Chapter 1037 — Seventh

CHAPTER 1037

Seventh

“Seventh!” the storyteller shouted, and slapped the folded issue on his table. “Shi Feng, seventh! It’s printed right here in the Mansion’s own ink!”

The Bright Cup Teahouse across from Northwind House was packed to the doors by mid-morning. Caravan men, Helian traders in fur, three off-duty Ninth Beacon soldiers and a table of young cultivators from the northern houses had all crammed in to hear it. Steam from forty teapots hung under the low roof.

Shi Feng sat at a corner table by the window with a pot of plain green tea and his left arm in a sling. Qin Wuyan sat across from him in his newly mended robe and didn’t drink anything.

Nobody had looked at them twice. In Beiling, a young man with a broken arm wasn’t news. Half the city had one, after the bandits.

“Seventh,” a fat caravan master said loudly. “Who was seventh last issue?”

“Zhongli Wei of the Azure Sun,” the storyteller said. “He turned thirty in the winter. The list doesn’t keep anyone past thirty, so out he goes. Everyone below him moved up a place.” He ran his finger down the column. “And the Fifth Prince goes from ninth to eighth. The prince will be furious. He only likes moving up when he’s hit someone.”

The room laughed.

“Wait, wait,” one of the young cultivators said, standing up. He wore the blue of some northern house and had a very new sword at his hip. “This Shi Feng. Is it the same Shi Feng? The alchemist at the Pavilion tower? The one who killed the bandit king on Bitter Sky Plateau?”

The teahouse went quiet for a moment. Then everyone started talking at once.

“It must be! How many Shi Fengs can there be in the north?”

“Don’t be stupid. The one on the plateau is a 6 Mark. A 6 Mark makes pills. A 6 Mark doesn’t go out and fight bandit kings!”

“The Helian say he went into the sky and came back out of it.”

“The Helian say a lot of things after their third jar.”

“I was at Inkwater Ferry,” one of the Ninth Beacon soldiers said, banging his cup on the table. “I saw it with my own eyes. Seeing is believing! He walked up a chain in the air!”

“Then why isn’t he first?” the young cultivator demanded. “If he kills bandit kings, why is he only seventh?”

“Because the bandit king isn’t on the list, you fool,” the storyteller said. “The list is for geniuses under thirty. Bandits don’t count, however many numbers they carry.”

The young cultivator sat down, frowning. His friend leaned across the table.

“It’s a different Shi Feng,” his friend said firmly. “Has to be. A man can’t make 6 Mark pills and stand seventh among the Empire’s geniuses at the same time. Nobody has that much time in a day. Heaven doesn’t give one man two harvests.”

“Then who killed the bandit king?” the young cultivator asked.

“The old Pavilion guardian, obviously,” his friend said. “The alchemist just stood behind him and got the credit.”

Qin Wuyan was irritated by the claim. His untouched cup shifted slightly. Shi Feng calmly filled it, warning him with a glance to leave the argument alone.

The storyteller noticed Shi Feng’s sling then. He pointed at it from across the room, delighted to have someone new.

“You there, young brother, with the arm,” the storyteller called. “You look like you’ve been in the hills. What do you say? Is the alchemist and the seventh the same man?”

The whole room turned to look at the corner table.

Shi Feng set down the pot.

“I think it’s a misprint,” Shi Feng said warmly.

“A misprint!” the young cultivator said, pleased. “You see?”

“The Mansion prints a lot of names,” Shi Feng said with an innocent smile. “Perhaps someone was tired. How could an alchemist find time to train that much?”

“That’s what I said!” the young cultivator’s friend said, slapping the table. “This brother understands!”

“What happened to your arm, brother?” the fat caravan master asked kindly.

“I fell over,” Shi Feng said. “On a plateau.”

“Bad place for falling,” the caravan master agreed. “All rocks.”

“Very bad,” Shi Feng said.

The argument started up again around them, louder than before. Shi Feng drank his tea. Across the table, Qin Wuyan looked at him for a long time without saying anything.

“Misprint,” Qin Wuyan said at last.

“I don’t want challengers gathering at the house,” Shi Feng said quietly. “If they believe it, nobody comes to Northwind House asking for a fight. If they don’t, they’ll argue about it for a month. Either way, nobody’s looking at the five alchemists in the furnace room.”

Qin Wuyan considered that. Then he drank his tea for the first time.

They left a few coins on the table and went out into the cold. The street was white and bright, and Northwind House’s gate stood open across it, with a Northwind porter sweeping the snow from the step.

There was someone waiting beside the porter.

He was a thin Daoist of middle years in plain blue robes, with a folding wooden ruler tucked into his belt where most men kept a knife. He held a long red card in both hands. When he saw Shi Feng crossing the street, he bowed low, and kept bowing until Shi Feng reached the step.

“Master Shi Feng,” the Daoist said. “Seventh, by the most recent issue.” He straightened, and his eyes went briefly to the sling. “This humble Daoist is Mingshu, of the Tianji Mansion’s printing hall. I assure Master Shi it was not a misprint.”