The reception pavilion stood on a granite terrace just past the gate. A black pine sign hung over the cedar doors. It said Heavenly Favor Bestowed. The gold had peeled away from half of the last character, showing gray wood underneath.
Two Foundation cultivators sat behind a pear-wood counter. Spirit charcoal burned in a bowl between them. Beside it lay an iron-bound register and a pair of scales. Outside the rail, eleven people were still on their knees. They had come from the drought districts to sell what they had found in the mountains.
The man at the front held up a willow basket with his good arm. Three stalks of dragon-beard grass lay inside, their roots packed in river mud.
“Two leaves are yellow,” the younger clerk said. He didn’t look up from his tea. “Most of the qi is gone. Three ounces of silver if you want to sell them in the outer market.”
“Elder, it took twenty days to find those stalks. Three ounces would buy my grandson rice all winter.”
“Then let him chew pine bark. Pay or leave.”
The older clerk, Sun Fang, kept sliding the beads on an iron counting frame. The sound stopped when Pei Jing’s bamboo stick tapped the terrace.
