Chapter 75: The Expansion of the Ember Guard

Before the sky had lightened, Chen Jin spread the blank roll across the desk. The cover was the same blank page Zhou Zhengting had slid over last night, empty except for two characters — Two thousand. He ran a finger over the two characters and did not pick up the brush. The ink was fresh-ground; beside the inkstone lay a stub of charcoal, the one Xiaosui had worn down copying the notice yesterday, thumb-length now, its tip rounded. The lamp oil had sunk to a shallow layer, and the light made the roll's surface look grey; the two characters sat sunk into the paper, not yet grown into any names.

When the council had broken last night, three stacks of rolls still stood neat on the desk — grain, works, medicine — waiting a whole night for this order. Chen Jin pressed the blank roll on top of those three stacks, the last stack, the highest. The household rolls had gone back to the wards; the Ember Guard's roll was his. This one was started fresh, and the two characters on its cover would grow two thousand names before the night was out.

Zhou Zhengting came in with three old rolls, the Ember Guard's muster roll on top. He opened it; the first pages held the names from that first batch, three hundred of them, divided by unit. A column for the Black Patrol, a column for the Iron-Pipe Sentries, a column for the originals — the ink in shades of dark and light, the earliest pages yellowed, their corners curled from the night at East Gate when someone had carried them inside his coat.

"The old ones go first," Zhou Zhengting said. "The new recruits go after, so at a glance you tell who came first and who came last. The first ones have seen battle. The last ones learn to march first."

Chen Jin turned the pages. In the Black Patrol column, the third row carried a stroke of ink struck through — the name still there, the man gone, lost in the tides that pulled back. His finger rested on the struck stroke for a breath, then turned the page. The Iron-Pipe Sentry chief was still there; beneath his name sat three marks, added later, one per time, the last from the night at East Gate. The originals' column was fullest — of three hundred, fewer than two hundred seventy remained, dead or wounded, the surviving names packed close, no gaps in the writing, only the spaces between them widening.

"The bone is still here," Zhou Zhengting said. "The rack can still hang fresh meat."

Chen Jin found a familiar name among the originals and paused the brush. "Old Qin's still here." Zhou Zhengting gave a hum. "Caught a claw at East Gate, lay up half a month, got on his feet the day before, came asking at first light if he could rejoin." Chen Jin pressed that name a little darker, bearing down once more. The living kept names still warm; once the new recruits filled in behind, they could follow the old men. Three hundred to start, and the ones still called by name stepped forward one by one.

Past noon, the ward rolls came in, stacked along the desk's edge, tied with hemp, the rope-ends still carrying each ward's different grey. From the nineteen hundred and odd who could stand the wall, those fit for it were picked out, sorted by ward, names written into the new roll one by one. Chen Jin read, Zhou Zhengting wrote, the brush not hesitating as it fell, the places already set. Filling the second book, a young man came from the West Ward, handed up his name; Chen Jin wrote it, and the young man stayed where he stood.

"My brother on the roll too?"

"I haven't got to the West Ward's roll yet," Chen Jin said. "I'll read it to you when I do."

The young man nodded and stepped back to the wall, scraping his sole against the floor, once, then stopping. The brush did not pause; names walked down the line, and the West Ward column grew longer.

At the table's edge Song Laixi flipped the labor-camp roll with a rustle, picking out those fit for the wall from eleven hundred; the three thousand work-tickets had long been settled, and this time what went on the roll were names, not tickets. "This one's stout, can heft a sandbag," he said, picking one out for Chen Jin, "workshop stock, knows a trigger." Chen Jin wrote it, noting "workshop transfer" after. New recruits filled in row by row, and flesh hung little by little onto the old frame.

Farther along, someone handed up a family of three — father and mother on the works roll, son on the junior squad. Chen Jin wrote them apart, one in the fighting line, one in the junior stack, the last stack thinnest but neatest. "One family in three places," Zhou Zhengting said, "but all on the roll." Chen Jin did not look up. "What's on the roll has a place on the wall."

Farther down, someone asked from the back, "Do the children count as men?"

Chen Jin did not look up. "Not as wall-men. They count as the junior squad."

"Does the junior squad count as Ember Guard?"

"Third clause," he said. "Not one left out. The children go in the school roll, the teacher keeps it; their names sit in the last stack." The questioner fell silent and stepped back.

Wen Heng's med roll came carried by a young man, the one she had dictated it from, the paper corners still carrying the smell of medicine. Thirty-seven names — nineteen who could walk, eighteen who could not. Chen Jin folded the nineteen who could walk into the Ember Guard, written after the fighting line, ordered by how soon they'd heal, the able to run first. The eighteen he did not strike through — he opened a new line, wrote them into logistics, a post at the med station, noting a "post" beneath each name, half a line below the fighting line.

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

That young man was Wen Heng's nephew, had run errands for her at the med roll half a year. Chen Jin asked him, "Your uncle?" He lowered his head. "Gone, the night at the North Wall." Chen Jin's brush paused a breath; he struck out the empty space among the nineteen who could walk and filled it with another. Wen Heng's roll he left for last, not in haste — the lying-down ones earned their names on the roll too, the same as the standing.

Turning to the last page, he wrote "Wen Heng" beneath the med column.

"She lies down," he said, "but she's still a post."

The young man carried the roll back, glanced once, did not dare answer. In the room where Wen Heng lay, no sound; the lamp still lit, the medicine smell leaking through the door-crack, mixing with the ink on the desk.

At dusk Xiaosui brought the junior squad's roll. The children read their names one by one; whoever reached his own family name stepped forward, and those who stepped forward joined the junior squad, their names in the last stack. She stood under the oil lamp and read "know the notice, then the post" to the children, syllable by syllable, in yesterday's tone for teaching the notice, not loud, each word dropped on the one before. The roll held twenty-odd names, crooked, each one she had copied, neater than the grown-ups' rolls.

An older child asked, "My father's name in the front book?"

"It is," Xiaosui said. "Your father came first, you came last; both books count you Ember Guard."

A smaller one raised a hand. "My mother's on the med roll — does that count?"

"It counts," Xiaosui said. "The med roll is a post too; your mother's in logistics, you'll find her on the roll."

She straightened the roll and held it to the lamp for a breath. "Too neat," she said. "Like something official."

This was the fifth time she had said it. The four before, each time she'd furrowed less. The children scattered; Xiaosui stayed. She tucked the junior roll against her chest, thinking of the notice she had copied yesterday, four clauses in four lines, the last line's four characters largest. "Know the notice, then the post," she read to herself, "not knowing the notice, the post is stood blind." The charcoal stub was thumb-length; she tucked it back into her sleeve. Tomorrow in character class she would lead the children to write their own names into the junior roll, stroke by stroke.

The roll thickened page by page. Two thousand names — Chen Jin's hand stopped halfway. He did not mention the sea: seventeen boats out twelve days, no return, no word. The jars had been silent fourteen days, no sound since the two had trembled together, not even the old crock by the wall's foot.

He thought of the tides that pulled back, how far they drew out, and what they brought back — timber, dead fish, sometimes other things. This time the withdrawal had lasted so long; what came back at the end would be more than tide. The sea had been quiet too, the way it went quiet before a pull. He had seen that quiet on the water, years before he wore this coat; it meant something was gathering, far out, where the harbor lights no longer reached. He did not say it; the brush fell and he went on.

Past a thousand, his hand stopped again. The crock by the wall stood silent, the jars silent, fourteen days with no sound. He thought of those tides, drawn out far, always bringing something when they returned — timber, dead fish, sometimes else. This time it had stayed out so long; what returned would be more than water. He kept it unsaid and the brush went down again, filling on.

Filling the last pages, the West Ward young man came back. Chen Jin turned to the West Ward column and read a name; the young man's eyes lit, and he stepped back to the wall, this time not standing but crouching, writing that name twice on his knee.

Bi Chengzhang came before the meal broke, the port roll held in his arms, reported from memory. How many berths, how many fishing runs, how many boats on the roll — delivered in one breath, the numbers not stumbling. Zhou Zhengting ticked them on another book, looked up when done. "Noted."

Bi Chengzhang paused. "The boats' notice comes separate."

Chen Jin lifted his eyes from the roll. "Noted."

Bi Chengzhang nodded and took the last empty seat, said no more. He pulled another sheet from his coat, berths empty, how many fishing boats not back, laid it on his knee. "Port side, we hold the empty spaces," he said, "the boats' notice comes separate, not in this book." Chen Jin nodded. Bi Chengzhang kept that sheet himself — the boats' business belonged to the separate order. The last seat, he sat it steady, spare with words.

At night four stacks stood on the desk: grain, works, medicine, and atop them the Ember Guard's new roll, a half-head higher. Chen Jin did not leave. He had turned the fishing-boats' account — seventeen boats, forty-one souls, out twelve days.

That day the boats left, he should have set the day of return into law with them — he had said it to Zhou Zhengting yesterday, and it still sat in his chest today. The night the order was set, the whole city's mind was on the wall; the sea's business could not fit into the first day's notice. But the account does not care; it only cares whether something was recorded. If he did not set that order, the account would forever miss one entry — the day of return for seventeen boats, left hanging.

Two thousand names filled, Chen Jin closed the roll. The Ember Guard had gone from three hundred to two thousand in a single night; the roll was too thick for one hand. Song Laixi and Da Liu came for the new rolls, one each, stacked on the arm like brick; Song Laixi flipped to the craftsmen's page, counted, clicked his tongue — "The workshop'll have to spare more, to fill the armor squad." Chen Jin said, "On the wall first; we'll fill the gaps tomorrow."

Two thousand names in one night, the roll heavy enough to weigh the hand; he held it in both hands, a whole company on its surface. Song Laixi hefted his roll, then Da Liu's, and grinned without showing teeth. "Two thousand," he said. "Last year we'd have called that a city." Chen Jin said nothing; the number was the city now, and the city was a roll.

All that night the system sounded no word. The panel stayed dark; the balance was still that number — no settlement, the muster not counted in. The quiet string — he did not know the word, only felt the scale had not moved again, the number still, like the number on the wall, recorded, neither gaining nor losing.

The roll was complete, the men complete. Chen Jin set the brush down and looked at the empty rack in the wall's corner. The sidearm was long redeemed; the armor had not come. Xiaosui's thread still hung; the armor was in the ruins, on the redemption screen, waiting its turn. "The roll is complete," he said to the empty room, "but the men need armor."

One space in the rack stood empty, kept for armor. He remembered redeeming the sidearm, two thousand points for one suit; this time two thousand men would need two thousand suits to be steady. He did not reckon the sum aloud — the account above had not yet come due.

Outside, the sky was nearly light. The two thousand newly mustered would take the wall tomorrow. Armor or not, the two thousand would mount the wall first, some with rifles, some with sandbags. When the armor came, every name on the roll would truly be Ember Guard.