Chapter 245: Boat Lanterns

The two of them walked down Market Street toward the wharf, the lanterns overhead falling behind them one by one. With each lantern they passed, their shadows stretched a little longer; passing the next, the shadow shrank back beneath their feet.

The glow from the Market gate still lay behind them. The farther they walked, the smaller it got. He counted lanterns as he went, stopping when he reached the intersection. Behind them in the Market, Shao Ming said something to someone—too far to make out the words, only the sound of a voice.

His back was empty. The market box he'd carried down at dawn had bounced against his shoulder with every step all day; now the box stayed behind in the Market, and with both hands free, walking felt like something was missing. He tucked his hands into his sleeves.

The stalls were mostly packed up. The old flatbread seller covered the mouth of his jar with oilcloth, hoisted his carrying pole onto his shoulder, and stopped when he saw Xu Yan. "Nice work with the lanterns. I sold more tonight than a whole market day."

"Don't set your stall up in the middle of the street," Xu Yan said.

"Market Chief Lu told me at noon, I remember." The old man headed off down the street with the jar swinging from one end of his pole.

Beneath a door lintel one child still lingered. He crouched by the wall, reaching up for the tassel under a lantern, when his mother scooped him up from behind—his legs still kicking at the air. She whispered something, and he stopped kicking, resting on her shoulder with his eyes still fixed on the lantern. The two of them left, and the lantern swayed on its own for a while before settling still.

On the stone steps in front of the pawnshop sat two rogue cultivators. One had spread spirit stones across his knees and was counting them one by one; when he finished, he gathered them into a fist and shoved them inside the lower front of his inner robe, patting twice. The other hadn't finished counting. He looked up, saw Xu Yan, and got to his feet. "Sect Master Xu."

"Will the next Market still open?" he asked.

"It will. The fifteenth day of the Eighth Month," Xu Yan said.

"Then these bundles of mine, I'll weigh them next market day." The man tucked his spirit stones away too, and the two headed off down the street. After a stretch, one of them glanced back at the lanterns. The one who'd finished counting pressed a hand against his robe again and only caught up once he'd made sure it was secure.

Xu Yan passed the grain shop. The door panels were up, a sliver of light showing through the crack. In the back courtyard a shop hand was locking up; the hasp clicked. Past that, Huichun Hall—door shut long ago, the stone footing out front tied to the doorframe with straw rope so no one could haul it off in the night. Looking back, two lanterns still glowed on the mud-brick wall along the grain shop's back courtyard side—Shao Ming's work—light spilling onto the empty sacks stacked at the base of the wall.

Only a few people remained watching the lanterns. They stood talking in low voices, then dispersed. A woman carrying an empty basket passed them; two flatbreads still sat at the bottom. At the mouth of the alley she glanced back toward the north end once before turning in.

The flagstone road ended, and the ground underfoot turned to dirt, soft. The river lay just ahead, moisture in the air mixed with the smell of charcoal ash—the stretch of wharf where the charcoal boats unloaded could never be swept clean.

Jiang Wan walked on his left, sword in hand. The tassel on the scabbard was a red cord, faded, one end frayed. He recognized that kind of cord—the same kind they used in the Accounts Room for tying up old ledgers, one bundle, one cord. He said nothing.

The road dipped, and the Luoxia River lay before them. The wharf was a run of stone steps from the street down to the water's edge. The charcoal dust on the steps showed dark and light patches under the lantern light; the lowest few steps were wet, a waterline climbing up from below. Charcoal was stacked in piles at the base of the wall, covered with reed mats, the wind lifting a corner and letting it fall again. The table for buying spirit herbs had been put away too—the big scale was tied to one of the table legs, the scale weight wrapped in cloth and stowed beneath the table, and the wooden sign with purchase prices turned face-down on the tabletop.

Several boats were moored below the steps, all with their lanterns lit. The lantern light fell on the water in patches, scattering when the wind came and drawing back together when it passed. One boat had a lantern with a red-paper shade, making a red glow in the water—smaller than the ones on shore, nearer too.

The tea stall was closed. Three low tables were flipped over; the big bronze kettle sat on top of the uppermost one, its body gone cold, spout pointing toward the river.

On the boat moored closest to shore, someone at the prow was washing dishes. Soft clinks, then the crisp sound of bowls stacked into a wooden box. On the next boat over, a lantern hung at the cabin hatch, and a woman sat beneath it mending a net. Her needle moved up and down through the mesh; when she finished a section, she lifted the net and shook it out, drops falling back into the river. A child slept in the cabin, the lantern light on his face; he rolled over and laid a hand on the deck boards.

The smallest boat, the one moored farthest out, had its lantern hung from a bamboo pole at the prow—swaying, the light swaying with it on the water. Out mid-river another boat moved along, the sculling oar creaking steadily, going slow. It passed through the lantern glow, and where it crossed the water went dark for a while before slowly closing back. The lantern light stretched all the way to the river's center; beyond that, the far bank was black, only a distant fishing fire burning red, motionless.

The boatman washing dishes looked up.

"That stretch of light on the bank—you're the ones who hung the lanterns?"

"We are," Xu Yan said.

"From the river, the whole street looks lit." The boatman wiped his hands on his apron. "We cast off at dawn, and we won't be back for a while. We won't see it."

"Downstream?" Jiang Wan asked.

"Downstream. Easy going." The boatman laughed, set the bowls into the cabin, and turned to lower the curtain over the hatch halfway. A strip of lamplight leaked through the gap.

The woman mending the net stuck her needle into the line and glanced toward shore. "Hanging them again tomorrow night?"

"No," Xu Yan said. "Just this one night."

"A pity," she said, and bent back to her mending.

"The mountain's lights are long out by now," Jiang Wan said.

"A Sui's asleep," Xu Yan said. "Qian Duoduo's sitting by the kitchen door, waiting until the two of them are sound asleep before he goes back."

"A He won't sleep," Jiang Wan said. "He asked three times this afternoon whether the lanterns were up yet."

The two of them stopped on the stone steps. Not the top step—somewhere in the middle, the stone dry underfoot and still holding the day's warmth. Jiang Wan set the point of her scabbard against the stone; the tap carried out across the water, and someone on the nearest boat glanced up.

"Bai Xiaoman read slower today," she said.

"Mm."

"Those last two names—she read them character by character."

"She was afraid of getting one wrong," Xu Yan said. "One wrong name, and all the figures after it have to be redone."

"You taught her that?"

"She put the abacus beads back herself. By the second pass, I stopped watching."

Jiang Wan turned back to the river. The light off the water fell across her face and slipped away.

"That last thumbprint," she said. "He pressed it into a smudge."

"He can't write."

"You told him—as long as the print's there, it counts."

"As long as the print's there, it counts." Xu Yan repeated the words.

"The formation will need to be opened once more for the Autumn Evaluation," Jiang Wan said.

"She's held through two Evaluations. The second time she was steadier than the first."

"I'll be standing in the Front Courtyard."

"Standing is enough," Xu Yan said.

The boat on the river had drifted farther; the oar sounded farther too.

"The lease runs to the eighth day of the Eleventh Month," Jiang Wan said.

"To the eighth day of the Eleventh Month," Xu Yan said.

"After the Ninth Month, that leaves two months."

"Two months left," he said.

She didn't go on, and he didn't either. He knew what her words were asking, but it was a question he had no number for.

Ripples spread to the bottom of the stone steps, touched, and drew back.

"The Evaluation is twenty-nine days away," Jiang Wan said.

Xu Yan answered, "Mm."

She said nothing more after that. Her hand rested on the sword hilt, her eyes on the boat mid-river. The oar paused for a moment, the rower coughed, and the oar began again, steady, the bow lantern slipping slowly downstream.

He ran through the day once more in his mind, and every item came up clear: the three sects paid in full, the rogue cultivators paid in full, the bottom of the box empty, the ledger pages wrapped inside; the pill ingredients and charcoal all carried up the mountain—Elder Cheng lights the furnace tomorrow, the batch comes out on the eighteenth; next Market day is the fifteenth day of the Eighth Month, and the Market will open as usual; the lease runs to the eighth day of the Eleventh Month; the Seventh-Rank grade fee is set aside as before. Every item accounted for.

Over this year, every coin that had gone out of that old storehouse had been counted clean. The Market itself had kept nothing.

And when the counting was done, one thing remained. The thing he hadn't counted.

He opened his mouth. The first word was "Senior Sister."

The words that followed pressed close, already at the tip of his tongue: What does the Market mean to anyone else—tonight the town calls this a Lantern Night, but take down the lanterns and it's a rented old storehouse; the Autumn Evaluation hasn't passed, Qingya is still taking Wanbao Tower's hits; the purchase price on that wharf scale is still marked up ten percent, and the rogue cultivators' spirit herbs are going over in bundles after bundles.

If that sentence got out, and she asked just one question back—"What comes next?"—he couldn't answer. He closed his mouth, his throat working, his hands clenching and unclenching inside his sleeves.

Jiang Wan turned her head to look at him. She was looking at his face, not the river.

She looked for a while.

She didn't ask. She lifted the sword from the stone steps; the red cord swayed.

"Let's go back," she said. "They're still cleaning up."

Xu Yan followed. Behind them, the woman mending the net turned her wick down a notch; the patch of light on the water dimmed by half.

Half a pace apart. Step by step up the stone, their feet kicking up faint charcoal dust. Past the tea stall, the bronze kettle still sitting on the upturned low table, spout to the river. At the street corner the river wind cut off, and only the lanterns remained—a street full of light.

The lanterns were coming down.

Shao Ming stood on a low stool, reaching for the row under the eaves, unhooking them one at a time and passing them down. Bai Xiaoman held her arms up to receive them; when her arms were full she turned and carried them inside, then came back for more. She walked slowly with her armload, careful not to slosh the lamp oil. Inside, she blew them out one by one and stacked them against the wall by the door—one pressed over another until the paper sides dented, at which point she'd lift it and shift it half an inch. Two still hung on the wall along the grain shop's back side; Qi Qi was taking those down.

"The front rows are all in," Shao Ming said from the stool. "Just this last row left." The stool wobbled; he shifted his feet inward and steadied himself.

"Lock up once they're down," Bai Xiaoman said. "The box and the ledgers are under the counter."

Bai Xiaoman set down the lanterns in her arms and straightened, catching sight of Jiang Wan. "Senior Sister, the night wind's cold—do you want to head up the mountain first?"

"We'll all leave together once the door's locked," Jiang Wan said.

Xu Yan stopped at the doorway. The lantern on the counter inside still burned, its light falling across the cleared countertop, a wash of wood color.

Jiang Wan stepped inside, leaned her sword against the counter, and bent to check beneath it—the market box still sat against the wall.

The one over the door lintel came down. Shao Ming stepped off the stool and stacked it against the wall. Only the few under the eaves remained on Market Street.

One down. Another. By the last few, the wall across the street no longer caught their light.