Chapter 216 — The Sect Owns the Iron

CHAPTER 216

The Sect Owns the Iron

Lin Langtian had grinned, said “Don't go anywhere,” and vanished, so Shi Feng spent the afternoon trying the honest way first. The Treasury window was the size of a bread basket, and Elder Qian Mo's face filled all of it.

“Forty catties of spirit iron a year,” Elder Qian Mo said, tapping the ledger. “That's the allowance for an inner disciple. You used it in twelve days.”

“Twelve days, a hundred and twelve lumps,” Zhu Liu said from behind Shi Feng's shoulder. He held his receipt book to his chest like a shield. “I counted. The wall counted too.”

“Then you've counted yourself out of iron,” Elder Qian Mo said. “The sect isn't a mountain of ore, boy. Come back next spring.”

“The grey ingot,” Shi Feng said. “The elders are still arguing over its grade. Surely that's worth some iron.”

“When they agree on a grade, bring me a price,” Qian Mo said. “Until then, it’s a discussion, not payment. The Treasury can’t buy iron with Elder Tian shouting at Elder He.”

The window banged shut. A strip of dust fell off the frame and landed on Zhu Liu's brush.

Shi Feng stood there a moment. The Slag Weight was sitting on his table at home, holding down a stack of coal-debt papers. It could cut a test block in half, and it still couldn't buy a single catty of iron.

Shi Feng thought, It can cut spirit iron, but it can’t get me any more. He knew another argument at the window would achieve nothing. He turned away.

“Senior Brother Shi,” Zhu Liu whispered. “I could ask the outer workshops for scrap?”

“They sell scrap by weight,” Shi Feng said. “I've weighed my purse.”

“…It's lighter than the scrap,” Zhu Liu said.

“Yes,” Shi Feng said.

A potato peel landed on the Treasury step between them.

Lin Langtian was sitting on the roof edge above the window, legs swinging, chewing something that smelled of smoke. The chief disciple's robe was spotless. His grin was not.

“Junior Brother!” Lin Langtian called down. “I heard everything. Terrible. Forty catties! The old miser is an iron rooster, and an iron rooster won't part with a single feather. He guards that ledger as if his grandchildren were bound inside it.”

Lin Langtian dropped lightly to the ground. “Come on, Junior Brother. You need iron, and we’ve still got time before supper.”

“Does it involve money?” Shi Feng asked.

“It involves a lamp and an excellent mood,” Lin Langtian said.

They walked. Lin Langtian led them past the dining hall, past the practice court, and along a wall that ended in a gate nobody used. Weeds grew through the stairs. The sign above the arch had lost so many characters that only “East” and “Wing” were left, and one of those was crooked.

“Thirty-one years abandoned,” Lin Langtian said happily. “A fire cracked the roof, the elders argued about repairs, and everybody forgot. Look at that door.”

Shi Feng looked. The door was massive, black with age, hung on three iron hinges as thick as his wrist. Under the rust, the metal was dense and good.

“Spirit iron,” Shi Feng said. “Old, but real.”

“Fourteen doors in this wing. Forty-two hinges. Do you know what that is?” Lin Langtian said.

“Iron,” Shi Feng said.

“Your iron!” Lin Langtian said. “The sect owns the iron. We are the sect. So the iron is ours.”

Shi Feng thought about it for as long as it deserved.

“That's stealing,” Shi Feng said.

“The sect owns it, not Elder Qian Mo,” Lin Langtian argued. “It’s sitting there rusting. You’re a sect disciple learning to refine. Tell me why the old hinges should have a better claim than you.”

“Chief disciple,” Zhu Liu said weakly, “the sect rules say that—”

“Which page?” Lin Langtian asked.

Zhu Liu opened his mouth. He had written down everything in the sect rules, but he hadn't expected to be asked in the dark.

“…I'll look it up,” Zhu Liu said.

“Look it up tomorrow,” Lin Langtian said. “Hold the lamp tonight.” He wedged a flat bar beneath the first hinge and leaned. Rust broke loose, and the hinge shifted from the frame.

Shi Feng held out his hand. He did not have a lamp. Zhu Liu was already holding it.

That settled who would carry what. Lin Langtian worked the bar. The hinges came loose one after another, and Shi Feng caught each before it could ring on the stones. It was surprisingly easy work. He had carried heavier medicine crates down Qingliu Lane.

Shi Feng had made his objection. Lin Langtian was clearly going to take the hinges anyway. He thought, At least I can stop him dropping them and waking the entire wing.

By the ninth door, his arms held twenty-seven hinges, and the beginning of a bad habit.

“Receipts don't cover this,” Zhu Liu whispered, holding the lamp as high as his shaking arm allowed. “Nobody's ever written a receipt for this.”

“Then don't write one,” Shi Feng said.

“I won't. I'll just remember it forever,” Zhu Liu said.

Lin Langtian dropped the last hinge into Shi Feng's arms, dusted his palms, and looked across the dark court toward the old bell tower. The bronze bell hung there, quiet, huge and green with age.

“Fine start,” Lin Langtian said. “Now, about that bell.”