Chapter 218: Medicine Dregs

Xu Yan moved the bottle on the counter—the one that still held a single pill—to one side, clearing a space, then looked up at the three men on the long bench. "The road to Linchuan—can you make it right now?"

The tall rogue cultivator by the doorframe answered first. "Walk two li, and I'd have to sit down."

"Riding's worse," the short one said. "Every jolt stabs through my meridians."

The Mojimen disciple braced himself against the counter. "Two steps, then rest."

Miao Zhong stood beside the counter. "All three of them—they're in no shape for a long trip."

Xu Yan nodded, and let the matter drop. He looked at the four bottles on the counter. "Then we don't go. But we leave a written record."

He pulled a stack of ledger slips from under the counter, took out one sheet, and laid it flat. "Ink."

Shao Ming brought out a broken piece of ink stick and a brush from the wooden box beneath the counter, along with a small chipped dish. He poured in water and began grinding at the corner of the counter. While he worked, Xu Yan sorted through what needed to be said, then pointed at the top of the page.

"The date, the place, who sold it, how many bought, the price, and how it felt after taking it." He went down the list, one item at a time. "Write exactly what they say. Not one word added on their behalf."

Miao Zhong took the brush and straightened the paper. His handwriting was steady—line after line, no slant.

"The fifth day of the Third Month."

"The place."

"South end of the Linchuan Market. Next to the row that sells dried fruit, in the corner by the alley mouth."

"Was there a sign?"

"None. In front of the stall stood a wooden board that said Qi-Gathering Pill. Behind the board, a drawer full of bottles."

Miao Zhong kept writing. His brush point paused on the paper. "What did you buy?"

"The label said Qingya," the Mojimen disciple answered. "One pill, six spirit stones."

"How many did you buy?"

"Two," the disciple said. The short rogue cultivator raised a finger toward him. "The two of us bought one each."

"Paid on the spot?"

"On the spot. I gave him twelve." The disciple said. "He didn't even count them—just scooped them up and slipped them into his sleeve."

"And after you took it?"

The tall rogue cultivator straightened up a little. "Took it right by the stall. Walked half a block, and the meridians started stabbing—from the wrist up to the shoulder, it stopped, then went back down. Went home and lay in bed three days. Couldn't get up."

"I got back to my room and lay down. Just couldn't draw qi, no matter how I tried." The short one said. "My hands went cold. Couldn't even hold a bowl steady."

"I bought two, ate one." The disciple said. "That night there was a wad of wet cotton stuck in my chest. Couldn't draw qi at all. The next day I didn't dare take the second one."

Miao Zhong wrote it all down, line by line. When he finished, he turned the paper around for them to read. The tall one was slow, so Miao Zhong pointed at his own writing and read aloud for him. When he reached "one pill, six stones," the tall man nodded.

"Thumbprints."

The three men dipped their thumbs in the ink at the bottom of the dish. The first print came out crooked, smearing ink off the edge of the paper. Miao Zhong rotated the sheet. "Press again." So he did.

The disciple pressed down and held his thumb still. Miao Zhong waited a moment, said "Good," and only then slid the paper out from under his hand.

Miao Zhong signed his own name at the bottom, set the brush back in the box, inked his thumb, and pressed it beside his name. He lined up the three empty bottles next to the one that still held a pill and pushed them toward Xu Yan. "You take these."

Xu Yan didn't reach for them yet. He studied the four bottles. "This last one—he never took it?"

"Didn't dare," Miao Zhong said.

"Then I'll take it." Xu Yan blew lightly on the ink to dry it, folded the paper twice, and tucked it into the account book. "The stall's still standing. Someone has to go have a word."

"When does Sect Master Xu plan to go?"

"I need to work it out. Have to book the carriage, and there are things on the mountain to arrange." Xu Yan said. "Tonight, have Elder Cheng look at these three's injuries."

Miao Zhong nodded, nudged the brush box deeper onto the counter, and stepped back.

Xu Yan turned and said half a sentence to Shao Ming, who went out. He didn't go far—around to the small path by the river behind the market. When he came back, Qian Duoduo was with him, three bowls in hand. Qian Duoduo ladled out what was left in the pot and set a bowl beside the bench for each of the three. None of them moved at first, until the tall one lifted his bowl and drank half. A thin sweat broke across his forehead.

"Once the qi can move through, the body feels less adrift," the Mojimen disciple said.

"A spirit meal feeds qi, not wounds," Qian Duoduo said. "I'll set up the pot again next market. Come back."

As he said it, he glanced at Xu Yan, who gave a nod.

At the end of the Horse Hour, Shao Ming slid the door panels shut one by one, leaving only the half-door open. He took the scale down from its hook and hung it on the nail just inside.

Down the market street, only two porters with shoulder poles were still heading for the wharf. Xu Yan closed the market book and set it atop the market box. He asked Qi Qi, "If you came with me to Linchuan on the eighteenth, could you get away?"

"I could." Qi Qi shoved the last two bundles of talisman paper into the cabinet and clicked the lock shut. "We'd need to book a cart."

"Book the Mao Hour run on the eighteenth. Back on the twenty-first."

"Four days." Qi Qi slipped a cloth bundle from his breast pocket. "I'll go now."

He squeezed through the gap of the half-door and went, kicking up dust as he moved.

Xu Yan lifted the market box and passed it to Shao Ming. "Take this back first. Lock it in the Accounts Room."

Shao Ming hefted it. "I'm not going on the eighteenth?"

"You're watching the shop." Xu Yan said. "On the twentieth, Bai Xiaoman comes down the mountain to keep the shop ledger and sell pills at posted prices. You watch the door and the scale."

Shao Ming acknowledged with a grunt.

They left town during the Wei Hour. Qian Duoduo walked ahead with the empty pot on his pole. Du Xiaochuan followed, carrying two empty baskets padded with straw. By the boundary stone at the town gate, Qi Qi caught up from behind, forehead sheened with sweat.

"It's booked." He caught his breath. "Mao Hour on the eighteenth, at the carriage house gate. The old man asked, 'Qingya again?' He said there's only one cart left that day. One day later, and the grain company would've taken it."

"The fare?"

"Pay on boarding day."

Xu Yan nodded. Up ahead, Qian Duoduo turned back. "For the eighteenth—I'll cook the flatbreads on the seventeenth. Two men, four days. Enough?"

"Enough. Cook half a cake less—no point letting it go to waste on the road." Xu Yan said.

Qian Duoduo laughed, shifted the load to his other shoulder.

Ten li of mountain road. Halfway through, Qi Qi asked, "What are we bringing?"

"Four bottles, a packet of retained samples, the furnace log, that signed statement." Xu Yan said. "I'm bringing the account book too."

"Why the account book?"

"Once we're at the office, everything goes on the desk, one item at a time." Xu Yan kicked a loose stone out of his path. "If they try to dismiss it, I'll point at each item, one at a time."

Qi Qi thought for a moment. "What if the stall owner just runs?"

"He's still got a stall. And there's someone behind the stall."

They entered the mountain gate during the Shen Hour. Nie Bo was sweeping inside, and he shifted his broom aside half a step to let them pass. Xu Yan nodded to him. Nie Bo didn't look up.

Back at the Accounts Room, Xu Yan returned the account book to the shelf and pulled out the signed statement to read once more. At the line "one pill, six stones," he paused, then folded it and slipped it under the ledger.

Before the lamps were lit, there was still movement along the corridor. Huo Qing was at the wooden target, practicing that same thrust, a small lamp burning beside him—yellow light. Xu Yan stood at the other end of the corridor for a while, then left without approaching and turned west toward the Medicine Hall.

Two lamps burned in the Medicine Hall: one on the desk, one hanging just inside the door.

Cheng Banshan sat at the desk, his formation hand resting on its edge, all five fingers pointing upward. Du Xiaochuan crouched by the charcoal stove, brushing out the firebox. The stove was empty. Each swipe sent a layer of black ash down into the brick-lined tray.

"Take it out," Cheng Banshan said, raising his eyes.

Xu Yan set the bottle on the desk, then took down the three folded medicine papers from the rack—the eighteenth day of the Second Month, the twenty-eighth day of the Second Month, the eighth day of the Third Month—and laid them side by side.

Cheng Banshan swept his eyes over them. "The twenty-eighth day of the Second Month."

Xu Yan picked out that packet and opened it. Cheng Banshan pulled the stopper and tipped the bottle over. The single pill tumbled into a shallow porcelain dish and rolled to a stop. His formation hand rose to cup the bottom of the dish. With his other hand he picked up a bamboo pick from the desk edge and scraped the pill twice, collecting a small pile of fine powder on one side of the dish.

He switched the pick to the other side, lifted a bit of powder from the medicine paper, and set it down on the opposite side.

Two powders, side by side, a finger's width apart.

He lowered his head to smell. First this side, his nose less than half an inch from the powder; then the other side, longer this time. He straightened, pinched a little between thumb and forefinger, worked it between his fingertips, brought it to his nose again, then flicked the powder back into the dish.

The bamboo pick lifted a touch more, and he laid it on the tip of his tongue. He pressed his lips together, then turned and spat into the clay pot beneath the desk.

Then he set the pick down beside the dish and sat there, one hand on his knee.

Du Xiaochuan trimmed the lamp wick, and the room brightened.

"Can you smell the difference?" Xu Yan asked.

"Can't smell it." Cheng Banshan said. "But I can feel it. The retained sample—fine powder, breaks apart the moment you rub it. This pile from the dish—rough. It pricks the fingers."

He moved the dish into the lamplight. "There's an added ingredient: a qi-guiding medicine."

"Qi-guiding medicine."

"Boiled once before. The dregs." Cheng Banshan said. "The first brewing carries the strongest effect—whoever drinks it absorbs the medicine. The dregs left at the bottom of the pot are bitter, astringent, hardened. Boil them again and nothing more comes out. But grind them into a pill, and the dose races along the meridians, scraping open the places that won't open."

"Scraping open."

"Not opening. Scraping." He raised a hand and traced a line through the lamplight shadow. "Every person has thin places along the meridians. With this ingredient, the one who takes it just thinks the medicine is powerful. After it scrapes through, that meridian stays slack for ten days to half a month. The moment you try to draw qi, it scatters."

Xu Yan said nothing. Du Xiaochuan's brush paused, then resumed.

"Is this ingredient expensive?"

"Cheap." Cheng Banshan said. "Qi-guiding medicine is for mortals—any medicine shop carries it, a few coppers a packet. Dregs from a previous brew are normally thrown out."

Xu Yan calculated in his head: one pill, six stones—two cheaper than the market price. Those two saved stones were the cost of ten days of a cultivator's time. A drawer of several dozen pills, sold over one market day—that was dozens of stones.

"It won't kill anyone." Cheng Banshan said. "It harms."

"The three men," Xu Yan asked.

"Once they stop taking it, nothing to worry about. Ten days or so of rest and they'll recover." Cheng Banshan withdrew his formation hand from under the dish, and it settled back onto the desk. "No danger to life. What's damaged is their cultivation. Ten days without drawing qi—no training, no work."

Du Xiaochuan looked up. "Will it leave lasting damage?"

"Healed properly, no. Their qi is still strong enough."

Wind rose outside the hall, and the door curtain stirred. Du Xiaochuan got up to press the hem down, then came back and crouched again.

Cheng Banshan pushed the medicine paper packet closer, comparing it with the pile in the dish. "A guild alchemist spreads both out—one has dregs, one doesn't. No one needs to say a word."

"Is the pill alone enough?"

"No." Cheng Banshan said. "He'll ask: how do you know their pill has this and yours doesn't? Put both side by side, and he'll see it at a glance."

Xu Yan committed that to memory.

The bottle on the desk sat empty, its stopper beside it. Cheng Banshan speared the remaining half pill on the bamboo pick, brought it to the bottle's mouth, and with two fingers around the bottle gave it a sharp downward tap. The pill dropped inside. He picked up the stopper, pressed it down firmly, and slid the bottle toward Xu Yan.

"Bring it. And bring one packet of the retained sample."

"Which one?"

"The twenty-eighth day of the Second Month." Cheng Banshan picked up the folded paper and weighed it in his hand. "That date on the label—there's no furnace record for it. But the batch before it? The twenty-eighth day of the Second Month."

Xu Yan tucked the bottle into his robe, accepted the medicine paper, folded it twice, and placed it with the bottle.