My Sect Is Down to Seven People

Chapter 272: Until It Changes

On the twelfth day of the Eleventh Month, the sun climbed over the back mountain, and a row of old prescription paper lay spread across the blue stone in front of the Medicine Hall's covered walkway.

Xiao Ling crouched at the edge of the walkway, turning the things drying on the paper over one by one, leaf backs facing up. The charcoal stove inside the Medicine Hall was burning, and the fire could not be left unattended. Cheng Banshan sat on the threshold keeping watch, one hand holding the furnace hook, its tip tapping at the pile she'd just turned. "You're turning too fast. This kind has fine hairs on the underside of the leaves. One brush and they fall off. Lose them and the whole batch is wasted."

She turned those few back over, pinching them by the stem, her fingers never touching the underside.

"When the sun reaches a certain spot, you turn that pile." Cheng Banshan said. "Those three inner piles were dried yesterday. Don't touch them today. This pile dries until noon, then goes inside, underside still up. Don't press it down."

She answered him and crouched back down to keep turning.

In her days at the Medicine Hall, Cheng Banshan taught her one thing a day. The first two days he gave her the hand scale: weigh the same ingredient three times, all three times had to match. Then came sorting medicine: one drawer per ingredient, mix in one wrong thing and the whole furnace batch was ruined. Then came drying. On the medicine rack stood a row of sample packets, one per day. On the top shelf sat a small porcelain vial he wouldn't say the name of, and wouldn't let anyone touch. The wind hood came off the moment you came in, hung on the nail in the door frame; it went back on when you left, brim pressed down to the eyebrows. Once she'd carried a medicine tray out the door, only remembering the hood still hung on the nail when she reached the walkway, so she'd gone back, put it on, and only then went out.

At noon she gathered that pile of medicine, and when putting it into the drawer she set a small handful aside. Cheng Banshan saw it and asked, "What's wrong with these?"

"Broken." She picked one up to show him. "This root broke off in the soil. It dries broken, too."

He took the handful, glanced at it, and tossed it into the herb dregs basket. "Broken ones don't count. Keeping them's useless. Mix one into a furnace batch and that whole batch takes a loss."

She nodded, pushed the drawer back, and wiped a corner of the worktable where medicine powder had smeared.

That afternoon she pointed at a clump and asked what it was called. Cheng Banshan told her, then glanced at her. "Remembered it?"

She shook her head. He plucked the clump up and placed it in her hand. "First, feel it. Underside of the leaves has fuzz; it feels rough to the touch. You can't remember the name, but your hand remembers the feel."

That evening, someone practiced thrusts under the walkway. Huo Qing stabbed at the wooden target again and again, a layer of wood shavings fallen around the pit in the bullseye. She carried a bowl of water out from the Medicine Hall, set it on the stone at the target's base, and went back inside without a word. When she came out again to collect the bowl, it was empty. She put it back where it belonged. The man was already gone.

Before dawn on the thirteenth, as she walked from the East Courtyard to the Medicine Hall, there was always someone under the walkway. Huo Qing's right arm hung at his side, his left hand gripping the sword hilt, every thrust stopping in the pit. She passed along the walkway's edge; the two exchanged a nod, neither saying more than needed. She'd gone several steps before the next thrust sounded behind her.

She arrived earlier than usual that day. On the plank bed by the stove in the Medicine Hall's outer room, Du Xiaochuan lay curled up, one hand still resting on the rim of the charcoal basket, fast asleep. She crouched to check the stove mouth; the fire was banked low. She didn't touch the stove door. Instead she turned and knocked twice on the plank bed. Du Xiaochuan sat up with a start, threw himself at the stove to look for a long while, and only then said, "That was close." She pointed at the sun under the walkway and said it was light out. Du Xiaochuan wiped his face, went to add charcoal, then turned back to check the fire, which had risen again.

At the Snake Hour, Qi Qi came back from the North Slope above the old herb garden, reported at the Accounts Room door that "nothing's moving beyond the pass," and added that frost had formed on the North Slope grass — every step left a white print. Xu Yan nodded, pressed the paper in his hand back into the ledger, and said they'd go up again on the eighteenth.

Near noon on the fourteenth, she weighed out the ingredients for the next furnace batch of Qi-Gathering Powder in the Medicine Hall's outer room. The scale sat on the worktable; she weighed each item and called out the numbers. On the third ingredient she weighed twice, the two readings off by a hair. Cheng Banshan came out from the inner room, nudged the medicine on the scale pan back a bit, and told her to weigh again. The third reading matched the second. Only then did he nod and cover the ingredients with prescription paper. "Get to bed early tonight. The batch comes out at the Dragon Hour tomorrow. You'll watch."

"Watch" sounded different now than it had on the eighth. She looked up at him. Cheng Banshan poked at the fire and said nothing more.

At the Dog Hour on the fourteenth, a lamp was lit in the Accounts Room. Xu Yan trimmed ten labels and wrote them one by one: on top "Qingya," below "Fifteenth of the Eleventh Month." When done, he counted them over, pressed them under the ledger, and set out ten empty vials at the head of the desk, the labels beside the vials.

That night in the East Courtyard, Jiang Wan moved the lamp to the table's corner, dipped a fingertip in water, and wrote on the tabletop, telling her to copy it. She wrote slowly, tracing stroke by stroke. When she finished she looked up; Jiang Wan said "smoother than last time," wiped the table dry, and wrote again. Toward the end, she spread the remaining water at the corner and wrote "Xiao Ling" herself — bigger than the one in the roster, steadier too. Jiang Wan glanced at it and said, "Write it the same way tomorrow."

Before dawn on the fifteenth, Qian Duoduo and Du Xiaochuan carried a pot of spirit meals down the mountain. At the Rabbit Hour Xu Yan and Shao Ming left through the Mountain Gate and reached town at the Dragon Hour, just as the market gates opened.

The same Dragon Hour, up on the mountain, the Medicine Hall's wood stove was uncovered. Cheng Banshan lined up ten small porcelain vials on the worktable with one hand and filled them one by one. On the seventh he stopped and pressed the prescription paper into the hands of Xiao Ling, who crouched nearby. "You press."

She took it, pressed the paper over the vial's mouth, did it straight, smoothed the edges flat. Cheng Banshan swept his eyes over it and went on filling. When all ten were done, the last bit went onto the paper, folded into a small packet. He took the worn brush and wrote "Fifteenth of the Eleventh Month" on the packet, then set it among that row on the shelf.

Qi Qi stuck the ten labels onto the vial shoulders one by one, wrapped all ten in old cloth and tucked them under his clothes, then set off down the mountain to deliver them to the stall. At the Snake Hour he handed the cloth bundle to Qian Duoduo and turned back into the market to help carry goods.

The town market that day ran as usual. The first pot of spirit meals at the stall sold faster than last market day. The Qi-Gathering Powder went for three spirit stones a vial. The first few people bought; the ones behind followed with money in hand. An old man held a vial and studied the date on the label for a long time, asking when it had come out. Qian Duoduo answered, "This morning at the Dragon Hour." The old man tucked the vial into his sleeve, saying the stuff he'd bought elsewhere didn't have a date on it. The flatbread-selling old man came past the stall with his carrying pole, stopped, and said the street had half again as many people this market day; even his hard flatbreads had sold. Someone asked if pills would come out on the eighteenth. Qian Duoduo said pills were the market's business; he only handled the food pot.

The market weighed goods and took consignments as usual. Shao Ming hung the scale hook, and Xu Yan spread the market ledger on the counter. The first to come in was an old rogue cultivator carrying spirit herbs on his back. He dropped the herb bundle onto the scale and shook it twice. "More people coming down from the north into town than last time." Xu Yan looked up from the ledger, gave a word of acknowledgment, and didn't press further.

After that, a rogue cultivator set a bundle of dry grass on the counter and said he wanted to consign it. Shao Ming lifted it, hefted it, and said the grass was still damp — it needed two more days of drying at home. The man picked up his grass and went out, stood at the door a while, then came back in to ask what counted as dry enough. Shao Ming pointed at a packet of consigned dried grass on the counter and told him to compare.

The market broke up at the end of the Snake Hour. Qian Duoduo topped up one pot of spirit rice at the grain shop and counted out five spirit stones at the counter.

The wooden sign at the grain shop's door still hung under the eaves. The charcoal-written words had been scuffed at the corners by the wind; the shopkeeper had traced over them again with charcoal, and they looked even blacker than before:

Spirit rice: 20 spirit stones per sack. Coarse grain: 10 per sack.

Qian Duoduo hoisted the rice sack and stood under the sign, looking at it for a while. "This price — how much longer will it stay up?"

The shopkeeper pushed his abacus toward the back of the counter. "Until it changes."

Qian Duoduo didn't ask again. He shifted the sack on his shoulder and walked out toward the market street. Xu Yan, at the door, caught that exchange. He said nothing.

The market closed at the end of the Horse Hour. He slipped the market ledger into the market box, shouldered it, and locked the door. They left town in the late Monkey Hour and were back at the Mountain Gate by the late afternoon. Shi Po took the rice sack inside the gate, propped it against the kitchen wall, and A He and A Sui took the empty baskets.

Qi Qi said something to him on the road: near the base of the market street wall crouched several people who'd come down from the north. No bundles, nothing. They squatted there till midday and no one asked about them. Xu Yan's feet never slowed. He only grunted.

At lamp-lighting time in the Main Hall, Qian Duoduo set out fourteen pairs of chopsticks. A Sui first carried a bowl to the low hut by the Mountain Gate, then came back to sit. Thirteen people at the table. Xiao Ling sat beside Jiang Wan, her wind hood resting on her knees.

On the table: one pot of spirit rice, one pot of vegetable soup, one dish of pickled vegetables. Cheng Banshan's wine gourd sat at his elbow. He poured only half a bowl, drank it, then picked up his chopsticks. Xu Yan asked about the furnace batch on the eighteenth. Cheng Banshan said, "Fire's burning well." The two said no more.

Xiao Ling folded the wind hood on her knees once, then again, pressing it flat before she picked up her chopsticks.

A Sui ate half a bowl, then tilted her head and asked, "Xiao Ling, that clump by the southeast wall foundation — why did Grandpa Cheng stick it back in?"

She thought about it. "It's the only clump like it on the mountain. Dig it up and come spring it's gone."

"So what's it called?"

She paused. "Elder Cheng said don't remember the name yet. Remember where it grows."

Cheng Banshan grunted from his end of the table and set down his wine bowl. "She remembers well."

A He shoved his bowl forward and said he remembered too. A Sui said last time he'd left a root strand behind and she was the one who'd picked it up. The two children started bickering. Qian Duoduo added half a ladle to each of their bowls, and only then did they quiet down.

Shi Po's bowl was already empty. He sat waiting while the others finished. Shao Ming told him to take more; he shook his head.

Jiang Wan moved the last piece of pickled vegetable from the dish to the edge of Xiao Ling's bowl. "Get up a bit earlier tomorrow. Those few steps under the walkway get slippery once the frost thaws."

Xiao Ling answered, steadied her bowl, lowered her head, and ate the pickled vegetable. When she finished, she rose to clear the bowls. Qian Duoduo tried to stop her but couldn't. She carried a stack of bowls to the kitchen, stood at the big water vat and scrubbed them one by one, set them upside down on the stove platform, and stacked them into a neat pile — perfectly neat.

After everyone dispersed, in the East Courtyard, she hung her wind hood on the nail in the wall and placed her shoes at the foot of the bed. Jiang Wan sat on her own bed undoing her sword tassel. When Xiao Ling lay down she pulled the blanket up a little higher.

At the Dog Hour a lamp burned in the Accounts Room. Xu Yan spread open the Eleventh Month page and went over it line by line from the fifth to today: the market income, the pills, the leases, the alchemy materials and charcoal, the rice topped up at the grain shop. Checked one against another; everything reconciled. He dragged out the cash box, untied the hemp cord, and counted the spirit stones stack by stack. The number matched. Only then did he set down the final line: balance on hand — 12,046 spirit stones.

Ten taels of silver lay wrapped in a piece of cloth, pressed into the bottom corner of the cash box. He didn't touch it.

The market ledgers and market box went into the cabinet and were locked. The furnace log lay on top of the ledger, its last line reading: "Fifteenth of the Eleventh Month, Qi-Gathering Powder, ten vials, one sample packet retained." He carried a lamp to the Medicine Hall and counted the packets on the shelf, one date per packet, corners all folded outward, each line matching the ledger. When he came back he trimmed the lamp down, stepped outside, and looked north: the Sliver of Sky at the top of the back mountain cliff was black. No red.

The lamps along the walkway went out one by one. On the window paper of the low hut by the Mountain Gate, a small patch of light still glowed. By the end of the Dog Hour, the mountain was still.

The ledger lay against his chest. All night, it made no sound.