Chapter 114: Three Zhang Drawn on Paper

On the twenty-fifth day of the Second Month, the sky was still dark when smoke rose from the kitchen, curling beneath the tile eaves.

Qian Duoduo had one hand on the rim of the pot, the other scraping the bottom with the back of a ladle. He looked up. "A Sui, pull one stick of wood out. Fire's too hot—the spirit rice will scorch on the bottom."

A Sui crouched by the stove mouth and slid out the topmost stick. The flames sank half a hand. She reached inside the front of her jacket to touch the stone half-exposed there, then tucked it back in, gently.

"Keep it on you when you feed the fire, but not when you count bowls," Qian Duoduo said.

"I can count."

"Then all the more reason not to have it on you. Count wrong, and I'm short one bowl to sell."

A He stood at the door counting bowls. Twenty coarse ceramic bowls arranged in four stacks of five. He finished, then counted again from the beginning. The second time through, he stopped at the third stack and turned. "Missing one?"

"By your feet," A Sui said.

A He picked the bowl up and put it in place. Du Xiaochuan cinched the carrying pole tight: one end held the pot, wood lid lashed down with hemp rope in four passes; the other end held the bowls and a bamboo basket with ten bottles of Qi-Gathering Powder laid sideways, neat and orderly. Cheng Banshan set the basket on the threshold, stepped back half a pace, and wiped one hand over his sleeve cuff.

"Bring the bottles back," he said. "Three copper cash each."

"Last time one went missing and you were still griping about it into the Twelfth Month," Qian Duoduo said.

"Whoever breaks one pays for it." Cheng Banshan picked up his wine gourd, took two steps, then looked back. "Don't leave a single one unsold. Rogue cultivators come early, not late."

They left through the Mountain Gate at the Hour of the Rabbit, walked the mountain road for a shichen, and reached town at the Hour of the Dragon. Their spot was still under the third pillar against the wall, beneath a stretch of old tile eave. A He set two bricks to level the pot so the rim didn't jut into the path. Du Xiaochuan hung the wooden sign from the pillar—two lines as always, one for spirit meals, one for Qi-Gathering Powder. A Sui laid the bowls out one by one.

The first customer was an old rogue cultivator with hunched shoulders. He bought three bottles of Qi-Gathering Powder and came up one spirit stone short in the counting. Qian Duoduo waved it off. "Make up the one you owe next time." The old man managed half a thanks and scurried off, bottles hugged to his chest.

Before the Hour of the Snake arrived, twenty bowls from the pot had sold out, and all ten bottles had gone too. Most of the buyers were rogue cultivators who'd made the trip from Linchuan. One of them stood under the eaves finishing his bowl. He wiped his mouth and asked, "On the third, which of you is up?"

"Haven't drawn lots yet," Qian Duoduo said. "The list gets written after the draw."

"I hear Chixiao's taken two rounds at three to zero. That staff fighter—in a whole incense stick, nobody's gotten within arm's reach." The man set his bowl down. "If you draw Chixiao, can you last halfway?"

"I don't know about lasting halfway," Qian Duoduo said, stacking the last empty bowl. "But the bowls still have to come back."

The man laughed and walked off. Nearby, a skinny fellow with an empty basket chimed in: "That Qingya sword hasn't even been drawn in two rounds." Another voice added, "Not drawn because he hasn't run into anyone who fights for real."

Qian Duoduo didn't take the bait. He wiped the pot with his head down. Du Xiaochuan brushed dust off the wooden sign and glanced east: the ridgeline trees were still green, but no corner of Chixiao's rooftops was visible.

A Sui crouched by the pole counting spirit stones, stacking them into neat little piles. She looked up when she finished. "Qian Duoduo, seventy."

"Count twice."

She poured the coins back into the cloth pouch and stacked them again. Seventy. The last few she pressed into perfect alignment.

A woman with a baby in her arms stopped in front of the stall. She stared at the pot for a long while and asked how much a bowl cost. Qian Duoduo gave the price. The woman patted the child's back, said nothing, and turned to leave. Qian Duoduo scooped half a bowl of broth with a small bowl, came around the stall, and pressed it into her hands. "The broth doesn't count as a sale." The woman blinked, thanked him, and left, baby cradled close.

The market broke up before the end of the Snake hour. Du Xiaochuan packed the pot and bowls onto one end of the pole and left the other end free for rice. The grain shop clerk was clicking abacus beads by the door. One pot's worth of spirit rice came to five stones. Du Xiaochuan hoisted the sack onto his shoulder. A He scraped the last bit of broth from the pot bottom into a bowl and passed it to A Sui. She drank two mouthfuls, licked the bowl clean, and handed it back.

At noon, the Accounts Room door stood open. Xu Yan was checking the accounts for the carriage run on the twenty-fourth. On the paper it read "Return Trip" and "Fare Paid," with a blank line beneath.

Bai Xiaoman came in carrying a sheet of paper. It was an old ledger sheet turned over for reuse—half a line of faded ink still visible on the back. She had a length of thread and a charcoal stick in her arms. She spread the paper on the long bench, pinned one end of the thread to the paper's center, tied the other end to the charcoal stick, pulled it taut, and swept a full circle. There was one spot along the edge where the line wavered.

"Three zhang," she said. "The clerk measured it by pacing. I drew it to match his steps—one grid square per chi, thirty squares inside the circle."

Xu Yan set his brush down and watched.

Bai Xiaoman knelt on one knee and counted the squares inside the circle: five squares to a point, one east, one south, one west, one north. Four points done, she looked up, considered, then looked back down and added the center point.

"Four formation anchors five squares from the circle's heart. The fifth sits at the heart." She said, "The stones move in this pattern, and so do the banners."

"So you can't use the stones?" Xu Yan asked.

"I can, but I'd have to bend down and press three times per stone. In the preliminary, that first guy charged straight at me—I'd only set the fourth stone when he reached me. Chixiao people are faster than him. A banner, you just plant it."

"What if you plant one wrong?"

"The formation won't rise." Bai Xiaoman said. "All four sides have to be on the grid, not half a square off. If it's half off, the qi inside seeps through the gap. He'd step out through the crack while I'm still outside holding it."

"And the center point—do you draw that too?"

"Banners don't need it. Four sides planted, formation rises."

She shifted the paper aside and started another circle outside the first, a good measure larger. She counted nine squares, ten, and stopped abruptly at twelve, setting the charcoal down.

"Why did you stop?"

"Add another layer and the edges overlap." Her voice dropped low. "Two layers—I can't hold it. One layer I can manage for a little under half an incense stick. Two and I'd drop before it even reached half a stick. If I collapse, the formation scatters, and he wouldn't even need to step out of the ring."

She scratched out the outer circle, three hard strokes, until the paper fuzzed.

Xu Yan reached over and pressed the paper flat, letting her finish.

"Then one layer," he said.

"One layer—what if the opponent comes around the edge?"

"That's for you to work out. The circle is yours."

Bai Xiaoman stared at those thirty squares for a long while. Finally she folded the paper once, the crease landing exactly on the center point.

"Cinnabar and yellow silk," Xu Yan said.

"The cinnabar on the mountain is what's left from filling the formation grooves." She held up her fingers, showing a small amount. "Only enough to paint half a banner. No yellow silk on the mountain. One roll of silk, cut into four; one packet of cinnabar."

"How much?"

"Don't know. Need to go ask."

"Ask first, then buy." Xu Yan pushed the abacus toward her. "Reckon it on paper, not in your head."

Bai Xiaoman answered and left, hugging the paper. She clipped her foot on the doorframe as she crossed the threshold, but she kept the paper held tight. It didn't fall.

By the Hour of the Sheep, the mountain road party had returned. The moment Qian Duoduo stepped into the kitchen he dumped the cloth pouch onto the cutting board; spirit stones scattered everywhere. Du Xiaochuan set the pot on the stove. A He went to the well for water, and A Sui sat on the threshold counting a second time. The kitchen smoke rose again.

Before dawn on the twenty-sixth, the sound began under the veranda.

The old wooden target stood by a veranda pillar, its face pierced with countless fine holes, the wood around each one whitened. Huo Qing's right arm hung at his side. His left hand gripped the sword, extended level from shoulder to wrist. The tip struck the target with a muffled thud, drew back, and struck again. Thrust, recover, evenly spaced, one breath per cycle. Wood shavings fell at his feet in a small drift.

Shi Po stood in the courtyard doing pillar training, his feet wearing a white ring into the grey bricks. He held still, a skim of sweat on his shoulders, eyes on the courtyard gate.

Outside the Ancestral Hall, Shao Ming sat on the steps listening to A Sui recite a formula. She got halfway and stalled, started over from the beginning, and stalled again at the same spot. Shao Ming didn't rush her. "Wrong line, qi breaks right there. From the top."

She made it through once and sat still. "When will I be able to draw qi out?"

"When it comes on its own," Shao Ming said. "Recite correctly and it comes faster."

By the time the sun cleared the tile eaves, Xu Yan had passed through the front courtyard and stood watching for a while from the steps. He said nothing and left.

Shi Po finished a cycle of pillar work. His foot lifted and came down; no new crack appeared in the white ring on the bricks. He looked back toward the veranda. "In one incense stick, how many strikes do you get?"

"One," Huo Qing said.

"What if more?"

"If more, it doesn't count."

In the afternoon, Jiang Wan came out from the East Courtyard with her sword and stopped by the veranda, watching for half an incense stick.

"Your shoulder doesn't move first now," she said.

Huo Qing's sword tip drew back; he nodded once.

"Your hand still outruns your feet," Jiang Wan continued. "Feet can't keep up, so the thrust stops at the target. The target won't hit back."

Huo Qing made no reply. The sword went out again.

"All these days of training—just for that one strike within an incense stick's time." Jiang Wan switched her sword to the other hand. "When the day comes, don't let your hand shake."

"Won't shake," Huo Qing said.

Jiang Wan gave him a look, took two steps, then stopped and glanced back at the wooden target before returning to the East Courtyard.

Cheng Banshan came over from the Medicine Hall, wine gourd in hand, and watched from outside the veranda for a moment.

"Practice your thrust all day—within that incense stick, you still only get one strike," he said.

"One is enough," Huo Qing said.

Cheng Banshan pulled the cork with his teeth and took a drink, then pushed it back in with his teeth and walked off. Only when he'd gone a few steps did he look back. "Don't talk too big. You'll find out on the day."

Before the lamps were lit, Huo Qing sheathed his sword. He wiped the target's face with his sleeve, then swept the wood shavings from the veranda, thorough to the last speck.

At the Hour of the Rooster, in the Accounts Room, Xu Yan entered the twenty-fifth's market: income seventy stones, the grain shop paid five, balance on hand two thousand twenty-four; the ten taels of silver untouched. He filled in the blank line beneath the carriage entry for the twenty-fourth, dabbing the brush tip against the inkstone's edge.

Someone stood at the doorway, silent for a good while.

"Come in," Xu Yan said.

Qi Qi entered, wet soil from the courtyard clinging to his shoe uppers.

"Sect Master, I want to go down the ridge and take a look at Zhou Kui."

Xu Yan set down his brush.

"Look at what?"

"His opening move." Qi Qi said. "Huo Qing asked me about it. I said he starts from the right, pressing down without lifting. I've only seen it once—the second day of the Ninth Month, Alliance Year 300. I went down before dawn."

"Wasn't once enough?"

"That time he was on open ground pounding stone posts—one post, one pit." Qi Qi's finger tapped the desk edge once, then stopped. "Chixiao has taken two rounds three to zero. In a single incense stick, no one's gotten near him. I want to see how he fights within that incense stick."

"Even if you see it, you can't bring it back," Xu Yan said.

"I can bring it back," Qi Qi said. "I keep the hours."

"Which route?"

"Over the ridge, same as before. Leave at the Shen hour, lie up on the eastern slope."

Xu Yan remembered that earlier trip: Qi Qi had only been up the mountain a few days. When he'd come back, mud was caked up to his ankles, and he'd recited every hour in order, more detailed than anyone.

"Go on the twenty-seventh," Xu Yan said. "Don't cross their wall. Don't make a sound."

"When do I come back?"

"Before dark. Report to the accounts room first—don't tell anyone else beforehand."

"Fine." Qi Qi turned to leave, then stopped at the door. "A Sui asked if I'd bring back stones from down the ridge. I said not on a downhill trip."

"Not on a downhill trip," Xu Yan said.

Qi Qi left. The sound of that single thrust under the veranda had long stopped. Only the clink of dishwashing came from the kitchen, again and again.

Xu Yan left the page for the twenty-seventh blank. The brush rested on the inkstone. The paper lay pressed perfectly flat.