Chapter 266 — Knocking from the Coffins

CHAPTER 266

Knocking from the Coffins

“Senior Brother Shi, this is outside my duties,” Zhu Liu said.

He stood in the empty storehouse at dusk with the receipt book against his chest. The inspectors had gone to the dining hall, where Li Changyuan was counting their buns himself. At the back wall, the fifth iron case lay open like a long black mouth. Lin Langtian had spread a clean cloth inside it.

“Write the receipt first,” Lin Langtian said. “Then you can stop worrying about whether it belongs in your duties. I’ve even put a clean cloth in there.”

Zhu Liu thought about that. He opened the book and wrote slowly: One coffin, borrowed, one night. Contents: Zhu Liu.

“Good boy,” Lin Langtian said, and patted his shoulder. “When Gongsun Ce taps the lid from outside, you knock back. Three knocks, pause, three. Not too fast. And you say your prayers. Hugging the Buddha's feet at the last moment still counts, as they say.”

“What prayers?” Zhu Liu asked.

“Any prayers,” Lin Langtian said. “Loud enough to be heard, quiet enough to be mysterious. Ask for forgiveness.”

“For what?” Zhu Liu asked.

“Nobody will check,” Lin Langtian said.

Shi Feng watched the lid come down. Lin Langtian ran a thumb along the seam, and rust-coloured paste flowed into the crack from a small jar. It set at once, flaking and old, as if the lid hadn't been opened in sixty years.

“It will open from inside if he pushes,” Lin Langtian said cheerfully. “So he must not push.”

“Why not?” Shi Feng asked.

“Because then they'll find him, Junior Brother,” Lin Langtian said.

From inside the iron, very faintly, Zhu Liu said, “I understand.”

At midnight Shi Feng carried a kettle of hot water to the storehouse door.

“The host checks his guests every night,” Lin Langtian had said. “That's hospitality. Go. Look sympathetic.”

He looked as sympathetic as he could. It was not very much.

The nine inspectors huddled back-to-back in blankets. Seven extra lamps from Qian Mo burned around them, each billed in advance by Sima Lan. Hao Wen’s eyes were red from another sleepless night and a day spent writing about draughts.

“Is the lodging satisfactory?” Shi Feng asked.

“Very,” Hao Wen said.

“Anything you need?” Shi Feng asked.

“No,” Hao Wen said.

“Warm water?” Shi Feng asked.

“…Yes,” Fu Zhi said, in a cracked whisper, and was elbowed by his neighbour.

Shi Feng poured the water and watched the cups tremble in their hands. He thought, They expected to find a poor sect, not spend the night frightened of its old puppets. Lin Langtian had judged their nerves well.

Then, from the back wall, something went knock.

Everyone froze.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

A pause. Then three more.

“It's in the walls,” a young inspector whispered. “It's the dead.”

“It's the pipes,” Hao Wen said.

“There are no pipes!” an inspector said.

“Then it's the iron,” Shi Feng said. “Old storehouse. Iron expands at night.”

“Iron doesn't pray,” Hao Wen said.

At that moment, from the fifth coffin, a thin and trembling voice began to speak.

“...Ancestors of Artificer Hall,” Zhu Liu said. “This humble receipt-writer has never stolen a copper from you. If I wronged any of you, please forgive me. I have three unpaid fines. I will pay them. Forgive me. Forgive me...”

Fu Zhi's board slid off his knees. Two inspectors grabbed each other's sleeves, their souls flying and their spirits scattering.

“Some of it does,” Shi Feng said.

“What?” Hao Wen said.

“Iron prays. Some of it. Ours is very old,” Shi Feng said.

Hao Wen stared at him. Shi Feng held his gaze, calm and polite, and refilled the cup in his hand.

Outside, Gongsun Ce tapped the lids through a gap in the boards. Zhu Liu answered from the fifth case. Tiny puppet fists hung inside the empty ones, so the other coffins answered too. Gongsun Ce was very proud of the trick and had explained it twice.

“Open it!” Hao Wen said suddenly. “Open that case. Now!”

Two men ran to the fifth coffin and pulled. The lid didn't move. A third man joined them, and then a fourth, hauling with both feet braced against the iron frame. Flakes of rust dusted their boots.

“It's welded!” a man gasped. “It's rusted shut!”

“Then break it!” Hao Wen ordered.

“With what? It's iron! It's Artificer Hall iron!”

“…Forgive me,” Zhu Liu said very faintly from the coffin. “Please, I'm only seventeen.”

Hao Wen backed away from the case. The plea about being seventeen had unnerved him most of all. He looked at Shi Feng for an explanation. The champion waited, calm and polite, as though nothing unusual had happened.

“Move the cots to the yard,” Hao Wen said.

“It might rain,” Shi Feng said. “The clouds look heavy.”

“Move them,” Hao Wen said.

“As the guest wishes,” Shi Feng said.

Shi Feng set down the kettle, bowed and walked out of the storehouse. At the door he passed the fifth coffin, and a voice came very quietly through the iron beside his hip.

“Senior Brother Shi?” Zhu Liu whispered. “I can't tell if I'm still allowed to push.”

“Don't,” Shi Feng said.

“It's getting warm in here,” Zhu Liu whispered.

“Write it down,” Shi Feng said, and kept walking.