My Sect Is Down to Seven People

Chapter 8: Going Down the Mountain Alone

At the Dog hour, two lamps were lit in the Main Hall. The Spirit Table still stood where Fang Henianʼs body had lain. The Eternal Lamp burned on it, the flame hugging the dishʼs rim, flaring once into a Lamp Blossom before settling low again.

All seven were there. Cheng Banshan sat by the threshold, his Wine Gourd resting on his knee. Qian Duoduo stood nearest the door, his apron tucked into his waistband. A He and A Sui shared one bench, both staring toward that other half outside. Nie Bo lingered in the shadow by the door, his broom leaning against the frame. Jiang Wan sat across from them, sword cradled in her arms, one leg swinging, the toe of her shoe tapping the floor.

Xu Yan spread a sheet of paper on the table, the inkstone pinning down a corner. Written at the top: 2,100. Below it: 23. A line between them, and beneath the line, empty space.

”Three things.”

A Sui leaned forward from the bench. ”Which three?”

”First. The Roster has to hold ten names.” He pushed the paper toward the middle of the table. ”Right now it holds one.”

”Before the Double Ninth?” Jiang Wan asked.

”Before the Double Ninth. Three months. Weʼre short nine.”

She rolled those words over in her mouth, then spoke quietly: ”How many people up here can even write their names? Have you actually counted?”

”I have.”

”Then what are you going to make ten with?”

”Tomorrow at the Dragon hour, Iʼm going down the mountain.”

A pause settled over the Main Hall. Cheng Banshan pulled the stopper from his gourd, didnʼt drink, and pushed it back in.

”Youʼre recruiting?” Jiang Wan drew her leg in and sat up straight. ”Everyone down there knows Qingyaʼs about to dissolve. Shop hands joke about it. You stand in town alone — whoʼs coming?”

”Iʼll know when I get there.”

She repeated it mockingly under her breath and slung the sword over her shoulder. ”If you want someone to go down with you, donʼt count on me.”

”I didnʼt.”

The corner of her mouth moved, but no sound came out.

A Sui raised her hand again. ”Iʼll go. I know the candy seller in town.”

”You donʼt know her,” A He said. ”Last time, she handed the candy to you at the Mountain Gate.”

”I know the road.”

”Nie Bo led you down. You couldnʼt find it a second time.”

They were clearly about to start arguing when Xu Yan rapped the table. ”The mountain needs people here.”

A Sui shrank back at once, still pouting. A He dragged the bench a full inch toward himself.

”Youʼre good with accounts,” Jiang Wan said suddenly. ”But recruiting isnʼt bookkeeping. People arenʼt Spirit Stones you can slot into whatever column you like.”

”Thatʼs why Iʼm going down.”

”To look at what?”

”To see whoʼs willing to put their name down.”

”The willing ones already wrote theirs long ago.” She shifted the sword to her other shoulder. ”The year my master took me in, I walked into the Ancestral Hall alone and wrote my name. Since then, not one more person has walked in there.”

”Then Iʼll ask at the door.”

No one answered that. Qian Duoduo stared down at his shoes. Cheng Banshan pulled the gourd stopper out and back in again.

”Town holds market on the fives and tens. Crowds.” Xu Yan said. ”Weekdays Iʼll go to the Quarry, the Wharf, the Earth God Shrine outside town. Thereʼs always someone at the end of their rope in places like that.”

”People at the end of their rope have their own rules,” Jiang Wan said.

”What rules?”

”Youʼve never been down and out. You wouldnʼt know.”

He didnʼt argue. He smoothed the paper flat and waited for her to go on. She didnʼt.

”Second. The 2,100.” He pointed to the 23 at the bottom of the page. ”The cash box holds twenty-three pieces. We donʼt touch a single one.”

Qian Duoduo blurted: ”Not one?”

”Thatʼs the base for the Rank Silver. Touch it, and by the Double Ninth weʼre starting over from nothing.” He said, ”Seventy a year, and the old number piled on top. It all has to be earned back, piece by piece, until we fill that line.”

”And when itʼs filled?”

”When itʼs filled, the Mountain Gate is still ours.”

Cheng Banshan spoke up from the threshold: ”I lit the furnace after noon.”

”How many bottles?”

”Not done yet. One batch runs till the day after tomorrow. How many bottles, I wonʼt promise.”

”Then Iʼll leave it out of the credit column for now.”

”Record it or not, thatʼs your ledger.” He swirled the gourd. ”The firewood comes off this mountain, the herbs I compound myself. Iʼll see which way it goes.”

”Whatever bottles come out, I record. It only counts as income once it sells.”

”Now thatʼs talk fit for a ledger.” Cheng Banshan grunted.

Qian Duoduo shuffled half a step forward, pressing both hands against his apron. ”Half a sack of flour left. Iʼll make trail rations tomorrow. How many flatbreads?”

”I donʼt know how many days Iʼll be gone.”

”Iʼll cook them dry so they keep.” He counted on his fingers. ”Saltʼs nearly out. Have to buy more. Salt costs copper, and copper has to go in the silver column.”

”Put it down.”

”Then Iʼll be up early tomorrow kneading dough.”

”How many days of rice do we have?” Xu Yan asked.

Qian Duoduo froze for a beat, glanced at Cheng Banshan, then back. ”Stretched thin, a month.”

”And with one more mouth?”

”...Twenty-some days.” His voice dropped. ”Sect Master, whoever you bring back — theyʼll have to eat.”

”Which is why Iʼm figuring out how many we can feed.”

”Third thing.” Xu Yan flipped the paper over. The back was blank. ”The Sect-Protecting Formation has to be able to rise.”

Cheng Banshan set the gourd down by his feet. ”That formation hasnʼt been fully raised in forty years.”

”The Rank Evaluator wants to know it can rise.” Xu Yan said. ”Old stories wonʼt satisfy her.”

”Who can activate it?” Jiang Wan asked.

No one in the Main Hall answered. Qian Duoduo looked from one face to the next. Cheng Banshan picked his gourd back up. Nie Bo stood motionless by the door, one hand resting on the broom handle.

”Iʼll deal with the formation when I get back,” Xu Yan said.

”You understand formations?”

”No.”

”Then why say youʼll deal with it when you get back?”

”Clear up what I can count first.” He folded the paper. ”The part I canʼt figure, Iʼll note it down and let it sit.”

Jiang Wan settled the sword on her shoulder and didnʼt ask again.

Cheng Banshan braced a hand on his knee and stood, straightening before he spoke: ”Iʼll keep an eye on the mountain. Watch the furnace, keep those two kids in line. How often are you coming back?”

”Every day. No coin for an inn in town.”

”How much is a room at an inn?” Qian Duoduo asked.

”Donʼt know.” He said. ”Not staying, so no need to know.”

”Then Iʼll make extra flatbreads for you to carry.” Qian Duoduo said. ”The wind picks up on the road. Cold breadʼs hard on the teeth — Iʼll wrap you a couple slices of pickled vegetables.”

A He suddenly thought of something, voice lower than usual: ”Sect Master, I can write my name.”

Not quite trusting his own words, he added: ”Last time you said my ʼHeʼ didnʼt look half bad.”

”The Roster doesnʼt ask a personʼs age.” Xu Yan said. ”It asks whether you come willingly, and whether the name you write down is one youʼll stand by.”

A He turned to look at Qian Duoduo. Qian Duoduo pressed his hands to his apron again: ”My... my writingʼs ugly. Let me think on it.”

”Think it over. When youʼve decided, tell me. The Rosterʼs in the Ancestral Hall.”

A Sui said in a small voice: ”Iʼll write my name.”

”You can barely write your own name properly,” A He said.

”I can too!”

They were on the verge of another argument when Cheng Banshan picked up his gourd and headed for the door. ”Dismissed. Stoves to light in the morning.”

Jiang Wan left last, stopping at the doorway, one hand braced on the frame. ”Xu Yan.”

”Yeah.”

”If you bring back a bunch of freeloaders with nothing but their mouths, Iʼll be the first to throw them out.”

”Anyone I bring back — first thing Iʼll do is reckon whether I can feed them.”

She stepped out, her footsteps heading east, the scabbard knocking once against the steps as it swung.

The group dispersed. Qian Duoduo blew out one lamp. The remaining one A He carried to light the way. Nie Bo went out last, took the broom that leaned against the frame, and his steps crossed the courtyard, broom scratching twice against the grey brick, then fading into the distance.

Xu Yan didnʼt go straight back to the Accounts Room. He first turned west, toward the Medicine Hall. Its door stood open a crack, firelight leaking through in red, pulsing ribbons. The scent of herbs drifted out into the courtyard — the bitterness of it pressing down over a faint scorched sweetness. He pushed the door open and went in.

Cheng Banshan crouched before the furnace, feeding wood into the firebox. A small clay pot was sealed over the iron stove, its mouth wrapped tight in paper, the edges going damp from the rising steam.

”Firewoodʼs stacked up behind the mountain. Enough to burn till monthʼs end.” Cheng Banshan didnʼt turn around. ”Burn through it and weʼll cut more.”

”How many bottles in one batch?”

”Depends on the quality. Ten, most likely. If it spoils, fewer.”

”If it spoils, itʼs on me.”

”On you or not, this batch still has to burn.” Cheng Banshan straightened up, his empty sleeve hanging loose. ”Xu, youʼre going down the mountain tomorrow. This medicine — youʼre still not drinking it.”

On the stove platform beside them, a bowl of medicine warmed over a low flame.

”Iʼll drink it tomorrow before I leave.”

”Those three things are enough to keep you busy.”

”Those three things, plus this one bowl.”

Cheng Banshan grunted and shoved the wood deeper. Flames shot up half a foot, reddening his face. ”Out. When youʼre standing here, even the fire wonʼt burn right.”

At the Hai hour, he was alone in the Accounts Room.

He pulled a blank ledger from beneath the cabinet — paper still stiff, crackling when he opened it. Two drops of water into the inkstone. Ground the ink. Tested the brush tip. On the first page he wrote a line: Sixth Month of Zongmeng Year 300 — Qingya Sect Daily Ledger.

New line: Balance — 23 Spirit Stones, 4 taels of silver.

New line: Debt — 2,100 Spirit Stones, due the Double Ninth.

When he finished, he laid a ruler against the paper and drew vertical lines top to bottom, dividing the page into columns. At the head of each he wrote: Income, Expenditure, Balance, Debt. The ink not yet dry, he tilted the page toward the lamp. Only one line sat in the Debt column. Most of the space below it was empty.

No income today. No expenditure. The Balance column held a single number: 23.

He split 2,100 across three months — averaging more than twenty a day. The whole mountain currently couldnʼt bring in one a day. He wrote the figure in the margin, smaller than the other characters: 20 per day.

After writing it, he gave a short laugh. The number wouldnʼt conjure Spirit Stones into being just because it sat on the page.

He reached out and touched the cash box, picked out the chipped Low-grade Spirit Stone, and weighed it in his palm. The next time a Stone was spent, it would be this one first. Salt and lamp oil didnʼt need it — those came out of silver. The lamp oil had come back from East Street last month, eighty copper a pot, burned down to the dregs tonight, the wick trimmed short just to keep it alive.

He put the chipped stone back in the box and closed the lid.

The paper from the afternoon — the one with the line drawn across it — still sat under the inkstone. He smoothed it out and slipped it inside the front cover of the new ledger, edges aligned, pressing each corner down in turn. He turned past it. The line was still empty.

The lamp flame swayed. He reached out and pulled the window shut. Wind squeezed through the gap, making the flame shudder against the wick.

He set the brush down, thought a moment, then added one small line at the very bottom of the first page: Sixth Month, Fourth Day — descend the mountain to recruit.

He hung the brush back on its rest. From inside his robe he took out the bronze token, set it face-up beside the ledger, looked at it once, then put it back against his chest.

The bolt scraped as he drew it.

The courtyard was brighter than the room. Clouds had parted, leaving a thin wash of white on the ground. A shallow puddle still lingered in a corner of the Front Courtyard — where Nie Bo had sloshed water from the well platform that morning. The Kitchen was dark, its chimney cold. The West Wing door stood ajar; the wind passed and the door pivot creaked.

The East Courtyard window still glowed.

A silhouette sat behind the window paper, back straight, head lowered. A cloth in hand, moving from the sword hilt to the tip, pausing, then turning the blade over to wipe it again from the top. The lamp threw the shadow larger than a person.

He stood beneath the eaves. The cloth behind the window paper made another pass.

A droplet fell from the corner of the eaves and struck the top of his shoe. Cold.