My Sect Is Down to Seven People

Chapter 61: Name-Verification Paper

A ten-li walk up the mountain road, and Wen Suʼs shoes were caked in a layer of yellow mud.

At the Mountain Gate she stopped, scraped the mud off on the blue stone outside the gate, then crossed the threshold. The sun had just reached the eaves of the gate; dew still hung from the roofline.

Someone sat on the steps. Jiang Wan rose, shifted the sword to her right hand, and stepped aside half a pace.

Nie Bo swept by the gate arch. His broom worked up to that step, curved around it, then moved on toward the outside.

Xu Yan came over from the Accounts Room, an ink stain on his sleeve he hadnʼt managed to wash out.

”Rank Evaluator.” He stopped below the steps.

”Sect Master Xu.” Wen Su said. ”The roster, the Great Formation, the Rank Silver, the Nine-Rank Trial. Four items. I wonʼt sit, and I wonʼt rest. Show me the grounds.”

Two clerks followed behind. The one in the lead carried a wooden box plastered with a Branch seal strip; the one behind bore the record books, an ink box tied to his shoulder strap, one hand steadying it as he walked.

Moving through the Front Courtyard, Wen Su looked everything over: the eastern veranda, the smoke rising from the kitchen on the west side, the swept ground of the courtyard, and the fresh line of lime traced outside the Mountain Gate on the open yard.

”The Trial Circle is there,” she said. There was no question in it.

”It is,” Xu Yan said.

”Who drew the circle?”

”Bai Xiaoman did,” Xu Yan said. ”Measured with rope, zhang by zhang. This morning Qi Qi traced over the old marks again.”

Wen Su glanced out toward the Mountain Gate and said nothing more.

”Where is the roster normally kept?”

”The Ancestral Hall, in a wooden box beneath the offering table.”

”Thatʼs the one weʼll verify.”

”It is.”

Cheng Banshan leaned against the Medicine Hall doorway, his empty sleeve tucked into his belt, the wine gourd at his waist. He watched this way and said not a word.

From the kitchen, Qian Duoduo came over with a tray, bowls of wild tea fried on the mountain. He carried the tray up to Wen Su, holding it steady with both hands, the rim of the bowl level with her chest.

”Rank Evaluator, have some water first. Ten li of mountain road.”

Wen Su looked at the tea.

”A Rank Evaluator doesnʼt drink the tea of the sect being evaluated,” she said. ”I brought my own water.”

The clerk with the record books shifted them to his other shoulder, pulled a water flask from his cloth bag, uncorked it, and held it out. Wen Su took a sip and pressed the stopper back in.

Qian Duoduo still stood there holding the tray.

”Take it back,” Wen Su said. ”Your own tea, drink it yourselves.”

Qian Duoduo retreated beneath the veranda and handed the bowls out one by one, starting with the people under the eastern eaves. He didnʼt drink his own. He held it, stood, and watched the Front Courtyard.

More people came up the mountain path.

Ge Song walked in the lead. It was his second time up this road in three days, and his feet knew it now. Cao Hu followed, the new blade still at his waist. The last man stood a head taller than Cao Hu, broad-shouldered, carrying an iron staff level with his brows, unwrapped, bare iron; where the sun hit it, it ran bright, then dark.

Inside the gate he leaned the staff against the left wall, made sure it was settled, then let go.

”Zhou Kui, of the Chixiao Sect,” Ge Song announced for him. ”Todayʼs sparring opponent.”

Zhou Kui cupped his fists to Wen Su, then withdrew to the wall and stood.

”Someone must be present when the silver is paid,” Ge Song said. ”Chixiao has bought this debt. The receiver should be in attendance.”

”The rules say as much,” Wen Su said.

Only then did Ge Song turn and bend his waist to Xu Yan.

”Sect Master Xu.”

The Front Courtyard went still for a beat. Last time heʼd stood in this gate, heʼd called him ”Accountant Xu.” For three solid months.

Beside him, Cao Hu lifted his eyes briefly.

”Steward Ge,” Xu Yan said.

”Ten names on the roster,” Ge Song said. ”Every one of them will stand before the Rank Evaluator today.”

”Theyʼre all on the mountain.”

Another line of people came up from below the Mountain Gate. Lu Shoutian walked in front with his hands behind his back, Zheng Tie close at his side, and after them a few rogue cultivators with sash bags hanging at their waists. They stopped outside the gate arch.

”Where do I stand?” Lu Shoutian raised his chin at the clerk.

”Under the eaves,” the clerk said. ”Stand and watch. No sound.”

Lu Shoutian walked to the eastern eaves, folded his hands behind his back, and settled. Zheng Tie stood beside him, eyes straying to the open ground beyond the Mountain Gate.

”The flatbread sellerʼs sitting halfway up the road,” Lu Shoutian said abruptly, toward Qian Duoduo over by the veranda. ”Couldnʼt make it. Sitting on a rock, watching.”

Qian Duoduo looked toward the Mountain Gate, his bowl lifting slightly.

”When the evaluationʼs done, bring him a bowl,” Xu Yan said.

”Mm.” Qian Duoduo said. ”That flatbread of his is hard.”

”The Great Formation: I want to see it fully raised, covering the Mountain Gate and the Ancestral Hall, held for one full shichen.” Wen Su returned to the matter at hand. ”On the third incense stick, Iʼll test the formation with my palm. The Rank Silver will be counted in person, twice. Only after both of those pass will there be the Nine-Rank Trial.”

”Who raises the formation?” she asked.

”Bai Xiaoman.”

”Once itʼs fully raised, Iʼll test it with my palm.” She said it again, and looked over toward the veranda.

Bai Xiaoman stood beneath the western veranda, her fingers tapping at the air, her lips moving silently.

”The roster,” Wen Su said. ”The paper one.”

Xu Yan went into the Ancestral Hall. The roster sat in the wooden box beneath the offering table; he carried it out in both hands and returned to the Front Courtyard.

On the square table, the clerk had already unfolded the Ratings Register and laid out a stack of trimmed paper, a small inkstone, two brushes, and a paperweight. The sheets were cut to the same width, white and bright. The clerk with the record books turned the register to a new page, noted something in the corner, and glanced up at the sky.

Xu Yan set the roster in the middle of the table and opened it to the first page. Ten lines of names on the paper, the ink at the bottom newer layer by layer.

”Iʼll say the rules once. Only once.” Wen Suʼs voice was low, but the people under the eaves could hear it clearly. ”I will call names from this paper roster, one by one. When youʼre called, step to the table, say your name, and say you join the Qingya Sect of your own free will. Then, on one of these sheets, write your name again in your own hand.”

”Ten sheets. Ten names. When itʼs done, Iʼll bind them into the Ratings Register. This is the roster Qingya reports to the Branch this time: these ten sheets.”

”Penmanship isnʼt graded. You write your own name.”

She opened the roster, pressed her finger on the first line, paused, and raised her eyes to the veranda.

”Jiang Wan.”

Jiang Wan came from the far side of the veranda. The hem of her sleeve was still damp; overnight dew hadnʼt dried. She stopped at the table, back straight, sword in her right hand, hanging at her side.

”Name.”

”Jiang Wan.”

”You join the Qingya Sect of your own free will?”

”Of my own free will.”

She picked up the brush, dipped it once in the inkstone, and wrote her name on the first line. When finished, she raised her sleeve, laid the brush sideways back on the rest, and pushed the paper to the middle of the table.

Wen Su checked the roster against the paper and tapped once at the top of the sheet.

Jiang Wan turned and walked back, passing in front of Xu Yan, eyes forward. She stopped at the eastern veranda, leaned against a pillar, and let her hand hang loose.

Xu Yan pressed his palm against the edge of the table.

”Shi Po.”

Shi Po glanced at the table, then turned and went into the Ancestral Hall. A moment later he came out carrying the stone slab—the one heʼd traced his name from on the day he paid respects. The name was carved into the stone, deep strokes, old ink in the grooves. He set the slab on the table, and the legs made a sound against the brick.

The clerk nudged the inkstone and brush aside.

”Same as last time?” Wen Su asked.

”He traces from it.”

”Traces.”

He held the brush very low and traced, standing. The paper slid sideways; the clerk reached over and held it for him. The ink bled a little on the paper. He didnʼt mind. Stroke by stroke he traced to the end, then straightened.

Beneath the eaves, Zheng Tieʼs hands came down from behind his back. He stood there a while, then put them back.

Wen Su looked down at the paper, then at the roster.

”What you trace is still your own writing,” she said.

”Bai Xiaoman.”

Bai Xiaoman pushed her sleeves up a notch, walked to the table, studied the empty space on the paper first, then set the brush down. When she finished, she pulled a small handkerchief from her sleeve and wiped the ink from her fingers; when that was done she glanced toward the back of the Ancestral Hall, then tucked the handkerchief away.

”Huo Qing.”

Huo Qing stood at the table. His right hand pressed the corner of the paper; the paper slipped and he couldnʼt hold it. The clerk reached over and held it. He wrote with his left hand, the name crooked, pressing down stroke by stroke, all the force inside the lines. When he finished he set the brush back on the rest, his sleeve knocking over another brush; he righted it with his left hand and set it straight.

Someone on the Chixiao side started a half-muttered comment. Ge Song didnʼt turn around. Zhou Kui stood against the wall, his eyes passing once over that left hand, then away.

Wen Su took the paper.

”Qi Qi.”

Qi Qi finished writing and picked the paper up to blow on it.

”Donʼt blow,” Wen Su said. ”Set it down.”

”Iʼm afraid itʼll smudge.” He laid the paper flat and pressed lightly at its edge. ”This paper—itʼs free, right?”

A rogue cultivator under the eaves laughed, then caught himself.

Wen Su added the paper to the stack and read the next line.

”Shao Ming.”

Shao Ming stepped forward and cupped his fists first. A rogueʼs salute. Heʼd been giving it for twenty years down the mountain, and no one had ever accepted it.

”Isnʼt that Shao Ming?” someone under the eaves whispered. ”Ten tries at Foundation Establishment, not a single success, and now he comes to write his name.”

Shao Mingʼs brush didnʼt stop. Halfway through he paused, the brush hovering over the paper, then went on. When heʼd finished he scraped the brush twice against the rim of the inkstone before setting it back on the rest.

The papers on the table now stacked to six, the ink darkening layer by layer.

”A He.”

A He had the sack cord wrapped around his wrist. He lifted his arm, pushed the cloth sack higher, and only then reached for the brush. He wrote large, the final stroke running all the way to the paperʼs edge.

”He ran out of bounds,” A Sui said from behind.

”I didnʼt,” A He said without turning.

Wen Su looked down at the paper, then at the roster.

”He didnʼt run out of bounds.”

More laughter from under the eaves; this time no one choked it back.

”A Sui.”

A Sui walked over, stood studying her brotherʼs sheet for a while, then wrote. She was short, so she picked an empty spot low on the paper. Her characters were small, standing stroke by stroke. As she bent her head, the red cord around her neck swung forward and the little cloth pouch knocked against the tableʼs edge. She held it down with her other hand and kept writing.

”Qian Duoduo.”

Qian Duoduo wiped his hands on his apron—twice—before stepping over. The brush shook in his hand. The name came slowly, and the last stroke wouldnʼt stop, trailing off to the side a little.

He looked up at Wen Su.

”Set it down,” Wen Su said.

He laid the paper flat, pressed two fingers gently over the trailing end, and stepped back, hands clasped together.

”Whatʼs your hand shaking for?” Cheng Banshan said from the Medicine Hall doorway.

”Itʼs not,” Qian Duoduo said.

”Du Xiaochuan.”

As he stepped forward, Ge Songʼs eyes followed him.

”Du Xiaochuan,” he said.

”You join the Qingya Sect of your own free will?”

”Of my own free will.”

Cao Hu coughed by the wall.

Du Xiaochuan dipped the brush full of ink and touched it down. His hand was steady. When he finished, he laid the paper flat and stepped back. On those few steps back, he walked the farthest edge of the veranda, leaving the middle path clear.

Ten sheets lay stacked on the table, the ink still not fully dry. The clerk counted them through from the top, squared the corners, and set the paperweight on top.

Wen Su took the roster and checked it against each sheet, one by one, down to the last. Only then did she close the book.

Someone under the eaves shifted his feet. No other sound.

Xu Yan drew his hand back from the tableʼs edge.

Ge Song took a step forward.

”The roster. Chixiao has something to say.”