Chapter 458 — The Price of Stealing

CHAPTER 458

The Price of Stealing

“Twelve thousand?” Lin Langtian said. “For a quarter's protection reserve in wartime? Clerk Shao, I'm insulted. My grandmother would be insulted, and she's never even met you.”

“It's the sum in the book,” Clerk Shao said.

“The book is old. The war is new,” Lin Langtian said.

They stood in the counting room of the Qiao merchant house's Qingtong branch, a long, low room under the shop with a vault door at the back. The door was black iron, two hands thick, and it was open. A row of green-tabarded guards stood along the wall looking bored. Their chief, Zhai Kun, and the manager, Qiao Shou, were in Duanyang.

The clerk had told them so in the first minute. “Manager Qiao is arranging the consignments for the Pavilion's auction,” Clerk Shao had said proudly. Shi Feng had filed that away.

Now Lin Langtian was in the middle of a haggle.

“The Palace's war surcharge is fifteen thousand,” Lin Langtian said. “That's my instruction.”

“Fifteen?” Clerk Shao repeated, his face falling. He was a plump man with soft hands and an abacus on a cord around his neck. “The standing rate has never carried a surcharge. Twelve and a half.”

“Fourteen,” Lin Langtian said.

“Thirteen,” Clerk Shao said.

“Fourteen and a half, and I forgive the dust on the vault,” Lin Langtian said.

“Thirteen and two hundred,” Clerk Shao said unhappily.

Behind Lin Langtian, Shi Feng stood with his brush and said in a low voice, “Senior Brother.”

“Not now, Bi,” Lin Langtian said.

“We're stealing it,” Shi Feng said.

“We're borrowing,” Lin Langtian hissed without turning. “Stop helping him bargain! If we accept too easily, he'll wonder why we came at all. Beat the grass and you startle the snake.” He raised his voice again. “Thirteen and eight hundred, clerk, or I walk back and tell Elder Qu Jiang the Qiao house wouldn't help.”

“Thirteen and five hundred and ten,” Clerk Shao said miserably. “It's all I can authorise.”

“Done!” Lin Langtian said, and clapped him on the shoulder so hard that the abacus rattled. “Bi, the receipt.”

Shi Feng wrote it. Received at Qingtong, Qiao house vault, thirteen thousand five hundred and ten spirit stones, for the Palace's war needs. He added the repayment line, signed Bi, and slid the sheet across the counter.

Clerk Shao read it, smiling. He had talked the Palace down from fifteen thousand to thirteen and a half. He would tell the story in the shop for a month.

The guards carried the sacks out to the street while the green tabards saluted. Shi Feng laid the third note in the bottom of the empty vault and shut the door on it. Outside, Lin Langtian pressed a hand to his heart and wiped one dry eye.

“Look how pleased he is!” Lin Langtian said, delighted. “He'll boast about saving money instead of questioning our order. Always make them feel they won.”

That night, stones covered the floor of hut nine. Zhu Liu sat in the middle of them cross-legged, with his abacus and a lamp, stacking them in towers of a hundred. Tower after tower stood on the boards, row after row, a pale glittering field that ran to the doorstep. The door was shut and bolted. Sima Lan had pinned a sheet of paper over the window, and Old Soot lay curled on top of the nearest stack with its chin resting comfortably on a stone.

“Four hundred and thirty-six,” Zhu Liu said, counting under his breath. “Four hundred and thirty-six towers. And ten stones over.” His hands shook. “Forty-three thousand, six hundred and ten. Senior Brother Shi, I stopped counting the sect's years of income.”

Elder Qian Mo had been fetched. He had taken one look, sat down on the floor with his abacus in his lap, and said nothing for a long time. Zhu Liu said that was how you could tell he was happy.

“Twenty-one thousand from the Pass,” Zhu Liu said. “Nine thousand one hundred from the Gate. Thirteen thousand five hundred and ten from the Qiao house.”

“And three notes,” Sima Lan said. She stood by the door with her slate. “One in each. Outer Affairs paper. In your hand.”

“Borrowed in friendship,” Shi Feng said.

“With thanks,” Sima Lan finished, writing it down. “It's good paper. I'm told the Palace will try to prove it wasn't theirs.”

In the corner, Lin Langtian sat against a beam with a sweet potato in his lap, pleased with the world.

“Tomorrow the Pavilion will announce a war-season auction at the Duanyang tower,” Sima Lan said. “Clerk Du told me this afternoon, for a handkerchief. Pavilion custom. When two sects fight, both sell what they can spare to pay for it. Martial Palace and its vassals will consign through the Qiao house's Duanyang office.”

“The Qiao house,” Shi Feng said.

“Yes,” Sima Lan said. “Manager Qiao is already there.”

“They'll be selling treasure for stones,” Lin Langtian said slowly, sitting up. “To pay for the war.”

“Yes,” Sima Lan said.

“And we have forty-three thousand of their stones,” Lin Langtian said, suddenly worried. “We can't spend them openly without questions. Don't tell me we've done all that work for stones we can't use!”

“We don't have to hide it,” Shi Feng replied, crouching beside the pile.

He crouched, picked up one stone from the nearest tower and held it up to the lamp. It was a plain low-grade stone, grey-white and chipped, the same as a million others.

“The Pavilion doesn't ask where a stone has been,” Shi Feng said. “Only that it's good. At an auction, a stone is a stone.”

Zhu Liu stopped counting.

“Senior Brother Shi,” Zhu Liu said carefully, “what are we going to do with it?”

Shi Feng looked at the stone in his hand, then at Lin Langtian, whose worried expression was beginning to clear.

“We give it back to them,” Shi Feng said. “At auction.”