Chapter 614 — Ten Thousand a Sitting

CHAPTER 614

Ten Thousand a Sitting

The Records Hall annex stood quietly behind the busy Sky Pavilion branch. It had a grey door, a brass bell and a bronze plaque of nine articles bolted to the wall beside it.

Shi Feng rang the bell with Zhuo Tingsong’s appointment slip in his other hand.

The man who opened the door had his sleeves tied back with black cords, and every hair on his head was combed in the same direction. This was Archivist Lou Ming. He read the slip and bowed deeply, treating Shi Feng as an important guest.

“Honoured guest Feng Shi,” Lou Ming said. “Grandmaster Zhuo wrote ahead. Please come in. Will you take tea?”

“Is the tea part of the ten thousand?” Shi Feng asked.

“The tea is free,” Lou Ming said, pouring it himself. “The sitting is ten thousand stones, paid before any roll is opened. It buys two questions.”

Ten thousand for two questions, Shi Feng thought. Back in Great Liang that bought a shop with the shopkeeper thrown in. Senior Brother would’ve fainted, then woken up and asked for a receipt.

He counted the stones onto the table and asked for a receipt.

Lou Ming wrote one at once, stamped it and handed it over with both hands.

[Stones: 60,000 → 50,000]

“Your first question, honoured guest?” Lou Ming asked.

“A woman,” Shi Feng said. “She was brought out of the Empire under a border contract twenty-three years ago and taken to the frontier kingdoms. I don’t have her name.” He unfolded a paper on the table. “And this. A plain hairpin, three crescents on the head, worn smooth. I drew it from memory.”

Lou Ming studied the sketch. He didn’t ask why a frontier alchemist wanted a woman with no name.

“Border contracts of that year are kept in the eastern rolls,” Lou Ming said. “Please wait.”

Two clerks carried the rolls in on poles. Lou Ming read every one himself and set each aside without a word. An incense stick burned down, and a second was lit.

Shi Feng drank his free tea and kept his face pleasant.

He knew how little information he’d brought, Shi Feng thought. Still, every new roll made him sit straighter. He wanted a name or a date, anything that could lead him to his mother.

After an hour, Lou Ming rolled the last scroll closed and laid both hands on it.

“No record,” Lou Ming said.

“None at all?” Shi Feng asked.

“Four hundred and twelve border contracts were sealed that year,” Lou Ming said. “Not one sends a woman to the frontier. No hairpin of that shape appears in any jeweller’s register, customs list or estate inventory this Hall holds.” He lowered his head. “I’m sorry, honoured guest. A good tailor needs good cloth, and this Hall has none to give.”

Shi Feng looked down at the sketch. Three crescents, drawn by a man who’d held the real thing ten thousand times.

He folded it and put it back in his left sleeve, where the real one used to be.

“Then my second question,” Shi Feng said. “Nangong Xiuyi.”

Lou Ming had been reaching for the teapot. His hand stopped above it.

He didn’t call for a roll. He set the pot down, rose from his chair and bowed far deeper than before, so deep that Shi Feng could see the knot of black cord at the back of his neck.

“Honoured guest, please forgive this archivist,” Lou Ming said. “That question is beyond your current grade of knowledge. It sits above the fifth desk.”

“The fifth desk?” Shi Feng asked.

“The Hall answers by Mark,” Lou Ming said, still bowing. “A 3 Mark is served at the third desk, and each Mark opens one more. What you’ve asked about is kept above the fifth.”

Shi Feng’s heart gave one hard beat.

So she isn’t nothing, he thought. The Old Houses of Wanhe had never heard the name. The Sky Pavilion had heard it, and locked it away.

“Can I pay for a higher desk?” Shi Feng asked.

“Grades are sat, not bought,” Lou Ming said gently. “Not for ten thousand. Not for ten million.”

“So the Sky Pavilion is the only shop in Wanhe that won’t take my money,” Shi Feng said, amused in spite of himself.

“We’d take it gladly, honoured guest,” Lou Ming said, straightening at last. “We simply don’t sell that.”

Shi Feng laughed despite his disappointment. Lou Ming wasn't insulting him or asking for a bribe. The rule simply didn't allow the archivist to answer him.

Information kept above the fifth desk would require at least a 5 Mark licence.

The jewellers, registry and Old Houses couldn't help him, Shi Feng thought. The Pavilion could, but his licence wasn't high enough. Now he had a clear requirement to work toward instead of asking the same question at another shop.

Nobody in this hall would imagine a frontier boy sitting the 5 Mark. Shi Feng privately did the sum and knew his hands could get there, sooner than anyone would believe. His hands weren’t the problem. A sitting meant Tianjing, a register, and his true name in ink. A name in a register could be found, and he wasn’t strong enough yet to survive whoever came looking.

So, not yet. He’d climb the Marks one at a time, and only when he could stand on each one without being knocked off.

“Thank you, Archivist Lou,” Shi Feng said, rising and cupping his fists. “You’ve been very kind.”

“The Hall regrets it couldn’t serve you better,” Lou Ming said, walking him to the door.

Outside, the noon light was flat and hot. Shi Feng stopped beside the bronze plaque to put his receipt away, and out of habit his eyes ran down the nine articles.

He read them once. Then he read the third, the seventh and the ninth again.

A slow, delighted smile spread across his face.

He turned around and rang the bell.