Ch. 004| The Man Who Collects Mended Pills

Word of Hu Biao's deviation had spread across West Street within three days.

It spread out of shape. Some said the pill-boy could "curse pills"—that a single word from him could send a man into deviation; others said he was the bastard son of some alchemist, kept hidden away at the Hundred Herbs Shop, born under a star that ruined pills. Lin Que heard it all and let it pass as if he had heard nothing. What shape the rumors took did not matter. What mattered was that Black Wind Hall had marked him.

For those few days he did not go back to West Street. Hu Biao was finished, but Black Wind Hall would not let the loss of one fee-collector be the end of it. Lai San sent word through someone: the Hall had already put a new man in Hu Biao's place, and was asking all over for the name of that "pill-cursing boy."

The man who took Hu Biao's place was surnamed Sun, and was said to be harder to deal with than Hu Biao ever was. He did not rely on rush pills; he relied on a body forged through hard external training, fists and feet, and was sent by Black Wind Hall to settle anyone who failed to watch their step. These days Lin Que barely went out the door of the Hundred Herbs Shop. Between splitting wood and tending the coals, he hunched over the back court scouring the dross-vats, doing his best to make no one remember there was such a pill-boy at all. But the more he hunched, the clearer it grew in his mind: hunching could carry him through a moment, not through a life. Once Black Wind Hall's net went out, West Street was only so big—sooner or later it would close over his head. Better than hunching and waiting for the net to tighten was to go and find a way out himself.

This stretch of livelihood on West Street was, for now, cut off.

But there were still pills to mend, and still coppers to save. Lin Que turned Lame Yu's words over in his head several times: at the east end of Well-Bottom Lane, there was someone who bought mended pills, at a price far fairer than West Street's, and who was searching the whole market town for someone who could mend pills.

This road he weighed for several days.

A man willing to pay a high price for waste pills, and to comb the whole market town for a pill-mender—what he was after was certainly not the small profit of a few discarded pills. Whether it was good or ill, whether it was yet another net waiting for him to walk into, Lin Que could not sound out. But West Street was cut off, and the dozen-odd revived pills in his hands were dead money if he held them. If he could not gather enough capital, he would be trapped to death in this one market town for the rest of his life.

---

At dusk on the fourth day, Lin Que tucked 3 revived pills into his robe and went toward Well-Bottom Lane.

Well-Bottom Lane lay in the oldest corner of the market town. A dried-up dead well stood at its mouth, and the lane was so narrow two men could barely pass each other. Night was coming on, and there were few figures in the lane. Lin Que walked slowly, pausing at every fork, glancing back over his shoulder—this was a habit he had learned in the past half month; ever since he had crossed Black Wind Hall, wherever he went he checked behind him first.

The third house at the east end was an unremarkable used-clothes shop. The door-board stood half open, and inside burned a single dim yellow lamp.

A few old robes, washed gray, hung at the door of the used-clothes shop, swaying lightly in the evening wind. The shop was unnaturally quiet—this kind of back-door trade in mended waste pills ran deeper the more unremarkable it looked. Lin Que stood a while at the wall-corner across the lane, looked at that half-open door-board, swept his eyes over the escape routes at both ends of the lane, and only then edged slowly forward.

Before he had even reached the door, from the foot of the wall off to the side, a voice suddenly spoke.

"The pill-mending boy. So you've come."

Lin Que stopped dead.

In the shadow at the foot of the wall crouched an old man. A dusty old robe, gray-streaked hair tied up in a tangle, a chipped wine-gourd cradled in his arms—at a glance, like a beggar in the lane. But the moment he opened his mouth, the hairs on the back of Lin Que's neck stood up—how long had this old man crouched here? He had watched his own back the whole way in, and had sensed not the slightest thing.

"You have the wrong man, old one." Lin Que steadied his voice. "I've come looking for an old garment."

The old man let out a low chuckle, baring a mouthful of yellow teeth. "Looking for an old garment, with 3 mended doses of Qi Condensation Powder tucked in your robe?"

Lin Que's heart sank. He had hidden the pills with great care, and this old man, several paces off and through a fold of cloth, could even name the count.

He would not use the word "see" to describe the old man before him. A seventh-layer like Hu Biao laid his presence out in plain sight, made to frighten; this old man let not a thread of presence show, yet the man was like a pool of still water with no bottom—you did not know what lay sunk beneath. Lin Que had seen all manner of people in the market town; this was the first time he had met this kind, one that did not even let him dare stir the thought of running—he could not be sure he would get away.

"Sit." The old man patted the broken stone step beside him. "My legs ache, talking with you standing there."

Lin Que did not sit. He stepped back half a pace, leaving open a gap he could run through.

The old man took no offense, and tipped back a mouthful of wine on his own account. "That business with Hu Biao—that was you, wasn't it? A seventh-layer, sent into deviation by one word from you." He narrowed his eyes. "Cursing pills—nonsense. You saw that his rush pill had a flaw, and you'd read how he guards his face, so you forced him to drive his own qi across that flaw himself."

Lin Que made no answer. But his heart sank again. West Street was passing around "cursed pills," and this old man had seen straight through to the truth at a single glance.

"No need to admit it." The old man waved a hand. "An old man's spent a whole life knocking about the market town—what haven't I seen? Those eyes of yours can see the flaw inside a pill—that gift is worth a great deal more than your few revived pills."

He paused, fished a string of coppers from his robe, and tossed it onto the stone step. The count was exactly 15.

"Mended pills—I buy them here. 5 coppers apiece, better than selling them piecemeal on West Street." The old man pointed at the front of Lin Que's robe. "Those 3, I'll take first."

15 coppers. Selling on West Street, those 3 had fetched only 6.

The gap in price was wide enough to stir the heart, and wide enough to stir suspicion. No one hands out extra coin for nothing. These few coppers over the mark were meant to gather him, the pill-mender, into a hand first. Lin Que saw it plainly.

He was in no hurry to take the string of coin. "What does the old one buy these mended waste pills for?"

"To pass them on." The old man grinned. "The market town's full of paupers who can't afford good pills and yet want to live. Your revived pills—smooth, steady, cheap—are in high demand." His tone shifted. "But that's the small trade. The big thing comes after."

He drew from his robe a sheet of paper, creased from rolling and yellowed at the edges, and spread it half open.

It was half of a pill formula, a corner missing, the ink faded near past reading.

"This formula—I've had it looked at by people from three pill shops, and they all say it can't be mended back, the flaw runs too dead." The old man pushed the paper toward him. "The market town's full of cultivation scrolls run to ruin, and pill formulas gone broken. There are those who'll trade spirit stones for one mended back. Men who can mend them are rare as phoenix feathers."

He fixed his eyes on Lin Que. "If you can mend this half-sheet, this door in Well-Bottom Lane stays open for you from here on. If you can't, take today's words as an old man's drunken ramble."

Lin Que did not take the paper. But his lowered eyes had already swept across it quietly—beneath the left eye a heat rose up, and that flaw came through line by line, far deeper than the flaw in the Death-Black Pill, and coiled with more cunning. No wonder all three pill shops had shaken their heads.

"How shall I call the old one?" he asked.

"Surname Han. In the trade they call me Nine Lives." The old man grinned. "Died a good few times, and never managed to stay dead." He tipped back a mouthful of wine, and his gaze drifted off for a moment. "When I was young my hands itched, and I crawled into a place I shouldn't have. Of the men who went in with me, I'm the only one who came out alive. Ever since, when I look at a thing, I look first at where it'll kill you."

Lin Que marked the words "a place I shouldn't have" in his mind, and did not ask.

But Han Bosheng suddenly looked up at him. "Those eyes of yours—they can see the flaw in dead things, but not the flaw in living men. Isn't that so?"

Lin Que's heart gave a violent jolt, and still he did not answer.

"Not answering is an answer." Han Bosheng smiled a little, and there was not much warmth in the smile. "Not seeing living men is your good fortune. Those who see too much don't live long."

He tipped back another mouthful of wine, as if something had just come to him. "Right—Black Wind Hall is looking for you. Hu Biao is the Hall master's distant nephew. Sent into deviation in front of everyone, turned into a cripple—that account, Sun Heng, the new man filling the gap, won't let go." Seeing the change in Lin Que's face, the old man's smile deepened. "Afraid? Good that you're afraid. Those who fear live longer. But if you can mend this half-sheet of broken formula of mine, then how fast you save your coin from here on is for you yourself to say—save fast, and you leave fast too. Long as Black Wind Hall's reach is, it can't stretch out of this one market town."

The wind in the lane swept across the dry well, moaning. Lin Que stood where he was, reckoning it over a long while.

This old man's origins were unclear, and this thread ran past sight to the bottom. But West Street was cut off, Black Wind Hall was chasing behind him, and all he had left in hand were these eyes and a dozen-odd revived pills. The price in Well-Bottom Lane was more than double West Street's, and the price for mending a broken formula was reckoned in spirit stones—this was the fastest road to gathering enough capital to leave the market town.

The fastest road was often also the deepest.

At last he reached out, taking first the 15 coppers on the stone step, then the half-sheet of broken formula. The paper was light in his hand, but his palm felt as though a stone had been laid on it.

"When it's mended, how do I find you?"

"No need to look." Han Bosheng crouched back down at the foot of the wall and closed his eyes, becoming once more that beggar of an old man. "The day you mend it, I'll be there of my own accord."

Lin Que tucked the broken formula away and backed out of Well-Bottom Lane. He was in no hurry to go home; first he circled two streets, confirming over and over that no one trailed behind him, and only then returned to his rented room.

The broken formula lay spread under the lamp. A heat in the left eye, and that flaw rose up whole—deep in its cut, cunning in its coiling. It was not for nothing the three pill shops had shaken their heads. But hard did not mean unmendable.

He stared at that flaw, stared for a long while. If this half-sheet could be mended back, the door in Well-Bottom Lane would open, and his pace of saving capital could be several times faster. Yet that one line of Han Bosheng's pressed at his chest all the while: those who see too much don't live long.

He looked over that half-sheet of broken formula once more. The flaw lay in the formula's lead herb—the original formula was to use one herb of fierce nature as a lead, drawing the natures of several herbs together into one breath; now that lead herb had been mostly painted over, leaving the remaining few to each run their own way, so that what was refined would at best come out a waste pill, at worst a poison. The three pill shops recognized the original formula; unable to recover the lead that had been painted out, they could not mend it back. Lin Que's eyes paid no mind to the original formula; they minded only how, with these few herbs gathered in one place, the strength of that missing line should be mended back—and this was exactly the strength of these eyes of his.

This road ran deeper than West Street, and more perilous than West Street too.

But he had no road back. West Street was cut off, Black Wind Hall was looking for him, ahead lay this bottomless well of Well-Bottom Lane, and behind lay an end like the Reverse-Ash Yard.

Lin Que pinched up a touch of ink, and by the lamplight, set it down upon that flaw.

【Ch. 004 End · Well-Bottom Lane → rented room, western city】