Chapter 22 — The Missing Son

CHAPTER 22

The Missing Son

The Wei household's gates stayed open until midnight.

Gao An stood beside a table covered in travel slips. Wei Kuo hadn't returned. Neither had Luo San, the Qi Condensation servant who followed him out of town.

“The young master often stays out,” Wen Ruxiu said.

She worked at the customs shed and knew which gates had counted which carts. She had come because Gao An sent five spirit stones with the message. Sympathy alone wouldn't have brought her through the rain.

“He took no spare clothes,” Gao An said. “Search the northern permits.”

“Permits tell me who passed a gate. They don't tell me who stabbed whom in the hills,” Wen Ruxiu said.

Gao An flinched. She hadn't meant a prophecy; she was warning him what he was buying. He paid for another day's watch. Shi Feng's name went onto her list beside seven hunters and two missing traders. Nobody could confirm his cultivation. The old record still called him a cripple.

“Then Heaven struck his meridians dead!” He Yan declared, slapping his wooden clapper onto the table.

Several drinkers gasped. A man near the door dropped a peanut into his wine. Shi Feng paused with a noodle halfway to his mouth.

That sounded familiar.

The dining room of the Changfu Inn was crowded and warm. Travelers occupied the benches nearest the windows. Townspeople stood by the storyteller's little platform, listening for free until the owner chased them toward empty tables.

He Yan wore a robe with a patched elbow and spoke with the confidence of a man who'd never met Heaven but quoted it every evening.

“One hundred and thirty-seven meridians!” He Yan cried. “An extraordinary genius, destroyed in a single night!”

“Two hundred and thirty-seven,” Shi Feng said.

He Yan looked toward him.

“What?” He Yan asked.

“The story starts with two hundred and thirty-seven,” Shi Feng said. “You forgot a hundred.”

The drinkers turned. Someone recognized his face, leaned toward a neighbor, and whispered much too loudly.

“That's him!”

“The Shi clan's cripple?”

“He doesn't look half dead.”

“My cousin says he eats spirit beast meat every day.”

“Can that repair meridians?”

“No, but I'd like to try!”

He Yan's smile froze. Then he recovered and lifted the clapper again.

“Exactly! Two hundred and thirty-seven!” He Yan said. “I was testing whether this audience knows its heroes!”

“Then return half our money!” somebody shouted.

The dining room burst into laughter.

Shi Feng went back to his noodles. He felt amused rather than humiliated. He Yan could tell the old story however he liked. It couldn't change the qi moving quietly through Shi Feng's body or the little bones he'd already begun refining.

He thought: if I correct every rumor, I won't have time for supper.

He Yan snapped his clapper down.

“Fortunately, Heaven left the youth one last treasure!” He Yan declared.

Shi Feng looked up.

“A very good appetite!” He Yan finished, pointing at the noodles.

The room burst out laughing. Shi Feng raised his bowl in acknowledgement. He Yan bowed from his platform, delighted to have survived his own story. He moved straight into a tale about a sect elder pursuing a stolen chicken.

The audience liked that one much better.

A serving boy brought another bowl of broth. Shi Feng thanked him and moved his pack out of the aisle. Two men beside the window argued about whether a swordsman could cut a shadow. Neither had drawn a sword all evening.

By the time He Yan finished, the lamps were burning low. He collected the offered stones and came to Shi Feng's table with a broad smile.

“You've become a famous young man,” He Yan said.

“Your famous young man lost a hundred meridians,” Shi Feng said.

“A slip of the tongue,” He Yan said. “Don't mention it again. Some listeners take numbers too seriously.”

“You announced the number three times,” Shi Feng said.

He Yan put his clapper away.

“I came here for a quiet bowl,” He Yan muttered.

“So did I,” Shi Feng said.

The storyteller looked at the empty seat. Shi Feng didn't invite him, but the dining room was full, and He Yan sat anyway after buying his own wine.

He was from Qingshi Town. Carrying familiar gossip from one town to another paid better than staying where everybody already knew the ending. That was his entire reason for coming west.

No secret sect, no mysterious employer. Just listeners and money.

“Are you going home?” He Yan asked.

“No,” Shi Feng said.

“Your elder was furious this morning,” He Yan said. “I heard half the street laughing.”

“Then you have tomorrow's story,” Shi Feng said.

He Yan's expression brightened. He reached for the clapper, thought about it, and left it in his sleeve.

“Some stories aren't worth making an elder angry,” He Yan said.

Shi Feng didn't argue. The man knew where his courage ended.

At the next table, a merchant complained about the price of medicine in the capital. His companion said the selection was better there, so naturally people paid more.

He Yan pointed his cup toward them.

“That's where money goes to disappear,” He Yan said. “I've been twice. A decent room can cost more than my whole week's earnings here.”

“Do they have better bone medicine?” Shi Feng asked.

“Shops, markets, auctions,” He Yan said. “Even a Sky Pavilion tower. If you've got the stones, somebody will sell you what you want.”

Shi Feng listened more closely.

Yunze Town had hunters and ordinary medicine shops. Its good resources came in small amounts, and the same few people fought over them. The capital drew traders from across Great Liang. That mattered more than its fine buildings.

“Which road?” Shi Feng asked.

He Yan waved west.

“Shuanghe Ferry first,” He Yan said. “After that, join a merchant convoy. Don't ask me the fare. The last merchant I rode with charged me for telling stories that kept his drivers awake!”

“What did you charge him?” Shi Feng asked.

He Yan coughed into his cup.

He Guang, the hide merchant at the next table, leaned over.

“Don't frighten him over the rooms,” He Guang said. “You can sleep cheaply near the warehouses. It's the medicine that empties your purse.”

“You bought the wrong medicine,” He Yan said.

“You drank it!” He Guang snapped. “That was my sleeping draught, not wine!”

He Yan stared at him, then pushed his own cup farther away.

Shi Feng laughed. The capital wasn't some distant sacred land. Ordinary people went there, earned money, made mistakes, and came back to complain. That made the journey feel straightforward.

“How long did you stay?” Shi Feng asked.

“A month,” He Guang said. “Sold hides, bought cloth, lost a tooth arguing with a Bone Refinement guard. Don't do the last part.”

“I'll try not to,” Shi Feng said.

He Guang returned to his own table. He Yan waited until the merchant wasn't looking and smelled his wine. Shi Feng smiled and called for the meal to be cleared.

Morning found him at the west end of town, looking at a road sign.

One arrow pointed toward Shuanghe Ferry. Another led to the nearby hunting hills. A third board warned travelers that part of the southern path had washed out.

He wouldn't leave immediately. His supplies needed replacing, and there was still medicine here he could use. But he no longer needed to wonder where he'd go after that.

He counted the food in his pack and looked at his boots. One lace needed replacing. The leather itself was sound. With a little preparation, he could begin walking as soon as he finished his next few hunts.

The capital.

He wasn't going there to prove anything to his family. He wanted more resources, better markets, and enough room to choose his own opportunities. Fan Mu, the old shrine sweeper, looked at his pack.

“Going far, young man?” Fan Mu asked.

“West,” Shi Feng said.

“Then don't sleep under the ferry sign,” Fan Mu said. “They move it when the river rises. I woke up in the mud once!”

Shi Feng looked at him and laughed.

“I'll remember that,” Shi Feng said.

The old man returned to sweeping. A gust blew half the leaves back across the steps. He cursed the wind and chased them with his broom.

When Shi Feng walked back through the west gate, a fresh wooden placard had been nailed beside the customs board. A crowd of hunters stood reading the black characters: the Wei household offered fifty spirit stones for word of Wei Kuo, and twenty more for the name of anyone who had met him on the western hill path.

At the edge of the crowd, Tang Jiu looked from the placard down to the knife hanging at Shi Feng’s belt—and slipped quietly down the side lane before Shi Feng reached the board.