My Sect Is Down to Seven People

Chapter 44: One Stall Ledger

By the Snake hour on the seventh of August, the main hall of the Market Office was packed.

A long table sat in the center of the room, a single chair behind it. Xue Guizhi was seated, in front of her a sheet of paper spread flat—the inspection slip sent over by the Medicine Guild. Beside her, a clerk pressed his brush into the inkstone twice, waiting for the ink to gather. The rule board from the wall had been moved into better light; the first plank still bore water stains from last yearʼs rains.

To the left stood the three accusers. The lean, tall one had changed into a washed-out short jacket and stood at the very front. The bearded one had his arms crossed, grinding the sole of his foot into the floor. The third shrank behind them, eyes fixed on the ground.

To the right were the Qingya stall holders. Xu Yan clutched the account book; Qian Duoduo stood half a step behind him, apron still tied, clutching a fold of cloth so tight it was a fistful of creases. Shi Po stood by the doorway, blocking half of it with his frame.

Beyond the threshold crouched the old man who split bamboo, a thin bamboo strip in his hand. He shaved off one stroke, listened a while.

”East Sector, Ninth Rank. Qingya Sectʼs stall holder,” Xue Guizhi said.

”Here.”

”Ledger with you?”

”Yes.”

”Start from the first entry. Donʼt change a single word.”

Xu Yan spread the ledger on the tableʼs edge, smoothed the paper, and opened it.

”Second day, Snake hour, tally one, four stones.”

He read low. No one in the hall spoke; there was only his voice reading numbers, and the clerkʼs brush moving across paper. Around tally twenty-something, two more people squeezed in at the door. At ”second day, Monkey hour, tally fifty-seven, four stones,” someone shifted their feet.

He read on, day by day. The second dayʼs page held sixty entries, tallies one through sixty, the very last marked the final bowl sold before the stall closed at the Dog hour. The third dayʼs page: sixty-one through one-twenty.

”Third day, Snake hour, tally eighty-three, four stones.”

The old man splitting bamboo outside the threshold lifted his head.

”Third day, Snake hour, tally eighty-four, four stones.”

”Third day, Snake hour, tally eighty-five, four stones.”

The lean man on the left switched feet.

”Fourth day, Snake hour, tally one-twenty-one, four stones.”

Xu Yan kept reading, on down to the Horse hour entry on the fourth day.

”Fourth day, Horse hour, tally one-forty, four stones.” He pressed the page flat. ”Through the Horse hour on the fourth, only this one pot. Twenty bowls, twenty tallies, eighty stones.”

”Who cooked that pot?” Xue Guizhi asked.

Qian Duoduo stepped forward half a pace. ”Me. On the fourth, up to the Horse hour, I only cooked that one pot.”

Someone in the crowd wearing a silk gown laughed. ”Reading your own ledger—anyone can do that.”

”He read entry by entry. The tally numbers match, and the buyers are standing right here in this hall,” Xue Guizhi said without turning. ”If youʼd like to read one, go ahead. Bring me your ledger first.”

The silk gown went quiet.

She turned the ledger around and examined it twice, then flipped back to the third dayʼs page, her finger moving between the two pages. ”Second day, one through sixty. Third day, sixty-one through one-twenty. Fourth day, one-twenty-one through one-forty.” The clerk recorded this as he went, read it back when done, and at the last number looked up at her.

Xue Guizhi moved the inspection slip to the left, opened a rattan chest beneath the table, and took out a cloth bundle. She untied it. Three bamboo strips from Qingya lay on the table, numbers facing up.

”Eighty-three. Eighty-four. Eighty-five,” she said. ”These three tallies were sold on the third day. Are the buyers present?”

The rogue cultivator in the worn old robe pushed through the crowd and stood up straight. ”Third day, Snake hour. I bought one bowl, four stones. I dropped the tally in the bucket by the stall when I finished.” He paused. ”The bowl had ginger slices in it. I remember that.”

”After you ate, where did you go?”

”Out of town. Walked thirty li.”

Two porters came in from the veranda. The older one still had rope marks on his knuckles; he surveyed the hall before speaking. ”We went on the third day, during break. Two of us, two bowls. Tallies went in the bucket too—there was already a layer at the bottom by then.”

”Anything happen after the meal?”

”Back to work the next day.”

”Do you know them?” Xue Guizhi asked toward the door.

Shi Po answered, ”I do. I asked around at the freight warehouse on the sixth.”

”Good.” Xue Guizhi turned back to the left side. ”They say it was the third day. You say the fourth. The tallies are from the third.”

”The bowl we ate was the fourth-day pot,” the lean man said. ”We took the tallies from the bucket. There were plenty in there—who knows which one was which?”

”Plenty in there,” Xu Yan repeated. ”The third-day tallies were at the bottom, the fourth-day ones piled on top. The three you took were at the bottom.”

”How would you know which ones we took?”

”I donʼt know how you took them,” Xu Yan said. ”I only know that on the fourth day, through the Horse hour, twenty bowls went out—tallies one-twenty-one through one-forty. Those three tallies? Not one of them falls in that range.”

The crowd pressed inward. Only then did the alchemist from the Medicine Guild stand and read out the line from the inspection slip: ”Seven jars tested. No poison. The eighth jar was scraped from the stone slab in front of the stall—spoiled meal. No ginger in it.”

”All three of my pots had ginger,” Xu Yan said. ”What they threw up had none.”

”Bought that morning,” the bearded one suddenly blurted.

”What?”

”The meal was bought that morning.” He froze at his own words, and clamped his mouth shut.

Xue Guizhi studied him for a while, then turned toward the pillar by the door. ”Bring the shop ledger.”

Cui Guang stood beside the pillar, hands clasped behind his back. He hadnʼt moved since the first entry was read. ”The Market Office auditing a shopfrontʼs books,” he said. ”Thereʼs no precedent for that in Linchuan City.”

”Rule six on the wall,” Xue Guizhi said. ”Clerk, read it.”

The clerk set down his brush, stood, and read: ”When a dispute arises within the Market, the Steward may audit the books of any shop or stall in the Market.”

”Whatever the audit turns up, it gets read aloud,” she said. ”Whatever it doesnʼt, that gets explained before this hall too.”

Cui Guang stood by the pillar a moment, then turned and walked out. When he returned, he carried a shop ledger, the corners worn fuzzy. He laid it on the table, returned to his spot, hands behind his back again.

The clerk opened to the second dayʼs page.

”Second day. Spirit meals, seven portions.”

”Third day. Spirit meals, five portions.”

”Fourth day, morning. Leftover overnight meals, three portions. Half price.”

Someone in the hall let out a low breath.

”Before the second day, it was twenty-some portions a day,” Cui Guang said, his voice low. ”These past three days, even the pickled vegetables in the shop have had no takers.”

Xue Guizhi didnʼt answer that. She flipped the shop ledger to the fourth day and pressed her finger over the line. ”Overnight meals, by Market rules, get thrown out.”

”There were leftovers in the shop, so I sold them at half price to people who could afford them,” Cui Guang said. ”Is that a crime?”

”Selling leftover meals—thatʼs being unwilling to take a loss,” she said. ”On the fourth morning, you sold three leftover portions. By the Horse hour, these three men were collapsing on the opposite street. Two entries, same day.”

”Who sent them, I donʼt know.”

”And Iʼm not judging who sent them,” Xue Guizhi said. ”Iʼm only ruling on the shopfront entry: overnight meals may not be displayed for sale.”

The sun stood directly overhead; the outdoor shadows had shrunk back beneath the threshold. She laid out the inspection slip, the stall ledger, and the shop ledger side by side, then raised her head.

”Verdict.” The clerk lifted his brush and stood ready.

”One. The Qingya stall: no fault. The seal strip comes off today, the stall reopens today. The inspection slip gets posted at the Market Office door for anyone to see.”

”Two. Closed three days, so three days of stall fees refunded: fifteen stones. The stall holder may collect them from the Market Office this afternoon.”

”Three. The three men: false accusation. Expelled from the Market. Their names go into the Market Office register. They may not set up stalls, hire out for work, or buy and sell within the Market from this day forward.”

The lean manʼs head snapped up. ”We paid our money too—”

”Paying your money doesnʼt give you the right to use someone elseʼs stall as a shield,” she said.

”Four. The Chixiao shopfrontʼs three portions from the fourth: thrown out. The shopfront suspends sales for three days. Food, drink—nothing for sale.”

Cui Guang asked a question. ”Medicine?”

”Medicine isnʼt taken orally. Medicine sales continue.”

”Ledgers read.” Xue Guizhi set down her brush. ”Dismissed.”

The hall began to empty. The lean man was led to the door by Market Office staff. In his hand he clutched an old cloth bundle, the opening not fully tied, the rim of a bowl peeking out. He stood beyond the threshold, looked back once at the long table, then went down the steps.

After the Horse hour passed, Market Office workers came to East Row Three carrying a paste jar to remove the seal strip. It had sat across the stove mouth for three days; the stamped seal on the paper had dried and cracked, and peeling it off pulled up a line of paper fuzz. The stones weighing down the stove mouth were moved aside. The firebox was full of cold ash.

Qian Duoduo crouched down, reached into the firebox and felt around, then wiped his hand on his apron. ”Cold. Got to start the fire fresh.”

”Two pots,” Xu Yan said.

Shi Po swung his back basket onto his shoulder and went out of the Market to the rice shop. When he returned, two bags sat in the basket, the bottom creaking under the weight. Xu Yan recorded the cost in the ledger: twelve stones for ingredients.

The neighboring stall, whose door panel had been shoved half a chi out of place by the borrowed firewood, shoved it back. Its owner leaned out. ”How many pots today?”

”Two.” Qian Duoduo said.

”Save me a bowl. Iʼll come get it after I close up.” The door panel slid back into place.

The pot opened at the Wei hour. The line stretched out from East Row Three, angling past the needle-and-thread stall. The load-bearing laborer stood at the front, four stones in his fist. ”I stood in the Market Office hall all morning. That ledger of yours read on until my legs went numb.”

”Today, you eat standing,” Xu Yan said.

”Standingʼs worth it.”

The woman whoʼd bought the first bowl on the fourth came again, child in her arms, joining the line. When her turn came, the child reached for the rim of the pot; she pulled him back. ”That half bowl from last time—what a waste.”

”This one wonʼt spoil,” Qian Duoduo said.

The rogue cultivator circled back before leaving, bought the last bowl and finished it, wiped his mouth, and asked, ”Any Qi-Gathering Powder left?”

”Sold out on the third.”

”Next time you have some, Iʼll take three bottles.” He dug out the coins, paid, and went.

The bamboo strips in the tally bucket piled up again. The numbers continued from one-forty-one without a single gap. The second pot bottomed out: one hundred sixty stones, pressed beneath the wooden box. The bamboo-splitting old man came and bought a bowl, squatted by the wall, finished it, set the bowl back on the table, and wiped his mouth. ”That stove in East Row Three fires up a pot and people show up.” He hefted his bundle of bamboo strips and left.

Late in the Monkey hour, someone was taking down the sign outside the Chixiao shopfront across the way. Cui Guang stood on the threshold, hands behind his back, watching the line on this side for a long while. A shop hand came out with an armload of bowls; Cui Guang raised a hand and sent him back in.

The door panels went up one by one. When the last one slid shut, he did not look through the crack again.

Stall closed. Pot lifted off the stove. Stove mouth blocked, water poured over it. Qian Duoduo hauled half a bucket of water to wash down the stone slab in front of the stall—once, then scraped with a bamboo strip, then washed again. That stain hadnʼt come from his pot, and still he washed it.

A faint ring of marks remained on the stone, pale and dry after the water dried.

At the Dog hour, the lamps in the Market lit up one by one. Xu Yan carried the ledger into the Market Office. Xue Guizhi sat alone behind the table. On the table sat a wooden tray, fifteen spirit stones stacked in three neat piles.

He spread the ledger open at the tableʼs edge, dipped the brush, and added a line: ”Seventh day of August. Market Office refunds stall fees, fifteen stones.” Then he re-totaled the previous entries from the top—refund of fifteen, ingredients twelve, two pots one-forty—and closed with: ”Balance on hand: one thousand four hundred eighty-four stones.”

She watched him write, flicked two beads on the abacus, confirmed the numbers, then pushed the tray over.

”That ledger of yours is kept in more detail than our Market Office records.”

Xu Yan didnʼt answer. He poured the fifteen stones into his cloth pouch and wound the mouth of it twice, tying it tight.

”Stall opening again tomorrow?”

”It is,” she said. ”Fees paid through the eleventh. Youʼve got four more days.”

He was at the door when she added one more thing from behind him.

”Ledgers inside the Market—those I can manage. Ledgers outside the Market—those I canʼt.”

Xu Yan looked back. The lamp sat at her hand. She had her head down, her finger pressed to the fourth-day page of his stall ledger.