Chapter 284 — The Jade Lion

CHAPTER 284

The Jade Lion

The lion was the size of a calf, and every part of it shone.

Its mane was gold-streaked green jade. Its eyes were two fat amber stones. A little brass plate on the base said, in letters meant to be read from across the room, TREASURE OF THE SECT.

“Behold,” Elder Qian Mo said. He lifted the lantern so the amber eyes glowed. “The Jade Lion of Thousand Forge Peak. Appraised at three thousand spirit stones. Carved by a master. Gifted by a grateful merchant. It would look magnificent in any hall.”

“It looks expensive,” Zhu Liu whispered.

“It is expensive!” Elder Qian Mo said. “And you may have it. As the sect master's item. Today. Without further paperwork.”

Shi Feng examined the shining lion while Qian Mo praised it. The elder’s eagerness made him suspicious. He’d barely entered the Treasury, and already the treasurer wanted him to choose the largest object near the door.

He thought, Three thousand stones, and the elder is begging me to take it. That was the first sign. A miser who truly believed in a three-thousand-stone treasure would have hidden it under his bed.

“May I?” Sima Lan asked.

She stepped past him, reached out with one finger and tapped the lion's flank.

Tok.

The sound was thin and hollow, like a teapot.

“It’s hollow,” Sima Lan said, tapping the mane. “Gold and jade without, rotten wadding within. Painted gold streaks, jade glaze over white porcelain. A good glaze, I’ll admit. Perhaps eighty stones, if someone likes the look of it.”

“Appraisals differ,” Elder Qian Mo said stiffly.

“By two thousand nine hundred and twenty,” Sima Lan said.

“It was a merchant's gift!” Elder Qian Mo said, and now his voice cracked. “Who tells a merchant his gift is eighty stones? He sat in that chair and wept at how generous he was! I couldn't say anything!”

“So you put it in the Treasury,” Shi Feng said.

“Where else was I meant to put it?” Qian Mo demanded. “Too ugly for the hall, too large to sell without the merchant hearing.” He recovered himself. “It still guards a house. You could call it our finest piece.”

“Gift, one lion, eighty stones,” Zhu Liu murmured, writing. “Received, not inspected.”

“Cross that out!” Elder Qian Mo said.

“I already used ink, Elder,” Zhu Liu said, shrinking. “I'm very sorry. It's the cheap kind that doesn't come off.”

“I'll look around first,” Shi Feng said.

“Look around?” Elder Qian Mo said. His voice rose. “The lion is the finest piece! There's nothing else to look at!”

Shi Feng walked past him.

The Treasury was a long room, and most of it was empty. A rack of spears with chipped tips stood near the door. Two shelves held lamps, all of them with small tags saying how much oil they burned. At the far end, in the corner where the lantern light barely reached, was a tall wooden shelf under a grey sheet of dust.

The shelf held jars. Dozens of them, cracked, chipped and mismatched. Some were taped with paper. A few had lids tied on with string.

“That's junk,” Elder Qian Mo said quickly, trotting after him. “That's shelf fourteen. Miscellaneous. Nobody has opened those jars since before the tournament.”

“Before the tournament?” Zhu Liu asked.

“Before the last ten tournaments,” Qian Mo said.

Shi Feng stopped in front of the shelf.

He could smell it before he touched anything. It was faint under the dust and old paper, but unmistakable: the cold, clean scent of air just before a storm. His arm hair rose.

“Disciple Shi,” Elder Qian Mo said. “The lion.”

Shi Feng lifted the lid of the nearest jar. Inside, curled in the dark, were dried leaves as long as his palm. Each had a vein of deep purple down the middle. A thin blue spark crawled along one edge, then faded.

“Purple-veined,” Shi Feng said quietly. “Smells of rain.”

“A very common weed,” Elder Qian Mo said.

“It sparks,” Shi Feng said.

“The Treasury is damp. Static,” Qian Mo said.

Sima Lan leaned close to the open jar and stopped writing. She was startled by the faint spark. Qian Mo watched her face with growing dismay; dismissing the herbs as weeds hadn’t convinced either of them.

Zhu Liu looked from the jar to the elder, and then at his receipt book. He did not write anything. He seemed to be holding his breath.

“These are Thunder-Calming herbs,” Shi Feng said. He put the lid back gently. “Lin Langtian described them to me. Purple veins and a spark. They grow only on lightning-struck ground, and they take sixty years to dry properly.”

Elder Qian Mo's face had gone the colour of old paper. His lantern shook, and the shadows ran up and down the wall.

“That shelf,” Elder Qian Mo said faintly, “is not for sale.”

“It's not for sale,” Shi Feng said. “It's for the sect master's item.”

The abacus fell off Elder Qian Mo's belt and clattered across the floor. Nobody picked it up.

From somewhere above the ceiling came a long, happy crunch of roasting potato skin.