Chapter 430 — A Letter About the Weather

CHAPTER 430

A Letter About the Weather

The courier from Hundred Flower Valley waited in the Hall of Ten Thousand Strikes for the whole time it took to boil a pot of tea. Nobody offered him any.

Wei Chengyuan did not look at him. He sat at the head of the long table on Tianwu Mountain with his grey robe unbuttoned at the collar and a lacquered box in front of him. Deputy Elder Qu Jiang stood at his right shoulder, one hand on his long beard.

“Read it again,” Wei Chengyuan said.

“‘The Valley sends greetings to the Martial Palace as the blossom season closes,’” Qu Jiang read. “‘The spring has been dry. The Valley's inventory is under review and its stock is committed elsewhere. The Valley hopes the Palace's autumn is gentle, and regrets that its envoy must return home for a family matter.’”

“That's all?” Wei Chengyuan said.

“That's all, Elder,” Qu Jiang said.

“Nothing about Hua Rong,” Wei Chengyuan said.

“Not a word,” Qu Jiang said.

Wei Chengyuan opened the lacquered box.

Inside lay a small black pouch, embroidered with a clenched fist in gold thread. Its mouth was open. The lining had been washed so cleanly that the cloth was still damp at the seams.

The courier, who had been standing very still, looked at the floor.

“We gave that to Hua Rong,” Qu Jiang said slowly.

“Nine hundred stones in it,” Wei Chengyuan said. “Two Golden Core-grade pills, and a letter of promise.”

“It's empty,” Qu Jiang said.

“It's empty. They've even washed it,” Wei Chengyuan said, lifting the pouch between two fingers. “Found on a garden path, I expect. Returned with the Valley's regards.”

Neither of them spoke for a long moment.

If the Valley accused the Palace, Wei Chengyuan could deny it. If it sent proof, he could find three witnesses to call that proof false. But this letter made no accusation. The washed pouch told him Mu Shuyun knew who'd paid Hua Rong. The word “committed” told him where her herbs would go instead. She'd chosen to act without giving him an argument to answer.

“The pact,” Qu Jiang said. “They've sealed with Artificer Hall. It was at the border pavilion yesterday. The caravans carried it down the road before the ink was dry. Bad news has wings, Elder.”

“Of course they did,” Wei Chengyuan said.

“Elder, the Valley supplies a fifth of our healing herbs. If we—” Qu Jiang began.

“I can count,” Wei Chengyuan said.

He put the pouch down. The washed lining infuriated him. He had not raised his voice. He rarely did. He'd trained men for forty years. He didn't need to shout to make Qu Jiang listen.

“Send the courier back with tea,” Wei Chengyuan said. “And a polite note. The Palace thanks the Valley for the weather.”

“That's all?” Qu Jiang asked.

“That's the only answer we're giving in writing,” Wei Chengyuan replied, standing. “Bring me the treasurer.”

The treasurer, Peng Yan, arrived a quarter of an hour later at a rapid walk. He was a stooped man with a thin neck and an abacus on a cord, looking as worried as he'd been for the last two months.

“Elder Wei,” Peng Yan said, bowing low.

“We are going to prepare for a war,” Wei Chengyuan said. “Not declare one. Prepare. Grain, iron, the vassals' levies, the Shimen Pass garrison, the Wujin road. Draw the figures by the end of the month.”

“Yes, Elder,” Peng Yan said.

“And one more figure,” Wei Chengyuan added, folding his hands. “What is Artificer Hall worth?”

Peng Yan blinked.

“Worth, Elder?” Peng Yan asked.

“As a thing to take. As a thing to break. Add it up,” Wei Chengyuan said.

The treasurer's fingers began to move on the beads. They moved quickly at first, and then slowly, and at last they stopped.

“On paper, Elder, the Hall owns almost nothing,” Peng Yan said. “A mountain, a pagoda, some furnaces. Its coal debt is larger than its treasury. It cannot afford its own roofs.”

“And in fact?” Wei Chengyuan asked.

“In fact...” Peng Yan began, then swallowed. “Three years of Wujin ore, free. A river toll at Jinsha. The Qingtong smiths' loyalty. The Jinsha plaques, which are selling. A fifteen-thousand-stone audit. Two sets of letters from this very mountain, Elder, which they hold, and which I do not want to name. And a champion who sells thirty pills by noon at a hundred and eleven stones each, because his name is second on a list.”

“That is what they have taken. What are they worth?” Wei Chengyuan said.

“I can't say, Elder,” Peng Yan admitted in a small voice. “Every time I count what they own, it is less than we pay our stable boys. Every time I count what they have taken from us, it is more than I can write on this paper. I cannot find the bottom of them.”

Qu Jiang stroked his beard so hard that three hairs came out.

Wei Chengyuan said nothing for a while.

In the mountain's east wing, Wei Lingfeng lay in a quiet room. A physician changed his bandages every morning, but couldn't restore his burned meridians. He asked each morning whether the elder was coming. He had stopped asking whether he would walk.

“Then find the bottom,” Wei Chengyuan said at last. “And when you have found it, add the cost of my grandson's meridians. Add the price of the ore.” His voice was perfectly even. “Then we will see whether this poor, wretched, laughable little sect can afford what it owes.”

“Elder?” Qu Jiang said. “The declaration?”

“Not yet,” Wei Chengyuan replied, looking out through the high window. “Wars are won in ledgers first. Let them think the autumn is gentle. The mantis stalks the cicada, unaware of the oriole behind.”