Chapter 256: The Sixth-Rank Certificate

At the Hour of the Goat, Xu Yan untied the two hemp cords at the mouth of the old cloth sack, cupped one hand under the bottom, and lifted out stack after stack. The Spirit Stones clinked inside the sack. By the seventh stack, the bottom had emptied out by half. He picked the sack up and shook it twice. What remained tumbled onto the table—two stones skittered loose. He pushed them back into place. Eighteen stacks, ten stones each, arranged in three rows across the square table. A small corner of the tabletop stayed bare.

The clerk stepped around to the far side and counted, stone by stone. After each stack, he picked it up and tapped it once against the tabletop before moving to the next. When he finished the first pass, he bent down and sighted across the table—all three rows stood at equal height. His finger rapped the wood once. He started over. On the second pass, at the ninth stack, he flipped it over, rearranged the stones, and kept counting.

The front courtyard was so quiet you could hear stone tapping against wood. It was the same square table as yesterday. The old crack in the corner had gathered a little incense ash. Outside the threshold, the small bronze burner still sat on the blue stone, its spent incense sticks pulled out and laid aside. In the veranda, the afternoon drill had picked up again—the thin wind of the sword came in fits and starts, then stopped. Huo Qing stood before the wooden target, sword in hand. The dent at the target's center had not changed.

Cheng Banshan sat on the long bench in the veranda, the formation-hand diagram resting on his knee, his wine gourd by his hand. He had not picked it up once. Jiang Wan stood by the veranda pillar, sleeves still rolled up.

Xu Yan laid out the six conditions in his mind. Ten names on the roster—one Golden Core, three at Foundation Establishment or above, verified that morning. The great formation held. Two conditions remained: one lay on the table in front of him, one in the register.

The clerk finished counting and straightened. He looked at Wen Su.

"Two passes. One hundred eighty stones," Wen Su said. "Qingya Sect, Alliance Year 302, Seventh-Rank annual fee. Paid in full."

She sat behind the table, water flask at her left hand, its cord still tied. She had not once looked at the eighteen stacks. What she watched was the register in the clerk's hands.

"Enter the record," she said.

The clerk turned to a page in the middle of the register, pressed a finger to it, and read aloud: "Alliance Year 302, Qingya. The twentieth day of the Third Month: one case of a counterfeit pill; Qingya not recorded. The twenty-fourth day of the Eighth Month: petition filed; application submitted for promotion to Sixth Rank. The seventh day of the Ninth Month: confrontation hearing."

He read to the end, then pushed the register slightly toward Wen Su.

Wen Su read it through from top to bottom, not missing a line. She flipped back a page, studied that too, then pushed the register back.

"No entry on record."

From the Mountain Gate came the broom pushing leaves aside—one stroke, then another—moving through the gate arch. A Sui crouched on the steps of the main hall, both hands on her knees, having lost count of her fingers. A He sat beside her, eyes wandering to the table. He lost count at the ninth stack and started over.

Cheng Banshan finally picked up his wine gourd, took a sip, and set it back exactly where it had been.

The clerk holding the box set it on a corner of the table and opened the lid. The other clerk transferred the eighteen stacks in, one by one, wiping the table after each. He scooped up the two stray stones as well. On his way out, he collected the small bronze burner from the blue stone threshold. The lid closed, the bronze clasp latched, and he hugged the box to his chest, stepping back half a pace.

Xu Yan folded the empty cloth sack into thirds and set it at one end of the long bench. He had carried this sack for years; the folds at its mouth were worn white. Today, lifted, it was empty—light in a way that felt wrong.

The shadow of the sun crawled from the edge of the table to beneath the bench. Wen Su untied her water flask, took a sip, retied it, and raised a hand. The clerk with the box took out a sheet of official paper, a seal, and a small box of seal paste, laying each on the table. The clerk with the register moved the inkstone to her right hand, added water, and ground the ink a few turns.

"Roster. Great formation. Annual fee. Record," Wen Su said. "All six conditions are met."

The clerk spread the paper flat. The corner curled; he pressed it smooth from the center outward with his palm. Wen Su pushed her sleeves up another notch, took the brush, straightened the bristles against the inkstone's edge, and only then began to write. She did not write quickly. Stroke by stroke, the brush pressed against the paper. At the two characters for "Sixth Rank," she paused, dipped for more ink, and continued. Xu Yan stood beside the table, watching her finish one line, lift the tip, and set it down again.

When the writing was done, she scooped seal paste from the box, pinned the paper's corner with two fingers, and pressed the Branch seal down. She held it there before lifting—the vermilion had sunk into the paper: a clean, square mark. She held the sheet to the light, glanced at it, and handed it to the clerk. The clerk blotted it with a clean sheet of paper and brought it back.

Wen Su rose. With both hands, she held the paper out to Xu Yan. Xu Yan stepped forward and received it with both hands.

"Sect Master Xu. Qingya Sect. Sixth Rank."

The paper was stiff; the corners still carried the chill of the seal paste. Xu Yan held it flat. He did not fold it. He did not bow his head to study it.

A line appeared before his eyes.

[Balance: Sixth Rank. Registered Disciples: 10.]

The clerk with the register lowered his brush and made an entry.

"The annual fee for Sixth Rank," Wen Su said, "is due at next year's Autumn Evaluation, as per the rules."

"Noted," Xu Yan said.

"Keep the roster safe," Wen Su said. Xu Yan picked up the register from the square table and held it. She sat back down, retied her water flask, drew a handkerchief from her sleeve to wipe the seal paste from her fingers, and only then rose. "That will be all."

At the gate arch, she paused, lifting her eyes to the mountain road beyond, before crossing the threshold. The two clerks followed in single file, the one with the box shifting it to his other arm as he descended the stone steps. Xu Yan saw them as far as the inside of the arch, then stopped and watched the three of them go down the mountain.

Shi Po came over from the veranda to collect the long benches, stacking them one by one. He and A He carried the square table. A ring of water was left on the tabletop; he wiped it twice with his sleeve, then blew the incense ash from the crack in the corner.

A He, still holding the table, looked back over his shoulder. "Sect Master, is this one going in the same place as the Seventh-Rank certificate?"

"Same place," Xu Yan said.

Huo Qing returned to the wooden target. His left hand raised the sword, and he drilled the thrust. The tip stopped a breath from the bullseye, drew back, and darted forward again.

Qi Qi sat on the lowest step, tearing a blade of grass between his fingers. "I went down to town on the eighth. Somebody asked whether the market would open on the tenth."

"It opens. Dragon hour," Xu Yan said.

"Also heard the old shopfront at the north gate of the Linchuan Market has had its door planks nailed shut. Someone back from there saw it."

Xu Yan turned the paper in his hands so the sunlight struck it. "Make a note of it."

Jiang Wan stood at the entrance to the East Courtyard. She glanced at the paper. "Put away?"

"Put away."

She nodded and went back inside. The sound of sword-wind rose in the courtyard.

Qian Duoduo poked half his body out of the kitchen door, flour smeared on his apron. "Sect Master—Sixth Rank?"

"Sixth Rank."

"Market day on the tenth. Still two pots."

"Two pots."

Qian Duoduo pressed his hands against the apron twice, turned, and went back in. A while later, a sweet smell rose from the kitchen. The tray of Spirit Cakes had been steaming since mid-morning, then another shichen into the afternoon; the tops had settled and gone slightly flat. He cut them into squares, arranged the squares in one tier, and brought it to the veranda.

Cheng Banshan got up from the bench and glanced through the kitchen window. "Give her two."

"She can eat now?"

"She can eat. No spiritual power use."

A Sui took the tier, holding it in both hands, and walked slowly toward the West Wing. Bai Xiaoman was on the plank bed, blanket drawn to her chin. Seeing A Sui come in, she reached out a hand. "The market book for the tenth."

"Sect Master says you're not going. He'll keep it."

"He's taking the market box?"

"He is." A Sui set the Spirit Cakes on the stool beside the bed. "Grandpa Cheng says eat two."

Bai Xiaoman made a sound of assent, took one, bit off a small piece, and set it down, her eyes still on the ceiling beam. She nudged the other cake toward the stool's edge. "Save half for A He." A Sui said A He had already eaten at the table. Only then did Bai Xiaoman pull the blanket up a little higher.

Xu Yan carried the register into the Ancestral Hall. It was dim inside. He set the register beside the offering table, crouched down, and slid out the wooden box. He lifted the lid, placed the register inside with its paper-roster page facing up, closed the lid, and pushed it back under the offering table. He stood, faced the row of ancestral tablets for a moment, smoothed his front placket, and withdrew, pulling the door shut behind him.

The sun went down. Lamps were lit on the mountain. Shao Ming passed through the front courtyard: "Market opens the tenth. I'll open the gate at Dragon hour and mind the scales."

"Dragon hour," Xu Yan answered.

Lamps lit, the main hall set the evening meal. Qian Duoduo laid out thirteen pairs of chopsticks as always. Eleven people sat at the table. A Sui first carried a bowl to the low hut by the Mountain Gate, then another into the West Wing, before returning to sit. That tray of Spirit Cakes came to the table too—small squares stacked on a plate.

A He bit into a cake. "Is Sixth higher than Seventh?"

"One rank higher," Qian Duoduo said, breaking his own cake in half and dropping half into A He's bowl.

Du Xiaochuan counted back on his fingers. "So next year, Fifth Rank?"

"One rank a year," Xu Yan said.

A He asked again: "So this Sixth-Rank certificate—does it go up on the wall?"

"It goes together with the Seventh-Rank one," Xu Yan said. "And the Eighth-Rank one's in there too."

A Sui lifted her bowl, then set it down. "Was it like that with the Seventh Rank?"

"Same way," Xu Yan said.

Cheng Banshan set his wine gourd at the corner of the table. "Eat. No one's heating it up for you after it's cold."

No one at the table mentioned Sixth Rank again. Shao Ming pushed the last two Spirit Cakes from the plate toward the two children's bowls. One cake each.

After the meal, the window paper in the West Wing glowed for a while, then went dark. In the kitchen, Qian Duoduo scrubbed the pot. The sound of water ran until just before the Hour of the Boar.

At the Hour of the Boar, the Accounts Room. Xu Yan lit the lamp and spread the Sixth-Rank paper on the desk, smoothing all four corners. The square seal at its corner was still fresh. When he folded it, he folded around that mark, the crease giving it half a finger's clearance. He folded again, the seal landing on the outermost layer, flat and smooth.

He took the ledger down from the rack and opened it to the middle. The Seventh-Rank certificate was there. The Eighth-Rank one was behind it. After that came the Mountain Gate deed, and beneath the deed were pressed four judgments: Alliance Year 300, the fifteenth day of the Tenth Month; Alliance Year 301, the fourth day of the Second Month; Alliance Year 301, the eighth day of the Sixth Month; Alliance Year 302, the seventh day of the Ninth Month. He tucked the Sixth-Rank certificate in with the Seventh-Rank one, closed the ledger, and pressed the cover with his palm so the edges all lay even.

He opened it again, flipped to the accounting pages at the back, and, beneath the line for the eighth day of the Ninth Month, began a new line: "The ninth day of the Ninth Month. Autumn Evaluation. Promoted to Sixth Rank."

The ink dried fast under the lamp. He closed the ledger, returned it to its place on the rack, and squared it with the volumes before it. On the top shelf sat the stack of loose ledger pages recovered from the Hidden Realm, wrapped in oilcloth. He did not touch them. The iron money box sat at the foot of the rack, hemp cord tied just so—this time nothing weighing down the lid.

The wick in the desk lamp had burned down a notch. He reached over and trimmed it; the flame stood up straight.

No more broom sounds from the Mountain Gate.

He drew the thin account book from inside his robes and turned to the last page.

The first three lines were still there.

He moved the book a little closer to the lamp.

A fourth line appeared below them.

[Handled by: First Disciple.]