Chapter 542 — The Gift Table

CHAPTER 542

The Gift Table

“Item one,” Steward Shi Dao read aloud, holding the list close to his face. He spoke carefully, afraid to look toward the branch heads. “From the Third Branch. One jar of pickled turnips. Registered on the twelfth day of the tenth month.”

The courtyard of the Shi Clan was crowded. Branch heads stood in rows along the wall, each beside his gift, and the gifts covered a long table that had been dragged out into the winter sun. Shi Feng sat in the guest chair at the head of it, with Ling Qingzhu on his left and Sima Lan standing behind his shoulder with her ledger.

Shi Rong sat to one side with his hands inside his sleeves. He wanted to watch.

“Item two,” Shi Dao went on. His voice shook slightly. “From the Fifth Branch. Two pairs of cloth shoes, lightly worn.”

Lightly worn. Somebody in the crowd breathed in through his teeth.

“Item three. Sixth Branch. One calendar, last year's,” Shi Dao read, swallowing. “Item four, Seventh Branch. A bag of sprouted millet. Item five, Eighth Branch. One bamboo flute, cracked. Item six—”

“Why does it say the tenth month?” Ling Qingzhu asked.

“The, the lists were prepared early, Madam,” Shi Dao said. “For the year-end custom. Before the news of the, ah, the Sky Pavilion list.”

“Before they knew who he was,” Ling Qingzhu said.

“Before the news reached Qingshi, Madam,” Shi Dao said.

“I see,” Ling Qingzhu said pleasantly. She turned the cup in her fingers and pressed her thumb on the rim. “Please, continue.”

Shi Dao did not want to continue. He looked at Shi Rong. Shi Rong looked at the sky. Shi Dao looked back at the list. His embarrassment was obvious, but the Clan Head wasn't going to rescue him.

“Item seven. The Second Branch,” Shi Dao read, clearing his throat. “One lump of spirit iron. Grade, ah, ‘of excellent character’.”

A square grey lump sat at the end of the table on a red cloth. It was fist-sized and dull. Shi Zhen's branch stood behind it. Shi Zhen himself was missing. Shi Hong stood in his place, staring at the sky with his fists clenched.

“Total value,” Sima Lan said quietly from behind Shi Feng's shoulder, “eleven stones, if one is generous. I have charged you more for chalk.”

“Don't say it out loud,” Shi Feng said.

“I'm telling you,” Sima Lan said under her breath. “They know what the things cost.”

Shi Feng looked at the table. The turnips. The calendar. The flute. Four years ago, a boy in a cold courtyard had watched four bowls of rice become two. This year, the clan had registered a calendar for him.

He was not angry. He had stopped being angry somewhere on the road. But he saw no reason to let the table stand as it was.

“Steward Shi Dao,” Shi Feng said.

“Y—yes, Young Master?” Shi Dao answered, clutching the list with both hands.

“How many gifts in all?” Shi Feng asked.

“Forty-one, Young Master,” Shi Dao said.

“Thank you,” Shi Feng said.

He let out a breath, and with it a little of his qi.

It was not much. It was the pressure of a late Golden Core cultivator and no more, held tight enough to conceal everything beyond it. The branch heads felt the pressure before the cloth moved. The red cloth on the table fluttered. The cracked flute rolled off its pile and clattered onto the stones.

Nobody moved. Forty-one branch heads stopped breathing together.

“It, it appears,” Shi Mao said, in a very small voice, “that there has been a clerical error.”

“A clerical error,” someone else agreed at once.

“Yes! Yes! The wrong list was sent up!”

“Those were meant for the neighbouring town!”

“The real gifts are still in the storehouse!”

“My nephew's wife handles the lists,” Shi Mao said desperately. “She's a fool.”

“She's a fool,” the branch heads chorused.

Shi Feng let the pressure fade. He drew back his qi and folded his hands.

“Thank you,” Shi Feng said. “Please check that it's the right one.”

By noon, a procession had formed at the courtyard gate. Servants hurried in carrying lacquered boxes, rolls of silk, healing herbs in sealed jars and a real jade seal in a velvet case. Each branch head came forward with his own hands and set his gift down with a bow, avoiding Shi Feng's eyes. Sima Lan checked each one against the list, her brush moving. Her face showed nothing.

“That's the first honest table I've seen in this courtyard,” Ling Qingzhu murmured.

“It's the first time they were afraid of it,” Shi Feng said.

Only the grey lump remained, alone on its red cloth. Shi Hong had not touched it. Nobody had.

“And the spirit iron?” Shi Rong asked, in his calm voice. “The Second Branch has not replaced it.”

“Since the Second Elder is, ah, unavailable,” Shi Dao said. A branch head muttered that when the tree falls, the monkeys scatter.

Shi Feng looked at the lump. He felt his stomach tighten. It had eaten spirit iron before, in various shapes, and kept a long and loyal memory of every single time. Sima Lan took one step closer.

“No,” Sima Lan said quietly.

“I wasn't going to,” Shi Feng said.

“Your face was,” Sima Lan said.

“Young Master Shi?” Shi Dao asked. “Will you accept the iron?”

“No, thank you,” Shi Feng said. “I've had better.”

Shi Dao went white. He carried the lump away with both hands, unwilling to risk dropping even this rejected gift in front of the guests. Behind him, the crowd began to thin.

Shi Hong remained.

He stood in the middle of the courtyard, tall and stiff, with his hand on the sword at his belt. His eyes were red. He had been waiting since dawn, and all of it was in his face.

“Cousin,” Shi Hong said.

Shi Feng looked at him.

“One mountain cannot hold two tigers. I challenge you,” Shi Hong said. “By the clan's year-end custom. Here. Now.”