My Sect Is Down to Seven People

Chapter 65: The Winter-Supplies List

September 10. The sky was still dark when the first sound came from the Medicine Hall furnace.

Cheng Banshan worked the furnace hook in, pried upward, and the cold ash from days before spilled out onto the brick floor in a puff of white. He hung the hook at his waist, squatted down, and scooped the ash out the door handful by handful. On the third scoop, his hanging sleeve dragged through the ash. He straightened up and tucked the empty side of his sleeve into his belt, tight, so it wouldnʼt swing around.

The firewood had been cut days ago, stacked against the back wall of the Medicine Hall, the outer layer still damp. He picked out dry pieces from underneath, stacked them one by one, blew the fire starter to life, and tucked it in. He watched the flames lick up the ends of the wood, then dragged the medicine grinder over beside the furnace.

The herbs for one batch of Qi-Gathering Powder had been sun-dried and packed into three coarse cloth sacks, set against the wall. He grabbed the mouth of a sack and poured into the grinder, then shook the sack downward to get the last of it out, rolled the mouth shut, and pressed it back down.

Light crept across the window paper, little by little.

Fallen leaves lay thin over the blue stone slabs of the front courtyard. Nie Bo had already swept his way down to the bottom of the Mountain Gate steps, the broom moving steady, skirting around the lime circle that had been re-traced yesterday morning. The ash stayed unbroken.

Dragon hour. Accounts Room.

Xu Yan turned the daily ledger to a fresh page. The last line of the previous page was Septemberʼs entry: grade fee paid, 2,100 spirit stones. Balance: zero.

The ink was still fresh.

He ground ink and scraped the brush twice against the edge of the inkstone but did not set it down. Bai Xiaoman came in carrying a ledger, sat on the small stool beside his desk. Her face was still pale. After holding the formation at full power for a full shichen on the ninth, Shi Po had carried her down the mountain on his back. Cheng Banshan said she could only sit, these days.

”The silver ledger.” She opened it on her lap. ”Zero taels. Nothing came in after the wall settlement on August 11.”

”The running ledger is at zero.” Xu Yan said.

”Thirteen people on the mountain.” She paused. ”Septemberʼs rations were bought in August. Two sacks of spirit rice, one sack of coarse grain. Enough to last through the end of the month.”

Xu Yan set the brush down, pulled a sheet of paper from the corner of the desk, smoothed it flat with his fingers.

Every spring, Fang Henian would cut a sheet of paper like this, one line per item, writing out everything that needed doing that year, tucked into the front of the account book. His handwriting was poor and his lines were short—things like ”the West Wing roof leaks,” ”put another layer of window paper on the Medicine Hall.” When something got done, heʼd scratch a mark at the end of the line with his thumbnail. Xu Yan had kept his accounts for ten years and kept this paper for him every year.

This time, the list was his own.

He squared the paper on the desk and wrote, line by line—

October rations. Spirit rice, two sacks, to wait for Uncle Wangʼs rent rice after the autumn harvest; coarse grain, one sack, to buy at the fair.

West Wing, the outer room, roof tiles.

Medicine Hall window paper.

Winter clothing and quilt batting for thirteen people.

Charcoal.

When he finished, he set the brush back on the brush rest and looked at the five lines.

The outer room of the West Wing was where Du Xiaochuan and Shao Ming slept. After the last few rains, the plaster by the head of the bed had gone soft—you could press a fingerprint into it. The Medicine Hallʼs window paper had two holes. Cheng Banshan had patched them with herb paper, but when the wind picked up they flapped and rattled.

Someone was hanging on the doorframe, half in, half out.

”Sect Master.” Qian Duoduo was breathing harder than if heʼd walked ten li of mountain road. ”I checked the jars. Septemberʼs rations—thirteen people to the end of the month, enough. But spirit rice for the spirit meals? Not a single grain. Qi-Gathering Powder? Not one bottle left. The tenth-day fair—”

”Weʼre not going.” Xu Yan said.

Qian Duoduo nodded, hard. ”Not going.” He pulled back out the door, then stuck his head back in. ”The rice in the jar—I donʼt touch it?”

”Donʼt touch it.” Xu Yan said. ”Thatʼs rations.”

”Thereʼs still half a bowl in the pot. Iʼll save it for the two kids?” He answered his own question. ”Save it.”

Qian Duoduo went off. Bai Xiaoman closed the ledger and hugged it to her chest. ”The list says winter clothing and quilt batting for thirteen people. Who does the measuring?”

”Qian Duoduo.” Xu Yan said. ”He knows how. Take a rope, measure everyone one by one.”

”Iʼll record it.”

”Copy one for me. Write down exactly who needs how many chi of cloth.”

Snake hour. Medicine Hall.

The furnace was red through and through. Through the furnace door you could see a thin layer of blue flame. Cheng Banshan sat on a small stool by the furnace, the medicine grinder on his knee, and told Xu Yan to see for himself.

”Furnace is lit,” he said. ”Burning wood. One firing lasts five days. It comes out at the Yin hour on the fifteenth, in time for the first fair.”

Xu Yan worked it through in his head: ten bottles per firing, three spirit stones per bottle at market.

”Herbs?”

”Dug from the herb garden on the back mountain, sun-dried for three months.” Cheng Banshan said. ”Firewood cut on the mountain. This batch doesnʼt cost a single spirit stone.”

”Uncle Shaoʼs medicine.”

”Changed the formula on the ninth.” He lifted the grinder higher on his knee. ”The herbs for the new formula are also from the herb garden, so thatʼs free from now on too. The ban stands. One year. Each time he forces it, the poison moves an inch deeper into his meridians. That doesnʼt change.”

”Charcoal?”

”Not buying it yet.” Cheng Banshan glanced at the fire in the furnace door. ”Wood burns. Iʼll tend it.”

Xu Yan looked at him.

”Donʼt look at me like that.” Cheng Banshan said. ”Iʼve fed a furnace with one hand for thirty years. Charcoal burns steady; wood needs a man watching. Right now this mountain can keep a wood-fired furnace going. It canʼt keep a charcoal-fired one.”

Two timid footsteps sounded in the corridor. A He stood outside the threshold holding a sheet of yellow paper, A Sui half a step behind him.

”Grandpa Cheng, recite the formula.” A He said.

”Come in. Recite.”

The two children stood by the furnace, one fast and one slow. When A He got stuck, A Sui whispered the next line from behind him. When they finished, A He held up the yellow paper. ”Should we keep reciting?”

”Todayʼs recitation is for me.” Cheng Banshan said. ”From tomorrow on, you recite to your Uncle Shao. Mao hour, at the foot of the stone steps in front of the Ancestral Hall. Same formula on this paper. Every mistake, he corrects one.”

A Sui looked at him. ”Then you wonʼt hear anymore.”

”Iʼll be in the Medicine Hall.” Cheng Banshan said. ”The furnace is here. The pot is here. Nobodyʼs going anywhere.”

He called toward the courtyard. ”Shao Ming.”

Shao Ming came around from behind the Medicine Hall and stood at the threshold.

”The Mao hour lesson is yours starting tomorrow.” Cheng Banshan said. ”The two kids recite, you listen. Correct any mistakes.”

Shao Ming stood there for a moment. ”Can I teach it?”

”Youʼre already in front of the Ancestral Hall at the Mao hour anyway.” Cheng Banshan said. ”Two more people listening wonʼt add two more stones.”

Shao Ming lowered his head and gave a murmur of assent. A He folded the yellow paper twice, tucked it inside his robe, and led his sister away.

Horse hour. Front Hall.

The meal was spirit rice from the jar, mixed with coarse grain. Thirteen people sat around two long tables pushed together. The twins fought over the last spirit cake. Qian Duoduo shouted ”one at a time” from the side. On the third shout, the cake broke in half, and A He pushed the bigger half toward his sister.

After the meal, Xu Yan spread the list on the table and announced three things.

First: Octoberʼs rations were planned for. Uncle Wangʼs rent rice would come up the mountain after the harvest—two sacks of spirit rice. One sack of coarse grain to be bought at the fair. Second: on the fifteenth-day fair, theyʼd borrow the spirit rice from two potsʼ worth in the ration jar, cook two batches of spirit meals to sell down the mountain, and buy the same amount back at the grain shop with the proceeds, returning it to the jar. Third: starting tomorrow, Huo Qing, Shao Ming, and Du Xiaochuan were to cut firewood from the Dragon hour onward on the slope west of the Mountain Gate. The Medicine Hallʼs furnace fire couldnʼt miss a single day.

”How much do we cut?” Huo Qing asked. He sat at the table, right hand on his knee, left hand holding his bowl.

”Enough for five days.” Xu Yan said. ”If itʼs not enough, cut more. Firewoodʼs free—spend your strength where it counts.”

Du Xiaochuan asked, ”Can we cut the brushwood on the slope?”

”The slope west of the Mountain Gate is Qingya land.” Xu Yan said. ”You can cut.”

Shao Ming set his bowl down. ”Reciting at the Mao hour, cutting wood at the Dragon hour—I can make both.”

Jiang Wan had finished eating first and stood under the eaves. She held her sword across the crook of her arm, the tassel on the sheath red. Xu Yan folded the list and headed for the Accounts Room. She called out from under the eaves. ”Let me see the list.”

He handed it over.

She read down line by line, slowly, and looked up at the last line. ”Roof first. Du Xiaochuanʼs room leaks right over the bed.”

”Up on the roof on the sixteenth.” Xu Yan said. ”Tiles and lime bought at the fifteenth-day fair.”

She handed the list back and turned toward the front courtyard. At the top of the steps she stopped, without turning around. ”The charcoal line—donʼt include mine.”

Xu Yan stood under the eaves holding the list, watching her descend the steps. He didnʼt answer that, went back to the Accounts Room, and left the line where it was.

Monkey hour. The corridor of the Medicine Hall.

The sun hung in the west. On the blue stone slabs beneath the eaves lay a strip of washed old cloth, still damp. Shi Po stood by a veranda pillar, his robe hitched up to his ribs, both arms hanging loose. Cheng Banshan crouched beside him, pressing down with one finger, working from bottom to top, point by point.

”Hurt?”

”No.”

”Here.”

”No.”

On the third rib from the left, Shi Poʼs breathing hitched.

”Thatʼs what ʼnoʼ looks like.” Cheng Banshan said. ”Du Xiaochuan, hold the cloth end.”

Du Xiaochuan crouched on the other side and pinned one end of the cloth against Shi Poʼs side. Cheng Banshan wound it around. On the third pass he bit the end to hold it, freeing his hand to tie the knot tight.

”Ribs are knitting.” He patted the wrapped cloth when heʼd tied it. ”No lifting, no getting hit. You stand in pillar training when I say you can stand.”

Shi Po looked down at the cloth over his ribs, then up. ”Does stacking roof tiles count as lifting?”

”Tiles arenʼt heavy. Stack them squatting.” Cheng Banshan said. ”No ladders.”

Shi Po nodded and let his robe fall. ”Then Iʼll go cut firewood.”

”I said no firewood for you.”

”I can carry it.”

”I said no.” Cheng Banshan tucked the empty sleeve back into his belt. ”If you go, Iʼll tie this cloth around your neck.”

Shi Po stood there, and shut his mouth.

Xu Yan watched the whole scene from the far end of the corridor, then turned back toward the Accounts Room. Halfway there he turned around and came back. ”Elder Cheng—him, this winter. Just squatting?”

”Squatting, walking, sweeping the courtyard.” Cheng Banshan said. ”Ribs need time to knit. Those bones of his arenʼt delicate, but he isnʼt made of stone.”

After dark the mountain cooled quickly. A burnt smell drifted from the kitchen. Inside, Qian Duoduo was scraping the bottom of the pot, saying the scorched rice crust would be wasted if they didnʼt eat it.

Dog hour. Accounts Room.

The lamp wick was trimmed short, and the room was lit just right. Xu Yan laid the list on the desk and read it over from the top.

October rations. The spirit rice half hadnʼt arrived yet. Coarse grain, one sack, to wait for money from the fair. The West Wing roof. The Medicine Hall window paper. Winter clothing and quilt batting. Charcoal.

The space after ”charcoal” was blank.

He picked up the brush and looked at it for a while, then set it down again. There was nothing to write. Wood could burn all winter, but wood needed a man to tend it. A man could keep one furnace of medicine going; he couldnʼt keep a houseful of people warm. Charcoal cost money.

He reached into his robes and felt the ledger. Thin, just one volume. Through the cloth he could feel the hard cover.

He didnʼt open it.

Heritage: 25 points. Heʼd known since September: this ledger didnʼt trade for rice, didnʼt trade for charcoal, and didnʼt keep other peopleʼs accounts for him. It only recognized people. If the people didnʼt move, it didnʼt move.

From the Mountain Gate came Nie Boʼs broom, still sweeping. Once, once. Down to the bottom of the steps. Stop. Then again.

Xu Yan ground the ink wet and added one small line at the bottom of the list:

The fifteenth, first fair.

When he finished, he folded the paper once and tucked it into the front of the account book, pressed in with all of Fang Henianʼs old slips.

The charcoal line was still blank, the writing stopped halfway down the page.