My Sect Is Down to Seven People

Chapter 66: Forty Tally Sticks

”Every line you get wrong, Iʼll correct.” Shao Ming sat cross-legged on the stone steps in front of the Ancestral Hall, hands resting on his knees.

It was Mao Hour on the eleventh of the ninth month, and dawn came slowly. The Ancestral Hallʼs door stood open; the incense on the offering table had just been lit, a thin thread of gray smoke rising straight up and breaking apart at the beam. A He stood on the first step holding that sheet of yellow paper, the edge gone soft from his grip. A Sui stood half a step behind him, feet pressed together.

”From the beginning,” Shao Ming said.

A He drew a breath and closed his eyes. ”Qi enters through the nose, not the mouth.”

”Again.”

”It settles below the navel. Three inches below the navel, makes one circuit, exits through the nose.”

”And the chest?”

A He stuck. Behind him, A Sui whispered, ”Donʼt block it.”

”Let him find it himself,” Shao Ming said.

A He thought for a while, then said the whole thing: ”It settles below the navel, makes one circuit, exits through the nose, and the chest must not block it.” He opened his eyes and looked back at his sister. A Sui lifted her chin.

”Continue,” Shao Ming said. ”You recite.”

A Sui recited faster than her brother, all the way through in one breath, not a single word wrong. When she finished, she realized sheʼd rushed and pressed her lips together.

”Speed isnʼt a fault,” Shao Ming said. ”But never move that fast during breathing practice. Only when you slow down does the qi settle.”

”Then how many times must we recite it?” A He asked.

”Again and again. Every mistake, Iʼll correct one line.”

* * *

Chen Hour, on the slope west of the Mountain Gate.

The fallen leaves in the scrub woods piled ankle-deep, soft underfoot. Huo Qing walked at the front with the chopping knife in his left hand, his right arm hanging at his side, felled wood scattered at his feet. He picked trees as thick as a manʼs arm. He didnʼt swing the knife—just raised it, brought it down, one cut, one retraction, the breaks smooth as if planed. Toppled branches came down on the leaves with a dull thud.

Shao Ming crouched below the slope tying firewood into bundles, a pile of hemp rope at his knee. Du Xiaochuan hoisted a finished bundle onto his back, took two steps downhill, then looked back. ”The cut Senior Brother Huo did over there carries better than the other side.”

Huo Qing didnʼt answer. He moved to the next tree and raised the knife again.

* * *

Bai Xiaoman sat in the Accounts Room, face still pale. She turned the silver ledger to a fresh page—no characters yet—and smoothed the paper flat with her palm. On the ninth, sheʼd held the formation for a full hour. Shi Po had carried her down, and Cheng Banshan had said that for the next several days she could only sit, and must not raise her hands above her head.

Shi Po came over from the direction of the kitchen, hemp rope over his shoulder, heading for the slope.

As he passed the Medicine Hall door, someone inside set a furnace hook down on the ground.

”Shi Po.”

Shi Po stopped.

”I only just tied the cloth at your ribs this morning.” Cheng Banshan came out of the Medicine Hall, his empty sleeve tucked into his belt. With one hand he pulled the hemp rope off Shi Poʼs shoulder and tossed it against the veranda pillar. ”If you carry that, Iʼll tie that cloth around your neck and make you walk from the Mountain Gate to the Ancestral Hall, one full circuit for the whole mountain to see.”

”I can carry it,” Shi Po said.

”Whether you can carry it, and whether I permit you to, are two different matters,” Cheng Banshan said. ”The sixteenth thereʼll be roof tiles. Lots of tile. Your hands will be needed. You stay and stack.”

Shi Po looked down at the coil of rope a long moment, then said, ”I know how to stack all of it.”

”Then save it for that.”

Shi Po picked up the rope, coiled it properly, hung it on a nail in the veranda pillar, and turned back toward the west wing.

* * *

The firewood kept coming in, day after day. The twelfth, thirteenth, fourteenth—the woodpile against the Medicine Hallʼs back wall rose higher by the day, a reed mat stretched over the top. Cheng Banshan kept the furnace going; the fire never went out. At night he slept on the plank bed in the outer room of the Medicine Hall, the furnace door at one end, the door at the other.

On the night of the fourteenth, Qian Duoduo soaked two pots of rice in two large basins in the kitchen, a film of white floating on the waterʼs surface.

* * *

The fifteenth, Yin Hour, sky still dark.

The Medicine Hallʼs furnace door slid open and a layer of white steam rushed out, striking Cheng Banshan full in the face. He tilted his head aside, padded his palm with a wet cloth, and reached in to pull out the bottles one by one. Ten small vials, wooden stoppers in their mouths. When he set them on the table, the glass still burned; wherever the wet cloth lifted away, it left a white mark.

”Ten bottles,” he said.

The medicine bags came over, and in went the bottles one by one. The bagʼs mouth was rolled twice and pressed shut.

”Elder Cheng.” Xu Yan stood outside the threshold.

”Itʼll be ready in time,” Cheng Banshan said. ”Down the mountain at Mao Hour, no delay.” He poured a second furnace batch into the grinder and pushed it half a turn with one hand. ”Iʼll keep the fire going. Another batch in five days.”

* * *

Mao Hour. Down the mountain.

Qian Duoduo carried two wooden buckets on a shoulder pole, one potʼs worth in each, thick cloth stretched over the tops, the lids jumping with every step. A Sui carried the ten medicine bottles on her back, the cloth bag slung across her chest, both arms wrapped around it. Qi Qi carried a stack of bowls and a bundle of bamboo tallies, scouting the path ahead. Du Xiaochuan and Xu Yan walked empty-handed behind.

Fifty li of mountain road, one hour. By the time they reached the foot of the mountain, the sun had just climbed over the ridge to the east.

The market already had people. Under the third pillar from the wall, a stretch of old tile eave overhead, the ground worn gray-blue and flat. Du Xiaochuan set up the cutting board across two stones. Qian Duoduo peeled back the bucket covers, and steam rolled upward, lighting that small patch under the eave into a glow.

The first wave to gather was rogue cultivators.

A rogue with a bamboo pack basket leaned in for a smell. ”Qingya spirit meals.”

”Qingya,” Qian Duoduo said. ”Two spirit stones a bowl.”

”I stood under your Mountain Gate eaves on Evaluation Day.” The rogue reached for his spirit stones. ”That formation light came down from the half-slope and covered the gate. First time in my life Iʼve seen a great formation fully opened.”

He set two spirit stones on the board, took his bowl, then glanced back at the bag on A Suiʼs back. ”The Qi-Gathering Powderʼs yours too?”

”Three spirit stones a bottle.”

”That boy with the staff—doing any better?”

Qian Duoduoʼs ladling hand paused. ”His ribs are mending. Elder Cheng wonʼt let him haul wood, only stack tiles.”

The rogue nodded, took his bowl aside, and crouched by the wall to eat.

The old man selling clay bowls at the other side of the pillar moved one of his stools over and set it by the board. ”Last market day you didnʼt set up. Under this pillar it stayed empty all morning, and the wind made it colder than anywhere else.” He sat back down and added, ”More people today.”

Qi Qi called out beside the pillar: ”Hot! Spirit meals two spirit stones a bowl, Qi-Gathering Powder three a bottle—pulled from the furnace this very morning, Yin Hour, on the mountain!”

A Sui stood at the boardʼs corner, taking spirit stones and tally sticks. One tally drawn per bowl sold; per bottle sold, the stones went straight into the cloth bag. When the crowd thickened, she couldnʼt pull tallies fast enough, so Qian Duoduo handed the sticks over himself after each ladle and let her focus on taking money. An old woman from town stood eating with her bowl in both hands. When she finished, she drank the last of the broth from the bottom and said the spirit meal was hotter than the one sheʼd had at the last market.

By Horse Hour, the buckets scraped bottom. Qian Duoduo worked the ladle to scrape the last bit into a bowl, the pot bottom ringing. The ten bottles were gone too; the medicine bag lay flat.

”Count it,” Xu Yan said.

A Sui dumped the tallies from the cloth bag onto the board and laid them out one by one, ten to a stack. When she finished, she looked up, then lowered her head and counted again.

”Forty,” she said.

”Two pots, forty bowls, eighty stones.” Qian Duoduo counted on his fingers. ”Ten bottles, thirty. One hundred ten.”

”Sold out.” Qi Qi stacked the bowls. That line came out louder than his street cry.

* * *

Late Horse Hour, the grain shop.

A winnowing basket lay spread on the counter. The shop hand scooped spirit rice from the sack and weighed it out. Xu Yan counted sixteen spirit stones onto the counter, one at a time.

”One bag,” the hand said. ”Sixteen stones.”

”And after the twentieth?” Xu Yan asked.

The hand set the scale arm level before answering. ”After the twentieth itʼs post-harvest. Itʼll go up.”

”By how much?”

The hand wiped his palms on his apron. ”Youʼll find out when the twentieth comes. I only quote todayʼs price.”

Xu Yan cinched the sackʼs mouth shut, gave him a look, and didnʼt ask again.

* * *

Wei Hour, the money house.

The counterʼs wood was polished to a shine. Xu Yan set two spirit stones on it. The man behind the counter weighed them on a small scale, then counted silver out of the drawer, ingot by ingot laid on the counter, the last one landing with a soft clink.

Twenty taels. He split the silver between two places on his person, then handed ten taels to Qian Duoduo. ”Hold it with both hands. Donʼt drop it.”

* * *

At the tile stall on the east side, roof tiles were stacked half a manʼs height, a sack of lime beside them. Xu Yan crouched, counted the top row of the stack, then measured with his hands the gap between the top of the stack and the eave edge. Only then did he set down one tael of silver and point out to Qian Duoduo a package of window paper on the next stall. The tile seller took the silver, rolled the window paper into the top of the stack, bent down to square the tiles against the wallʼs base, and pressed a stone on top. He pointed up the mountain road, then held up fingers one by one—meaning: come haul it tomorrow.

Cotton batting and coarse cloth came from the cloth stall: seven taels. Wrapped into one large bundle, which Qian Duoduo clutched to his chest, chin resting on top, eyes fixed on the ground as he walked.

”Let me carry that,” Qi Qi said, reaching for it.

”I thought youʼd say itʼs too heavy,” Qian Duoduo said.

”Iʼd say itʼs heavier than everything I stole in half a year put together.” Qi Qi moved the bundle onto his back and bent his knees. ”But itʼs cotton.”

* * *

Monkey Hour, back up the mountain.

The climb up was longer than the way down. Du Xiaochuan carried the sack of spirit rice, switching shoulders every stretch. By the time he reached the Mountain Gate, the sun was pressed against the ridge to the west.

Nie Bo was sweeping in front of the gate, the broom working around the brick cracks, push by push, gathering fallen leaves against the wall.

Jiang Wan sat on the steps, sword across her knees. She watched Qian Duoduo come up with the empty buckets on his pole, watched the big bundle on Qi Qiʼs back, then got up and walked over, pressing a hand to the bundle.

”This is thick,” she said.

”Seven taels,” Xu Yan said.

She drew her hand back and glanced toward the kitchen. ”Up on the roof tomorrow?”

”The tiles come up tomorrow.”

She didnʼt ask further, and returned to her seat on the steps.

* * *

In the kitchen, Qian Duoduo poured two pots of spirit rice back into the ration jar, the rice falling with a solid sound. Another two pots went into a new sack; he tied the mouth and set it beside the jar.

”This bagʼs for the twentieth,” he said.

* * *

Dog Hour, the Accounts Room.

The lamp wick had been trimmed short. Xu Yan opened the running ledger and wrote for September 15:

Income: 110 stones. Expenditure: spirit rice one bag, 16 stones; silver exchanged, 2 stones. Balance on hand: 92 stones.

”Ninety-two stones,” he read aloud.

Bai Xiaoman spread the silver ledger across her knees and wrote line by line: Income 20 taels; expenditure tiles, lime, and window paper, 1 tael; cotton batting and coarse cloth, 7 taels. Balance: 12 taels. When she finished, she scraped the brush tip against the inkstoneʼs edge and looked up. ”The tiles are already paid for. The silver doesnʼt move tomorrow.”

”It doesnʼt move,” Xu Yan said.

He closed the ledger and from its front page drew out the folded winter-supplies list, spreading it on the desk. The line ”West wing outer room—roof tiles” still stood blank. The tiles were still in town, under the wallʼs base, beneath a stone.

* * *

A lamp burned in that outer room of the west wing, the door left slightly ajar. Xu Yan carried the lamp over and stood outside, looking up at the roof. That leaky patch of tile sat directly over Du Xiaochuanʼs bed.

”Tomorrow morning, down the mountain to haul tiles,” he said. ”Off at Horse Hour.”

The lamplight inside shifted. Shao Ming rose from the bedside and came to the door. ”Half the roof, or the whole thing?”

”All of it.”

”If the rafters are rotted—”

”Thatʼs exactly why we take it all off,” Xu Yan said. ”Only after itʼs open will we know if theyʼre rotted. Take half, and the rest keeps leaking the same.”

Du Xiaochuan pushed his bedding aside from inside. ”Once the roofʼs open, we move to Qi Qiʼs room?”

”Weʼll see once itʼs open,” Xu Yan said.

He carried the lamp back toward the Accounts Room. The door behind him hadnʼt closed tightly; a slip of lamplight leaked through the crack and fell across the west wingʼs floor.