Chapter 238: I'll Come as Always

The eighteenth day of the Sixth Month, Dragon hour. The charcoal furnace at the Medicine Hall door had burned to its seventh day. When the fire was drawn in, the bricks at the stovemouth still scalded the hand. Cheng Banshan pulled the alchemy flame back with one hand, and with the formation hand extending from his sleeve hooked the iron ring on the furnace lid and lifted it open.

Heat rushed straight up from the stovemouth. He turned his face aside, then brought the back of his hand to the opening to test it. The formation hand couldn't feel hot from cold; testing the temperature was still a job for this hand.

"Time to collect them."

Du Xiaochuan crouched by the furnace and slid the tray forward, its edge catching on the stovemouth, both wrists braced against the furnace rim for steadiness.

"Count."

"One, two, three..." Du Xiaochuan counted them one by one, careful not to let his fingertips touch the pill skin, "...eight, nine, ten."

Ten pills lay at the furnace bottom, all round in one even layer, not a single crack.

Cheng Banshan scraped a circle along the furnace bottom with a bamboo slip. Powder landed on the slip. Xu Yan spread out the medicine paper to receive it, wrapped it up, wrote "the eighteenth day of the Sixth Month" on the package corner, and put it into the wooden box on the shelf. The furnace log got one more line: the eighteenth day of the Sixth Month, ten pills, none cracked. The brush tip scraped twice against the inkstone's edge.

"The twentieth, sell at the fair." Cheng Banshan knocked the furnace hook against the furnace edge. "When they're gone, fire up again on the twenty-first. Pill materials from the Market; charcoal from the wharf, buy a load and a half."

"A half-load short, and it dies out on the seventh night," Xu Yan said.

"You know it." Cheng Banshan gave no further instructions and set the furnace hook against the base of the wall.

Du Xiaochuan raked the ash from under the furnace door out into the iron dustpan at the doorway. Seven days and nights of charcoal, burning from Dragon hour on the eleventh to this moment. He slept on the plank bed in the outer room: furnace door at one end, the door at the other. The moment the fire dropped he got up to stoke it. Halfway through the ashing, he ran out under the veranda and took two breaths, then came back to keep raking. When he finished and stood up, both legs had gone numb, and he steadied himself on the doorframe, stamping his feet.

At the end of the Dragon hour, Qian Duoduo came carrying two bowls, setting one on the threshold of the Medicine Hall.

"The furnace just came out. Eat first," he said. "Spirit Rice porridge. It won't be good once it cools."

Cheng Banshan picked up the bowl and drank two mouthfuls, left less than half a bowl, and set it at the corner of the worktable. Du Xiaochuan squatted on the ground to eat, in too much of a hurry—the bowl's bottom clinked against his teeth.

"Slow down," Qian Duoduo said. "There's more in the pot."

He took the empty bowl away, and at the door turned back: "Sect Master, I've kept the kitchen fire low. When you're done, come down and the porridge will still be in the pot."

"Mm."

Cheng Banshan pinched the ten pills into the small porcelain vials one by one, the formation hand beneath supporting the vial's base. Xu Yan passed the stoppers, pressing them in one at a time. The labels would be written that night—ten slips, all with the same words: Qingya, the eighteenth day of the Sixth Month.

"Once this batch sells, it's time to buy the Seventh Month rations," Xu Yan said.

"Grain is grain, pills are pills." Cheng Banshan set the last vial on the shelf, bottle bodies lined up flush against one another. "Don't go mixing your ledgers."

"They won't get mixed."

"Good that they won't." Cheng Banshan took the wine gourd from his waist with one hand and shook it twice. No sound inside. "Empty."

"Has Qi Qi paid back the two jars he owed?"

"He has, and they're steeping." He hung the gourd back at his waist. "Those leaves in the Hidden Realm—only after steeping until today do they have any flavor."

The paper packets in the box were lined up from the eighteenth day of the Second Month onward, one flush against the next, this one set at the very end, its ink not yet fully dry. Xu Yan closed the wooden box lid and pushed it forward, lining it up with the row of vials on the shelf in a single straight line.

The twentieth, leaving the Mountain Gate at Mao hour, daylight still thin, dew on the mountain road. Nie Bo was sweeping at the gate, his broom sweeping wide to give them half a step of clear path.

Entered town at Dragon hour. On Market Street the stall boards were already up; against the third pillar from the wall, white steam was rising. Shao Ming took down the door panels one by one and leaned them against the wall, hanging the scale, hanging the hand scale. Xu Yan spread the Market ledger open on the counter, turned to a blank page, and wrote the date.

The twentieth day of the Sixth Month.

First came several familiar faces, baskets set beside the scale, waiting to be weighed. One rogue cultivator carrying a small bundle of animal hides complained that the scale pan had dust on it, wiped it with his sleeve for a long while before setting the hides on, and after wiping looked up. "This scale accurate?"

"It is," Shao Ming said. "If it's not, take it back."

The rogue cultivator laughed, held a corner of the hides while watching Shao Ming write the weight on a paper tally, then hugged his goods and moved to squat beneath the cabinet.

At the end of Dragon hour, Zhuo Ying came in.

She carried two bundles of sun-dried spirit herbs slung over her shoulders and a roll of talisman paper tucked under one arm. She set the spirit herbs by the scale first, then pressed the talisman paper onto the corner of the counter. That roll she did not unwrap, nor did she ask Xu Yan to count it.

"Sect Master Xu."

"Steward Zhuo."

Shao Ming hung the spirit herbs bundle by bundle on the scale hook and called the reading; once the scale beam settled level, he moved the weight in by half a finger and called it again. Both readings the same. Zhuo Ying stood by the scale watching the scale stars, and only when the second reading was called did she pull her eyes back. She took the charcoal stick from the counter, wrote her own price tag, and tucked it into the crack of the cabinet door, tag facing out. The price was still the Fifth Month price—not a line added. Shao Ming lifted the two bundles off the scale and set them flush by the cabinet's foot.

A rogue cultivator with an empty basket on his back came over to peer at the price tag. "Over at the wharf they pay ten percent more, cash on delivery. You're not raising your price?"

"My goods, my price." Zhuo Ying set the charcoal stick back on the counter and wiped the black from her fingertips on the hem of her clothes.

"The money from sales still won't come until the tenth day of the Eighth Month," the rogue cultivator said.

"That's what the Market rules say."

"Is Willow Bank Gate waiting on that payment of yours?"

"Whether Willow Bank Gate waits or not isn't for me to say." Zhuo Ying said, "I'll come collect my payment when the time comes."

The man clicked his tongue, hefted his empty basket, and moved toward the door. Another person squeezed in to buy talisman paper, and the two squeezed past each other.

At Snake hour, the Qi-Gathering Pills went on sale. Ten small porcelain vials stood in a row on the counter, labels facing the door, eight Spirit Stones each. Buyers came one after another: one held a vial up to the light at the door and read the date on the label aloud, and only after reading it set the Spirit Stones on the counter; another pulled the stopper and sniffed, pressed the stopper back tight, and said he'd try one first; two more came in together, stood at the counter splitting one vial between them and couldn't work it out, and in the end each bought one.

The vials vanished one by one.

Xu Yan counted the pill money once through: eighty stones, not going into the Market Box, kept separately in the pouch he carried. The ten vials were empty; on the countertop only a row of rings pressed by the vial bottoms remained.

Zhuo Ying stayed standing by the scale. She didn't leave. During that whole stretch of pill-selling, she just stood there watching, not buying a single one. She waited until the last pill buyer had gone out the door, then reached up and pressed the price tag in the cabinet door crack a little deeper. Only then did she speak.

"That matter on the fifteenth—the Market's gone around with it."

Xu Yan closed the Market ledger. "It's gone around."

"What went around was that a person in clothes that didn't draw the eye came into the Market to look at the scales, look at the Market rules, and at the end gave a name," Zhuo Ying said. "The ones telling it don't know Wanbao Tower, only the plaque."

"Several rogue cultivators from the Market were there."

"They're the ones telling it." She rolled her sleeves up a turn. "A few days ago, Tower Master Jin of Wanbao Tower went up to Willow Bank Gate too. He came in person—I was there. What he said is the same."

Xu Yan set his brush down, tip pointing outward.

"The Qingya Market won't be open past the Ninth Month." Zhuo Ying repeated it exactly as it was said, not a word added. "And he told our goods not to come here—to take them to the wharf instead, where they'll pay ten percent more."

"He said the same here," Xu Yan said.

"He also said the Ninth Month?" Zhuo Ying asked.

"The Ninth Month," Xu Yan said.

Zhuo Ying gave a small nod, as if that was the word she'd been waiting for.

"There are disciples in my sect who've asked me whether we're still sending the goods," she said. "I didn't answer for them. I only answered for myself."

Xu Yan didn't ask what Willow Bank Gate's disciples were thinking, nor what else had been said that day.

She shifted the two weighed spirit herb bundles over to the shelf under the cabinet, squatting to line up the root ends. When she stood, she brushed the grass flecks off her hands.

"I'll come as always."

Xu Yan looked at her. When she said it, she wasn't looking at him, but at the two bundles beneath the cabinet.

"The tenth day of the Eighth Month, closing the accounts. I'll come to collect this year's money," Zhuo Ying said. "The clause written in the Market rules."

"All right," Xu Yan said.

He opened the Market ledger, pressed a finger on the line for Willow Bank Gate for a moment, then closed it. Zhuo Ying watched him close it before letting her rolled trouser cuffs down.

At Horse hour, the crowd at the fair thinned. Xu Yan crouched under the cabinet, untied one end of Zhuo Ying's two spirit herb bundles, drew out two handfuls, held them to the light at the door, then squeezed the root ends, picking out the broken ones and setting them aside. Zhuo Ying watched from the side; when he picked out the third, she said, "Those broke on the road."

"This batch needs two bundles," he said.

"You pick," Zhuo Ying said.

He ran through the two bundles in his mind: two bundles, twenty stones—same price as Miao Zhong's two bundles on the tenth—enough for one batch, and if he added one more ingredient he wouldn't have to buy it separately. He moved the selected two bundles to the counter's edge, counted twenty stones from his bosom, dropped them into the Market Box, and wrote in the Market ledger: Willow Bank Gate, two bundles spirit herbs, twenty stones. After writing, he pushed the ledger toward her a little, letting her see.

She bent to look at that line, straightened. "Your writing's smaller than mine."

"Clear is all that matters."

She looked at the line again—Willow Bank Gate at the head, twenty stones at the end, all neatly written.

"Clear, yes." She repeated it under her breath and gave a small laugh, wound the empty carrying strap into a coil, and tucked it into her bosom. "I'll come next fair too."

"Fives and tens, Dragon hour opening."

"Closes at the end of Horse hour," Shao Ming added from the scale.

"I know." She hoisted the roll of talisman paper onto her back, gathered the empty carrying strap, and went out, heading for the north end of Market Street.

At the end of Horse hour, the Market closed. Shao Ming fit the door panels back one by one, wedge pins driven in with the heel of his palm. Xu Yan put the Market ledger away in the Market Box, locked it, and set out for the wharf with Qi Qi.

On Market Street only sweepers and stall-takers-down remained. Water still clung to the pot rims; the sun dried it in moments. The old woman at the tea stall by the wharf entrance was putting away coarse bowls, stacking them on the table corner; the water in the bronze kettle still boiled.

The charcoal dust on the stone steps at the wharf lay thick and soft underfoot. The charcoal boat rested at the bottom of the steps. The boatman weighed a load and a half of charcoal, called the figure: fifteen stones. Qi Qi counted the money out; the rope went three loops around the carrying pole, pulled tight, and went onto his shoulder, his legs flexing as he stood.

"Next time still the tenth?" the boatman asked.

"The thirtieth," Qi Qi said.

"Charcoal's dear on the thirtieth."

"Dear or not, we're still buying."

At the table by the wharf a line still formed: six or seven people carrying spirit herbs, queued from the top of the stone steps all the way to the wall. The characters on the wooden sign on the table were so sun-bleached they'd gone pale, and a new line had been added at the bottom. At the end of the line, an oilcloth draped over a bamboo basket—he recognized it. That person saw him too, hitched the basket up on his shoulder, and did not step out of line.

The buyer lowered his head over the scale, called out the moment the beam went level, and pushed the money out—never once looking up.