Chapter 206: The Empty Cabinet

On the thirtieth day of the Eleventh Month, before the Dragon hour, a man was already standing at the foot of the wall in the grain shop's back courtyard.

He had a bundle of spirit grass over his shoulder, the straw rope cutting a deep groove into the hollow of his shoulder. The dirt on the roots had dried; it crumbled off with every shift of his weight. He stood outside the wooden door panels of the market gate. He didn't knock, and he didn't leave. He just shuffled his feet.

Shao Ming came up from the north end of the street with his hammer. When he saw the man, he picked up his pace half a step, lifted the door panel, and pulled out the wedge from underneath. The panel came free, and he leaned it against the rock by the wall.

"Here for the scale?"

"Here for the scale."

"Come in."

The man stepped over the threshold and looked up at the wall first. The scale hung on the patched section of wall, the hook dangling, the weight resting on the hook. He set the spirit grass down, loosened half the bundle rope, then tied it tight again and looked up. "How do we weigh it?"

"Loop the rope through, hoist it up." Shao Ming lowered the hook half a finger's width.

The bundle went up. Shao Ming steadied the beam with one hand and slid the weight with the other. He stopped halfway, sighted along the beam, nudged it a little further. The beam leveled out.

"Twenty-two jin."

The man didn't move. His eyes were fixed on the gradations. "Weigh it again."

Shao Ming lifted the bundle down, re-threaded the rope, hoisted it back up. The weight settled in the same spot.

"Twenty-two jin."

Xu Yan spread the market accounting book open on the counter, turned to a fresh page, tested the ink at the edge of the paper with one stroke, and wrote "the thirtieth day of the Eleventh Month." On the line below he wrote "Weighed, spirit grass, one bundle," then paused, and added the weight after it. When he finished, he laid the brush across the rim of the inkstone.

The man swung the bundle back onto his shoulder and wound the rope ends twice around his hand. "This scale is fair."

"We don't charge for weighing," Xu Yan said.

"I know there's no charge." The man glanced toward the door. Sunlight had reached the threshold. "I'll take this number and go bargain."

"Bargaining doesn't look at the scale?" Shao Ming asked.

"What's there to look at?" the man said. "The other fellow holds out a hand, hefts it, says my grass is light. I tell him I dug for three days. He won't listen, won't even look at a scale, just knocks the price down. I had nothing to go on, so I could never out-argue him."

He hitched the rope on his shoulder. "Today I've got a number. Twenty-two jin. Not one jin more, not one less. If he hefts it again, I'll give him that number."

He walked out. In the middle of the street he stopped and looked back. "I'll come weigh again next market."

"Fives and tens," Shao Ming said from the doorway.

The man grunted and turned into the market street, the grass tips sweeping the ground, dragging a thin line of dust behind him.

"He weighed twice," Shao Ming said, stepping back inside and tucking the wedge into his waistband.

"Twice, same result," Xu Yan said.

"Same."

The market book lay open on the counter. The page held only one line. The cabinet stood against the west wall, doors open, shelves wiped clean, completely empty. Xu Yan glanced at it, nudged the book further in, and pressed down the corner that the wind had lifted.

At the Snake hour, Qi Qi came running from the north end of the street, cloth pouch slapping against his hip. He called out "ten bottles" the moment he came through the door and set the pouch down on the stall board. Qian Duoduo stood the bottles up one by one, labels facing the street. Before he even turned around, someone came to buy.

"Anything in the market need moving?" Qi Qi asked.

"Nothing," Xu Yan said.

"Then I'll stand."

So he stood just inside the door, arms hanging loose, watching people pass on the street. Someone poked a head in, saw the scale, saw the open empty cabinet, and pulled back out.

Finally a woman carrying a basket came in. She set the basket on the threshold and peered into the room for a long while. "You don't sell food in here?"

"No," Qi Qi said.

"That spirit meal pot at the door isn't yours?"

"It's ours," Qi Qi said. "The stall's under the post."

The woman picked up her basket. "Then what's this room for?"

Qi Qi thought about it. "A scale," he said. "Anyone can bring goods to be weighed."

The woman made a small sound and left.

By the end of the Snake hour, the market was over.

The pot was scraped clean. Ten empty bottles lay on the stall board. Qian Duoduo gathered the empty bottles into the cloth pouch, counted them twice, then went off to the grain shop to restock spirit rice for the next market. Five spirit stones, counted out of the pouch and set beside the abacus on the counter.

The grain shop's proprietor pulled the abacus toward his chest and asked, "Twelfth Month rations today too?"

"Today," Qian Duoduo said.

"Anyone leaving goods at the market today?"

"No."

The proprietor pushed the abacus beads back and said nothing more.

Twelfth Month rations came to fifty spirit stones. After the proprietor counted the stones, he had a shop hand bring out two sacks of spirit rice and one sack of coarse grain from the back. The sack mouths were tied tight, with charcoal marks drawn on the cloth. Du Xiaochuan squatted and knotted the three sack cords together, hoisted them onto his shoulder, and put real effort into his legs as he stood. Qian Duoduo folded the two empty cloth sacks and stuffed them into the carrying pole, then counted the bottles and bowls once more. Nothing missing.

They left town at the Wei hour.

On the road, Qi Qi made small talk. He said that rogue cultivator who'd weighed his grass had ended up bargaining with someone at the east end of the market for ages—argued until his neck went red. Du Xiaochuan's pole swayed on his shoulder. "The scale gave him a number," he said. "The price was still his to fight for."

"Did he close the deal?" Qian Duoduo asked.

"Didn't see," Qi Qi said. "But when he walked off carrying his grass, his face was relaxed."

They entered the mountain gate at the Shen hour. Nie Bo moved his broom aside. Frost had settled on the stone steps; the swept sections were dry, the unswept white.

From the 1st to the fourth day of the Twelfth Month, nothing happened on the mountain. Early on the 5th, before the sky had fully lightened, fog rose from the river. Those going down the mountain were damp by the time they reached the halfway slope.

At the Snake hour on the 5th, two rogue cultivators came to the market.

The one in front carried a pack of sun-dried spirit grass, the straps cutting into his chest. The one behind bore two bamboo baskets on a pole, filled with sliced medicinal roots under a layer of burlap. They came in and set their goods on the floor first, looked up at the scale, then at the paper on the wall.

"Weigh first," Shao Ming said.

The roots went on first: twenty and a half jin. Shao Ming announced it and pointed out the weight. The spirit grass went on after: eleven jin. Xu Yan added two lines to the market book.

The man with the grass didn't leave. He stood in front of the paper on the wall and ran one finger down the characters, very slowly, mouthing the words as he went. Halfway down, he stopped and turned. "How does consignment work?"

Xu Yan came around from behind the counter and stood by the wall, tapping a finger on the paper. "You set the price. The market sells at your price."

"And when it sells?"

"It's recorded under the consignor's name."

The man's finger continued down, reached "accounts settled on the tenth day of the Eighth Month," read it once, then read it again, and looked up. "The tenth day of the Eighth Month?"

"The tenth day of the Eighth Month," Xu Yan said.

"Isn't that—" The man spread his palm against the edge of the paper, like he was measuring the length of that section. "A year?"

"A year."

"Even after it sells, you don't pay?"

"Recorded under your name. Paid all at once on the tenth day of the Eighth Month."

The man stood in place, eyes on the paper. After a moment he said, "This bundle of grass here, it's worth around ten stones. Waiting until the tenth day of the Eighth Month—that's more than half a year. A whole year's grain for me comes out of this."

"Can I get half up front?" He turned. "Once it sells, pay me half first, and the rest on the tenth day of the Eighth Month."

"No," Xu Yan said.

"Why not?"

"That's what the market has written."

"Can't the writing be changed?"

"It can't."

The man looked at him, then back at the paper on the wall. He pulled the strap over his shoulder, squatted down, and tied the spirit grass back up. While he was knotting the rope, he said, "I can't wait until the tenth day of the Eighth Month. I'm a rogue cultivator. I live season to season on a few bundles of grass. If I wait until the Eighth Month, where does my food come from?"

He swung the bundle onto his shoulder and straightened up. "You run this market for the sects. The sects can afford to wait. We can't."

The one carrying the roots hadn't said a word the whole time. He threaded a rope through both baskets, lifted the pole, and stepped over to the cabinet for a look inside.

"Empty?" he asked.

"Empty," Shao Ming said.

"Not one pack left with you?"

"Not one."

"Then why do you keep this place open?"

"For weighing."

"I've finished weighing." The man shifted the pole to his other shoulder and looked once more at the paper on the wall. He said nothing, and followed the first man out. The fog hadn't lifted. Their shadows wavered once in the patch of light at the door and were gone.

Shao Ming walked back in and lowered the hook so the weight dropped to rest on its own.

"Two weighings, one cabinet," he said. "The tenth day of the Eighth Month—we set that date ourselves."

"We set it ourselves," Xu Yan said.

"A year. It's long."

"It's long."

The door panels went up at the end of the Horse hour. Qi Qi handed over the wedge and watched Shao Ming fit the panel into place with two firm pats. Then he turned. "Sect Master, open again tomorrow?"

"Fives and tens," Xu Yan said.

"I know fives and tens," Qi Qi said. "I'm asking about the cabinet—"

"The 10th," Xu Yan said.

They left town at the Wei hour and reached the mountain gate at the Shen hour.

The wood stove in the Medicine Hall had gone out. Cheng Banshan sat on a low stool beside the charcoal brazier out front, the furnace hook resting on his knee, the empty sleeve of his missing arm tucked into his waistband. When he saw Xu Yan come in, he asked first, "Sold?"

"Sold."

"How many weighings?"

"Two."

"Two." Cheng Banshan tapped the hook against the brazier's rim, knocking the ash off the tip. "On the 25th, not a single one."

"No one came to weigh on the 25th."

"Then two it is." He tilted his head toward the brazier. "Don't ask for names. Once you know a name, you have to start solving his problems for him."

Xu Yan stood in the Medicine Hall for a while, looking at the wooden box on the shelf, but he didn't reach for it. By the time he got back to the Accounts Room, dusk was falling. He lit the lamp first, then opened the market book.

After lamp-lighting, the sound of wood being split came from the corridor—one axe stroke, then another, falling slow. Through the wall, A He was reciting formulas in the kitchen, pausing after each line, A Sui repeating after him and laughing when she got it wrong.

The door creaked open a crack.

Jiang Wan came in carrying an oil pot, the spout narrow, the oil sloshing inside. She lifted the lampshade, poured until the basin was seven-tenths full, set the pot on a corner of the desk, and nudged the wick up a little.

The lamplight brightened a shade.

When she looked down, she saw the market book lying open. The page held only a few lines, and all the words were short.

"Is the cabinet still empty?" she asked.

"It's empty."

She warmed her hand over the lampshade, didn't ask anything more, and went out with the pot. The door swung to behind her but didn't catch, leaving a crack a finger wide.

The wood-splitting went on. One stroke. Then another.

Xu Yan sat in the lamplight, picked up the brush, and below the line reading "the fifth day of the Twelfth Month" he added a few words: Two weighings. Cabinet empty.

The ink hadn't dried. He closed the book and set it on top of the account ledgers. Those words pasted on the wall in town—he had written them himself. He did not get up to change a single one of them.