My Sect Is Down to Seven People

Chapter 258: The Batch from the Eighth

The seventh day of the Tenth Month, Dog hour. Accounts Room.

The lamp wick had been trimmed, the flame dropped a notch, and the writing on the page only grew clearer. Xu Yan laid a stack of label paper under the lamp, drew out ten sheets, and spread them one by one. The paper had been cut by Bai Xiaoman earlier—the edges uneven. It had sat pressed beneath a ledger for almost a year, and less than half the stack remained.

The first sheet read "Qingya," a line left blank, then "the eighth day of the Tenth Month." The second followed the first. By the sixth sheet, the practice strike out on the veranda had finished; the wooden target thudded dully once, and footsteps moved off toward the West Wing. Someone in the kitchen was scrubbing a pot, an iron ladle knocking against the rim twice before stopping.

The dates on the labels could not be wrong. One wrong sheet, and the date of this whole batch became unclear—the row of retained samples on the Medicine Hall shelf had dates written on them too. If the two didn't line up, no one could answer any question that came later.

Ten sheets done, the ink not yet fully dry. He squared the stack, ink side in, pressed it between the pages of a ledger, and carried the lamp toward the Medicine Hall.

Red light seeped from the furnace door in the outer room. Du Xiaochuan sat at the head of the plank bed, two lumps of charcoal at his feet, one already in his hand.

"Labels pressed?" Cheng Banshan's voice came from behind the curtain in the inner room.

"Pressed." Xu Yan turned over the ten small porcelain vials one by one on the table, mouths up, the ten labels weighted beneath them. The tabletop was cold; the paper labels lay flat and neat.

"Tomorrow, Dragon hour, we lift the lid," Cheng Banshan said. "Stand clear."

"How clear?"

"Just don't get scalded."

Du Xiaochuan laughed from the plank bed. Xu Yan glanced at the furnace door: the fire was banked low, rolling only inside the chamber, not licking up the flue. He walked to the rear wall of the Medicine Hall and lifted the reed mat to check the charcoal: one full load stacked, and beside it a half-load for the nights ahead.

"Enough?" he asked.

"Enough," Du Xiaochuan said. "The full load by the back wall hasn't been touched. Tonight we use this half-load by the furnace. It'll stretch till the lid comes off."

"Two lumps in the middle of the night."

"I've counted them into little piles alongside the furnace—reach out and they're there."

The eighth dawned late. At Dragon hour frost still clung to the eaves, one door of the Medicine Hall stood open, the shutter was propped open halfway, yet the room stayed dim.

Du Xiaochuan had dark rings under his eyes and charcoal ash all over his hands. He crouched by the furnace, unwilling to back away. Cheng Banshan stood at the furnace door, one hand pinching the alchemy flame and pressing it into the chamber so the fire shrank low.

"The moment the lid comes off, the heat disperses," Cheng Banshan said without turning his head. "The formation hand can't read heat or cold. You watch me."

"Watching," Du Xiaochuan said.

The formation hand gripped the iron ring on the lid and lifted. White steam shot to the rafters, a little dust drifting down—right onto Cheng Banshan's shoulder. He ignored it. The iron ring lost its color in the steam; he tilted his head away and watched only the ring of fire at the lid's edge, his alchemy flame holding steady, never easing.

A bamboo slip slid into the furnace, skimming along the bottom and nudging the pills up one by one. Each pill pulled free let stored heat escape, and the ones still on the floor would soften again—so it had to be fast. Du Xiaochuan crouched at the side, counting, and at ten his voice stopped.

Ten pills lay on the tray, round and whole, not a single crack. The one nearest the furnace floor bore a shade deeper than the rest.

"That one's deep," Du Xiaochuan said.

"The one against the furnace floor." Cheng Banshan tapped lightly beneath it with the bamboo slip. "Not cracked."

The fire withdrew. Cheng Banshan tucked that hand toward his sleeve; his fingers trembled a little. He smoothed the sleeve flat.

Bottling was Du Xiaochuan's task. Ten vials lined up; he slid the labels out from under them, one label to one vial, dates facing outward. Xu Yan moved the finished vials onto the wooden tray, lining them into a single neat trayful—ten vials, ten labels, each date checked one against the next.

Cheng Banshan scraped the furnace floor with the bamboo slip again. The powder recovered went onto a sheet of medicine paper, pushed toward Xu Yan. Xu Yan folded the paper in three creases, pinched it shut, wrote "the eighth day of the Tenth Month" on the back, and carried it to the inner side of the Medicine Hall, setting it at the far right of the bottom shelf. That row already held several packets, one for each date.

He took the furnace log from inside his robe, opened it, and wrote a line at the low table by the furnace. Done, he closed it and returned it to his chest.

Huo Qing came along the veranda, paused at the Medicine Hall door, glanced at the ten vials on the tray, said nothing, and walked back to the wooden target.

Bai Xiaoman came in hugging the hand scale to weigh out ingredients for Qi-Gathering Powder. At the table, her eyes did a full circle over the ten vials. "I cut that label paper."

"Cut it a little short."

"Short is perfect for slipping under the vial." She set down the scale, lifted one vial to examine the date on its label, put it back, and aligned it perfectly with the others.

Jiang Wan came over from the East Courtyard and stood at the door, looking at the tray of pills.

"You got a clean batch this time," she said.

"Elder Cheng drew the batch," Xu Yan replied.

Jiang Wan made a soft sound of assent, turned, and left.

"All ten for sale?" Cheng Banshan asked.

"All of them."

"Sold on the tenth, firing the next batch at Mao hour on the eleventh. Materials?"

"Buying them in the Market on the tenth."

A Sui poked half her head through the doorway. "Sect Master, can I touch one this time?"

"You may touch the vials," Cheng Banshan said. "The pills are not to be moved."

A Sui came in, wiped a vial with her sleeve, lifted it, set it back, and placed it even more precisely than before.

On the tenth, before the sky had begun to lighten, Qian Duoduo and Du Xiaochuan went down the mountain carrying two pots of Spirit Meals. At Mao hour, Xu Yan and Shao Ming passed through the Mountain Gate, the frost on the road showing a string of dark footprints where the others had gone ahead.

At Dragon hour the Market opened. Shao Ming took down the door panels, hung the scale, and set out the hand scale. Xu Yan spread the market book on the counter and laid the ink box beside the scale. People were already moving past the Market Gate on Market Street; smoke rose from the stall side, and Qian Duoduo called out that soup was in the pot and bowls on the rack, and no one should crowd forward.

At Snake hour, Zhuo Ying came in and said first thing: "Sect Master Xu, open the case and let me have a look."

Shao Ming took the key and opened it. Inside, neatly stacked, were the sun-dried spirit herbs Willow Bank Gate had consigned last time, wrapped in burlap. Zhuo Ying lifted each package out, untied the mouths, and worked her hand down to the very bottom, pulling out a handful to sniff, then holding it to the light at the door.

"No damp got in." She stacked the packages back in place. "That new patch of mud on the back wall still looks damp, but inside's fine."

She swung two bundles off her back. "These two are sun-dried as well. Same price as last time."

Shao Ming moved them to the scale and called the weight. Zhuo Ying gave a nod of acknowledgment and stepped behind the counter to watch Xu Yan record the sale under her line.

"The money from last time's batch—also recorded under my name?" she asked.

"One package per line, all under your name. Paid out together on the tenth of the Eighth Month," Xu Yan said.

"That checks out."

"Elder Kuang's here," Shao Ming said.

Kuang Lun came in carrying three bundles of spirit herbs, set them flush beside the scale, and stood without moving away. Shao Ming hung each bundle on the scale hook and called the weight. Only after the last number did Kuang Lun speak: "Same price as last time."

"He listens for the number before he opens his mouth," Xu Yan said as he wrote.

"If I don't hear the number, I don't know what to ask." Kuang Lun untied a corner of one bundle, exposing the leaves inside. "This batch is drier than the last. Last time I pressed two wet handfuls into one bundle—I knew it myself. Won't do that this time."

Shao Ming smiled but said nothing.

Just then Qi Qi came running down the mountain road with ten vials of Qi-Gathering Powder in his coat. He dropped the vials at the stall first, then came into the Market to help haul baskets. He got a drink of water behind the counter, saw the ten vials, and said, "All the labels face the same way."

"Facing the door," Xu Yan said.

"Good." He dragged a basket beside the counter and crouched down, falling silent.

The Qi-Gathering Pills sat on the counter. Ten small porcelain vials in a row, labels toward the door. The first buyer was a rogue cultivator with a bamboo basket on his back. He picked up a vial, read the date, turned it over to inspect the bottom, and asked, "One batch?"

"One batch," Xu Yan said. "The eighth day of the Tenth Month."

"Eight stones each?"

"Eight."

He counted out eight stones from inside his coat, laid them on the counter, stoppered the vial tightly, and dropped it into his back basket.

Others followed. A thin-faced man pushed two spirit stones across the counter, saying he'd pay two now and pick up a pill next market day. Xu Yan pushed the stones back. "The Market doesn't hold goods. First come, first served." The man took his stones and stood watching others buy.

"I bought one last time," a rogue cultivator said to the person beside him, holding his vial. "First day was fine. Second day it was spent."

"Take this batch and judge for yourself," Xu Yan said. "The date's on the vial."

Lu Shoutian passed by the door with his little scale under his arm, glanced at the counter, and stopped. "Your pills—the labels carry dates."

"They do."

"The Market people trust that." He tucked the scale tighter under his arm. "It works better than anything."

A rogue cultivator carrying two small bundles of spirit herbs poked his head through the door, asking if the Market would buy his herbs. Shao Ming said yes, name your price, and the proceeds go under your name. The man stood inside the door a while, then asked when he'd be paid.

"The tenth of the Eighth Month, once a year," Shao Ming said.

"Can't wait that long." He backed out and headed toward the wharf.

By Horse hour, only one vial remained on the counter. A woman holding a baby asked if she could buy half a pill. Xu Yan said no. She counted out eight stones and took the whole one.

Ten pills sold out, eighty stones. Xu Yan counted twice and stowed them in the cloth pouch at his waist, kept separate from the Market box.

"Elder Kuang," he said, untying the three bundles in the case and sorting through them handful by handful. "This batch's materials come out of your three bundles."

He picked out three ingredients, grouped them, and hung them on the scale: one batch of alchemy materials, twenty stones. From a different pouch at his waist he counted out twenty and dropped them into the Market box in full view, recording it clearly in the market book under Kuang Lun's name.

Kuang Lun watched the three ingredients. "You've picked all the good stuff."

"You named the price."

"...The price I named." Kuang Lun swallowed his words and asked instead, "When does this batch come out?"

"Firing starts on the eleventh, out on the eighteenth."

"I'll be back on the twentieth." He retied the bundle ropes. "This year's consignment money settles all at once on the tenth of the Eighth Month. I remember."

"Good that you remember."

Shao Ming came back from the wharf with a full shoulder load and another half-load in his hands, the hemp rope wrapped twice around the back of his hand. He set the charcoal by the wall at the Market door and straightened up. "A load and a half, fifteen stones. The charcoal boat came in twice yesterday."

"How's the wharf?"

"Six people in line at the table buying spirit herbs, every one with bundles on their backs." Shao Ming untied the rope. "The charcoal boat itself was quiet."

At the end of Horse hour, Shao Ming put the door panels up, and Xu Yan closed the market book. Market box and market book went into the bundle together, slung over his shoulder. They left town in Wei hour and entered the Mountain Gate in Shen hour. Qian Duoduo delivered the two-pot Spirit Meal accounts to the Accounts Room, a hundred stones set at the edge of the table.

"The eighty from the Qi-Gathering Pills goes in separately?" he asked.

"Separately, same money box," Xu Yan said. "The Qi-Gathering Pills are Qingya's product, so their money goes into Qingya's accounts. What's in the Market box is other people's consignment money—not a single stone touched—and the ledger keeps the sales separate."

He counted it out on the spot: the hundred stones went into the box, so did the eighty from the pills, and a line in the ledger separated the two transactions clearly.

Before lamp-lighting time, he delivered the alchemy materials to the Medicine Hall. Cheng Banshan had Du Xiaochuan spread the three ingredients on the table, sorted one from another, laid out neat.

"Good," Cheng Banshan said after a single glance. "Fire at Mao hour tomorrow."

At Mao hour on the eleventh, the furnace door of the Medicine Hall had already been opened; fresh ash covered the cold floor. Du Xiaochuan folded his bedding from the plank bed and set it against the wall, nudging the half-load of charcoal a little closer. Cheng Banshan fed the materials in handful by handful, pressed the fire, and set the lid. The moment the lid's edge met the rim, he pressed down with that hand and held it, listening for any sound beneath.

"The eighteenth," he said.