Chapter 343 — Thirty-One Jars

CHAPTER 343

Thirty-One Jars

“Look at the dates,” Sima Lan said.

It was past midnight in the Outer Affairs office. Two lamps burned on the long table, and the three boxes of Mao Jun's “perfect” books stood open beside it. Zhu Liu slept sitting up in a corner with the abacus in his lap. Old Soot's basket had stopped hissing hours ago.

Sima Lan laid two sheets side by side. The left one was in her neat hand and listed the quarters in which tribute had gone missing. The right one was a copy from the dull brown visitors' register, the one nobody ever read.

Shi Feng leaned over them. Lin Langtian leaned over them too, with a sweet potato in his mouth and ash on his sleeve.

“Six quarters short,” Sima Lan said. “And six times, in the three days before the quarter closed, the register records a gift delivered to Steward Mao. The Qiao house sent a basket from Qingtong. The Iron Fist Gate sent a box of dried fruit from Jinsha. Mao Jun signed for every one.”

“Dried fruit,” Lin Langtian said, and chewed. “From a gate that charges a toll on air. As the saying goes, they pluck the feathers from every goose that flies past.”

“Cuiping sends its herbs downriver through Jinsha, so Iron Fist's toll men stamp the cargo,” Sima Lan said. “The missing fifth leaves the barges there. Mao Jun only needs to write that it was lost.”

“That's a pattern,” Shi Feng said.

“The dates match every time,” Sima Lan said, annoyed that Mao Jun had hidden it so carelessly. “The gifts arrive just before he records the missing tribute.”

She reached under the table and set something heavy on the register. It was a clay jar with a cracked lid. A thumb of old red wax still clung to the rim, and the wax carried a stamp.

“There are thirty-one of these in the book room,” Sima Lan said. “Empty. Stacked behind the old rice sacks. He kept the jars.”

“Of course he kept the jars,” Lin Langtian said warmly. “A jar's worth one copper. This man is a true steward of the sect. Disgusting, but true.”

Shi Feng turned the jar until the lamp lit the wax. Four characters sat in the red circle, small and clear: Martial Palace, Hall of Outer Affairs.

He thought, So Martial Palace didn't even bother with a plain seal. They believed nobody would ever open the book room.

“Whose office is that?” Shi Feng asked.

“Deacon Kong Hui,” Sima Lan said. “He signed the Palace's letter about the friendly spars. The one Li Changyuan read in his hut.”

“Ah,” Lin Langtian said. “The tall dry one. He always looks as if somebody had sold him a bad fish.”

Nobody spoke for a moment. The lamp flame shook.

Lin Langtian put down his potato and rolled up his sleeves. He was angry enough to stop eating, which made Shi Feng watch him closely.

“Right,” Lin Langtian said. “I'll fetch a rope.”

“No,” Shi Feng said.

“I haven’t said what for,” Lin Langtian protested.

“You’re going to hang Mao Jun from the gate,” Shi Feng replied.

“By his belt!” Lin Langtian said. “Only by the belt. With a sign around his neck, 'Honest Steward, Please Admire.' Junior Brother, it would be educational. The outer court needs educating.”

“No,” Shi Feng said again. “First, Mao Jun is our evidence. If we deal with him carelessly, Martial Palace will deny knowing him. They’ll have nothing in their records to contradict them. Second, the sect hangs its own steward, and by morning every teahouse says Artificer Hall kills its own people. Third, hanging him returns nothing. The money has already been spent.”

“What about my enjoyment?” Lin Langtian demanded, reluctant to abandon the sign.

“That isn’t one of the three,” Shi Feng replied. “We’re getting the tribute back first.”

Lin Langtian looked at him for a long moment. Then he sat back down, slowly, looking proud and betrayed at the same time.

“He says 'third',” Lin Langtian told Sima Lan. “Did you hear? He lists them now.”

“I heard,” Sima Lan said. “He left your enjoyment off the list.”

“All right,” Lin Langtian said, and picked up his potato again. “Fine, fine. We won't beat the grass and startle the snake. Yet. What do you want, then? Mercy? A lecture?”

Shi Feng set the jar back on the register.

“I want the money,” Shi Feng said. “Mao Jun has spent his share. There's nothing in him to squeeze. But the people who paid him haven't spent anything. They still have their whole sect.”

“And they’ll hand it over because you ask nicely?” Lin Langtian asked doubtfully.

“Because I thank them nicely,” Shi Feng replied, picking up the jar again.

Sima Lan stopped writing.

“Explain,” Sima Lan said.

“Later,” Shi Feng said. “First, Zhu Liu counts the jars again. Then every one gets a tag with the date of its basket. I want a clean row on the table by morning.”

“Receipt!” Zhu Liu shouted as he woke, then fell off his stool.

Lin Langtian leaned toward Shi Feng across the lamp.

“You've got a face like a man who has an idea,” Lin Langtian said quietly. “I'm so happy I could cry. Don't tell me yet. Let me enjoy the waiting.”

“I wasn't going to,” Shi Feng said.

“Good boy,” Lin Langtian said, delighted that his junior brother meant to surprise him.

Shi Feng ignored that. He turned to the sleepy errand disciple.

“Zhu Liu,” Shi Feng said. “In the morning, buy me one sheet of the best paper in the Pavilion tower. The kind they use for contracts.”

“How much?” Zhu Liu asked, scrabbling for his receipt book.

“Whatever it costs,” Shi Feng said. “It will be returned to us with interest.”

Sima Lan looked at him over the lamp, intrigued despite herself. Then she returned to her ledger; whatever he planned, she intended to have the figures ready.