My Sect Is Down to Seven People

Chapter 42: Three Men Who Cry Pain

The line stretched from the stall all the way to the doorstep of the pickle shop on East Row Four.

Third of the month. Only three pots of rice had been soaked, but the line looked like it would eat four.

Qian Duoduo moved the last basket of rice out of the back basket and straightened up to look at the line. The corner of his mouth twitched, then he lowered his head and lifted the pot lid. Steam rushed up into his face. He wiped it with the back of his hand, leaving a streak of rice starch.

”Sect Master,” he said, ”three pots might not be enough today.”

”Three pots,” Xu Yan said. ”The rice is measured for three pots.”

They opened at the Snake hour. Shi Po carried two wooden buckets to the side of the stall—one for washing hands, one for washing bowls—and set them far enough away that no water droplets could splash onto the worktable. Xu Yan sat on the low stool by the stove, the account book open on his knees, the tally bucket at his feet. One bowl out, one tally stick. He recorded the hour, the tally number, how many spirit stones came in.

”Snake hour. Eighty-one.”

”Eighty-two.”

The line moved forward. Someone at the back asked his neighbor, ”Whatʼs that smell up front?”

Halfway through the Snake hour, and only two bowls had been ladled from the second pot. Qian Duoduo knocked his ladle against the pot rim, turned to grin at Xu Yan, got halfway through the grin, and pulled it back. He lowered his head and ladled the next bowl.

That was when three men came over. In front, a rogue cultivator in an old Daoist robe. Behind him, two porters with bleached burlap draped over their shoulders, forearms coated in white dust, the edges of their palms calloused hard from hauling sacks, the calluses split open.

Each of the three set four spirit stones on the worktable. Xu Yan pulled three tally sticks from the bamboo bundle and handed them over one by one, the brush tip tapping three times in the ledger.

”Snake hour. Eighty-three, eighty-four, eighty-five.”

The two porters didnʼt go to the empty room behind the stall. They squatted by the wall and ate. After two bites, one looked up and shouted at Qian Duoduo, ”One bowl of this would fill a basin back in our mess hall.” The other said nothing, turning his bowl in circles, scraping soup and rice clean to the bottom before setting it down and wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

The rogue cultivator ate slowly. Halfway through he paused, as if weighing whether the bowl was worth it, then finished it bite by bite, set the bowl down straight, and looked up. ”Any elixirs left?”

”Two bottles,” Xu Yan said.

”Hold one for me. Iʼll come back for it.” The rogue cultivator wiped the corner of his mouth. ”You put ginger in this.”

”We did.”

”My master used to say, when a meal on a hot day has ginger in it, itʼs because theyʼre afraid youʼre not sweating enough.” He smiled to himself. ”Iʼve been on the road half a month. First hot meal Iʼve had.”

By the time he stood up, the third pot was already on the stove.

By mid Monkey hour, the pot was half empty. Past the Monkey hour, the ladle scraped bottom. The last two bottles of Qi-Gathering Powder in the wooden box sold out too. The box was empty. Qian Duoduo closed the lid and retreated to the stone steps, both hands braced on his knees, panting like heʼd just carried sacks all day.

”Sect Master,” he said, ”that pot sold better than the one before.”

Xu Yan closed out the dayʼs accounts: three pots, two hundred forty stones; eight bottles of Qi-Gathering Powder, forty stones; ingredients out, eighteen stones. Balance on hand: one thousand two hundred fifty-nine stones. He finished writing, tapped the brush against the edge of the ledger, and looked up as new shoes clicked on the flagstones across the street.

The man in the blue-green robe came over. Neither fast nor slow, he walked up to the stall and stopped. He didnʼt look at the people first. He looked at the tally bucket. Bending down, he pinched a bamboo slip from the bucket and held it up to read the number carved on it.

He looked at it for a while, then put it back.

”Qingya.”

”Qingya,” Xu Yan said.

”How many pots a day?”

”Three.”

”Two days, one hundred twenty bowls.” Cui Guang tucked his hands back into his sleeves. ”This meal wonʼt sell long in Linchuan.”

Xu Yan didnʼt stand. The ledger stayed open on his knees. ”The stall was assigned by the Market Office. Stall fees go to the Market Office. The day it shouldnʼt be sold, the Market Office will say so.”

Cui Guang glanced at him. ”The Market Office will say so.”

He turned and walked back. At the middle of the street he looked back once more at the tally bucket, then stepped over the threshold. Someone inside called for the shopkeeper, and he answered.

Qian Duoduo sat on the stone steps clutching the ladle, staring at that door. ”Sect Master.”

”Close up,” Xu Yan said. ”Three pots again tomorrow. Weigh the rice tonight.”

The rice for the fourth was weighed at the Dragon hour.

The rice shop proprietor outside the Market measured it out as always, one bamboo measure at a time. At the third pot he looked up and said, ”Yesterday your line reached my doorstep.”

”Three pots again today.”

”Weigh it.” The proprietor scraped the measure level. ”Eighteen stones.”

Back at the stall, they lit the fire. Qian Duoduo poured the rice into the water, reached in and stirred three circles, pulled his hand out and looked. A layer of starch floated on the surface. He scraped the pot rim clean with the back of the ladle, set the ladle back by the pot, and wiped his hands on his apron again and again.

The Snake hour came and they opened.

The first bowl went to a woman holding a child. She set the bowl on someone elseʼs wall and blew one spoonful cool at a time to feed the child. Xu Yan wrote in the ledger, ”Before Horse hour, one hundred twenty-one through one-forty.”

The sun climbed overhead. The flagstones were baked white, and even the wind was hot.

Thatʼs when the crowd at East Row Four shifted.

Three men came over, walking crooked. The one in front was so thin his eyes were sunken, one hand clutching his stomach, the other grasping at the air. He reached the stall, his legs buckled, and he dropped to his knees.

”Poison...”

The second man bent over too, hugging his belly, rubbing against the flagstones. The third was older, with a full beard, and he yelled the loudest: ”Your food is poisoned!”

The tall thin one lunged forward, both hands braced on the flagstones, and vomited.

A white puddle landed on the stone in front of the stall. The rice grains were swollen, the sour smell rising with the heat.

The people eating backed away, shoes scraping on stone. Someoneʼs bowl tilted, soup splashing onto his foot, and he didnʼt even notice. The woman with the child pushed toward the edge of the crowd, got two steps out, and stopped, looking back at the half bowl in her hand.

”I ate two bowls this morning too,” someone in the crowd said.

”I ate some yesterday.”

”Iʼve eaten here three times.”

The tall thin one grabbed the wooden pole at the corner of the stall. ”Pay up! You have to pay! Iʼve eaten on this street for thirty years and never hurt like this!”

Qian Duoduo stood behind the stove, both hands hanging, rice starch still dripping from the ladle. His face went white, inch by inch.

”This pot is fresh,” he said, his voice not loud. ”The rice was weighed this morning. The water was washed three times. The ginger—”

”You dare bring up the ginger!” the bearded man roared at him.

Someone slammed a bowl down on the worktable. It shattered. Shards rolled off the edge and bounced twice on the flagstones.

Shi Po shifted one step from where heʼd stood in front of the stall, placing himself between the stove and the crowd. His hands stayed down.

Xu Yan crouched, close to the puddle. The sour smell hit his nose. He looked for a while, stood, and flipped the ledger to the fourthʼs page, the brush still in his hand.

”When did you eat?” he asked.

”Right here at your stall!” the tall thin one said. ”Noon!”

”The Horse-hour pot went out in twenty bowls, each with a tally stick.”

”Youʼre going to interrogate us?” The bearded man swept his eyes over the crowd. ”The manʼs in this state and heʼs asking when we ate!”

The crowd pressed forward half a step.

”Shi Po,” Xu Yan said.

Shi Po stepped back half a pace—no more, no less—exactly blocking the mouth of the stove behind him.

Qian Duoduo whispered from behind him, ”Sect Master, Iʼve never seen these three before.”

The crowd parted. Two men in dark-gray short shirts came through first, followed by Xue Guizhi. She walked fast, her skirt sweeping the flagstones. At the stall she didnʼt look at the people first. She looked at the stove. She lifted the pot lid, leaned in and smelled, and put it back.

”Whoʼs the stall owner?”

”Me,” Xu Yan said.

”Dongzhou, Ninth Rank, Qingya Sect.”

”Thatʼs right.”

Xue Guizhi set a wooden board on the worktable and drew a sheet of paper from her sleeve. She said to the three men, ”Names, residence. One at a time.”

The tall thin one answered quickly, then added, ”All three of us ate his food.”

”What did you eat, how many bowls, when did you eat it—say it yourself, write it down, and press your thumbprint.”

She finished and looked toward the stove. ”Market rules: when someone accuses a stall of unclean food, the stall is sealed first. Within three days, an alchemist from the Medicine Guild comes to test. If poison is found, compensation is paid and youʼre expelled from the Market. If not, the accusers bear the consequences.”

She looked at the three men. ”Is that clear?”

Their shouting dropped by half. The tall thin one still clutched his stomach. The bearded man stopped yelling, his eyes darting past the crowd.

”The sample jars,” Xue Guizhi said.

”Seven,” Xu Yan said, standing. ”Three from the second, three from the third, one from the fourth. Each jar is marked with the date and pot number.”

”Bring them over.”

The Market Office men moved the seven small porcelain jars from the corner of the stall to the worktable and lined them up. Xue Guizhi counted them one by one. At the seventh, she looked at the writing on the jar, then looked up at Xu Yan.

”Every pot is sealed.”

”Every pot, one ladle scooped before selling begins, then sealed. This one was sealed at the Snake hour.”

”Youʼve never opened them.”

”Never opened them.”

She waved a hand, and the two men loaded the jars into a rattan chest. A paper stamped with the Market Office seal was pressed over the top.

”Pour out the pot.”

Qian Duoduo stepped forward. ”This pot—”

”Pour it.” Xue Guizhi looked at him. ”And Iʼll watch while you pour.”

The Market Office men carried the pot to the ditch behind the street. Qian Duoduo followed, both hands reaching forward the whole way, as if to catch it but not daring to. The pot tipped, and the whole white batch poured into the ditch, the steam spreading across the surface, then gone.

When they came back, the stove mouth was already pasted over with a seal strip. One man had paste on his hand and was pressing the paper flat with his palm. He pressed four times.

”Is the fire out?” she asked.

”Out.”

”No fire in the stove overnight. Not today either.” Xue Guizhi turned. ”However many days itʼs sealed, thatʼs how many days of stall fees are refunded. Youʼve paid through the eleventh, so from today, three days sealed means fifteen stones back.”

Xu Yan asked, ”When itʼs tested, will we be present?”

”Yes. Both the accuser and the accused.”

”Who owns the ingredients in the pot?”

”You do. If they canʼt be sold, theyʼre poured out.”

”Sealed until when?”

”Within three days.” Xue Guizhi tucked the wooden board back into her sleeve. ”The day the results come out, Iʼll notify you. Tomorrow, Snake hour, Market Office. Testing.”

She took two steps, then looked back at the worktable.

”Keep your ledgers from these past few days.”

”Iʼll keep them,” Xu Yan said.

The crowd dispersed slower than it had gathered. Some people walked several steps out and still turned back to look at the puddle on the flagstones. The neighboring stall owner whoʼd once borrowed firewood moved his door panel half a foot outward, then sat back by his stove, facing away. The old man who split bamboo stood outside the crowd for a while with his carrying pole, switched the pole to his other shoulder, and left.

Qian Duoduo crouched down and picked up the broken bowl shards piece by piece. His hands were shaking. Two shards wouldnʼt stay between his fingers, and when they dropped, they clinked again.

”Sect Master,” he said, without looking up, ”was it my pot?”

”No,” Xu Yan said. ”Only one pot opened today. Twenty bowls, tallies one hundred twenty-one through one-forty.”

He spread the ledger on his knees and added a few lines: one pot, eighty stones; ingredients out, eighteen stones—three potsʼ worth of ingredients, only one pot sold. Balance on hand: one thousand three hundred twenty-one stones. The brush tip moved down another line: Horse hour, three men fall. The vomit has no ginger smell. Qian Duoduo has never seen these three men before.

When he finished writing, he took the thin ledger from his chest and opened it to read. The roster page had four names on it. The ledger added nothing. He waited for a while.

It made no sound.

Three days sealed, three pots a day—seven hundred twenty stones. Three formation stones, three hundred stones; sell three daysʼ worth, buy the formation stones, and four hundred twenty remain. He ran the number through his mind once, then closed both ledgers.

”Leave the bowl shards,” he said. ”Carry the pot back. Return to the inn first. Come back tomorrow at the Snake hour.”

The door of the shop diagonally across the street was still open. Cui Guang stood on the threshold, both hands clasped behind his back, his voice not loud but carrying across half the street:

”Once the tests come back, Qingya gets out of Linchuan.”

Xue Guizhiʼs steps paused. She didnʼt turn her head. ”Talk after the tests.”

The door panels shut one by one. The seal strip over the stove mouth lifted at one corner in the wind. Xu Yan reached out and pressed it back down. The paper stuck. The paste hadnʼt dried yet.