Chapter 346 — The Deacon Honours His Loan

CHAPTER 346

The Deacon Honours His Loan

“A Martial Palace carriage at the gate!” Wu Qiang shouted.

Wu Qiang came pelting down the eastern lane with his sleeves flying, shouting to every hut he passed. Doors opened one after another. Heads came out of windows.

“Deacon Kong Hui himself!” Wu Qiang called, waving toward the road.

“He came alone?”

“Two attendants. And a Pavilion case!”

“What's he here for?”

“Hut nine!” Wu Qiang yelled. “He asked for hut nine!”

In hut nine, Shi Feng lay on his back with a black walnut abacus rising and falling on his stomach. On the sixth day the ache had worn down to a dull ringing in his belly. He had eaten the last of the anvil two nights before.

Sima Lan stood in the doorway.

“He's here,” Sima Lan said. “He's brought no soldiers. Do you want to sit up?”

“No,” Shi Feng said.

“Good,” Sima Lan said. “It improves the effect.”

Deacon Kong Hui ducked under the lintel a moment later. He was tall and dry, in a white Martial Palace robe with a black belt, and his sour expression matched Lin Langtian’s description. He was at late Foundation Establishment. Two attendants crowded in behind him and had to stop, because the hut had no room for them.

There was one stool. Zhu Liu was on it, and he stood up so fast the stool fell over.

“Deacon,” Shi Feng said from the bed. “Forgive me for not rising. I ate an anvil.”

“…An anvil,” Kong Hui said.

“A gift from the smiths of Qingtong,” Sima Lan said. “It cracked, and he couldn't bear to disappoint them.”

Kong Hui glanced at the abacus. It rose and fell. He chose to look at the wall instead.

“This deacon,” Kong Hui said stiffly, “received an unusual letter.”

“I hope it arrived in good order,” Shi Feng said. “Clerk Du stamps carefully.”

“It mentions a loan,” Kong Hui said, trying to keep his voice steady.

“Yes. Thank you for it,” Shi Feng replied, letting him hear every word.

“This deacon,” Kong Hui said, “is not aware of making any loan.”

“Then there's been a forgery,” Sima Lan said, without offering him another excuse. “Zhu Liu, the jars.”

Zhu Liu scrambled under the bed and came up with a straw basket. One by one, he set thirty-one clay jars on the floor in a neat row. Every lid carried a thumb of red wax. Every wax carried the same four small characters.

Kong Hui looked at the row. The attendants looked at the row. Outside the window, nine disciples who were pretending to sweep the lane stopped sweeping.

“Those jars,” Kong Hui said slowly, “are… a courtesy.”

“To our Outer Steward,” Shi Feng said.

“Yes,” Kong Hui said.

“From your Hall,” Shi Feng said.

“…Yes,” Kong Hui said.

“A courtesy,” Sima Lan said, writing, “from one Great Sect's Hall of Outer Affairs to another Great Sect's steward, over six quarters, in secret, with a seal. The Accord has a word for that. Deacon, would you like to say the word?”

“No,” Kong Hui said at once.

“Then it was a loan,” Shi Feng said.

The hut was very quiet. A fly buzzed in the window. The abacus rose and fell.

Kong Hui's mouth opened and closed. He saw the jars, and the crowd at the window, and the open letter that was now a year-long entry in the Sky Pavilion register. He’d have to admit a bribe, claim someone had forged his Hall’s seal, or pay the supposed loan. Sima Lan had made sure every witness understood the choice. As the saying goes, a man beneath another's eaves must bow his head.

Dust fell from the thatch above the bed.

“Do not mind me,” Lin Langtian called cheerfully from the roof.

Kong Hui looked up, and his face lost what little colour it had left. The chief disciple of Artificer Hall, an early Nascent Soul in the eyes of the whole region, was lying on the roof eating something that crunched.

“It is a loan,” Kong Hui said, in a voice like dry paper. “It's a loan. This deacon… had forgotten.”

“Thank you,” Shi Feng said warmly.

“How much does the Hall expect?” Kong Hui asked, abandoning the denial.

“Six thousand spirit stones,” Shi Feng said. “For the six quarters. No interest.”

“No interest,” Kong Hui repeated, and a muscle in his cheek twitched.

“It's friendship,” Shi Feng said.

“This deacon will honour the loan,” Kong Hui said, “in full, as a token of friendship between neighbours.”

He opened the Pavilion case with shaking fingers and took out a draft. Sima Lan accepted it, looked at it, counted the zeros, and nodded once. Zhu Liu wrote the receipt in his best hand. It read: Received with thanks, in friendship. At Shi Feng's nod, he handed it to Kong Hui with the brush.

“Please sign that you've received a copy,” Zhu Liu said. “Just here.”

Kong Hui signed.

“This is a real help, Deacon,” Shi Feng said sincerely. Kong Hui looked at him with resentment; however the payment was described, he knew who’d forced him to make it. “Truly. I won't forget this kindness.”

“You are most welcome,” Kong Hui said through his teeth.

At the door he paused.

“And Steward Mao?” Kong Hui asked, without turning.

“He's ours,” Shi Feng said.

“This deacon,” Kong Hui said, “has never heard the name.”

He walked out. The crowd in the lane made way in silence until his carriage had rolled through the gate. Then the lane roared.

“Six thousand!”

“He paid in person!”

“On the sixth day!”

“From a sick bed!”

“Stole a chicken and lost a handful of rice!”

“…”

Sima Lan turned the draft over once.

“Six thousand,” Sima Lan said. “No error.”

At the window, a stooped old man with a broom was leaning on the sill, looking at the draft with great interest. The outer-court disciples took him for the night sweeper.

“Let me count it,” Li Changyuan said.