Chapter 209: The Yin Hour Below the Back Cliff

On the first day of the First Month, Jiang Wan practiced her sword in the East Courtyard, training until the lamps were lit.

No fires had been lit on the mountain. Qian Duoduo reheated a few leftover dishes from the New Year's feast and stood at the kitchen door, calling out that anyone who wanted some should come and serve themselves. A He laid out the unspent firecrackers one by one on the steps; A Sui crouched counting them, and when she finished she arranged them all over again. The two of them argued over a broken half-stick. The front courtyard's snow had half-melted; every step came down in a puddle of water. Nie Bo swept from the Heaven Gate Threshold all the way to the end of the stone steps, then swept his way back. Where the broom passed, trails of water dried one by one.

The fifth-day and tenth-day market fairs went on as usual. Before first light, Qian Duoduo and Du Xiaochuan carried the pot down the mountain. By the Dragon hour the Qi-Gathering Powder was out of the furnace. Qi Qi stuffed ten bottles into his robe and ran down the mountain, reaching town by the Snake hour. One pot, twenty bowls of Spirit Meal, sold out by mid-Snake hour. The market opened at the Dragon hour and closed at the end of the Horse hour. Xu Yan kept the market ledger inside; Shao Ming watched the gate and the scale; Qi Qi, once he'd delivered the bottles, came back and helped stack the goods.

On the fifth the frost was thick. The market's door planks had frozen shut. Qi Qi had to throw his shoulder into them twice before they came loose, and when they did, his hands came away white with frost. It was too cold to sit inside; every word spoken came out in white puffs. Xu Yan warmed the brush he used for copying the market ledger in his sleeve before he let ink touch paper.

It was cold, and not many people came to consign goods. The three compartments of the case stayed full—Ink Pool Gate held the east compartment, Willow Bank Gate took half the west one, Jade Spring Sect's three bundles of spirit herbs sat beside Willow Bank Gate's, and the rogue cultivators' goods were crammed in below. On the tenth, a rogue cultivator hauled in a bundle of spirit herbs to be weighed—twenty-two jin. He asked about consigning, stood at the counter thinking for a long while, then hauled it away, saying he'd wait until the weather warmed. A man from town came in as well, tilted his head up to study the scale, asked who'd calibrated it. Told it had been done up on the mountain, he ran a hand along the beam once and left. Shao Ming flipped the scale pan over and wiped it, muttered, "Damned cold," and no one answered. When the market broke up he covered the scale with the old cloth and weighed it down with two stones, saying frost would come at night, and if the wood froze and cracked, the measurements would come out wrong.

In those eleven days, the lamp in the East Courtyard went out later than it used to.

On the night of the seventh a light snow fell. Jiang Wan sat on the front courtyard's stone steps, sword across her knees, and stayed there until the Hai hour before going back inside. Qi Qi came out to dump water, glanced at her, and went back to the West Wing to tell Shao Ming the Senior Sister had been training hard these days. Shao Ming didn't answer; he just pulled the blanket up a little higher. The next morning at the Mao hour he was in front of the Ancestral Hall as usual, leading the two children through their formulas. A Sui yawned halfway through a line and A He jabbed her with an elbow.

On the eleventh, at the Xu hour, Jiang Wan came out of the East Courtyard with her sword and stopped in front of the Accounts Room door.

"Tonight I'll be sitting below the Back Cliff."

Xu Yan looked up and answered, "Mm."

She left. Sword in hand, she didn't look back.

Xu Yan finished recording the tenth-day fair's market ledger: one weighing, nothing sold, and the goods from several shops still sitting in the case. He closed it and pressed it on top of the market box. The money in the market box belonged to other people; a separate slip recorded it, kept apart from Qingya's account books—a rule he checked after every single market day. Once he'd checked, he pushed the account book aside and just sat. Wind came over from the Back Mountain; the window paper stirred twice.

At the Hai hour he trimmed the lamp wick short, sparing the oil. He didn't go to bed when the Zi hour passed. At the Chou hour he heard the last door sound from the West Wing. Then came the Yin hour—

The lamp in the Accounts Room was still burning.

Xu Yan took the thin ledger out of his inner robe and set it on the desk. The pages turned by themselves and stopped.

[Credit: Jiang Wan, Foundation Establishment, Peak.]

[Balance: Sect Master, Foundation Establishment, Peak.]

At his lower back, the place that had been blocked for most of a year suddenly went hot. The heat traveled upward from there—to his spine, to his shoulders—moving slowly, loosening everything it passed. The spot that had been stuck since half a year ago tightened, then gave way, like someone from the inside had punched open a stoppered mouth. It didn't hurt, but it was a long time before he felt that one breath finally flow smooth.

He sat motionless, still holding the brush. The ink at the tip had dried into a tiny point. After a while he set the brush down and pressed his palms against his knees, bracing himself, then sat back again. His fingers were still a little numb; he squeezed them once, and they found their strength.

The ledger had closed itself and now lay at the corner of the desk—still that thin, blank old account book.

In his mind he ran through the eleven days' accounts: two market days, one hundred thirty spirit stones in; outlay only lamp oil and a little firewood, nothing else touched. He could balance those numbers with his eyes shut. He balanced them, and the ledger on the desk stayed closed.

The sky was almost light. Snow-glow whitened the yard and threw his shadow against the west wall.

He opened the door and stepped out, standing under the eaves. The front courtyard was empty. Nie Bo was already sweeping at the mountain gate, the broom hissing, stroke after stroke. Looking north, fog pressed down over the Back Mountain; the clifftop was invisible. Wind came out of the north, plastering his clothes to his body, and only then did he realize he'd been sweating. He stood a while, then went back inside and tucked the ledger into his robe.

He did not go to the Back Mountain.

At the end of the Yin hour he sat a while longer and added half a lamp's worth of oil to the lamp on the desk. The lamp wasn't bright enough—characters written in dim light came out crooked. That was a rule he'd set himself: accounts are for people to read; the characters have to stand straight.

Before the sky had fully lightened, Jiang Wan came down from the Back Mountain. Frost coated her shoes; her trouser legs were soaked to the knees. Her face was red with cold, but her eyes were bright.

Cheng Banshan was already up, standing at the Medicine Hall door with a furnace hook in his hand. Hearing her footsteps he turned, leaned the hook against the doorframe, and pressed three fingers to her wrist.

"Foundation Establishment, peak."

Jiang Wan pulled her hand back. "I know myself."

"You know yours." Cheng Banshan retrieved the hook and hung it from his belt. "I'm keeping this for the mountain's records. I'm not on the roster, but as for who on this mountain has reached which level—I keep a book in my head."

"What for?"

"To keep it. To have the count."

His eyes swept once toward the Accounts Room. Xu Yan stood in the doorway, account book in hand. Cheng Banshan glanced at him, asked nothing, and went back into the Medicine Hall to stoke the furnace.

Jiang Wan also looked toward the Accounts Room, said nothing, and headed for the East Courtyard. After a few steps she turned. "There's porridge on the stove."

The porridge had been boiled by Qian Duoduo, up since the Yin hour. Shi Po crouched by the kitchen door, a coarse bowl already scraped clean. When Jiang Wan came over he stood and yielded half of the stove platform. Qian Duoduo filled a bowl for her, said the pot had come out thick today, all last night's leftover rice had gone in. Then he asked if the Back Mountain had been cold. Jiang Wan said it was cold, drank the porridge down, returned the bowl, and went back to the East Courtyard to sleep.

The kitchen crowd lingered a while longer. A He carried his bowl out and crouched beyond the threshold. A Sui scraped the bottom of her bowl loud enough to hear. Qian Duoduo scraped the thin layer of rice skin from the pot's bottom into her bowl and told her that part was the best. Shao Ming finished in three gulps, set down his bowl, and went to stand in front of the Ancestral Hall to wait for the two children.

The sun came up. The front courtyard's snow all melted to water, running down the stone steps in rivulets. Huo Qing practiced his single thrust under the eaves, aiming at the wooden target—right arm hanging, left hand driving out, then drawing back. Around the dent at the bullseye, a fresh ring of wood shavings had appeared. Before noon he wrapped his sword and went back to the West Wing.

Noon, the Medicine Hall.

Cheng Banshan stood before the shelves, head tilted up at the oiled-paper parcel on the top row.

That parcel had sat for over twenty days: bought at the market on the twentieth day of the Twelfth Month, from the consignment goods of three rogue cultivators. Three price tags, twenty spirit stones all told. The alchemy materials for Qingya's first furnace of Qi-Gathering Pills—one packet of Stone Lichen, one bundle of Purple-Skin Root, a small packet of Eclipta Leaf—wrapped in oiled paper, sitting on the shelf. No one had touched it.

By the wood stove, Bai Xiaoman crouched, brewing Qi-Gathering Powder. She kept the fire low; a single thread of white steam rose from the pot lid's edge.

Xu Yan came in and stood by the worktable.

"That packet of materials—are we holding it?"

"Holding it." Cheng Banshan didn't turn around. "Waiting for the hand."

"One furnace is seven days. The materials are twenty spirit stones. One and a half dan of charcoal, fifteen more." Xu Yan said, "Thirty-five spirit stones of capital, sitting on the shelf."

"You figure it fast."

"I've figured it several times."

Only then did Cheng Banshan turn. He drew his hand from his sleeve and patted it against the stove's edge. "Figure it clean. But this hand can still pinch a fire—it can't lift a lid."

"For brewing medicine, one hand is enough."

"Enough. One iron hook to lift the lid, one bamboo slip to scrape out—that's all. Medicine is a thing of water; boil it through and it's medicine."

"Pills are different."

"Pills are different." Cheng Banshan said. "The difference is at the collection."

"Which moment?"

"One hand pinches the fire, holding the furnace chamber down; the other hand lifts the lid, sets the tray." He turned his one hand over, palm up, fingers spreading and closing. "Both have to move together. A breath early, and the fire hasn't been held—pill energy escapes. A breath late, and the tray isn't in place—the pill drops into the ash. Half a breath's difference."

"No one can lend a hand?"

"Someone has." Cheng Banshan said. "Early on, brewing medicine into the small hours, I'd call out and someone would come take the pot down for me. That worked. That's brewing. But refining a pill—the fire is pinched by my hand, and the lid has to open when I say it opens. If the two fall half a breath apart, the whole furnace is wasted."

"You've wasted one?"

"I've wasted one."

A pause.

"Fire comes in stages, too." Cheng Banshan suddenly said. "The first three days, gentle fire. The middle three, between gentle and strong. The last day, you collect. If the fire's a degree too strong, the pill skin thickens a layer. A degree too weak, and the inside stays raw. If the fire runs hot on any day, no later day can make it up."

"You remember it clearly."

"Remember it thirty years—of course it's clear."

He pulled his sleeve down. "Alchemy materials are dead things. Leave them a year and they're still the same packet. But charcoal—no. Charcoal draws damp if it sits too long. The seven-day fire can't be interrupted. If it collapses once, the first six days are burned for nothing."

"Then I won't buy it," Xu Yan said. "I'll buy on the day we open the furnace."

"Mm."

Xu Yan looked once at the parcel on the shelf. A thin layer of dust had settled on the oiled paper. He reached out and wiped it off with his sleeve.

"You could return the materials. Twenty spirit stones—you'd get it back," Cheng Banshan said.

"The materials were bought from three people's consignments. If I return them, what do they collect on the tenth day of the Eighth Month?"

"You're counting for them now."

"I'm counting for the market," Xu Yan said. "The market bought them at market price. There's no rule for giving goods back. The market rules say on one side, everyone's goods pass over the same scale—and the reverse holds too."

"The reverse." Cheng Banshan turned the phrase over, then said nothing more.

"How long must we wait?" Xu Yan asked.

"How would I know?" Cheng Banshan said. "Wait. I'm waiting. You're waiting too."

Xu Yan remained standing by the worktable. The Medicine Hall went quiet. The wood stove crackled twice below, and Bai Xiaoman used the fire tongs to straighten a crooked stick.

"Don't feed it so often," Cheng Banshan said without lifting his eyes. "If the fire gets too hot, the brew turns bitter."

She pulled two sticks back out of the fire and set them by her feet, stacking them neat.

Cheng Banshan took the furnace hook from his belt again and bent down to stir the wood stove's fire. The half of an empty sleeve always tucked into his waistband slipped out, hanging down, swaying twice.

Bai Xiaoman had been crouched by the wood stove the whole time. From the moment Xu Yan had walked in until now, she hadn't said a word. Stick by stick, she fed wood into the firebox, steady.

The stick in her hand stopped in midair.

She looked at that half of a sleeve.

She looked for a long time.