My Sect Is Down to Seven People

Chapter 37: Two Incense Sticks

The fog hadn't fully lifted, but someone was already standing on the Luoxia Riverbank.

Jiang Wan stood seven or eight paces back from the waterline, her feet on a patch of fist-sized stones, her sheathed sword held in her left hand. The white mist over the river rose layer by layer; the row of willows on the far bank was nothing but a gray shadow. She hadn't moved. The stones in front of her toes were soaked dark from the moisture.

Xu Yan and Shi Po stood on the river embankment. The grass on the earthen bank was wet through. Shi Po had rolled his pant legs up to his knees, one side higher than the other. He pulled a flatbread from his chest, broke off half, and held it out. Xu Yan shook his head, and Shi Po chewed on it himself.

"Where is he," Shi Po asked around a mouthful of bread.

"The Earth God Shrine outside town," Xu Yan said. "Past the three willows, down the dirt road, a li and a half."

"And after Dragon hour?"

"He goes back. There's still a pot on the stove."

Shi Po rolled the other pant leg up another inch and asked nothing more. On the embankment, Xu Yan ran the morning through in his mind: from the Mountain Gate to the riverbank was ten li, two hours round trip, all Shi Po's strength, all his own morning. If the man didn't come, all of it would be wasted here on the riverbank. He didn't bother with the finer math; working it out wouldn't give him a different number.

"When did Senior Sister come down?"

"Before dawn," Xu Yan said. "When I left the Mountain Gate, the East Courtyard door was already open."

Far off at the wharf, men were unloading cargo. The thud of wooden poles against the boat hull carried across the water in steady beats. Two porters came along the embankment, their loads heavy at both ends of the poles. As they passed, one glanced down at the riverbank and slowed; the other slowed with him. The two of them set their loads down at the bank's edge and crouched.

"She's got a sword," one said.

"Qingya's," the other said.

"I heard that sect's about to scatter."

"If it's scattering, why come down here to test swords?"

"Scattering or not, a sword is a sword."

The fog thinned another layer. A boy of ten or so came along the bank leading an ox. When he saw the sword down on the riverbank, his feet stopped. The ox rope looped around his hand; the ox lowered its head to graze at the bank's edge, chewing with a soft rustle.

Xu Yan counted the ripples drifting down the river. On the third ripple, the grass at the western dirt road shifted.

Huo Qing came down the slope.

His sword was slung across his back, same as at the wharf that day. He didn't take the level ground on the slope; he stepped straight onto the loose stones, crunching all the way down. His cloth shoes were soaked through by the time he reached the riverbank. He stopped, looked first at the sword in Jiang Wan's hand, then at her feet. He pressed his right hand against his tunic to dry the palm, then planted his feet a little wider, like a man testing the weight of a load before hoisting it at the docks.

"I'm here," he said.

"Then draw."

She set her right hand on the hilt and pulled the sword free, keeping the sheath in her left hand, its mouth pointing down. Her sword was thinner than his; it came out soundlessly.

He drew his sword with a reverse grip. The blade came free, tip drooping, trembling in his hand.

Not a small tremble. The blade was thin, and every bit of the shaking settled at the tip—a span of two inches, impossible to still. He raised the sword; the tip came up, and the tremble climbed with it, spreading wider. He shoved the empty sheath into his belt, shifted his grip on the hilt once, then squeezed again, his knuckles going white.

Jiang Wan looked at his hand. She didn't smile.

"Two incense sticks," she said. "Last until they burn out, and I leave."

"I can't hold it in my right hand," he said.

"I know."

"Then what's the point of this?"

"To test your sword."

She raised her sword to chest height, tip not high—level with his knee.

"You first."

Huo Qing stepped in twice and brought his sword through half an arc, chopping down from right to left. The opening was quick enough, but at the bottom it suddenly went soft. The blade veered outward, passed through empty air three feet past her shoulder, and stirred a gust of wind.

Her sword tilted an inch and deflected it. She didn't retreat.

"Again."

On the second exchange he lunged half a step, trying to thrust in before her sword came up. Her blade turned, his was guided wide, and his body spun halfway around.

He tried to chase a third strike, but his right wrist buckled mid-turn. The sword tip stabbed into the loose stones and scraped up a spray of rock chips. His right shoulder dropped half an inch; the old injury pulled, and the tendons down half his back twanged one by one.

Her sword came down after his—not fast—and pressed against the flat of his blade.

Pinned. His whole right hand was straining.

"Don't retreat with your feet," she said.

He drove his rear foot down; the stones shifted under it. Up on the embankment, Xu Yan counted his retreating steps. By the ninth step he understood: Jiang Wan had never aimed a single stroke at the man's body. Every cut landed on his sword.

He dragged his blade free, got half a foot back, and turned it into an upward slash. It moved faster than before, but halfway through, his right hand gave out. The tip dragged through the stones and carved a foot-long groove; pebbles jumped from its edges.

His foot slipped, and his body tilted sideways. Jiang Wan's sword stopped in midair—waited while he pulled his foot from the sand hollow and steadied himself—then pressed down again. He swallowed hard, his throat making a sound.

One of the porters on the bank spoke: "That man's swordwork is good."

"Not the hand," said the other.

"It's not that the hand is bad." The first one tapped out his pipe. "Looks broken, if you ask me."

The boy with the ox wound the rope around his hand one more loop and shuffled two steps toward the bank's edge.

From above, Xu Yan watched the rhythm between their exchanges. Her sword rose at exactly measured intervals—not fast, not slow, as if counted. His sword alternated between desperate rushes and dragging lags. The rushed strikes had form; the dragging ones could carve stone. The two blades crossed on the riverbank with different sounds: hers rang clean, his carried a scrape.

Jiang Wan drew her right hand back half a foot, leaving a gap in front of her chest.

"It's open," she said.

"I can't get in," he said.

She didn't press, didn't wait. Her sword fell from above onto the spine of his blade and walked down inch by inch. He pushed up with his right arm until it went numb. His palm sweated; the hilt slipped in his grip. He wiped his hand on his tunic, squeezed again, jaw clenched. The thick callus at the base of his right thumb split open, and two drops of red landed on the stones.

"Don't grip so hard," she said.

He loosened half a fraction. The blade steadied a line—just a line. The trembling in his right hand climbed from the wrist up to the elbow. He retreated toward the waterline; his cloth shoes sank into the wet sand. Each time he lifted a foot, water seeped into the hollow.

The river lapped at the stones by his feet. One wave, then another.

The first incense stick's time had passed. The two porters were still crouched on the bank. One knocked his pipe against his shoe sole, then packed it again. Shi Po had finished his flatbread. He wiped his fingers on his pants and sat down on the bank's edge, legs dangling over the slope.

The sun broke over the rooflines at the east end of town, touched the embankment first, then fell onto the riverbank. The fog was gone. The stones showed their colors one by one, and the groove Huo Qing's sword tip had carved was now clearly visible, water seeping along its bottom.

The second incense stick's time began. The porters on the bank had stopped knocking their pipes; one held his pipe in his hand, forgotten halfway to his lips.

Huo Qing's right hand shook beyond control. His blade jumped under hers, clinking faintly. He gritted his teeth and pushed up, but couldn't hold it. His wrist sank little by little, the sword tip drooping with it, down to the level of her knees. His left hand was a fist at his side, knuckles white, and it had never reached over.

From the embankment, Xu Yan watched that left hand. It twitched once, then dropped back to the edge of his tunic.

Jiang Wan's sword snapped upward—right onto the flat of his blade, an inch from his hand. The force traveled through the hilt into his wrist. His right fingers went loose; the sword slipped from his hand and fell onto the stones with a small bounce.

His right hand stayed in midair, five fingers spread, unable to close—the same as that hand in the Earth God Shrine that couldn't reach the flatbread.

"Half a stick left," she said.

She didn't stop. Her sword followed, pressing toward the outside of his right shoulder—not at any vital point—as she crowded forward half a step.

Huo Qing leaned sideways, already bent double. His left hand fumbled in the stones, found the hilt, snatched it up, and swung it up horizontally to block.

It rang.

The crouching porter on the bank stood up. The other grabbed his load to steady it. The boy with the ox stepped back half a pace; the rope went taut, and the ox raised its head.

The block landed true. Huo Qing's rear foot punched a hole in the loose stones as he gave half a step—and stood. A line of red ran from the base of his left thumb; the wrist was numb from the shock, but five fingers clamped the hilt tight.

Jiang Wan's sword stopped on top of his, pressed down half a fraction; he held up half a fraction. The two blades braced between them, and neither moved. Her shoulders hadn't dropped; her chest barely rose. His chest heaved with every breath. Sweat ran from his forehead across his brow and dripped onto the stones.

Her eyes moved down—landed on his left hand—and lingered.

Then she withdrew. Her sword tip slid off his blade, dropped to the stones, lifted, and returned to the sheath in her left hand. It went in on the first try.

"The Heavenly Sword Sect's sword—the left hand is also a sword."

She left as soon as the words were out, climbing the embankment past Xu Yan and Shi Po without looking at them or turning back. The wind pressed the grass on the bank flat and carried it all the way up to the top of the slope.

Huo Qing still stood on the riverbank, sword in his left hand.

He didn't move, and the sword didn't come up. The tip pointed down, nearly touching the stones. The red line at the base of his thumb spread slowly to the edge of his palm. His right hand hung at his side, fingers curled; the split callus still welled droplets of blood.

Shi Po came down half a step from the embankment. The flatbread was long gone. "Left hand," he said, empty-mouthed.

Huo Qing didn't answer. He straightened the empty sheath at his belt, then fed the sword in with his left hand—paused halfway—then pushed it home. Afterward, he raised his left hand, fingers spread, closed them, spread them again. The wrist still shook, in a different way than the right one had.

The two porters hoisted their loads and headed into town. After a stretch, one looked back. "Caught it with the left hand."

"Mm. Left hand," the other said.

"That stroke, if it had been aimed at his body—he couldn't have taken it," the first said.

"She didn't aim at his body," the other said. "Didn't aim at it all morning."

The boy with the ox waited until they were well gone before unwinding the rope and leading the ox down the bank, glancing back every couple of steps.

"We going or not?" Shi Po asked.

Xu Yan took the account book from his chest, flipped to the page with the scrap of old paper, and pulled out the half-stick of charcoal tucked inside. He wrote a line: Seventh month, twenty-second. Riverbank. Two incense sticks. No figure followed. He slid the charcoal back in and closed the book. Tomorrow he'd need to bring two bowls down.

"Coming back tomorrow?" Shi Po asked.

"Tomorrow we go to the shrine," Xu Yan said.

He walked two steps down, then turned back.

Huo Qing was still on the riverbank. He'd raised his left hand to eye level, turning it over and back again. His right hand hung at his side. The stones on the bank gleamed in the sun, and the water beat against the shore, one stroke after another.