Chapter 203: Two Jars of Wine

Just past noon, the pot by the third pillar along the wall was scraped empty. Qian Duoduo worked the long ladle along the sides, scraped out half a bowl, and poured it into Du Xiaochuan's bowl.

"Eat."

"You're not having any?" Du Xiaochuan held the bowl without moving.

"I tasted it already." Qian Duoduo kept his eyes on the street, stacking the empty bowls one on top of another.

The rogue cultivators ate squatting against the wall across the street, set their bowls on the rock beside the stall when they finished, and left without looking up. Melted frost dripped from the tile eaves onto the corner of the table—one drop, then another.

Xu Yan sat on the low stool behind the stall collecting money. Copper coins went to one side; spirit stones were laid out on the old cloth across his knees, one after another. A woman from town came to buy the last bottle of Qi-Gathering Powder. She turned the bottle over, checked the stopper, and asked, "Still three?"

"Three," Xu Yan said.

She set the money on the table, tucked the bottle into her sleeve, and left faster than she'd come.

Qi Qi folded the old cloth used to cover the pot behind the stall, stuffed it into a basket, and crouched down. "Sect Master, are we still going to the grain shop?"

"We are. Restocking spirit rice for the next market."

"Qian Duoduo's going. I'll go too."

Xu Yan looked up at him. "He's handling the rice."

"I'm not buying rice." Qi Qi pushed the basket against the pillar, stood up, and headed north up the street. He walked faster than usual today, his shoulders bobbing.

The grain shop counter was high. Standing, Qi Qi's chin just cleared the surface. The shopkeeper was working an abacus above, finished a page, and looked down at him.

"Shopkeeper, the old sacks in that east room—I'll haul them out for you."

The abacus beads stopped mid-click.

"Give me two jars of wine from the place out back."

The shopkeeper studied him for a moment, then pushed the abacus aside. "How many sacks in that room, you know?"

"Haven't counted."

"Twenty-some years of stock. Over a hundred sacks. Roof leaks in the east corner, too."

"Leaks don't matter for hauling."

"The good ones go one place, the moldy ones another—you'll listen to me." The shopkeeper pointed toward the back courtyard. "Stack the good ones in the middle room, against the wall. The moldy ones go out the back, through the small gate, down to the river path. Someone'll come for them. Let mold into the pile, the whole room goes bad."

"Fine."

"Can you finish before the Shen hour?"

"Before the Shen hour."

The shopkeeper looked at him again—this time at his shoulders—and finally nodded. "Go on." He pulled a key from under the drawer and told the shop hand to unlock the door. "Return the key when you're done."

The door to the east storehouse swung open and the smell hit first, thick enough to knock a person back half a step. The sacks were stacked chest-high, layer on layer. The bottom rows had blackened, the cloth soft to the touch—a finger pressed in left a dent. The east corner of the roof leaked; a sliver of daylight slanted through the gap between tiles and fell across the sacks, lighting up a film of dust.

Qi Qi took off his outer robe, hung it on the doorframe, and walked over to grab the first sack.

The first one sat at the top of the stack—dry, hard. As soon as he lifted it, hemp dust from the mouth blew into his face. He turned his head away, carried it to the middle room. Grain was piled in the middle; a strip along the wall was clear. He stacked the sacks as instructed, waist-high, then chest-high. The sacks didn't sit flush; corners jutted out, and he kicked them into line.

By the twentieth-odd sack, his arms were weighted. He didn't rest. He kept hauling. The sounds of the street came through the nailed-shut crack of the east wall—stalls closing, carts being dragged, someone shouting across the street, "Come back on the fifteenth." It all passed through that crack.

Past thirty sacks, the ones from the bottom of the pile came up soft, leaving dents at a grip. Moldy. These he carried out, around the middle room, through the small back gate, down a stretch of earthen slope, and set them on the path by the river. The dirt on the slope was wet; his soles slipped. Each time he braced the sack against the pile before taking his hands off.

One sack had a mouse nest under it—dried grass and grain husks scattered across the floor, three small mice darting past his feet into the base of the wall. He stood watching for a moment, then shook the empty sack out twice into the dirt beyond the door and kept going.

The shopkeeper came over from the front courtyard once, stood outside the threshold, and looked in with one hand braced against the frame. The row along the wall in the middle room was already chest-high, uneven but neat. He didn't come in. All he said was, "Don't mind the filth on the moldy ones. Every sack gets eyeballed." Then he went back to the counter, and the abacus resumed.

The water-boy came up from the river, buckets swinging at either end of his pole. Seeing Qi Qi on the slope, he stopped.

"The shopkeeper asked me to check in."

"See for yourself." Qi Qi hoisted the sack higher onto his shoulder.

The boy stood on the slope, watched him set a moldy sack down on the path, then looked back toward the middle room. "Don't pile the moldy ones on top of that stack in the middle."

"I know."

The boy set his buckets down and held out a hand. "Let me help you with that one."

Qi Qi hitched the sack higher onto his shoulder. "I've got it."

The boy withdrew his hand, picked up his load, and went into the courtyard.

By early Shen hour, the last sack was out. In the middle room, a long row now ran along the wall, higher than before. On the river path, a small pile sat, the moldy sides facing the water. Qi Qi stood in the yard covered in hemp dust, a layer on his eyebrows too. He wiped his face with his sleeve and left two pale streaks. He wiped his hands on his trousers. The dust wouldn't come off.

The shopkeeper came down from the counter, went into the middle room, looked up and counted, pointing his finger along the row. He counted once, then counted again from the start. Then he went out the small back gate, stood on the slope looking down at the pile by the river, came back up, and said, "Done."

He walked to the counter, counted out six spirit stones from the drawer, and placed them in the shop hand's palm. "The place out back. Two jars. The jars come back."

The boy stared at the spirit stones in his hand. "Two jars?"

"Two jars."

Qi Qi was by the doorframe slapping dust off his clothes—it wouldn't come clean. He looked up. "Shopkeeper, three a jar, six for two. That money, I should—"

"I'm paying." The shopkeeper slid the drawer shut. "A half-day like that isn't worth six, but it's close enough." He took the key back from the boy and hung it under the drawer. "Next time that room fills up, I'll call on you again."

"Three a jar now. Next time it'll be four," Qi Qi said.

"Four, then. Go wash your hands first."

The shop hand came back carrying two jars of wine, mouths sealed with oiled paper and hemp cord, a small lump of clay pressed over each knot. Qi Qi borrowed an old carrying pole and two lengths of hemp rope from the counter, slung one jar at each end, and tested it on his shoulder. The pole bowed; the jars swayed, and the wine inside sloshed.

By the time he left town, the market street was empty. He carried the pole up the mountain road; halfway up the slope, the sky dimmed. Qian Duoduo looked back, saw him coming, and stopped to wait.

"What are you carrying?"

"Wine."

"Where'd you get it?" Qian Duoduo hitched the rice sack on his back a little higher.

"Hauling sacks."

"All afternoon?"

"All afternoon." Qi Qi shifted the pole to his other shoulder.

"Six spirit stones—where'd you get those?" Qian Duoduo said. "The shopkeeper pay?"

"The shopkeeper paid."

Qian Duoduo stared at the two jars for a while. "So you owe the shopkeeper."

"I cleared out the whole room," Qi Qi said. "Even the moldy ones. Every sack checked by hand."

Du Xiaochuan looked at the two pale streaks on his face. "Your face."

"I know."

Xu Yan came over, glanced at the jars hanging from the pole. He didn't ask the price, didn't ask how many sacks, just said, "Let's go."

At the mountain gate, Nie Bo was sweeping by the gate stone and stepped aside with his broom. Someone on the east courtyard wall was sheathing a sword; the scabbard clacked against brick. From the veranda came another dull thud as the wooden target took a hit. Qi Qi carried the jars through, past the Medicine Hall to the west. The jars swayed on the pole, sloshing all the way to the corner of the wall.

A fire burned in the Medicine Hall. New flames on the wood stove were still weak; a faint medicinal smell drifted out with the heat. Cheng Banshan crouched by the stove, working the fire with the furnace hook. Qi Qi set the two jars down on the stone steps outside the door; the bottoms knocked once: thunk.

"Elder Cheng. Two jars. Not one short."

Cheng Banshan set the hook on the stove ledge, stood, and came over. He looked at the two jars first, then at Qi Qi's face.

"The shopkeeper paid?"

Qi Qi paused. "I cleared out his east storehouse for him."

"What you promised me was two jars you bought yourself."

"I can't afford two jars." Qi Qi spoke quickly. "Three a jar. The three I have—you told me to keep and spend on myself."

Cheng Banshan looked at him. The empty half-sleeve was tucked into his waistband. He pressed a hand over that spot, then bent down, braced his knee against the jar, and peeled back the oiled paper with one hand, leaning in to smell.

"The place out back," he said. "Same as always."

He laid the paper back over the mouth and turned to the shelf, taking down from the top rack the packet of wild spirit herbs—picked in the Hidden Realm, dried, tied in small bundles. He held the herbs in the crook of his arm, came back to the jar, and pushed them in handful by handful until the mouth was full and wine welled up, spilling over, streaking down the side. He took the cord-end between his teeth, stretched the oiled paper over with one hand, wrapped twice, and tied it tight.

"This one's not for sale."

"Nobody'd buy it anyway," Qi Qi said.

"Wouldn't be so sure." Cheng Banshan pushed the other jar to the base of the wall, side by side with the first. The old jar under the shelf still held half its contents; he left it. With his sleeve he wiped the line of wine running down the jar's side, then raised the sleeve to his nose and sniffed. "Leave them against the wall. Don't open until winter's past."

"Open at New Year?"

"Open one in spring." Cheng Banshan said. "I'll call you."

Qi Qi stood there. Finally he said, "Elder Cheng, about those two jars—"

"Settled." Cheng Banshan said. "What you owed me—settled."

Qi Qi made a sound of assent, picked up his outer robe from the doorframe, and left.

Xu Yan stood outside the Medicine Hall for a moment. Only after hearing those last two lines did he turn toward the Accounts Room. Smoke was rising from the kitchen. A Sui crouched in the doorway sorting vegetables, tossing yellowed leaves into the dustpan by her feet. Shi Po came around the wall corner with two buckets of water, a thin line spilling out as he walked.

By the Xu hour, the lamp in the Accounts Room was lit. Xu Yan opened the ledger and emptied the pouch Qian Duoduo had brought back onto the table, separating copper coins from spirit stones, counting once, then again. It matched. The silver ledger was with Bai Xiaoman—twelve taels left. He didn't ask about it.

On the page he wrote: the tenth day of the Eleventh Month. One pot. Ten bottles. Five spirit stones to restock spirit rice for next market. Income: sixty-five.

From the direction of the Medicine Hall came two dull knocks—jars settling onto the stones at the base of the wall. One, then after a pause, another.

He knew about the wine. He knew how the wine had come to be. That was a line not recorded in this ledger, and rightly not. The brush paused over the paper.

He didn't write it down.

He turned the page. On the next, at the top, he wrote: Eleventh. Roof repairs.

Outside the kitchen wall, the two bundles of roof tiles still sat under their reed mats, held down by two stones. The storehouse was empty now; the long row along the wall of the middle room was stacked and ready. Tomorrow morning, Uncle Shao and Shi Po could get up on the roof.

The lamp wick popped. From beyond the courtyard wall, the wind carried the smell of wine, and with it that faint bitterness of wild spirit herbs.