Chapter 236: The Steelyard Beam, Perfectly Level

At the Mao hour they went out through the Mountain Gate. Nie Bo was sweeping there. Xu Yan carried the market box on his back; Shao Ming shouldered the carrying pole. The ten-li mountain road took them an hour.

By the time they reached the town, the Market Gate was not yet open. Shao Ming lifted the hand scale from its wooden box, wound the rope end twice around the scale hook, and let the beam drop down. It swayed twice before settling. He wiped the scale stars from end to end with his sleeve, then hung the scale on the nail inside the gate.

The scale was an old one bought from a pawnshop, its beam polished bright by decades of hands. The counterweight had been filed three times, back in the days when Bai Xiaoman was calibrating the scales. Hang those two inside the gate, and the Market was open for business.

At the Chen hour, the east door panel of the grain shop's back courtyard was propped up against the base of the wall. The panel was newly replaced, still stiff with the grip of fresh wood. Wind came down Market Street, lifted a corner of the market rules posted on the door, and let it fall back.

Xu Yan spread the market book on the counter, turned to a fresh page, and wrote the date. The inkstone traveled up and down the mountain with the market box. The ink had been ground in the Accounts Room on the night of the fourteenth. When he finished writing "the fifteenth day of the Sixth Month," he moved the brush half an inch to the side, leaving gridded space below for recording each entry line by line.

Outside, against the third pillar from the wall, two pots were already boiling. Qian Duoduo squatted by the pots counting bowls, lost count halfway, and started over from the top. Du Xiaochuan shoved firewood under the pots, and flames licked out from beneath the rims. The Market was sparsely peopled. Those carrying spirit herbs walked toward the Wharf; those carrying bamboo goods picked through the street's offerings.

Three or four people stood inside the Market. A Rogue Cultivator set three bundles of dried spirit herbs onto the scale pan. Shao Ming nudged the counterweight outward, stopping on the third star. "Six jin, two liang." The man didn't bargain, didn't ask for consignment. He strapped the herb bundles back onto his back, cinched the rope tight, and left. All he'd wanted was to know how much the bundle weighed. Xu Yan added a line to the market book: Weighing, six jin two liang, no charge.

A man at the counter asked whether there were any Qi-Gathering Pills. Shao Ming said, "Only on market days ending in ten. Come back on the twentieth." The man said "Oh," picked up two small porcelain vials from the counter, saw labels bearing other people's names, set them back, and left too.

A while later another man came in and asked the price of talisman paper. Xu Yan quoted the price on the label. The man bought two sheets and dropped the money into the market box. Xu Yan recorded the entry beneath Miao Zhong's line—Miao Zhong's talisman paper was kept separate by name, stored in the top shelf of the cabinet.

By midmorning, the weighings were down by half compared to the tenth. On a market day in the Fifth Month, the scale beam rose twenty times or more; in the Sixth Month, fewer than ten times per market. No one asked about it, and Xu Yan didn't write it in the book.

Before the Si hour, a Rogue Cultivator with a back basket came in and set his basket by the scale. Inside was fresh spirit herb, roots still caked with dirt, covered with a damp cloth. He said consignment, named his own price. Shao Ming weighed it for him, and Xu Yan wrote the price on a label, tucking it into the basket's rim. The man didn't leave. He wiped a hand along the basket's edge.

"Sect Master Xu, those few bundles of mine in the cabinet have sat for three market days now. If this basket sits too, there's no rice left to put in the pot at home. Can I draw half the money in advance?"

"No," Xu Yan said. "Money from sales is recorded under your name. You collect it on the tenth day of the Eighth Month. If it doesn't sell, you can take the goods back on any market day."

The man glanced at the basket, then out at the street. "The Wharf pays coin on the spot," he said.

"The goods are yours." Xu Yan took the label from the basket rim and set it on the counter. "Leave them here, and I sell them for you. Take them away, and I won't stop you."

The man hoisted the basket onto his back and went out toward the east. On the fresh line in the market book, Xu Yan crossed out the price and noted beside it: Goods not left. The label went back into the cabinet.

That was when Qi Qi came in, an empty bottle pouch slung over his shoulder. His ten bottles of Qi-Gathering Powder had been delivered at the pillar outside. As he passed the man going out, he turned and looked at the herb basket, said nothing, stuffed the empty pouch behind the counter, and headed to the back room for empty baskets.

Qian Duoduo poked half his body through the doorway. "Should I bring a bowl over to the Market?"

"Don't." Qi Qi bent to stack the baskets. "I'll be over in a bit."

Qian Duoduo said "Oh," wiped his hands, and went back.

The light at the doorway dimmed.

A man walked in.

Medium build. Good fabric in his clothes, muted colors—nothing that would stand out at the Market. No ring on his hands, no thumb ring, no prayer beads; no one following behind him. Not much dust on his shoes—not the look of a man who'd walked ten li of mountain road. He stopped just inside, let his eyes pass over the scale hanging by the gate, and settled them on the counter.

Xu Yan looked up. "Weighing, or consignment?"

"Just looking."

He walked two steps inward, stopped at the scale, standing half a step behind and to the side of Shao Ming. He looked at the scale, and at the hand scale hanging there. After studying them for a while, he drew a small silver ingot from his sleeve and, pinching it between two fingers, set it on the hand scale's pan.

The beam rose level and held steady at dead center—not a hair off.

A whole tael of silver in that ingot. Not a fraction more, not a fraction less.

He stared at the beam without moving, without making a sound. The man who'd asked about Qi-Gathering Pills was just leaving; he looked back once, then went out.

"Who calibrated this hand scale?" he asked.

"Someone from the Market," Xu Yan said.

"Calibrated against what?"

"A copper coin. One qian."

The man grunted, took the ingot off the pan, weighed it once in his hand, and put it back into his sleeve. The beam drooped again, swaying slowly to a stop.

He then examined the big scale. He reached out, lifted the counterweight, and turned it over to look at the bottom.

"It's been filed."

"Filed when it was calibrated," Shao Ming said.

"Filed evenly." The man hung the counterweight back and let it swing twice on its own. "One extra fen of filing, and every scale in this Market reads one fen light."

"This is—?" He tilted his head.

"He checks the scales in the Market," Xu Yan said.

The man asked nothing more. He turned to the market rules posted inside the door and read down line by line. Near the bottom, he read aloud: "No stall fees, no commission."

"That's what it says."

"Consigned goods are priced by their owners. The Market sells at that price and doesn't ask who the buyer is."

He paused there, looked back at the counter. "Sect Master Xu is running a business at a loss."

"It's not a business."

He looked back at the paper and continued reading: "Sale proceeds are recorded under the consignor's name. Accounts are settled every year on the tenth day of the Eighth Month, when the full year's consignment money is paid out." He finished and turned his head. "A year's money held in the cabinet—held until the tenth day of the Eighth Month."

"Recorded under their names."

"And if people need money in the meantime?"

"The goods are in the cabinet. They can take them back any time. What's sold, they collect on the tenth day of the Eighth Month."

The money due on the tenth day of the Eighth Month—the market book carried a line for every name: what they'd consigned, what had sold, how much they were owed—all of it. Xu Yan didn't say any of that.

"Still open after lamp-lighting?" the man asked.

"The paper says so."

"On one market day, how many times does the scale rise?"

"On a busy day, twenty-some times," Shao Ming said.

"And today?"

"You've seen for yourself."

The man took that in without offense. He finished reading the last few lines of the rules, turned, and walked to the doorway, tilting his head up at the plaque above the door. The plaque was Xu Yan's writing. Not fine calligraphy, but every stroke stood upright.

"Who wrote this plaque?"

"I did."

He stood in the doorway looking at the plaque for a good while, then came back in. "How much for a weighing?" he asked suddenly.

"No charge."

"How much commission on consignments?"

"None."

He smiled—just the corner of his mouth lifting a touch, the eyes unchanged—and it fell away at once.

"Jinding Pavilion. Jin Buhuan."

Xu Yan set his brush down at the edge of the inkstone.

"Tower Master Jin."

The room went quiet. A bundle of dried spirit herbs still sat on the scale; Shao Ming moved the counterweight to the last star, called the number, then took his hand off the beam. Behind the counter, Qi Qi had just lifted an empty basket and now held it in midair, not setting it down. The two remaining Rogue Cultivators in the room raised their eyes.

At the Wharf on the tenth, the buying agent had told the people standing in line, "The Tower Master will be arriving in Luoxia in the next few days." Qi Qi had heard it and hadn't mentioned it to anyone. His eyes were on the man in front of the counter now, the basket still held in his hands.

Xu Yan didn't ask anything first. He ran through what this man had done since stepping inside: first examined the scale, then tested the hand scale, then turned over the counterweight, then read the rules, then asked about the plaque—only then gave his name. He filed each detail away, like adding lines to a ledger.

"The market book—may I take a look?" Jin Buhuan asked.

Xu Yan closed the book and drew it toward himself. "Inside are other people's accounts."

Jin Buhuan glanced at the cover. "Qingya Market" was written on it, with the opening date beneath. The corners were worn soft. He didn't reach for it, didn't ask twice.

"This room used to be where the grain shop stored its sacks," he said.

"That's right."

"The back wall faces the river."

"That's right."

He walked two steps farther in and stood at the door to the back room, looking. The back room was empty. A few empty baskets were stacked against the wall, and the floor was swept clean. He clasped his hands behind his back, looked for a while, and withdrew.

"The back room's empty."

"Kept for stacking empty baskets."

"There's a small path on the other side of the river." His tone was level. "It circles around from the Wharf side."

"The grain shop's people watch the courtyard at night," Xu Yan said.

Jin Buhuan grunted, as if filing that away too. He raised his head and looked into the cabinet. "This Market's goods—which sects have left things here?"

"Consignors write their own names."

"Ink Pool Gate. Willow Bank Gate. Azure Brook Sect." He recited them one by one, slowly, like checking off inventory.

"Tower Master Jin knows."

"The Market is holding a year's worth of goods from three sects." He withdrew his gaze. "Qingya earns not one spirit stone from any of it, yet watches over their cabinet for a year."

"I'm the one who watches the cabinet," Xu Yan said.

"And how many remain up on the mountain?"

"Matters of the Market—ask me."

Jin Buhuan took that in, neither offended nor inclined to press further. He glanced out the door. On Market Street, the steam from the two pots was drifting up under the old tile eaves. Someone crouched by a pillar eating a Spirit Meal, quick bites. He watched for a while, then turned back.

"Sect Master Xu—a word in private."

Xu Yan didn't rise.

"Say it here."

Silence settled over the room. Shao Ming by the scale didn't withdraw; his feet were planted where he stood. Qi Qi set the empty basket against the wall and didn't bend for a second. Of the two Rogue Cultivators still inside, one froze with a tally in his hand, and the other had pushed a cabinet door half open and forgotten to close it.

Jin Buhuan stood in the middle of the room and swept his gaze over them all—from Shao Ming's scale to Qi Qi's baskets—and back at last to the counter.

"All right," he said.