Chapter 201: The Storehouse on the East Side

On the first day of the Eleventh Month, the lid went on the inner grain jar in the kitchen. Besides the Eleventh Month's rations, the jar now held the extra pot of spirit rice Qian Duoduo had bought from the grain shop on the thirtieth day of the Tenth Month. Qian Duoduo wiped the rim with a rag twice, then told A He: one pot per market day through the winter, no more than that.

A He crouched by the stove mouth, feeding in firewood. "One pot's enough to sell?"

"Enough. When it's cold, fewer people come."

That pot of rice stayed sealed in the jar. The days were short on the mountain now, but the sword still struck before dawn in the corridor—each impact driving into the crater at the target's center. Nie Bo's broom swept from the mountain gate to the front courtyard, then swept back the way it came.

Before dawn on the fifth, Qian Duoduo and Du Xiaochuan carried the pot of spirit meal down the mountain, one behind the other, with Xu Yan following. Frost lay on the mountain path; each step pressed a dark wet print. Stones weighed down the cloth covers on the carrying poles, but halfway down the slope a corner of the cloth flipped up and white steam leaked out. Qian Duoduo pressed it back down and switched shoulders.

They reached town at the Mao hour. The stall board went against the third pillar from the wall; the pot went up on its stand; the fire in the stove burned low. Frost clung to the old tile eaves, and when the sun struck it, water dripped down onto the pot's rim—one drop, a small sound, then nothing.

The townsfolk came to eat as usual, crouching beneath the eaves. When they finished, they placed their coins on the stall board. Rogue cultivators came up the street, took one look at the pot, then one look at the people behind the stall, pulled out coin for a bowl, and walked off a few steps to crouch against the wall across the street and eat. One man brought his bowl back, set it bottom-up on the corner of the stall board, and left without raising his head.

At the Si hour, Qi Qi came running down with ten bottles of Qi-Gathering Powder, sweat beading his forehead. He stood the bottles up one by one behind the stall board. "Elder Cheng says this batch ground especially fine. Told me not to jostle them on the road."

"Fine or not, the people who drink it will know." Qian Duoduo stirred the pot with the long ladle.

The sun climbed above the tile eaves, and the pot showed its bottom. Du Xiaochuan clapped the lid on, and Qian Duoduo scraped the ladle along the pot's bottom, scraping out half a bowl, which he poured for the last man in line. "No second pot this market day. This half-bowl's what was stuck to the bottom."

The man took the bowl, said "Thanks," and crouched down to eat. Qi Qi watched the back-baskets lined up against the far wall and straightened the last two empty bottles in his hand.

"No more rice bought this market day." Qian Duoduo tucked the long ladle behind his waist. "There's one more pot in the jar."

"I'm going to the grain shop to ask about something," Xu Yan said.

"There's still rice."

"I'm asking about a room."

The grain shop sat at the northeast corner of the market. A wooden sign hung by the door with a few prices written in charcoal. The proprietor was working an abacus behind the counter; Xu Yan stood outside the counter and waited for him to finish the calculation. The beads stopped, and the proprietor looked up. "Sect Master Xu. Buying rice?"

"Not rice." Xu Yan said. "That room on the east side of your back courtyard—are you renting it out?"

The proprietor pushed the abacus aside and came around the counter. "Come with me."

The back courtyard sat half a step lower than the market street; you went down one stone step at the entrance. Sacks were stacked under the eaves, coated in a thin layer of dust, and a line of footprints led from the eaves straight to the door of the middle room. Three rooms stood side by side: the west one empty, its door open, a thread of grass growing from the cracks in the brick; the middle one piled with grain, sacks stacked to the rafters; the east one with one of its door panels half-open, stuffed to the doorway with old sacks, their mouths loose, revealing bran and mold inside.

"Used to hold old grain," the proprietor said. "For twenty-some years."

Xu Yan walked in. The floor gave softly underfoot—the sacks had collapsed. He looked up. The east corner of the roof leaked; a line of sky-light came through a gap in the tiles and slanted onto the pile of sacks along the east side, where a dark stain spread. An old door was set into the east wall, nailed shut with boards. The nail heads were all rust; gaps remained between the boards, and through them you could see outside—the north end of the market street, where people lifted their feet and set them down, their shadows passing across the gaps. Voices came through too.

He walked over and looked out through the gaps for a while. The half-street outside was closer than he'd thought.

"This door opens onto the street," he said.

"It did in the old days. Then people stopped using it, and it got nailed up."

The lower half of the back wall was stone footing; the upper half was old board, with several chunks of the mud packed between the boards fallen out. There was water running beyond the wall—not fast, but steady. Xu Yan reached out and pressed a hand to it. His fingers came away damp.

"The Luoxia River runs right behind," the proprietor said. "There's a small path along the back wall. It's damp in summer; you can't store dry goods in here."

"How much for a year?"

"Thirty for a year."

Xu Yan did the math in his head: two and a half a month. He took his hand off the wall and wiped it on the front of his robe.

"I'll bring the lease on the eighth," he said. "Two copies, identical."

The proprietor looked at him and laughed. "Two identical copies. You'd think you were buying land."

"Renting for a year—the wording should at least be the same."

"What are you opening?"

"A scale," Xu Yan said. "Anyone's goods can be weighed on it. No fee."

The proprietor was still holding the abacus. He lifted it slightly. "No fee—what's Sect Master Xu after?"

"People willing to come."

The proprietor didn't answer right away. He set the abacus down on the sacks under the eaves, looked at the three rooms, then at the nailed-shut door.

"This room's sat empty for twenty-some years. You want it, it's yours." He said. "You fix the roof yourself; patch the walls yourself." He tapped the door with a finger. "No one stays here at night. It's right on the river, board walls—one fire starter and it burns to the ground."

"No one will stay here."

"Come on the eighth. I'll press my thumbprint, you sign—it'll be binding all the same."

They left town at the Shen hour. The wind was strong on the slope; Qian Duoduo wrapped the cloth covers tight around the burden and asked, "How big is the room?"

"Three stall boards side by side with room to walk around them."

"Does it leak?"

"The east corner does."

"Leaks can be fixed."

They reached the mountain gate at the You hour. Nie Bo was sweeping. His broom shifted aside from their feet, and once they'd passed, he picked up again—shh, shh—working his way back toward the inner mountain gate.

That evening in the main hall, after the bowls were cleared, Qian Duoduo wiped the tabletop dry with a rag. The lamp sat on the innermost table, its light reaching only half the table. Xu Yan came in but didn't sit.

"The place is in the grain shop's back courtyard—the east room," he said. "Thirty for a year. Signing on the eighth."

"Thirty for a year." Qian Duoduo draped the rag over his arm. "Two and a half a month."

"What's the room like?" Shao Ming asked.

"East corner leaks. A door in the east wall, nailed shut with boards—pry it open and it faces the north end of the market street. The wall needs patching. The river's behind it."

"How long has it been nailed?" Shi Po asked.

"Twenty-some years."

"Nails are rusted; one good pull and they'll come loose." Shi Po said. "I'll get up and look at the roof."

"From the eleventh on, Uncle Shao will go with you."

Shao Ming nodded. "Tiles, lime, timber—we need to see how much it'll take first. For the east corner, whether the rafters under the tiles are still there—we won't know till someone gets up."

"Buy on the ninth."

"The scale, also on the ninth?" Bai Xiaoman asked.

"The scale too, on the ninth. You go down on the twenty-third and calibrate it."

"We'll need a hand scale too," Bai Xiaoman said. "The big scale has its stars, but the small scale has to be accurate as well."

"Buy both."

"Who minds the shop in the market?" Qian Duoduo asked.

"Uncle Shao." Xu Yan said. "Minding the door, minding the scale."

"And the books?"

"I'll keep them. Bring the ledger down every market day, bring it back up when the market closes."

"The stall stays the same?"

"The same. You and Xiaochuan."

"Once the shop opens, people who come will need somewhere to put their goods," Shao Ming said. "Should I build a cabinet?"

"Yes. One with a lock." Xu Yan said. "The silver comes out of those two pieces from the ninth."

Cheng Banshan sat at the side nearest the Medicine Hall. He'd worked the gourd free from his waist, pulled the stopper, and taken a drink; now he'd put the stopper back. "A room by the river—you do two coats of plaster. Let the first coat dry, then put on the second."

"Two coats." Shi Po said.

"Where does the scale hang?"

"Inside the door. Take the half-panel of the east door off and lean it against the wall, and the scale's the first thing you see walking in."

"Next to the river, iron will rust."

"The cabinet goes in the back; every day the scale comes down and gets hung back up."

"You're going alone to sign on the eighth?" Jiang Wan asked.

"Uncle Shao comes with me."

She asked nothing else. Huo Qing leaned against the pillar by the door, right arm hanging, silent the whole time.

"And the mountain?" Xu Yan looked up.

"I'll handle the mountain," Jiang Wan said.

A He slid both legs down from the bench and leaned toward the table. "What's a shop?"

Qian Duoduo folded the rag once. "One room. One scale."

"Is there a pot?"

"The pot doesn't move in." Qian Duoduo said. "The stall is the stall."

A Sui lined up her chopsticks one by one in the lamplight, then set them on top of her bowl. "What does the shop sell, then?"

"Nothing much." Qian Duoduo said. "Other people's goods go inside; we watch them for them."

Cheng Banshan hung the gourd back on the cord at his waist. "Thirty a year—not expensive. What you're giving away free is the labor."

"Uncle Shao and Shi Po. Half a month." Xu Yan said.

"Half a month's enough to fix it," Shao Ming said.

People drifted out. Shi Po stayed crouched on the threshold, unmoving. When the rest had gone, he asked, "I choose the materials for the repairs?"

"You choose." Xu Yan said.

Shi Po nodded, rubbed his hands on his knees, and got up to bolt the front courtyard gate.

The sixth, night, in the accounting room. The lamp had been moved to the ledger rack; its light fell on the desk, wide enough to illuminate exactly one sheet of paper.

Xu Yan took a leftover scrap of cut paper from the bottom shelf of the ledger rack, smoothed it flat with his hand, then laid down a second sheet. He moved the inkstone to his hand, dripped water, and ground the ink. Only when a thick sheen rose in the ink pool did he lift the brush.

Leaseholder, Proprietor of the Grain Shop. Hereby leases one storehouse on the east side of the grain shop's back courtyard to Qingya Sect. Term: from the eighth day of the Eleventh Month, Alliance Year 301, to the eighth day of the Eleventh Month, Alliance Year 302—one year. Shop rent of thirty, paid in full on the day of signing. Door to be opened in the east wall; back wall untouched; no one to stay overnight.

When the first sheet was done, he moved it half a foot aside and wrote a second, the wording identical, down to the final mark falling in the same place.

He stopped the brush at the end. Two spaces remained blank at the bottom: one for the leaseholder's thumbprint, one for his own signature.

He opened the cash box and counted out thirty pieces—three stacks of ten—wrapped them in an old cloth, and pressed it into the innermost corner at the bottom of the box.

The two leases lay side by side on the desk. He moved the inkstone over to weight the corners, letting the air pass beneath. He trimmed the lamp wick, and the room brightened a little.

He recited the lease through once in his head. When he reached "no one to stay overnight," he paused. The brush was already resting on the inkstone. He didn't add anything.