Restless and Hot-Tempered

In the summer of the eighty-third year of Kunlun, in the fifth month.

The sun stood at its zenith. Monks had gathered along the carriage road before the Four Courts of Shaolin Temple. An open space some thirty zhang across had been cleared in the crowd, roped off all around, and there—facing the direction of the Mahavira Hall—stood two long tables and four chairs. Counting from the center: on the left sat Juekong, Head Monk of the Samantabhadra Court, and beside him Juejian, Abbot of the Right Action Hall; on the right sat Jueyun, Head Monk of the Manjushri Court, and Jueming, Abbot of the Right View Hall.

In the middle of the ground stood a single monk, tall and broad, hard-muscled and solid: Liaogang, a hall monk of the Manjushri Court. A lay disciple stepped forward, bowed in turn to each of the four head monks and abbots, then turned and cupped his hands toward the monk. "Your disciple Wang Yangsheng seeks his trial. I beg my elder to grant me a passage at arms." With that he closed both hands loosely into fists, as though each gripped a smooth river stone—the opening posture of the Stone-Gripping Fist—gave a low shout, and drove out his attack.

The Stone-Gripping Fist was among the more advanced fist arts of Shaolin. One gripped the fist as if gripping a stone, hardening the second knuckle of each finger into a striking point. The joints are the hardest places in the body; by gripping the fist tightly, the force of a blow gathers at the knuckles and the damage it deals doubles. But hold the fist loosely and gaps open between the fingers and palm; let the fingers collapse inward at the moment of impact, and the power bleeds away. The Stone-Gripping Fist made severe demands on finger strength. Mastered to a high degree, it became the foundation for the Vajra Finger of the Lower Hall Martial Arts, and with further progress, for the Dragon Claw Hand of the Upper Hall.

Wang Yangsheng was twenty-four that year, and this was his fifth attempt at the trial. He had trained in the Stone-Gripping Fist for seven years; a single punch could shatter two inches of cypress wood as easily as snapping dry twigs. His fists came fast and linked, the forms of the Stone-Gripping Fist falling one after another in clean sequence—there was no telling how much bitter labor had gone into them.

Liaogang met each move and unraveled it, steady as a rock. They had traded blows to perhaps the thirty-second exchange when Liaogang offered a deliberate opening. Wang Yangsheng spotted it with uncanny precision and drove a right fist square into Liaogang's chest. Then came a sudden yelp—and it was Wang Yangsheng who staggered back, clutching his right hand.

Jueyun shook his head. "A pity. You came up just short. Try again next year and you should pass."

Wang Yangsheng's spirits sank. He cupped his hands first to Liaogang. "Thank you for the lesson, elder brother." Then he bowed to the four seniors and withdrew into the crowd, cradling his right hand in his left as he went—plainly that last punch had not so much as bruised Liaogang, but had instead broken his own hand.

He was disappointed, yet not crushed. He had trained sixteen years, and next year, at twenty-five, he ought to pass; that was not old by Shaolin's reckoning. In truth, with skill like Wang Yangsheng's, had he joined some other sect or one of Shaolin's lesser branches, he would have earned his Hero's Warrant years ago. But everyone knew that Kongtong and Shaolin examined their warrants with the greatest severity. Once a Shaolin disciple passed his trial, it meant he had reached a certain caliber, and a warrant issued by Shaolin commanded far higher rates for bodyguard and estate-guarding work than one from any other sect. A Hero's Warrant could be claimed only once; to claim it was to remain a disciple of that sect for life, never to switch to another. So Wang Yangsheng would rather drill for several more years than defect elsewhere to collect a warrant.

Shaolin's trials were held at no fixed schedule. A disciple who wished to be tested and to claim his warrant registered with the Manjushri Court; once enough names had gathered, the court would pick a quieter day at the temple and hold the trials. As a rule, disciples of middling talent claimed their warrants at around twenty-five; those better gifted, who had set down roots early, passed at twenty-two; those like Lü Changfeng—gifted and diligent both—usually cleared the hurdle around twenty; and to pass at around eighteen marked a talent of the very highest order, a rarity indeed.

The trials were ordinarily presided over by one abbot each from the Manjushri and Samantabhadra Courts. This was because the Samantabhadra Court oversaw discipline, and its hall monks were charged with seizing criminals and fugitives; so whenever a well-gifted, capable disciple appeared, they were apt to claim him first. The Manjushri Court, for its part, governed the scriptures and martial arts, and so naturally presided—the better, too, to guide the disciples in their skills.

But today's trial had drawn two head monks to the table as well, which could only mean that among the candidates was someone worth watching.

"Your disciple Ming Buxiang. I beg my elder to grant me a passage at arms."

"Oh?" A murmur of surprise ran through the watching monks. This handsome youth still wore the softness of boyhood in his face; by the look of him he was no more than fifteen or sixteen—and he meant to attempt the trial? Even those who had heard of Ming Buxiang, who knew him for a promising newcomer favored by Abbots Juejian and Jueming, found it remarkable.

Juekong studied Ming Buxiang. "Ming Buxiang—how old are you this year?"

"I turn sixteen in the eighth month," said Ming Buxiang.

Another wave of surprise passed through the crowd, this time carrying a few skeptical laughs.

The laughter was not without reason. In the eighty-odd years since the Kunlun Council, the youngest ever to pass the trial at Shaolin had been seventeen. Once, Jueru had set great store by Liaojing and hoped only that he might pass before nineteen and bring his master credit; but Liaojing was greedy and lazy, afraid that claiming his warrant would land him with hall duties, and he dragged his feet, feigned illness, faked injuries, until Jueru promised to find him some easy sinecure—only then did he agree to attempt the trial before he turned twenty-four.

"You may be young," said Liaogang, "but I'll show you no favor. Mind that you protect yourself."

"This disciple understands," said Ming Buxiang. With that he assumed no stance at all, but walked straight up to Liaogang and stabbed a finger toward him.

Liaogang saw the finger come slowly and, assuming the boy meant to shift into another move, did not dodge. Then, all at once, Ming Buxiang's arm shot out and the finger struck the Shanzhong point at the center of Liaogang's chest. Liaogang's face went ashen in an instant; he stumbled back several paces, coughing helplessly.

Only then did Ming Buxiang bow. "My thanks to my elder for yielding."

The move startled even Juejian and Jueming, who knew Ming Buxiang well, and one of them could not help an admiring "Well done!" But all around, jeers broke out at once, and someone muttered, "What's this supposed to be? Whoever heard of pulling a punch like that?"

The truth was that Liaogang bore the nickname "Iron Block," his Iron Shirt trained to a high pitch. In a trial, after all, fists and feet have no eyes, and mishaps are hard to avoid; the monk who stood as opponent needed defenses, and Liaogang's hardened body was the most fitting of all. If even Wang Yangsheng, seven years into the Stone-Gripping Fist, had managed only to break his own finger bones against it, then no one could believe that this Ming Buxiang had toppled Liaogang with one light touch of a finger.

Liaogang was a Proper Monk of the Manjushri Court. The monks who knew of Juejian's fondness for Ming Buxiang assumed simply that Juejian or Jueming had instructed Liaogang to throw the bout; only those of higher skill perceived the artistry in that single finger. The boy had begun slowly, but within three feet of Liaogang's chest the finger had moved like a stroke of lightning. Liaogang had expected a change of move, and had never imagined the thrust would quicken so. The Shanzhong is the gate of the breath; break the breath-gate, and the Iron Shirt counts for nothing. By then Ming Buxiang had already won.

That seemingly plain and unremarkable finger had first read Liaogang's wait-and-watch frame of mind, then turned from slow to swift, faster than lightning, the finger-force overwhelming, breaking the breath-gate in one stroke. It was, in truth, a tremendous display of the martial art—small in raw power, perhaps, yet it glimpsed the very essence of what the art was about.

Hearing the disbelief in the crowd, Juejian thought: 'You lot expect to see the subtlety of that finger? Not in a hundred years.' He could not be bothered to answer them, and looked instead to Jueyun. Jueyun too had been stunned by the finger, and only after a moment said, "Ming Buxiang passes the trial. Claim your Hero's Warrant."

Ming Buxiang bowed. "My thanks, Head Monk."

At his words the monks below put their heads together, still unconvinced.

Then Juekong said, "A moment."

He had always carried an air of grave authority, and the instant he spoke the ground fell silent.

Juejian turned to him. "What does the Head Monk make of it?"

Juekong looked first at Ming Buxiang. "Your name is Ming Buxiang?"

Ming Buxiang cupped his hands and bowed with respect. "It is."

Juekong nodded. "I have heard of you. You are indeed very good." Those who knew Juekong well understood that for those two words—"very good"—to leave his lips was the highest of praise. They supposed he merely meant to compliment the boy and say no more, but then he went on: "These men cannot see the subtlety of your finger. If you claim your warrant this way, I fear the disciples will not be satisfied."

"How else would the Head Monk have this disciple tested?" Juejian asked.

"Liaogang is hurt and cannot fight on," said Juekong, "and another disciple of like attainment would still fail to show these men your worth. Better, then, that we do this." And as he spoke, he held up three fingers.

Juejian frowned. "You would have him weather three moves from you, Head Monk? That is asking far too much of him."

"How about thirty rounds with me?" said Juekong.

At that, all present were aghast—yet, cowed by Juekong's authority, none dared speak. But every one of them thought: 'To last thirty rounds against Head Monk Juekong, even a first-rate master would be hard pressed. Is the Head Monk deliberately trying to embarrass Abbot Juejian and wreck his arrangement?' Most of them by now believed that Ming Buxiang's finger had been a bout thrown at Juejian's or Jueming's bidding—both Proper Monks—and that Juekong, unable to stomach it, had stepped in to put a stop to it.

Juejian frowned too, and said with a cold smile, "Were it not that this humble monk has known the Head Monk twenty years and knows he does not jest, anyone else hearing those words might suppose this disciple owed you some blood feud carried over from a former life."

"If I meant to harm him," said Juekong, "I would not need thirty moves." He rose to his feet, and his tall frame made his authority all the more daunting. He asked Ming Buxiang, "Are you willing to try?"

Ming Buxiang cupped his hands and bowed. "This disciple cannot survive thirty moves from the Head Monk."

"Rest easy," said Juekong. "I will not harm you."

"You have already passed your trial," Juejian said mildly. "There is no need to force yourself."

Ming Buxiang thought it over. "Then this disciple presumes to ask the Head Monk for his instruction."

Seeing that Ming Buxiang had actually agreed, Juejian meant at first to stop it, but on second thought he reflected: 'A man of Juekong's standing—if he truly hurt a sixteen-year-old disciple in front of everyone, it would be a grave loss of face for him.' So he said to Ming Buxiang, "Be careful."

Juekong came around the table and stood facing Ming Buxiang. Tall and straight-backed, he stood a full head above the boy, and side by side the two of them gave all the more the sense of a big man bullying a small one.

"Come at me," said Juekong.

Ming Buxiang braced his left palm against his right hand and struck for Juekong's chest faster than lightning—seemingly an invitation to spar, yet edged with real aggression. Juekong raised an arm to block, using the crudest, most elementary Arhat Fist. Before the move had aged, Ming Buxiang spun, bent low, and swept at Juekong's footing—a common stroke, "Autumn Wind Sweeps Fallen Leaves." No sooner had Juekong evaded the kick than "Lazy Stretch," a form of the Arhat Fist, lanced toward his chest, and then Ming Buxiang flowed into "Tiger Tumble" from the Tiger-Subduing Fist.

Ming Buxiang loosed seven or eight moves in a row, every one of them basic, drawn from the Lower Hall Martial Arts—and yet it was precisely this string of crude, elementary techniques that astonished and won the admiration of all who watched.

For although the arts Ming Buxiang used were basic, the successive moves bore no relation to one another, and yet locked together seamlessly. One must understand that within any martial art the moves are usually tightly linked, so that the whole forms a coherent system, fit to defeat an enemy: this is what is meant by a set. A set exists so that later moves may cover the flaws of earlier ones, or carry forward their momentum—just as Wang Yangsheng's Stone-Gripping Fist was a set of thirty-four moves whose forms complemented one another. Train a single art to mastery and one can of course adapt on the instant, interweaving its moves at will; but broadly speaking, a set is something refined and polished by generations of forebears, and so the moves of a single art complement each other best of all.

Yet Ming Buxiang had strung together a host of Lower Hall arts without the least hitch, as though it had all grown together of its own accord.

In the blink of an eye Ming Buxiang had pressed out seventeen moves drawn from six different arts, and the whole looked for all the world like one new technique. By now everyone could see that Juekong was not fighting Ming Buxiang in earnest. He only defended and never attacked, using nothing but the Arhat Fist; no matter what new trick Ming Buxiang produced, Juekong answered with the Arhat Fist alone. And yet, for all that it was merely the Arhat Fist, Ming Buxiang could not press in close, and was reduced instead to a sorry scramble of dodging and parrying. Seen this way, it was rather Juekong who, with the deep foundation of long years' accumulation, was mocking the boy's youth and want of strength.

Ming Buxiang would not be cowed. His variations came thick and fast, the fight grew hotter, each move quicker than the last, until the disciples watching from the side could scarcely follow it all. By the thirtieth move, Ming Buxiang launched "Yaksha Probes the Sea," forefinger and middle finger pressed together and driving at the Shanzhong point on Juekong's chest. Juekong put out two fingers of his own and caught Ming Buxiang's fingertips exactly between them. At that, the watching monks broke into loud cheers. In this exchange Ming Buxiang had attacked through thirty moves and used eleven introductory arts. He was not merely skilled but broadly learned, and could fuse it all together and improvise on the moment; that he had passed the trial was now beyond all doubt. Even Wang Yangsheng, lately beaten, could not help but sigh. There truly were such prodigies in the world—measure yourself against another and you may die of envy.

Juekong released Ming Buxiang's fingers and said mildly, "A pity. Had you studied the Flower-Plucking Finger, that last move could have wounded me with formless finger-force."

Ming Buxiang's face was full of chagrin. "That is an Upper Hall art. It will be a long while yet before this disciple may study it."

"With your gifts, not so long." Juekong said, "You have passed through the Manjushri and Samantabhadra Courts. Would you care to season yourself in the Avalokitesvara Court?"

Hearing this, Juejian smiled coldly to himself. So that was it—Juekong had tested Ming Buxiang in person because he meant to take the boy for his own.

Ming Buxiang only nodded. "This disciple is willing."

Juekong nodded, said no more, and walked straight back to his seat.

In truth, Juejian's surmise was only half right. Juekong did not believe Liaojing's story, but there was one point in it that nagged at him. Liaojing was a standout among the temple's younger generation; if Ming Buxiang had walked in on him committing murder, how had the boy not been killed? Seeing the manner in which Ming Buxiang had defeated Liaogang, Juekong knew the boy was extraordinarily gifted—gifted enough, indeed, to hold Liaojing off for a while.

'If he meant to hide himself,' Juekong thought, 'he need not have beaten Liaogang in so flashy a way, and in those thirty exchanges just now he could well have fought in a plainer style.' On the final move Juekong had given the boy an opening to win with the Flower-Plucking Finger. When masters cross hands, the body's reflex is sometimes quicker than the mind's intent; and just then Juekong had deliberately quickened the pace of the bout. If Ming Buxiang had loosed the Flower-Plucking Finger without thinking, then Liaojing's account would be true.

But as he had expected, Ming Buxiang did not know the Flower-Plucking Finger. The foundation, the moves, the improvisation, and the talent the boy displayed were exactly the ceiling of what a prodigy capable of holding Liaojing off for a dozen-odd moves could show—and nothing beyond it. Nowhere on him was there any trace of training in the Upper Hall Martial Arts; every move had been clean, crisp introductory work.

Having proven Ming Buxiang's innocence, Juekong only then began to consider taking him into his own service. But there was no need to rush the matter.

After Ming Buxiang, the trials lost their momentum. Several disciples who had meant to be tested were so shaken after witnessing what Ming Buxiang could do that they performed worse than usual, and a few extra were eliminated for nothing.

After the Dragon Boat Festival the days grew hotter and tempers grew restless.

Juejian summoned Ming Buxiang and asked his plans. Ming Buxiang said he hoped to make a circuit of all four courts, then go out into the martial world for a few more years. Juejian praised the idea, hinted that Ming Buxiang should cultivate himself diligently and not be led astray by outside influences, gave him a few plain rice dumplings, and sent him on his way.

It was then that Abbot Juesheng suddenly fell ill.

Perhaps the affair of Jueru and the strife between Proper and Lay had worn out this seventy-year-old monk in body and spirit; or perhaps it was simply his great age, no longer able to bear cold and damp. After the Buddha's Birthday Juesheng had shown signs of a cough, and by the Dragon Boat Festival his chest was tight and his breath short past his own control.

And just at this juncture a fast horse galloped into Buddha City bearing dire news: Sect Leader Zhuge of the Diancang Sect had passed away.

As a rule, when the leader of any sect great or small died, the abbot of the Right Mindfulness Hall in the Avalokitesvara Court would send an envoy to convey condolences, the rank of the envoy judged by the closeness of the ties and the size of the sect. But the leaders of the Nine Great Houses were another matter, and the abbot himself often went in person—first, as a mark of honor; second, because apart from the Kunlun Council the leaders of the Nine Great Houses had few chances to meet, so that the occasion served to exchange news; and third, to take the measure of the new heir's character.

Abbot Juesheng meant to go despite his illness, but the others talked him out of it. Below Juesheng came Jueyun, Head Monk of the Manjushri Court—but Jueyun had always buried himself in the deep study of the Dharma and the martial arts, and had little dealing with the martial world. Besides, gauging the character of an heir was a subtle business, and Jueyun was not necessarily equal to it.

The best choice, beyond all doubt, was Juekong. Everyone in the martial world knew him to be, in fact if not in name, the second man of Shaolin, and this was not a task Juekong was content to entrust to anyone else.

After seeing off the envoy, Juekong delayed several days before setting out.

He was waiting for a man: Liaoping.

Liaoping, abbot of Pu'an Temple in Hebei, was of Lay Monk origin. He had just turned thirty-eight in the fourth month, and bore the nickname "Stone." This was not for any dullness or hardness of temper—quite the opposite. He was shrewd and capable, diligent and tireless, and a trusted right hand to Head Monk Juekong. The nickname "Stone" came from a remark by Juewen, abbot of the Right Mindfulness Hall: "This Liaoping is like a stone. Plain and unadorned to look at, but he stands up to grinding, and no one will easily knock him to pieces."

He was a man Juekong had cultivated with care among the Liao generation—patient, suited to work thick with miscellaneous chores—and these past years stationed in Hebei, untangled from the old Proper-Lay grudges within the temple. That was Juekong's reason for recommending him to replace Jueru, transferred to Shanxi, as the new abbot of the Right Speech Hall.

On receiving his transfer order, Liaoping had hastily settled the temple's affairs and ridden hard from Hebei. Before he had even seen the abbot, he hurried first to the Samantabhadra Court—for it was to wait for him that Juekong had held up his own journey.

"You once served as a hall monk in the Right Speech Hall, so you know its workings," said Juekong. "Do your work carefully, make no trouble, and if you run into difficulty, go to Jueji for help."

Juekong was a man of few words; he had waited three days only to deliver these few sentences. Liaoping of course grasped what lay behind the charge, and answered at once, "This disciple understands."

Juekong nodded and set out for Diancang.

His call on Juekong done, Liaoping went to the Mahavira Hall to pay his respects to Abbot Juesheng. By now Juesheng's color was very poor, and though his voice had not yet sunk to feebleness, it was far from the full-throated vigor of old. Seated on his prayer mat, Juesheng first offered Liaoping a few words of encouragement, then said, "By the temple's rule, the abbots of the four courts and eight minor halls and those above them are taught the Sinew-Changing Classic by the abbot in person. From today, come to me after morning lessons each day; I will pass you the formulas and the inner method, which you are to commit to memory and practice. But do not neglect your cultivation. Remember that martial skill is the branch and the Dharma the root; we learn the martial arts to defend the Dharma and subdue demons—" Here he recalled that Liaoping was of Lay Monk origin and might not share his view, so he changed tack: "—in short, the hall's duties are heavy and the road long. Be careful. Be careful."

Having said "be careful" twice, he could not hold back a few coughs. Liaoping said quickly, "Take care of yourself, Abbot."

Juesheng went on, "Of late the temple has not been at peace. You know well the opposition between Proper and Lay. Jueru is a Proper Monk and you are a Lay Monk; taking his place, you are bound to meet Proper Monks who will not accept you. You must have patience."

"This disciple knows," said Liaoping.

Leaving the Mahavira Hall, Liaoping reflected that ten-odd years ago, when he had left Shaolin for Hebei, the abbot had still been hale and vigorous; today he was withered with age. Liaoping could not help but sigh at how the years slipped by.

His calls on Juekong and the abbot made, next came his own immediate superior, Jueguan.

At the mere thought of Jueguan, Liaoping felt a clutch in his chest. It was common knowledge that Jueguan was deeply prejudiced against Lay Monks; the very practice of making Lay Monks change their names had been a proposal of his and Jueru's. And of all the leaders of the anti-Lay faction Jueguan was the most radical; the Lay Monks had given him a nickname, "The Knife Within," mocking him for stabbing his own kind. This call would likely bring trouble.

Liaoping steeled himself and entered the Avalokitesvara Court. Passing the Right Speech Hall, he happened upon a handsome youth coming out of the lay quarters, and greeted him. "Might I ask if Head Monk Jueguan is in?"

The youth asked, "And which brother might you be?"

"This humble monk's dharma name is Liaoping."

The youth bowed at once. "This disciple is Ming Buxiang. I greet the abbot."

"Whose disciple are you?" Liaoping asked.

"My master is Liaoxin."

The disappearance of Liaoxin had caused a great uproar, and Liaoping had of course heard of it. Surprised, he asked, "Liaoxin? Was he not the overseeing monk of the Right Action Hall? How is it you are here?"

"This disciple is now an in-hall layman of the Right Speech Hall," said Ming Buxiang.

More surprised still, Liaoping asked, "How old are you?"

"I turn sixteen this eighth month."

Liaoping clicked his tongue in wonder, then asked, "How long have you served as an in-hall layman? What do you do?"

"I served five months as an in-hall layman in the Right View Hall, and only three days ago transferred to the Right Speech Hall for official work, charged with tallying and auditing the temple's lamp-oil supply."

Seeing that the boy was a newcomer too, Liaoping warmed to him and asked, "Where are you off to now?"

"I lodge in the Right Action Hall; I was just heading back."

Liaoping smiled. "You lodge in the Right Action Hall, served as an in-hall layman in the Right View Hall, and now work in the Right Speech Hall—so rich a range of experience at so young an age is rare indeed. You must study with all your heart." He clapped Ming Buxiang on the shoulder. "Is Head Monk Jueguan in?"

"The Head Monk is still at his work. Shall this disciple show you the way?"

Liaoping waved a hand. "No need, I know the way."

He reached the main hall and presented himself to Jueguan. To his surprise, Jueguan did not make things difficult, but courteously brought out a thick stack of documents from within. "Jueru took up his new post early, and these are all the handover matters he left behind. Be diligent these next few days and read through them once; if anything is unclear, just ask me."

Liaoping agreed at once, took the documents, and Jueguan saw him off with a smiling word of encouragement.

Liaoping thought to himself that Jueguan was not so sinister as rumor had it; "The Knife Within" was far too harsh a thing to say.

The Right Speech Hall handled all of Shaolin Temple's administrative affairs, general chores included; it was the hall burdened with the most tangled odds and ends. Every regulation of daily life within the temple, all matters of food, clothing, and provisions, the census of souls, the care of the aged and infirm within its borders, the stipends and promotions of the hall monks—all fell to the Right Speech Hall. There was a saying at the temple: "If you've got some business at Shaolin and don't know whose job it is, go to the Right Speech Hall."

Liaoping had always had a gift for internal affairs, and in a single evening he read through every document and file. The next day, after morning lessons, he went to the Mahavira Hall to study the Sinew-Changing Classic with the abbot. Though the Classic had an authentic text, it was never passed out, only taught by word of mouth. The abbot was ill, and speaking already cost him some effort, but Liaoping's gifts were excellent—he could always infer much from little, sparing the abbot many words—and in under an hour he had nearly mastered the day's portion. The abbot nodded and smiled at him, well pleased.

A month and more passed. Liaoping thought that although the month had been busy, on the whole it had gone smoothly enough. Head Monk Jueguan had not only not made trouble, but had treated him with considerable courtesy. For all the talk that the Proper-Lay strife was past mending, it seemed now not so fierce as he had imagined; perhaps the abbot, though he had exiled Jueru, had dealt fairly by setting a Lay Monk in the Right Speech Hall, and so dissolved the rancor on both sides.

Just then came a knock. "Who is it? Come in," called Liaoping.

A monk entered. "The residents of Buddha City have sent up a petition. It concerns the digging of a well."

"Digging wells is construction work," said Liaoping, "and construction falls to the Right Thought Hall of the Ksitigarbha Court. Why bring it to me?"

"It isn't that simple. This is a petition from the people of Buddha City."

The truth was that over these past several decades Buddha City had grown ever more prosperous, its residents ever more numerous, the city itself swelling in size. The wells within were limited, and some outlying districts had none, so that the people there had to walk a long way to fetch water—a great inconvenience. These districts were home mostly to the poor, who had no land in which to dig wells of their own, and half a year ago they had appealed to Shaolin for help. Abbot Juesheng, moved by compassion, had promised to dig wells for them; the Right Thought Hall had sent men to survey the ground, and the land had even been purchased before Jueru's departure.

"If the land's already bought," said Liaoping, "why hasn't the work begun? How long can it take to dig a well?"

"When the people first appealed to the abbot, no one knew whose business it was, so the Right Speech Hall took it on. The land is bought, but it still needs you, Abbot, to issue an official notice telling the Right Thought Hall to begin."

"That's simple enough—I'll just send a notice." Then and there he wrote the notice, ordering the Right Thought Hall to start work.

A few days later, when he went to the Mahavira Hall to study the Sinew-Changing Classic, the abbot suddenly asked, as Liaoping was about to leave, about the matter of the Buddha City wells. Liaoping's heart jumped. "It's already being handled," he said quickly.

"The world is vast," said the abbot, "and the poor, the old, and the weak are many. There is little Shaolin Temple can do. But if we cannot even look after Buddha City right under our noses, how can our grace reach far and our goodness embrace all under heaven?"

This prodding from the abbot put Liaoping on edge. Back at the Right Speech Hall, he found a document waiting—it had come from the Right Thought Hall. He broke it open and read: "Upon inquiry, our prior letter has been answered. We respectfully request a reply by return letter; only upon confirmation that all is in order can the matter be handled as instructed."

Reading this, Liaoping was baffled. When had any such letter been sent in this affair? He stepped out of the hall, looked around, and happened to spot Ming Buxiang. He called him over, handed him the document, and asked, "What does this mean?"

Ming Buxiang read it. "Is this about the wells?"

"That very thing. Did the Right Thought Hall send a letter about it before?"

"After the Right Thought Hall finished surveying the ground, they sent over a document marking the well sites and the surrounding land. What they mean is that you, Abbot, are to reply on the basis of that document with its attached map—only then can they begin work."

"That's strange," said Liaoping.

In this stretch of days he had read through every file in the hall, and had seen no such document as Ming Buxiang described. He searched the study high and low and still could not find it, so he said to Ming Buxiang, "Come help me look."

Ming Buxiang went into the study and searched alongside Liaoping, but still it could not be found. "Why not ask Head Monk Jueguan?" he said.

That seemed sensible, so Liaoping went to call on Jueguan and asked whether Jueru had handed over such a document.

Jueguan scratched his head. "I do know of this matter, but that document—Jueru didn't hand it to me. Ah, that elder of yours was always slapdash in his work. No harm even if it's lost; just take a trip to the Right Thought Hall. You and Liaozheng are of the same generation, he ought to look after you. It's only a single document—what can't be worked out between you?"

That too seemed reasonable, and Liaoping went to the Right Thought Hall to find its abbot, Liaozheng. A hall monk of the Right Thought Hall served him tea and asked him to wait a moment—and that moment stretched to a full hour.

But Liaoping had not earned the nickname "Stone" for nothing. He was endlessly patient and did not lose his temper. After a good hour, Liaozheng at last had him shown in.

Liaozheng was a Proper Monk, only two years Liaoping's senior, yet he had become an abbot four years earlier. In fact, the Jue-generation elders who held power at Shaolin were now advanced in years, and were bound to hand things over to the Liao generation by degrees; Liaozheng was the first to rise, Liaoping the second.

But though Liaozheng had become an abbot, his standing was the shallowest, and at the council of the four courts and eight minor halls he could usually only nod along, never venturing his own opinions. The Liao generation stood a full rank below the Jue; the Ksitigarbha Court oversaw money, grain, and construction, and the Right Thought Hall handled building and procurement, so even in his official dealings with the other abbots Liaozheng had to be deferential. His underlings, seeing this, gave him the nickname "Steamed Bun"—soft and easily pushed around, a man any hall's abbot could trample on.

But today the Steamed Bun had met the Stone, and turned out to be the harder of the two. In years and in standing this Stone fell somewhat short of him; before Liaozheng, he was the senior for once.

The two bald heads met, and the Steamed Bun opened with a pleasantry. "Ah, official business kept me busy today; I'm sorry to have made you wait so long, brother."

The Stone could only answer, "Not at all—it is I who am intruding on you. I'm truly sorry." And without much further ado he came straight to the point and asked about the wells.

The Steamed Bun said, "The map attached to that document is for fixing the construction site. If you don't send the map back and we put the wells in the wrong place, it'll not only waste time but squander manpower and materials."

The Stone could only reply, "Abbot Jueru did not hand things over properly, and the document is lost."

"That won't do," the Steamed Bun said quickly. "Without the map, how are we to build?"

The Stone, after all, was made to be ground against; he kept his composure. "Buddha City is right nearby in any case—why don't the two of us go take a look and settle it once and for all?"

Soft as he was, the Steamed Bun was no fool. "Without it in black and white, what if a dispute arises? Look again—Elder Jueru would surely never lose something so important. Or shall I send someone to Shanxi to ask Elder Jueru about it?"

A trip from Henan to Shanxi just to ask where a document had been put? Dull as the Stone might be, he now knew the Steamed Bun meant to obstruct him. But he was patient, and said, "Traveling back and forth between the two places would eat up a great deal of time, and this is a matter entrusted by the abbot, so we'd best hurry. Does the Right Thought Hall keep no duplicate on file?"

"There is a duplicate," said the Steamed Bun, "but I don't know where it's been put. I'll search again, and notify you the moment I find it."

The Stone cupped his hands. "Then I'll trouble you, brother. This younger brother takes his leave."

The Steamed Bun cupped his hands too and laughed heartily. "Not at all, not at all—please, please."

Liaoping left the Right Thought Hall. He did not believe for a moment that Liaozheng would seriously look for the well map. Following Head Monk Juekong's instruction, he turned instead to the Samantabhadra Court, to seek the help of "Brocade-Maned Lion" Jueji.

Jueji was abbot of the Right Livelihood Hall, which oversaw Shaolin's discipline; it was he who had captured Liaojing. The right hand of Head Monk Juekong, he was robust and tall, with a head oddly small for his frame; in winter, bundled in a padded coat with a ring of fur about his neck, he looked for all the world like a little lion, and so in his youth had earned the name "Brocade-Maned Lion." Old now, the Brocade-Maned Lion was still fierce of temper and decisive in action, and many feared him.

When Jueji had heard out Liaoping's complaint, he flew into a rage and cursed. "These Proper Monks! Galled that you got the abbot's seat, they're out to make life hard for you on purpose! Don't you worry—tomorrow I'll take a trip to the Right Thought Hall and see how that fellow Liaozheng wriggles out of it!"

Hearing this, Liaoping felt somewhat reassured.

Sure enough, early the next morning the Brocade-Maned Lion arrived at the Right Thought Hall, and Liaozheng dared not slight him but hurried out to receive him.

The Brocade-Maned Lion asked, "Last night I called on Liaoping to talk over old times, and the subject of the wells came up. I hear you've lost the survey map. Is that so?"

The Steamed Bun said quickly, "No such thing—it's only buried among the documents and wants finding."

"To lose a document through disorderly affairs is a fault," said the Brocade-Maned Lion. "Nephew Liaozheng, you used to be a meticulous man. How is it that once you rose, you turned slipshod?"

Faced with the Brocade-Maned Lion, the Steamed Bun became once more the soft, push-around Steamed Bun, and could only say, "I'll look again; it shouldn't take more than a few days."

With a thunderous crack the Brocade-Maned Lion brought his palm down on the table and roared, "A few more days, while we wait on you? If you don't turn it up today, this humble monk will come and tidy things up for you himself!"

The Steamed Bun nodded hastily in assent.

When the abbot of the Right Concentration Hall—nicknamed "The Tongue-Plucking Bodhisattva," Jueguang—heard of this, he passed his verdict: "Hard as a Steamed Bun may be, a dog can still carry it off."

But the Steamed Bun stalled to the very last moment, and only after the afternoon's official hours had ended did he send the well-digging document over to the Stone.

Liaoping made his reply on the basis of the document from the Right Thought Hall, supposing the matter now settled and all at peace. To his dismay, the next afternoon Ming Buxiang first came knocking. "The ever-burning lamp in the Mahavira Hall is nearly out of oil; it needs refilling." Liaoping was about to see to it when another disciple came to report that the fifteenth of the seventh month was the Day of the Sangha Jewel, on which monk-shoes were issued to the whole temple; by custom the shoes ought to have been sent up a full month early for inspection, yet so far there had been no word.

This was no small matter. Shaolin's monks and disciples numbered over three thousand, and more than three thousand pairs of shoes could not be procured in a moment. This too fell to the Right Thought Hall—so the Stone must collide with the Steamed Bun once again.

Liaoping could only tell Ming Buxiang, "Wait till I'm back to deal with this," and strode off once more to the Right Thought Hall.

"The temple's monks are all different sizes," said the Steamed Bun. "If you give me no measurements, how am I to order anything?"

The point was fair enough, and even calling on Jueji to back him would do no good now. Liaoping could only hurry back to the Right Speech Hall, where on inquiry he learned that before the Buddha's Birthday Jueru had already sent men to tally the monks' shoe sizes and record them in a notebook—only, with the Buddha's Birthday upon them and everyone tied up in chores, the figures had never been sent to the Right Thought Hall. After the Buddha's Birthday, Jueru was thrown in prison, and the matter had been left to lie.

Liaoping searched and searched, and naturally could not find the notebook recording the monks' shoe sizes and quantities. He called again on Jueguan, but this Knife Within only said, "Ah, that Jueru, slovenly to the core—who knows where he's dropped things. Why not send someone to Shanxi to ask him?"

By now Liaoping understood: these vanished documents were, eight times out of ten, Jueguan's own doing. But Jueguan was a head monk, and Liaoping could do nothing to him.

Liaoping was beside himself. With scarcely twenty-odd days left until the fifteenth of the seventh month, he sent every monk of the Right Speech Hall out to tally the needed shoe sizes and counts.

The next morning his spirits were so distracted that Abbot Juesheng asked after him, but he only said it was nothing.

Back at the Right Speech Hall, he asked how the previous night's measuring of shoes had gone—and the answer nearly made him faint. In one whole day, four hundred monks had measured only a little over two hundred pairs of feet.

The truth was that the Proper Monks had somehow learned of the affair and meant to make Liaoping look a fool. Whenever the Right Speech Hall's monks came to measure their shoes, they found one excuse after another to dodge and put it off. On top of that, Jueru had been much loved, and most of the Proper Monks in the Right Speech Hall resented his exile, so that whatever they did, they did half-heartedly. One Proper Monk sent to do the measuring reached the Manjushri Court and there spent a full hour chatting with another Proper Monk, who then begged off to go copy sutras and left without so much as measuring a shoe.

"Jueru won hearts—that was his greatest gift. Winning men's hearts has been hard since ancient times; you'll need some patience." The Knife Within was still the same Knife Within, talking wide of the mark. "You'll have to take some time to win their trust. Why not lead by example?"

Things had come to such a pass that lead by example he must. Liaoping picked out several dozen Lay Monks and measured court by court, hall by hall, room by room. With an abbot present, the Proper Monks dared not shirk and submitted meekly to the measuring; and so, after five days, the sizes were at last clearly taken and the counts sent off to the Right Thought Hall.

Liaoping had barely let out a breath when Ming Buxiang came again. "The ever-burning lamp in the Mahavira Hall is nearly out of oil; it needs refilling." He was about to give orders when another monk arrived, calling, "Abbot, the people of Buddha City are all gathered at the gate, clamoring to see the abbot and lay a grievance."

"Now what?" Liaoping asked. "Didn't the Right Thought Hall begin the work?"

"No—a dozen or more monks of the Right Thought Hall showed up at the site, but still haven't started digging, so the commoners have come up the mountain."

"Where? Take me there, quickly!" Liaoping rose at once. He went first to the mountain gate to talk the residents into leaving, but they only clamored and would not give way. Liaoping had no choice but to follow them down to Buddha City, where on a patch of open ground sat a dozen-odd monks—and sure enough, not a clod of earth had been turned. He stepped forward and asked, "Why hasn't the work begun?"

The dozen-odd monks scrambled to their feet. "We were ready to start long ago—we've only been waiting for you, Abbot, to arrive."

"Waiting for me? What for?" Liaoping demanded angrily. "Aren't you all here?"

"By custom, work can only begin once the abbot has confirmed it. We've waited here several days and never seen you, Abbot."

"Why was I not told?" Liaoping raised his voice, plainly furious now. The monk spread his hands. "We thought you were busy, Abbot, and didn't dare disturb you."

"Now! This instant! Dig!" Liaoping bellowed, and only then did they stir into motion.

Liaoping hurried back to Shaolin. Returning to his study, he saw the documents that had piled up over these days heaped on the desk like a small mountain, and felt worn to the bone.

Word spread, and reached the Right Action Hall. Juejian had no wish to see Shaolin thrown into such disorder, and went of his own accord to seek out two fellow Proper Monks—Jueguang, abbot of the Right Concentration Hall, and Jueming, abbot of the Right View Hall—to discuss the matter.

Jueguang bore the nickname "The Tongue-Plucking Bodhisattva," for his fondness for cold, cutting remarks. He had a gift for striking to the bone, venomous and merciless, yet always within reason, so that his targets could rarely refute him and could only curse him to fall, after death, into the Hell of the Plucked Tongue.

Jueguang's verdict was: "The Stone is no match for the Steamed Bun. The Steamed Bun is soft, but there's a knife hidden inside it; with the knife, the Steamed Bun gets its backbone."

Plainly, he had decided that behind this affair was "The Knife Within," Jueguan, pulling the strings. And indeed, without Jueguan's backing, Liaozheng could never have stirred up such waves.

"This is, when all is said, Shaolin's own business," said Juejian. "For Head Monk Jueguan to act this way is unkind."

Jueguang only said, "You won't talk him round."

Jueming of the Right View Hall merely sipped his tea and said to Juejian, "Today's fruit must have had its cause in days past. Liaoping has taken Jueru's place, and so naturally he takes on the karma as well. This is his trial—and not necessarily a bad thing."

A leaf that nothing clings to, true to form: a leaf that nothing clings to.

Juejian went all the same to call on Jueguan, who only said, "If we don't set him a few hard problems, the Lay Monks will really think they've come into their own—and then what becomes of the Dharma at Shaolin? Don't worry, I know my limits."

Juejian pressed him a few times, but Jueguan would not listen; and since this was, in the end, the Avalokitesvara Court's affair, Juejian had no opening to intervene, and could only take his leave.

Liaoping carried the documents back to his room and worked through them the whole night long; after morning lessons he went to the Mahavira Hall to study the Sinew-Changing Classic, then returned to go on with the documents, finishing only at noon.

He had not slept a wink all night, and once finished he sank into a deep sleep.

A day more passed, and seeing the abbot's face a waxy yellow, Liaoping suddenly realized that Juesheng's color had worsened by the day all this while. Alarmed, he urged the abbot to take care of himself.

Juesheng smiled. "Life and death are fated. I am seventy this year. I have lived long enough, and it is time I set out on the next stage of my cultivation."

"Abbot, you mustn't speak so," Liaoping said quickly. "Shaolin still needs you at its head."

Juesheng sighed. "Ah... and what have I led it to? Under my hand Shaolin's Proper-Lay strife grows worse by the day. It is I who am Shaolin's sinner."

For a moment Liaoping did not know how to answer. Then Juesheng asked, "And how go the wells?"

"The work is being rushed," Liaoping said quickly. "They'll be finished any day now."

Juesheng smiled faintly and went on with the secrets of the Sinew-Changing Classic.

When Liaoping left the Mahavira Hall, he hurried at once to Buddha City. Reaching the worksite, he found the dozen-odd monks all sitting on the ground at their ease; only when they saw him coming did they scramble up to make their bows.

Liaoping walked over and looked down into the well: perhaps three feet deep. In all these days, a dozen-odd laboring monks had dug only three feet?

Even a Stone has a temper. Liaoping was livid, and let loose a torrent of abuse. The monk in charge said, "Don't be angry, Abbot. We'd barely started digging when we struck a great rock. It took three days to chisel the boulder open before we could go on."

"The boulder's chiseled open," Liaoping snapped, "so why are you resting again?"

The monk in charge put on a solemn face. "When we moved the boulder aside, we found a great soft-shelled turtle beneath it. That was a river god grown to a spirit; having disturbed him, by the rules we must hold a three-day rite of penance before we can continue the work."

"And the turtle?" Liaoping asked. "Where is it?"

"Our Buddha is merciful," said the monk. "Since it was a river god, of course we set it free. Where it wanders now, none can say."

He delivered this string of nonsense with such grave reverence, as though there truly had been such a turtle, that Liaoping went wild with rage, turned on his heel, and stalked off to the Right Thought Hall to have it out with the Steamed Bun.

"Construction work has its taboos," said the Steamed Bun, washing his hands of it clean. "If the work must stop three days, there's no help for it. This is the Right Thought Hall's business; I hope you'll understand, brother."

Liaoping could only take this too to Jueji, who, as the Brocade-Maned Lion, was so enraged he let out a great lion's roar: "Fine! If these Proper Monks really want a fight, then we'll all fight together!"

That very evening Jueji sent for Jueci, abbot of the Right Effort Hall.

The Right Effort Hall, like the Right Thought Hall, belonged to the Ksitigarbha Court, and oversaw the budget and finances; every expenditure of Shaolin Temple passed through the Right Effort Hall's hands. Jueci was a Lay Monk who haggled over every copper in matters of money, and people called him "The Iron Rooster."

The next day, the Steamed Bun found a document returned to him: the funds for procuring the monk-shoes had been refused. He went to ask the Iron Rooster about it, and the Iron Rooster only said, "The temple's expenses have run rather high of late; go and ask the merchants whether they can knock the price down."

"The shoes have to be handed out on the fifteenth of the seventh month—there's barely ten days left, and now's the time to talk prices?" said the Steamed Bun. "Besides, it was this same price in past years. How is it past years could pass but not this one?"

"Past years' rules are past years' rules," said Jueci. "If past years' rules still applied, could the shoes be made to past years' quantities and sizes?"

The Steamed Bun knew the Iron Rooster was obstructing him and that arguing was useless. Worse, that very day the merchants came demanding their down payment, and the Steamed Bun, at his wit's end, had to advance it out of the temple's food budget.

That night the Steamed Bun went to consult Head Monk Jueguan.

The next day Jueguan sent for Juewen, abbot of the Right Mindfulness Hall, of the Lay Monk faction.

"Jueci has had Liaozheng go and haggle with the shopkeepers, and Liaozheng can't manage it," said Jueguan. "I'd like to ask your help."

Juewen stared. "The Right Mindfulness Hall handles dealings outside the temple—receiving guests, dispatching envoys. How does a matter of money have anything to do with the Right Mindfulness Hall?"

"Is haggling with shopkeepers not a dealing outside the temple?" said Jueguan.

"The Right Mindfulness Hall has always dealt only with the martial sects," said Juewen.

"If you can deal with the martial sects, surely a mere shopkeeper is no trouble?" said Jueguan. "Hospitality, the give-and-take of negotiation—these are the Right Mindfulness Hall's own province; done so deftly and so often, the Right Mindfulness Hall ought to understand the handling of people far better than the Right Thought Hall, reeking as it does of copper coin." Then he added, "Besides, the issuing of monk-shoes is the Right Speech Hall's work in the first place. The Right Speech Hall and the Right Mindfulness Hall both belong to the Avalokitesvara Court; help him, and you help Liaoping."

Jueguan was Juewen's direct superior, and Juewen could not refuse. He sent a disciple to negotiate with the merchants, only to be cursed and driven out. Nor could the merchants be blamed—the goods were half made before anyone came to haggle. Was that not an insult?

Jueguang's verdict on the affair was: "The Knife Within is the Knife Within after all; when it cuts its own people, one stroke is meant to kill."

Juewen, though a Lay Monk, was devoted to the Buddha. In his youth he had been ignorant of worldly affairs and set on entering the temple; he took a high monk as his master, not knowing there was any division of Proper and Lay—and his master happened to be a Lay Monk, so thereafter he was ranked among the Lay. A Lay Monk he was, but he kept to himself and gave himself to cultivation; apart from his attachment to Juekong, he had little close dealing with the other Lay Monks, and could only steel himself to go consult the Iron Rooster.

"What a Knife Within!" cursed the Iron Rooster, Jueci. "To think he'd stab even his own people in the Avalokitesvara Court!"

"The matter's fallen to me," said Juewen, "and I must resolve it."

"Don't fret," said Jueci. "At bottom, the shoes are already ordered, and the merchants are bound to deliver them. So long as the shoes are issued as normal, the affair won't touch the Right Speech Hall, and the Stone is safe. As for that Steamed Bun, I've still got some chastening to do."

Juewen pleaded with him bitterly, but Jueci would not listen, and Juewen, at a loss, thought: 'Both the Right Effort and Right Thought Halls answer to Zide; why not go have a word with Head Monk Zide?'

This Zide was the most senior of all in the four courts and eight minor halls, and also the most fearful of trouble. He had begun as a wealthy merchant, skilled at management, which was why Juekong had recommended him to become Head Monk of the Ksitigarbha Court. When Juewen called on him, Zide only hemmed and hawed, said he would mediate and handle things properly, brushed him off with a few words; and Juewen, getting nowhere, could only leave.

When Juewen later raised the matter with Jueguang, Jueguang said, "You should never have pinned your hopes on Zide to begin with. Had he been born into Wudang, his Tai Chi would outdo even Zhang Sanfeng's."

Over the next several days the well-digging crept along at a snail's pace. Then one day a great rain suddenly set in, sure to delay the work further still; Liaoping, dreading the abbot's questions, was in a fever of anxiety. Ming Buxiang came again to report: "Abbot, we truly can't wait any longer—the ever-burning lamp before the Buddha in the Mahavira Hall is about to go out."

"Is there no oil?" Liaoping asked.

"It's about to run dry," said Ming Buxiang.

"Go on back first," said Liaoping. "I'll make a trip to the Right Thought Hall."

Issuing the lamp oil was the Right Speech Hall's work; procuring it was the Right Thought Hall's. When Liaoping reached the Right Thought Hall, the Steamed Bun claimed that Liaoping had sent no notice, so nothing could be bought; to buy it would take several more days. Liaoping said angrily, "And if the ever-burning lamp before the Buddha goes out—what then?"

Now it was the Steamed Bun who suffered in silence. He was a Proper Monk after all, and had no more wish than anyone for the lamp before the Buddha to die. But the ever-burning lamps before the Mahavira Hall numbered several hundred, each a different size; to make refilling them easier, skilled craftsmen had once been commissioned to design them so that each lamp held a hidden pipe, and the pipe ran straight to an oil tank outside the hall. That tank held a full hundred and fifty piculs—not a matter to be settled with a pound or two of oil.

But over these ten-odd days the Iron Rooster had squeezed the purse-strings shut and disbursed not a copper; the Right Thought Hall's funds had long since run dry, and even these past days' food had been bought on credit. Where was the money for lamp oil to come from?

Liaoping could only go on to the Right Effort Hall, to get the Iron Rooster at least to release a little silver and settle the lamp-oil problem. But the moment he stepped into the Right Effort Hall, he saw water leaking everywhere, dripping without cease, the Iron Rooster doing nothing but cursing.

The truth was that the Right Effort Hall, long neglected, had had a leaking-roof problem for some time. It had been agreed that the Right Thought Hall's laboring monks would repair it; but now, with the falling-out with the Steamed Bun, though the monks charged with the repair were right next door, the other side begged off as too busy, sent all its men out, and would not come.

Knowing it was useless to argue, Liaoping turned and left.

He resolved to lay the whole business before the abbot first thing in the morning.

But the one who came to teach the Sinew-Changing Classic the next day was Jueyun, Head Monk of the Manjushri Court.

"The abbot's illness has worsened," Jueyun said with a sigh. "The healing monk of the Right View Hall has examined him and ordered rest. The temple's affairs are not to trouble him for the time being."

Liaoping took his meaning and nodded.

"For now I'll teach you the Sinew-Changing Classic you're to learn. Come with me." Jueyun produced a scripture, its paper old and plainly worn by the years, the three great characters "Sinew-Changing Classic" written upon it.

"I am a Proper Monk and you a Lay Monk. To avoid dispute, we'll teach from the text itself."

"This disciple trusts you, elder," said Liaoping.

"Let it be," said Jueyun. "At a time like this, where is there any trust between Proper and Lay?" He opened the scripture and asked, "How far have you gotten?"

Liaoping returned to the Right Speech Hall and brooded long. It was already the sixth of the seventh month; nine days more and the monk-shoes must be issued—yet not so much as a single straw sandal had appeared.

The lamp oil in the Mahavira Hall was gone, and there was no knowing how many days it could hold out.

There was no telling when the Buddha City well would ever be finished.

How he had weathered these two months, he scarcely knew. In a few more days the affair would surely blow wide open, and when it came time to kill the chicken to warn the monkeys, the one slaughtered would certainly not be the Iron Rooster, but this little chicken of his own—and whether he would prove the shortest-lived abbot in Shaolin's history, no one could rightly say.

And now the abbot was ill again. What was he to do?

The thought of the abbot's collapse struck a sudden spark in Liaoping. He rose to his feet, propped his right foot on the desk, and gathered true force into his left hand. This set of the Great Prajna Palm was his proudest skill; gritting his teeth, Liaoping brought the palm down.

The next day, when Ming Buxiang came again to press about the lamp oil, he could not find Liaoping—and only then learned that the rain had slicked the roads, that Liaoping had slipped and broken his leg, and was now recovering.

It was said that when Jueguan heard the news, he ground his teeth and spat, "That despicable little wretch!"

Liaoping lay in bed; though his right leg ached fiercely, his mind was far more at ease. This was good. Since he was now injured, and Jueguan was Head Monk of the Avalokitesvara Court, the affairs of the Right Speech Hall could not be disentangled from him; the Knife Within had, in the end, stabbed itself.

He lay in bed chuckling, thinking: was there anyone left who hadn't been dragged into this whole rotten mess? Could it possibly get any worse?

It could, in fact, get a little worse. Two days later, at dusk, the rain having let up a little, several dozen commoners suddenly gathered outside the gate of Shaolin Temple, shouting at the top of their lungs for Shaolin to pay its debts. The truth was that with several thousand monks within, Shaolin's daily food costs were enormous; Liaozheng had run up ten-odd days of unpaid bills, and the merchants and vegetable sellers of Buddha City, unable to bear the loss and unable to get their money, had banded together to come collect. Liaozheng rushed out to placate them, only to be seized and cursed by the crowd. The commotion reached the Right Action Hall; supposing it was the Lay Monks who had stirred up the public's wrath, Juejian hurried over.

......

In the Right Thought Hall, Juejian stood with his neck flushed dark red, the veins standing out on his face—plainly furious past all bearing, and were it not for fear of the sin of foul speech, a string of curses would surely have burst out of him.

"Shaolin Temple has stood a thousand years! More than a thousand years! More than a thousand years!—and in all that time, for the first time... the first time!..." Juejian was too enraged to get his words out straight. "For the first time someone has come to our door to collect a debt! What have you done?!" As his fury surged he lashed out a foot, and a wooden table shattered to splinters in an instant.

The Steamed Bun bowed his head and dared not say much.

"Right now! Settle the accounts and send those people off!" Juejian very nearly roared it.

The Steamed Bun stammered, "Elder... it isn't that I won't pay; the Right Thought Hall truly has no money."

"Come with me!" Juejian dragged Liaozheng off, striding toward the Right Effort Hall. The Right Effort Hall's roof was still unrepaired, leaking on and on, the floor awash, the room in shambles—where now was any of the dignity of the four courts and eight minor halls?

The Iron Rooster, Jueci, had foreseen Juejian's coming and was waiting with a broad grin. Seeing that smirking face, Juejian's fury blazed higher, and he was about to erupt—when all at once the smile froze on Jueci's lips.

Juejian turned his head. Behind him a tall figure stood with a livid face, glaring at Jueci, water stains still on his yellow robe, plainly just come in from outside.

Who else could it be but Juekong?

The night deepened. In the Mahavira Hall, the ever-burning lamps suddenly went dark.

A single figure slipped inside, soundless, without a trace.