rooms and corridors, and finally to the back of the inn.

…

“Three threes, a triple, all lose but me! Ha ha!”

“Damn it, I lost again!”

“Place your bets, place your bets!”

Indeed, the rear was a large gambling den with many games: dice, dominoes, cards, cockfighting, quail fights, cricket battles—everything imaginable. Gamblers of all kinds shouted and whooped, completely absorbed in play.

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The law of the Great Tang decreed: “Those who gamble shall receive one hundred strokes and have their winnings confiscated; those who organize gambling, at best exile, at worst death.”

Yet, throughout history, every dynasty banned gambling, and in every dynasty people gambled. If not openly, then in secret.

Especially since the Kaiyuan Golden Age, with social stability and economic prosperity, the people had some money to spare, and gambling houses had sprung up like mushrooms after the rain.

Of course, it was never legitimate to open a gambling house openly—they were all disguised as teahouses, inns, or restaurants, the classic wolf in sheep’s clothing.

Li Zhao thought for a moment and chose not to join the cockfights, but instead headed for the dice table.

Though cockfighting was entertaining, the pace of winning money was too slow. Today, he not only needed to win, but to do so swiftly—dice was the best choice.

The dice table attracted a large crowd: richly dressed noble youths, portly merchants, and even more ill-dressed thugs and local ruffians. The dealer was a sallow-faced middle-aged man.

The rules were simple: the dealer held a cup containing three ox-bone dice, shook them vigorously, then slammed the cup down on the table. Gamblers bet on the number of points.

A large piece of cowhide covered the table, marked with a grid in the center reading “big” and “small,” surrounded by smaller boxes marked with numbers.

Players could bet on “big” or “small”—three to ten points for small, eleven to eighteen for big, with even odds. If you guessed wrong, the house took your money.

You could also bet on specific numbers, each with its own odds. For example, four, five, sixteen, or seventeen were rare—guessing right paid twelve to one! Six, seven, eight, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen were a bit more likely, paying eight to one. Nine, ten, eleven, twelve were most common, paying six to one.

There was also the “triple”—all three dice showing the same number. This was rarest of all; winning paid thirty-six to one, and the winner took the house’s payout as well as all bets from other gamblers.

As for wagers, anything went—gold, silver, copper coins, livestock, deeds to house or land, antiques or paintings, even women and children—there were staff on hand to appraise it all.

“The cup is open—two, four, six, twelve points, big!”

“Ha ha, I won, I won!”

“Ugh, bad luck! Again, this time I’m betting two acres of irrigated land.”

…

The dice cup was lifted—three dice totaling twelve points. A scar-faced middle-aged man had bet correctly and grinned so wide his tongue nearly rolled out, taking the house’s silver. The losers, dejected, pulled out more money to bet again; one, already red-eyed from loss, had begun to stake his possessions.

Li Zhao squeezed into the crowd but did not rush to bet. Instead, he silently calculated the odds of each possible combination, while listening carefully to the sound as the three dice landed.

As a seasoned gambler, Li Zhao was skilled at every game—cards, mahjong, pai gow, roulette, dice—there was nothing he did not understand, nothing he had not mastered. His mental arithmetic was extraordinary.

Still, Li Zhao gambled, but was never addicted. At most, he would play a few hands with friends during festivals, and would often deliberately lose. The reason was simple: the skilled rider falls from his horse, the skilled swimmer drowns, and the skilled gambler—even if a god at the table—will one day lose everything.

But today, he had to win—and win big!