My Sect Is Down to Seven People

Chapter 264: The Extra Pot

The thirtieth day dawned before the sky did. The kitchen door opened first. Qian Duoduo packed two pots of spirit meals into four wooden buckets, lashed the lids down with hemp rope in a cross pattern, and tucked the rope ends into the seams. Du Xiaochuan took the front load; he shifted the carrying pole twice before it settled right on his shoulder. A He crouched at the stove door, feeding in the last of the firewood. The flames stood up out of the ash, reddening half his face. The two set off down the mountain in the dark, and only when they were halfway did light begin to seep from the east.

At Mao hour, the Medicine Hall's furnace door was shut. The previous batch had come out on the twenty-eighth, and the firebox had been cooling for two days. Cheng Banshan wiped the dust from the formation hand with a cloth and sat on the threshold, catching that one strip of sunlight. At the same Mao hour, Xu Yan, Shao Ming, and Shi Po passed through the Mountain Gate. Nie Bo was sweeping in the archway, the broom tip moving over the blue stone in even strokes, pushing leaves up against the base of the wall. Shi Po carried two empty baskets in one hand, switching them to the other as he passed through, the basket bottom knocking against his leg.

"I'll take the door panels down," Shao Ming said, walking ahead, his pace quicker than usual.

The market opened at Chen hour. The door panels came down and stood against the wall; the scale went up, the hand-scale laid dead center on the counter, where the draft set the scale hook swinging twice before it stilled. The doorway in the east wall had been opened the year the market was founded. Light came through it and painted a white stripe across the counter. The streets were not thin. The old bread-seller shifted his pole out to the base of the outer wall and asked first whether they were buying wild mushrooms. When Shao Ming said yes, he moved his load half a foot closer in, then turned and lifted the remaining half-basket of mushrooms out and tipped them into the scale pan. Shao Ming nudged the weight: "Wild mushrooms, three and a half catties." The old man wrote the price himself, and when he finished, he pressed his finger to the paper so it would dry faster.

At Si hour, Qi Qi came running down the mountain path, ten bottles of Qi-Gathering Powder tucked against his chest, ten little porcelain bottles wrapped in cloth. He lined the bottles up one by one on the counter, labels facing the door, then carried the ten bottles of powder over to the stall and came back for two more loads of baskets.

Kuang Lun came in carrying three bundles of spirit herbs on his back. The binding was new hemp rope; roots faced outward, tied neat. "The thirtieth." He lifted the herbs onto the scale. "Three bundles, as agreed."

Shao Ming shook the dirt from the roots. "Dirt doesn't cost. Spirit herbs, seventeen catties."

"Cold weather—the herbs dried brittle. They couldn't take pressure on the road, so I carried them the whole way." Kuang Lun waited for Shao Ming to finish calling the weight before he picked up the brush to write his own price. When he was done he didn't move from the counter; he looked first at the ten porcelain bottles lined up there. "This batch, same price as last time?"

"Eight spirit stones a pill. It's written on the paper," Xu Yan said.

Miao Zhong came in after, a stack of talisman papers under one arm. He counted through the consignment stack from the last market day, said three had sold, then took two more from his sleeve and added them, weighing the corner down with a copper coin. The little stone he used for weighing was still in his sleeve; this time he didn't bring it out. "I said I'd come on the thirtieth," he said.

"You came," Xu Yan said, setting his brush on the inkstone's edge.

Miao Zhong stood at the counter, watching Shao Ming pass the talisman papers through his hands one by one. Only when he'd seen them all did he ask, "When this batch sells out, the furnace lights on the first?"

"Mao hour, the first."

"Then I'll buy two." Miao Zhong took out sixteen spirit stones and placed them one by one on the counter. Shao Ming counted and put them in the money pouch. Miao Zhong took the two bottles, looked down at the dates on the labels, then turned them over and tucked them label-in against his chest. "I'll be back on the fifth."

Around Si hour, a rogue cultivator with a back basket came in. He didn't ask about pills first; he asked if there was any Qi-Gathering Powder left. Xu Yan told him there was some at the stall, three stones a bottle, under the third pillar by the wall on Market Street. The man hitched his basket higher and turned away. Half an hour later he came back. He tipped his empty basket bottom toward Shao Ming and said the stall still had seven bottles left—he'd bought three himself.

Miao Zhong was not the first to buy pills. A rogue cultivator held a bottle up to the doorway light, checking the date on the label. "This one's from this month?" he asked. Xu Yan said it was, so he bought two, counting out sixteen stones. Three more came after: one bought two, one bought one, and the last bought the remaining three all at once, saying he'd be traveling the northern road these next few days and would feel safer with pills on him. The ten bottles emptied, and eighty spirit stones sat stacked on the counter.

Xu Yan untied Kuang Lun's three herb bundles and sorted through them one by one: roots with roots, leaves with leaves, the older ones on the left, the younger on the right. When he'd sorted a full batch's worth, he put twenty stones into the market box and posted the entry in the market book under Kuang Lun's name.

Kuang Lun watched from the doorway, one hand on the door frame. "Last time it was done this way too."

"Same as last time," Xu Yan said.

"Then I'll bring two bundles on the fifth." Kuang Lun picked up his empty baskets, and at the threshold he turned back. "The herb price stays what's written. I won't haggle. You just don't bring my price down either."

Shao Ming put away the scale inside and headed for the wharf. A layer of charcoal ash covered the stone steps. The charcoal boat was moored against the bank, the gangplank laid on the steps, and the boatman sat at the bow checking numbers against his ledger. Shao Ming bought a load and a half, fifteen stones, tied it with hemp rope to both ends of a carrying pole, carried the first load back to the foot of the wall by the market gate and stacked it neat, then went back for the half load.

By noon the stall was sold out. Qian Duoduo set the four empty buckets down at the rice brokers' door, came back to pack up the stall gear, the rag draped over a bucket rim, water dripping down its sides to the ground. The bread-seller packed up his load. Two hard loaves remained; one he pressed on Shi Po, the other he left on the threshold by the market gate. Shi Po took it, said "Thanks," and bit away half of it in one go.

The market closed at the end of Wu hour. Shao Ming put the scale and hand-scale into the cabinet and locked it, then set the door panels back one by one. He gave the last panel a pat as it dropped into its groove, latched the lock, and gave the door ring a squeeze.

At Wei hour, the group was at the rice brokers' door. The wooden sign hung beside it, charcoal characters reading: Spirit Rice, twenty stones a bag; Coarse Grain, ten a bag. A shop hand came up from the river carrying water, two buckets swaying on his pole, and at the door a little sloshed out onto the steps. Qian Duoduo moved the four empty buckets to the wall, clearing the space before the counter, and told the hand to look at his buckets first: "All empty."

"They sold well at the fair," the hand said, leaning his pole against the wall and wiping his hands on his apron.

"From Eleventh Month on, let's make one pot," Qian Duoduo said.

Xu Yan was tucking the market book into his robes. He looked up. "Why?"

"Cold weather." Qian Duoduo dried his hands with the rag. "Once the wind turns hard, nobody'll stand in the street to eat. Two pots and we'll have leftovers, and when we carry them back they'll need reheating, and reheated food's never as good as the first time. One pot's just right—sell out, pack up, clean."

Xu Yan looked at him for a while. "One pot."

"Then today we made up two pots, so there's one extra." Qian Duoduo spoke quickly, like he'd worked it all out on the road. "We won't need to make up the fifth. The vat behind the kitchen's empty. We'll pour the rice in, press the board down, and on the morning of the fifth it goes straight into the pot. Saves a trip."

"Rice sitting a month—won't it draw damp?" Xu Yan asked.

"There's ash at the bottom and the cover board weighing it down. That's how we've always stored it," Qian Duoduo said. "I'll lift the lid and check every day."

The shop hand went behind the counter to work the abacus, nodding as he listened. "Eleventh Month rations: spirit rice two bags, coarse grain one bag, fifty stones. Same as always?"

"Same as always," Xu Yan said.

The hand tied the bag mouths with hemp rope, one hand twisting the opening tight, the other winding the rope three times around, then pressed it with his knee to test the slack before letting go. Shi Po went in, one bag on each shoulder, the two spirit rice bags riding high on either side. He came out with his back straight, his step not sinking at all. Xu Yan lifted the coarse grain bag. The mouth was tied tight; the rope handle cut into his palm. He switched hands, walked two steps, and switched back. Qian Duoduo carried the four empty buckets on his pole, Shao Ming the load-and-a-half of charcoal.

Outside town, the sun was tilting west. A cart came down the road from the north hauling firewood, the bed empty now. The carter had his whip tip knotted in his hand. He passed them without asking what they carried, without a word.

They entered the mountain gate at Shen hour. Huo Qing was on the veranda practicing his thrust; the wooden target stood by the pillar, its bullseye crater a little deeper than before. Sword-wind came from the East Courtyard. Below the front courtyard steps, Bai Xiaoman set five pebbles out and then gathered them back up. On the third pebble she heard footsteps in the archway and glanced up, then tucked the pebbles back into her robes.

A He was waiting in the archway. The moment he saw Shi Po with a rice bag on each shoulder, he spun and ran for the kitchen. A Sui was already at the kitchen door, twisting the corners of her apron in both hands. Shi Po set the two spirit rice bags by the vat, opened the mouths, and poured. The first rice struck the vat bottom with a hollow sound; after that it fell muffled. Qian Duoduo poured in the extra pot too, then pressed the wooden board over the vat mouth and patted it twice.

"Enough to last to the fifth," he said.

A Sui traced a line down the vat rim. "Up to here."

"Don't measure with your hand. It's dirty." Qian Duoduo pressed her hand back. "Wash up, then come look."

The charcoal was stacked against the Medicine Hall's back wall, covered with a reed mat, the corners weighted with bricks. Xu Yan carried the market box and market book into the Accounts Room himself.

Lamp-lighting, Main Hall. Qian Duoduo set out thirteen pairs of chopsticks. A Sui carried a bowl first to the low hut by the Mountain Gate for Nie Bo, then came back to sit. At the table everyone talked Eleventh Month. Qian Duoduo said this was the first time they'd scale back a pot; he worried about the fire timing and would need to stand by and watch two rounds. Cheng Banshan said he didn't handle fire timing, but the alchemy furnace lit at Mao hour on the first—don't be late. Shi Po filled a second bowl of rice and said "the rice is heavy." No one could tell whether he meant the bags were heavy or the rice sat heavy; he didn't explain. Bai Xiaoman said the pot in the vat went down on the fifth and she wanted to go watch, and Shao Ming said, "You watch your scale." Jiang Wan asked Qi Qi if he was going up the North Slope tomorrow. Qi Qi said three-days was the third, so no, not tomorrow.

No one mentioned the north.

After the meal, Xu Yan sat in the Accounts Room until just before Hai hour. He untied the hemp cord on the cash box and counted this market day's spirit stones one by one, stacking them in piles of ten. The market box he didn't open; he set it beside the market book, apart from the cash box. The cloth in the bottom corner of the cash box still wrapped the silver—ten taels. He didn't open it, only tucked the cloth corner in a little further so nothing showed.

He flipped back through the furnace log a few rows: tenth month, days eight, eighteen, twenty-eight—three rows of Qi-Gathering Pills, lines of characters, each followed by a retained sample, one packet per date. He ran his finger over the page, pausing on the "twenty-eight" line, then closed it.

The daily ledger ran down line by line: tenth month, day thirty, income one hundred stones; Qi-Gathering Pills eighty stones; expenditures for alchemy materials and charcoal thirty-five stones; Eleventh Month rations fifty stones. He worked the abacus beads twice, then wrote the balance: 11,831 stones.

The account book lay open on the desk. The order paper was still pressed between two pages, its edge showing, one corner of the Branch's vermilion seal visible. He didn't pull it out to read. He didn't flip through the pages at the back of the ledger either.

The wick burned low. He trimmed it with scissors; the flame shivered, then stood straight. He locked the market box and market book together into the cabinet, tucked the furnace log back into his robes. In the Medicine Hall, the window paper still glowed yellow in one patch—Cheng Banshan was poking at the charcoal; the iron hook clinked once against the furnace door, and after a while, clinked again.

Before Xu Yan blew out the lamp, he glanced out the window. The northern cliff stood as a black line in the night, stretched behind the Back Mountain, a shade heavier than everything around it. No red above the line.

The Medicine Hall's furnace door clinked once more. The fire lit tomorrow at Mao hour.