My Sect Is Down to Seven People

Chapter 260: Words by the Scale

On the fifteenth day of the Tenth Month, the moment the market doors came down, wind poured in off Market Street and flipped half a page of the market book spread open on the counter.

Shao Ming pinned it with the scale weight. Xu Yan reached over and smoothed the paper flat, pressing his fingertip along the edge. The door panels leaned against the wall; the old scale hung up, its hook swaying twice before it settled. The street was already busy. Beneath the third pillar by the wall, a pot sat over a fire, white steam rising past the tile eaves, the sweet scent of spirit rice drifting in through the crack in the door.

After the Dragon Hour, the first person through the door was a young man with a bamboo basket on his back, followed by an older man, frostbite scabs crusted on both hands. Between them they carried a bundle of spirit herbs and set it on the scale pan.

Shao Ming slid the weight over and leaned in to read the marks. "Twenty-six and a half catties."

"Dried them three days," the older man said. "No water added."

Shao Ming brushed the dirt off the edge of the pan onto the floor. "Dirt doesn't count."

The young man fished out another small handful from his basket and set it on the pan. Shao Ming adjusted the weight again. "Twenty-seven."

Xu Yan flipped through the market book behind the counter, set his brush down: fifteenth of the Tenth Month, spirit herbs, twenty-seven catties, consignment. He looked up at the older man. "Write your own price."

"Same as last time?"

"Last time was your price. This time is your price too. The Market doesn't set prices for people."

The older man wiped his hands on his trouser legs, took the brush, gripped it tight, and wrote out a number below his own line in the market book. The characters came out crooked. When he finished he set the brush back, but he didn't leave. He stood by the scale, hands shrinking into his sleeves.

Lu Shoutian passed by the door with his small scale tucked under his arm, pausing at the threshold to glance inside. "Push the pot farther back. The street will be crowded today."

Shao Ming acknowledged. Lu Shoutian left.

Another rogue cultivator came in and set two old burlap sacks on the scale—dried wild mushrooms. Shao Ming called the number, Xu Yan entered it in the book, the man took the brush, wrote his price in his own square, and left. Shao Ming wound the cord on the scale beam back up and said quietly, "Five more weighed in than last market day." Qi Qi, having delivered his ten bottles of Qi-Gathering Powder to the stall, ducked into the Market to haul crates. He set the basket behind the counter, glanced out at the street, and came back for a second one.

"The Beast Tide from the Northern Wastes is moving south," the man standing by the scale said abruptly.

The young man nudged his basket closer with his foot. "Still inside the Wastes. Moving slow."

Shao Ming hung the weight back on the beam. "Moving south—how far south?"

"Who knows."

"The Eight Great Sects have sealed their mountain gates," the young man added. "Sect-protecting formations running day and night. Nobody comes out. I had a fellow townsman come down from the north. Said at the foot of those mountains, you couldn't even see a single porter on the road."

"Down from the north?" Shao Ming asked.

"Boatmen at the wharf are saying it too." The older man tugged his sleeve up, showing an old scar on his wrist. "Everyone says it's moving south. Everyone says slow. Slow to what day, nobody can say."

Xu Yan finished writing the line, blew on the ink, and flipped the market book over. He didn't ask, and he didn't look up. The wind through the door flipped a corner of the book; he pressed it down.

The two rogue cultivators stood around talking a while longer about small things: whose flatbread had gone up a wen, the inn at Town Gate full, a family on the back street renting out their riverside house and crowding in with relatives. Xu Yan understood these words, but none of them belonged in the market book.

Another rogue cultivator came in, two hemp ropes over his shoulder, asking when the Qi-Gathering Powder would be available.

"Twentieth," Xu Yan said.

"Ten pills?"

"Ten. Eight spirit stones each."

The man counted on his fingers, said he'd go back and ask, and left.

The two of them moved the spirit herbs onto the shelf inside. The young man turned back and started to ask, "If they don't sell—"

"Any market day, you can take them back," Xu Yan said. "Not one wen deducted."

Lamp-lighting time, main hall.

A Sui first carried a bowl over to the low hut by the mountain gate, then came back and set her bowl on the table before sitting down. Thirteen pairs of chopsticks, twelve people at the table. A pot of vegetable soup, a few specks of oil floating on top. Qian Duoduo ladled a full scoop for A Sui first, added an extra scoop for Shi Po, and only then sat. He pulled the door shut before sitting, but wind still squeezed through the cracks, tipping the lamp flame sideways.

Qi Qi set his bowl down. The few sentences spoken in the Market—he'd heard them while stacking crates behind the counter. Now he repeated them word for word:

"Two rogue cultivators, talking by the scale. One older, frostbite scabs on his hands; one carrying a bamboo basket. The older one said the Beast Tide from the Northern Wastes is moving south. The one with the basket said it's still inside the Wastes, moving slow. Then he said the Eight Great Sects have sealed their mountain gates, formations day and night, nobody coming out."

"Where'd they hear it?" Jiang Wan asked.

"Boatmen. And people coming down from the north." Qi Qi spoke slowly, one sentence at a time.

"What kind of people are coming down from the north?"

"Haulers, hide buyers, people driving livestock." Qi Qi said. "Frost all over them."

"The two of them were telling the same story," Shao Ming said.

Qian Duoduo leaned over from the other side of the pot. "That wooden sign at the grain shop—I checked it today. Spirit rice twenty, coarse grain ten a piece. Not one character changed. Same prices. When I topped up the rice, the shop hand even asked, next market day, two pots again? I said two pots."

"The market runs as usual," Xu Yan said. He lowered his head and drank his soup. It was already lukewarm.

"Rice prices holding means there's still grain," Shao Ming said.

"Still grain means the roads are still open," Qian Duoduo said. "Roads open, that's the only reason I can still buy two pots of rice."

Shi Po scraped the last mouthful from his bowl and looked up. "Which pass?"

No one at the table answered. Xu Yan said, "Don't know."

A Sui's chopsticks stopped in midair. "They sealed their mountain gates. Do we seal ours?"

"Our gate opens on the fifth and the tenth," Xu Yan said. "Open, people come."

Only the sound of chopsticks against bowls remained. A He scraped the bottom of his bowl loudly, got kicked in the foot by A Sui. The two children pulled in their legs and fell silent. Bai Xiaoman stacked an empty bowl on top of hers and asked, "On the twentieth, Qi-Gathering Powder still ten pills?"

"Ten," Xu Yan said.

Jiang Wan glanced toward the north window as she stood. The window was shut, not open. She said nothing and headed toward the East Courtyard. Huo Qing had finished earliest and was already down the veranda; the wooden target thudded once, then again.

Seventeenth, Dog Hour, the Accounts Room. Xu Yan wrote out ten labels—"Qingya," and beneath that, "eighteenth of the Tenth Month." By the seventh label, the wick had flowered; he trimmed it and kept writing, laying each label out on the desk to dry. Once dry, he stacked them even and took them to the Medicine Hall, pressing them under the ten empty porcelain bottles on the desk.

Eighteenth, Snake Hour, the lids came off. Cheng Banshan's hand gripped the alchemy flame, pressing down the furnace chamber. The formation hand lifted the lid; white steam burst from the rim, hit the roof beam, and spread—for a moment the hall was a white haze. When the steam cleared, the formation hand brought the tray over, and bamboo slips lifted the pills one by one from the furnace floor. Du Xiaochuan crouched alongside, counting as he went. He reached ten. Ten pills, not one cracked.

Bottled, labeled. Bamboo strips scraped the pill powder from the furnace floor; Xu Yan wrapped it in oiled paper and wrote "eighteenth of the Tenth Month" on the packet, setting it at the far right of the bottom shelf row. He drew the furnace log from inside his robe, added a line at the low table by the furnace, and waited for the ink to dry before closing it and slipping it back.

Du Xiaochuan had dark patches under his eyes. He'd been crouching so long that he swayed when he stood. Cheng Banshan hung the furnace hook on his belt and glanced at him. "Tonight you sleep in the West Wing."

"There's no charcoal left in the furnace," Du Xiaochuan said.

"Then there's even less for you to do. Sell on the twentieth, fire up again on the twenty-first."

The fire was drawn down; the furnace chamber cooled halfway. Cheng Banshan tested the mouth with that hand of his and said the floor of this batch had run thin. He told Du Xiaochuan to rake out the ash and keep it for filling the herb garden path.

Twentieth, market day.

Ten small porcelain bottles lined up one by one on the counter in the Market office, labels facing the door. The first buyer was exactly the young man with the bamboo basket from the fifteenth. Today no basket; his cuffs were frayed. One pill for eight stones. He counted the money out flat, laying the spirit stones on the counter one at a time.

"For my fellow townsman," he said, tucking the bottle into his chest. "He came down from the north and hasn't warmed up yet."

"After taking it, stay out of the wind," Xu Yan said.

Before the Snake Hour was over, ten pills sold out—eighty spirit stones. Xu Yan counted twice and put them in the cloth pouch at his waist, separate from the market box.

Kuang Lun came in carrying three bundles of spirit herbs on his back. He stood waiting while Shao Ming called the weight, then gave his price. He didn't leave after that, sweeping a glance over the empty shelf. "Sold out?"

"Sold out," Xu Yan said.

"Next batch?"

"Thirtieth."

Kuang Lun nodded. Xu Yan untied the three bundles and sorted through them piece by piece—roots with roots, leaves with leaves. Two handfuls of leaves had yellowed undersides; he picked them out and set them back on Kuang Lun's side. He sorted out one furnace's worth of alchemy materials. Twenty spirit stones, counted out in front of everyone and dropped into the market box, recorded in the market book under Kuang Lun's name. Kuang Lun watched the money fall to the bottom of the box, tied his empty ropes and slung them over his shoulder, and walked out.

Market closed at the end of the Horse Hour. Shao Ming went to the wharf to buy a load and a half of charcoal, fifteen spirit stones. The pile on the charcoal boat was fresh from the kiln—it rang crisply when knocked. One carried a full load, one a half. At the wharf, the table for buying spirit herbs was still out, the wooden sign still standing. Out of town in the Goat Hour, through the mountain gate in the Monkey Hour. On the uphill stretch, Qi Qi set his crate by the roadside, turned back and wordlessly took the half-load from Shao Ming's shoulder. Shao Ming didn't refuse. He picked up the crate from the roadside and walked behind.

Qian Duoduo set a hundred spirit stones on the edge of the Accounts Room desk—ten stacks of ten. He nudged one crooked stack straight with a finger. "The ten for spirit rice came right off at the stall."

Xu Yan counted them in his presence, stacking them into the cash box one by one, untying the hemp rope and retying it—two loops again, the same as always. The market box went under the ledger rack, kept separate from the cash box. He sat down and posted the daily ledger:

Twentieth of the Tenth Month, in: one hundred stones; Qi-Gathering Powder eighty stones; out: alchemy materials, charcoal thirty-five stones.

The brush went down. He turned the account book back a few pages.

Those pages, line by line—each with a date, each noting who was present, each recording what was said. His finger moved down the lines, past the entry for the eighth day of the Ninth Month, and stopped at the last line. The last line was still the ninth day of the Ninth Month: Autumn Evaluation, promoted to Sixth Rank.

He picked the brush up again. This time the few sentences had come back from the market, from beside the scale: people down from the north carry frost; boatmen say it's moving south; the speakers had no names, and if you pressed, the best answer was "the boatmen said." If you truly recorded it, the only line you could write was "someone at the market said."

The brush tip hovered at the bottom of that line, a drop of ink blooming on the paper. He set the brush back on the inkstone's edge, closed the account book, and slid it into its slot on the ledger rack.

Outside, by the kitchen, Qian Duoduo was scrubbing the pot, water sounds coming in waves. Done, he flipped the pot upside down on the stove platform with a thud. Xu Yan blew out the lamp. The room went dark, the edges of the account book faintly white in the blackness.