Chapter 146: The Ninetieth

The stack of rosters on the low table was weighed down by a stone, with the two clerks standing one on each side. Wind came through the gate, lifting the paper corners one by one; the clerk holding the wooden box pressed a finger down on the one sheet that wouldn't stay put.

By late Dragon hour, the sun had climbed past the cliff above the stone gate, bleaching the ground in front of it white. The stone steps leading down through the gate were still black, and wind kept welling up out of that darkness, carrying the smell of earth. The two stone slabs stood open against the rock walls, with only a faint mark left where they once met.

Eighty people from the Eight Sects spread out across the ground outside, one sect to a row, no one touching anyone else. Some disciples crouched on rocks to wait; others sat with their bundles beneath them. All eyes were on the table up front.

The clerk reading the names flipped the first roster to the top: "Heavenly Sword Sect, ten people." He read down. "Wei Changge."

"Here."

Wei Changge's response wasn't loud. He stood at the front of the Heavenly Sword Sect's ten, and after answering, he didn't leave right away—he looked west. Qingya's ten stood beyond the three-pace line, Huo Qing at the very back, his sword slung diagonally across his back, the strap running over his left shoulder. That gaze lingered on Huo Qing for a moment. Huo Qing raised his left hand to his waist, hitched the sword strap up half an inch, then let it fall again. He didn't reach for the hilt, and he didn't look away. When his hand dropped back to his side, his fingers pressed briefly against the seam of his trousers.

Behind the Heavenly Sword Sect, two disciples followed that line of sight, saw who it was, closed their mouths, and pulled their eyes back.

Wei Changge turned, lifted his foot over the threshold, and descended step by step. His footsteps landed solid at first inside the gate, then after a few steps scattered into the stone.

The clerk continued reading. Each name was answered with a "Here," and the other clerk ticked a mark beneath it. The tick was short, a single stroke, not even creasing the paper. The Heavenly Sword Sect's people filed through one by one: one wrapped his bundle strap twice around his hand before entering; one stopped on the threshold, craned his head inside for a look, then went down; the last caught his toe on the threshold and had to grab the doorframe to steady himself.

At the gate, they only counted heads. Who carried what, what they brought—the clerks didn't ask.

Xu Yan had heard this set of words three times: on the sixteenth day of the Fourth Month in the Main Hall, on the twenty-fifth day of the Fourth Month outside the inn, and today, at Dragon hour, from Wen Su at the gate. This was the first time he'd watched it land on the ground, phrase by phrase, becoming the scene before him. Read a name, tick a mark, the person enters; that ticked page gets used this once, then goes into the wooden box. From then on, whether a sect's ten people were inside or not came down to those few strokes.

"Xuanshui Palace, ten people." The clerk turned over a new roster. "Lin Lian."

"Here."

Lin Lian's "Here" was soft, as if afraid of rousing something inside the gate. She walked over, paused half a step at the threshold, touched the stone wall beside the door with one hand, and went in. The nine behind her followed, their footsteps linking into a chain.

"Jinding Pavilion, ten people. Pang Ce."

"Here."

Pang Ce's "Here" came right on the heels of his name, not a beat late. At the gate, his hand rose, hovered beside the doorframe for a moment, then fell back to his side, and he entered. Two disciples behind him carried a wooden chest, turning sideways as they passed through.

"Wanshou Mountain, ten people. Xiong Dai."

"Here."

This answer came out loud, and the gate threw back a faint echo. Wanshou Mountain's people carried more than any other sect—some rolled into bundles, some in leather pouches. One disciple's shoulder scraped the doorframe as he entered, his pouch thumping against the stone with a dull sound; the one behind him stopped at the gate and pointed back at Qingya's side. "What's in that bundle of theirs?"

The clerk didn't even look up: "At the gate, we only count heads."

The disciple pressed his lips together and went in.

Shi Po had two packs at his feet. Hearing that, he nudged the outer one half a foot inward, saying nothing. Jiang Wan stood in front of him, hands hanging by her sleeves, motionless.

"Lihuo Hall, ten people. Tan Shuo."

"Here."

After answering, Tan Shuo looked back down the mountain path a stretch before turning to enter. Lihuo Hall's people filed through one after another, their steps so even it was like one person walking.

Qian Duoduo stood half a step behind Xu Yan, the cake bundle hugged to his chest. He whispered, "Sect Master, is the path inside easy to follow?"

"No," Xu Yan said. "Stay with the line and watch your footing."

Qian Duoduo made a small "oh" and hugged the bundle tighter. Qi Qi said from behind, voice low: "I know it." Cheng Banshan moved his wine gourd from his hip to his lower back with one hand. "Hugging that cake so tight—it's still just a cake." Qian Duoduo didn't answer; his ears went red.

Bai Xiaoman was counting entrants on her fingers, lost count halfway against a tally in her head, and looked up at Shao Ming. "Uncle Shao, how many have gone in?"

"Don't count," Shao Ming said. "Wait for the names."

Bai Xiaoman tucked her fingers back into her sleeves, then a moment later stuck one out again, looked at it, and didn't count anymore.

Jiang Wan turned back and said to Bai Xiaoman: "In a bit, keep your eyes on the front—I'll be the next step up from you." Bai Xiaoman nodded and readjusted her bundle.

Shi Po never sat down. Qingya's ten had been standing since Mao hour, and the stone under their feet had long stopped being cool. Cheng Banshan, one hand braced on his knee, straightened up and said, "When the sun reaches the table leg, it's our turn." Xu Yan answered: "Mm." Qi Qi added from behind: "Three sects left."

"Taiyi Temple, ten people. Ke Wujiu."

"Here."

Ke Wujiu was dressed as a Daoist, both hands tucked in his sleeves. He stopped a step at the threshold, looked down at the stone steps beneath him, then descended. Behind him, a young Daoist with a roll of talisman paper stuck in his belt pressed it down with his hand before entering, as if afraid it might slip out.

"Zixia Palace, ten people. Qin Ruo."

"Here."

When Qin Ruo came forward, her eyes were still on the stone crevice east of the gate, and a blade of grass sat in her palm. She answered and went in, the grass sliding into her sleeve as she moved. Zixia Palace's nine followed, answering their names and entering, not one turning back. The clerk didn't ask questions; he read on.

"Zhenyue Sect, ten people. Gan Ren."

"Here."

As Gan Ren passed, he pressed his palm against the stone beside the gate—not long—then withdrew his hand and entered. Zhenyue Sect's ten went in slowest of all, each one finding steady footing on the threshold before taking the first step down.

Wen Su stood at the gate. She hadn't moved since breaking the seal strip, hands hanging at her sides, watching each person enter, watching each stroke of the brush hit paper. Once the reading clerk went too fast and swallowed half a name. Wen Su said: "Read it again." The clerk pulled his finger back and read again. The person answered "Here," and only then did he tick. Halfway through, she drew the thrice-folded seal strip from her sleeve, unfolded it to examine the creases, folded it back exactly as before, and tucked it into her cuff.

The sun climbed higher. The white ground before the gate shifted grid by grid until it reached the table leg. Xu Yan was counting: ten to a sect, ten to a sect. By the eightieth person, the stone around the table leg had baked dry, and each gust of wind lifted a fine layer of dust from the tabletop. The clerk holding the wooden box swept a sleeve over the roster, then pressed it down again.

By late Snake hour, the last of Zhenyue Sect's people had gone in. He turned at the inner threshold to look back outside, then descended too. The tick went down under the eightieth name.

Outside the gate, silence fell. All eighty sets of footsteps had sunk into the gate. What remained was the wind, the pages rustling at the table's corner, and the soft click of a brush resting against the inkstone's rim.

Wen Su turned to the two clerks: "Set up an awning at the gate. Keep watch until the fifth day of the Sixth Month, Dragon hour, when the gate is sealed." The clerks acknowledged, stacking the spread rosters by sect, one on top of the next; the one holding the wooden box took them, stored them away, closed the lid, and pressed his palm down on it.

Only then did she turn to Xu Yan: "Sect Master Xu, Qingya goes last."

"Yes," Xu Yan said, standing straight, hands hanging before him.

"On the fifth day of the Sixth Month, at Dragon hour, I'll be here counting," Wen Su said. "How many go in, how many come out."

"Understood," Xu Yan said.

A clerk drew the one roster pressed at the bottom of the box and spread it on the table: "Qingya, landlord sect, ten people."

Xu Yan turned to the group: "Qi Qi takes the front. Shi Po carries both packs and brings up the rear. Once inside, light two torches right away—Du Xiaochuan has the fire starter." He finished, turned back, and hitched up his bundle.

"Xu Yan."

"Here."

He stepped over the threshold. Inside was cooler than out; wind rose from below, passing across his face. He went down three steps and stopped, making room. The torches weren't lit yet—a few steps further down and it would be black.

"Jiang Wan."

"Here."

Jiang Wan stepped forward. Before entering, she looked back and swept her eyes over the remaining group, lingering a beat on Bai Xiaoman, then turned and descended.

"Cheng Banshan."

"Here."

Cheng Banshan braced one hand against the doorframe as he took the first step down, medicine pouch at his waist, the wine gourd swaying behind his back and knocking against a stone corner with a clack. Shao Ming reached out from outside but couldn't catch it; Cheng Banshan was already down.

"Shao Ming."

"Here."

Shao Ming answered slowly. Before descending, he looked up at the stone above the doorframe, then set each foot down solid before taking the next step.

"Huo Qing."

"Here."

Huo Qing's response was low; the wind pressed his sleeve flat against his leg. Wei Changge's footsteps had long scattered into the depths. He didn't look to either side, and he didn't look into the deep; he went down.

"Du Xiaochuan."

"Here."

Du Xiaochuan was carrying four torches on his back, and as he entered, one torch end knocked against the doorframe. He turned sideways, gathered them one by one to his chest, and only then descended. The fire starter was in his robe; he pressed on it through the cloth.

"Qian Duoduo."

"Here."

The voice shook a little. The clerk with the brush glanced up at him, then ticked the mark all the same. Qian Duoduo scraped the threshold before getting through, the cake bundle still hugged to his chest.

"Shi Po."

"Here."

Shi Po ducked his head crossing the threshold, the two packs brushing the doorframe on either side—he himself looked like a third pack wedged between them. The step he came down on sounded heavier than anyone before him.

"Qi Qi."

"Here."

As Qi Qi entered, he muttered the tail of a count, and Xu Yan caught it: "Eighty-nine." He stood three steps down, counting each person as they descended.

"Bai Xiaoman."

"Here."

Bai Xiaoman hitched her bundle up; the five stone pieces clinked together inside. She answered clearly, and her voice struck a faint echo off the doorframe.

Jiang Wan stood on the third step, waiting for her.

The clerk with the brush ticked beneath her name, set the brush down, closed the roster, and said: "Ninety." The one holding the box stored that roster away, the lid snapping shut with a click. Wen Su stood by the gate, saying nothing.

Bai Xiaoman stepped through. Inside, a few steps down, the daylight from the gate behind her funneled in and narrowed to a single strip.