My Sect Is Down to Seven People

Chapter 32: A Bowshot from the Market Gate

On July 11, at Dragon hour, half the table in the Accounts Room was taken over.

Bai Xiaoman spread out half a Formation Map, its four corners weighed down by four things: a tea bowl, a paperweight, half an inkstone, and one of her own shoes. The paper still curled at the edges, so she held it down with her left hand while she drew with her right.

She wasnʼt drawing the old line on the map. She was drawing a circle. She set the bowl upside down on the paper and traced around it, lifted it up, saw the circle had gone crooked, and started over. It took three sheets before it came out round.

”Five slots,” she said. ”Metal in the west, Wood in the east, Water in the north, Fire in the south, Earth in the center. Thatʼs whatʼs laid out on the stone platform on Back Mountain.”

Xu Yan pushed his abacus to the edge of the desk and watched her draw. She drew the slots one by one as small squares, and filled each square with one of the Five Elements.

”Where do the measurements come from?”

”I measured.” She pulled three lengths of hemp rope from her sleeve and laid them on the paper one by one. ”One rope per slot, three knots in each: slot mouth, slot depth, platform edge. When we get to Linchuan, we wrap the rope around stones and check—if it slips in and sits tight, then we buy.”

The ropes were old, the knots tied hard, the ends singed with fire. Xu Yan picked them up, looked at each one, and set them back down.

”Not enough paper,” she said. ”Is there any left in the Accounts Room?”

”The paper in the Accounts Room is for the ledgers.”

”Iʼll draw on the back.”

He pulled a stack of last yearʼs discarded ledgers from under the desk and handed them over. She flipped them over one by one. The fronts were still covered in ink, line after line of figures.

”This side has last yearʼs charcoal prices.”

”The backʼs blank.”

She nodded, squared up the paper, and kept drawing. On the third slot she stopped. ”Thereʼs a chip missing in the bottom of this one. I found it on the eighth—when you drop a pebble in, it rolls to one side. When we buy the stone, weʼll need to shim it with a thin piece.”

”Whereʼs the shim come from?”

”Pick one from the stone shards,” she said. ”Those three cracked ones in the slot are still there. Tap them, and some of them can still be used.”

”What about that circle on the map?”

”The circle is the Formation Eye.” She added a small dot inside the circle. ”The crack under it runs toward the front mountain. Qi flows down from here. If I draw this line clearly, whoever reads this map later will know the path.”

A Sui came running in from the Kitchen, crouched by the desk to stare at the circle.

”Itʼs the same as the one on the stone platform on Back Mountain.”

”Same.”

”The three empty ones are still empty?”

”Still empty.” Bai Xiaoman set down the brush. ”The inkʼs not dry. Donʼt touch it.”

A Sui pulled her hand back, squatted by the desk watching, and when the sound of the furnace door being poked came from the Medicine Hall, she ran off again.

Cheng Banshan came over with stove ash on his cuffs. He rubbed them against the door frame.

”That furnace is burning firewood. Iʼm keeping watch on it—twelve out, ten bottles. The ten from the tenth are still in the box, making twenty all together.”

Xu Yan nodded.

”Selling on the roadside?”

”Outside the Town Gate. A bowshot from the fair.”

”Can Chixiaoʼs people reach that far?”

”The fair belongs to Lu Shoutian. Past the fair, nobody controls that road.”

Cheng Banshan unhooked the wine gourd from his waist and took a drink. ”What about the stones?”

”Not enough money.” Bai Xiaoman answered quickly. ”Three hundred and fifty-one. The three stones are three hundred. Whatʼs left is fifty-one, and forty-eight of that is a monthʼs rice.”

Cheng Banshan hung the gourd back on his belt. ”Thereʼs still rice in the jar.”

”There is,” Xu Yan said.

Cheng Banshan looked down at the map on the desk for a long while. ”Buying stones isnʼt just about getting big ones. You have to listen to the ring. How are you going to listen from eighty li away?”

”Thatʼs why he has to go,” Bai Xiaoman said.

”Tap the edge.” Cheng Banshan tapped two fingers on the desk. ”Tapping the face tells you nothing. The sound travels downward; what travels upward means solid material. Tap three times, and if the ring rises all three times, then you pay.”

Qian Duoduo stuck half his body through the doorway, still wearing his apron. ”Sect Master, the rice jarʼs hit bottom. This morningʼs pot—I scraped and scraped just to get two bowlsʼ worth.”

”Weʼll hold out today,” Xu Yan said. ”Tomorrow Iʼll go down to town and buy more.”

July 12, no market fair. The open ground at the Market Entrance stood empty, the stall frames put away, a few cart ruts left in the dirt. Lu Shoutian stood at the entrance with both hands tucked into his sleeves. He watched Xu Yan coming down the street and gave a single shake of his head. Xu Yan walked up, and neither of them spoke. Lu Shoutian sidestepped half a pace and let him pass.

At the grain shop, Xu Yan bought two potsʼ worth of rice: eight pieces. On the way back the sun was high, and the crowd at the Market Entrance had already scattered. On the tenth, Lu Shoutian had said everything he had to say. What had been said once didnʼt need to be asked again.

Back on the mountain, the Medicine Hall furnace had just come out. Cheng Banshan came over carrying a clay jar with one hand, a cloth stuffed in its mouth. Xu Yan counted—ten bottles—and pushed the cloth back in.

July 15, Dragon hour. One bowshot north of the Town Gate.

There was a collapsed half wall by the roadside, and the ground at its base was level. Shi Po hauled down the half door panel from behind the Kitchen and set it on two stones. The two pots, wrapped in straw, had been carried all the way and were still warm when uncovered.

”Theyʼll cool by Horse hour,” Qian Duoduo said, crouched by the pots, pressing the back of his hand to the side. ”Once theyʼre cold, even reheated, the spirit potency drops by half.”

”Then we sell out before Horse hour.” Xu Yan placed the wooden case at the far end of the door panel, with the bowls stacked beside it.

Late Dragon hour. The first customer was the young man from the martial hall. He stopped at the roadside, glanced toward the Market Entrance, and came over anyway.

”Not selling in the fair?”

”They wouldnʼt let us.”

”Then Iʼll come out here to eat.” He pulled out two pieces. ”One bowl.”

By Snake hour, the crowd had grown. A few came out of the fair, still holding the cloth theyʼd just bought. A porter set down his carrying pole at the wallʼs base and squatted to eat. An old woman came carrying her own clay jar, saying to ladle the meal into it and sheʼd return the bowl.

”You people arenʼt in the fair, and my grandson cried about it last time,” the old woman said. ”He recognizes your pot.”

Qian Duoduo ladled. Shi Po collected bowls. Xu Yan scratched tally marks on a sheet of paper to count the bowls. The sun climbed over the East Wall; the stack of bowls shrank; the pot began to show its bottom.

Two Chixiao Outer Court disciples stood at the Market Entrance. Theyʼd been standing there for a while. One of them stepped forward two paces, the other grabbed his arm, leaned in and said something. The man stopped, and the two of them turned and went back into the fair.

”Theyʼre not coming over,” Shi Po said.

”Then we sell,” Xu Yan said.

The porter by the wall finished, wiped his mouth, and asked, ”Last time in the fair, did Chixiaoʼs people flip your table?”

”They did.”

”And you still dare to come sell?”

”The fair wonʼt let us. The roadside will,” Xu Yan said.

The porter chuckled, handed back the bowl, and said, ”Next tens-day, Iʼll come back.”

A rogue cultivator bought five bottles of Qi-Gathering Powder, counted out fifteen pieces onto the door panel, and tucked the bottles into his chest. ”Last time I had your food, my masterʼs seclusion gate loosened within half a month. I searched two streets looking for your stall in the fair.”

”From now on, fives and tens—weʼre on this roadside,” Xu Yan said.

”Then here it is.” The rogue cultivator patted the bottles in his jacket and left.

Late Snake hour. Lu Shoutian came over from the Market Entrance.

He looked at the pots first. They were set on the end of the door panel near the wall, leaving room for two people to walk abreast.

”Donʼt set the pots in the middle of the road,” he said.

”We didnʼt,” Qian Duoduo said.

”Move them in another half chi.”

Shi Po pushed the door panel half a chi inward. Dirt scraped from the wallʼs base and fell into the grass at its foot. Lu Shoutian stood watching for a moment, then pulled two pieces from his coat and set them on the panel.

”One bowl.”

Qian Duoduo ladled it full—a little broth spilled over the rim, and he wiped it with the back of his hand. Lu Shoutian carried the bowl to the wall and squatted down. Halfway through, he looked up.

”What I govern is the street inside the fair. If something happens on this road, Iʼm just a mortal—my word counts for nothing. I told you this last time.”

”You did.”

”When people in the fair ask about you, I just say youʼre not selling.”

”Noted,” Xu Yan said.

Lu Shoutian drained the broth, set the bowl back on the door panel, stood, brushed off his clothes, then glanced down at the two stones propping up the pots. ”Carts and horses come through here. From now on keep the pots against the wall, not out on the road. If they get hit, itʼs your loss.”

Before Horse hour, the first pot hit bottom, and the second was half empty.

”Thirty bowls,” Qian Duoduo reported. ”Sixty pieces. Twenty bottles of Qi-Gathering Powder, sixty pieces. Ten bowls left.”

”Carry them back,” Xu Yan said.

As they packed up, Shi Po lifted the door panel and shook out the straw wrap—a shower of loose straw scattered onto the ground. Qian Duoduo merged the remaining ten bowls into one pot, put on the lid, shouldered the carrying pole, and tested the weight as he rose. Xu Yan circled to the grain shop and bought the next batch of rice—two pots, eight pieces.

After Horse hour, Tea Stall of Old Tao by the Town Gate. Three bowls of tea, six wen, paid in full.

At the next table sat a Carter, his whip on the corner of the table, the hem of his clothes dusty from the cart bed. He drank off his tea and raised his chin at Old Tao.

”Heard a thing on the road this trip.”

”The road always has stories.” Old Tao refilled his cup.

”The Heavenly Sword Sect threw someone out.”

Old Taoʼs teapot froze in midair, then dropped. ”Even theyʼre throwing people out now?”

”One handʼs ruined.” The Carter indicated his own right side with his chin. ”Still carries his sword though. Been walking south for half a month—says heʼs headed for Dongzhou.”

”Talk on the road—believe half of it.”

”The part I heardʼs true.”

”True or not, itʼs still a hundred li away.”

Xu Yan set down his tea bowl. ”When did this happen?”

”Heard it from people on the road half a month ago,” the Carter said. ”The tea sellers, the porters—canʼt tell who said it first. Either way, heʼs coming this way.”

Qian Duoduo held his bowl in both hands, not drinking. ”A Heavenly Sword Sect man—whatʼs he coming to Luoxia Town for?”

Shi Po said, ”One hand.”

”What about one hand?”

”A man. One hand.”

Qian Duoduo didnʼt ask again.

At dusk, a table was set outside the Kitchen. The ten bowls had been reheated and brought out.

”Reheated meals lose half their spirit potency,” Qian Duoduo said, ladling one by one. ”These ten bowls are just flavor now.”

”Flavorʼs enough,” Cheng Banshan said, taking his bowl.

Bai Xiaoman calculated over her bowl. ”Three hundred and forty-three, plus sixty plus sixty makes four hundred and sixty-three, minus eight for rice, four hundred and fifty-five.”

”Two pots, and we only sold a pot and a half.” Qian Duoduo said, ”The second pot, I had the fire too high when I was cooking it. It reduced too dry.”

”It cooled faster, too,” Shi Po said.

”Setting pots on the road,” Jiang Wan said.

”Against the wall.” Xu Yan said.

”Carts and horses donʼt respect walls.”

”Lu Shoutian told us to move in half a chi. Shi Po pushed it.”

Jiang Wan lowered her head and ate without another word. Qian Duoduo repeated what heʼd heard at the tea stall: a sect had thrown someone out, one hand ruined, sword still on his back, walking south for half a month, headed for Dongzhou. Cheng Banshan set down his bowl. ”A broken hand and still carrying a sword for half a month—that man has some spine.”

”Which sect threw him out?” Jiang Wan asked.

”Heavenly Sword Sect,” Qian Duoduo said.

Jiang Wan didnʼt ask again. She got up, rinsed her bowl, returned it to the stack, and went off to the East Courtyard.

Dog hour. The Accounts Room.

He first recorded the twelfth: Expenditure, two pots spirit rice, eight pieces; balance on hand, three hundred and forty-three.

Then todayʼs entry: Income, roadside north of Town Gate, one and a half pots, thirty bowls, sixty pieces; Qi-Gathering Powder, twenty bottles, sixty pieces. Expenditure, two pots spirit rice, eight pieces. He added it up line by line, and the last figure landed at four hundred and fifty-five.

Fifty-four days until the Double Ninth.

Three people on the Roster. Seven more needed.

Bai Xiaomanʼs Formation Plate Diagram was still spread on the table, the five slots circled in ink, the three empty ones circled darker than the two full ones. Metal, Water, Earth.

Linchuan prices—one hundred per stone. Three stones, three hundred pieces.

He worked the numbers in the margin: four hundred and fifty-five minus three hundred left one hundred and fifty-five. A monthʼs rice: forty-eight. That left one hundred and seven. The debt: two thousand one hundred. Against four hundred and fifty-five in hand, still short one thousand six hundred and forty-five. When he finished, he turned the slip over and slipped it under the formation map—tomorrow sheʼd draw on the back.

The brush hovered below the line that read ”Three stones, Linchuan.” That half-line had been empty since July 7.

He added one line: Three hundred pieces.

He wrote it and set the brush on the edge of the inkstone. The West Wing light was still burning. Wind moved through the treetops on Back Mountain. The copper bell did not ring.