My Sect Is Down to Seven People

Chapter 117: The Counter at Huichun Hall

”Cut one piece of yellow silk into four. One banner per side.” Bai Xiaoman walked as she calculated, tallying on her fingers in the air. ”Four pieces, exactly north, south, east, west.”

Jiang Wan lagged half a step behind, sword held in her right hand, tip angled down.

Theyʼd left the Mountain Gate just after the Wei Hour. The descent was downhill, and where the path narrowed, Bai Xiaoman turned sideways to let her pass, one hand pressed against the cloth sack at her waist. Inside were twelve Spirit Stones, counted out one by one from the cash box by Xu Yan before they left, then counted twice more by Bai Xiaoman herself.

”Will four be enough?” Jiang Wan asked.

”Enough. For the preliminaries I used five pebbles, a ring about a zhang across. Had to bend down and press three times to raise the formation. Flags donʼt need pressing—just plant them and itʼs done.” Bai Xiaoman switched hands over the sack. ”But all four sides have to be planted. By the fourth, I have to hold steady. If I canʼt, the first three are wasted.”

”What if you canʼt hold steady?”

”Then it fails.” She said it quickly. ”Four sides missing one, no formation. Without the fourth side, the first three are just three pieces of cloth.”

Jiang Wan made a small sound of assent.

”Senior Sister,” Bai Xiaoman looked back, ”which round do you think your bout will be?”

”Depends on how they set it.”

”I want the second round. After the first, the fieldʼs still hot. Nobodyʼll expect a flag-planter in round two. By round three, theyʼd have it figured out.”

”Then second round it is.” Jiang Wan said. ”Say so yourself when you write the slip.”

Bai Xiaoman filed that away. She walked a few steps more, then asked, ”What if he rushes me while Iʼm planting?”

”Keep planting.”

”What if he steps on the flags?”

”A flag in the ground stays planted.” Jiang Wan said. ”Plant all four first.”

By the Monkey Hour theyʼd reached the Town Gate. It wasnʼt a market day, so the streets were thin; a few porters rested against walls, shoulder poles propped beside them. Under the third pillar along the wall, the old tile eave stood empty, swept clean beneath, not a scrap of paper on the ground.

Huichun Hall sat midway down the street. Three door panels were down, and the smell of medicine rolled out over the threshold—bitter, stale.

Bai Xiaoman paused at the bottom of the steps.

For years sheʼd stepped in and out over this threshold, sweeping floors, grinding herbs, copying prescriptions. Standing at the counter, sheʼd had to stand on a wooden box just to reach the hand scale. On the twenty-first day of the sixth month, Sun Youfu had taken the scale from her hands—gently. His words had been gentle too: her work at Huichun Hall was done.

Now, crossing the threshold, she glanced down. There was a white gouge in the wood, chipped out by the edge of the medicine grinder. Still there.

Jiang Wan didnʼt follow her in. She stayed at the foot of the steps.

A man stood at the counter buying medicine, his shoulder scraped raw, wanting two poultices to stop bleeding. Sun Youfu took a paper packet from the second compartment of the herb cabinet, named the price, took the coins, slid them into a drawer. The man tucked the packet away and left, passing without looking at anyone.

The counter was the same one, lacquer flaking off in patches. The cabinet behind it had an empty slot in the third row—she remembered it used to hold Aged Tangerine Peel.

Sun Youfu sat behind the counter, an abacus by his hand, sliding beads slowly. He looked up at the sound of footsteps.

”What do you need.”

He didnʼt ask why sheʼd come back.

”One packet of cinnabar. One roll of yellow silk.” Bai Xiaoman said.

Sun Youfu pushed the abacus aside, pulled a small clay jar from under the counter, lifted the paper lid, and weighed with the hand scale. What he weighed, he tipped onto a cut sheet of paper, shook it level, folded the corners in. The yellow silk came down from a shelf—he shook one end loose, set a wooden ruler on the silkʼs edge, and measured its full length.

”Give me the ruler.” Bai Xiaoman said.

He passed it over. She took it, measured once at the top, once in the middle, then back again.

”The widthʼs enough,” she said. ”Each banner needs three chi square. Cutting four from this, it works out exactly.”

”Youʼve worked it through.” Sun Youfu said.

”I have.”

He rolled the silk back up and tied it with hemp cord. Bai Xiaoman pinched up a little cinnabar and rubbed it between her fingertips—red, fine. When she was done, no grit remained on the pads of her fingers.

”Itʼs been ground.”

”Ground three times.” Sun Youfu said.

”The priceʼs still the old price.”

”The priceʼs still the old price.” He repeated the words, then pulled a sheet of oiled paper from beneath the counter. His hand hovered over it.

Bai Xiaoman had already loosened the cloth sack. She set the twelve Spirit Stones on the counter, laying them out one by one in two neat rows.

Sun Youfu glanced at the rows, slid the oiled paper out, wrapped the goods, tied hemp cord around them. ”The wrapping paper. Not charging for it this time.”

”Not next time either.” Bai Xiaoman said.

He said nothing more, but counted the stones into the drawer one by one. When he finished, he clicked two beads on the abacus, pulled out the daily ledger, and wrote a line.

Her eyes followed to that ledger. Beneath the line of fresh ink, there was another line, old ink, in smaller characters, squeezed in tighter than the rest.

Sun Youfu closed the ledger and pushed it back under the counter. ”What are you looking at.”

”Your handwriting.”

”Handwritingʼs no good, but the accounts are right.”

”Right is enough.” Bai Xiaoman said.

He looked at her hands. There was charcoal black in the creases of her fingers.

”From sketching.” she said.

”Formations look good on paper.” Sun Youfu set his brush on the inkstone. ”The ones on flags, the ones in the ring. The ring doesnʼt care about flags. It cares about the person.”

”The ring cares about win or lose.” Bai Xiaoman said.

Sun Youfu didnʼt answer that. He pushed the two wrapped parcels to the near end of the counter and added, ”Keep the cinnabar dry. If it takes on damp, itʼll cake.”

”I know.”

”Third day of the third month.”

”Third day of the third month.”

He glanced toward the door, noticing the sword-carrying figure at the foot of the steps, then pulled his gaze back. ”That one at the door. Not coming in to say a word?”

”Sheʼs waiting for me.”

”Mm.”

Bai Xiaoman gathered up the two parcels. ”Accounts settled.”

He grunted, looked down, clicked a bead.

She crossed the threshold, descended the steps, and took her place beside Jiang Wan. Jiang Wan looked at the two paper parcels in her arms.

”Twelve stones.” Bai Xiaoman said. ”The paper was free.”

”Letʼs go.”

They left the Town Gate at the tail of the Monkey Hour. The sky was pressing down, layer by layer.

The stretch above the Town Gate was a gentle slope. The grass had gone damp; soles slipped on it. Bai Xiaoman held the two parcels to her chest—the cinnabar, smaller, riding atop the rolled silk. Every few steps she glanced at the hemp knots to see if theyʼd loosened. The silk roll was long; held crosswise it stuck out at both ends and brushed the roadside grass. She shifted it upright, the top of the roll against her chin, which muffled her voice. Jiang Wan walked on the outside, watching her switch hands twice, not reaching to take it.

Higher up, the road narrowed. Stone cliff on one side, steep drop on the other, room only for two walking abreast. The pines were low. When the wind came, their crowns swayed east in waves.

”Can you hold out for an incense stick?” Jiang Wan asked.

”No. Last time it drained me completely. Took four days of rest before I dared set it again.” Bai Xiaoman said. ”This time, with four flags on all sides, I can hold maybe half a stick.”

”Thatʼs enough.” Jiang Wan said. ”Four sides planted, body steady. After that, itʼs all up to the ring.”

”I havenʼt practiced these past days—saved the spiritual power.” She hesitated. ”The Sect Master says the formation is mine. So is planting the flags.”

Jiang Wan walked a few steps without answering.

”And you?” Bai Xiaoman asked. ”Who are you worried about?”

”The one with the staff.” Jiang Wan said. ”The ninth day of the ninth month—the incense burned out and he still swung once more. Cracked two of Shi Poʼs ribs.”

”So how do you fight him.”

”A staff is heavier than a sword.”

Bai Xiaoman thought about that. ”The heavier one tires first.”

Jiang Wan made a sound of assent. She was walking on the slope side.

At the bend halfway up, she stopped first.

Beyond the bend, the slope was a pine grove. Wind passed through; the treetops rustled. The light on the road had thinned; the moss on the cliff was black.

Three people came up out of the trees and stopped in the middle of the road.

Crimson robes, cloth tied over their faces to just below the eyes, leaving only the eyes showing. One short, one tall. The one in the middle wore a blade at his waist. They spread out and sealed the path.

”Qingya people,” Jiang Wan said. ”Move aside.”

The three didnʼt move, didnʼt speak.

”Back up.” Jiang Wan said. ”Against the wall.”

Bai Xiaoman stepped back until her shoulders touched the stone. Jiang Wan brought her sword across her body, right hand on the hilt.

The short one raised his arm. A yellow paper talisman slipped from his sleeve. It burst into flame in his hand—red flame—and a line of fire shot along the road surface, straight at Bai Xiaoman.

Jiang Wan didnʼt draw. She caught Bai Xiaomanʼs arm with her left hand, pulled the girl into her, and turned her own body around.

The fire struck her left shoulder and back.

Cloth scorched first, then tore. The stench of burning reached her nose before the heat did. The heat pressed from her shoulder down to her waist, drove her knee soft. Her foot slid half an inch on the stone.

”Donʼt move.” she said through clenched teeth.

Bai Xiaoman struggled one hand free against her; Jiang Wan shoved her half a step toward the cliff.

”Senior Sister—”

The sound of the sword leaving its sheath hit the cliff face and bounced back.

The one in the middle drew his blade. A bronze clasp on the scabbard flashed once in the dusk.

When Jiang Wan raised her sword, the heat in her shoulder was sinking through her meridians toward her arm, knocking the qi in those channels into chaos. Her sword path wobbled with it. She forced the wobble down and brought the blade down on his.

His blade sank. He stepped back half a pace, boots scraping the stone, tried to pull free—couldnʼt.

The tall one was already retreating, and the short one had reached the edge of the trees. The middle one wrenched his blade back, then followed, and the three of them slipped into the pines and headed up.

The rustling of branches climbed all the way to the ridge.

She didnʼt chase. She braced her left hand against the cliff face and pushed herself upright, her palm coming away smeared with moss.

Smoke was still rising from the back of her robes. A patch of cloth had fused to the flesh beneath; every movement of her shoulder tore at it. She stood in the road, sword pointed toward the tree line, listening to the rustle climb until it reached the ridge and faded.

Wind came, bent the smoke sideways.

”They didnʼt come from town.” Bai Xiaoman said.

”From the ridge.”

”The materials?” Jiang Wan asked.

Bai Xiaoman looked down at her arms. The two parcels were intact, hemp cord still tied, paper unbroken. ”Here.”

”Your hand.”

Bai Xiaoman turned her hand over. The back of it was scraped raw against the cliff, small beads of blood welling. ”Just a scrape.” she said, reaching to lift the cloth at Jiang Wanʼs back. ”Let me see.”

”Donʼt.” Jiang Wan said. ”Your hands are dirty.”

Bai Xiaomanʼs hand stopped in midair. A moment passed, then she asked, ”The talisman was aimed at me.”

”At you.”

”Why.”

Jiang Wan didnʼt answer. She looked down at her sword hand, then at the two parcels in Bai Xiaomanʼs arms.

”The formation is yours.” she said.

Bai Xiaoman stood at the base of the cliff, cradling the parcels. The color drained from her face.

Jiang Wan slid the sword back into its sheath. Her hand was shaking; the tip clinked against the mouth of the scabbard before it went in.

”Move. We need to be at the Mountain Gate before dark.”