Chapter 276 — A Charter with Wet Ink

CHAPTER 276

A Charter with Wet Ink

“A hundred and six spirit stones,” Clerk Hui Mo said, without looking up.

The Martial Palace permit office at the edge of Ashfall Marsh was a low hut with a red roof and a barrier pole across the road. A board on the wall listed the fees in thick black characters. Outsiders paid six stones a head, and ten more for anyone carrying a furnace. Martial Palace disciples paid nothing. Two guards stood by the pole.

Behind the pole, the marsh began. Grey mud, grey reeds and a grey sky, dusted with fine pale ash.

“For sixteen people and one cauldron,” Sima Lan said. She had finished the sum before the clerk finished his sentence. “Six times fifteen is ninety. Add ten. That's a hundred, not a hundred and six.”

“The cauldron's a person,” Hui Mo said. “He's carrying it.”

Qiu Bao stood at the back of the cohort with the cracked cauldron strapped to his shoulders. It stood on three legs that used to be a bell. He gave the clerk a look of deep suffering.

“Sixteen heads,” Hui Mo said. “Pay, or go home.”

Eleven outer-court disciples stood behind Shi Feng in a nervous line, with their packs on and their eyes on the red roof. Lin Langtian had promised them contribution points, and they had agreed on the spot. Not many had read the fee board first.

“Pay?” Lin Langtian said happily. “Pay?”

He stepped up to the counter with a long bamboo tube under his arm. His chief disciple's robe was already grey to the knee from the road, and he had a sweet potato sticking out of each sleeve.

“Young man,” Lin Langtian said, “do you know where you're standing?”

“At the permit office,” Hui Mo said.

“On my sect's hunting ground!” Lin Langtian said. “The founders of Artificer Hall hunted the Ashfall when your Palace was still a cowshed. We're not outsiders. We're the previous owners. When you drink the water, remember who dug the well!”

“That's a joke,” Hui Mo said.

“It's a charter,” Lin Langtian said.

He popped the cap off the tube and unrolled a long scroll across the counter. The paper was yellow and stained at the corners. A red seal the size of a rice bowl sat at the bottom, and the opening line read Charter of the Founding Hunt. Hui Mo leaned in, frowning, and touched the first character with his thumb.

The thumb came away black.

“This ink is wet,” Hui Mo said.

“Preservation oil,” Lin Langtian said promptly. “Our founders took care of important papers. And you’ve smudged one of their names. Look at your thumb.”

“I haven't…” Hui Mo said.

“Third character.” Lin Langtian pointed. “Three hundred stones. But I'm in a good mood.”

Hui Mo looked from his black thumb to the scroll. Then he glanced at the guards. Both had stopped picking their teeth to watch him. The clerk suddenly seemed less sure that refusing the charter was worth the trouble.

Shi Feng stood at the end of the counter and read the charter. It granted Artificer Hall the right to hunt in the Ashfall “from the first ridge to the last,” without fee, “for as long as grey rain falls.” The brushwork was Lin Langtian's, and it was at most two hours old.

At the lower edge, the founder's seal was still glistening. A long streak ran toward the corner, where Hui Mo's thumb had caught it.

Shi Feng leaned over the counter, as if to read the small print, and blew on it once.

Gently. Barely a breath. The streak dried.

He straightened and looked at the reeds. Nobody had noticed.

“Hm,” Sima Lan said, very quietly, at his shoulder.

She was writing in her ledger. She didn't look at him.

“It was smudging,” Shi Feng said.

“Forgery-drying isn't in the contract,” Sima Lan said. “I'll add a line.”

“I'm not charging anyone,” Shi Feng said.

“I know,” Sima Lan said. “That's why it needs a line.”

Beside the counter, Lin Langtian was still going. His voice rose with every sentence, and the guards had started to look at each other.

“Send for your archivist, then!” Lin Langtian said. “Ask him to explain to my sect master why a permit clerk called our founder a liar. I’ll wait while you write the message. My master takes these matters personally.”

Hui Mo hesitated. The archive was two days away. If the charter proved genuine, he’d have turned away a Great Sect’s chief disciple. He didn’t want his name on that report. As the saying goes, one more matter is worse than one less matter. He took the red stamp and slammed it beside the wet seal.

“Inspected,” Hui Mo said stiffly. “The office will keep a copy of this.”

The barrier pole swung up. The cohort went through in a line, bowing to the guards out of habit, and the guards stared at the ground and let them. Zhu Liu came last. He had the bamboo tube clutched to his chest, and his receipt book was open in his other hand.

“Senior Brother Shi,” Zhu Liu whispered. “Do I write 'fee waived' or 'fee avoided'?”

“Write 'fee not due',” Shi Feng said.

On the far side of the pole, the path sank into mud. Lin Langtian slapped Shi Feng on the back hard enough to make him take a step.

“A hundred and six saved,” Lin Langtian said, slapping Shi Feng’s back. “Two hours of writing, and we’re in. And that little breath over the seal! Very discreet, Junior Brother. Naturally I saw nothing.”

Sima Lan closed her ledger. Zhu Liu looked at the sky.

Something small and wet landed on the back of Shi Feng's hand. It was grey.

He looked up. The clouds over the marsh had thickened while the clerk was busy. A second drop fell, then a third, and Zhu Liu's face went white.

“It's raining,” Zhu Liu said in a small voice. “On the charter.”

Lin Langtian stopped smiling.

“Zhu Liu,” Lin Langtian said gravely. “Put the founder under your robe. Quickly.”