My Sect Is Down to Seven People

Chapter 31: Let Them Go, Keep the Ledger

The broom rasped against the stone steps of the Mountain Gate.

Fog clung to the ground, and a sheen of damp covered the blue stone. Nie Bo swept from the east end to the west, pushing the pine needles and pebbles that had fallen overnight down the slope. When he reached the middle of the gate, where the rain had washed one flagstone white, he stopped, picked the dirt out of the cracks one pinch at a time, then kept sweeping.

The broom scraped across stone—sha—then a pause, then sha again.

The sun crested the ridge to the east, and the Mountain Gateʼs shadow pulled back half a foot. He stood the broom against the wall and went inside.

Two of them were awake in the firewood shed.

The skinny one woke first. He lifted his head, knocked the back of his skull against the woodpile, and cried out. He lunged forward, and the rope binding his hands behind his back went taut. The one beside him woke too. They pressed shoulder to shoulder, one curling inward, the other shying away, and the rope only pulled tighter.

Cao Hu was the last to wake.

Their cries had roused him. His head lay tilted to one side, cheek against dry kindling, nose full of the smell of firewood. He lifted his head and saw the door first.

The door was open. Jiang Wan stood in the frame, sword in her arms, a layer of damp on her shoulders. The oil jar sat in the corner, the iron pry bar leaned against the doorframe, and the burlap hung loose, one end dragging on the ground.

He tried to move. The back of his head hit the woodpile and he sank, vision going black, a buzz in his ears. He shut his eyes, swallowed the spit pooling in his mouth, and only opened them again after a long moment.

Xu Yan came in from outside, a bowl in his hands.

”Drink.”

Cao Hu turned his head away. Xu Yan handed the bowl to Shi Po, who crouched down, cupped Cao Huʼs jaw with one hand, and brought the rim to his lips. The water was cold—half a vat of collected rainwater. He drank half the bowl; the rest ran down his chin and into his collar.

The other two each got a mouthful. The skinny one spoke the moment he was done. ”We didnʼt do anything. Heʼs the one who brought us here.”

”Shut up,” Cao Hu said.

Xu Yan sat down on the threshold.

”Last night, you came over the ridge from the east,” he said. ”You brought a pry bar and a jar of oil. Whereʼd the pry bar come from?”

”Bought it in town.”

”And the oil?”

”Bought it.”

”Whatʼs the oil for, if you were prying stone?”

Cao Hu didnʼt answer. The dry wood in the pile gave off that sun-baked smell, and when a draft slipped through the door, the smell shifted.

”It gets cold in the mountains at night,” he said after a moment. ”A fire.”

Shi Po stood at the door with a chopping knife. ”The oil jarʼs unopened,” he said.

”Didnʼt get to it.”

Xu Yan stood and walked to the doorframe, tearing off a corner of the burlap wrapped around the pry bar. The cloth was old, fraying at the edges.

”The barʼs wrapped in cloth,” he said. ”So the stone wouldnʼt make noise when they pried.”

Cao Hu stared at the cloth, his mouth pressed into a line.

”The lump on the back of your head. Who gave it to you?”

”Someone from your mountain.”

”Who did you see?”

Silence in the shed. The skinny one lowered his eyes; the tall one rubbed at the rope end behind his back. Cao Huʼs throat worked, and his voice dropped low. ”Didnʼt see anything. My head went numb.”

”And him?”

”Same as him,” Cao Hu said.

”I didnʼt even get a shout out,” the skinny one cut in, voice shaking. ”One second I was looking up at that stone disc, the next I was down.”

”Did anyone come up the mountain with you last night?” Xu Yan asked.

”No.” Cao Hu answered fast, then shut his mouth. ”Just the three of us.”

Jiang Wan had said nothing the whole time. Now she spoke, her voice level. ”Break their hands. See if Chixiao dares again.”

The air in the shed sank. The skinny one shrank into the woodpile; the tall one made a noise in his throat.

”Let them go,” Xu Yan said.

Jiang Wan repeated it. ”Let them go.” Her final note was flat.

”Keep the account.”

”Three of them crossed the ridge into our territory with a pry bar and oil,” Jiang Wan said. ”Tied up in Qingyaʼs woodshed, and Chixiao canʼt say a word. That mark is on our side.”

”Break their hands, and that mark gets wiped away.” Xu Yan said. ”Two sects lay hands on each other in the mountains, and we threw the first punch. The Branch will come asking—us.”

Jiang Wan looked at him, her grip on the sword unrelaxed. She stepped over the threshold, sword sheath knocking against the frame.

”Your accounting. I canʼt follow it.”

She left. A long while passed before the sound of sword practice came from the East Courtyard—once, then again, with empty space between.

By the time the sun climbed over the East Slope, the market in Luoxia Town was already crowded.

Qian Duoduo came carrying a shoulder pole—a pot hanging front, a pot hanging back, the bamboo flexing under the weight. A He followed, a stack of bowls in his arms and the wooden box of Qi-Gathering Powder slung over one elbow. Every step made the bowls rattle.

”Stop shaking.”

”Iʼm not shaking. They rattle on their own.”

At the market entrance, Lu Shoutian stood by the wall with his scale tucked under one arm. Two door panels leaned against the wall by his feet, unset.

”Uncle Lu, which way are we setting up today?” Qian Duoduo shifted the pole to his other shoulder.

”Not setting up today.”

”Why not?” A He said.

Lu Shoutian lifted one of the door panels, then leaned it back against the wall. ”Chixiaoʼs people came yesterday.”

”They flipped tables again?”

”No.” Lu Shoutian said. ”Two Outer Court disciples. Sat in my place a while. Before they left, they said one thing: if thereʼs still a Qingya stall on this street, then if anything happens in the market from now on, they wonʼt deal with it.”

”What happens in the market?” Qian Duoduo said. ”Last time they flipped our stall, that wasnʼt—”

”Last time, I handled it,” Lu Shoutian said. ”This time, I canʼt.”

”Why canʼt you?” A He took a step forward.

Lu Shoutian gestured at both ends of the street. ”What I manage is this street. Who sets up a stall on the pavement and who pays the fee—my word counts for that. Past this street, Iʼm just a mortal. My word counts for nothing.”

Qian Duoduo shifted the pole from shoulder to shoulder but didnʼt set it down.

”Uncle Lu, weʼll move to the very back, right up against the wall. We wonʼt block anyoneʼs way.”

”The wall is still on this street.”

Two regulars had already gathered around—one a carter, the other the blacksmith from next to the medicine shop, his hands still hot from the forge. The blacksmith spoke first. ”Selling today or not?”

Qian Duoduo opened his mouth.

”Not today,” Lu Shoutian said.

The regulars glanced at the two unset door panels and left. The blacksmith took two steps, turned to sniff the air once, then left too.

Lu Shoutian hung his scale on the wall nail and felt around inside his robe, producing two Spirit Stones, which he set on a door panel.

”The meal in those pots. Sell me a bowl.”

”Uncle Lu—”

”Iʼm not giving you a stall. Iʼm buying a meal.” He crouched by the door panel. ”Fill it up.”

Qian Duoduo set the pole down and lifted the pot lid. Steam rushed up into his face. He ladled out a bowl, tapped the ladle twice against the rim, then added another half-ladle, filling it to the very edge. He held it out, then pushed the two Spirit Stones back across the panel. ”Uncle Lu, this oneʼs on us.”

Lu Shoutian looked at him, put the Spirit Stones away, and crouched by the panel to eat. He finished the bowl, drank the broth, and handed the empty bowl back.

”Every rule on this street—Iʼll hold them for you, one by one,” he said. ”If anyone says your meals are no good again, Iʼll be the first to argue.”

”Uncle Lu, on the fives and tens—”

”On the fives, I wonʼt give it to you.” Lu Shoutian re-hung his scale at his waist. ”On the tens, I wonʼt either. Any other day, youʼll have to figure it out yourselves.”

Qian Duoduo wiped the bowl clean and put it away, shouldered the pole, and when he stood, his legs gave for a moment. A He braced the bottom of the pot from behind.

”Letʼs head back,” Qian Duoduo said.

The road to the mountain was ten li of uphill. The sun baked his neck, and the contents of the pots sloshed, dripped over the rims and onto the road. He walked a stretch, switched shoulders, walked another stretch, switched again. The bowls in the crate clattered. After seven li, he set the pole on a roadside stone and braced his hands on his knees, panting.

”Three more li,” A He said.

”Three more li,” he repeated, then straightened and picked up the load.

At midday, Shi Po opened the woodshed door wider, and the three were led to the Mountain Gate. The sun was harsh, the stone steps bleached white, and the three menʼs faces didnʼt look good.

Shi Po used the chopping knife to pry the knots loose, and Xu Yan untied them one by one. The rope had left two red welts around the wrists. Cao Hu rubbed his wrists, worked them in circles, stepped forward, and stood still.

”Leave the pry bar and oil,” Xu Yan said.

”Why should we?”

”You brought them up in the night. Without asking me.”

Cao Hu raised his head to look at the plaque above the Mountain Gate, then lowered it to his own hands. The tall one had already edged over to the steps; the skinny one followed behind him, both men afraid to lift their hands.

”Last night, there was someone else on your mountain,” Cao Hu said.

Xu Yan coiled the rope twice around his hand and slipped it into his sleeve. ”Itʼs a mountain. Lots of people.”

Cao Hu stared at him for a long moment. A breeze came up from below the steps and lifted the hem of his robe.

”That plaque wonʼt hang there long,” he said.

He turned and started down. The skinny one hurried to follow; the tall one trailed last, rubbing the back of his head as he went.

The mountain path was narrow—only wide enough for two to squeeze past. Qian Duoduo came up with his pole as Cao Hu and the other two came down.

Qian Duoduo moved aside first. He tilted the pole toward the roadside; the front pot nearly slammed into the cliff face, and A He shouldered the back pot to steady it. Cao Hu passed by the load, took two steps, then stopped.

”Didnʼt sell today?”

Qian Duoduo said nothing.

”Donʼt bother next time either.” Cao Hu laughed once and kept walking down.

The skinny one followed without looking back. The tall one glanced at Qian Duoduo as he passed the pole, said nothing, and went down the mountain rubbing his skull.

Qian Duoduo carried the load to the Mountain Gate, set it down, and dropped onto the stone steps.

”Why are you back?”

”Lu Shoutian wonʼt give us a stall.” Qian Duoduo wiped his face. ”He said Chixiao people came yesterday and said if thereʼs still a stall of ours on that street, then whatever happens in the market from now on, they wonʼt lift a finger.”

”He also said he only manages that street,” A He cut in. ”Past the street, heʼs just a mortal, his word counts for nothing. And he bought two bowls—”

”One bowl,” Qian Duoduo said.

”One bowl,” A He said. ”Qian Duoduo wouldnʼt take his money.”

Shi Po came up from behind, took the pole—one pot per end—shouldered it, and headed in. Qian Duoduo stood up empty-handed, legs still weak, and followed.

At the Monkey hour, in the Accounts Room.

Xu Yan recorded the morningʼs events in the ledger: Seventh Month, Tenth Day—three men in the woodshed released down the mountain at midday; one iron pry bar, one jar of fire oil kept on the mountain; no stall given at the market, the two pots carried back, eight measures of rice counted as eaten on the mountain.

When he finished, he copied over the balance line as always: 351. Not one stone inked in as income that day.

The brush paused at the corner of the page. Half a line still sat empty beneath last nightʼs entry. He opened his mouth, then didnʼt ask. Heʼd asked once and gotten no words. No point asking again.

At dusk, the long table went out in front of the Kitchen, and the two pots of Spirit Meals were reheated and carried out one at a time.

Bai Xiaoman had spent the day cutting Astragalus Root; mud still stuck to the backs of her hands as she crouched by the water vat to wash. Cheng Banshan hung his wine gourd at his waist and stood in the kitchen doorway, bowl in hand.

”Two pots, thirty-nine bowls,” Bai Xiaoman reported. ”Uncle Lu ate one. Nine people on the mountain, four bowls each, three bowls left over.”

”Reheated meals lose half their spiritual potency,” Qian Duoduo said. ”Heat them again and itʼs just flavor.”

”Then eat,” Cheng Banshan set his bowl on the threshold and took a pull from his gourd. ”Finish it, and tomorrowʼs stomachs can skip a meal.”

A Sui ran circles around the courtyard with her bowl, dashing to the stone steps and back. ”This oneʼs the Sect Masterʼs!”

A He was still talking about the market. ”They wouldnʼt even let us set up the door panels.”

”The door panels belong to Lu Shoutian,” Xu Yan said.

”But he wouldnʼt set them up.”

”He has to hold his street.”

Cheng Banshan drained the broth from his bowl and asked, ”What about the three in the woodshed?”

”Let them go,” Xu Yan said.

Cheng Banshan stood holding his empty bowl for a moment, asked nothing else. ”You let them go. You keep the ledger.”

Jiang Wan came when the sky was already fully dark. She paused at the kitchen door.

”Those three went down the mountain?”

”They went down.”

She filled a bowl, ate standing by the wall, rinsed the bowl herself, dried it, and put it back on the stack. In the middle of the courtyard she stopped. ”That pry bar by the woodshed door—donʼt leave it outside.”

”Itʼs in the inner room.”

She went toward the East Courtyard.

Qian Duoduo dragged the pole out from behind the door, empty pots hanging one on each end, and set them down at the kitchen door. He swung the pole onto his shoulder, remembered the pots were empty, took it off again. One end struck the ground and knocked against the stone step with a clatter.

”Sect Master, do we go back next time?”

Xu Yan set his bowl on the step by the door.

”We go,” he said. ”If the market wonʼt have us, we set up outside it.”