Chapter 237: Five Hundred Stones

Jin Buhuan did not leave. He stood in front of the counter, both hands hanging at his sides.

"Five hundred stones. To buy this market." He said, "The lease. And the plaque over the door. Wanbao Tower will continue selling to Qingya as usual. Formation stones, alchemy materials—whatever Qingya needs, the Tower will sell."

He had not taken anything out. Once he finished speaking, he fell silent, his cuffs clean, his nails neatly trimmed, standing amid a room full of grass clippings and charcoal dust without a speck of ash on his clothes.

The room was so quiet they could hear the haggling from Market Street drifting in—one call, then a pause, then another. Shao Ming stood by the scale, the tray still holding that bundle of sun-dried spirit herbs, and he had not lifted it off. Qi Qi stood by the counter, one hand resting on the rim of a basket.

Xu Yan turned that half-sentence over in his mind. Five hundred stones—it was a number a person could actually say out loud. And yet there was no spirit stone on the counter, no paper, no written pledge, not even a single copper coin laid out. This room belonged to the grain shop; the lease existed in duplicate, one copy tucked between two pages of the account book, the other in the hands of the grain shop's proprietor. The plaque over the door was in his own handwriting—after he finished writing it, his hands had been frozen stiff for three days and he couldn't hold a brush. Of those three things, Tower Master Jin could use none.

Five hundred stones he could calculate too. Market rent ran thirty stones a year, so five hundred covered sixteen years and more. Alchemy materials for one furnace-load of Qi-Gathering Pills cost twenty stones; five hundred meant twenty-five furnace-loads. A load and a half of charcoal from the wharf cost fifteen stones; five hundred would cover more than thirty trips. In Linchuan Market, one formation stone cost a hundred stones—five hundred was five stones. Five formation stones and thirty-odd trips of charcoal would keep Qingya burning for over a year with surplus left over.

Formation stones and alchemy materials—Qingya had not been able to buy either since the Tenth Month of Alliance Year 301.

And the half-sentence that came after the five hundred stones weighed heavier than the five hundred stones themselves: Wanbao Tower would continue selling goods to Qingya as usual. In the Tenth Month of Alliance Year 301, at the foot of that two-story building at the north gate of Linchuan Market, he had heard the exact reverse. From that day to this, Qingya had not added a single formation stone, and alchemy materials had been picked bundle by bundle from consignment goods sold by market households. He heard this sentence clearly and set it in another place in his heart, where he would not take it out.

The three layers of goods on the counter he could see too, and recognized them: talisman paper from Ink Pool Gate, dried spirit herbs from Willow Bank Gate, dried spirit herbs from Azure Brook Sect. Jin Buhuan's gaze lingered a moment on the counter, passing over them layer by layer, then returned to Xu Yan's face.

"Sect Master Xu," he said, "the price is not low."

He said it without pressing or urging, the way one sets an object down on a counter and lets the man across from it see for himself.

"Tower Master Jin, the market is not for sale."

Xu Yan did not stand when he said this. His brush still lay beside the inkstone.

"If it's too little, we can talk more."

Jin Buhuan said it as evenly as quoting a number off a scale, as if there was still empty space after five hundred stones, and how much to add was for the other man to say.

"The market takes no stall fees, no commission, and doesn't earn a single spirit stone," Xu Yan said. "Tower Master Jin offering five hundred stones to buy it is buying its closure."

He raised a hand and pointed toward the market rules on the door. "That paper—Tower Master Jin read it aloud just now. There's nothing written on it about selling."

Jin Buhuan gave a small smile. He did not acknowledge it, and he did not argue. When the smile faded he still stood the same way, his eyes unmoving, not glancing again at the market ledger on the counter, and he did not so much as look at Qi Qi.

That sentence—"will continue selling to Qingya as usual"—Xu Yan did not touch with a single word. To respond would have made it sentence for sentence, made it bargaining. There was no bargaining in the market: consignors set their own prices, and the market sold at those prices. The market itself had no price.

The two rogue cultivators in the room exchanged a glance. One tucked his cloth pouch a little closer to his chest; the other nudged the grass bundle on the floor inward with his toe, moving it a little farther from the door. This morning the market had weighed goods and taken consignments, and no one owed anyone anything—this room opened its doors because these people came in.

Jin Buhuan turned and walked toward the door. Stopping beside the scale just inside, he reached out a single finger and pressed down on the balance beam. The beam dipped a little; when his finger released, it came back level. Shao Ming watched that hand from across the scale tray and said nothing. Jin Buhuan withdrew his hand, gathered his sleeves, and walked out.

Under the lintel he turned his head back.

"Sect Master Xu, this market won't last past the Ninth Month."

His heels struck the dirt of Market Street, heading east—past the earthen wall behind the grain shop's back courtyard, that led toward Luoxia Wharf. Someone carrying a shoulder-pole load passed beside him in the market and stepped aside. He did not walk fast, and he did not look back. The sun fell on his back; the fabric of his clothes caught no light.

Qi Qi moved half a step toward the door, then stopped.

"Qi Qi, move the goods." Xu Yan did not turn his head.

Qi Qi took his hand off the rim of the basket and bent to lift the second one. He picked it up, set it down again, and knocked the basket rim twice against the floor, squaring it.

Shao Ming lifted the bundle of spirit herbs off the scale tray and set it down in front of the counter, then took down the weight and re-hung it level: "Weighing."

No one in the room moved first. After a moment, an older man set his cloth pouch on the scale tray. The beam rose; Shao Ming called out the number. The man lifted his pouch down, walked to the counter, and said he'd written the price himself on paper. Xu Yan took the paper, glanced at it, entered that number into the market ledger, and pinned the tally slip to the mouth of the pouch. Only then did the people behind him move forward. Shao Ming's voice calling the numbers was the same as before, neither high nor low.

A young man carrying grass on his back stood at the door for a while before walking in. He lowered two bundles of spirit herbs from his shoulders to the floor; the roots still carried damp soil. "Consignment," he said.

"What price?"

He named a number, then added on his own: "It's damp. The wharf won't take it. It's only worth money once it's dried, and drying takes two days."

"Then leave it," Xu Yan said. "The price is yours to set. The market sells at your price, and won't cut it for you if it doesn't move."

"What if it doesn't sell?"

"You can take it back any market day."

The man thought it over, pushed the grass bundles a little closer to the counter, and crouched down to retie the loose straw rope. Xu Yan lifted his brush and wrote a line, pinned a tally slip to it, then asked his name, waiting for him to say it character by character before completing the entry. The man was about to leave, turned back at the door: "Is the market still open? That man just now..."

Shao Ming cut him off: "Open on days ending in five and ten, opens at the Dragon hour, closes at the end of the Horse hour."

"Next market day I'll carry more over," the man said, and headed east up Market Street.

At the end of the Horse hour, Xu Yan closed the market ledger. The money went into the market box, locked, and he and Shao Ming carried it, one on each end, to the back door to wait for departure—the market kept nothing overnight. Today three consignors had come into the market; the scale had been used fewer than ten times. He remembered it all clearly. That sentence of five hundred stones—he did not write it in the market ledger, nor in the account book.

They left town in the Shen hour. Qi Qi walked ahead carrying empty baskets on his pole; Qian Duoduo shouldered two empty pots, bottoms turned up to the sky, walking a stretch and resting a stretch. Du Xiaochuan carried the bag of bowls on his back; Shao Ming brought up the rear.

"Today in the market, how many consignors did we take in?" Qian Duoduo asked.

"Three consignments," Xu Yan said.

"When that man came in, I was putting away pots at the stall and caught a glimpse," Qian Duoduo's voice dropped. "Clothes didn't stand out, and when he left he didn't take a carriage or bring anyone. I thought he was some rogue cultivator asking about prices."

Xu Yan did not answer.

After a while, Qi Qi turned his head back: "Two sightseers were standing at the market entrance, leaning over the door frame to peek in, but they didn't come inside."

"Mm."

Past the Town Gate, where the side path branched up from the Official Road, the ten-li mountain road back began. The afternoon sun had shifted west; the road was empty, and from the river came the faint calls of boatmen carried up on the wind.

After a stretch, Shao Ming said from behind: "He pressed our scale."

"Mm."

"He pressed it down, and the beam came back on its own." Shao Ming did not continue after that. Xu Yan did not ask either.

They reached the Mountain Gate in the Shen hour. Nie Bo was sweeping the gate, stroke by stroke pushing the morning's fallen leaves to the edge of the stone steps. Xu Yan passed him, shifting the market box closer to his chest, and did not stop. Shi Po was doing pillar training outside the West Wing; he heard the footsteps, dropped his stance, and came over to take the empty carrying pole off Shao Ming's shoulder, saying, "The stove's still warm," and headed toward the kitchen.

Lamp-lighting, Main Hall.

Qian Duoduo brought out a pot of spirit meal and ladled out the first bowl. A Sui carried it toward the Mountain Gate and came back with the bowl empty, holding half a coarse-grain flatbread, breaking off pieces as she walked and giving half to A He, who complained it was too small, and the two of them started bickering under their breath. Du Xiaochuan came late from the Medicine Hall, and the first thing he said as he entered was "The fire's banked," before sitting down. Twelve people sat around the table; chopsticks dropped into bowls.

Xu Yan held his bowl and said: "The Tower Master of Wanbao Tower came to the market today. He wanted to buy the market. I didn't sell."

No one at the table spoke. Shi Po stopped his chopsticks and looked at him. Cheng Banshan set down his wine gourd. "How much did he offer?"

"Five hundred stones." Xu Yan lowered his head and drank a mouthful of porridge.

Cheng Banshan tapped his chopsticks twice against the rim of his bowl. "Little Xu, what he wanted to buy wasn't the room."

"Mm."

Qian Duoduo's ladle paused on the pot's edge, and he mouthed the number five hundred once, without sound. Qi Qi buried his head in his rice; he had watched the whole scene in the market from start to finish and said nothing about it now. Jiang Wan listened, her chopsticks hesitating a moment against the bowl's rim before she went on eating. A Sui looked at the Sect Master, then at Cheng Banshan, didn't understand, and went back to breaking apart her flatbread.

No one asked more. Qian Duoduo got up to refill the porridge, filling Cheng Banshan's bowl first, then Shi Po's; Shi Po pushed his empty bowl toward the center of the table, steady. A He and A Sui were arguing in low voices over the last piece of spirit cake at the bottom of the bowl. Qian Duoduo reached over and pressed A Sui's ear, saying next time he'd steam an extra piece, and A Sui twisted away. Jiang Wan finished on her end, said she had early sword practice, and left the table first; Huo Qing rose with her, stacked the bowls, and walked toward the veranda. Xu Yan ate the remaining half bowl, scraped the last grains from the bottom with his chopsticks, and set the bowl down.

Cheng Banshan drained the wine in his gourd, wiped his mouth, and went back to the Medicine Hall.

Xu Yan carried the market ledger and the market box into the Accounts Room. The market box went under the cabinet; the market ledger went onto the shelf; the account book opened to the two pages holding the lease. The lease said the east wall could have a door, the back wall must not be touched, and no one would stay overnight; it ran to the eighth day of the Eleventh Month of Alliance Year 302, in duplicate, the handwriting his own. He read it over once, closed the account book, and put it back.

Dog hour, on the veranda.

Shao Ming came from the Main Hall and stopped in front of Xu Yan.

"He left and headed toward the wharf."

Xu Yan made a sound of acknowledgment.

Shao Ming stood a moment, did not get another word, and went back to the West Wing. Xu Yan remained alone on the veranda. The sounds of bowls from the kitchen had stopped; the Front Courtyard had gone dark; a bit of firelight still showed through the window paper of the Medicine Hall. From the West Wing, someone said half a sentence in a lowered voice and stopped halfway.