Chapter 9: The First Yellow in a Gray Town

  The cloth was folded twice before Khun Ming decided he did not like the creases.

  He stared at the neat rectangle in his hands for a moment, tilting it slightly toward the window where the morning light slipped through the bamboo slats of the cottage wall. The sunlight revealed faint pressure lines where the folds pressed against the fibers.

  Khun Ming sighed softly.

  "Well, that will not do," he said to himself in the calm voice of someone addressing a very minor but very irritating problem. "If I carry it like that, the folds will set themselves into the cloth, and then the first thing the merchant will notice is that I cannot even transport fabric properly. That would be an embarrassing introduction for a textile product."

  He unfolded the cloth again.

  The bolt opened slowly across the wooden table, golden threads catching the light as the fabric spread flat.

  Khun Ming smoothed the surface carefully with both palms, pressing outward along the weave.

  "There," he murmured thoughtfully. "Much better. Cloth prefers to lie flat when possible. Folding is useful for storage, but rolling is kinder if you intend to transport something that you spent an entire day dyeing."

  He rolled the fabric instead.

  The golden cloth wrapped into a smooth cylinder beneath his hands.

  "Yes," he said after a moment of inspection. "That is significantly more civilized."

  Beside the cloth sat the skeins of yarn, wrapped loosely in plain cotton to keep dust from catching between the threads. Khun Ming lifted one skein and turned it slowly in the light.

  The yellow was even.

  No patching.

  No dull streaks.

  No areas where the fiber had stubbornly resisted the dye bath.

  He narrowed his eyes slightly and examined the twist of the yarn more closely.

  Each strand carried the color through the full depth of the fiber.

  That mattered.

  Surface dye faded quickly.

  Properly mordanted fiber held pigment deep within the structure.

  Khun Ming rubbed the threads gently between his fingers.

  The yarn remained soft.

  No mineral stiffness.

  No unpleasant scratch from poorly rinsed mordant.

  He nodded slowly.

  "That is encouraging," he said. "If the yarn had become stiff, I would have needed to rinse it again, which would have been extremely inconvenient because it already took a full morning to reach this point yesterday."

  He held the skein up again.

  "Yes," he added thoughtfully. "This is acceptable."

  The dog sat beside the doorway watching him prepare.

  Khun Ming glanced over.

  "You are observing this process very attentively," he said. "I assume that means you are planning to accompany me again."

  The dog's tail moved once.

  Khun Ming nodded.

  "Yes, I suspected that would be the case," he said calmly. "You seem extremely committed to supervising every activity that occurs near this cottage."

  He rolled the cloth again and paused.

  Then he lifted the edge of the fabric and inspected the inner layers.

  Sometimes uneven heat in the dye bath created faint banding where cloth overlapped itself during immersion. It was one of those small mistakes that inexperienced dyers made when they rushed the process.

  Khun Ming studied the inner layers carefully.

  Nothing.

  The yellow remained calm and consistent from edge to edge.

  He nodded once.

  "That is reassuring," he murmured. "Uneven dye would have meant either the bath temperature drifted or the cloth was not moved frequently enough. Neither possibility would have been flattering."

  He wrapped the yarn and cloth together and secured the bundle with a simple hemp cord.

  The package looked extremely ordinary.

  Plain cloth.

  Plain fiber.

  Plain wrapping.

  "Not flashy," he muttered quietly. "Which is perfectly acceptable, because I am not attempting to sell jewelry. This is cloth, and cloth should not require dramatic presentation."

  He slung the bundle over one shoulder and stepped outside.

  Morning wind moved lightly across the cliff, carrying the scent of damp stone and leaves.

  The marigold patch near the stream glowed faintly in the early sun.

  Khun Ming paused when he saw it.

  Several blossoms had opened during the night.

  Bright disks of yellow-orange stood above the green leaves like small lanterns.

  He crouched beside the plants and inspected them carefully.

  The petals carried a faint resinous scent when crushed between his fingers.

  "Good pigment density," he murmured.

  He rolled the petals slowly between thumb and forefinger.

  "However," he added thoughtfully, "harvesting too aggressively would weaken the plants, which would be an extremely short-sighted strategy if I intend to continue dyeing with this species."

  He pinched one wilted flower head and turned it in his hand.

  "Next batch will need more petals," he said.

  The dog leaned closer to sniff the plant.

  Khun Ming raised one finger.

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  "You may look at the flowers," he said calmly, "but you may not eat them. That rule exists because if you eat the flowers, I will have fewer flowers for dye, which would create unnecessary complications for everyone involved."

  The dog withdrew immediately.

  Khun Ming nodded.

  "Good," he said. "That level of cooperation is appreciated."

  He stood again and looked across the courtyard.

  Cherry petals rested along the stone path.

  The ginkgo leaves shimmered faintly gold in the morning light.

  Drying racks beneath the dye station roof still held several empty rods waiting for the next batch.

  Khun Ming folded his arms.

  Everything felt orderly.

  Functional.

  Efficient.

  He nodded.

  "Yes," he said quietly. "This is a very respectable beginning for a dye workshop that technically began operating only a few days ago."

  Then he adjusted the bundle on his shoulder.

  "Alright," he said.

  And he began walking downhill.

  The path toward the town had become slightly more familiar now, though Khun Ming would not yet call it comfortable.

  Pressed grass and worn soil showed where carts and travelers passed regularly, but not often enough to turn the route into a proper road. The trail wound gently between trees, dipping and rising along the slope of the mountain like a line drawn by someone who preferred practicality over elegance.

  Small stones shifted underfoot as he walked.

  The dog moved beside him quietly, neither ahead nor behind, maintaining a pace that suggested a long familiarity with traveling alongside humans.

  Khun Ming noticed this after several minutes.

  "You walk like you own the path," he said eventually, glancing sideways.

  The dog blinked.

  "Yes, that is exactly the sort of behavior that makes a person suspicious," Khun Ming continued thoughtfully. "Most animals either run ahead excitedly or lag behind lazily. You, however, walk with the quiet confidence of something that has used this road for several hundred years."

  The dog did not respond.

  Khun Ming nodded to himself.

  "Very well," he said. "I will not press the issue for now. Everyone deserves a few personal secrets."

  The morning forest was calm.

  Birds moved between branches overhead, occasionally releasing short bursts of song that echoed softly through the trees. Insects hummed quietly in the undergrowth, their wings vibrating in gentle rhythms that blended with the distant sound of wind through leaves.

  A faint mist lingered in low pockets where sunlight had not yet reached the ground.

  Khun Ming adjusted the bundle on his shoulder.

  The cloth inside weighed almost nothing.

  Yet the color inside it felt significant.

  Not because it was valuable.

  Because it was unusual.

  He had already noticed that in Yunshan Town.

  People wore gray.

  Undyed hemp.

  Faded cotton.

  Sometimes dull brown.

  Occasionally washed-out charcoal.

  But rarely color.

  Which meant color was controlled.

  And controlled things were usually expensive.

  He glanced at the bundle again.

  "Flowers," he murmured.

  The dog looked up briefly.

  "Yes," Khun Ming said. "Flowers."

  He shook his head slightly.

  "It is a little amusing when you think about it," he continued. "Somewhere in this world, people are probably mining expensive pigment stones, grinding them into powder, and carefully guarding the trade routes that supply them. Meanwhile I am walking downhill with a bundle of cloth dyed by boiling garden flowers."

  The dog's tail swayed once.

  Khun Ming nodded.

  "Yes, I also find that mildly entertaining."

  They reached the cart road after about half an hour.

  The path widened enough for wagons here.

  Wheel ruts carved shallow lines through the dry soil, and the ground carried the faint imprint of hoof marks from passing horses.

  A few travelers moved along the road in the opposite direction.

  Most glanced briefly at Khun Ming.

  Then at the dog.

  Then back at the dog again.

  One man carrying a bundle of firewood slowed slightly as he approached.

  "That dog yours?" the man asked cautiously.

  Khun Ming nodded.

  "Yes."

  The man studied the dog again.

  "That is a very large animal."

  Khun Ming considered this observation carefully.

  "Yes," he said. "He is quite large. Fortunately, he has a very calm personality and a surprisingly strong preference for vegetables."

  The man blinked.

  "Vegetables?"

  "Yes," Khun Ming replied seriously. "Leafy greens seem to be his favorite."

  The man stared at the dog for a moment longer.

  Then he nodded slowly and continued walking.

  Khun Ming watched him go.

  "That worked surprisingly well," he said after a moment.

  The dog wagged its tail once.

  "Yes," Khun Ming added thoughtfully, "I have discovered that if you say something unusual with enough confidence, people usually decide not to investigate further."

  The road curved slightly, and the trees began thinning.

  Soon the town appeared between the trunks.

  Stone buildings.

  Wooden roofs.

  Smoke rising lazily from chimneys.

  And gray.

  Always gray.

  The people moving through the streets wore muted colors—faded cloth, undyed fibers, dull browns, and charcoal tones that had lost whatever color they once possessed.

  No one wore yellow.

  Khun Ming noticed this again immediately.

  He slowed slightly.

  "…Still gray," he said quietly.

  The dog glanced up at him.

  "Yes," Khun Ming continued, "it appears the entire town has collectively decided that color is a dangerous social experiment."

  He resumed walking.

  The textile merchant's shop stood exactly where he remembered it.

  The same wooden door.

  The same narrow windows.

  The same quiet interior that smelled faintly of fabric, dust, and old wood.

  Inside, the merchant stood behind the counter, moving the beads of an abacus with practiced rhythm.

  Wooden beads clicked softly against the frame.

  Khun Ming stepped inside.

  The merchant looked up.

  Recognition appeared almost immediately.

  "You returned," the merchant said.

  Khun Ming nodded and placed the bundle on the counter.

  "Yes," he replied calmly. "I brought the cloth I mentioned previously."

  The merchant's eyes moved to the wrapped fabric.

  "More supplies?" he asked.

  "Finished cloth."

  Khun Ming untied the hemp cord slowly.

  The cloth unfolded across the wooden counter.

  Golden yellow spread outward.

  The merchant froze.

  For several seconds he did not move.

  Then he leaned forward slightly.

  "Is that the undyed cloth you purchased here a few days ago?" he asked.

  "Yes."

  The merchant finally reached out.

  His fingers pressed the surface gently, testing the weave.

  He lifted one corner toward the window.

  Sunlight passed through the fabric.

  The yellow deepened.

  The merchant frowned.

  "This is not pigment-stone dye."

  "No."

  "What did you use?"

  "Flowers."

  The merchant stared at him.

  "Flowers."

  "Marigold," Khun Ming said calmly. "Tagetes erecta. Family Asteraceae."

  The merchant blinked once.

  Khun Ming continued speaking in the same practical tone.

  "The primary pigment compounds are lutein and quercetagetin," he explained. "They are flavonoid-based pigments that bind well with alum when the fiber has been properly prepared."

  The merchant looked down at the cloth again.

  "You extracted color… from a plant."

  "Yes."

  The merchant rubbed the fabric between thumb and forefinger.

  The cloth remained soft.

  "Pigment-stone dye stiffens cloth slightly," the merchant said slowly.

  Khun Ming nodded.

  "That is because mineral pigments sit primarily on the surface of the fiber," he said. "Plant dyes bond more directly with the structure of the fiber itself, especially when tannin and mordant layers are used."

  The merchant lifted the bolt again and examined the edges carefully.

  "No uneven dye."

  "Proper scouring," Khun Ming replied.

  The merchant glanced at him.

  "You dyed this yourself."

  "Yes."

  "Recently?"

  "Two days ago."

  The merchant stared.

  Then he looked back at the cloth.

  "That is fast."

  Khun Ming shrugged slightly.

  "Preparation matters more than time," he said. "If the fiber is cleaned properly and the mordanting is done correctly, the dye bath does not need to last forever."

  The merchant's gaze shifted toward the yarn bundle.

  "And this?"

  Khun Ming unwrapped the skein and placed it beside the cloth.

  Golden threads spread across the counter.

  The merchant picked it up immediately.

  He walked to a small basin beside the counter and dipped a portion of the yarn into the water.

  Then he squeezed the fibers.

  The water remained clear.

  "…Stable," he murmured.

  "Yes," Khun Ming said. "It was washed twice after dyeing."

  The merchant placed the yarn back on the counter.

  Then he performed a second test.

  He took a small piece of undyed linen from beneath the counter and rubbed it firmly against a damp corner of the cloth.

  No color transferred.

  The merchant leaned back slightly.

  "…Interesting."

  He studied the cloth again.

  "How much?" he asked.

  Khun Ming named a modest price.

  The merchant did not argue.

  Instead, he counted silver coins onto the counter with deliberate precision.

  Khun Ming counted them once.

  Then he placed them into his pouch.

  But the merchant did something unexpected.

  He did not wrap the cloth immediately.

  Instead, he continued studying it.

  "Yellow sells well," he said.

  Khun Ming tilted his head slightly.

  "Does it?"

  "Yes."

  "For what purpose?"

  "Festival robes," the merchant said. "Children's clothing. Temple offerings."

  He lifted the cloth slightly.

  "The Pigment Guild controls mineral dyes," he continued. "That makes color expensive."

  Khun Ming nodded.

  "I noticed."

  The merchant looked at the cloth again.

  "This color is not expensive."

  "No."

  The merchant placed the bolt carefully on the counter.

  "How many bolts can you produce?"

  Khun Ming considered the question.

  "That depends on how many flowers I can harvest."

  The merchant nodded slowly.

  "And how many flowers would that require?"

  Khun Ming thought for a moment.

  "Many."

  The merchant stood quietly for several seconds.

  Then he nodded.

  "I will start with five bolts."

  Khun Ming raised an eyebrow.

  "That seems reasonable."

  "When can you deliver them?"

  "Six days."

  The merchant nodded again.

  "Six days."

  Then he added quietly:

  "And the same yellow."

  "Yes."

  The merchant finally wrapped the cloth and yarn carefully.

  "Bring samples if the shade changes," he said.

  "Of course."

  Khun Ming turned to leave.

  Just before he stepped outside, the merchant spoke again.

  "Flowers," the merchant muttered.

  Khun Ming paused.

  "Yes?"

  The merchant shook his head slowly.

  "…Nothing."

  But his eyes remained fixed on the golden cloth.

  And outside, Yunshan Town continued moving through its gray morning, unaware that the first quiet thread of color had just entered its streets.

  Chapter 9 complete.