My Sect Is Down to Seven People

Chapter 53: The Waist Tablet

Qi Qi pushed the door open and crouched on the threshold, scraping mud from his shoes. The ridge soil was damp—two strips came off.

"Dog hour," he said. "Back."

Xu Yan rested his brush on the ink box. Qi Qi had learned to call out the time on the ridge—his own doing. The Accounts Room liked to keep track of such things.

"Something's going around the outer court," Qi Qi said, one hand braced on his knee. "Du Xiaochuan was made to kneel all night."

"Who punished him?"

"Steward Ge."

"Why?"

"Whoever told me didn't know. Said something went missing, they asked him, he wouldn't say." Qi Qi paused. "Cao Hu beat him too. Carrying pole, across the back. He knelt the whole night. They only let him up at dawn, and the beating came right after."

Xu Yan glanced toward the window. Darkness had long settled; the shadow of the Back Mountain pressed down on the roof ridge.

"The water carriers and wood splitters all saw it?"

"All of them. A man kneeling in the middle of the courtyard—you can't walk around him. The water carrier said when the sun came up, people carried their bowls right past him, and he didn't even raise his eyes."

On the veranda, Huo Qing was practicing with his left hand—one thrust, one withdrawal. The wooden target thumped once, silence, then thumped again. Hearing this, he sheathed his sword: "Kneeling all night—your knees go first."

"He was still standing after the kneeling ended," Qi Qi said.

Huo Qing didn't answer. He stood by the pillar, unwound the cloth at his wrist, and wrapped it again.

Xu Yan took down the running ledger and opened to the roster page. Nine names. Below the ninth was an empty space. Beneath that space were two small lines, recorded on the night of August 15: Ge Song, roster; Du Xiaochuan.

He looked at this page twice a day. Four of the nine names had been added in the past ten days.

Qi Qi leaned over to look. "I don't know this one. Heard his name through the back window of the wine shop last time. Never seen his face."

"Neither have I," Xu Yan said.

"We going to bring him in?"

"No." Xu Yan closed the ledger. "Someone who's brought back isn't someone who came of his own will. If he wants to leave, he should turn in his waist tablet first and walk out on his own—the Sect Alliance's rules are clear. Return the tablet, and leaving the sect is settled. The original sect cannot detain him."

"What if he doesn't know the rule?"

"The Outer Court of Chixiao has a bookkeeper who drills it into them daily," Xu Yan said. "He knows."

Qi Qi muttered the words to himself, didn't press, and said only: "Then I'll go up and keep watch on the ridge."

"Watch. Don't cross it."

* * *

August 25, market day. The cauldron was set under the third pillar against the wall. Second batch: forty bowls, ten bottles of Qi-Gathering Powder. It sold out by the time the sun drifted west. A He clutched the tally bucket and refused to sit down, saying the moment he set it down someone would reach inside. That night, recorded into the ledger: Income, 110 spirit stones. Expenditure, two cauldrons of spirit rice, 8. Balance on hand: 2,018. Xu Yan finished writing the figures and looked up at Qi Qi: "Going again tonight?"

"Yes."

"Back before dog hour."

* * *

August 26, dog hour. A single lamp burned in the steward's office of the Outer Court of Chixiao. No one was there.

An account book lay open on the desk, a paperweight pressing down. The teacup had gone cold, a film floating on its surface. A half-burned incense stick sat at the table corner, long extinguished.

Du Xiaochuan stood at the doorway for a while. Outside the courtyard wall, someone was chopping wood. The axe landed, the sound passing through the wall. He waited for that sound to fade before stepping inside.

The two hard patches where he'd knelt were still there—every step tugged at them. Where the carrying pole had landed on his back, every movement burned.

Two years in the outer court, and he'd run more errands and delivered more messages than anyone. He remembered which section of wall you could stand against, which rafter creaked, who kept a stick in hand.

He untied the cord at his waist and took off the waist tablet. A piece of dark wood, edges worn smooth, the characters on its face long unreadable. He set it beside the account book, nudging it with a finger until it lined up with the desk edge.

He'd thought about leaving a note. In the end, he left nothing.

Last month, he'd gone down the mountain to deliver a letter and taken a detour past the entrance to Luoxia Town. At the base of a collapsed wall by the road, a cauldron simmered, steam rising in rolling clouds. Someone crouched under a tree counting bowls, muttering numbers to himself. Du Xiaochuan had stood and watched for a moment, then walked on. That trip, he'd returned two quarter-hours late. Punishment: half a bowl of rice docked.

Today there'd be no rice. And he didn't care to wait for that half-bowl anymore.

The window opened onto the back wall. He pushed it open, set his hand on the sill, and flipped himself out. His knees buckled on landing; he caught himself, palm flat on the ground, a layer of grit sticking to his skin.

Behind the outer court lay a small path—follow it up and it led to the ridge between the two sects. He didn't look back at the mountain gate. He walked upward, grabbing a tree whenever his legs gave out.

Halfway up the ridge, lights flared below.

Three of them. Moving up the mountain path, not slow. Someone was calling his name, over and over, scattered beneath the trees.

* * *

Qi Qi crouched behind a boulder on the ridge. He counted the torches first: three. Then he looked up. Someone was running along the path—stumbling every other step, red robes.

Everyone from Chixiao wore red. This one ran west, toward Qingya's side.

Qi Qi stepped out from behind the rock and planted himself in the middle of the path. The man nearly collided with him, veered to the side, and slipped.

"Head west," Qi Qi said. "Stay off the ravine—it's nothing but rocks down there."

The man pushed himself up, gasping, too winded to speak, eyes searching the darkness for his face.

"Qingya?" he finally forced out.

"Qingya."

"Does your mountain take people in?"

"That depends on whether you can make it up yourself." Qi Qi said. "Follow me. Give me your hand."

The man reached out. Qi Qi gripped it and hauled him up the slope. Where the grade was too steep to climb, Qi Qi dragged him. Where dragging wasn't enough, he shouldered the man up outright—up and over the last rise, until the man's grip went slack and he sank to the ground.

"Head west. The mountain gate is down the slope. The lamp under the eaves stays lit all night." Qi Qi released him and ran.

He didn't have a single spare step. Wind rushed past his ears. Not one loose stone crunched underfoot.

The lamp under the eaves was still burning. Qi Qi burst through, one hand braced on the doorframe: "Someone's come down from the ridge. Chixiao's chasing behind—three torches."

Xu Yan came out of the Accounts Room, brush still in hand. "How close?"

"Past the rise. He couldn't run anymore—I carried him over the last ridge and set him down."

Shi Po came out of the West Wing, barefoot at the top of the steps. From the East Courtyard, Jiang Wan was already descending, sword in hand, still sheathed. Cheng Banshan stood at the Medicine Hall door with a lamp raised. Heads poked out from behind the West Wing and the Kitchen—A He and A Sui pressed to the front.

Voices rose from below the steps, then the sound of a body hitting the stone: palms first, knees after, a breath that wouldn't catch.

"Du Xiaochuan?" Xu Yan asked.

The man looked up. Dirt on his face. A split at the corner of his mouth. A great dark stain across the back of his robes.

The torches reached the foot of the gate. Cao Hu, with two men—pine torches held before them, flames torn sideways by the mountain wind.

"Chixiao's man. Hand him over," Cao Hu said.

Jiang Wan stood on the lowest step, sword pommel-down against the stone: "He's inside the Qingya gate. Ask him yourself."

"Accountant Xu." Cao Hu turned his face. "On the ninth, who this gate belonged to—you can do that math better than I can. Hand him over tonight, and the books stay clean."

Xu Yan didn't answer the question of ownership. He only looked at the one on the steps: "Say it yourself."

Du Xiaochuan braced against the steps and stood. Halfway up he bent again, hand on his knee, and forced the words out clearly: "I'm not going back. My tablet is on Steward Ge's desk."

"Putting it on a desk, that makes you not Chixiao anymore?" Cao Hu stepped forward. "The robes are still on your body."

"I can take them off too."

Cao Hu reached to seize him. Xu Yan spoke from behind: "He's turned in his tablet. Sect Alliance rules: return the tablet, leave of your own will, and leaving the sect is settled—the original sect cannot detain him. Your outer-court bookkeeper drills it daily. You can't claim you haven't memorized it."

Cao Hu angled past Jiang Wan, one hand going straight for Du Xiaochuan's collar.

The hand never got there.

Huo Qing came out from the gate arch, drew with his left hand, and thrust.

The sword point tapped the blade once—touched nothing else. Cao Hu's saber flew from his grip, spinning end over end down the steps, clattering against the stone, bouncing twice before settling crosswise on the ground.

Cao Hu retreated two steps. He drew his hand back and looked down: the web between thumb and forefinger split open, blood tracking to his sleeve. The two men behind him each stepped back half a pace, torchlight wavering.

Huo Qing sheathed his sword, slowly. He looked down at his left hand, still gripping the hilt, a dull ache running from the back of the hand into the elbow. For a month he'd practiced one thrust and one withdrawal every day—worn white pocks into the wooden target—never once striking a living person. He stood there, a moment's blankness on his face.

Jiang Wan's gaze paused at that left hand, then returned to the steps below.

"Fine," Cao Hu said, pressing the wound against his robe. "Qingya has drawn steel."

"Deep in the night," Cheng Banshan said from the Medicine Hall door, raising his lamp. "What's all the shouting?"

He made out the saber below the steps, and the state of Cao Hu's hand. He drew the lamp back to his chest and turned back into the Medicine Hall, leaving the door ajar.

Cao Hu took back his torch and started down the slope. Seven or eight steps down, he glanced back at the saber by the steps but did not bend to retrieve it.

The firelight descended step by step, until it melted into the darkness below.

* * *

Inside the gate, Du Xiaochuan knelt. He knelt of his own accord. No one told him to.

Xu Yan walked down, crouched before him, and took his arm to lift him: "Get up first."

"I left my tablet—"

"I know. Get up first." Xu Yan drew him inside. "Eat first. We'll talk tomorrow."

Qian Duoduo came running from the Kitchen, apron still on, a coarse bowl in his hands with a clean cloth draped over it. He pressed the bowl into Du Xiaochuan's hands. The cloth came off, and steam rose into both their faces.

"Still hot," Qian Duoduo said. He glanced at the trembling hand. "If the bowl's too heavy, set it on the steps and eat."

A Sui brought a low stool from the Kitchen. A He offered his own chopsticks, then went back to fetch another pair.

Du Xiaochuan squatted on the threshold. The first mouthful was scalding—he didn't spit it out, swallowed it down. His throat worked once, and only then did the wetness in his eyes fall onto the rim of the bowl.

Shi Po walked to the base of the steps and bent down.

"Don't touch it," Xu Yan said. "Tomorrow."

Shi Po straightened, hand resting on his knee, and stepped back half a pace.

Jiang Wan was the last to turn away, sword hanging from her hand, heading toward the East Courtyard. Two steps up she paused, without looking back, and said only: "If he can stand tomorrow, let him eat standing. Don't sit on the threshold."

Xu Yan acknowledged.

Back in the Accounts Room, he lifted off the lamp shade. The running ledger still lay open to the roster page. Beside that empty space beneath the nine names, he added a line:

August 26. Du Xiaochuan. Came. Tablet left at Chixiao.

He set the brush back on the rest and glanced out the window.

The last fire on the ridge had gone out. Below the steps, Cao Hu's saber still lay crosswise on the stone.