Chapter 455 — The Empty Ledger

CHAPTER 455

The Empty Ledger

“Nothing,” Elder Qian Mo said.

He held the ore ledger open in both hands, and every page below the fourth line was blank. In the reception hall of Artificer Hall, six inner-court elders sat along the pillars with their arms folded, and nobody argued with the page.

“Nothing from Wujin since the fifth,” Qian Mo continued. “Nothing from Qingtong, because Qingtong's iron comes through Wujin. Nothing from Jinsha, because the ferry tribute is paid in goods, and the goods can't cross the Qiao house's road.” He turned the book around so they could see. “Meanwhile, the Treasury is still paying out. Coal. Rice. The smiths' wages. Lamp oil.”

On the high-backed chair, Li Changyuan sat with his broom across his knees. He wore the patched brown robe. His eyes were closed. He had been sitting that way for a quarter of an hour, and for the last five of those minutes he had been moaning faintly through his nose.

“Sect Master?” He Zhen said.

“Do you know what a war costs?” Li Changyuan said, without opening his eyes.

“A great deal,” He Zhen said.

“Everything!” Li Changyuan opened his eyes and sat up. “Every sword needs a scabbard. Every scabbard needs a strap. Every disciple who is hit needs a healer, and every healer needs a pill, and every pill needs a herb, and the herb is grown in a valley, and the valley sends an invoice. They need drums. They need banners. They need soup. Do you know how much soup a war eats?”

“No, Sect Master,” Tian Luo said.

“Neither do I,” Li Changyuan said, in despair. “That's the frightening part. In the whole of my life, I have paid for one war, and it was a very small one, and I am still paying. A fall into the pit, a gain in your wit, they say, and I gained a great deal of wit and lost every coin.”

“Which war was that?” He Zhen asked.

“A very small one,” Li Changyuan said, and covered his face with the broom.

The elders looked at each other. Zhu Liu, at the back with the abacus, wrote it down.

“We could sue for terms,” He Zhen said carefully. “The Palace wants a murderer. We could offer compensation. A fair sum, to the Wei clan, in the Pavilion's presence. It might make the thirty days into sixty.”

“And whose purse is a fair sum?” Qian Mo said. “The Wei clan's idea of fair is six figures.”

Another elder suggested asking Hundred Flower Valley for a loan.

“The Valley has said it stands with us,” Tian Luo said. “It has not said it will pay us. Mu Shuyun is not a fool, and she does not throw meat buns at dogs.”

“Then the Sky Pavilion,” He Zhen said.

“Neutral,” Qian Mo said. “Which means they will lend us the sack and charge for the rope.”

A stout elder proposed holding the mountain. They could close the gate and make the Palace fight its way up the stairs.

“With what ore for the repairs?” Qian Mo said. “With what rice?”

The elders kept offering alternatives, only to stop when Qian Mo asked how they would pay.

It went on for another quarter of an hour. Voices rose. An elder struck a pillar with his fist and cracked it, and Qian Mo wrote down the cost. In one corner, Lin Langtian sat on an upturned bucket, trying to hide his amusement. He clearly had no intention of joining the argument.

Shi Feng stood at the back with Sima Lan, who had brought her slate, and listened to every word.

They were not wrong. Artificer Hall had a few hundred disciples, fewer than a dozen elders worth the name, and a treasury that was only beginning to recover after sixty poor years. Martial Palace had a mountain of men and a name behind it. The Palace could keep spending long after the Hall ran out. But it would have to pay for those men and supplies first, Shi Feng thought. That gave him an idea.

“Elder Qian Mo,” Shi Feng called from the back.

The hall went quiet. Every head turned.

“How much does a war cost the one who declares it?” Shi Feng asked.

“More than defending,” Qian Mo replied slowly. “They have to march and feed their men. Their vassals won't fight for free either. They carry a war chest to every border, and a larger one behind it.”

“And where does it come from?” Shi Feng asked.

“From the Palace's own treasury. From the vassals' levies. From,” Qian Mo said, and stopped.

“From their stores,” Shi Feng said. “In rooms with locks.” He looked around the hall at the elders, the broom, the empty ledger, and the sweet-potato eater on the bucket. “We can't match their money.”

“No,” Li Changyuan said, with terrible feeling.

“I wasn't going to match it,” Shi Feng said.

Shi Feng waited until everyone was listening.

“Wars cost money,” Shi Feng said. “Theirs.”

Silence.

On the bucket, Lin Langtian began to grin. He'd understood immediately. The Palace's guarded chests had caught his interest at Shimen Pass too.

“Whose?” Li Changyuan asked suspiciously.

“Theirs,” Shi Feng said.

Li Changyuan looked at Lin Langtian's face, then at Shi Feng's, then at the blank page in Qian Mo's hands. He understood enough of the plan to decide he didn't want the details.

“Will it be lent?” Li Changyuan asked.

“Yes,” Shi Feng said.

“Good,” Li Changyuan said, and sat back. “Don't tell me the rest.”

“Chief Disciple Lin,” Tian Luo said sharply. “What are you smiling about?”

“Nothing, Elder,” Lin Langtian said, and stood up, brushing the bucket dust from his robe. “I'm going to find myself a beard.”