My Sect Is Down to Seven People

Chapter 19: The First Pot at the Market

Before dawn, the lamp was already lit in the kitchen.

Qian Duoduo squatted on the threshold, stacking bowls one by one into the basket. When he reached nineteen, he paused, fished out the one with the chipped rim from beside the water vat, and set it on top.

”Chipped one goes on top?” A Sui stood at the door, clothes draped over her shoulders.

”On top,” Qian Duoduo said. ”Whoever sees it gets the idea. Weʼre poor, and weʼre honest about it.”

A He squeezed past her. ”Can we go?”

Xu Yan came out of the Accounts Room, the old wooden box slung over his shoulder, a small sack of spirit rice in his other hand—the potʼs worth bought separately on the seventeenth, the cord still tied the way heʼd tied it. He looked at the two children, then back at the kitchen.

”Someone needs to mind the stove, and someone needs to mind the mountain,” he said. ”Next time.”

A Sui didnʼt fuss. She crouched down and nudged the bowls back from the basketʼs edge. ”Then come straight back after you sell out.”

”Weʼll come straight back.”

Shi Po was waiting in the courtyard. One end of his carrying pole held the big iron pot, its rim reaching past his knee; the other held two bundles of firewood with a basket weighted on top. He squatted, set the pole on his shoulder, and stood without bending his knees—already upright. The three repaired stone steps at the Mountain Gate, he took one at a time, steady.

Qian Duoduo had his own load: jars and ladles on one end, mountain mushrooms and wild greens from the Back Mountain, a small packet of salt and two rags on the other. He tested the weight, his shoulder sagged, then he quickly hitched it back up, muttering something under his breath.

At the Mao Hour, the three of them went out the Mountain Gate. Nie Bo was sweeping by the gate, broom stroke after stroke, passing right by Shi Poʼs trouser cuffs. Shi Po gave him a nod and didnʼt break stride.

The mountain path was wet with dew. Half a li in, their trouser legs were soaked. Shi Po led, the carrying pole creaking once, then again, the rhythm never faltering. Qian Duoduo switched shoulders three times, and by the second half heʼd started counting out loud: ”Four li left... three li left...”

”Stop counting,” Xu Yan said.

”Counting makes it go faster.”

Luoxia Town glowed through the mist, one light at a time, growing clearer as they walked. One shichen, ten li of mountain road done. By the time they reached the Town Gate, daylight was already pressing down on the rooftops, and people at the market were starting to haul out their goods.

The Market Chief, Lu Shoutian, was in the middle of haggling over a fish with a small scale tucked under his arm. When he saw the three of them, he wedged the scale into his armpit.

”Qingya?”

”Qingya,” Xu Yan said.

Lu Shoutian jerked his chin toward the street. ”That empty spot diagonally across from Huichun Hall is open. Out of the wind, easy to get a fire going. Donʼt set your pot in the middle of the road—if someone knocks into it, whose fault is that?”

The spot had walls on both sides. A door panel laid across two stone footings made the counter; a wooden post behind it held up half a sheet of old cloth for shade. Xu Yan set the wooden box down, first pressing the old cloth underneath into place—the box had a crack in the wood, and without padding, the spirit stones would slip right through.

Shi Po hauled three large stones from the edge of the market to build the stove, testing each one, finally giving the bottom one a kick. He struck the fire starter; the flame caught slowly. Qian Duoduo crouched down and blew twice, got driven back by the smoke, then leaned in again, eyes red.

”No matter what happens today,” Xu Yan said to Shi Po, ”you donʼt raise a hand.”

Shi Po grunted an acknowledgment.

”Donʼt raise a hand,” Xu Yan said again.

”I wonʼt.”

When the rice went into the pot, Qian Duoduoʼs palm hovered over it, facing down. The water was white at first, then slowly clouded, then slowly thickened. The grains split open one by one; steam rose, carrying the scent of mushrooms out into the street.

The market was full by then. The fish-seller moved his wooden tub into the shade of a tree; the flatbread seller propped up an old plank; a blind fortune-teller sat against the wall, a clay jar at his feet. Shi Po pulled the burnt-out firewood from the stove and tapped the fire tongs against the stove mouth, sparks popping onto the ash and dying. Xu Yan spread the ledger on a stone footing and wrote a line: June 20, at market, one pot, twenty bowls.

Two porters paused in front of the stall, glanced into the pot, and moved on.

Before the Snake Hour, a sheen of oil floated on the surface of the broth. Qian Duoduo pulled his hand back and dropped onto a stone footing, legs stretched straight out.

”Itʼs ready?”

”Itʼs ready,” he said. ”Most of my spiritual power is in that pot.”

The first customer was an old rogue cultivator with a sword on his back. He stopped in front of the stall, looked at the pot, looked at the stack of bowls on the counter. ”Two?”

”Two,” Xu Yan said.

The old cultivator dug out two low-grade spirit stones and set them on the door panel. He took his bowl and crouched against the wall to eat. When he finished, he scraped the bottom of the bowl clean, stood up, and said, ”Will you be set up tomorrow?”

”Every five and ten,” Xu Yan said.

”The twenty-fifth.” He handed the empty bowl back and left.

Another rogue cultivator came next, his Daoist robe washed to gray. He counted his spirit stones twice before setting two on the door panel. ”One bowl.”

”One bowl.” Qian Duoduo ladled it out for him. His hand didnʼt shake.

Town folk drifted over to look. A woman with a vegetable basket peered into the pot. ”How much a bowl?”

”Two,” Qian Duoduo said.

”Two what?”

”Two low-grade spirit stones.”

The woman shifted her basket to her other arm, smiled, shook her head, and walked off. Qian Duoduo watched her go, planted the ladle in the pot, and said, ”Town folk canʼt afford it.”

”Then they can look,” Xu Yan said.

The five young men from the martial hall came over after finishing their boxing practice, drenched in sweat. The one in front fanned his hand over the pot. ”Does this stuff actually work?”

”One bowlʼs worth half a day of meditation,” Qian Duoduo said.

”Five bowls.” The young man slapped ten spirit stones onto the door panel. ”We train. We can afford it.”

Four cultivators passing through on the road came next, all in matching gray-green short jackets. The youngest asked, ”Which sect?”

”Qingya,” Xu Yan said.

”Qingya?” The young one glanced toward the mountain. ”Isnʼt there no one left up there?”

”Thereʼs someone,” Xu Yan said.

The older one raised a hand to cut the talk short. ”Eat, then we move.” Four bowls, eight stones.

Qian Duoduo stuffed the spirit stones into the box, announcing each one as it went in. At twenty-two, he stopped speaking. He pulled the box against his chest and looked back at Xu Yan.

”Twenty-two,” Xu Yan said.

”Twenty-two.” Qian Duoduo repeated it, his voice a little unsteady. He looked down at the row of empty bowls in front of the stall, stacked them into the basket one by one, stacking happily, muttering as he went: ”One pot, twenty bowls, only eleven sold, nine left—Sect Master, once these nine sell, weʼll have...”

”Forty,” Xu Yan said.

”Forty.” Qian Duoduo slapped the basketʼs edge.

That was when Cao Hu arrived.

Three men came from the east end of the market, walking unhurried. Cao Hu was in front—tall, the crimson trim on his collar faded pale, a short blade at his waist. The two younger men behind him took one look at the pot and started grinning.

Qian Duoduoʼs hand froze on the potʼs rim. The cloth towel slipped from his shoulder to the ground. He didnʼt pick it up.

Cao Hu stopped in front of the door panel and looked into the pot. ”Still some left?”

”St—still nine bowls,” Qian Duoduo said.

”Nine bowls.” Cao Hu turned and said something to the other two; all three laughed. He sat down in front of the stall, legs stretched out. ”Then nine bowls.”

Qian Duoduo ladled fast and full. Four bowls went in front of Cao Hu first, three to one of his companions, the last two to the other. Cao Hu ate slowly. He finished his four, set the ladle down, wiped his mouth. The other two had already finished and pushed their bowls forward.

Some in the crowd recognized the uniform. The two or three whoʼd been standing closest backed up half a step.

Cao Hu drained the last mouthful of broth, set the bowl on the door panel, and slapped the counter with his palm.

”Settle up.”

”Nine bowls, eighteen stones.” Qian Duoduo leaned in with a smile.

”I already gave you a mid-grade.”

The smile on Qian Duoduoʼs face didnʼt have time to fade. ”Senior Brother, weʼve never taken a mid-grade here...”

”Nine bowls, eighteen stones. You owe me eighty-two back.”

The surrounding crowd went quiet. Someone in the press of people muttered something; someone else laughed. Qian Duoduo rubbed his hands together, looked first at Xu Yan, then back at the pot, and finally bent to pick up the towel by his feet, wringing it in his hands.

”Senior Brother, you must be mistaken,” he said, leaning in another half step. ”This box of ours, from start to finish, never had...”

”I said I gave it to you,” Cao Hu said.

Qian Duoduoʼs mouth hung open. He pressed his hand against the lid of the box on the counter, his fingers scrabbling at the wood, making it creak.

Xu Yan stood by the stove and didnʼt move. He looked at the ground, then at the stacks of empty bowls in front of Cao Hu. He folded the rag for wiping the pot in two and laid it on the potʼs rim.

Cao Hu stood up. He grabbed the edge of the door panel with one hand and flipped it.

The stall went over. Bowls hit the ground—the sound arrived a beat late—three shattered, and the chipped one rolled the farthest. The wooden box tumbled off the counter, the lid flew open, and spirit stones scattered across the dirt. A few rolled to the wall, a few into the gaps between peopleʼs feet. The old cloth tied to the post collapsed halfway, landing on Qian Duoduoʼs head.

Qian Duoduo crouched to pick up the stones. Before his hand reached them, someone kicked one away.

Shi Po was already standing in front of the pot.

Feet apart, shoulders squared between Qian Duoduo and the stove, blocking it completely. Cao Hu shoved him in the chest—once. He didnʼt move. A second shove, and the other two joined in—he gave half a step, his back slamming into the post holding the cloth. The wood groaned, and what was left of the cloth slid down another stretch.

”Move,” Cao Hu said.

Shi Po didnʼt raise a hand. From behind him, Qian Duoduo grabbed the hem of his shirt, his whole hand shaking.

Cao Hu looked down at the spirit stones on the ground, then up at the market crowd, and stepped closer, voice rising. ”Nine bowls, eighteen stones. You owe me eighty-two back.”

Xu Yan walked over, picked up the empty box from the dirt, and stood it upright on the stone footing that hadnʼt been knocked over. A corner of the old cloth padding slid out; he tucked it back in. He straightened and said nothing.

Near the end of the Snake Hour, the sun cleared the wall and fell on the overturned door panel and the spirit stones scattered across the ground.

At some point, a short figure had appeared at the door of Huichun Hall. Old shoes on her feet, a handful of unseparated herbs still in her hand. She stood inside the threshold. She had not stepped out.

”He never gave a mid-grade.”

The voice wasnʼt loud. Everyone in the market heard it.

Cao Hu turned around. ”...What?”

The girl tipped the herbs from one hand to the other and said it again.

”He never gave a mid-grade.”