My Sect Is Down to Seven People

Chapter 20: One Mid-Grade Equals One Hundred

Cao Hu turned around.

The threshold of Huichun Hall sat a little high. The short girl set the bundle of herbs she hadnʼt finished sorting onto the counter, lifted her foot over the threshold, and stepped out. She tapped the toe of her shoe against the flagstones to knock off the dirt, steadied herself, then walked forward.

No one in the market said a word. The fish vendor edged his wooden tub half a step into the shade. The blind fortune-teller pulled his hand back from the clay jar and turned his face toward the street. Qian Duoduo stood frozen in place, both hands empty. The open cash box stood upright on the stone footing, lid flung wide, and he didnʼt move to close it. Shi Po still stood planted in front of the stove, feet apart, shoulders blocking the mouth of the firebox, hands hanging at his sides.

From inside Huichun Hall, someone called out, ”Bai Xiaoman, are you done with those herbs?”

She didnʼt answer and didnʼt look back. She scraped her worn shoe against the threshold once, then stepped down.

She stopped in front of the stall. The ground was covered with the overturned door panel, and beneath it lay scattered spirit stones — a few by the wall, a few wedged between the gaps in the crowd. Broken bowl shards had been kicked aside, and the chipped bowl had rolled the farthest.

”Before the Snake hour,” she said, ”this stall sold eleven bowls.”

Qian Duoduoʼs mouth was still hanging open.

”The old gentleman with the sword on his back, one bowl, two stones, set down separately on the door panel. The one in the gray-washed Daoist robes, one bowl, two stones, counted them twice before he put them down. Five from the martial hall, five bowls, ten stones, slapped onto the panel all at once. Four men in matching gray-green work clothes, four bowls, eight stones.”

She paused.

”Eleven bowls. Twenty-two stones. Each one went into that box.”

Cao Hu stared at her. ”Youʼre from Huichun Hall.”

”I am.”

”Huichun Hall keeps accounts for a street stall?”

”The account isnʼt for anyone,” she said. ”An account is an account.”

Someone in the crowd let out a low snicker. Cao Hu turned his head, and the man stopped laughing at once.

”I put in a mid-grade stone first.”

”One mid-grade equals one hundred low-grade,” she said. ”If youʼd put a mid-grade stone in that box, it would hold one hundred and twenty-two right now.”

She hiked up her apron and crouched down.

”Iʼll count.”

The first stone lay under the door panel, half-sunk into the mud. She pried it out with her fingernail, tapped it twice against the edge of the panel to knock the mud off, and set it on the stone footing.

”One.”

The second was by the wall. The third was wedged between two stone footings. Someone in the crowd stepped back half a pace, revealing the stone heʼd been standing on.

”Four. Five. Six.”

By eleven, her hands couldnʼt hold any more. She set them down once, then crouched again and kept counting.

”Counting rocks is no real skill,” Cao Hu said.

”Rocks are exactly what Iʼm counting,” she said without looking up.

At seventeen, she stopped beside Cao Huʼs foot and looked up.

”Lift your foot.”

Cao Hu looked down at her.

”The stone under your foot,” she said. ”Itʼs mine.”

Someone behind him burst out laughing, and then the whole crowd laughed. Cao Hu moved his foot aside. The spirit stone had pressed an imprint into the mud. She pried it out, tapped it against the ground, and went on counting. Shi Po still stood in front of the stove without moving, his eyes following her hand — from the door panel to the wall, from the wall to the gaps in the crowd.

”Twenty-one. Twenty-two.”

She set the last stone on the stone footing and wiped her hands on her apron.

”Twenty-two stones. All low-grade. Not one mid-grade.”

She lifted her head.

”Nine bowls, eighteen stones, never went into this box.”

Cao Hu didnʼt answer. The short blade at his waist rose an inch, then settled back. The market was so quiet you could hear the water sloshing in the fish vendorʼs tub.

”Five of us ate five bowls, ten stones.” A young man squeezed to the front of the crowd, his shirt front still damp with sweat. ”I slapped them down. Ten low-grade stones. Counted them myself.”

”Five bowls is five bowls,” Cao Hu said. ”None of your business.”

”It is my business,” the young man said. ”I ate. I paid.”

Lu Shoutian pushed through from the back of the crowd, the small scale still tucked under his arm. He stopped beside Bai Xiaoman, looked at the stacks of spirit stones on the stone footing, then at Cao Hu.

”I saw it too,” he said. ”He never took out any money once he sat down. I was there when he sat down, and I was there when he slapped the table after eating.”

The crowd erupted. Someone shouted ”Pay up,” someone else shouted ”freeloader.” The fish vendor shouted and shoved his tub forward as he did. The blind fortune-teller nodded along, bobbing his head harder than anyone. The sweaty young man turned back to the crowd and yelled, ”Right!”

Cao Huʼs face went red from the ears down. He stepped forward. ”The Market Chief handles this?”

”The Market Chief handles exactly this,” Lu Shoutian said. ”You buy at the market, you pay when you eat. Thatʼs the marketʼs rule, not Qingyaʼs.”

Only then did Xu Yan speak. He walked over, lifted the empty box from the stone footing, set it at his feet, and cleared the surface — the twenty-two stones were already arranged there in neat stacks — then straightened up.

”Nine bowls. Eighteen stones.”

Just that one sentence, not loud, not fast.

Cao Hu stood looking at him for a long moment, then suddenly laughed. He reached into his robe, pulled out a handful of spirit stones, and without counting, hurled them at the ground.

The stones bounced, landing in the mud, on the overturned door panel, beside the chipped bowl.

”Next time, donʼt let me see Qingya at the market,” he said.

His two companions scrambled after him. As he passed Bai Xiaoman, he turned his head slightly.

”Huichun Hall.”

The three of them headed toward the east end of the market, moving faster than when theyʼd come.

Qian Duoduo crouched to pick up the eighteen stones, calling out a number with each one. By the ninth, his voice was trembling. By the eighteenth, he stood up with the stones clutched against his chest, stood there for a moment, then raised his arm and wiped his face once, then again.

”Forty,” he said.

”Forty,” Xu Yan said.

Shi Po shifted half a step sideways, clearing the stove mouth. He reached around behind him and pressed his hand against the spot where his back had hit the wooden pillar, then let it drop. ”Heʼll come back.”

”If he comes back, the accounting stays the same,” Xu Yan said.

Xu Yan crouched down and gathered the twenty-two stones from the stone footing and the eighteen from Qian Duoduoʼs arms into the box. The box had a crack in it. He pulled out the old cloth lining and re-laid it, folding the edge over the crack, then placed the stones in one by one. When he finished, he counted again. Forty. Not one off.

The crowd dispersed slowly. The fish vendor moved his tub back and settled into the shade again. The blind fortune-teller pulled his clay jar closer and muttered something no one caught.

At the door of Huichun Hall, Sun Youfu appeared. One hand braced against the door frame, he stood on the steps, his face dark.

”Bai Xiaoman.”

The girl turned around.

”Herbs sorted?”

”Sorted.”

”Then get inside.”

She wiped her hands on her apron again and started up the steps. Sun Youfu didnʼt move aside. She turned sideways and slipped in under his arm. He didnʼt follow her in. He stood on the steps and looked across the street — at the water pot that still hadnʼt been carried away, the soup inside congealed at the bottom.

Then he let the door curtain drop.

By the Wei hour, the market had broken up.

The flatbread vendor packed up his old wooden board. The blind fortune-teller picked up his clay jar and tottered off toward the town gate. Sunlight fell on the open ground, glinting off the broken bowl shards.

Shi Po crouched to lift the pot, paused halfway, then rose using his legs to push himself upright. The rim cleared his knees. He threaded the carrying pole through the handles and settled it on his shoulder. Qian Duoduo noticed a dark smear of soot from the wooden pillar across the back of his clothes and reached out to brush it off. On the second pat, Shi Po took half a step away.

”Hurt?” Qian Duoduo asked.

”No.”

”Elder Cheng says youʼll feel it when it rains,” Qian Duoduo muttered, packing the stallʼs gear into his own load. He put away the ladle, then the salt sack, and finally picked up the bowl shards one by one and dropped them into the bottom of a basket.

”Youʼre taking the shards back too?” Shi Po asked.

”Taking them back,” Qian Duoduo said. ”Those bowls were bought on the mountain.”

”What about the pot?”

”The potʼs fine.” Qian Duoduo patted the rim. ”If the pot were broken, Iʼd sit down and cry right here.”

Xu Yan went to the bowl vendorʼs stall at the end of the market to replace the bowls. The vendor was already packing up. He turned the remaining bowls over to show Xu Yan the bottoms. Xu Yan tapped each rim with a knuckle to listen to the ring. One sounded dull; turned over, it showed a hairline crack in the base. He set it back and picked another until he had five. They came to one tael of silver. The vendor grabbed one with a chipped edge and thrust it at him. ”This oneʼs on the house.” Qian Duoduo stacked the new bowls in the basket one by one, the chipped one on top.

”The chipped one goes on top,” he said.

Lu Shoutian came over to haul off the door panel. He hoisted it onto his shoulder and took two steps, then looked back.

”Donʼt set the pot up in the middle of the road.”

”Weʼll remember,” Xu Yan said.

”This spotʼll be open next time. If you want to set up, come early.”

”Twenty-fifth.”

Lu Shoutian carried the door panel off.

”Sect Master.” Qian Duoduo shifted the carrying pole to his other shoulder. ”He said not to let him see us at the market.”

”He said thatʼs what heʼd see,” Xu Yan said. ”Weʼll set up regardless.”

”What about that girl?” Qian Duoduo glanced across the street. ”She kept the books for us. Theyʼll dock her wages for that.”

Xu Yan didnʼt answer. He looked at the door of Huichun Hall. The curtain hung still, not moving.

He sat on a stone footing, opened the account book, and wrote, line by line: June 20, at the market, one pot, twenty bowls, forty stones. When he finished, he read it over and started a new line below: five bowls, one tael of silver.

”Arenʼt you making a separate entry for those eighteen stones from Cao Hu?” Qian Duoduo leaned in to look.

”No separate entry,” Xu Yan said. ”He ate nine bowls, he paid eighteen stones. Same as the eleven bowls. Theyʼre all in the twenty.”

Qian Duoduo turned that over in his mouth and didnʼt ask again.

Then he picked up the box and followed Shi Po and Qian Duoduo toward the town gate. The chipped bowl sat on top of the basket, rattling with every step, all the way. Shi Poʼs carrying pole creaked once, then again, the same sound it had made on the way in that morning.

”Nine li to go,” Qian Duoduo announced from behind.

”Stop counting,” Xu Yan said.

”Counting makes the walking easier.”

Passing Huichun Hall, Bai Xiaoman was crouched on the steps below, a dustpan basket in hand, filled with herb dregs. She dumped them into a dirt pit by the roadside, scraped the basket edge twice, and picked off the last few stubborn bits with her fingers. She straightened up.

Seeing them, her hand paused on the basket for a moment, then she turned and started up the steps.

At the threshold, she looked back at Xu Yan.

Xu Yan gave her a nod.

She didnʼt nod back. She went inside.