My Sect Is Down to Seven People

Chapter 132: Weʼll Talk at the Door

Qi Qi held the lantern out in front, and Xu Yan walked half a step behind. When they reached the Mountain Gate, Nie Bo was standing by the door of the low hut, his broom leaning against the doorframe. He shifted half a step to the side to let them pass.

Xu Yan nodded to him. Nie Bo picked up the broom and went back to sweeping.

Ten li of mountain road, one shichen. The wind in the Yin hour was still cold. Halfway up, a thin sweat broke out, then the wind took it back. Qi Qi knew the path under his feet—which stone was loose, which slope would slip if you stepped on it—without even looking, and his mouth never stopped. ”Past the first bend now.” ”That pine grove down there, I caught a mountain runner here in the winter.”

Xu Yan grunted in acknowledgment and pressed his hand to the front of his robe. Three things lay against his chest: the land deed, the ledger, and the Sect Master Token. The deed was folded twice, palm-sized, hard-pressed creases, the same as every important piece of paper that had passed through his hands these last few years.

By the time they reached Luoxia Town, the sky was just brightening. The town was taking down door panels. Men from the grain shop were hauling water up from the river, the buckets leaking the whole way. The carriage house was already open, a mule cart sitting sideways in the entrance, an old mat spread across the boards. The mule was gray, its ears twitching.

The carriage house proprietor recognized them. No small talk, just one question: ”Linchuan?”

”Linchuan,” Qi Qi said.

Xu Yan pulled the money pouch from his chest, counted out four pieces, and handed them over. The fare covered the round trip, paid when boarding—that was how it had worked in Luoxia for thirty years.

The carter was around forty, one foot on the cart shaft as he watched them climb up. He reached out and gave Qi Qi a boost, then Xu Yan. Qi Qi jumped up and sat on the side rail, legs dangling over the edge. Xu Yan sat in the middle of the cart bed and pressed his hand against the mat. Underneath was hard planking, with a crossbeam that dug into his back.

The mule cart left town at the Mao hour. Eighty li of official road, five shichen of travel, arriving at the carriage yard outside Linchuan City at the Shen hour.

Past the town, the road was flagstone for ten li, then the flagstone ended and packed yellow earth took over. April in the fields meant work everywhere—people transplanting rice seedlings in the paddies on both sides, bundles of seedlings set along the field ridges, a thin white film floating on the waterʼs surface. They passed a village, a big pagoda tree at its entrance, two dogs lying beneath. The cart went by and the dogs didnʼt even lift their heads.

”Chen hour,” Qi Qi said. Every time the sun climbed, he called the time.

”Si hour.”

The carter turned his head. ”Youʼve got a sharp eye for the sun, kid.”

”Trained up in the hills,” Qi Qi said.

There was a tea stall halfway, three wooden posts holding up a reed mat, an old man tending a pot beneath it. The carter led the mule to the water trough behind the stall and said theyʼd rest a spell. Xu Yan and Qi Qi sat under the mat. Xu Yan untied the bundle and took out a flatbread wrapped in cloth.

The flatbreads were griddled by Qian Duoduo on the tenth night—coarse grain, enough for two people on the road for three days. Xu Yan had counted them: eighteen. One person ate three a day, two people six, three days exactly. He counted them again now. Still eighteen.

The old man ladled hot water into two coarse bowls. Qi Qi asked, ”Old sir, how much for the water?” The old man waved his hand. ”Water off the stove, not worth money. Break the bread in and soak it, goes down easier.”

Qi Qi broke off a piece, soaked it in the bowl, ate it in three bites, then reached for another.

”Six a day,” Xu Yan said. ”One per person per meal.”

Qi Qi put the piece back in the cloth bundle, muttering, ”I walk more.”

”You sit.”

”Sitting still has bumps too.”

A timber cart passed on the road, the wood stacked higher than a man, the axle groaning. The two carters tipped their chins to each other but didnʼt stop. Then a man passed driving three pigs. The pigs walked slow.

Xu Yan went over his words again in his mind: fourth month, ninth day, end of the Yin hour; the Formation Eye; the cliff face; the stone slab split into two panels; a crack; cold wind; not touched, not entered; two men per watch, standing guard. He went over it slowly, character by character.

”Thatʼs the third time through,” Qi Qi said.

”Rehearsing till it comes out smooth.”

”What if she asks something else?”

”Answer straight.”

At the Shen hour, the mule cart stopped at the carriage yard outside Linchuan City. The yard was an open lot with rows of hitching posts and one rammed-earth hut. Xu Yan jumped down, legs slightly numb. He stamped twice on the ground, took out the money pouch, counted: sixteen pieces.

Half a shichenʼs walk into the city. The guards at the gate gave them a glance, didnʼt ask questions. The inn near the Market was where it had always been—small frontage, the door curtain washed pale. The shopkeeper looked up. ”Two of you?”

”Two.”

”One room,” Qi Qi said, ”with two plank beds.”

”One room, two plank beds, two pieces a night, settle when you leave.” The shopkeeper set the key on the counter, then added, ”Hot water on the stove downstairs, help yourselves.”

The room was small: a table with a coarse porcelain pot on it, two plank beds, one end against the wall and the other at the window. Qi Qi tossed his bundle onto the bed by the window. Xu Yan took out the deed and the ledger and pressed them under his pillow. The Sect Master Token stayed against his chest. Every time he turned over, his hand went to feel under the pillow first.

They went down to get hot water and soak the bread. Qi Qi crouched on the doorstep eating, watching the Market stalls close up—the noodle soup stand stayed open the latest, steam rushing into the street when the lid came off the pot.

”When we get back, have Qian Duoduo make a pot of that,” Xu Yan said.

Qi Qi fished out the last bit from the bottom of his bowl. ”His is more fragrant than this. But his potʼs too big—twenty bowls per batch, not enough for me alone.”

Night came. They lit the lamp. The plank bed was hard; Qi Qi turned twice, then took off his shoes and picked a small pile of mud from the soles, pushed it to the bedʼs foot. ”This plankʼs harder than the cart bed.”

”Sleep. Tomorrow at Chen hour we go to the Branch office.”

”Iʼll go in with you.”

”You wait outside the door.”

”Iʼll stand outside where I can hear.”

”No need to hear.”

They rose at the Mao hour on the twelfth, went downstairs for hot water to soak the morningʼs flatbread. Arrival at the Branch before the Chen hour, a walk of a bit more than a quarter-hour. Two cypress trees stood at the Branch gate. A clerk sat in the gatehouse, looked up at them, his brush stopping on the paper.

”Sect Master Xu.”

”Qingya reporting.”

The clerk rose and went inside. The door curtain swayed. When he came out: ”Sect Master Xu, come in.”

Qi Qi took his place under the eaves outside the door. Xu Yan went in. The curtain fell behind him.

Inside the office, behind the long desk sat Wen Su, in a gray-green robe. On the desk: a register, an inkstone, a brush. The clerk holding the wooden box stood to one side; the one carrying the record book sat at a small desk by the window, brush already in hand.

Wen Su looked up. ”Speak.”

”Fourth month, ninth day, end of the Yin hour. Earth tremor on the Back Mountain of Qingya.” Xu Yan said it plainly. ”Above the Formation Eye, on the cliff face, a stone slab split into two panels. A crack between them, cold wind coming through. The people of Qingya did not touch it, did not enter. Two men per watch, standing guard.”

Wen Su did not write while he spoke. Both hands rested on the desk. Only when he finished did she pick up her brush.

”Formation Eye.”

”Intact. No Formation Stones cracked, no slots shifted.”

”Who saw it first?”

”Elder Cheng. Bai Xiaoman had just finished checking the Formation Stones. He looked up from the slope, saw a dark line across the slab above, called us up. First one to call it a door was Bai Xiaoman.”

”How wide is the crack?”

”One finger.”

Wen Su looked at his hands. Xu Yan raised his right hand, extended his index finger. She looked at the finger, and at his face.

”Measured?”

”No. Estimated.”

”Who estimated?”

”Bai Xiaoman. With her finger.”

She lowered her head and wrote. Xu Yan saw two extra characters at the end of that line: _not measured_.

”Has anyone gone inside?”

”No.”

”Reached a hand in?”

”No.”

”Shone a light in?”

”Lit a lamp and shone it at the mouth of the crack. Not into the crack itself.”

”Does the wind have a smell?”

”No. Elder Cheng leaned close and smelled it. Said no odor.”

”How is the watch arranged?”

”Two men per shift, three shichen per shift, four shifts per day and night. The men stand three paces from the door.”

”Did you bring the land deed?”

”Yes.”

She turned the filled page around and pushed it toward him. ”Correct?”

Xu Yan read it from the top, line by line. At the words _not measured_, he thought that line seemed more solid than all the others. At the last line, the guard schedule—all the numbers were right.

”Correct.”

She took the paper back and handed it to the clerk by the window. ”Enter it into the ratings register.”

The clerk rose to take it, spread the paper on his desk, and copied it stroke by stroke into the register. Xu Yan stood watching. The passage heʼd rehearsed aloud to Elder Cheng on the mountain was now several tightly packed lines in a register, the characters smaller than his own, a fingerʼs width of blank space left at the end of each line, waiting for other entries. At the words _not measured_, the clerkʼs brush paused. He glanced up at Xu Yan, then copied on, exactly as written.

”The deed.”

Xu Yan took it from his chest, smoothed it flat on the desk, pressed from the center out to the edges. Two old crease lines ran across the paper, the edges soft with wear. Wen Su read the four boundaries, the first three quickly, reciting without pause: ”East to the boundary stele on the ridge. South to the main road below the mountain. West to the stone face of the West Slope.”

At the northern boundary, she stopped.

”North to the cliff top of the Back Mountain.”

The pause lasted longer than the first three boundaries combined. Her eyes lingered on those characters, then moved back to the line about the door. Xu Yan said nothing. He stood still.

”Have you been up to the cliff top?”

”No.”

”This door—is it beneath the cliff top?”

”Beneath the cliff top. On this side of the boundary. On Qingya land.”

She looked at it a while longer. ”Itʼs not recorded on the deed.”

”No. The deed records the Mountain Gate, the buildings, the Spirit Fields. This door is not recorded.”

Wen Su folded the deed. She didnʼt follow his crease lines—folded it in thirds, handed it back. Xu Yan took it, folded it back along the original two creases in his palm, pressed both folds flat, then put it back against his chest.

”Evaluator,” he said, ”the deed is paper from the Sect Alliance. What is not written on Alliance paper is not for one person in Qingya to decide.”

Wen Su looked at him. She set her brush back down beside the inkstone.

”Set out on the fifteenth. Arrive at your mountain on the sixteenth at the Chen hour. Weʼll talk at the door. Keep watch on it exactly as youʼve said. No one touches it.”

”Yes, Evaluator.” Xu Yan answered, then asked, ”How many people will you bring up the mountain?”

”Two clerks.”

”Yes.”

The curtain lifted, light from the veranda flashing. Qi Qi stood by a veranda pillar, a small pebble being nudged back and forth under his foot. When he saw Xu Yan come out: ”What did she say?”

”Sixteenth day, Chen hour. She comes up the mountain. Bringing two clerks.”

”The deed?”

”Showed her.”

”What did she say?”

”Weʼll talk at the door.”

Walking from the veranda to the steps, Xu Yan glanced back at the curtain. Behind it came the sound of paper turning—one page, then another.

At the Wu hour, Qi Qi went out of the city to the carriage yard to arrange the return trip. Half a shichen from the city gate to the yard, there and back. The yard keeper was crouched in front of the earthen hut mending a rein. Qi Qi said, ”Thirteenth day, Mao hour, two people.” The man nodded once, made a mark on a wooden board, and went on mending the rein.

Darkness fell. Shops in the Market closed their doors one by one. In their room, the two of them soaked the dayʼs allotted flatbreads and ate them with hot water. Qi Qi took off his shoes and sat on the bed, slapped the soles twice. Dust puffed in the lamplight.

”She said ʼweʼll talk at the door.ʼ Talk about what?” Qi Qi asked.

Xu Yan set his bowl on the table.

”Rules.”

”Rules need explaining too.”

”The explanation is part of the rules.”

Qi Qi pulled the blanket up over his shoulders and didnʼt ask again. Downstairs, someone was packing up a stall, door panels slotting into place one after another. Xu Yan reached under his pillow and felt the edge of the paper.