Chapter 263 — Black Gold

CHAPTER 263

Black Gold

“Grade Two,” the Martial Palace clerk said firmly. “The ore in these wagons is Grade Two, no more.”

“It's Grade Four,” Zhu Liu said.

“It's Grade Two. I have the Palace's table,” the Martial Palace clerk said.

“It's Grade Four. I have Senior Brother Shi,” Zhu Liu said.

The two clerks glared at each other across a heap of black lumps in the loading yard. The twelve wagons stood behind them with their seals broken. Dai Mu's miners were hauling the last sacks aboard, and the mine's guards were watching sullenly from the road.

Shi Feng sat on an upturned bucket, holding his sore side. The ribs were almost knitted, but he was tired and irritated. He’d been awake since dawn. Lin Langtian still hadn’t explained why assaying ore required him to sit beside the heap.

“The contract says Artificer Hall assays the ore,” Lin Langtian said. He stood between the clerks with his arms folded, glowing with health. “Zhu Liu's stone is broken. Junior Brother, do your duty.”

“How?” Shi Feng asked.

“You eat a piece,” Lin Langtian said. “The Ledger grades it. It never lies, and it never takes bribes.”

“That's a stomach, not an assay table,” Shi Feng said.

“It's the best assay table in the region,” Lin Langtian said. “It's merely located in an inconvenient place.”

The Martial Palace clerk made a small, choking noise. “You can't mean to eat the ore,” the clerk said.

“Wujin ore is black gold,” Dai Mu said carefully. “The region’s hardest metal. It won’t melt without a kiln’s heat. You can’t seriously mean to put that in your mouth.”

Shi Feng picked a lump out of the heap. It was black and heavy and cold, the size of a quail's egg. He turned it over twice.

He thought, The last time I did this, I lay in bed for seven days.

He ate it.

It went down like a pebble in a well. The Ledger spoke at once.

[Devoured: raw black gold, Wujin ore | Grade: Four | Gain: moderate | Note: you know what you did]

“Grade Four,” Shi Feng said.

“Impossible,” the Martial Palace clerk said. “It's Grade Two. You can't just—”

“Write it down,” Lin Langtian said to Zhu Liu, with a beautiful smile. “Grade Four, assayed by Artificer Hall, as per the contract. Any dispute goes to the assay. Which is also Artificer Hall.”

The clerk dropped his brush.

The ache began after the wagons left. At first Shi Feng could sit upright, but by the second night the pain doubled him over. He lay on an ore sack in the lead wagon with his knees drawn up. It lasted seven days.

Zhu Liu fed him water. Lin Langtian sat on the wagon's tailboard and ate a sweet potato slowly in front of him.

“Beautiful grain,” Lin Langtian said. “You'll make a fine refiner one day.”

Shi Feng didn't answer. He was busy being a stone.

The news travelled faster than the wagons.

The news reached the border market that evening, Duanyang City by the third day, and Martial Palace’s halls by the fifth. People repeated each defeat: Tuoba Hong’s wager, Dai Mu’s broken pick, and the twelve released wagons. Most didn’t understand the hidden clause. They understood the cost. A chief disciple had lost to a sweet-potato seller. A mine overseer had lost a refined artifact to a paperweight. Martial Palace’s own seal had released the wagons. As the saying goes, the clever are undone by their own cleverness.

Wei Chengyuan read the report standing up.

He was an old man with a long, still face, and he read all four pages without a change of expression. When he reached the last line, the one about the clause under the seal, his hand stopped. It held the page for a long moment.

“Under the seal,” Wei Chengyuan said.

Elder Qu Jiang said nothing.

“Eighty a wagon,” Wei Chengyuan said. “Our own price.”

“The chief disciple sealed it, Elder,” Elder Qu Jiang said at last. “In front of witnesses.”

Wei Chengyuan put the page on the table and squared its edges, very gently, as if it might break.

“Tuoba Hong will be seeing me,” Wei Chengyuan said. “Tomorrow. Alone.”

He did not raise his voice. Qu Jiang, who had known him for forty years, began to sweat.

Up on Thousand Forge Peak, a different letter was being read.

Li Changyuan held it at arm's length and squinted, a broom leaning against his shoulder. He stood in the courtyard of the sect hall, and Elder He Zhen stood opposite him, reading the same paper over his shoulder with the look of a man watching a house burn.

“By rotation,” Li Changyuan said, “the Three Sects Gathering is held this year at Artificer Hall.”

“Yes, Sect Master,” He Zhen said.

“We've never hosted,” Li Changyuan said. “We've avoided it for sixty years. We always had the rotation changed. We always had a reason.”

“Poverty, Sect Master,” He Zhen reminded him. “That was always our reason. Unfortunately, both sects have heard about the twelve wagons. They’ve decided we can afford to host them. A tall tree catches the wind, as they say.”

“Thirty tables,” Li Changyuan said, in a thin voice. “Two hundred lanterns. Three sects' worth of tea.”

He lowered the letter, and for the first time anyone could remember, the sect master looked old.

“Who did this?” Li Changyuan asked the sky.

On the wagon rolling up the stone stair, a curled-up shape groaned once and turned over.