Chapter 294 — The Pool

CHAPTER 294

The Pool

Shi Feng ate the sweet potato at the foot of Thunder Cliff, because it was dawn and he'd been told it was lucky.

It was sweet and a little scorched. Zhu Liu stood beside him holding the receipt book against his chest and looking as if he hadn't slept.

“Senior Brother Shi, I wrote you a receipt,” Zhu Liu said.

“For what?” Shi Feng said.

“Entry. One disciple, alive, fully clothed, with three materials and one sweet potato.” Zhu Liu swallowed. “If it all goes wrong, I want it written that you were alive when you went in.”

“That's a good receipt,” Shi Feng said, and signed it.

Li Changyuan waited at the door with broom and keys. He didn’t mention the clear sky or the chance he’d given Shi Feng. He unlocked the chamber, inspected the frame once, and stepped aside.

“Thirty days,” Li Changyuan said. “The seal holds from the inside. Nobody opens it, not you, not me. If the stone starts to sweat, don't panic. It's supposed to.”

“Two stones a day,” Shi Feng said.

“Fifty-eight,” Li Changyuan said. “The first and last days are half. I’ve counted them. Go in before someone comes to ask for another concession.”

Shi Feng went in. The door closed behind him with a slow iron sound, and the light from the morning shrank to a thin line and then to nothing. The runes on the frame lit up one by one, a soft blue, and he heard the bolt settle.

The chamber smelled of rain.

He set the three materials in the niche: the Thunderhide's heart, wrapped in oiled cloth; the Thunder-Calming herbs in their cracked jars; the Thunder-Marrow ore Elder Qian Mo had grudgingly released from his locked drawer, heavy and grey in the dark. Then he sat down on the cold stone, closed his eyes and listened to the quiet.

It was a good quiet. For a month it would be the only thing in the world.

By noon, the outer court had a betting pool.

Wu Qiang sat at a table beside the pill-stall gate in a clean robe. A board of odds hung above him, and Qian Mo’s borrowed abacus lay ready. For once he looked unconcerned about rent. Tonight’s takings would cover it.

The board read:

Shi Feng, Thunder Cliff. Lives: 9 to 1. Dies: 1 to 9. Comes out a cripple: 5 to 1.

“Why nine to one?” a girl asked. “He fought the Thunderhide!”

“He's a Foundation Establishment disciple,” Wu Qiang said, rolling the beads. “Foundation Establishment. Going into a Golden Core tribulation. Nobody has done that in this sect in two hundred years. A newborn calf doesn't fear the tiger, but the tiger still eats it.”

“Stakes, please,” Wu Qiang added. “One stone minimum. No refunds for heartbreak.”

The first heavy bet came from Gongsun Ce.

He walked up with a puppet on his shoulder and set a small bag on the table. It clinked. Wu Qiang opened it and went still.

“Two hundred stones,” Gongsun Ce said. “That he doesn't come out.”

The crowd drew in its breath.

“Senior Brother Gongsun!” a boy cried. “You're betting against your friend?”

“He’s my rival,” Gongsun Ce said, lifting his chin. “If he lives, he has to pay. If he dies, there’s nothing left to collect.” He looked away. “The Ledger War needs both sides recorded. I’ll be delighted to lose this one.”

“You say delighted,” Wu Qiang said, counting. “Your hands are shaking.”

“It's the cold,” Gongsun Ce said, and stalked off.

Next came Sima Lan.

She did not make an announcement. She walked to the table in her plain attendant's robe, laid a folded paper and a small purse in front of Wu Qiang, and waited with her hands clasped. Her face showed nothing.

Wu Qiang unfolded the paper. “That he lives. Ninety stones.” He looked up. “At nine to one. Name?”

“Attendant,” Sima Lan said.

“Which attendant?” Wu Qiang said.

“Attendant,” Sima Lan said.

Wu Qiang opened his mouth, met her eyes, and wrote it down.

“Eight hundred and ten stones if he lives,” Wu Qiang said weakly. “Nine to one.”

“I can multiply,” Sima Lan said. She turned and walked back toward the stall, and the crowd parted for her without anyone planning it.

“Eight hundred?” someone whispered. “She's mad! She's throwing a meat bun at a dog!”

“She's his attendant,” another said. “She knows something.”

“She knows nothing,” a third said. “I saw her eyes. They were red.”

“…”

After noon, Zhu Liu approached in a long coat with the collar turned up. He kept his voice low and pushed a heavy purse across the table. “Shi Feng lives. Sixty stones. Under the name Mu Er,” Zhu Liu said.

“Mu Er,” Wu Qiang said. “Unusual name.”

“It's very common,” Zhu Liu said in a very high voice.

“It sounds a lot like Zhu Liu,” Wu Qiang said.

“I don’t know any Zhu Liu,” Zhu Liu said hastily, tugging at his raised collar.

“Your receipt book is sticking out of your sleeve,” Wu Qiang said.

The young man pulled his sleeve down. He had gone the colour of cold porridge.

“That's the stall's petty cash,” Wu Qiang said, weighing the purse. “I recognise the bag. It has the sect seal on it.”

“It's a loan,” Zhu Liu whispered. “I'll pay it back from the winnings. I've written a receipt.”

“For what?” Wu Qiang said.

“For borrowing it,” Zhu Liu said.

Wu Qiang took the bet. It would have been cruel not to.

By dusk, the pool held two thousand four hundred and eleven stones. It was more than the sect owed Merchant Fan for coal.

Li Changyuan swept past the table at the end of the day, with his broom and his patched robe, and stopped in front of the board. He read every line of it. He stayed there a very long time.

Then, without a word, he walked on, and the crowd noticed that he was counting on his fingers.