My Sect Is Down to Seven People

Chapter 271: Ten Small Porcelain Bottles

The tenth day of the Eleventh Month was a market day. Before dawn, Qian Duoduo and Du Xiaochuan carried a pot of Spirit Meal down the mountain, and Bai Xiaoman went along too, having arranged to calibrate the market scale that day.

At Mao hour, Xu Yan and Shao Ming went out the Mountain Gate. A thin frost lay over the mountain path, and it was only halfway down the mountain that the sun finally climbed over the ridge. They reached town at Chen hour. The market street was more crowded than last time. With the cold settling in, a few vendors selling charcoal and old cotton crouched under the walls. Qingya's stall went up in its usual spot beneath the third pillar by the wall, where the old tile eave above still blocked the wind. Qian Duoduo set the pot down, and Du Xiaochuan laid out the bowls one by one, mouth-down.

The market gate opened at Chen hour. Shao Ming hung the scale hook on the wall peg. Xu Yan wiped the counter with a rag, then set the market book at the corner of the counter, weighted with a shard of stone. Bai Xiaoman took the scale down from the wall peg, shouldered it over to the grain shop, spoke with the proprietor, and borrowed theirs to compare. She hung both scales with the same stone; the scale stars aligned perfectly, neither tipping. She carried the scale back, hung it on the peg, gave Xu Yan a nod, and headed back up the mountain path, reaching the Mountain Gate around Si hour.

The counter sat empty. The ten small porcelain bottles were up on the mountain, in Qi Qi's arms.

The first customer into the market was a Rogue Cultivator with Spirit Herbs on his back. He set the grass bundle by the scale without even untying the rope. Shao Ming picked the bundle up and shook it twice, sending grass clippings raining to the ground. "Only what's been shaken goes on the scale." Once the rope was untied, Shao Ming hung each item from the hook, called out the weights, and only wrote them down after watching the scale stars settle level. The Rogue Cultivator stared at the scale beam the whole time, nodding only when Shao Ming's hand came to rest.

At that same Chen hour, the wood stove at the back of the Medicine Hall had its lid off. Cheng Banshan laid out ten bottles of Qi-Gathering Powder on the table with one hand, lined them up, filled them, pressed the stoppers tight. The little powder left after filling went onto a sheet of medicine paper, folded into a small packet, labeled "Tenth Day, Eleventh Month," and placed on the shelf. The labels had been written by Xu Yan on the ninth at Xu hour. After Du Xiaochuan went down the mountain, Qi Qi had pasted them onto the bottle shoulders one by one, then wrapped the bottles in old cloth and tucked them into his chest.

Qi Qi carried two bundles at his chest: one of ten bottles of Qi-Gathering Powder, one of ten empty porcelain bottles. The Qi-Gathering Powder went to the stall at the market; the empty bottles went to the market office. After pasting the labels, he set off at once, running down the mountain path, reaching town at Si hour.

When the ten bottles were spread out on the counter, Qi Qi was still braced against the doorframe, catching his breath. Xu Yan reached out and arranged the bottles, lining them up in a row with the labels facing the door, the characters on the yellow paper catching the light.

"This batch came out on the eighth?" The first Rogue Cultivator picked up a bottle, turned it around, and read the date on the label one character at a time. "Eleventh Month, Eighth Day."

"The eighth," Xu Yan said.

A second Rogue Cultivator picked one up too and read it aloud: "Eleventh Month, Eighth Day."

"The eighth," Xu Yan said again.

A third Rogue Cultivator looked at the bottle for a moment, then set it back on the counter without reading the label. "How much per pill?"

"Eight."

The first Rogue Cultivator counted out eight Spirit Stones and pushed them across, slipping the bottle into his sleeve. Then he picked the bottle back up and turned it over, checking the stopper at the bottom. "That stall at the south end—the forged labels left the date blank. This one, the date's written in."

"Written in," Xu Yan said. "Written on the night of the seventh, pills collected at Chen hour on the eighth."

The Rogue Cultivator pressed the bottle into his sleeve and left. Four or five people queued up at the counter—some buying one bottle, some two. A tall, thin Rogue Cultivator took his time getting his money out, picking through the Spirit Stones in his palm piece by piece before setting them on the counter, then counting his change. An old man held two bottles up to his eyes, turning them over and over. "When's the next batch out?"

"The eighteenth," Xu Yan said.

"Then I'll come back on the eighteenth." The old man tucked the bottles into his robe, took two steps, then turned back. "On the eighteenth, will you be in town?"

"On the eighteenth I'll be on the mountain," Xu Yan said. "The batch comes out on the eighteenth, sells on the twentieth."

"Then the twentieth it is." The old man nodded and finally left.

Ten pills, sold out just past Si hour. Eighty Spirit Stones went into the money pouch. Xu Yan cinched the pouch closed and tucked it under the counter. The emptied countertop held ten empty spaces where the bottles had been; the labels had left with them.

Among the consignment goods piled at the corner of the counter was a bundle of Spirit Herbs tied with grass rope, soil still clinging to the roots, a wooden sign standing beside it. Xu Yan dragged it over to the scale, pulled out a stalk to examine the roots, then checked the undersides of the leaves. At the price on the wooden sign—one furnace's worth of elixir materials—twenty Spirit Stones.

He counted twenty out of Qingya's money. The money came from the pouch beneath the counter. When he finished, he tied the pouch closed again, keeping it separate from the market box. The twenty Spirit Stones dropped into the market box one by one. He closed the lid with a dull thud, opened the market book, and entered the transaction: one bundle of Spirit Herbs, at the posted price, purchased by Qingya; then, per the rules, recorded under the consignor's name. Most of those entries from Rogue Cultivators had no names—the records noted what they carried. This line read "the one with the Spirit Herbs."

The Rogue Cultivator had been standing and watching the whole time. Only after the lid shut did he speak. "This money—when do I come for it?"

"Tenth day of the Eighth Month," Xu Yan said. "That's in the market rules: proceeds are recorded under the consignor's name, paid out once a year, settled on the tenth of the Eighth Month."

"Tenth of the Eighth Month." The Rogue Cultivator gathered up his wooden sign, held it to his chest, and turned to go. After two steps he looked back. "I'll remember that day."

"Do," Xu Yan said.

The market dispersed at the end of Si hour. Qian Duoduo bought the next market day's Spirit Rice at the grain shop—one pot's worth—slung the sack over his shoulder, and circled around to the market gate to wait for Xu Yan. "The ten bottles at the stall sold out too," he said. "The pot's scraped clean."

"Mm," Xu Yan said.

The market closed at the end of Wu hour. Xu Yan locked each cabinet drawer, tucked the market book into the market box, and carried it on his back. Qi Qi and Shao Ming headed for the dock. Charcoal ash dusted the stone steps at the wharf; a charcoal boat was moored there, and the boatman said charcoal would be tight this winter, tighter than in years past. The two bought a load and a half—one carried a full load, the other a half. Fifteen Spirit Stones for the charcoal; Qi Qi counted it out to the boatman.

They left town at Wei hour and reached the Mountain Gate at Shen hour. Nie Bo was sweeping the blue stone and stepped aside.

The full load of charcoal was stacked against the back wall of the Medicine Hall and covered with a reed mat; the half load sat by the stove. That day, Qi Qi had gone down the mountain, Bai Xiaoman had gone down and come back up, and for most of the day only Cheng Banshan and Xiao Ling remained in the Medicine Hall. She rearranged the row of sample packets on the shelf by date, moving the earlier ones inward and the new ones to the front. When she reached the packet from the eighth, she picked it up and checked the writing on the fold, then put it back with the characters facing outward.

"Don't touch the packet at the very back," Cheng Banshan said.

"The moldy one," she said.

"I'm keeping it to teach with."

Xu Yan set the bundle of Spirit Herbs on the table. Cheng Banshan didn't take it; he pointed at the low stool nearby instead. "Spread it out."

Xiao Ling took the wind hood off her head and hung it on the nail in the doorframe, pulled over a dustpan basket, and untied the grass rope. She laid the herbs out one by one: first the long-stemmed, then the narrow-leaved. The last few still had mud on their roots—she set those aside and picked the dirt off bit by bit with her fingernail, scraping down until the color of the root bark showed through, then placed them with the earlier piles, root fibers aligned to one side. A He came over from the Kitchen carrying an armload of firewood and stood in the doorway watching. A Sui crouched down beside her and reached out to help.

"Don't touch," Xiao Ling said. "Your hands have ash on them."

A Sui wiped her hands on her front placket and stayed crouched, just watching. A He stood at the door a while longer, his arms going numb under the wood, then carried it off to the lean-to behind the Kitchen. Halfway through the sorting, Xiao Ling's fingers stopped on a stalk. She pulled it out and set it at the corner of the table. "This one isn't."

Cheng Banshan came over, pinched the stalk up, examined the root, turned it over to check the leaf underside. He said nothing, set it aside. "Pick it out. Finish the rest."

She finished laying out the rest one by one, the table now divided into piles, each clearly distinct. Cheng Banshan nudged things about on the table, returning the misplaced stalks to their proper piles, then held two up to his eye. "These two look alike. They don't smell alike." He handed one to Xiao Ling. "Smell it."

She took it, held it under her nose, then traded it for the other. She looked up and pointed at one pile on the table. "Does this one go in the furnace with it?"

"They're added separately," Cheng Banshan said. "Roots go in first, then stems, leaves last. If you add one wrong, the whole batch is ruined." He pushed the dustpan basket toward the table. "Leave it. Tomorrow we start the fire."

"At Mao hour?" Xiao Ling asked.

"Mao hour," Cheng Banshan said. "When the fire rises, you'll be beside me passing materials. Watch how my hands feed them."

Xiao Ling nodded, pulled three wooden trays from under the shelf, wiped them clean, and stacked them beside the basket.

Lamp-lighting, the Main Hall. Qian Duoduo set out fourteen pairs of chopsticks; thirteen people at the table. A Sui first carried a bowl down to the low hut by the Mountain Gate for Nie Bo, then came back and sat down. Jiang Wan asked, "Enough elixir materials for a batch?"

"Enough," Xu Yan said. Qian Duoduo added, "Charcoal's stacked too."

After the meal, Huo Qing practiced his thrust at the wooden target under the veranda as usual—right arm hanging, left hand driving the sword into the bullseye stroke after stroke. The crater at the center of the target deepened another layer.

At Xu hour, a lamp lit up in the Accounts Room. Xu Yan opened to the page for the Eleventh Month and wrote line by line: tenth day, market, one pot, ten bottles, income sixty-five Spirit Stones. A new line: ten Qi-Gathering Pills, eighty Spirit Stones. Another line: elixir materials, twenty Spirit Stones; charcoal, fifteen.

The furnace log sat on top of the ledger. He added a line: "Eleventh Month, Tenth Day. Qi-Gathering Powder, ten bottles. Sample retained, one packet."

When he finished writing, he took up the lamp and went to check on the Medicine Hall. On the table, the piles of materials sat in the dustpan basket, a stone weighting them against the wind. Her wind hood hung from the nail in the doorframe; beneath it hung the hand scale.

Eleventh day, Mao hour, still dark. Du Xiaochuan had already brought in a basket of charcoal from the back wall and was crouched by the stove, waiting. In the charcoal stove at the front of the Medicine Hall, dry kindling filled the firebox. Cheng Banshan fed in the batch of elixir materials handful by handful, flipped his palm, and the firebox glowed red.

Xiao Ling sat on the small stool by the stove, the materials divided among three wooden trays, passing them over one kind at a time. Cheng Banshan took each and fed it into the furnace without lifting his head. "Don't touch the furnace door yet."

"Mm," she said.

"Watch the color of the fire." He opened the furnace door a finger's width and told her to lean in. "If it turns red-white, the fire's too strong. It should glow a deep red."

She watched for a while, then nodded. He closed the furnace door, pressed it tight, and reached for the next handful she handed over. "Set this batch aside for the next furnace run. The first day's fire is unsteady—check it every so often." Xiao Ling moved that batch to the edge of the wooden tray and covered it with a sheet of medicine paper so the wind wouldn't scatter it.

Before lamp-lighting, Du Xiaochuan carried his bedding roll from the West Wing back to the outer room and shook it out over the plank bed. The two charcoal baskets beside the bed were in the way, so Xiao Ling bent down and pushed them against the wall, clearing a path for him.

"That way you won't trip if you get up in the night," she said.

Du Xiaochuan smoothed the corner of his quilt. "I get up twice a night."

"Twice is enough," Cheng Banshan said from the stove side. "When it's low, add. Don't fill it full—too full and the fire smothers."

A thin line of red glowed beneath the gap in the furnace lid. Cheng Banshan sat on the stool by the stove, his eyes never leaving the firebox.