Chapter 196: What the Three Houses Said

The carriage yard was still dark. A single lantern hung by the feed trough, its light reaching halfway up a wooden post before thinning out into nothing. The cart they'd arranged the night before was already hitched, the mule nosing through the trough with its head down, white breath puffing from its nostrils. The carter squatted by the shaft, wiping down his whip; the knot at the tip still wouldn't come undone.

The inn bill was settled at the counter. Two nights, four pieces. Xu Yan laid them out one by one. The innkeeper counted, slid them into a drawer, and said next time they could have the same east room again.

Qi Qi hoisted the two flatbread bundles onto his shoulder. One was already empty, the other had two hard rounds left. He yawned. "Eighty li. Five shichen back, same as going?"

"Five shichen even with the wind at your back." The carter tucked his whip into his belt.

The cart rolled out of the yard as the sky just began to gray. The fields along the official road had been harvested; stubble stood in the earth in neat rows, white frost settled on top. After two ke, the sun came up behind them, the frost melted, and the road mud softened a layer.

The well was still there at the halfway point. A stone by the platform had been worn glossy, and the well rope hung from a wooden frame. Qi Qi hauled up half a bucket of water, and the two of them gnawed dry flatbread over cold water. The carter tethered the mule and squatted off to one side, smoking his pipe.

"Did you get it or not?" the carter asked suddenly.

Xu Yan swallowed the bread in his mouth. "Didn't get it."

The carter nodded, didn't press, just said, "Plenty come back empty-handed." He tapped his pipe bowl twice against the sole of his shoe.

Qi Qi tucked his hands into his sleeves. "Three sentences. Eighty li."

Xu Yan didn't answer that. He chewed the last bite of bread, walked over to the well, stared at the water for a moment, then came back and climbed onto the cart.

Once the cart was moving, Qi Qi sat on the boards, legs dangling over the side, swinging. After a while he said, "Sect Master, what do we tell the mountain when we get back?"

"How do you mean?"

"Tell it straight." Qi Qi answered his own question, then thought again. "But if we tell it straight, it's 'three houses won't sell.' Sounds like we couldn't manage to buy."

"Then just tell the three sentences," Xu Yan said. "Who said it, what they said, who was there. Not one word added."

Qi Qi turned the words over in his head, nodded, then shook his head. "Elder Cheng's going to curse someone."

"He'll curse the medicine house, not you."

Qi Qi laughed once and stopped swinging his legs.

Shen hour, they reached Luoxia Town. The cart stopped in front of the carriage office. The fare had been paid in full when they set out on the second, round trip included; nothing more owed for this trip. Qi Qi told the old man they were back, and the old man scratched a line in the register with a charcoal stick. The mule was led into the shed, its long gaunt face turning back for a look, as if it recognized the road too.

No market on Market Street today. The space by the third pillar along the wall stood empty, black scorch marks from pot-bottoms still on the ground, and the old tile eaves above dripped two drops of water. The flatbread-seller's old man sat behind his door panel; seeing them pass, he raised a hand but didn't call out.

The two of them cut through the street, out the town gate, and up the north mountain path. Tenth Month mountain road: one shichen. The fallen leaves were thick, soundless underfoot, and every few steps a foot slipped. Qi Qi walked ahead, glancing back every so often, in case Xu Yan fell behind.

You hour, they reached the Mountain Gate.

Nie Bo was sweeping the stretch of road in front of the gate. Each stroke of the broom pushed the leaves along, gathering them into neat little piles. Hearing footsteps, he moved the broom aside, clearing a path, and stepped back half a pace.

Xu Yan stopped in front of him. Nie Bo kept his head down, looking at his broom, not at the man.

"Back," Xu Yan said.

Nie Bo made no sound. He pushed the broom forward and swept over the space he'd just cleared.

When they entered the Front Courtyard, smoke was rising from the Kitchen, something bubbling in the pot. The two children came running from the West Wing, A Sui in front, pulling up short just before reaching them, tilting her head up at the cloth sack in Xu Yan's hand.

"Sect Master, did you buy the stones?" A He asked.

"No."

"Not a single one?"

"Not a single one." Xu Yan slung the sack over his shoulder and headed for the Main Hall.

Xu hour, the lamps were lit in the Main Hall.

On the table sat a pot of food, two basins, a stack of coarse bowls. Qian Duoduo stuck the ladle into the pot and stepped aside wiping his hands. Jiang Wan came in last and didn't sit, just stood by the door, one hand resting on the frame. Huo Qing sat closest to the door, his right arm hanging at his side, bowl held in his left hand.

Xu Yan sat down, ate two mouthfuls, then spoke.

"The three houses in Linchuan won't sell."

The table went quiet. Even the sound of chopsticks against bowls stopped.

"The formation shop said no stock. The medicine house said supplies were cut. Wanbao Tower said the order came from upstairs."

Cheng Banshan unhooked the wine gourd from his waist and set it on the table, stopper still in. "Cut off?"

"Cut off."

"Those two herbs don't cut off," Cheng Banshan said. "Linchuan's medicine house lives on those two. They keep cabinet after cabinet pressed full; a year wouldn't sell it all." He shot Xu Yan a look and let the sentence stop there, said nothing more.

Bai Xiaoman set down her bowl. "We don't need to stockpile stones. The formation will rise all the same." She counted on her fingers. "The old one on the south side, on the ninth day of the Ninth Month a palm strike sank half a chi into it, and it held. We keep two in reserve as backup, not because we're short."

"So we stop buying formation stones from now on?" A He asked.

"From now on is handled from now on," Bai Xiaoman said. "Right now, no stones means I'm short one thing. It doesn't mean the formation can't rise."

Shi Po put down his bowl. "I've knocked on the blue stone up the back mountain. Dead-sounding."

"Dead-sounding means cracks inside. Drop it in the slot and it shatters under pressure," Bai Xiaoman said.

Shi Po thought it over. "Then I won't haul it."

"You don't need to haul it. This isn't a matter of strength."

Qian Duoduo wiped his hands on his apron twice. "What about the spirit rice? Is the grain shop going to stop selling too?"

"The grain shop's from town. No problem," Xu Yan said.

Qian Duoduo made an "oh" sound, lifted the ladle out of the pot, couldn't find anywhere to put it, and stuck it back in.

Jiang Wan asked from the doorway, "So what now?"

"Ask around Luoxia first."

"Luoxia doesn't have those two herbs."

"Luoxia has people," Xu Yan said.

Jiang Wan looked at him for a long moment. She didn't ask anything else, and she didn't move away, still standing there at the door frame.

Shao Ming pushed his bowl toward the center of the table. "Whether rogue cultivators have anything worth taking is a matter of chance. Miss it at one market, might miss it at the next."

"Then keep asking until we catch one," Xu Yan said. "One by one. Write down everyone we ask."

"What's the point of writing it down?" Jiang Wan asked.

"So that when there's a place to lay the accounts side by side, we have them."

No one at the table asked why Wanbao Tower. Cheng Banshan tucked the wine gourd back onto his belt, stopper still in, and didn't ask either. Qian Duoduo bent his head to divide the food. A Sui leaned forward with her bowl, and A He pressed her shoulder back down. A Sui whispered, "If they won't sell to us, we won't sell to them." So quiet only the person right next to her could hear. No one answered.

Huo Qing finished the last mouthful in his bowl, set down his chopsticks, stood, and walked out toward the veranda. After a moment, a dull thud came from the wooden target under the eaves—once, then again after a pause. Not fast. One at a time.

The table broke up at the end of Xu hour. Xu Yan went to the Medicine Hall.

A single small lamp burned in the Medicine Hall. On the wood stove against the inner wall a pot of water simmered; the charcoal stove by the door sat empty. The bunch of Dewdrop Grass lay spread on oiled paper on the worktable, one corner weighed down by the inkstone. Cheng Banshan stood at the table, turning the blades one by one, checking down to the roots, pinching, then moving to the next.

Xu Yan placed the prescription paper on the corner of the table. "Returning this."

Cheng Banshan picked it up, folded it along the original creases, and slipped the corner back under the inkstone. "Keep the paper. I know those two herbs; no need to look."

"The medicine house said they couldn't be certain."

"Couldn't be certain, my ass. He wouldn't say." Cheng Banshan set the stalk in his hand back on the oiled paper. "When someone's holding back, 'can't be certain' is the easiest line. Press him and he still doesn't have to answer for anything."

"How do you judge quality from rogue cultivators?"

"Strong if there's still soil on the roots. Shaken clean, no good. Pinch it—keeps firm, keep; goes soft, let go." Cheng Banshan turned a root over to show him. "The potency's fixed in the root. Broken root, sparse fibers—even if I take it, it's only to throw away."

Xu Yan stood and watched the twelve stalks for a while, watched Cheng Banshan fold the oiled paper over at both ends, press it flat with one hand, and slide it into a gap under the table.

"Does having these sitting out cause any trouble?" he asked.

"Sitting out does no harm," Cheng Banshan said. "What I'm anxious about is this hand of mine."

Xu Yan didn't ask more about the hand. He trimmed the lamp and left the Medicine Hall.

The Accounts Room was east of the Main Hall. He pushed the door open, lit the lamp first, then dragged the iron box out from under the ledger rack, untied the hemp rope, and lifted the lid.

He untied the cloth sack and poured it onto the table. Stacks of ten, stacked one on the next, until there were twenty-one stacks, with two left over at the end. Two hundred twelve pieces. Two hundred twenty had gone out; the cart fare and inn took eight. What was left matched to the coin. He pushed the money back into the box, closed it, retied the hemp rope exactly as it had been, and slid it back under the rack.

He opened the ledger, turned to the line under the thirtieth day of the Ninth Month. He dipped the brush and wrote:

"The second through fourth days of the Tenth Month: cart fare four pieces, two nights at the inn four pieces."

He lifted the brush and tapped it against the edge of the inkstone. The ink bled a little into the paper, then settled.

After those pages at the back where the Seventh-Rank Five Articles were recorded, the pages that followed were still blank. He moved the book closer to the lamp, pressed the pages flat, and wrote, one entry per line.

"The third day of the Tenth Month, Dragon hour: Formation Implements Shop, west end of the market. The shop hand at the counter: 'No stock.' Witnesses: a rogue cultivator buying flint, Qi Qi."

When he finished the line, he read it over from the beginning. What he was looking at was the latter half: who was present.

Second line.

"The third day of the Tenth Month, Snake hour: the market medicine house. Shop hand: 'Those two herbs are cut off.' Witness: Qi Qi."

The medicine house line was the shortest. But shortness didn't remove a single piece. The curtain over the back chamber had hung still; the alchemist never came out. That couldn't be written onto paper. He kept it in memory.

Third line.

"The third day of the Tenth Month, Horse hour: Wanbao Tower, north entrance of the market. Shopkeeper Teng: 'The order came from upstairs. Qingya's business, the tower won't handle.' Witnesses: two buyers at the counter, Qi Qi."

At "the order came from upstairs," his brush hesitated.

Yesterday at the inn, he'd arranged these three lines in his head, one tight against the next, no gaps between them—arranged mentally. Today, set down on paper, black ink on white paper, written line by line, it was more like leaving himself a problem. Three lines were still three sentences today: one refusal wasn't an account; you needed a place where the accounts could be laid side by side, and only with a second house's entry beside it did it become an account.

He set the brush down and looked at the three lines. There was still blank space beneath them. He picked the brush up again, pressed it at the paper's edge, moved it across, measuring. He left that line's space open.

That blank line—he wrote nothing on it.

He closed the ledger, pressed it flat, put it back on the rack, together with the documents. He trimmed the lamp wick; the flame sank lower.

Outside, under the eaves, the wooden target sounded again.

Tomorrow was the fifth. Market day.