My Sect Is Down to Seven People

Chapter 84: No Dust on the Sheath

At the Horse hour on November 4, two empty baskets were hung on a carrying pole, and three people went down the mountain.

The baskets were old kitchen baskets, their bamboo weaving loose. They knocked with every step, hollow sounds rolling down the mountain path. The frost on the stone steps had half melted; the wet patches were dark, the dry ones still white. Wind came up from the river, flattening the dead grass by the roadside.

When they were leaving, Shi Po stood at the Mountain Gate and watched them tie the ropes. ”I can carry them,” he said.

”There are only two baskets,” Xu Yan said.

”Iʼll carry the baskets.”

”Next time.” Xu Yan handed him the pole to hold and tucked the rolled-up reed mat under his own arm. ”You stay on the mountain and do pillar training. Elder Cheng can see you.”

Cheng Banshan stood at the door of the Medicine Hall, one hand smoothing the corner of the reed mat by the doorframe. ”Charcoal is weighed, people carry it. Three is right. One more means one more mouth.”

Shi Po let go of the pole.

Huo Qing walked in front. His sword was slung diagonally across his back, the strap crossing from his left shoulder and pressing beneath the pole. The pole rested on his left shoulder. His right arm hung at his side, swaying with each step in a steady rhythm—that arm had no strength in it, and no intention of pretending otherwise.

Qi Qi walked at the rear, one empty basket flipped upside down over his head. ”The wind gets down my collar,” he said.

”The baskets are for charcoal,” Xu Yan said.

”Putting it on wonʼt loosen the weaving.” Qi Qi kept it on for two more steps, then took it down anyway and wrapped the rope twice around his hand. ”One load, ten. Two loads, twenty. Elder Cheng says a load and a half boils one furnace, the half-loadʼs against the fire dying.”

”Mm.”

”So why not buy three loads?”

”The Twelfth Month rations arenʼt bought yet,” Xu Yan said. ”We donʼt know if the herbs will come up. If the moneyʼs tied up in charcoal, the rations get left on the mountain.”

”And if the herbs donʼt come up?”

”The charcoal lasts until spring. The medicine furnace needs it too.” Xu Yan said, ”A load and a half lasts seven days. Half a load left burns two more. If snow really seals the road, two days of fire is enough to wait for the next boat.”

”Who can say when the next boat comes?” Qi Qi muttered.

”Thatʼs why the charcoal has to be dry,” Xu Yan said. ”Damp charcoal wonʼt even last a day.”

Qi Qi thought it over, found no fault in it, and let it go. He shifted the empty basket on his shoulder twice. By the third shift, his feet were already on the stones at the mountainʼs base.

In town, the fourth was not a market day. The stalls were all put away. The space by the third pillar against the wall was empty; on the old nail in the pillar still hung a strip of faded red cloth. One shop had its two doors half open, someone splitting firewood out front, a ring of white frost on the wood pile. Someone else beat a quilt against a bamboo pole; with each slap, frost blossoms fell.

The three of them passed through the street without stopping. Xu Yan walked in the middle, running through the accounts for this trip in his head: the books held 915, spending 20 left 895. The carriage fare for the Grand Tournament registration come spring, the Twelfth Month rations not yet bought—all of it had to come out of those 895. Twenty for two loads of charcoal wasnʼt expensive, but it wasnʼt cheap either. It depended on whether the charcoal burned with an even draw from start to finish.

They reached Luoxia Wharf at the Monkey hour.

Stone steps led down to the river. The blue stones were dark from water, the cracks packed with black mud and crushed charcoal. Three boats were moored at the bank. The innermost one lay crosswise in the river bend, its deck piled with charcoal under a reed-mat shelter. Water lapped the steps—once, then again.

The foreman crouched at the top of the steps, an iron box at his knees, a bamboo tally in his mouth. He raised his eyes at the three of them coming down with empty baskets, his gaze lingering on Huo Qing for a moment. He took the tally from his lips, then after a while put it back. He said nothing.

”Buying charcoal,” Xu Yan said.

The boatman was a dark-faced man with his sleeves rolled to the elbows and a wet cloth over his shoulder. He pointed at the deck. ”Ten a load. Look at the goods first.”

Xu Yan stepped down onto the boat and crouched by the charcoal pile. He picked up a piece, knocked it against another. The break was bright, the sound crisp; it snapped with one strike.

”Dried through,” the boatman said. ”Shipped down the river. Not rained on in some town courtyard.”

”Any crushed scraps mixed in?”

”Not on my boat. If you want it mixed with scraps, buy somewhere else.” The boatman hung the scale weight on the hook. ”Once this stuff gets damp, itʼs all smoke, and the fire burns weak.”

”For boiling medicine,” Xu Yan said.

”For medicine, even less use for damp charcoal.” The boatman picked up an iron basket. ”When the fire canʼt go out, donʼt save that one or two.”

A porter walked across the gangplank with a sack on his back and shouted up toward the top of the steps. Turning and seeing the three of them, he said to Qi Qi, ”The grain shopʼs, two sacks; the innʼs, three. Youʼre after them. Half a shichen.”

”Weʼll wait,” Qi Qi said. ”Itʼs not snowing today, anyway.”

An iron basket hung from the scale hook. The boatman shoveled it full load by load, and when the scale arm rose level, he dumped the charcoal into their empty baskets, the emptied iron basket swinging back onto the hook.

”One load,” he said.

After the second filling, he raised the scale arm for them to see. ”Two loads.”

Xu Yan felt inside his coat for the money pouch, counted out twenty spirit stones one by one, and laid them on the deck. The boatman swept them up with one hand, weighed them in his palm, and tucked them into his belt.

Then Xu Yan took from his coat a paper folded several times over—that November list. Written on it were spirit rice, coarse grain, window paper, lamp oil, and on the last line, charcoal. He picked a thin piece from the pile and scratched two marks after the charcoal line: Fourth day, two loads, twenty. He folded it and put it away, wiped his fingers on his clothes, leaving a black streak.

”How often does the boat come?” he asked.

”Depends on the water,” the boatman said. ”With a good current, every three to five days. When itʼs low, seven or eight. When the boat docks, regulars get unloaded first. Youʼll wait.”

”Two loads next time too,” Xu Yan said. ”Thereʼs a furnace on the mountain to feed.”

”Noted.” The boatman set the scale weight down on the deck. ”Qingyaʼs charcoal. Iʼll remember.”

So they waited.

The four porters padded their shoulders with scrap cloth and carried the sacks up the steps one by one. The foreman counted from above: ”Two sacks.” ”Three sacks.” Copper coins dropped into the iron box, one clink after another.

Qi Qi went up to the wharfʼs entrance to beg hot water. The tea stall had three low tables and a stack of coarse bowls. An old woman tended a big brass pot, steam curling from its spout.

”Windʼs strong on the river today,” the old woman said. ”Two boats left early, held up downstream.”

”Any more coming?”

”Thereʼs one.” She glanced out at the river and wiped her hands on her apron. ”One with a flag at the bow. Not a charcoal freighter.”

”What kind of boat flies a flag?”

”How should I know?” she said. ”Plenty of boats on this river.”

Qi Qi came back with a bowl in both hands and sat down against the stone steps, cupping it. Xu Yan sat beside him and repositioned the ropes on both baskets so the worn-thin section sat clear of the basket ears. Qi Qi said, ”Iʼll do it.” Xu Yan said, ”You hold your bowl.”

Huo Qing sat with the pole across his knees. He loosened the strap on his back one notch, tightened it one notch, tested his shoulder, and only then let his hand drop.

”Once theyʼre done unloading, the sunʼll be low,” Qi Qi said, watching the river. ”Weʼll be walking back in the dark.”

”Then weʼll walk in the dark,” Xu Yan said. ”The lamp on the mountain will be kept lit.”

They rested a while. When the last sack was unloaded, the foreman snapped the iron box shut, and the porters sat down on the steps to rest. Huo Qing stood, stepped down onto the boat, and dragged the four charcoal-filled baskets to the middle of the deck. He crouched, lifted a basket ear with his left hand, wrapped the rope once around his wrist, and re-stacked the charcoal the boatman had poured in, piece by piece: the large chunks on the bottom, laying the basketʼs base flat; the long pieces crosswise at the ends, bracing against the walls; scraps and charcoal dust to fill the gaps, packed full, then another layer pressed on top, until the pile rose level with the basketʼs rim, and only then did he crown it.

Xu Yan watched from the steps and kept count: in one basket, seven large chunks, the rest fill. Huo Qing worked slowly. After finishing one basket, he braced his left hand against the rim, his knee against the wall, gave it a shake, and added two more pieces where it settled.

”Packed solid,” the boatman said, watching for a while. ”Wonʼt shake loose on the road. Youʼve done this before.”

Huo Qing didnʼt look up. He went to the next basket.

Charcoal dust rose, settling on the deck, on their sleeves, on Huo Qingʼs eyebrows. The wooden sheath on his back was old already. When the dust fell on it, the upturned corner of the cloth wrap whitened first. He paid it no mind. His left hand set the final layer in place, his knee holding the rim steady.

The foreman came over, looked into the basket, pulled out a single piece of charcoal, checked the break, tossed it back in, and returned to his crouch on the steps, nudging the iron box half a foot closer.

By the time the four baskets were packed full, it was the Monkey hour. The two loads sat side by side, equal in height, equal in roundness.

Two people carried them up the steps and set them on the blue stones at the wharfʼs base wall. Xu Yan shook out the reed mat heʼd brought, wrapped it around three sides, covered the top tight, and weighed down the corners with stones. Huo Qing stood by, looked it over, and tucked the matʼs east corner in another half foot, so the wind couldnʼt slip through the gap.

”Back on the mountain, stack them against the medicine hallʼs back wall,” Xu Yan said. ”Three sides blocked, top covered.”

Qi Qi emptied the water from his bowl and returned it to the old woman with a word of thanks. Huo Qing bent, settled the pole on his left shoulder, gathered the rope shorter in his hand, and hooked the other end through the basket ear.

It was then that a boat came down the river.

This boat was longer than the charcoal boat and sat deeper in the water. A flag was planted at its bow. The hold was stacked with bundles, covered in oilcloth, the cloth bound with three ropes drawn tight. When the wind blew, a hem of the oilcloth lifted a sliver, and beneath it a long shape showed—one end neatly wrapped in straw cord—then dropped back down.

Qi Qi straightened and squinted. ”That flag... Iʼve seen it in town. Heavenly Sword Sectʼs.”

Huo Qing was gathering up the second poleʼs ropes. He raised his head and glanced at the boat once, then lowered it again. It took him two tries to gather the rope in his hands.

The boat docked. Someone on board called out, and the gangplank came down. A boatman came ashore carrying two wooden buckets, heading up toward the wharf entrance to fetch water. After a few steps he turned back and asked something.

Three people came down the gangplank.

The one in front was tall, walking step by step up from the river, a sword at his waist. The wharf was covered in charcoal dust; everywhere a porter walked, the steps went black. His shoes kicked up dust too. It fell on other peopleʼs baskets. But the sheath of the sword at his waist had not a speck of dust on it.

Two young men followed behind, one on each side. The first off the plank tested it with one foot, steadied himself before coming up, then turned back to straighten one end of the gangplank.

The three walked toward the wharf entrance. Midway up the steps, the one at the rear stepped half a pace forward and called out in a lowered voice:

”Senior Brother Wei, thereʼs tea over there.”

Huo Qing was just bending to lift the first basket. The pole was already on his shoulder, one end half a foot off the ground. At that voice, the pole stopped on his shoulder—not rising, not falling.

Xu Yan stood at the bottom of the steps, the paper in his hand still unfolded.

Qi Qiʼs hands went slack at his sides. His mouth opened once.

The man walked past Huo Qing. Three steps past, he stopped.

He stepped back, back to behind Huo Qing, and lifted his eyes. He was looking at the sword on Huo Qingʼs back—wooden sheath, cloth wrap with one corner turned up, the whole sheath coated in charcoal dust.

”Junior Brother Huo.”