Chapter 39 — The Page
In the copyist's stall of the Copyhouse of Cloudreed Sect at the south wall of the inner grounds at the noon-and-a-half-and-a-half bell of the fourth day of the long dry watch of the third quarter — three days and three hours after the broadcast — Lin Wei finished the page with his right hand, because his left was still in a splint.
He finished it the way he had finished pages for three years.
The brush was a cheap thing — pig bristle, the binding loose at the ferrule — and it shed a hair every few characters. He let the hairs lie in the margins where they fell, the way he had let them lie for three years, because the page he was copying was a page that nobody would read by the standing protocol of the Copyhouse's reckoning except the page's writer and the page's reader, and the writer and the reader were both him.
The page was not a transcription.
The page was a record.
The record was the witness's, by the family's reckoning of the line's reckoning.
Mei Qi, beside him at the copyist's stall in the green outer robe of the witness at the moment three days after the broadcast at the desk the master had, across three years of his teaching, kept clear for the boy to write on, was, by Lin Wei's read at the desk, writing too.
She was writing the history of the master at the desk.
Lin Wei was writing the line.
The line was eighteen.
The eighteenth had been identified on the third day after the broadcast at a small village in the southern foothills of the Sundered Peak fifteen li south of the bridge, by the worn hand of a sixty-year-old woman who had, in the count of nineteen years of her own counter-agency in a village the order had not identified, carried the chord in the rib without knowing the chord had a name.
The woman was, by the great-uncle's slip on the desk, the line's eighteenth.
The eighteenth was the chamber's outer ring's last seat.
The chamber's outer ring was, three days on after the broadcast, complete.
The complete was, by the smith's reckoning at his fortieth year, the line's first complete laying-in two centuries.
The laying-in was, three days on, done.
Lin Wei finished the page.
He set the brush down.
He flexed the four fingers of his left hand inside the splint.
The pinky had set crooked.
He had learned to live with the pinky.
He had a list of things he had learned to live with, and the list was the same list it had been three years ago, except that the list was — three days on after the broadcast — shorter by every item that was no longer on it.
The items that were no longer on the list were the items the broadcast had taken off.
The items the broadcast had taken off were:
The fear of Han Yi.
Han Yi was, by the broadcast at noon on the fourth day, Foundation 5 corrupted at the standing protocol of the corrupted Greenreed Manual at the inner library's standing protocol of two centuries, at the inner library's office's retirement after the senior reader's slip at one-sixteen on the third night, no longer at the standing protocol. Han Yi was a sixteen-year-old inner disciple of a corrupted lineage at the moment in the first quarter past noon of the fourth day one breath after the broadcast, reading. The reading was Han Yi's first reading of the master's voice. The master's voice, in Han Yi's rib, had said Boy. The manuals are wrong. Han Yi had, in nine breaths, read. Han Yi had, a breath after the nine breaths, cried. The crying had been, by Mei Qi's read at the pine boards of the second tuning chamber where the witness had been writing the witness's first record three days ago, the inner disciple's first reading of his own corrupted fundamental as corrupted. Han Yi was a body the chord had not yet identified. Han Yi was, at one moment in the third day after the broadcast, walking. He was walking south, by the great-uncle's slip on the desk, on the trail to the bridge. He was the line's twentieth. The line had been at eighteen two days on. It was, three days on, nineteen — the nineteenth being a Foundation 6 elder of a fourth sect in his retirement by the broadcast — and Han Yi was the twentieth.
The fear of Han Yi was not on the list.
The fear of Elder Pei.
Elder Pei had, by the senior reader's slip at one-sixteen on the third night, retired. Elder Pei had, at the retirement, walked from his closet office to the south gate of Cloudreed and stood at the spit-stone and read the spit-stone at the tone. The bar had been the bar. The bar had been the chord. Elder Pei had, at the reading, fallen to one knee. The falling had been the spit-stone's first reading of an elder of the inner sect after two centuries of spit-stone readings. The falling had been, by Tao Lin's count at the bench, the elder's first true reading. The first true reading had been Elder Pei's last work as an elder. He was, three days on after the broadcast, no longer of the sect. He was, by the great-uncle's slip on the desk, the line's twenty-first.
The fear of Elder Pei was not on the list.
The fear of the south gate keeper.
The south gate keeper had, by his standing protocol of the night-shift keeper at the south gate of Cloudreed at twelve-fifteen on the third night, unread the great-uncle's slip at the spit-stone. He had marked the great-uncle's slip unread, ward across forty-eight slips in twelve years. He had, at the broadcast at noon on the fourth day, understood. The understanding had been, by Wen's count at the lintel of the smith's shed in four-forty in the afternoon of the fourth day in the next breath after she had walked off the bridge, the keeper's first reading of the keeper's own slips. The first reading had been the keeper's first work in twelve years. The keeper was, three days on after the broadcast, the line's twenty-second.
The fear of the south gate keeper was not on the list.
The list was shorter.
What was on the list, at the moment in the copyist's stall of the Copyhouse of Cloudreed Sect at the south wall of the inner grounds at the noon-and-a-half-and-a-half bell of the fourth day three days after the broadcast, was three items.
The brush. The ink. The splint.
The splint was new on the list.
The splint had been on the list since the small careful count of three years ago, when Han Yi had broken his left forearm.
The splint was, three days after the broadcast at noon on the fourth day, no longer the splint Han Yi had broken his forearm with.
The splint was the splint Tao Bing had made for the boy at the smith's shed two days on after the broadcast, of cracked iron and gray-keyed pine of the second tuning chamber's wall of eight tone-bars.
The splint was the line's splint.
The splint was, by the smith's tally at his fortieth year, the line's first forging by the broadcast.
The first forging was the line's first work after the chamber's outer ring's completion.
The first work was the body's first splint at the body's first cultivation.
The body was Foundation 1.
The body's cultivation was circulating qi for the first time at the register of the Yellow Bell first note.
The circulation was the body's first work as a cultivator.
The first work was, by the smith's count at his fortieth year, the body's first true cultivation.
The first true cultivation was the body's first reading of the line's manual.
The line's manual was, in the smith's forty-year arc at his fortieth year, the chord-chart in Lin Wei's collar at the desk three days after the broadcast.
The chord-chart had not, in three years, been in his collar.
The chord-chart had been Tao Lin's chord-chart at the second milestone three days ago.
The chord-chart was, three days on after the broadcast, in Lin Wei's collar.
The chord-chart was the line's manual.
The manual was the body's manual.
The body was the line.
The line was the manual.
The body was reading.
The body had been reading for three days.
The body had, in the three days, learned the Yellow Bell first note as the body's fundamental.
The learning was the body's first cultivation breakthrough.
The breakthrough was Foundation 1 on the Yellow Bell first note.
The body, at Foundation 1 on the Yellow Bell first note, was — by the smith's lineage of two centuries — the first body in two centuries to have chosen the Yellow Bell first note as a fundamental.
The body, in the next book, would, by the smith's forty-year forging at his fortieth year, be the first body in two centuries to attempt Foundation Layer 2 on the Yellow Bell first note.
The next book.
The next book was, by the master's body in the southern creek's running south to the sea, three weeks away.
The next book was the third chamber on the second continent.
The next book was one breath after the broadcast at noon on the fourth day, the line's first carry past the chamber's outer ring.
The carry was, by the smith's count, the line's first work in the next book.
The first work was the carry of the master's body to the third chamber.
The master's body would arrive at the third chamber in three weeks.
The third chamber would, in the receiving, open.
The opening would be the next book.
Lin Wei, at the copyist's stall of the Copyhouse of Cloudreed Sect at the south wall of the inner grounds at the noon-and-a-half-and-a-half bell of the fourth day three days after the broadcast, set his brush down.
He set the brush down at the small careful angle the master had taught him to set the brush down in three years.
The master was teaching.
He breathed.
He looked, for one count, at the page.
The page was finished.
The character was truth — four strokes by the elder's lineage, five strokes in the old box at the back of stack three, and the page Lin Wei had finished had — after three years of his transcriptions — seven strokes.
Seven strokes.
The seventh stroke was the line's stroke.
The line was the manual.
The manual was the line.
The line was truth.
Lin Wei finished the page.
He set the brush down.
He turned, at the desk, to look at Mei Qi.
Mei Qi, beside him at the copyist's stall, was — by Lin Wei's read at the desk — finishing her page too.
The page was the witness's record of the master.
The page read, by Mei Qi's small careful witness's brush at the desk three days after the broadcast: The master taught the chord. The chord was, by the master's count at the closet office at the second bell two nights before the broadcast, the family's reckoning's secret. The secret was, at the broadcast, the world's. The master was, in the teaching, the chord's first ancestor. The first ancestor was the line's first teacher. The first teacher was, in the count of one breath after the noon bell of the fourth day of the long dry watch of the third quarter, the world's first cultivation teacher in two centuries.
She finished the sentence.
She set the brush down.
She turned, at the desk, to look at Lin Wei.
Lin Wei said, in the small still voice of a sixteen-year-old outer disciple at Foundation 1 on the Yellow Bell first note at the copyist's stall of the Copyhouse three days after the broadcast: "Sister."
Mei Qi said: "Brother."
He said: "Done."
She said: "Done."
He paused.
He said: "Sister."
She said: "Brother."
He said: "By the count, we are done with this book."
She said: "Yes."
He paused.
He said: "Sister."
She said: "Brother."
He said: "By the count of three weeks, we are at the third chamber."
She said: "Yes."
He paused.
He said: "Sister."
She said: "Brother."
He said: "By the count of the third chamber's first opening in two centuries, we are at the next book."
She said: "Yes."
He paused.
He said: "Sister."
She said: "Brother."
He said: "By the count, the next book is the line's first carry past the chamber's outer ring."
She said: "Yes."
He paused.
He said: "Sister."
She said: "Brother."
He paused.
He said: "Mother."
She said: "On the bench."
He said: "Father."
She said: "On the bench."
He said: "Great-uncle."
She said: "On the road."
He said: "Wen."
She said: "On the road."
He said: "Yongzhou."
She said: "On the road."
He said: "Hai."
She said: "On the road."
He said: "Envoy."
She said: "On the road."
He said: "Third sect's elder."
She said: "On the road."
He said: "Iron Tongue boss."
She said: "On the road."
He said: "Two Iron Tongue hunters."
She said: "On the road."
He paused.
He said: "Han Yi. Elder Pei. South gate keeper. The fourth sect's Foundation 6. The village woman in the southern foothills."
She said: "On the road."
He paused.
He said: "The line."
She said: "On the road."
He paused.
He said: "Brother on the bridge."
She paused.
She said: "On the water."
He paused.
He said: "Master Yuan, on the water, at three weeks' carry, at the third chamber."
She said: "On the water."
He paused.
He said: "Sister."
She said: "Brother."
He said: "By the count of the line on the road, we are not alone."
She said: "Yes."
He paused.
He said: "By the count of the master on the water, we are not alone."
She said: "Yes."
He paused.
He said: "By the count, the line is on the road."
She said: "Yes."
He paused.
He said: "By the count, we walk."
She said: "Yes."
Lin Wei stood at the copyist's stall of the Copyhouse of Cloudreed Sect at the south wall of the inner grounds at the noon-and-a-half-and-a-half bell of the fourth day three days after the broadcast.
He stood with the cracked-iron sword on his hip-strap and the empty cracked-iron bell in the pocket of his green outer robe and the chord-chart in his collar and the splint on his left hand and the brush at the desk and the rib carrying at the chord at the bar of the line.
He looked, for one count, at the north window of the Copyhouse that faced the bamboo grove.
The bamboo grove, in the first quarter past the noon-and-a-half-and-a-half bell of the fourth day three days after the broadcast, was — by Lin Wei's Foundation 1's first sight at the north window — humming.
The humming was the bamboo grove's first humming at the chord of the line in the first quarter past the noon-and-a-half-and-a-half bell of the fourth day three days after the broadcast.
The bamboo grove was, by his sight, humming at the Yellow Bell first note.
The grove had, by the smith's measure of two centuries, been humming at the corrupted green-keyed tone of the Greenreed Manual at the inner library's standing protocol of two centuries.
The grove had, after one breath after the broadcast at noon on the fourth day, retuned.
The retuning was, in the smith's two centuries of work at his fortieth year, the grove's first retuning in two centuries.
The retuning was the world's first retuning after the broadcast.
The grove was — by Lin Wei's Foundation 1's first sight at the north window three days on after the broadcast — humming at the Yellow Bell first note.
It was the small clean humming the bamboo had been humming, three years ago at dawn at the north window of the Copyhouse, in the small careful first interval below the standard chart.
It was, at the count, the same humming.
It was the humming the grove had always been humming.
The world had, by the broadcast, learned to hear it.
Lin Wei breathed.
He thought, in the small still place under the rib's carry, the second-person voice the copyist year had given him.
You will walk.
He thought it once.
He breathed.
He turned, at the desk, to Mei Qi.
He said, in the small still voice of a sixteen-year-old outer disciple at Foundation 1 on the Yellow Bell first note at the copyist's stall of the Copyhouse three days after the broadcast: "Sister."
She said: "Brother."
He said: "Walk."
She said: "Yes."
He paused.
He said: "South."
She said: "South."
He paused.
He said: "The bridge."
She said: "The bridge."
He paused.
He said: "The sea."
She said: "The sea."
He paused.
He said: "The third chamber."
She said: "The third chamber."
He paused.
He said: "Sister."
She said: "Brother."
He paused.
He said: "Father. Mother. Great-uncle. Wen. Yongzhou. Envoy. Third sect's elder. Iron Tongue boss. Two Iron Tongue hunters. Han Yi. Elder Pei. South gate keeper. The fourth sect's Foundation 6. The village woman."
She said: "Eighteen."
He paused.
He said: "And the master."
She said: "Nineteen."
He paused.
He said: "And us."
She said: "Twenty-one."
He paused.
He said: "And the next book."
She paused.
She said: "Many."
He paused.
He smiled.
He smiled the first small smile of a sixteen-year-old outer disciple at Foundation 1 on the Yellow Bell first note at the copyist's stall of the Copyhouse three days after the broadcast at the moment in the noon-and-a-half-and-a-half bell of the fourth day of the long dry watch of the third quarter on the breath after his sister had said many.
He said: "Many."
He picked up the brush.
He dipped the brush in the ink.
He wrote, at the bottom of the page he had just finished, the small careful seven-stroke character for truth one more time — and beside it, in the small careful witness's brush of the witness's office, the small careful seven-stroke character for line.
The two characters, on the page, settled once at the bar.
The bar was the chord.
The chord was the line.
The line was, at the count, on the road.
He set the brush down.
He stood.
He took the page in his right hand.
He folded the page once.
He put the page in the pocket of his green outer robe beside the empty cracked-iron bell.
He looked, for one count, at his sister.
His sister stood at the desk.
She took her page in her right hand.
She folded her page once.
She put it in her collar.
She nodded once.
Lin Wei walked.
He walked, with his sister at his right shoulder and the fox at her heel, three days after the broadcast at the noon-and-a-half-and-a-half bell of the fourth day of the long dry watch of the third quarter, out of the thin Copyhouse of Cloudreed Sect at the south wall of the inner grounds, into the first quarter past the noon-and-a-half-and-a-half bell, into the humming of the bamboo grove that was at last humming at the pitch the grove had always been humming at, into the south path of the inner grounds, toward the south gate, toward the trail south, toward the bridge, toward the southern creek, toward the sea, toward the second continent, toward the third tuning chamber, toward the next book.
The line walked.
The line walked at the chord.
The chord walked at the bar.
The bar walked at the line.
The world walked.
[END BOOK 1]