My Sect Is Down to Seven People

Chapter 43: Three Bamboo Tallies

The alchemist lined up seven small porcelain jars on the long table, mouths facing him. His sleeves were bound tight with a cloth strip, and when he lifted his hands the loose ends didnʼt slide down.

”One jar at a time,” he said. ”First, read the writing on each jar.”

The Market Officeʼs threshold stood a notch higher than the street. Three men stood on the left side of the room: a lean, tall one with both hands still pressed to his stomach; a bearded one with his sleeves rolled to the elbows; and a younger one, half a step behind the other two, who hadnʼt said a word. On the right stood the three from Qingya. Xu Yan held the ledger. Qian Duoduo had wiped his hands on his apron four times. Shi Po stood at the end, arms hanging at his sides.

Xue Guizhi stood behind the long table, a wooden board balanced upright on her finger, bobbing up and down. Two clerks worked nearby: one grinding ink, one smoothing paper.

The alchemist raised the first jar and examined the writing on its side.

”Second day, first pot.”

He peeled off the oiled paper cover and brought his nose to the rim—no nod, no shake of the head. He lifted out a bit of rice with a bamboo slip, spread it on a white porcelain dish, inserted a silver needle, drew it out, and turned it half around against the window light. The needle was still silver. He then poured two drops of medicinal liquid over the rice and squatted down, eyes level with the dishʼs edge, waiting.

”No poison.” He straightened. ”One jar, one line. Write.”

Second jar, third jar. Oiled paper covers came off and were stacked at the corner of the table. When the fourth jar came up, Qian Duoduoʼs throat made a sound. He took half a step forward, then stopped.

”That oneʼs mine to seal,” he said.

The alchemist finished smelling the jarʼs mouth before answering: ”Sealed well. The paperʼs unbroken, the seal intact.”

At the seventh jar, the moment it opened there was no sour smell—instead a sharp gingery heat rose up. The alchemist stirred inside with the bamboo slip and fished out a slice of ginger, setting it on the dishʼs rim. A stub of scallion white clung to the gingerʼs edge.

”Thereʼs ginger in this jar,” he said.

Xue Guizhi tipped her chin toward the paper: ”Note it.”

The last silver needle was wiped clean on cloth and returned to its case. The alchemist pressed both hands down on the inspection slip.

”Seven jars. No poison.”

No sound from the left side of the room. The lean, tall man lowered his hands from his stomach and stepped forward two paces.

”No poison?” he said. ”What we ate was the bowl from the pot, not the scoop in your jar.”

”Whatʼs in the jar is what was in the pot,” Xu Yan said.

”Who knows.” The bearded man came up beside him. ”You sealed the jars yourself. You can say whatever you want.”

”I was there when they were sealed,” Xue Guizhi said. ”The pot was brought over, the jars set on the board. I counted seven. You three were out in the crowd.”

The bearded man glanced toward the doorway, then said nothing.

The lean, tall man reached into his robe and pulled out a folded scrap of old cloth, spreading it on the table. Three bamboo slips, green-skinned, all the same length.

”This is what we ate from,” he said.

Xu Yan looked at the three bamboo slips. His hand stopped on the ledger, knuckles resting against the page, motionless.

Xue Guizhi picked up the first slip, turned it over to the window light, and read the carved number.

”Eighty-three.”

The clerkʼs brush moved.

”Eighty-four.”

”Eighty-five.”

The three slips went back on the table, laid side by side. Xu Yanʼs voice was low when he spoke: ”May I look?”

”Look. Donʼt take them.”

He picked up the leftmost slip. The bamboo had been rubbed glossy from handling. Fresh bamboo flecks were caught in the cuts of the carved number. Eight—the upper stroke short, the lower long, the finish hasty. He had carved those numbers himself: one hundred forty slips, one cut per slip. This oneʼs cut had the same temperament as the knife in his own hand. He set the slip back, aligned exactly as before.

”Three tallies. Iʼll record the numbers,” he said.

”Record them,” Xue Guizhi said.

He copied the three numbers into the ledger, slowly, stroke by stroke, then set the brush back by the inkstoneʼs edge.

”Which day, what time, how many bowls.” Xue Guizhi turned to the three men. ”One at a time.”

”The fourth, midday,” the lean, tall man said. ”One bowl each.”

”One bowl each,” Xu Yan repeated, the brush tip already lowering.

”Why are you writing that down?”

”Writing down what they said,” Xu Yan said. ”Not what I say.”

Xue Guizhi looked at the ledger in his hand: ”Fine. When you read it back, donʼt change a single word.”

”I wonʼt.”

”Today is the fifth. Three days falls before the seventh. The inspection slip goes up on the Market Office door, one line per jar, for anyone to read. Dismissed.”

The three men left first. At the threshold the lean, tall man turned back, one foot still inside the door: ”Once three days pass, that stall of yours is gone.”

Qian Duoduoʼs hand clenched his apron again. Shi Po shifted forward half a step and blocked the doorwayʼs light. The lean, tall man stepped his other foot outside.

Xue Guizhi snapped the rattan chestʼs clasp shut and looked up at Xu Yan.

”That ledger of yours, bring it over,” she said. ”After the inspection, I want to see the numbers inside. Not one entry missing.”

”Iʼll bring it.”

Out of the Market Office, the sun had slipped onto the western eaves. Qian Duoduo stood below the steps, hands opening and closing, palms pale from a layer of rice-washing white.

”Sect Master, they said fourth day, midday,” he said.

”I know.”

”Fourth day midday, there was only one pot.”

”Weʼll talk back at the inn. Not on the road.”

The inn room had a single window, its paper pasted thick—a lamp had to burn even in daylight. The stove downstairs had long gone out. Sounds came through the plank wall next door: someone turning in bed.

Qian Duoduo lay facing the wall, one hand dangling off the bedʼs edge, fingers still curled. Shi Po moved the stool to sit across from the low table, back against the wall, hands on his knees.

Xu Yan drew the lamp closer and started from the page for the second. Page one: sixty bowls, numbers one through sixty. Page two: three pots, numbers sixty-one through one hundred twenty. Page three: twenty entries, one hundred twenty-one through one hundred forty. He pulled out a sheet of rough paper, drew three horizontal lines, and wrote the first and last number of each day. The numbers ran continuously. Where the bowls were sold, the numbers would tell.

His brush tip moved to the third dayʼs page and found eighty-three. Those three entries sat together in the same place: Snake hour, numbers eighty-three, eighty-four, eighty-five—four spirit stones each.

He trimmed the lamp wick a fraction, closed his eyes, and worked backward through those numbers, recalling each person. Eighty-three: an old patched Daoist robe, a flat cloth sack over one shoulder, whoʼd set his bowl straight at the end and looked up to ask if there were any more elixirs. Eighty-four: crouched at the base of the wall, scraping the bowl in circles down to the last grain, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. Eighty-five: crouched beside him, calling out that one bowl of this was worth a whole basin from their mess hall.

”Can you find them?” Shi Po asked.

”I can. A rogue cultivator, and two porters from the freight warehouse.” Xu Yan opened his eyes. ”Tomorrow Iʼll go to the warehouse. Those two laborers are there every day.”

”I know them,” Shi Po said. ”The taller one scraped his bowl to the bottom. The shorter one crouched by the wall and shouted something.”

”You watched them eat.”

”I was standing in front of the stall.”

Xu Yan moved his brush to the fourth dayʼs page. On the fourth, only one pot had been written: twenty bowls, numbers one hundred twenty-one through one hundred forty. At the bottom of the rough paper he continued: Before noon on the fourth, twenty bowls went out, tallies one hundred twenty-one through one hundred forty. The numbers on the three slips—not one fell within that range.

He set the brush down and waited for the ink to dry.

The wall next door sounded again—someone splashing water in a basin. Downstairs, someone was fitting the door panels shut one by one. Qian Duoduo turned over, mumbling through half-sleep: ”Donʼt pour it out... that potʼs new.”

Shi Po took his outer robe from the back of the chair and laid it over him, then returned to his seat, same posture, back against the wall.

”Tired?” Xu Yan asked.

”No.”

”We leave at Dragon hour tomorrow.”

”Mm.”

Near dawn a mule cart passed on the street, wheels grinding over flagstones. The window paper shivered.

Xu Yan folded the rough paper twice and tucked it into the fifth dayʼs page of the ledger.

At Dragon hour, the freight warehouse at the north end of the Market was a long row of open sheds. Sacks were stacked higher than a man. The ground was covered in chaff and broken straw. The porters worked in pairs, entering from the shedʼs mouth and coming out with empty shoulders, necks slick with sweat, pausing by the stacks for a breath before going back in.

Shi Po took his place by the stack and followed the men with his eyes as they passed. After seven or eight went by, he raised a hand.

”That one. And that one.”

The two men he pointed to were just lowering burlap from their shoulders. The one in front was older, with two hard calluses on the back of each hand, the calluses cracked at the seams; the one behind was thin, a sweat towel around his neck.

They saw the Qingya people and slowed. The younger one gripped the burlap in his fist: ”We didnʼt report you.”

”Iʼm not asking about that,” Xu Yan said. ”Iʼm asking about three tallies.”

”What tallies?”

”Third day, Snake hour. You each bought a bowl. Tallies eighty-four and eighty-five. And one more—the rogue cultivator who ate with you, eighty-three.”

The younger porter looked at the older one. The older man shook out the burlap in his hand: ”The tallies? Threw them in the bucket. Tossed them the moment we finished. Your bucket sits right by the stall. Itʼs there for that, isnʼt it?”

”There was already a layer at the bottom when I dropped mine in,” the younger one added.

Xu Yan turned both statements over in his mind and looked toward the shed entrance.

A man was walking over—patched Daoist robe, a flat cloth sack over one shoulder, dried mud on his shoe uppers.

”Iʼve been looking for you since early morning.” The rogue cultivator stopped in front of them. ”Thereʼs a paper pasted on your stall, and one over the stove mouth. Whyʼs your stall sealed?”

”Someone ate our food and said it was poisoned,” Xu Yan said.

”Who said that?”

”Three men. Yesterday, in the office, they presented three tallies.”

The rogue cultivator shifted his sack to the other shoulder: ”I finished my bowl clean. Left your stall on the third, walked out the city gate, went thirty li—not a twinge in my stomach.”

”Your tally?”

”Threw it in the bucket. Same as these two.” He pointed at the porters. ”I remember there was ginger in the bowl, and I said something to you—that Iʼd been traveling for half a month and this was the first hot meal Iʼd had.”

”I remember,” Xu Yan said.

The rogue cultivator paused: ”What about my two bottles of Qi-Gathering Powder?”

”Sold out by Monkey hour on the third.”

”Doesnʼt matter.” He waved it off. ”Iʼm heading north tomorrow. Two bottles would just be baggage.”

Xu Yan opened the ledger, brush hovering: ”The Market Office will likely open its doors at Snake hour tomorrow. You three just need to stand in the hall. When I read your numbers, stand up and say three things: which day you ate, which bowl, and where you threw the tally. Nothing more.”

”The office will write our names down,” the younger porter said.

”What they record is my ledger. You three are just three numbers in my books.” Xu Yan said. ”Say it and leave.”

The older porter slung the burlap over his shoulder: ”If weʼre talking at Snake hour, will it cost us work time?”

”Half a workday. Iʼll make it up.”

”No need.” He shook his head. ”We threw those three tallies away. Weʼll go say a word. If someone can pick up a thrown tally and use it for this kind of thing, next time whoʼd dare eat at your stall?”

The rogue cultivator hitched his flat sack back: ”Iʼll eat my noon meal before I go. Snake hour can be done.”

”It can.”

Someone in the shed shouted out. The two porters answered and walked back. Xu Yan wrote down their names, asking each for his residence as he went, then read the list back from the top. All three nodded.

At Monkey hour, the Medicine Guild. Two large bamboo trays of herb slices sat drying by the door. The alchemist was in the back hall, one hand on the grinder, the other holding a bamboo sieve.

”I want to ask one thing about whatʼs written on the inspection slip,” Xu Yan said from outside the threshold.

”Itʼll be posted for anyone to read. You can read it too,” the alchemist said.

”The ginger in the jar. Written down or not?”

The alchemist stopped the grinder: ”Ginger isnʼt poison.”

”I know. But those three men say what they ate was the bowl from our pot. And our pot had ginger.”

The alchemist studied him for a moment, then set the sieve on its stand: ”I only write what I find.”

”Thatʼs enough.”

”But you came at the right time.” He walked to the bottom of the shelf, squatted, and brought out a small jar sealed with cloth, the Market Officeʼs stamp pressed into the covering. ”This morning I tested something else. The office sent it yesterday—said it was scraped from the stone slab in front of your stall.”

The cloth came off and the sour smell flooded out, heavy and stale. The contents had swollen from soaking. A grain of rice fell apart the moment it was lifted. The alchemist set a bit on the dishʼs rim and let it dissolve on its own.

”Left overnight, then broth poured over it, hot weather—half a day, and this is the smell,” he said. ”This is spoiled food.”

”Is there ginger in it?”

He stirred through the jar twice, all the way to the bottom: ”No. Not even scallion.”

Xu Yan stood there, letting that statement settle. The line heʼd written in the ledger after noon on the fourth was still there: what was vomited had no ginger, and Qian Duoduo had never seen these three men.

”Will this be written into the inspection slip?”

”Yes. I write what I find,” the alchemist said. ”I wonʼt write whose food it is—only whatʼs in this jar.”

”On the same sheet as the seven jars.”

”Same sheet. One jar, one line. Whoever looks, their eye will jump straight to that line.”

Xu Yan spread the ledger on the counter and added a line: Fourth day, what the three men vomited, the alchemist tested it as spoiled food, no ginger.

He finished writing and looked up. There was still light in the sky. He stood in the middle of the street a while, looking toward the Qingya stall at East Row Three. The seal strip moved in the wind. The stone over the stove mouth still sat where it was.

At dusk, someone knocked twice on the inn doorʼs panel.

A man in a gray-blue short jacket stood outside, a wooden tablet in his hand. He didnʼt come in.

”Dongzhou Ninth Rank. Owner of the Qingya Sect stall.”

”Thatʼs me.”

”Steward Xue sends word: tomorrow, Snake hour, Market Office. Public reading of the ledger.”

Xu Yan held the ledger in his arms: ”Reading the ledger.”

”Reading the ledger. That book of yours, from the first entry to the last.” The man tucked the tablet back into his sleeve and added, ”The alchemistʼs inspection slip reached the office at Monkey hour today. Itʼs laid out beside the seven jars.”

Then he left, footsteps fading down the street.

Qian Duoduo sat up on the plank bed, hair flattened lopsided: ”Reading the ledger? Reading what?”

”Reading the ledger.” Xu Yan lit the lamp and spread the book flat on the low table. Starting from the first page, he pressed down each pageʼs corners in turn. ”You listen too. Tomorrow in the hall, not one word can be wrong.”

”Snake hour, number one, four spirit stones,” he read.

Qian Duoduo put his hands on the tableʼs edge, fingers moving one by one with each number. Shi Po sat across from him, back to the wall, eyes on the pages. The only sounds left in the room were the rustle of turning paper and the voice reciting numbers.