Chapter 679 — Twelve Nights of Counting

CHAPTER 679

Twelve Nights of Counting

“Nobody moves,” Pan Hongzhu whispered, which for Pan was very quiet. “Whoever moves first is dead.”

The Court was a round field of grass a thousand paces wide, walled in by terraces. In the middle stood the Orchard Tree, black and leafless, with a single golden fruit the size of a lantern hanging from one branch. Under it, on a low stool, sat the Gardener: a figure in a straw hat with both hands folded on a hoe. It hadn’t moved once since they arrived.

Five parties ringed the edge of the tree’s shadow. Cangming blue, Azure Sun gold, Thunder Abyss violet, a merchant company in brown, and Pan’s crowd of loud freelancers. Nobody put a foot over the shadow line.

“Boss,” Shi Feng asked in Ah Fu’s slow voice, “why doesn’t anybody just go?”

“Because the first man in fights the Gardener alone,” Pan Hongzhu said. “And the other four take the fruit off his body. Carry your baskets, Ah Fu. Leave the thinking to people who get paid for it.”

“Yes, boss,” Shi Feng said meekly.

Nobody wanted to fight the Gardener and then defend the fruit from four fresh parties, Shi Feng thought. They’d wait for someone else to make that mistake.

Four days later, nobody had moved.

The sects glared at each other across the grass. Huo Weiran sharpened his sword loudly every evening so the Azure Sun camp could hear it. Shi Feng hauled water, firewood and baskets, and every time he passed the tree he looked at the stem.

It was as thin as a thread, and it was folded twice on itself. Each night the pocket groaned, the light flickered, and the stem slipped a little more.

So that’s how it is, Shi Feng thought. Nobody needs to fight the Gardener. The fruit falls when the pocket folds shut. All they have to do is wait for the end and stand underneath.

He was sure every one of them would work that out at the same moment. That was going to be a very crowded moment.

The porters camped in a side hall off the Court, a roofless stone room with an old cold furnace in one corner. The wall beside the furnace was scorched black with writing. It had been burnt into the stone by a finger, line after line, and the hand got shakier toward the end.

“Some idiot’s last words,” a porter said, hanging his socks on it. “Good for drying, though.”

Shi Feng read it for a day and a night, sitting on his pack with his hat pulled low.

It was a flame art. The writer used his fire as a hammer and lit a second, quieter fire behind it as the anvil, so every strike landed on something that struck back. At Deity Transformation-grade, in the right hands, it would make a furnace fire twice as hard without burning twice as hot.

He tried it inside his sleeve with a flame no bigger than a bean. The bean doubled, and then held.

Second Anvil Fire, Entry. Shi Feng lowered his hat to hide his excitement. The abandoned writing had taught him something he couldn’t buy at Liu Su’s counter.

The writing stopped in the middle of a line.

“…and the anvil answers the hammer,” it said, and then there was only black stone.

The man died before he finished his sentence, Shi Feng thought. He’d study what remained and work out the missing parts slowly.

“One hundred and forty-four,” Ji Yuanhe said.

Ji counted the roof tiles of the Willow Ford courtyard every evening. There were one hundred and forty-four. It was a good number. It didn’t change.

But the count of nights kept rising, and Shi Feng still hadn’t returned.

“Nine,” Niu Tiezhu said, sitting on the step beside him with a bun in each hand. “That’s nine nights, Grandpa Ji.”

“Nine,” Ji Yuanhe agreed.

Next door, Auntie Niu was stacking the evening buns, and Ji counted them as they went onto the tray. One, two, three, a little rest, four. That was how Tao Xiaoyu counted, back on Lamp-Oil Lane. Shi Feng said it was the best rhythm in the Empire. Ji believed him.

“You’re counting my buns again, Master Ji,” Auntie Niu called over the wall.

“Thirty-one,” Ji Yuanhe said.

“Thirty-two. Tiezhu’s eating one,” Auntie Niu said. She leaned on the wall and grinned at him. “A day apart is like three autumns, eh? You miss that thin troublemaker.”

Ji said nothing. He counted the tiles again. One hundred and forty-four.

On the tenth night Sergeant Chai stopped at the gate, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Word from the rim,” Sergeant Chai said awkwardly. “Three hundred went into the Seam and haven’t come out. That’s just a rumour, mind you.”

“Three hundred,” Ji Yuanhe said.

“Chai! What kind of person says that to him?” Auntie Niu shouted, and threw a bun at the sergeant’s head.

On the eleventh night Ji sat on the step and counted the tiles, and at ninety-six the next number wasn’t there.

Ji Yuanhe tried to begin again at ninety-six. The next number still wouldn’t come, and his hands started shaking. Somewhere far away, very far, a furnace was breathing in the dark, and a voice said they listen to the counting.

A warm hand landed on his shoulder. It smelled of flour.

“Count something else,” Auntie Niu said gently.

Ji looked down. Niu Tiezhu was holding up his fingers.

“Ten,” Ji Yuanhe whispered. “Ten fingers.”

“That’s right,” Niu Tiezhu said proudly. “I’ve got ten too.”

On the twelfth night Ji didn’t go to bed. He went into the house and sat on the floor by the table, and put his hand on the leg where Shi Feng had tied the knot. There was a mark in the wood where the rope had rubbed.

He counted. He counted until his voice was gone and then counted without it, and the sky over Willow Ford went slowly pale.