Chapter 593 — Into the River

CHAPTER 593

Into the River

“Deep breath, Master Ji,” Shi Feng said, and let go of the stone.

They dropped into the dark.

The cold water locked his chest. Before he could breathe, the current threw them against the rock. Pain struck his shoulder and knee. Shi Feng caught Ji Yuanhe around the chest and kicked upward until both heads cleared the surface.

Ji Yuanhe coughed out a mouthful of river.

“Four hundred and eighty-seven,” Ji Yuanhe gasped.

“Good man,” Shi Feng said, spitting water. “Keep going. I’ll do the swimming.”

The river ran under the mountain through a channel no wider than a cart. Sometimes the roof was high enough to breathe. Sometimes it came down so low that Shi Feng had to duck them both under and trust the current. He kept his Spirit Sense spread a few paces ahead and steered by it, pushing off rocks with his boots.

Keep him above water, Shi Feng thought. The current was too strong to fight. He could only steer around the worst rocks and find the next place to breathe.

Every few breaths, the old man’s voice came again, thin and stubborn beside his ear.

“Four hundred and eighty-eight. Four hundred and eighty-nine,” Ji Yuanhe counted.

The escape was discovered a shichen later.

The fresh shift on the cistern corridor heard groaning from the vault and found Kong Ba under a pile of boxes. After that, it went quickly. Guards ran. Doors banged. In the arch, the count was still going, steady and perfect, beside a stool with nobody on it.

Ning Zhe came back down before the fourth watch, nine days early, with the runner who had been sent up the stair to fetch him still panting behind. He walked into the cell first, and set his folding chair down in the exact middle.

The sigil on the wall behind the mat had a hole in it now. It was a thumb wide and an arm deep, and its edges were smooth, as if the stone had been licked away.

Ning Zhe looked at it for some time.

“He ate the wall,” Ning Zhe said.

“Yes, Receiver,” Yu Tieshan said from the doorway. His right arm was in a sling, and he held himself stiffly around the ribs.

The vault came next. Ning Zhe lifted a square of oiled paper from the third shelf and turned it over. It still smelled faintly of roasted sweet potato.

Then they brought him the tag from the herb room grille, and he read it twice.

USED: ALL. REPLACE.

The stamp in the corner was the Pit’s own square furnace. It was a little crooked, and it smelled of turnip.

For a moment, nobody in the room breathed.

Ning Zhe laughed. It was quiet, and it sounded genuinely pleased.

“Two hundred and twelve lots,” Ning Zhe said. “And he wrote us a receipt.”

“Receiver,” Yu Tieshan said carefully, “the wardens could reach the river mouth by dawn. He’s carrying a sick old man. He can’t have gone far.”

“The wardens stay at the gate,” Ning Zhe said.

“He’s a fish that slipped the net,” Yu Tieshan said, and his jaw tightened.

Ning Zhe folded the tag and slid it into his folder.

“The board is posted?” Ning Zhe asked.

“Three thousand stones, Receiver. At the river landings by morning,” Yu Tieshan said. “A ragged alchemist-slave and a mad boy.”

“Leave it at three thousand,” Ning Zhe said. “Don’t raise it. Raise it, and every river rat starts asking why one slave is worth so much.”

Yu Tieshan didn’t understand the order. His jaw tightened, but he held his question. Ning Zhe was already putting the forged tag away as though the loss interested him more than it angered him.

“Nobody in grey goes up the bank,” Ning Zhe went on. “The river men can do the looking. If they find him, they find a runaway. If they don’t...”

He didn’t finish. Instead, he put two fingers into his sleeve and drew something out.

It was a hairpin. Plain, thin, worn smooth where a hand had held it for years. Three small crescents were cut into its head.

Ning Zhe turned it once in the lamp-light. Yu Tieshan looked at the floor.

“To catch a thing, first let it go,” Ning Zhe murmured.

He put the hairpin back into his sleeve.

“...Interesting,” Ning Zhe said.

He folded the chair with a small click and went out.

Far below the mountain, the river widened.

The roof rose. The current slowed. Shi Feng floated on his back with Ji Yuanhe lying on his chest, too tired to kick, and let the water carry them.

Ahead, a long way off, the black was turning grey. It was the colour of the sky before dawn, cut into a ragged shape by the mouth of a cave. Shi Feng could smell wet grass. For the first time in three months, he could smell the outside.

He laughed, and his voice bounced off the stone.

“Look at that, Master Ji,” Shi Feng said. “Senior Brother always said the best doors are the ones nobody counts. We’re nearly out.”

Ji Yuanhe didn’t answer.

Shi Feng stopped laughing.

Ji Yuanhe’s head rested against his shoulder. His eyes fixed on the grey light, and his lips moved without sound. Shi Feng waited for the next number. It didn’t come. The river kept carrying them toward daylight, but his relief had vanished.

For the first time since Shi Feng had known him, Ji Yuanhe had stopped counting.