My Sect Is Down to Seven People

Chapter 48: The Wine Shopʼs Back Window

By the third quarter-hour of standing, something behind Shi Poʼs right shoulder suddenly opened up.

On the eleventh day of the eighth month, heʼd crashed through that earthen wall and scraped off a layer of skin. The scab formed the next day, but the bone beneath it had kept throbbing—when his breath reached that spot during pillar training, it slowed, paused, then moved on downward. Heʼd never mentioned it to anyone. Today, before dawn, heʼd hoisted the threshold stone onto his shoulder and stood. By the third quarter-hour, that spot loosened on its own. His qi slipped through beneath the shoulder blade, traveled all the way to his heel, then turned back—the second pass smoother than the first.

Beyond the mountain gate, the sky shifted from gray to white. Fog pressed down over Luoxia Town. A rooster crowed twice. The threshold stone lay across his shoulders, each end padded with an old cloth, and the clothes under his armpits were soaked through.

Nie Bo came out of the low hut with his broom, sweeping the stone shards off the steps to each side. When he reached Shi Poʼs feet, he curved around half a foot wide, the broom never stopping.

The Accounts Room east of the Main Hall was lit. Xu Yan held a sheet of rough paper against the register, copying entries line by line: the 2nd, Liu Sao, forty-seven wen, repaid; the 3rd, traveling cloth merchant, two taels of silver, unpaid; the 5th, vegetable-selling granny, twenty-six wen, repaid. When he reached the 10thʼs entry for the water flask, his brush hovered, then came down: repaid.

He finished the last stroke and lifted the brush.

The breath in his dantian sank.

Heʼd been sitting at Qi Condensation Fifth Layer for thirty-seven days. That breath had always been stuck half an inch above his dantian—no matter how long he sat, it only rushed upward once before scattering. This time it sank down. It passed his navel, rose along his meridians, ran over his left shoulder, through his wrist, to his fingertips. The brush shaft trembled between his fingers. A drop of ink fell onto the inkstone.

The register turned a page.

[Credit: Shi Po, Qi Condensation Second Layer.]

[Balance: Sect Master, Qi Condensation Sixth Layer.]

In the front courtyard, Qian Duoduo was counting bowls—reached twelve, then counted backward—his voice clearer than before. Outside the mountain gate, the threshold stone knocked against the flagstone with a dull thud. Xu Yan closed the register, stood, and pushed open the door.

Daylight had already reached the front courtyard. Shi Po stood in the same spot, the threshold stone pressing down on his shoulders. The two flagstones beneath his feet had been worn into shallow pits, dew pooled in them.

Xu Yan stopped on the steps and watched for a while.

”Shoulderʼs opened up,” Shi Po said.

”Donʼt carry the pot today.”

”I can carry it.”

Smoke rose from the Kitchenʼs western roof, the smell of firewood and rice water drifting over. The furnace in the Medicine Hall had gone cold the previous night: the twenty bottles Linchuan City sold out of—Xu Yan and the others had returned from Linchuan on the third day, and Cheng Banshan had made another batch, ten bottles, sealed the night before, wrapped in old cloth and set in the Kitchen, waiting for market.

Jiang Wan came out of the East Courtyard, dressed fresh, sword sheath in hand. She walked to the mountain gate steps and watched Shi Po for a while.

”Heavy.”

Shi Po bounced the threshold stone upward and let it settle back. His feet shifted on the flagstones, then steadied.

Jiang Wan planted the sheath tip against the step with a clink, turned back toward the East Courtyard, then looked back after two steps: ”Donʼt hunch the shoulders up. Press down through them.”

Someone was shouting from the slope of the Back Mountain. Bai Xiaomanʼs voice rolled down the hill: ”The left bucket! Itʼs sloshing out!”

Qi Qi came down the slope carrying two old wooden buckets on a pole. The water in them was down to seventy percent, his sleeves soaked to the elbows. He set the buckets by the steps, shook out his hands, and froze when he saw the stone across Shi Poʼs shoulders.

”You stand like this every day?”

”Mm.”

”How long do you stand?”

”Until itʼs needed.”

Qi Qi glanced at the threshold stone, then at his own two buckets, and shut his mouth.

At the Snake hour, two door panels were laid out against the wall by the roadside at the townʼs edge.

It was market day. The streets inside town were packed tight, so Qingyaʼs stall was set up outside the market, a dozen or so paces from the Market Entrance. Lu Shoutian still hadnʼt assigned them a stall.

Qian Duoduo set up the big iron pot. One wave of his fan and white steam rolled over the rim. Shi Po gripped the pot handle with one hand and lifted it from the stove to the door panel, the bottom five inches off the ground, walking perfectly steady—not a drop of soup spilled.

”Look!” Qian Duoduo clapped his hands, loud enough for half the street to hear. ”One hand! You all see that!”

First in line was a cart-puller whoʼd drifted closer at the smell. Shi Po set the pot down and looked up at him. The man put his money on the wooden box himself—two spirit stones.

By the time the first pot was half sold, a group came around from the Market Entrance: farm-tool sellers, cloth sellers, all holding bowls. An old man squatted against the wall to eat. When he finished, he licked the bowl clean and asked Qian Duoduo, ”This yours—is this the one that sells for four spirit stones a bowl in Linchuan City?”

”Thatʼs the one.” Qian Duoduo wiped sweat from his face. ”Four over there. Two here.”

”Linchuan—did you really get the Chixiao shop shut down?” the old man lowered his voice. ”The marketʼs saying Chixiaoʼs shop had its doors boarded up for three days.”

”They sold spoiled food themselves.” Qian Duoduo knocked the ladle against the pot rim. ”The three people who got sick were holding someone elseʼs tally sticks.”

The old man smacked his lips, stood up, and dug out two more coins: ”One more bowl. Taking it back for my wife.”

Qi Qi didnʼt help. He squatted under the old pagoda tree, hands tucked into his sleeves, silent all morning, his eyes sweeping from the Market Entrance to the end of the street and back again.

The first pot emptied. The second pot went on. Shi Po carried the empty pot back alone, set it on the stove, and a layer of charcoal dust puffed up from the bottom.

Xu Yan was keeping accounts behind the door panels, his brush held low. Without looking up, he asked, ”Whatʼd you see.”

”Two at the Market Entrance.” Qi Qi said. ”Havenʼt bought anything all morning. Standing behind the hoe-sellerʼs stall, watching us the whole time. Red clothes, narrow cuffs.”

”Outer Court of Chixiao.”

”I know one of them.” Qi Qi said. ”He was the one squatting outside the wine shop on the 8th.”

Xu Yan finished the entry and turned the page. By the time the second pot sold out, the day was past mid-morning. Forty bowls across two pots, gone. Ten bottles of Qi-Gathering Powder, gone too. Qian Duoduo dumped the money from the wooden box and counted—counted twice, got two different numbers, his ears going red with frustration. Two pots, eighty spirit stones; ten bottles, thirty; one hundred ten total. Xu Yan gave him the figure. Qian Duoduo recounted to match it and nodded.

They packed up and headed back. Xu Yan let Shi Po carry the pole, hanging half a step behind to ask Qi Qi, ”Where do the Chixiao men usually drink?”

”East end of town, near the river. Two shopfronts,” Qi Qi said. ”Cloudy wine, three wen a bowl. They like the back room. Thereʼs a window in the back with the paper torn halfway—never been patched.”

”Howʼd you know the paperʼs torn.”

”Any back window in this town that doesnʼt close right, I can find it with my eyes shut.”

Xu Yan said nothing for a dozen paces.

”Go listen,” he said. ”Report only what you hear.”

”And if I wonʼt go?”

”Then what were you watching all morning under that pagoda tree.”

Qi Qi pressed his lips tight, rolled his sleeves up, and turned toward the east end of town. Qian Duoduo called after him, ”Donʼt get caught,” his voice trembling.

The Wei hour. The wine shop at the east end of town, by the river. Behind it ran a narrow alley stacked with firewood—damp in there, a row of wet wood against the wall spotted with white mold. Behind the woodpile there was room for one person to crouch.

Qi Qi crouched there for half a quarter-hour.

Inside the wine shop, someone slapped the table. A bowl scraped against the tabletop. Cao Huʼs voice came through the torn window paper, muffled by the earthen wall but clear enough.

”...Steward Ge said it: on Evaluation day, we go after their roster.”

”Whatʼs there to go after on a roster.” Another voice, young, speaking slowly. ”Four or five people—theyʼre not all fake.”

”Fake or not isnʼt up to them.” Cao Hu laughed. ”When the Rank Evaluators sit up high, weʼll count it out for them, one item at a time. If they can keep the count straight, they get to keep their seats.”

Someone asked, ”The one who hauls the stone? The one who tested with no Spirit Root?”

”That oneʼs even easier.” Cao Hu said. ”Tested, and the result was no Spirit Root. Everyone knows.”

Laughter around the table. Someone tapped chopsticks against a bowl—two taps before someone else stopped him.

Qi Qi stayed still in his crouch, his knee pressing into a broken brick, numbness creeping up. He heard someone pour wine, liquid hitting the bowl, then Cao Hu setting his bowl down.

”Forget him.” Cao Hu said suddenly. ”Du Xiaochuan from our Outer Court—he took another beating.”

”Whatʼd he do now.”

”Too many questions.” Cao Hu said. ”They told him to kneel. He still dared lift his head.”

The wine shop went quiet for a moment. The young voice dropped: ”Tomorrowʼs Linchuan run—still sending him?”

”Send him.” Cao Hu said. ”Nobody knows the mountain paths better than he does.”

The back window suddenly swung open.

Qi Qi pressed himself further behind the woodpile until only half his face showed. A hand gripped the window frame. Cao Hu spat into the alley, pushed the window back shut. The torn paper faced the alley mouth, fluttering in the wind.

”Damn town.” His voice came from inside. ”Cat out back.”

”More cats than people.” Someone chimed in.

Qi Qi counted his breaths behind the woodpile—one, two—and on the twentieth, he slid along the wall toward the alley mouth. He didnʼt run. A man trained in movement arts is most conspicuous running; only slow walkers go unnoticed. Once out of the alley he turned onto the main road, ran all the way to the Town Gate, then stopped and walked.

The Dog hour. The lamp in the Accounts Room was lit.

Qi Qi stood before the desk, his foot still tapping. Xu Yan opened the register and laid his brush on the inkstone. ”Verbatim.”

”ʼWe go after their roster.ʼ” Qi Qi said. ”ʼThe Rank Evaluators sit up high. Count it out for them, one item at a time. If they can keep the count straight, they get to keep their seats.ʼ”

”More.”

”ʼThe one who hauls the stone. The one who tested with no Spirit Root. That oneʼs even easier. Tested, and the result was no Spirit Root. Everyone knows.ʼ”

”More.”

Qi Qiʼs throat moved: ”ʼDu Xiaochuan from our Outer Court. He took another beating. They told him to kneel. He still dared lift his head. Tomorrowʼs Linchuan run—still sending him. Nobody knows the mountain paths better than he does.ʼ”

Xu Yan turned the sentences over in his mind. His brush didnʼt move. Outside the window, someone in the courtyard was taking in laundry. A bamboo pole knocked against the wall.

He opened to the page for the 15th of the eighth month and entered:

The 15th of the eighth month. Income: two pots, eighty spirit stones. Ten bottles of Qi-Gathering Powder, thirty spirit stones. Balance on hand: one thousand nine hundred thirty-two spirit stones.

He subtracted: two thousand one hundred minus one thousand nine hundred thirty-two. Short by one hundred sixty-eight.

Twenty-four days until the Double Ninth.

He counted the days: the 20th, the 25th, the 30th, the 5th—four markets. One hundred ten spirit stones per market. Two markets covered the one hundred sixty-eight, with fifty-odd left over, enough for Septemberʼs rations. The remaining two markets would be kept in reserve, patching holes wherever they appeared.

”Who is Du Xiaochuan.” he asked.

”Outer Court of Chixiao.” Qi Qi said. ”The one who runs the most messages. Word is heʼs been taking beatings for two years—doesnʼt complain, doesnʼt leave.”

Xu Yan flipped back through the register to the page where heʼd copied the roster. Five names in a row, the paper edges worn soft. At the bottom he added a line, the characters flattened low:

Ge Song, roster.

He studied it for a moment, then added one more name beneath it:

Du Xiaochuan.

”He knows the paths.” Qi Qi was still at the door. ”The mountain paths—nobody knows them better.”

Xu Yan closed the register and set it under the inkstone. ”Go sleep.”

He blew out the lamp. The last bit of wick still glowed red. When he stepped out of the Accounts Room, the sky beyond the mountain gate had gone fully dark.

Shi Po was still standing there, the threshold stone across his shoulders.

”Twenty-four days,” Xu Yan said.

”Mm.”

”Stand until the ninth.”

”Stand until the ninth.”

”Those two in red at the Market Entrance—theyʼll keep coming to market.” Xu Yan pressed the thin ledger against his chest. ”When they come, donʼt pay them any mind. Donʼt look back. Just watch.”

Shi Po bounced the threshold stone up and settled it back, still. The fog outside the mountain gate was rising again, crawling up from the foot of the mountain, dissolving by the second stone step.