My Sect Is Down to Seven People

Chapter 257: The First Market of the Tenth Month

On the first day of the Tenth Month, at the Mao hour, the door of the Medicine Hall stood half open, charcoal smoke drifting west along the eaves.

Du Xiaochuan crouched by the furnace door, clearing ash. The ash was still warm, scattering across the blue stone floor in a pale patch. Cheng Banshan came out from the inner room, his clothes not yet fully tied, one hand tucking an empty sleeve into his belt. He squatted by the half-load of charcoal at the furnace and turned a few pieces over.

"These bottom pieces are dry." He picked them out, tapped them against the blue stone, the loose bits piling up by his shoe. "The top layer's damp. Don't put it in yet."

"The ingredients are on the workbench," Du Xiaochuan said. "Split up the way you said."

Cheng Banshan rose and crossed to the bench. The old paper was spread flat, several piles of spirit herbs separated out: stems in one pile, leaves in another, root fibers in a third, and one small pile of pieces where only the upper half could be used. He picked up a root fiber, snapped it with his thumbnail, and brought it to his nose.

"From the three bundles Elder Kuang brought up at the end of the Ninth Month," Du Xiaochuan said.

"Good enough color." Cheng Banshan tossed the piece back onto the pile. "Enough for one furnace."

He carried the medicine basket to the furnace and fed the ingredients into the firebox, a handful at a time. Each handful he paused, waiting for the fire to swallow the last before adding the next. He kept the flames pressed low against the furnace floor, away from the lid. When the final pinch of material went in, the lid came down, the copper hook caught the lid ring, and one hand pressed along the rim — no smoke escaped the seam.

"This batch needs seven days." Cheng Banshan straightened, hanging the copper hook back on its wall nail. "Seven nights, don't sleep too deep. Get up once in the middle of each night, two pieces, no more. Add too much and the fire surges — the pill will crack."

"I'll remember."

"Remembering's what counts." He used the fire tongs to sweep the scattered charcoal bits back toward the furnace door. "Tonight you'll sleep on the plank bed in the outer room. Carry your bedding over from the west wing."

Du Xiaochuan acknowledged and moved the charcoal basket by the furnace to the base of the wall, setting it beside the carrying-pole load under the straw curtain. Shi Po came around from behind the kitchen, one bundle of firewood in each hand, and as he passed the Medicine Hall doorway he noticed a corner of the straw curtain flipped up. He set the wood down, tucked the corner shut, and weighed it down with a stone.

"The wind's hard at the north end," Shi Po said, then picked up his wood and left.

Daylight filtered through the window paper in a gray-white wash. The oil lamp still burned, its wick gone to flower. Cheng Banshan reached over and pinched it out. The room dimmed a little, and the line of red in the firebox showed all the clearer.

At the Chen hour, breakfast was served in the Main Hall. A pot of coarse grain porridge, a dish of pickled vegetables, and a steamer tray of day-before coarse grain flatbread reheated. Twelve pairs of chopsticks were set out, and eleven people sat at the table — Nie Bo's bowl, A Sui carried first to the low hut by the Mountain Gate.

Xu Yan ate halfway, then set his chopsticks flat across the rim of his bowl.

"The Ninth Month's five market days all happened," he said. "The fair on the tenth went on as usual. Uncle Wang's rent rice came in — two sacks. For the Tenth Month's rations we bought only one sack of coarse grain."

Qian Duoduo was ladling more porridge into a bowl. He looked up. "Still two pots for the Tenth Month?"

"Two pots."

"Weather's turning cold." Qian Duoduo tapped the ladle twice against the pot rim. "Two pots'll be empty by noon, and there'll still be people standing in line."

"Then they stand," Shao Ming said.

Qian Duoduo laughed once and didn't argue, pushing the filled bowl over to Du Xiaochuan.

A Sui held her bowl level. "Then Uncle Wang's rice — when do we eat it?"

"That's what we're eating today," Qian Duoduo said.

"So my bowl's Uncle Wang's rice?"

"Your bowl's from the bottom of the pot," Qian Duoduo said.

A Sui lowered her head, took two sips, and rotated the bowl around, searching for the bottom-of-the-pot taste. A He, across the table, choked on a laugh.

Jiang Wan finished her porridge, set down her chopsticks, and stood. At the door she glanced back. "First day of the month today?"

"First," Shao Ming said.

"Mm." She left the Main Hall and headed toward the east courtyard. Under the veranda, Huo Qing had already finished his daily thrust, standing by the wooden target, right arm hanging still. He glanced toward the east courtyard, sheathed his sword, and walked back.

A He came around from the kitchen with an armload of firewood, weaving past the table corner toward the Ancestral Hall, the bundle tips scraping the threshold. A Sui followed behind, still clutching half a flatbread.

"Finish reciting before you eat," Shao Ming called from beyond the threshold.

"Finish reciting before you eat," A He echoed.

"I meant him," A Sui said.

The two children passed through one after another, and before long the chant of "Qi enters through the nose, leaves through the mouth" rose from the bottom of the stone steps — one leading, the other trailing half a phrase behind, starting over whenever the follower fell off.

Xu Yan gathered his bowl and headed out, passing the Medicine Hall. Cheng Banshan sat on the threshold, one finger tapping against his knee.

"The eighth, at the Chen hour, the lid comes off," Cheng Banshan said. "If it's to be sold, the tenth."

"The tenth," Xu Yan said.

"These seven nights, don't expect me to sleep through any of them." Cheng Banshan shifted his foot, clearing half the threshold. "Du Xiaochuan keeps watch at night; I watch the fire. Two men guarding one furnace beats one man forcing himself through."

The second through the fourth, things on the mountain went on as usual. Cheng Banshan stayed by the charcoal furnace, not leaving the Medicine Hall's door by day. Shi Po stacked the firewood from behind the kitchen into neat rows under the eaves. Bai Xiaoman sorted the retained-sample packets by date, lining them on the lowest shelf. The two children recited formulas at the base of the stone steps at the Mao hour, then squatted by the old herb garden's fence, drawing grids in the dirt with sticks. On the fourth, at the Xu hour, Xu Yan wrote ten labels in the Accounts Room — "Qingya," signed below "the fifth day of the Tenth Month." As each one dried, he moved it aside, stacking them at his right hand. When done, he set them in the Medicine Hall, weighed down on the workbench.

Before dawn on the fifth, the kitchen lamp lit first.

Qian Duoduo portioned two pots of spirit meals into four wooden buckets, pressed the lids tight, and wound hemp rope three times around each end of the carrying pole. Du Xiaochuan came over from the Medicine Hall, hefted the load onto one shoulder, and settled the pole. Both buckets hung half a foot off the ground, steady, no sway.

"On the downhill stretch, you take the front," Qian Duoduo said.

"Mm."

"Don't rush. A single drop spilled is a mouthful someone doesn't get."

"Mm."

Still dark, the two of them went out the Mountain Gate. Nie Bo's broom whispered against the inner side of the gate. At the sound of their footsteps, he shifted half a step aside, clearing the middle of the path.

At the Mao hour, Xu Yan and Shao Ming descended the mountain. Frost had settled on the mountain path; the grass blades glowed white and crunched underfoot. Halfway down, the sky cracked open with light. Luoxia Town lay spread below, a white vapor floating over the river, and at the wharf people were already moving cargo.

Up on the mountain, the day ran as usual. At the Chen hour, the Medicine Hall furnace came out. Cheng Banshan filled ten small bottles with Qi-Gathering Powder. The leftover pinch he wrapped in a small packet, wrote the date on it, and set it on the shelf. Bai Xiaoman checked the ten labels over once, Qi Qi pasted them on one by one, tucked the bottles into his shirt, and headed down the mountain. A He and A Sui carried the dried grass from under the eaves into the Medicine Hall.

The Chen hour, entering town. Shao Ming took down the market gate boards one by one, propped them neatly against the wall, hung the scale beam from the iron hook under the awning, wiped down the bronze pan, set the hand scale on the counter, and arranged the weights by size. Xu Yan opened the market ledger behind the counter and weighed it down with the old paperweight.

At the other end of Market Street, by the third pillar against the wall, the pot was already set up. Qian Duoduo steadied the stones under the tiled eave, and Du Xiaochuan stacked bowls in two piles, laying chopsticks out one pair at a time on the coarse cloth. The street was more crowded than last month — people asking prices, waiting for a hot bowl, hauling loads toward the grain shop, all packed into a single street.

Lu Shoutian came in from the east end, his small scale tucked under one arm, and stopped under the tiled eave. First he looked at the pot.

"Don't set the pot in the middle of the road."

"We don't," Qian Duoduo said. "This pillar's spot — we've been here all year."

"Mm." Lu Shoutian peered into the pot. "Smells richer than last month."

"Cold weather. Added half a ladle more oil." Qian Duoduo said, "A bowl for the Market Chief?"

"I run the market. I don't eat from the stalls." Lu Shoutian waved a hand, took two steps, then looked back. "The rules on this street haven't changed. You haven't either. That's all I ask."

Around the Si hour, Miao Zhong came through the market gate carrying a bundle of talisman paper.

"Sect Master Xu."

"Steward Miao." Xu Yan set down his brush.

Miao Zhong placed the paper bundle on the counter and untied the hemp cord, spreading the stacks out. The yellow paper's edges were pressed flat, each stack bound with thin hemp thread.

"At the set price," he said. "If it doesn't sell, just hold onto it. I'll check next market day."

"The market doesn't ask about buyers," Xu Yan said.

"I know." Miao Zhong straightened the top stack. "I'm just afraid people will say it doesn't work."

"If it doesn't sell, take it back. Not a single wen docked."

Miao Zhong gave a small nod, wound the empty hemp cord into a tight coil, and tucked it into his sleeve. Two steps toward the door, he stopped. "Cold's setting in and there are still this many people at market?"

"The market runs as usual," Xu Yan said.

Miao Zhong left. Shao Ming's side called the number: "Twenty-eight and a half catties."

Two rogue cultivators were lifting spirit herbs from their baskets, the leaves still beaded with dew. After weighing, they tied the bundles themselves and set them in an empty basket by the gate to await tallying. Xu Yan wrote a line in the market ledger: Fifth day of the Tenth Month, spirit herbs twenty-eight and a half catties, consigned, at set price. When done, he wiped the brush tip against the inkstone's edge.

A rogue cultivator with a back basket stopped at the counter. "Qingya's pills — still the tenth?"

"The tenth," Xu Yan said.

"Ten pills?"

"Ten. Eight spirit stones each."

"Then I'll come on the tenth." The man hitched his basket higher. "Last month I came late. Didn't even get to touch a bottle."

Over at the stall, a line had already formed under the tiled eave. The first old man dropped two spirit stones into the wooden box. Qian Duoduo's ladle circled the pot, came up full, pressed the serving into a bowl, then added half a ladle of broth.

"A little more broth," the old man said.

"Already adding extra for you." Qian Duoduo passed the bowl over. "Don't walk off with the bowl. The stall's bowls are counted."

"I know. I'll set it back after."

Behind him, a woman holding a child inched forward two steps, and the people behind her grumbled. Qian Duoduo rapped the ladle against the rim of the pot. "Everyone in line gets served. Push to the front, you go to the back." The woman stepped back. Du Xiaochuan counted bowls by the bucket. At fifteen he set aside a chipped one.

At the Si hour, Qi Qi came running down the mountain road, ten little porcelain vials tucked inside his shirt, their mouths plugged with paper, the whole bundle wrapped in an old cloth. He brought the cloth bundle to the tiled eave first. Qian Duoduo took it, counted out ten vials, and tucked them into the stall's wooden box. Only then did Qi Qi head into the market and start carrying empty baskets out from the back room, one by one. A rogue cultivator bought a vial, brought it up to his eyes to check the date on the label, read it aloud, and then tucked the vial back into his cloth pouch.

Not yet noon, the pot was scraped empty. Qian Duoduo ladled out the last two bowls, tapped the ladle against the pot rim, and shouted to the people still waiting: "We're out. Next market day, same time."

Some answered, "Next market day, then." Others asked if they could cook another pot. Qian Duoduo waved a hand. "One pot is one pot."

After closing, he carried the empty buckets and the wooden box to the grain shop and restocked two pots' worth of spirit rice — ten spirit stones. The shop hand tied the sack mouths with hemp rope, passing the sacks over the counter one at a time. Qian Duoduo counted the two sacks and balanced them on one end of his pole.

At the end of the Wu hour, Shao Ming put the gate boards back up one by one. The last board slotted into its groove, and the lock came down. Xu Yan closed the market ledger, dropped the market box into its cover, wrapped it in cloth, and hugged it steady before rising.

Out of town at the Wei hour. The wind at the town gate bit harder than on the street, whipping the rope ends on their carrying pole.

The Shen hour, back inside the Mountain Gate. Qian Duoduo set a cloth sack on the edge of the Accounts Room desk — one hundred spirit stones, stacked neat. He pressed the stacks flat with one hand. "Counted. One hundred. The ten for spirit rice were already deducted at the stall."

"Mm." Xu Yan counted it again in front of him.

On his way out, Qi Qi was standing under the Mountain Gate, the empty cloth still over his shoulder, looking down at the town. Luoxia Town had shrunk to a small patch, light glinting on the river. Leaving town, Qi Qi had lagged behind and cast a glance back at the wharf.

"The wooden sign's still up," Qi Qi said. "Still taking ten percent."

Xu Yan didn't answer. He shifted the market box to his other hand.

By lamp-lighting time, a lamp was lit in the Accounts Room. Xu Yan opened the account book and wrote a line: Fifth day of the Tenth Month, market day, two pots, ten vials, income one hundred. He blew the ink dry, closed the book, and set the market box beneath the ledger rack, separate from the cash box. Reaching over, he prodded the lamp wick. The room brightened, and something in the wind stirred against the window paper.