Chapter 223 — Three Percent

CHAPTER 223

Three Percent

By the next morning there was a line.

Shi Feng saw it from the top of the road. Ten outer-court disciples stood in a crooked row before the stall, each clutching a bundle of herbs. Zhu Liu was already at his stool, white as paper. Beside the board, with a slate under one arm, stood Sima Lan.

“You're late,” Sima Lan said.

“It's not yet the second bell,” Shi Feng said.

“They came before the bell,” Sima Lan said. “I’ve put them in order. Sit down before they start wondering whether you intend to brew today.”

Shi Feng sat. The first in line was a laundry girl who kept bowing at him. The second was an old herb-sorter from the storehouse, who held his bag with both hands. Behind them came two cooks, a gatekeeper's nephew and a thin boy with a wrapped bundle he had clearly bought with a month's savings.

Down the road, Qiu Bao stopped with his friends and stared.

“Ten?” Qiu Bao said. “Ten people? Who told them?”

“The princess told the laundry girl, who told the kitchen,” one friend whispered.

“The princess spoke to them?” Qiu Bao asked, staring. “Since when has she bothered with anyone’s business?”

His friend shrugged. Since yesterday, apparently. The ten customers weren’t leaving.

“Quiet!” Qiu Bao said. “She walked down the road yesterday and looked at his sign. That's all. One pill doesn't make a stall. One flower doesn't make a spring.”

But he didn't leave.

Shi Feng took the first bundle. Laundry girl, Fen Yue. Qi-gathering herbs, a plain recipe. He weighed the tenth in front of her, set the rest in the cauldron and lit the flame.

The pill came out round and warm. Fen Yue held it in both hands as if it were a bird, and Zhu Liu's brush scratched.

“Next,” Sima Lan said.

It went on like that. The second bundle held bruise-mending herbs. The third was a cheap fever pill for a sick mother. The fifth person tried to bargain the fee to a twentieth, and Sima Lan said, “The board says one tenth. Read it,” in a tone that sent him backward two steps.

By noon Zhu Liu's receipt book had nine entries. His hand was cramped. He was breathing as if he had run up the mountain.

“Senior Brother Shi,” Zhu Liu whispered. “Fen Yue's tenth was short by a pinch.”

“Write it down,” Shi Feng said. “I'll take it from her next time.”

“Don't,” Sima Lan said, without looking up from her slate. “She'd cry. Write the pinch as a gift from the stall.”

Zhu Liu wrote that in obvious relief.

Shi Feng thought, She noticed Fen Yue’s embarrassment before I did. Calling it a gift spared the girl a scene.

There was a short gap after the ninth pill while he cleaned the cauldron. Sima Lan stepped around the board and stopped beside the stool.

“My referral fee,” Sima Lan said.

“Your what?” Shi Feng asked.

“Eight of today's ten were sent by me,” Sima Lan said. “I told them the fee was one tenth and the pills were real. I brought you a queue. Five percent of your fees.”

“Two,” Shi Feng said.

“Four,” Sima Lan said. “Or I tell them you eat the failures.”

Zhu Liu's brush snapped in half.

“How do you know that?” Zhu Liu squeaked.

“The wall is thin,” Sima Lan said. “And you sweep scorched residue into a bag every evening, Zhu Liu. Nobody sweeps residue they plan to throw away. They'd just leave it on the floor.”

Zhu Liu began to explain. Shi Feng stopped him with a raised hand.

“Tell them,” Shi Feng said.

Sima Lan paused.

“I eat the failures,” Shi Feng said. “It's accurate. Ingredients are expensive, and I don't waste them. Tell anyone who asks.”

“You're not afraid they'll leave?” Sima Lan asked.

“Then I’ll make pills for the ones who stay,” Shi Feng said. “They can judge what comes out of the cauldron.”

Silence. A boy in the line coughed. The old herb-sorter looked up at the sky.

“…” Sima Lan said.

Sima Lan took a long breath. Her face didn't change, but her mouth got a little thinner.

“Three,” Sima Lan said.

“Done,” Shi Feng said.

“Paid weekly,” Sima Lan said. “In coin, not pills. And Zhu Liu writes it in the book where I can see it.”

“Of course,” Zhu Liu said. He took out a new brush, wrote the line and showed it to her. She read it twice and nodded once.

“Don’t look so pleased,” Sima Lan said, noticing his expression. “I was negotiating. You’re supposed to argue over a referral fee.”

“Yes,” Shi Feng said.

“There's a difference,” Sima Lan said.

“I know,” Shi Feng said.

The tenth pill of the day, a Foundation Establishment-grade Marrow Strengthening Pill for the thin boy, came out perfect. The boy burst into tears at the cauldron. Behind him, five new disciples had joined the line without anyone telling them to.

Qiu Bao stared at them. He opened his mouth and found nothing in it.

“Impossible,” one of his friends muttered. “He's making a profit.”

“Ninety-three percent of this mountain can't afford the Pavilion,” another said. “Of course they're lining up.”

“Then why didn't anyone think of it before?”

“Because nobody before him could actually make the pills!”

“…”

The thin boy was still sobbing when a loud voice rang out from the gate.

“Junior Brother!” Lin Langtian shouted from the gate, loud enough to interrupt the boy’s sobbing.

Every head turned. The line of customers bowed in a wave, the herb-sorter so low he nearly dropped his bag.

A man in a black-and-gold chief disciple's robe strode up the road with a sweet potato in one hand. He was grinning as widely as his face allowed. He pointed the potato at the stall like a general at a city wall.

“A business!” Lin Langtian called. “A real business! And nobody told Senior Brother? I'm hurt. I'm going to eat this potato out of spite.”