Chapter 198: The Man Who Left No Name

Du Xiaochuan flipped the second pot over, bottom facing the sky, and scraped it with a bamboo strip. The thin layer of rice starch on the bottom had crusted over; it curled up at the first scrape, baring the black iron underneath. Once both pots were scraped clean, he stacked them mouth-down on the edge of the cutting board and wiped his face, leaving two streaks of pot soot across his forehead.

Qi Qi crouched, gathering bowls in stacks of five. On the fourth stack his hands paused—half a mouthful of soup was left in one bowl. He tipped it into his mouth, then stacked the bowl on top.

The market street was emptying out in both directions. The vegetable seller rolled up his straw mat and tucked it under his arm. The pottery seller loaded jars into his crate one by one, each one clinking as it went in. The Qingya stall already had no customers. A few spirit stones remained on the board, and Qian Duoduo bent over, smoothing them one by one into the cloth pouch inside his apron.

A man came out from behind a pillar.

He carried a back basket, its mouth covered by a piece of old cloth patched twice over, the patches whiter than the rest. His face was wind-cracked, his fingernails black at the edges. He stood at one end of the stall—no queue, no glance at the pot. First his eyes swept both ends of the street.

Qian Duoduo straightened up: "Here for a bowl? Just scraped the pots."

The man stepped forward, pulled a small cloth bundle from inside his coat, and tucked it into Qian Duoduo's apron—low, right beside the money pouch.

"The two ingredients your sect master wanted."

Qian Duoduo looked down and fished the bundle out of the apron. It wasn't large, but it had a certain weight in his palm. A smell of medicine and raw earth seeped through the cloth.

"What?"

"Auxiliary ingredients. Two of them."

"I don't recognize these." Qian Duoduo turned the bundle over. The cloth was rough, wrapped tight, the four corners twisted into knots. "You've got the wrong person. Elder Cheng's the one who handles this."

"Your elder will recognize them." The man said. "Take them up. One look and he'll know."

"Where'd you get them?"

The man didn't answer. He only hitched the straps of his back basket higher. "Just give me a number."

Qian Duoduo wiped his hand on his apron. "How much?"

"Fifteen."

Qian Duoduo pulled out the money pouch, counted ten stones onto the board, then five more. On the eighth one he looked up. "What's your name?"

"No need to record it."

"What do you mean, no need." Qian Duoduo pushed the last stone over. "Money has to be recorded under someone's name. What's your name?"

The man collected the fifteen stones one by one into his waistband, slowly, missing none. "Money and goods, both settled. Recording it or not is the same."

"How is it the same." Qian Duoduo nudged the cloth on the board toward him. "Then what about this cloth—"

"The cloth's not worth anything."

Qi Qi had moved the last stack of bowls to his feet. He looked up at the man, looked long and steady. "Not one stalk of that grass in your basket sold."

The man shifted the basket strap on his shoulder and didn't answer that. He glanced at Qian Duoduo, then at the pot, and said, "I won't be coming back to this market."

Qian Duoduo's mouth opened and closed. "Not coming?"

"There are other markets in town." The man had already turned, the basket jolting against his back. "That pot of yours—I've eaten it twice. Thick."

He walked toward the official road, not fast. He left the market street, took the first bend, and was gone. He didn't head toward the river, and he didn't turn toward the wharf either.

Qi Qi stood holding the bowls. "He went toward the official road. Grass unsold, man never coming back."

Qian Duoduo still held the old cloth, a damp edge between his fingers. He shouted "Hey—" after the man, but the sound scattered past the edge of the market street. He tucked the cloth bundle into the inner side of his apron, turned back to lift the pot, failed twice, and on the third try got it onto the carrying pole.

"That whole basket of grass he carried back—it won't trade for a few jin of rice." Qian Duoduo shouldered the pole, walked two steps, stopped. "Qi Qi, does anyone at the wharf know about this bundle?"

"No." Qi Qi said. "He never even went near the scales."

Du Xiaochuan lifted the bowl crate onto his back. "If anyone knew, he wouldn't come."

By the time they packed up, the sun hung in the west. The board was wiped down twice, pots stacked, bowls crated. The three of them carried empty pots and empty bowls out of town, walked ten li of mountain road, and reached the mountain gate at You hour.

Halfway up, Qian Duoduo moved the cloth bundle from his apron to his inner coat, then after a stretch moved it back, afraid of crushing it. Du Xiaochuan shifted the bowl crate to his other shoulder. "Let me take the pot."

"The pot's not heavy." Qian Duoduo said.

Qi Qi looked back from the front. "Mountain road. Nobody's watching."

"I'm afraid of damaging it." Qian Duoduo pressed the bundle to his chest again. "He wouldn't even leave his name. The least I can do is not ruin his goods."

Nie Bo's broom scraped over the stone steps, back and forth. The broom edged aside half a foot; the three of them passed through the gap.

The Accounts Room door was open. Qian Duoduo upended the money pouch onto the table and stacked the stones—eight piles, five left over—and pushed them across. "One hundred. Gave him fifteen."

Xu Yan reached over.

Qian Duoduo took the cloth bundle from his apron and set it beside the money. "Two pots, eighty. Ten bottles, thirty. Rice top-up, ten. Out of the hundred, fifteen went to him. Not one stone short."

Xu Yan counted the money twice, picked up the brush, and entered it into the ledger: the fifteenth day of the Tenth Month. Income: 100. Expenditure: auxiliary ingredients, 15.

"The man?"

"Gone. Toward the official road."

"Did you ask his name?"

"I did." Qian Duoduo tugged his apron straight. "He said no need to record it. I asked again. He said money and goods are settled, recording it or not is the same."

Xu Yan's brush paused at the edge of the inkstone.

"He said one more thing." Qian Duoduo nudged the bundle forward a little. "He said he won't be coming back to this market."

"Did the grass in his basket sell?"

"Not a single stalk. Qi Qi saw it. He came around from behind the pillar, handed it over, and left. Toward the official road, not the wharf." Qian Duoduo thought a moment, then added, "The basket mouth was covered with a piece of old cloth, patched twice over, the patches faded white."

Xu Yan picked up the cloth bundle and weighed it in his palm. The contents were hard; fine tendrils poked at the cloth from inside.

"He didn't even drink the soup." Qian Duoduo said. "I offered to grill him a flatbread. He said what he had to say and walked off. Walked fast." He paused. "He also said our pot is thick. Said he'd eaten it twice."

Xu Yan gathered the money stack by stack into the iron box, tied the hemp cord over the lock hasp, and only then left the Accounts Room with the cloth bundle in hand.

The wood stove was burning in the Medicine Hall, the fire in the stove-door gap flaring and dimming. Cheng Banshan sat on the low stool right by the stove door, one hand on his knee, the wine gourd hanging at his back. This furnace of Qi-Gathering Powder had been lit at Dragon hour this morning—five days to a batch.

"Elder Cheng."

"Mm."

Xu Yan set the cloth bundle on the table. Cheng Banshan glanced at it, stood, pushed aside the old ledger papers, and took two corners of the bundle between his fingers, shaking it open. The cloth spread flat; inside were two packets: one of roots, one of curled leaves dried brown.

He bent down, smelled them once at close range, then picked up a piece of root and crushed it between his fingertips, holding it up to the light of the stove door.

"There's soil on the root." he said. "It wasn't shaken off when harvested."

"Would it be unusable if it had been shaken clean?" Xu Yan asked.

"Shaken clean is no good. The soil on the root is where the potency lives." Cheng Banshan set the piece back on the cloth, then picked up a leaf, examined it against the light, crumbled it, and smelled a second time. "These are the two. Quality's sufficient."

Qian Duoduo leaned halfway through the door. "Elder Cheng, are they the right ones?"

"They are."

"Then I can rest easy." Qian Duoduo came in and stood at one end of the table. "He didn't even drink a bowl of soup. I asked his name—he said no need to record it."

Cheng Banshan didn't answer that. He gathered the roots and leaves together. Xu Yan asked, "When does this batch get opened?"

"No rush. Waiting on a hand."

"Whose hand?" Qian Duoduo asked.

"Waiting until I grow an extra one someday." Cheng Banshan said.

Qian Duoduo looked at his one hand, then at the empty sleeve, and swallowed the rest of his words.

Cheng Banshan bent down and felt under the table for the thin piece of oilcloth—the one they'd torn that day in the Hidden Realm, the thin piece for wrapping herbs, the thick piece for pages. He spread the oilcloth on the table, laid the two ingredients together inside it, pinned two corners under his wrist, and folded over the other two. One hand couldn't hold all four corners; the cloth flipped up once mid-fold, and he pressed the lifted corner down with his chin before finishing. When it was folded, he pressed it flat, then tucked it into the back section under the table, resting it beside that bunch of Dewdrop Grass.

Xu Yan looked at that spot. The Dewdrop Grass had sat there for over four months now. The leaf-centers were dry; the roots were still white.

"Fifteen stones." Xu Yan said.

"Not expensive." Cheng Banshan sat back on the low stool and pushed the stove door open a crack. "He carried it to town himself, didn't sell a single stalk of grass, and had to walk back."

"Luoxia to Linchuan, round-trip cart fare is four stones." Xu Yan said. "Fifteen stones, and he's losing money on the footwork."

Cheng Banshan lifted his eyes. "If you do the math like that, it'll never add up."

Xu Yan didn't keep calculating. He drew his hand from his sleeve and stood by the table, watching the crack of fire in the stove door for a while.

"What if he doesn't come back?"

"Then he doesn't come back." Cheng Banshan shut the stove door. "The goods are with me."

Xu Yan stood in the Medicine Hall a while longer. By the time he came out, the front courtyard was fully dark. Huo Qing was practicing that thrust under the veranda, the wooden target absorbing each strike dully—strike, pause, strike. From the East Courtyard came the sound of Jiang Wan's scabbard knocking against the stone steps—seven or eight knocks, then silence.

Before Hai hour, the Accounts Room.

The lamp wick had been trimmed once; the flame stood straight. Xu Yan turned the ledger to the back pages, past the ones recording the Seven-Rank Five Articles. The three lines were still there, the ink long dry. He didn't read them aloud. He ran a finger down the ends of the lines, down to the blank line below, and stopped, pressing lightly at the paper's edge.

The line beneath the three had been empty since the Fourth Day—empty all the way to today.

On the Fifth Day, in front of the stall, he had asked several rogue cultivators, all the same question. He had stood at the side of the stall, watching people drink soup, watching them wipe their mouths. Of the rogue cultivators he'd asked that day, not one had carried a basket with two patches like that. He remembered those baskets, all of them—mouths open, none covered with cloth.

He picked up the brush and wrote on that line: the fifteenth day of the Tenth Month. Two auxiliary ingredients, fifteen stones. The seller left no name.

He set the brush down and looked at it for a while. The flame leaned to one side; the ink on the page wasn't fully dry yet. He picked the brush up again and added a line beneath it: He said he won't be coming back to this market.

The ink landed on the paper, spreading outward just slightly. Xu Yan set the brush back on the inkstone and pressed both hands to either side of the ledger, waiting for the line to dry.