My Sect Is Down to Seven People

Chapter 85: Twenty-Seven Pieces of Charcoal

"Junior Brother Huo."

The voice wasn't loud. The last string of grain sacks on the wharf hadn't finished weighing yet. The scale weight clinked against the rim of the measure, the boatman kept his head down calling numbers to his ledger, but the men on the stone steps went still first. The porters stood with carrying poles across their shoulders, turning their heads one after another, straw sandals scraping faintly against the stone.

By the Monkey hour the sun had already dropped to the far side of the river, and the light slanted down between the two masts, falling on the stone steps and turning the charcoal dust white. Two loads of charcoal sat stacked at the top of the steps. Xu Yan had just pulled the reed mats off and folded them over his arm, leaving the charcoal exposed at the mouths of the baskets, each piece packed down flat and even. Huo Qing bent to pick through the front basket, his hand just reaching the basket handle.

A sword angled across from behind his left shoulder. The old cloth wrapped around its wooden scabbard had seen years of wear, the stitching loose at the edges, the small brass fitting at the sheath's mouth half-covered in charcoal dust. The hilt sat a little over a foot from his left hand.

Wei Changge stood in front of him, a basket of charcoal between them. He'd come off the boat without a speck of dust on him, but now the wind lifted the charcoal grit from the steps and scattered it onto his shoulders, and he didn't brush it away. His gaze settled on the wooden scabbard, lingered, then rose to the back of Huo Qing's neck.

"A sword from the sect," he said, "and here you are hauling charcoal."

No one on the wharf answered. He left the words lying on the stone steps, turned, and walked two paces toward the wharf entrance, stopping in front of the three low tables. "You know him?"

The tea stall was packed with porters waiting to unload. Three low tables pushed together, a ring of coarse porcelain bowls on top, one man with a length of wet mooring rope coiled beside him, another who'd taken off his straw sandals to dry them on the stone. The old woman tending the stall was refilling water from a coarse clay pot, the spout frozen in midair. A porter at the table set his bowl down and stood, glanced at Huo Qing first, then said, "We know him."

"What does he do?"

"Hauled salt here back in the seventh month." The porter said, "One left hand."

Someone on the wharf laughed under his breath.

Wei Changge laughed too. "Hauling salt." He looked back at Huo Qing's back, then turned around again. "How much for a load of charcoal?"

The porter opened his mouth and didn't answer. The man beside him nudged him with an elbow.

"The foreman pays by the load." The old woman righted her pot, deflecting for him. "If the gentleman wants to know, ask him."

"Pays by the load." Wei Changge repeated it, the smile still on his face. "Junior Brother Huo, that skill the sect taught you—does that also get paid by the load?"

The two disciples behind him laughed along. The porters who'd finished unloading shifted their poles to the other shoulder, not crowding closer, but not leaving either. The boatman crouched at the bow coiling rope, looked up once, then lowered his head again. The foreman, crouched on the bottom two steps, closed the iron box at his hand and laid both hands on his knees, unmoving.

Huo Qing didn't straighten.

"Turn around," Wei Changge said.

Huo Qing didn't turn.

Wei Changge didn't press. He stepped half a pace closer, studied that section of wooden scabbard across Huo Qing's back in the daylight. "Worn white."

He clasped his hands behind his back and stepped back to where he'd been. "Still carrying it. The sect never took it back—they pitied you."

He paused, then added the second half: "If the sect took this sword back, you wouldn't even have a sword."

Two men came down the stone steps, each with a grain sack weighing on his shoulder, stopped midway, looked over, and detoured to the wall side. Wei Changge didn't even lift his eyes. The grain sack passed between them, and the scale weight clinked again.

Xu Yan stood below, the reed mats draped over his arm. He checked the sun. The light had already dropped from the masthead to mid-mast. In another hour they needed to be out of town—ten li of mountain road, reaching the Mountain Gate at dusk. That was the calculation he'd made before the Monkey hour. The furnace in the Medicine Hall had to burn seven days and seven nights, and a load and a half of charcoal—if even one piece went missing from the baskets, there'd be no replacing it.

His eyes went back to those two baskets, and he mentally mapped where the scattered pieces would fall: down the stone steps one by one, and at the bottom two steps the foreman's iron box would stop them from rolling far.

Wei Changge's feet didn't move, his shoulders didn't move. He just turned his wrist, worked the scabbard tip under the basket handle, and flipped up.

The basket tipped. Charcoal poured from the mouth, tumbling down the stone steps, knocking against the stairs, against the iron box, clattering all the way to the bottom step. The grit hung in the air. The sun was sliding west, the light slanting off the mast, and that layer of dust hung suspended in the light for a while before it settled.

Xu Yan didn't move forward, didn't make a sound. He counted the pieces rolling down: one, two, three...

He counted to twenty-seven. The rest was grit, falling into the cracks between the stones, too fine to sweep up.

Huo Qing took the carrying pole off his shoulder and laid it across the stone steps. He crouched down.

The first piece was by his foot. He picked it up with his left hand and put it in the basket. The second had rolled down a step. He reached for it. The third was wedged in a crack between stones. He pried it out with his fingers, the pads of his fingers scraping a layer of dust off the stone. One piece had rolled under the carrying pole, so he moved the pole half a foot and crouched lower. Two pieces lay stacked together; he picked up the top one first, then the bottom one—not grabbing both in one handful.

One piece, one piece, one piece.

The charcoal he retrieved, he didn't toss into the basket. The big pieces went back into the gaps at the bottom, the long ones stood upright along the basket wall, the broken bits filled the cracks—the same way he'd packed it on the boat. One piece had a corner knocked off, and he picked up that little fragment too, tucking it into the gap beside the larger piece.

Xu Yan counted along from the steps. A moment ago he'd counted upward from one; now he counted back down: twenty-six, twenty-five, twenty-four. By the time the count reached the teens, Huo Qing had moved down three or four steps, his knee pressed against the stone, one pant leg smeared black. Wei Changge stood where he was, watching, scabbard tip hanging at his side, not a word.

The laughter was gone from the steps. The porters with poles still weighing on their shoulders stood in place, and none of them crowded closer. The porter who'd spoken earlier sat back down on his low stool, picked up his bowl, and didn't look up again. The old woman set the pot back on the stove. The tin lid made a sound, and she kept it light, as if afraid of startling someone.

The pieces that had rolled to the very bottom had stopped beside the iron box. The foreman moved his foot half a foot aside, clearing the way.

Huo Qing went down two steps and crouched. The last piece was barely a finger's width from the iron box. He reached in with his left hand and picked it out. His right arm hung by his knee, fingers curled, fingertips coated in dust, and he hadn't lifted it once. His brows were dusted with charcoal grit too—it had been there since he packed the charcoal on the boat, and now it was a little thicker, sweat running down from his temples and cutting a pale track through the black.

He placed the last piece in the basket and straightened.

"Draw," Wei Changge said. "You draw, and I won't fight back."

The wind came off the river and lifted a layer of dust from the steps. Huo Qing's left hand reached back over his shoulder, found the sword hilt, gripped it.

His hand was covered in dust, and when he gripped it, several black streaks appeared on the wooden hilt at once. His right hand twitched at his side, rose to his waist, then dropped back. The sword never left his shoulder.

From the tea stall, a porter said quietly: "Don't."

The voice was so small it sounded like he was afraid of being overheard.

Wei Changge tapped his scabbard tip once against the stone step, turned back, and lifted his chin toward the tea stall. "Everyone watch."

No one answered. He didn't seem to mind. He turned back to face Huo Qing and waited, patiently.

Qi Qi stood upslope from Xu Yan, still holding the old woman's bowl, the water in it long gone cold. He switched the bowl to his left hand, grabbed at his right sleeve with the other, and moved half a step forward, his straw sandal grinding a faint sound against the stone.

Xu Yan shook his head at him.

Qi Qi stopped, pulled the bowl back to his chest, but his eyes stayed nailed to Wei Changge's hand.

Xu Yan set down the reed mats and walked down the stone steps. The carrying pole lying across the path blocked the way; he circled around its far end, walked down to the bottom, and stood beside Huo Qing.

The two of them stood shoulder to shoulder. One had his hand on a sword hilt, the other had nothing in his hands. Huo Qing's shoulders rose a full head above his, taut as a carrying pole under a heavy load.

Huo Qing's eyes shifted toward him, then returned to where they'd been.

Xu Yan looked up at Wei Changge. "The third day of the third month."

Just that one line. He didn't say where it came from, didn't mention the two loads of charcoal, didn't look at Huo Qing.

The wharf went quiet for a while. The unloaders and loaders all stopped. A small boat rowed past on the river, and the sound of the oars was clear. Wei Changge's gaze moved from Huo Qing's face, settled on Xu Yan, studied him for a long moment, and didn't speak to him.

The disciple behind him leaned half a step forward and said in a lowered voice, "Senior Brother Wei, the Dongzhou Minor Sect Grand Contest—that's the third day of the third month."

Wei Changge grunted.

He looked at Huo Qing again, from head to foot, and finally back to the sword on his back.

"A minor sect stage."

He turned. The scabbard tip knocked against the stone step with a dull sound, picking up a smear of black. He didn't wipe it. The two disciples followed him down. The gangplank had been ready for a while.

The old woman added a piece of charcoal to the stove. "Sir, your tea's getting cold."

Wei Changge didn't look back. When he stepped onto the boat he put one hand on the crossbeam of the awning. The sword materials stacked under the oilcloth hadn't shifted in the slightest; stones pinned all four corners.

The disciple who'd called him "Senior Brother Wei" was the last aboard. He looked back at the wharf once, and was tugged along by the one in front.

The wind off the river flipped the flag at the bow to its other side. The boat pulled away from shore, backed out into the channel, dropped anchor, and the sound of the oars stopped.

Huo Qing's left hand still gripped the sword hilt. His shoulders and back were tensed; seen from behind, he stood taller than before.

Xu Yan stayed beside him, not rushing him. He could see the hand gripping the sword—the knuckles white, one by one, charcoal dust packed into the cracks of his fingernails.

When the boat came to rest in the channel, the hand loosened, fell from the hilt, and dropped back to his side.

The boat didn't leave. The water was deep there in the channel. The anchored boat swung straight with the current, bow pointing upstream, the flag still visible. The anchor rope slanted into the water from the bow, drawn taut, the hull rising and falling with the waves. The people on the wharf watched the boat across the stretch of water for a while, then turned their heads back one by one.

Xu Yan bent down, picked up the reed mats, shook them twice to knock off the layer of dust. He lowered his head and counted the charcoal in the basket again: twenty-seven pieces, the grit packed into the cracks, the mouth of the basket flat and even.

Qi Qi came over. His mouth opened, saw that Huo Qing's hand was already off the sword hilt, and swallowed his words. He said quietly, "The basket's crooked."

Xu Yan straightened the basket and folded the reed mats back over his arm.

The boatman of the charcoal boat leaned halfway out of the cabin. "Sir, you leaving before dark or not?"

"Leaving," Xu Yan said.

The scale weight clinked again. The porters hoisted their poles, grain sacks stacking into the warehouse one by one. By the riverbank, a man drove a donkey across the flagstone road, and the donkey's hooves beat louder than all the words spoken just now.

Huo Qing bent, worked his left shoulder under the pole, and with one hard push, lifted it. The rear basket hadn't moved at all. The front one swayed once, then steadied.

In that front basket, not a single piece of charcoal was missing.