Chapter 246: On the Riverbank

Bai Xiaoman hauled the market box out from under the counter. The market ledgers were inside, wrapped in blue cloth. The lid was latched down. She pressed both hands against it.

"The box and the ledgers both stay in the cabinet," Xu Yan said.

"Put it in the cabinet." She carried it into the front room. The cabinet door swung open, shut again. The lock clicked. The key went into Xu Yan's hand. She glanced back at the cabinet door once more, then wiped both hands on her shirt front.

Shao Ming looked up. "Everything up front's taken down."

"Taken down," Qi Qi said. "There's still two lanterns on that wall behind the grain shop. I'll go get them and be right back."

The market street was empty now. The last traces of voices lingered at the mouth of the alley, then drifted off and cut out. The door panels still leaned against the doorway; Shao Ming said they'd press them tight once Qi Qi got back. Inside, the single lamp on the counter still burned—the only one left in the whole market.

The back room stood empty, a stack of baskets against the wall. All empty. The consignment goods were locked away in the front room cabinet. The counter had been wiped clean, the floor swept. The broom leaned behind the door.

Jiang Wan sat on the long bench, her sword propped against the counter. The red cord on the scabbard hung down to the base of the cabinet.

"I'll make one more pass," Qi Qi said. "If we leave those two lanterns up, people coming to market in the morning'll look up and see two dark lanterns on the wall."

"Get them down, then lock up," Shao Ming said.

Qi Qi took the lamp and headed out toward the grain shop's back courtyard.

The back wall of the grain shop faced the street—mud brick, nails driven into it, hemp rope strung nail to nail. Two lanterns hung from the rope, and when the wind came through they knocked together. The grain shop's night watchman dozed in the back courtyard room, snores leaking through the window crack in waves.

Qi Qi stepped up onto the grain shop's threshold to reach the wall. He untied the inner lantern first. The wire was hot to the touch; he gripped the handle and set the lantern at the base of the wall, looping the rope end around his wrist. Halfway through untying the second one, a smell hit his nose.

Burning lamp oil was hot, a burst of it, gone with the wind. This smell was raw. It pressed down over everything else, clinging at the back of his throat, refusing to clear. The lamp in his hand burned oil too—but this smell wasn't coming from his hand. It came from behind him. The wind off the river was blowing it straight at him.

Qi Qi turned.

East of the grain shop's back courtyard, a low wall separated it from the rear of the market. From where he stood he could see the far eastern stretch of the market's back wall. The upper half was old planking, the lower half stone footing. That strip of planking was glowing—fire licking out through the cracks in the boards, darting out a tongue, pulling back, licking further.

"Fire!" he shouted. "It's burning! The back of the market's on fire!"

The second lantern dropped from his hand.

He jumped off the threshold and rounded the low wall, bursting through the small gate at the west end of the grain shop's back courtyard. His feet hit the dirt path along the river and he ran east. Night dew slicked the path; every stride half-skidded. Behind him, a crack—broken tiles falling from the eaves. At the base of the wall lay shards of porcelain, oil seeping into the mud, the raw smell surging worse under the heat.

Qi Qi ran along the riverbank. Every step onto grass was a shock of cold. Ten zhang ahead, a figure was making for the wharf, running unsteadily. One foot splashed into a puddle; the splash sounded louder than the footsteps. Boat lanterns still dotted the river far out—too far to light the shore, only striping the water with light.

"Stop!"

The figure lunged forward, running harder. Nothing on his shoulder, both arms swinging wide as he ran, wet sleeves plastered to his arms.

Qi Qi's feet barely touched the ground. He'd walked this riverbank path more times than he could count—every rock, every caved-in spot, his feet knew on their own. The man ahead glanced back. That glance cost him half a step. His foot slipped and he pitched down the slope of the riverbank. Qi Qi threw himself forward, grabbed his collar from behind, and the two of them tumbled onto the bank together.

The man thrashed. His hands were slicked with oil; it smeared across Qi Qi's wrists, too slippery to grip. Qi Qi gave up on the hands entirely. He drove a knee down on one of the man's shoulders, reached around from behind with the other hand, locked under his jaw and wrenched upward. The man's whole body went rigid. He couldn't move.

"Don't—" the man gasped. "Don't—"

Qi Qi twisted both arms behind his back. The hemp rope was soaked in oil; the first loop just slid away. He wound the rope twice around his own palm, gripping it inch by inch between his teeth as he cinched. Three loops, pulled tight, knotted. He yanked twice. The knot held. Only then did the breath leave him. His palms were coated in oil and mud.

Once the rope went tight, the man stopped moving.

He reeked of lamp oil, from collar to waist. The front of his shirt was soaked through, the sleeves too. A short tunic washed pale, no waist tablet at his belt, no sect mark on his cuffs. Hair loose, a scrape on his forehead, another raw patch on his elbow where it had ground against the rocks of the riverbank. He panted, chest heaving, curling in against the slope.

"Get up." Qi Qi hauled him upright. "Walk."

The man stumbled along as Qi Qi dragged him back, hands bound behind his back, tripping every step.

The back of the market was already in chaos.

Shao Ming was first around the corner, two wooden buckets in hand. He went down the bank and stepped into the water—it rose to his shins. He shoved a bucket under, hauled it up, passed it to shore. The water at the base of the bank was cold; he stood there without moving, sending up bucket after bucket. The bucket rims clanked against the rocks, a steady rhythm. Bai Xiaoman caught them up top, heaving each one at the fire. Water punched through the burned-out plank cracks with a hiss, white steam billowing. The flames dipped, then rose again.

"Throw it into the cracks!" Shao Ming shouted from the water. "Don't just hit the surface!"

The grain shop's night watchman came running from the back courtyard, clutching his old wooden basin. "There's still half a vat of water in the tank—I hauled it after noon!" He set the basin at the base of the wall and joined the bucket line, then ran back twice more, ladling from the vat with a dipper, scraping the bottom until it rang.

The fire crawled west along the eave line. One more rafter, and it would reach the front room's roof beam.

By the time Jiang Wan came around, the sword was already in her hand. She looked up at the eave, stepped back twice, and picked the spot where the eave board met the pillar. One stroke—wood severed. The second cut came up from underneath at an angle, and the burning half sagged outward. She'd read the wind: it came off the river and pressed toward shore. If the eave board fell inward, it would land right on the front room's roof tiles.

"Clear out!"

Half the eave board, tiles and all, crashed down toward the river, hitting the water with a flat smack. Steam and smoke rose together. The severed burning piece fell onto the water's surface, sizzling. On the river, people were standing up in several boats, staring across.

The front room's beam was saved.

The planks in the upper half of the back wall were still burning. Behind them was open space; fire wormed into the cracks, retreated under each douse, surged back the moment it stopped. The stone footing below had baked in the heat; water hissed off it, but not one crack appeared.

"Sect Master Xu!" The watchman called out from the grain shop side.

Xu Yan came around from the market street. His shirt front was already wet. In his hand he carried a bucket borrowed from a household at the street mouth. He didn't look at the fire first. He looked at the door. "The ledgers?"

"In the cabinet!" Bai Xiaoman called back. "Box and ledgers both in the cabinet, locked!"

"If it's locked, leave it locked." He handed the bucket down, then turned and called, "Xiaoman, get to the front. Stand in the doorway. Don't let anyone in."

"Should we move the goods out?" someone with a bucket asked from the street.

"No." Xu Yan shook his head. "The cabinet's locked and the fire hasn't reached the front room. Drag everything into the street, something goes missing—whose loss is it?"

Bai Xiaoman ran back to the front room, stood one door panel up in the doorway as a barrier, and took her stance inside the threshold. A few bucket-carriers on the street stood watching; anyone who drew near got one sentence: "The cabinet's locked." The lamp on the counter inside lit half her face.

Townsfolk came around from the market street, bucket by bucket, passing them hand to hand down to the bank, throwing water. Some carried washbasins, some brought cooking pots, water spilling over the flagstones the whole way. Lu Shoutian came too, carrying a bucket. He set it down at the wall and said, "Pass them one at a time. Don't everyone jam the mouth. Everyone accounted for?"

"All accounted for," Xu Yan said.

"Good. That's what matters." Lu Shoutian bent, lifted his bucket, and passed it down.

In less than two quarter-hours, the flames were gone. Only embers still layered the blackened boards. Shao Ming soaked the grain shop's two old burlap sacks and passed them up. Xu Yan pressed them one by one over the smoldering spots—each press raised a plume of white smoke. The burlap pressed down and smothered the embers beneath; when he lifted it, the board was a wet black smear.

The last thread of smoke scattered on the river wind.

The upper half of the back wall was charred and holed—gaps everywhere. Half the eaves were gone, exposing the rafters beneath, their ends burned black. A few empty baskets in the back room had been reduced to blackened rings on the floor. The front room was untouched. The beam unharmed. The cabinet still locked, the lamp on the counter still burning, its shade sooted black on one side.

Bai Xiaoman stepped out from the threshold and walked to the wall, two streaks of soot across her face, one sleeve wet to the shoulder. She looked down at the bucket in her hands, crouched slowly to set it flat, and pushed herself up with one hand braced on her knee.

"Open the cabinet." Xu Yan passed her the key.

She ran into the front room and unlocked it. The box was there. The ledgers were there. She carried the box to the doorway and set it on dry ground, unwrapped the blue cloth, and turned the pages one by one—the edges had curled but nothing was wet. The writing held.

"Air them out," Xu Yan said. "Don't leave them sitting on damp ground."

Shao Ming came up from the river, pant legs dripping, and stood under the now-gaping eave, looking up for a long moment. "We didn't hang a single one in the back."

Xu Yan said "Mm," and didn't follow up.

What had been lost could be counted: a few empty baskets, half a wall, half a stretch of eave. Every item in the cabinet was still there. Of the two lanterns at the wall's base, one lamp shade had shattered.

Jiang Wan sheathed her sword. The blade was stained with black ash. She pulled a cloth from her sleeve, wiped the length of it, folded the cloth, and tucked it away. She looked up at the empty eave, then out at the dark path along the river.

"The fire was set from outside," she said. "There's broken porcelain at the wall. And oil."

Xu Yan crouched to inspect the base of the wall. Shards of porcelain in the mud, a water trail running all the way to the river. Coarse ware—the spout still connected to one piece, a ring of oil staining the body of the pot.

That was when Qi Qi dragged the man up from the riverbank.

The man could barely walk; his feet scraped over the flagstones. Bucket-carriers still on the market street parted to either side at the sight of Qi Qi. Qi Qi simply hauled him forward by the collar, all the way to the market gate.

The lamp on the counter inside still burned. Qi Qi shoved him forward—through the door, down under the light, to his knees. Hands bound behind his back, head hanging, panting.

Xu Yan walked over and stood on the other side of the light. He looked at the man's clothes, at the shirt front soaked to the waist, at the raw patch on his elbow, at the glaze of oil over both hands.

Footsteps sounded from the street. Miao Zhong and Zhuo Ying came running from the direction of the Luoxia Inn, one behind the other, and stopped at the doorway. Both still wore the same clothes from the day. Zhuo Ying had her outer robe clutched in one hand, not yet thrown on.

Miao Zhong stood outside the threshold. He didn't come in.