My Sect Is Down to Seven People

Chapter 56: Torn Into Four

The market day on August 30.

The sky was still dark when the fire in the kitchen flared to life. Qian Duoduo put two pots of spirit rice on the stove, ladle in one hand, the other counting across the stovetop: two pots, forty bowls; ten bottles of Qi-Gathering Powder, same as the last market day. The rice was from the newly bought sack, moisture well dried, sinking straight to the bottom the moment it hit water. He was on his third count when A Sui came running out from behind the kitchen, hair half down, saying she was going down the mountain too.

"What for?" A He followed behind her, shoes not even pulled on.

"Counting tallies."

"Qi Qi counts the tallies."

"I count faster."

Xu Yan wrote a line in the Accounts Room: August 30, one market day down the mountain. The lamp wick had burned short; he didn't trim it. He set the brush back on the rest and walked out. Someone already stood on the blue stone by the Mountain Gate—Shi Po, trouser legs soaked to the knees, two shallow pits pressed into the ground beneath his feet.

"Not going?" Xu Yan asked.

"Standing pillar."

"Until when?"

Shi Po thought for a moment. "Until it's needed."

Nie Bo's broom came scraping from the far side of the Mountain Gate, scratching its way to Shi Po's feet, swept a half-circle around the two pits, leveled them flat, and carried on forward.

The fog hadn't lifted. The mountain road took most of a shichen, and by the time they reached town the market was already set up. Cloth sellers, pottery sellers, dried goods sellers—stalls stretched all the way to the old pagoda tree, fried rice drifting on the wind. Under the third pillar by the wall, A He set up the pot. Qi Qi wedged two sticks of firewood under the stove legs to steady them. Qian Duoduo crouched to check the fire, first glancing at the pot rim, then pressing his palm against the base to test the heat.

Lu Shoutian came over with his hands behind his back. "Don't edge that pot toward the road." He said it and then didn't leave, just stood watching the steam rise off the pot of spirit meal.

"After this market day, there's still the one on the 5th," he said. "After the 5th, the town has no more markets."

"What about the 9th?" Qian Duoduo asked.

"On the 9th, some people from town are going up the mountain to have a look." Lu Shoutian glanced at him. "I'll be going too."

"Going up for what?" A He asked.

"To see whether you pass or not." Lu Shoutian walked two steps toward the far end of the market, then turned back and added, "Watching is watching. I won't say a word on your behalf."

A rogue cultivator with a sash bag came over, squatted under the pillar, and ate from a bowl. When he finished, he handed the bowl back and asked Qian Duoduo, "Coming again next time?"

"We'll be here on the 5th," Qian Duoduo said. "After that, don't know."

"Don't know?"

"We'll see."

The rogue cultivator grunted "oh" and cast one more look at the pot as he left.

The old flatbread seller came by too, bowl in hand, squatting against the wall. He ate bite by bite, wiped his mouth, and said, "Last time I said I'd come take a look after autumn. Autumn's here." He braced his hands on his knees and stood. "On the 9th I can't manage that ten-li mountain road. I'll take a look from below the Mountain Gate and head back."

"Come up and sit," Qian Duoduo said.

"Below the Mountain Gate is looking too." The old man shouldered his carrying pole and went.

By the end of the Snake hour, both pots had sold out, and all ten bottles of Qi-Gathering Powder were gone. A Sui dumped the tallies onto a door panel and laid them out one by one, arranging them into four rows. She counted, looked up. "Forty." Qi Qi counted out the shattered spirit stones: eighty, plus thirty—one hundred ten, not one short. Xu Yan crouched by the two empty pots, scraped the last ladle from the bottom, and tipped it into A He's bowl.

"I'm not hungry," A He said.

"You counted the tallies."

They packed up and went to the grain shop. Qian Duoduo weighed out two pots' worth of spirit rice—eight stones—and hoisted it onto his shoulder himself. On the way out of the town gate, they passed the stone workshop. The proprietor was mid-swing with his hammer, striking a slab of blue stone. The hammer paused a beat. He looked up, didn't call out. Xu Yan nodded at him; he nodded back.

Back on the mountain by the Monkey hour. Shi Po was still at the Mountain Gate, the pits under his feet worn in again. Qian Duoduo brought the food out from the steamer tray; it was still warm under the clean cloth. Shi Po ate standing with the bowl in his hands, then carried the bowl back to the kitchen when he'd finished.

Dog hour, Main Hall. Two square tables pushed together, thirteen bowls. It was the last market day of this ten-day cycle, and Qian Duoduo had cut in half a slab of cured pork, oil bloom floating across the surface of the pot. Cheng Banshan sat by the door, untied the wine gourd from his belt and set it at the corner of the table, loosening the cord with one hand—took him two tries. Shao Ming's medicine bowl came out too, bitterness filling the room.

"Finish the medicine before you eat," Cheng Banshan said.

Shao Ming drank it down. A bit of dregs remained at the bottom of the bowl; he didn't pour it out, just set the bowl at the table's edge.

Bai Xiaoman talked while she ate. "The formation stones are all ready. I've looked through half of what it takes to activate it."

"Finish looking before you talk," Xu Yan said.

"I'll need two more days." She swallowed her mouthful. "Sect Master, this bowl's saltier than last time."

"Then eat an extra half-bowl of rice."

Jiang Wan arrived last, carrying her own bowl, sitting down on the east side. Her sword leaned against the outside of the table leg, sheath touching the ground. She said nothing.

"Don't scatter after eating," Xu Yan said. "I have something to say."

The bowls stopped halfway through clearing. Xu Yan went to the Ancestral Hall and fetched the roster, spread it across the table, and nudged the lamp wick up a notch.

"On the 9th, the Rank Evaluator will call names from the roster one by one," he said. "When she calls you, you step forward, say your name, say you came of your own will. She'll also have you write your name again on a paper she brings."

"What do you mean, one by one?" A He asked.

"There are ten names on the roster. She reads one, you stand."

"Do I have to talk while I stand?"

"Say your name. Say you came of your own free will."

Someone in the room said "oh." Qian Duoduo's hands were already wiping themselves on his apron.

"We'll run through it now." Xu Yan pressed his finger to the paper. "From the back, going forward. The last names were written most recently—they're also the least familiar."

"Du Xiaochuan."

Du Xiaochuan stood, a little too quickly, the bench leg scraping against the floor. "Du Xiaochuan." His voice was tight.

"Of your own will?"

"Yes."

"She may ask about your waist tablet."

"Turned it in. It's on Steward Ge's desk."

Xu Yan nodded once, and only then did Du Xiaochuan sit back down.

"Qian Duoduo."

Qian Duoduo was up faster than anyone, but took longer than anyone to stand straight. He wiped his hands twice on his apron and still didn't get them clean. "Qian Duoduo. Of my own will." A pause, then: "I'm the cook."

"The cook is also a disciple," Cheng Banshan said from over by the door. "Keep cooking."

Qian Duoduo sat down, still wiping his hands as he sat.

"A Sui."

A Sui stood, the bench knocking softly, back perfectly straight. "A Sui. Of my own will."

"Just stand straight and steady," Xu Yan said. A Sui raised her chin another half-inch.

"A He."

A He shot up before the name had even finished sounding, nearly toppling the bench—caught it just in time. "A He!"

"Slower," Xu Yan said. "Let them hear you clearly."

A He pressed both hands to his trouser seams and said it again, one word at a time. A Sui laughed beside him and got glared at.

"Shao Ming."

When Shao Ming rose, the table edge didn't so much as whisper. His back was straight. "Shao Ming. Of my own will."

"She'll ask what you do on the mountain."

Shao Ming thought for a moment. "Training. Suppressing the poison."

"Say exactly that."

"Qi Qi."

Qi Qi smiled first, then stood. "Qi Qi." He didn't sit down. "Will the Rank Evaluator ask about the past?"

The room went quiet for a beat.

"The roster only asks two things," Xu Yan said. "Whether you're willing, and whether you're cultivating."

"Then I'm not afraid." Qi Qi sat back on his bench and spread both hands on his knees, studied them.

"Huo Qing."

"Huo Qing." He stood, and that was all. Xu Yan waited, and only then did Huo Qing add: "Of my own will."

Someone laughed, then choked it back halfway.

"Bai Xiaoman."

"Bai Xiaoman. Of my own will." She stood and said it, then asked, "I still have to write it again on her paper?"

"You write. Your own name."

"Then I'll write slowly." She sat down and traced two strokes in the air above the table with her finger.

"Shi Po."

Shi Po's rising shoved the bench half a chi back. "Shi Po. Of my own will."

"She'll ask if you've been spirit-tested."

"I have. No spirit root."

"Say exactly that."

"Mm."

Xu Yan moved his finger down a line.

"Jiang Wan."

Jiang Wan set her bowl down. There was still half a bowl left, the meal long cold, a thin skin formed over the broth. She stood, reached into her robe, and pulled out the letter.

The paper had gone soft with folding, the edges worn and fuzzy. On the cover, the horizontal strokes of the writing started heavy and finished light. She pinched both edges, pulled—torn in two. The halves folded together, pulled again—four pieces.

"Master wrote it." She laid the four scraps on the table, and the paper made a small, soft sound as it landed. "Addressed to the Heavenly Sword Sect."

She pressed her hand against the front of her robe.

"Master is gone. This letter does not need delivering."

No one in the room made a sound. Qian Duoduo was still gripping an empty bowl, his fingers gone white. A Sui opened her mouth, and A He held her hand down. Cheng Banshan lifted the gourd and drank, frowned and said "gone sour," then pressed the cap back on.

Jiang Wan sat, pulled her bowl back, and kept eating. She nudged the spirit mushroom floating at the bowl's rim aside and finished what remained, bite by bite. Only then did she speak: "What happens after the ninth day of the ninth month—we'll talk about it after the ninth day of the ninth month."

A Sui asked in a small voice, "Senior Sister, is the Heavenly Sword Sect far?"

"Far," Jiang Wan said, lifting the mushroom from the bowl's edge into her mouth.

"How far?"

"Several days on foot."

A Sui said "oh," scraped up the rest of her meal, and asked no more. Qi Qi held it in for a long while, and in the end didn't hold it. "So... on the 9th, the first name on the roster is still you?"

Jiang Wan tapped her chopsticks once against the bowl's rim. "The roster says what it says."

Xu Yan closed the roster. "Everyone rest. Starting tomorrow, each of you trains on your own."

The bowls were cleared, the tables wiped. No one touched the four pieces of paper; they stayed where they were. Qian Duoduo circled the table corner with his rag, then looked back at Xu Yan.

"Leave them," Xu Yan said.

At the Hai hour, the lamp in the Accounts Room came on, and he pulled the door mostly shut. He flipped the daily ledger to today's page and wrote a line: August 30, income one hundred ten; expenditure, two pots of spirit rice, eight. Balance on hand: two thousand eighty-eight.

He drew out the wooden box and laid the mid-grade stones out one by one—fifteen, pressed one after another. Low-grade, five hundred eighty-eight, counted twice. The notice lay beside him: two thousand one hundred. Short by twelve.

The market on the 5th would bring in another one hundred ten. Enough.

Nine days until the ninth day of the ninth month. He wrote those words beneath the balance, the brush tip pressing into the paper.

A lamp still burned in the Main Hall. He went to take it, and carried the four pieces of paper back in his palm. Laid them out on the Accounts Room table—put back together, they made nothing but a ruined page, the writing on the cover cut off mid-stroke.

He pulled an old ledger from the shelf: Year 298 of the Zongmeng Calendar. A layer of dust on the cover; he blew at it, and the dust rose and settled again. The entries that year were sparse: three loads of firewood, two loads of charcoal, two medicine fees, two reams of paper.

He smoothed out the four pieces one by one, tucked them between those pages, closed the book, pressed down twice along the spine with his hand, and only then slid it back onto the shelf.

From the East Courtyard came the sound of swordwork—one strike, then another, slower than usual, no hurry to rise again after each fall.

Xu Yan blew out the lamp.

The sword kept sounding.