Chapter 200: A Single Scale

Before the Mao hour, the mountain had already stirred. Under the veranda, the iron staff kept striking the wooden target—blow after blow, driving into the old dent at the bullseye. Huo Qing's shoulder pulled in half an inch earlier than last month, a correction made from a single line of Jiang Wan's. On the stone steps below the Ancestral Hall, Shao Ming stood listening to the two children recite formulas. A Sui stopped halfway through, and he said nothing, waiting for her to remember on her own. Smoke rose first from the Kitchen; Qian Duoduo and Du Xiaochuan had carried the two pots down the mountain in the dark.

Shi Po waited outside the Mountain Gate, two hemp ropes draped over his shoulders. When Xu Yan came out, he handed him one. "For tying the grain."

Xu Yan took it and wound it around his hand. On the Mao hour mountain path, the frost had half melted; the ground gave softly underfoot, and the grass still wore white. Halfway down the slope, the rooftops of Luoxia Town surfaced out of the fog. The river lay a gray-white sheet; the row of stone steps by the wharf was indistinct—only carrying poles could be seen moving along the riverbank, one after another.

"Three bags?" Shi Po asked.

"Three. Two of spirit rice, one of coarse grain."

Shi Po spread his palm open and closed it again, as if counting the three bags through once before he'd even seen them. He didn't ask anything more, just wound the rope on his shoulder another loop and walked on ahead.

The stall was in its usual place, under the third pillar along the wall. The old tile eave overhead held a layer of white frost; when the sun hit it, water dripped one drop at a time onto the pot rim, each drop striking once and vanishing. Qian Duoduo and Du Xiaochuan had carried the pots down before dawn. The firewood in the stove chamber held the flames low; two pots of spirit meals rolled with steam that struck the eaves and scattered. As soon as Shi Po arrived he pushed up his sleeves, crouched down, and hauled out the wooden box that held the bowls. When the box hit the ground, the bowls on the stall board jumped.

Xu Yan stood off to one side of the stall, working the cord of a cloth pouch between his fingers. Behind the pot, Shi Po passed bowls to Du Xiaochuan. The bowls looked small in his hands. Most of the customers were townsfolk. Each would buy one bowl, squat under the eaves to eat, and when finished set the money on the stall board. Rogue cultivators came down the street; they'd stop, look at the pot, look at the people, and move on. The ones who bought did the same—bowl down, money down, gone—without their eyes ever meeting anyone's. No one asked the price. No one asked if the mountain was still taking in disciples.

At the head of the Snake hour, a woman came over with a child in tow and ordered one bowl. The child stood on tiptoe to peer into the pot. "Mother, is this from the mountain?"

The woman pressed his hand down, murmured something, and squatted down. They ate one bowl between them, half each. When they'd finished, she set the money on the stall board, took the child by the hand, and walked off down the street. Only after several steps did she glance back once. Qian Duoduo stood behind the pot with the ladle in his hand, watching the two figures—one large, one small—until they were gone, the ladle still raised.

"It's going to get cold next month," he said. No one answered.

At the end of the Snake hour, Qi Qi came running down with ten bottles of Qi-Gathering Powder. Sweat beaded his forehead. He stood the bottles one by one at the back of the stall board. "Elder Cheng says this batch is potent."

"Potent is good."

Qi-Gathering Powder went for three spirit stones a bottle. Money handed over, bottle clutched, and they were off. By the Horse hour, only the last two bottles remained on the stall board. A townsman came and bought both at once. "They're for my brother."

A rogue cultivator with a back basket came down the street, the basket full of spirit herbs, the dew still wet on the leaves. He stood in front of the stall for a while, eyes on the pot, hand shifting the basket strap up his shoulder. In the end he didn't stop—he went down toward the riverbank road. Qi Qi watched until the man had descended the stone steps, then turned back and said in a low voice, "A lot of people at the wharf today."

Xu Yan grunted and wrapped the pouch cord once more around his finger.

The day sold the same as last month. Before the Horse hour was even over, the second pot had been scraped empty. Qian Duoduo raked the ladle along the bottom and scraped out two bowls—one went to the last rogue cultivator waiting in line, the other into Shi Po's bowl. Shi Po finished it in three mouthfuls, set the bowl on the stall board, and asked, "Is there more broth?"

Qian Duoduo scraped the ladle along the pot bottom again and came up with a little over half a bowl. "That's all there is."

Shi Po took it, drank it down, stacked the two bowls into the wooden box, carried it to the river to rinse, and came back with water still beading on the rims.

The market dispersed. Du Xiaochuan covered the pots; Qi Qi gathered the bowls. Xu Yan, Shi Po, and Qian Duoduo headed for the grain shop in the northeast corner of the market. The wooden sign out front was hanging up now. Inside, sacks were stacked one pile after another; chaff covered the floor, soft underfoot. The shop's scale beam hung higher than a man's head. The shop hand dragged three sacks under it, hung them one at a time, and called out the numbers: "Two bags of spirit rice. One of coarse grain." Abacus beads clicked. "Fifty spirit stones."

Qian Duoduo reached into the mouth of one spirit rice sack, grabbed a handful, spread it across his palm, picked through it, then brought it to his nose and sniffed before pouring the grains back.

"Three bags again next month?" the shop hand asked.

"Three again."

Xu Yan counted out fifty stones from the cloth pouch—ten to a stack, five stacks. The shop hand checked each stack, drew a mark in the register on the counter, and slid it back. Shi Po crouched down, grabbed the mouth of one spirit rice sack and lifted it a fraction to test the weight, then set it down and waited.

"And the spirit rice," Qian Duoduo said, untying the pouch mouth. "For two pots' worth."

The shop hand dragged out two more small bags and weighed them. Qian Duoduo counted out ten stones from the pouch and laid them on the counter one by one; the hand swept them up. Qian Duoduo stood at the counter looking at the two small bags, then turned back to Xu Yan. "Starting next month, one pot. The weather's turning cold; fewer rogue cultivators around."

"One pot," Xu Yan said.

"Then of the two pots we're adding today, we'll add one. No need to top up on the fifth."

Xu Yan nodded. The shop hand put the two small bags together. Qian Duoduo carried one; Du Xiaochuan carried the other. Shi Po took both big bags—one to each shoulder. The rope bit in, and the sacks settled stable on him. The hand reached out to help lift, but Shi Po was already standing straight. Going through the doorway he turned sideways; the sacks passed the frame without wavering an inch. Xu Yan carried the coarse grain. It was heavy; he gripped the sack mouth tight and switched hands every stretch of road.

Shi Po walked up front, two bags pressing down on him, his pace just as fast as ever. Qian Duoduo trailed behind, panting, shifting the cloth pouch from arm to arm, bracing it with his chin when he switched.

They left town at the Monkey hour. The old man who sold flatbread was hauling up his door boards. He saw them and raised a hand in greeting. Halfway up the slope, Xu Yan looked back once: the table by the riverbank was still there, a carrying pole leaning against one leg. A boat was moving downriver, a white wake trailing from its stern. Up ahead, Shi Po had stopped to wait for him. The two rice bags stayed on his shoulders; he looked back too, and didn't ask what there was to look at. He stood a moment, then kept climbing.

They reached the Mountain Gate at the Dog hour. Nie Bo was sweeping. He let the broom fall aside from their feet until they'd passed, then resumed—shh, shh—sweeping toward the rear of the mountain gate.

In the Kitchen, A He was crouched at the stove mouth feeding the fire. A Sui came in with an armload of firewood and dropped it on the floor with a crash. Qian Duoduo poured the extra sack of spirit rice into the jar against the inner wall. The grains fell with a soft rustling, and he pressed the lid down and wiped it twice with the rag. "This bag stays put. The one for the fifth stays put too. We're not topping up on the fifth."

A Sui asked, "Still taking two pots on the fifth?"

"One pot." Qian Duoduo held up one finger. "One pot, twenty bowls. If it's not enough, we'll make flatbread."

Shi Po moved the jar by the doorway back against the wall, swept a few loose grains into the dustpan by the stove with his foot, and when he'd done, leaned the dustpan against the wall.

At the Dog hour, the Main Hall. The bowls on the table had been cleared. Qian Duoduo wiped the tabletop dry with the rag. A lamp was lit on the innermost table, its light reaching only half the table; the stretch by the door was dark. Wind came through the crack under the door and the flame wavered, then straightened.

Xu Yan came in. He didn't sit. He stood on the lit side of the lamp.

"We're opening a market."

Everyone in the room looked up. Cheng Banshan sat with the wine gourd in his hand, the stopper still in. Shao Ming was seated below him. Huo Qing leaned against the pillar by the door, right arm hanging. Jiang Wan stood on the far side of the lamp. Shi Po squatted on the threshold. The two children sat close together.

Qian Duoduo spoke first. "A market? What kind of market?"

"No stall fees, no commission. Every consignment goes across one scale."

"Where?"

"In town. Haven't found the building yet."

Bai Xiaoman tucked her handful of pebbles into her sleeve. "I'll calibrate the scale."

"Who watches it?" Jiang Wan asked.

"We'll set that once it's open."

Shao Ming leaned forward. "We keep the stall?"

"We keep it."

"If you don't take money, where does the market's rice come from?" Shao Ming asked again.

"The market won't earn Qingya a single stone. The stall is Qingya's income. The market isn't," Xu Yan said.

Shao Ming didn't ask anything more. His fingertip tapped once on the table's edge.

"No stall fees—then when people come, what do we give them?" Qian Duoduo asked.

"A place to put their goods. A scale."

Cheng Banshan pulled the stopper and took a drink, then hung the gourd back on the cord at his waist. The stopper went back in afterward.

The Main Hall went quiet for a while. Jiang Wan glanced at him and held back the question she'd been about to ask, but in the end she asked it anyway: "Once the market's open, do you think people will be willing to talk?"

"I don't know," Xu Yan said. "First, there has to be a place."

She didn't ask again. No one mentioned the three houses in Linchuan, or the man at the wharf. That night the Main Hall spoke of nothing but the market.

A He stacked the bowls and asked Qian Duoduo, "Is the market going to be big?"

"We haven't found the place yet."

Under the lamp, A Sui lined up the chopsticks one by one until they were even, then pressed them down on top of the bowl.

Before the Hai hour, the Accounts Room. The lamp was moved to the ledger rack. Xu Yan opened the account book. The ink in the inkstone had been ground before the Dog hour and had thickened; he thinned it with half a spoon of water and worked the ink stick a few more circles. He wrote down each entry of the day, one brushstroke at a time: the thirtieth day of the Tenth Month—Income, one hundred stones; Expenditure, the Eleventh Month rations, fifty stones. Balance on hand: five thousand four hundred fourteen stones.

He read through the month's running ledger from beginning to end: the fourth's carriage fare, the trip to the inn, then six market days after that, one line per market; the fifteenth's line had one extra entry for auxiliary ingredients. He worked the abacus from the top and ended with the same figure that was on the paper.

When he finished, he pulled out the cash box, untied the hemp rope, and counted: today's hundred stones in—fifty out, fifty pressed flat at the bottom of the box. The earlier spirit stones lay in stacks of ten, filling most of the box's base. He didn't count those; he only moved today's five stacks to the outermost edge, even with the rest. The count matched. He tied the rope back, pushed the box under the ledger rack, and pushed until it stopped—the corner of the box knocked against the wall with a dull thud. The silver ledger was still in Bai Xiaoman's keeping, still at ten taels, not a single copper touched that day. After the Main Hall broke up, she'd turned to the last line of that book and shown it to him, then tucked it back into her sleeve.

The last few pages of the account book, he didn't turn to. At the bottom of those pages was still one blank line. He knew it was there; he didn't look. He set the inkstone on the book to press the binding flat, then trimmed the lamp wick, and the room brightened a little. Wind crossed the courtyard; sparks still crackled by the Kitchen.

Qian Duoduo stood in the doorway of the Accounts Room, the empty cloth pouch cradled against his chest, flat and sagging down to his knees.

Xu Yan saw him. "Pots scrubbed?"

"Scrubbed. Bowls stacked too." Qian Duoduo didn't leave. He shifted half a step into the room.

"Sect Master," he asked, "once the market's open—are we moving the spirit meals there?"

Xu Yan smoothed the account book and looked up. "No. The stall stays the stall."