Chapter 129 - 8: The Code Compiled — Peaceful Dwelling and Settlement Building Gathered into One

Chapter 129: Chapter 8: The Code Compiled — Peaceful Dwelling and Settlement Building Gathered into One

The code’s first volume was finished before winter set in.

It was about the granary.

Lu Zhu did not write it alone. Mery’s manual, Tia’s accounts, Woser’s keys, the wounded-soldier granary clerk’s "guard against the word ’hunger’ as you would an enemy" — all of them were in that volume. Lu Zhu took the granary affairs of all these years and combed them through from the beginning: how the official granary on the West Bank had raised its floor those three inches; how the new capital’s model granary had stood up to the great rain; how Thebes had stored the grain with the people, and how the households had been divided up; how the Ever-Normal Granary’s law had been raised. One by one, all of it was written into articles.

"Writing about the granary," he said to the apprentices, "is like building one. One character is one brick. Brick must hold to brick. Character must link to character."

In those nights of writing about the granary, Lu Zhu’s mind often wandered.

As he wrote, his brush would stop. He thought of the official granary on the West Bank — the seeping, the mold, the clerk stamping in panic. The first time he raised a granary floor, Kamon had laughed at him: "A little priest from foreign parts, and what does he know of granaries?" Now that granary had long been torn down and rebuilt, but the truth of those three raised inches had gone into the code.

He thought, too, of the siege of Thebes. The grain, hidden away in the storerooms of four hundred households. Carried by night, the password "West Bank." The smoke. Those had been the hardest days, and the experience most worth keeping.

"Teacher," A-Yang called to him softly, "the ink is drying."

"Oh." Lu Zhu came back to himself and wrote on. The characters under his brush fell heavier one after another.

One night, writing the article on grain-stored-with-the-people, Lu Zhu roused the apprentices.

"This article," he said, "who among you can say why the official grain should be divided out to the people’s houses?"

The apprentices were heavy-eyed; they pushed at one another. A-Shi said quietly: "The official granary is too far away?"

"Wrong." Lu Zhu said.

"Afraid of thieves?" another said.

"Not entirely right either." Lu Zhu said. "It is the siege they fear." He paused. "The official granary stands in one place. The enemy’s great army arrives, surrounds it, seizes it — and all is gone. Stored in the people’s houses, the enemy must search house by house to take it. They cannot search them all. By the time they have, the relief army has come." He swept his eyes over the apprentices. "That is the virtue of the word ’scatter.’ But ’scatter’ has its own difficulty — the account. Four hundred households. Who stored how much, who drew how much. One grain off, and all is disorder."

"So," A-Yang put in, "the first article of grain-stored-with-the-people is the account."

"Right." Lu Zhu said. "In learning the building craft, you do not learn only the hand-work. You learn to reckon. Reckon material, reckon labor, reckon grain, reckon people. Only what is reckoned clear can be made to stand."

The apprentices helped him copy. He read a line, and they wrote it. Written wrong, it was written again. Writing too slowly, another took over. A-Yang kept the paper, A-Shi the ink, and the smallest one the lamp.

"Teacher," A-Yang said on the third night, rubbing his wrist, "how long will this book take?"

"However long it takes." Lu Zhu said. "A year not enough, then two. Two not enough, then three. This book is not to be rushed out. It is to be boiled out."

The man writing a book burned more lamp oil than the man mending a house.

Lu Zhu’s lamp burned past midnight night after night. Once, Hapy came delivering material and saw his eyes red from strain. "Teacher," he said, "a paragraph a day is enough for that book of yours. The body matters."

"The body matters, and the book matters more." Lu Zhu said. "If I do not write down what little I have while the memory is still good, in a few years it will be scattered." He rubbed his wrist. "Writing wears a man out worse than ramming earth. Ramming wears the body. Writing wears the spirit."

"Then let me knead your shoulders."

"No need." Lu Zhu laughed. "Grind the ink for me. Thick ink, and the characters come out spirited."

That night Hapy ground ink all night. Master and apprentice, one writing, one grinding, neither saying a word. The lamp flower flared and was trimmed, was trimmed and flared. Near daylight, Hapy said: "Teacher, this book of yours — you are writing it with your life."

"My life," Lu Zhu said, "was always going to be given over to this craft."

The second volume was the house.

The house volume Lu Zhu wrote with the smoothest hand. How thick a dwelling’s walls, how the foundation was rammed, how the roof sloped, how the flue turned. The shape of the Haven sheds, the cracked wall of Willow Bend, Reed Village’s first house, the river bend’s three rooms — all were written in.

Writing the section on the roof, he stopped and looked up at his own house’s roof. The reed matting had taken a year of rain, and its corners were beginning to whiten. "A house," he said, "has its age too. People live in it, and it grows old. Grown old, it must be mended." On the paper he wrote: "The house is man’s vessel. A vessel long used is worn; worn, it is mended; mended, it is new again."

Hapy came delivering material and saw that line. "Teacher," he said, "that sounds like something my grandma used to say."

"Whoever said it, let them have said it." Lu Zhu said. "If it works, write it in."

The house was written through the river bend’s winter.

The north wind came over the river and rattled the workshop’s door boards. Every few lines, Lu Zhu would rise and walk one circle around the three rooms — feeling the walls, checking the roof, listening to the wind.

"This wind," he said, "is the best of teachers. It tells me where the leaks are and where the hollow spots are."

The problems the wind found he wrote into the book too. A house on the north — thick walls. A house by the river — high footing. A house at the wind’s mouth — a weighted roof. Rule by rule, all of it picked back out of the wind, the rain, and the sun.

A-Shi copied the house volume with the most heart. "Teacher," he said, "once I have learned, I will build my mother’s house exactly by this book."

"By the book, and even more by the ground." Lu Zhu said. "The book is dead; the ground is alive. When you reach your family’s land, look first at the water, then at the wind. What the book holds is the method. How the method is used, you must weigh it out yourself."

The third volume was medicine.

That volume Lu Zhu did not write. He waited. He waited until Imset and Shafi came.

"The building of the medical houses is your own trade." Lu Zhu said. "This volume must be yours."

Imset did not decline. In the workshop he wrote for three days. He wrote on the siting of the medical house, on the damp-proofing of the medicine storehouse, on the triage of "the grave first, the light after," on the lamp of the medical point. At the last, he set down the brush. "The most important article of medicine I have written at the head of it all — the medical house’s door must open where the wind comes. Where the wind can get in, the sick can walk out."

What Shafi added was storage. How the medicines were divided, how stacked, how kept from worms, how the ledgers were kept. She wrote fine — down to the measure of the gaps left in the medicine rack’s partition boards.

"Shafi," Lu Zhu said, "your volume is finer than your teacher’s."

"In a medical house’s affairs," Shafi said, "one inch off harms one life. To write fine is only right."

Imset and his disciple stayed in the settlement the better part of half a month.

By day, Imset wrote, and Shafi took the medical hut’s two apprentices up the hill to gather herbs. The river bend’s shoal grew wild grass in plenty, and much of it could go into medicine. What they gathered, Shafi taught them to know, one kind after another — to know it, to air it, to store it.

"A medicine rack," Shafi said, "is kept on the same truth as a grain store. The dry from the damp, the close-fearing given gaps, the light-fearing kept from light." She patted the newly made rack. "This rack was built by the method the master taught. From now on, you can build your own."

At night, master and disciples gathered around the lamp. Imset wrote, and Shafi sat beside him, now and then putting in a line. Sometimes Lu Zhu came too, and listened. What he heard that mattered, he wrote down.

One night, Imset came to "the healer’s heart," and his brush stopped for a long while. "This article is the hardest to write," he said. "The craft of healing can be passed on. The heart of healing can only be tempered." On the paper he wrote just eight characters: "Look on another’s illness as your own."

Lu Zhu read it and said: "These eight characters weigh heavier than a whole volume."

"The medical house’s walls," Imset said, "however high they are built, cannot be built higher than these eight characters."

The fourth volume was defense.

That volume was Seb’s.

Seb was on the northern border and could not come. By the north line’s boats he sent a thick sheaf of plans, and one long letter. In the letter he wrote through the whole of it — the west line’s chain defense, the north border’s three lines of depth, how the towers were set, how the cellars were dug, how the smoke was passed, how the stakes were buried, one thing after another. At the letter’s end he wrote:

"Teacher, once this volume is written, the north’s wall will always have an account to check. The wall falls — mend it by the account. The men change — hold it by the account."

Lu Zhu put the letter into the volume exactly as it stood. At the end he added only one small line: "Defense is not the business of one man and one wall. It is the business of generation after generation."

The plans in the defense volume Lu Zhu explained to the apprentices one by one.

"This one," he pointed at the west line’s chain plan, "your uncles of the craft boiled it out of the desert sand. One tower every three li, tower looking to tower. The smoke rises, and one village passes it to the next."

"This one," he pointed at the north border’s depth plan, "was drawn by your senior brother Seb. Thirty li of wall, one tower every five li, and thirty li behind the towers, the forts. Sixty thousand Hittite riders battered it three days and did not break through."

The apprentices listened, spellbound. One child said: "Teacher, the men who hold the wall — what sort of men are they?"

"Every sort." Lu Zhu said. "Soldiers, craftsmen, farmers, fishermen." He paused. "Before the wall, every man is a soldier. Behind the wall, every man is a craftsman. That is the truest meaning of the word ’defense.’"

The fifth volume was the road.

It held the channels, the post roads, the landings, the water supply and drainage.

That volume Lu Zhu wrote slowly. Every day he walked the settlement, watching where the water ran and where the roads led. He watched, came back, and wrote. He wrote, and went back to watch.

"A road," he said, "is a living thing. How people walk, so the road grows. The man who builds a road must first walk one."

The apprentices said: "Teacher, you walk every day — what has your walking found?"

"It has found one sentence." Lu Zhu said. "Water runs toward the low ground, and people walk toward the wide ground. A road must leave a way for the water and a width for the people."

Writing the road volume, Lu Zhu chased all the settlement’s apprentices outside.

"Go," he said. "Each of you pick one stretch and watch the water. See which part of our channel is silting and which runs clear. Then come back and report."

The apprentices scattered out and squatted by the channel’s edge. They watched half the day, and the reports came back each with its own account. Lu Zhu heard them out. "All right, and none complete." he said. He led them from the slope’s top to its foot. "Water runs from above downward. Watch only one stretch, and you cannot see it clear. You must see it from the head to the tail. A road is the same. One stretch alone is a dead road. From head to tail, it is a living one."

In those days, the settlement’s channels were all cleared. The silt the apprentices dug out was heaped below the slope and rotted into fertilizer, and when spring opened it was spread on the newly opened fields by the shoal.

"Look," Lu Zhu said, "that is the road. What the road clears out is not wasted. The ground fattens, and the grain grows plenty. The grain grows plenty, and the people thrive."

The six volumes were finished by spring.

The six volumes’ names Lu Zhu chose together with the apprentices.

"Granary, House, Medicine, Defense, Road, Work." A-Yang counted on his fingers. "Teacher, just these six words?"

"Six words are enough." Lu Zhu said. "All the building under the sky is these six things. Granary — stores the grain. House — shelters the people. Medicine — saves the lives. Defense — guards the country. Road — moves the wealth. Work — sets the rules." He paused. "Six words. Each of you keep one in mind. Wherever you walk from now on, your heart will have a root."

"I keep the Granary." A-Yang said.

"I keep the House." A-Shi said.

The rest each claimed one. The smallest child claimed the Road. "I have walked roads since I was small," he said. "From now on, I build them."

"Good." Lu Zhu said. "Each keeps his own. The six joined together make one country."

The sixth volume was work.

That volume Lu Zhu could not write. Work was the business of people. How men were hired, how labor was reckoned, how craftsmen were led, how apprentices were taught — in all this, he was not Kamon’s equal.

Kamon came at summer’s end. He had heard of the code and made the journey from the West Bank on purpose.

"The other volumes I will not fight you for." Kamon said. "But this work volume must go by my word." He rolled up his sleeves. "I have been a foreman all my life. Every article in this volume I bought with sweat, with temper, and with the quarrels I have fought with men."

He stayed in the workshop twenty days. By day he taught the apprentices the rules of work: how wages were set, how hours were reckoned, how a finished job was checked, how a slacker was punished, how an injured man was kept. At night, by the lamp, he spoke one article and Lu Zhu wrote one down.

"Wages," Kamon said, "the first rule: no holding back. A craftsman sells his strength; the strength goes out, and the money must land that same day. A foreman who holds back wages is more hateful than one who steals material."

"The work," he said, "the second rule: no working for nothing. One part of work done, one part of work written. The writing must be done before the craftsman’s face. The account in the open, and the hearts in one place."

"Apprentices," he said, "the third rule: no hoarding. A master teaches an apprentice the art that keeps a man alive. Whoever holds back one hand cuts the root of this craft."

Lu Zhu wrote the articles down one by one. Written, he read them back to Kamon. Kamon heard them through and nodded. "That is the sense of it. You can polish the words a little more."

"This volume," Lu Zhu said, "is the guild’s family inheritance from now on."

"The family inheritance must be passed to the family." Kamon said. "But this book is to be passed to the whole land." He paused, and laughed. "The guild’s family inheritance becomes the whole land’s rules. In that trade, the guild comes out ahead."

In the days after Kamon left, the apprentices were still talking over the Work volume at meals.

"No holding back, no working for nothing, no hoarding." A-Shi counted on his fingers. "These three rules, I have taken them down."

"Taking them down is not enough." A-Yang said. "They must be done. From now on, when we go out to take work, whoever holds back wages is no man taught by this book."

"If the whole land goes by this book," the smallest said, "will there be no more material-stealing and no more debt-dodging?"

"How could it all be cut off?" Lu Zhu was passing by and put in a word. "The book holds the men who keep the rules. Those it cannot hold still need the law, the officials, and the scale in a man’s own heart." He filled a bowl of rice and sat down. "But the book standing there is a wall. The rule-keeping man leans on the wall and rests his feet. The rule-breaker, sooner or later, walks into it."

Asaf came at autumn’s end, and stayed only one night.

He brought the fair copies of the Four Laws, and a pile of the new policies’ fine rules. "The code and the laws," he said, "are two different things. The laws govern the people. The code governs the work. But the two must match. The law says ’No levies in the busy season,’ so the code must hold: ’In the busy season, the workshops rest; the wall-mending is moved back.’ When the two match, the land runs without disorder."

"What you mean," Lu Zhu said, "is that the code must have its ’give way’ articles, one after another."

"Right." Asaf said. "The law has the law’s days, and the work has the work’s days. The two accounts must be made into one." He opened the code’s draft and pointed out several places. "These articles run into the laws. They must be changed."

That night, the two men worked by the lamp and combed the code through from head to tail. Where it ran into the laws, where to add a note, where to write "in keeping with the law." Near daylight, Asaf set down his brush. "So — the code is the code, and the laws are the laws. Each has its own place, and neither presses on the other."

"This, you taught me." Lu Zhu said.

"It was you who first raised it." Asaf said. "I only took its pulse."

Meru came after autumn had set in.

When he heard the code lacked a "Transport," he could not sit still. "House-building, wall-holding, grain-storing — all written in. What about the carrying?" He tapped his pipe. "Without transport, the north’s wall might as well drink the north wind."

Lu Zhu laughed. "I was waiting for you. This Transport volume belongs to no one but you."

Meru stayed in the settlement ten days. By day, at the landing’s edge, he taught the apprentices about boats — about loading, about draft, about going with the current and against it. At night, he dictated article by article:

"Loading a boat — the first rule: the heavy does not press the light. Stone at the bottom, timber in the middle, reed mats on top. Only so does the boat sit steady."

"Damp-proofing — the second rule. Grain, half a foot off the hold’s bottom. The hold’s bottom, bedded with reeds. Medicines, raised higher still. The damp rises from the hold’s bottom and wets the reeds first, the grain after."

"Loss — the third rule. A hundred li of waterway, and the shrinkage is half a part in ten. That is the old figure of dozens of years. Go over it, and there is a ghost on the road. Investigate."

Lu Zhu wrote them down one by one. When he had written them, he said: "This volume of yours was all scraped off a boat’s bottom."

"Which trade’s is not?" Meru said. "A man of trade carries no fewer calluses on his feet than you carry on your hands." He paused and narrowed his eyes. "Master Lu, when it is written, leave a copy for the merchant house. From now on, the fleet’s fellows will all go by it."

"You shall have it." Lu Zhu said. "The whole land’s rules — let the grain-haulers taste the first mouthful."

The six volumes’ drafts stood on the desk, half a foot high.

At the book’s end, Lu Zhu appended a page of trade talk.

What the interlock was, what a plumb line was, what a double pitch was, what a through-draft was. One by one, he glossed them all in plain speech. "The ways of house-building are called by different names in different places," he said. "The north says ’pile,’ the south says ’lay,’ the mountains say ’stack.’ Without one set of names, the book cannot spread in good order. So this page of trade talk is a gift of greeting to the craftsmen of all the land."

A-Yang copied that page with the most pride.

When it was copied, he traced the two characters for the interlock three times over by themselves, until they stood blacker than the body text.

"This word," he said, "if my pa could read, he would love it."

"Your pa cannot read," A-Shi said beside him, "but when he sees the walls you have laid, he understands it all."

A-Yang said nothing. He read the page through once more from the beginning. Under the lamp, the two boys’ shadows fell on the paper, swaying, like two trees growing side by side. "From now on," he said, "when I go out and say ’the interlock,’ people will know I am a man who came out of the code."

"Wrong." Lu Zhu said. "It is when you do the work as solidly as the interlock itself that people will know you. Trade talk is not a signboard. It is a ruler."

Lu Zhu read the six volumes through, from the beginning to the end. When he had read them, he sighed.

"Teacher," Hapy said, "what is the sigh for?"

"It is still written too shallow." Lu Zhu said. "The land is so great, and every region has its own way of living and working. These six volumes hold what we have seen. What we have not seen is not yet written."

He thought it over. "I must go and walk." he said.

When spring opened, Lu Zhu set out.

He took no boat and no horse; he simply walked — north, south, and west, choosing the small roads. Everywhere he stopped, he looked first at the people’s houses, then at their granaries, then at the water and the roads. Where he found something well built, he asked how it was done. Where he found something poorly built, he worked out how to mend it.

"Teacher," A-Yang, who followed him a stretch of the way, said, "this is not writing a book. It is making the rounds like a physician."

"Right." Lu Zhu said. "Making the rounds on the houses of the whole land."

After ten li, he grew thirsty. By a roadside house, an old woman was drawing water at the well platform. Lu Zhu went up to beg a drink. The old woman looked him over. "Where does the master come from?"

"The river bend."

"The river bend?" the old woman said. "The river bend where the builder who resigned his office lives?"

"It is."

The old woman’s ladle came over all the faster. "Drink. As much as you like." She pointed at her own wall. "Master, look — this wall of mine cracked last year. I filled it with mud myself, after the method your people passed on. Give it a look for me."

Lu Zhu drank, and looked the wall over. The seams were filled solid. "Filled well." he said. "Hold out one more year, and it will be ready for a great mending."

"Then that is fine indeed." The old woman smiled until her face folded over with wrinkles. "Master, what are you out for this time?"

"Writing a book." Lu Zhu said. "Writing all the house-mending under the sky into one book."

"Writing a book is good." the old woman said. "Write our village’s well platform into your book too. This platform was built by my grandfather. Built forty years, and it has never once fallen in. He said: the platform must be high, so the rain cannot get in; it must be sloped, so the dirty water runs away." She shaped it with her hands. "That is the whole truth of it. Look — is it worth writing down?"

"It is." Lu Zhu took out his charcoal stick and, right there by the well platform, wrote the rule down.

He walked two months. When he came back, the rattan chest held half a chest more of paper. On the paper were the ways of working of every region — the walls on the north’s frozen ground, the stilted houses in the south’s river valleys, the stone footings of the mountains, the piles of the shoals. He looked them over sheet by sheet. "Now that," he said, "is what I call complete."

In the north, he had seen the walls on frozen ground.

The wall’s foot was bedded with grass ash, a foot and a half thick. The old man who had built the wall said: "Without the grass ash, the spring thaw comes and the wall sinks. This method was taught us by a craft officer who came up from the south." Lu Zhu asked the officer’s name. The old man could not say it, only: "His surname was Se."

Lu Zhu laughed. On the paper he wrote: "Northland wall foot, grass ash a foot and a half. Seb’s method."

In the south, he had seen the stilted houses in the river valleys.

The house stood on posts, three feet off the ground. The householder said: "In the rainy season the water rises over it, and the house stays dry." Lu Zhu crawled under the house and looked. The posts were hardwood, wedged into the mud, driven three times over. He wrote: "Southland near the water, the stilts stand three feet. The post into the mud — only driven three times is it firm."

In the mountains, he had seen the stone footings.

The wall’s foot was all of stone, piled to the knee. The stonemason said: "In the mountains the soil is thin. Without the stone to hold it, one rain and the wall runs away." He wrote: "Mountain soil thin, stone footing to the knee."

On the shoal ground, he had seen his own method.

One fishing village, after the river bend’s example, had built its walls on the high slope. The villagers said: "We learned this from Master Imhotep of the river bend." Lu Zhu said nothing. He only wrote eight characters on the paper: "Raise a house on shoal ground — first read the water line."

The pharaoh’s word came after summer had set in.

The Royal Steward came by boat and read out the verbal decree: "The pharaoh says — the day Master Lu’s code is finished, it is to be sent into the palace. He wants to see it with his own eyes."

"It is not finished yet." Lu Zhu said.

"The pharaoh knows." the Steward said. "The pharaoh also says: ’Write it slowly. However long it takes, I will wait.’"

Lu Zhu thanked him for the grace. That same night, he gave the apprentices one extra lesson.

"You have all heard it." he said. "From now on, this book is no longer only our settlement’s affair. It is the land’s affair. From now on, whoever copies one character wrong or leaves out one sentence digs a pit for the craftsmen of the whole land."

The apprentices, one by one, straightened their backs bolt upright.

The copying began after autumn set in.

Not one copy. Three copies. One to stay in the settlement, one for the palace, one to be kept in the State Construction Archive. Lu Zhu divided the six volumes among six apprentices, one volume to a man. Before the copying, he set three rules:

"One: copy it exactly as it stands; not one character may be changed. Two: when a copy is done, two men check it one against the other; one character wrong, and the whole is copied again. Three: while copying, the hands must be clean. This book is for the people who come after. If those who come after see it dirtied, they will not hold it in respect."

The apprentices copied very slowly, character by character. Under the lamp, the brush tips rustled over the papyrus. That sound, Lu Zhu said, was sweeter than the rammer’s beat.

"The rammer’s sound grows upward." he said. "This brush sound sinks downward. One raises the house; the other raises the heart."

In the copying days, the settlement’s lamps burned out later and later.

Nefer came every few days to make the apprentices a late supper — one bowl of hot soup, one flatbread. "The copying work wears the eyes and wears the spirit." she said. "With nothing in the belly, the characters float."

"Auntie Nefer," A-Shi said, "drink your soup, and the characters stand firm on the paper."

"Sweet mouth, that’s you." Nefer laughed. "Copy fast. One wrong, and your teacher makes you do it again."

The room filled with laughter. The laughter over, the rustling of the brushes came again. In the winter night, that sound was fine and dense, like spring rain falling on young reeds.

Nefer, hearing of the copying, came too.

She could not read. But she brought a message by word of mouth: "The women of Haven say the code must have an article for the mud brick."

"The mud brick?" Lu Zhu said.

"The mud brick." Nefer said. "The north’s walls, the south’s houses — where do they do without the mud brick? The women have formed bricks, sunned bricks, and stacked bricks half their lives. They say: a brick, once formed, must not be rained on. A rained-on brick goes soft and crumbly. Stacked bricks must be left with gaps. Gaps that let no air through, and the bricks molder." She told it one thing after another. "All this, you men who build houses know. But none of it is written into the book."

Lu Zhu heard her out, and after a long while said: "It is I who missed it." He lifted the brush and added one section to the House volume: "The Mud Brick."

When it was written, he read it to Nefer. Nefer heard it through and said: "That is the truth of it. Only add one thing more — the women who form the bricks carry more cracks on their hands than the walls carry seams. The whole land ought to know how a brick comes to be."

Lu Zhu added it as she said. That section became the warmest passage in the House volume.

In the third month of copying, the first copy was finished.

Lu Zhu laid the three copies side by side on the desk and checked them page against page. At the House volume, he suddenly stopped.

"Here," he said, pointing, "a character is missing."

A-Shi, who had copied that page, went white in the face. "Teacher, I . . ."

"It is not your fault." Lu Zhu said. "It was missing in my own draft." He lifted the brush and filled the character in. "Do you see? This is what proofreading saves. One character short, and the house is one beam short."

The cross-checking became the most grinding work in the settlement.

The six apprentices worked in pairs, one reading, one checking. Where the reading went, the fingertip followed. One character failing to match, and both men had to stand up and check again from the beginning. Found to be the copyist’s error — the passage was copied ten times over as punishment. Found to be the draft’s error — it was written down for Lu Zhu to amend.

"Teacher," A-Yang said one day, "the cross-checking is more tiring than the copying."

"Only the tiring is remembered." Lu Zhu said. "Think of it: the book goes to the whole land, and a craftsman builds his house by the book. He trusts the book. One wrong character in the book, and his house stands an inch askew." He paused. "Your eyes are the ruler of every craftsman in the land."

A-Yang cried tired no more. He straightened his back and opened his eyes wide. Under the lamp, the two boys’ heads bent together, one reading, one checking. That sound was even more in step than the rammer’s beat.

Before winter set in, all three copies were finished.

On the day of the binding, Lu Zhu inscribed each title page with his own hand.

On the title page stood one line only:

"All that this code holds was won by real work."

The preface took Lu Zhu three nights to write.

Not that he could not write. That there was too much he wanted to say. He wrote a passage and tore it up. In the end, he gave up the great truths altogether and wrote only a few small lines:

"This book is set up for the craftsmen of all the land. Every method in it was tested by some group of people in wind and rain, in war’s fire, in sweat. Let those who come after read it as one meeting the elders. The elders dare not claim to be clever. They only wish the young to walk fewer crooked roads and keep more of their lives."

When he had written it, he read it to the apprentices. When he had read it, he said: "This is the preface. No fine front put on — only honest words."

"Teacher," A-Shi said, "hearing it, my heart is warm."

"Warm is right." Lu Zhu said. "The book is cold. The heart is hot. A cold book that warms people — that is what gets passed down."

A-Yang saw it, and said: "Teacher, that line looks familiar."

"Familiar is right." Lu Zhu said. "Years ago, your senior brother Mery’s manual carried the same line on its title page." He blew softly on the ink. "From the West Bank’s first granary to the northern border’s wall, to this one book — every character our craft writes down ought to be something the hand has touched and the life has tested. Only the solid deserves to be passed on."

The title page’s ink dried, and the books were bound. The three copies were wrapped in oilcloth and tied with hemp cords. Lu Zhu held them in his arms and hefted them.

"Heavy." he said.

"Teacher," A-Shi said, "that is the weight of six volumes."

"No." Lu Zhu said. "It is the one lifetime of a crowd of people."

Lu Zhu took A-Yang with him and went by boat into the new capital.

It was the first time he had gone back since leaving. The city gate was still the same gate. The market was still the same market. The old flatbread seller was still in his old place. Seeing him, the old man froze an instant, then shouted at the top of his lungs: "The Chief Builder is back! Master Lu is back!"

Half the street’s people came crowding around.

Holding the book chest, Lu Zhu cupped his hands in salute to the crowd. "I am back. I have come to deliver the book."

"Master, you have grown thin." a woman said.

"The river bend’s wind wears a man down." Lu Zhu said. "But it keeps a man’s spirit up."

"Master," a child squeezed to the front, "my pa says you went to the river bend and teach people the craft there. I want to go too."

"Go." Lu Zhu said. "When you reach the river bend, give my name."

The old flatbread seller pressed hot flatbreads on him. This time, not one — a whole stack. "For your apprentices to take along." the old man said. "Let them know the new capital’s people remember their goodness."

Lu Zhu took the flatbreads. They were hot. Through the oiled paper, that warmth climbed all the way up his arm.

In the palace, the pharaoh examined the books in person, in the hall.

The three copies lay on the desk. The pharaoh looked first at the table of contents, then turned through the body. Turning to the Defense volume, he stopped. Seb’s letter stood at the volume’s head.

"This is Seb’s hand?" the pharaoh asked.

"It is." Lu Zhu said. "Seb, Officer of Works Design for the Northern Border."

"A fine hand." the pharaoh said. "A fine plan. A fine wall." He closed the book. "Master Lu, this book, I take it. From now on, it is the general standard of the building craft."

"I thank the pharaoh." Lu Zhu said.

"It is I who should thank you." the pharaoh said. "Every character in this book was bought with mud bricks, timber, sunlight, and lives." He rose and walked to the hall’s center. "Let it be decreed: this book is to be issued to all the land. Of the craftsmen of every prefecture and county, whoever copies it complete and keeps it true is a good hand of this craft. When the state raises works, this book is the standard."

"The pharaoh is wise."

Out of the palace, Lu Zhu was in no hurry to go.

"Wait." the pharaoh called him back. "In this book there is still one article I did not see."

"Which one?"

"The one about you." the pharaoh said. "Six volumes, and all of it is the things you have built — not one sentence about yourself."

"This servant has nothing worth writing." Lu Zhu said. "This servant is only a craftsman. A craftsman’s duty is to do the work well."

"Duty." the pharaoh said. "Those two characters most deserve to be written into the code." He walked back to the desk, lifted the brush, and wrote one line on the book’s title page:

"The craftsman’s duty lies in the work, not in the name."

"This article," the pharaoh said, "I add on behalf of all the craftsmen of the land."

"I thank the pharaoh." Lu Zhu said. This time, he bowed down deep.

He went to the Chief Construction Bureau. The courtyard was still there, and the trees were still there. Hapy came out to meet him, his eyes red-rimmed. Master and apprentice sat in the courtyard half the day. At parting, Hapy said: "Teacher, rest easy. Not one piece of the bureau’s work has been dropped."

"I know." Lu Zhu said. "Your letters, I have kept them all."

He went to the medical house. Shafi was there. The medicine storehouse’s door stood open, and the air carried the scent of herbs. "I have come to look at your storehouse." he said.

Shafi led him through it, tier by tier. When he had seen it: "Better than when I left."

"All of it the master taught." Shafi said.

Before he left, Lu Zhu went to the craft school.

He disturbed no one, only stood outside the courtyard gate. Inside, an old master was leading the apprentices through a new lesson. On the blackboard were drawn a wall and a door. Lu Zhu caught an earful — the lesson was on the interlock.

"They have all taken it up." he said in a low voice.

"Taken up." Hapy said. "The code is not yet issued, and the old masters are already teaching by the new methods. They say that once the code arrives, the craft school will take new textbooks."

"Good." Lu Zhu said. "The textbooks are new. The roots are still the old ones."

He turned and walked away. After a few steps, he looked back once. In the courtyard, the chisel sounds, the rammer sounds, and the reading sounds all ran together. That sound was young and bright, like crop after crop shooting up in the fields.

On the boat back, Lu Zhu sat a long while holding the book chest.

A-Yang sat beside him and asked quietly: "Teacher, the book has gone into the palace. How does your heart feel?"

Lu Zhu looked out over the river. "Like finishing a granary." he said. "The grain is in. From now on, whoever comes to draw it has food to eat."

The boat went south. The river ran neither hurried nor slow. The fields on the bank were green and glossy. Far off, in the river bend’s direction, a thread of hearth smoke drifted thin into the sky.

The boat passed a shallow stretch. On the shoal, a few children were tending cattle.

The cattle grazed slow and easy, and the children were building houses out of wet mud on the river flat. Built and fallen, fallen and built. One child built best of all — his house had walls and a door and one sloping roof.

"Look at that child." Lu Zhu pointed at the bank.

A-Yang looked where he pointed. "Teacher, that slope is like our roofs."

"It is." Lu Zhu said. "Look — whose child is not born knowing how to build a house? What they lack is not the craft. It is someone to pass the craft down."

The boat went on far. The children were still on the shoal, building their mud houses. The river wind blew, and the small, crooked "houses" stayed behind on the shallow ground.

"We are home." he said.

At the landing, the apprentices had long been waiting. From far off they saw the boat and waved.

"Teacher!" The shouts rose one after another.

Lu Zhu carried the book chest ashore. A-Shi came up to him. "Teacher, did it go well at the palace?"

"It went well." Lu Zhu said. "The book went into the palace. And the pharaoh added one line."

"What line?"

"The craftsman’s duty lies in the work, not in the name."

The apprentices read the line over, nudging one another, every face shining with pride.

That night, Lu Zhu copied the pharaoh’s line onto the schoolhouse’s drawing board. When it was copied, he said to the apprentices: "From now on, this line is our root."

Under the lamp, the characters on the board stood clear, stroke by stroke.

The decree went out by relay riders, and the first echo came back from the West Bank.

Kamon sent a cartload of paper, and one sentence: "The code reached the West Bank. The guild’s craftsmen copied the Work volume seven times — one hung in the hall, one kept inside the coat, and the rest lent out to the loose craftsmen beyond. They say it is the first book in their lives that has anything to do with them."

Lu Zhu heard it and said: "A book only lives once people copy it."

The second echo came from Thebes.

The chief priest’s letter wrote: "The code reached Thebes. The official granary’s clerks read the Granary volume aloud to the threshers, the grain-sunners, and the granary-keepers. They read it three days. The listeners said that had there been such a book earlier, the granaries could have rotted half as much. This old monk — no. I listened, too, and I nodded."

The third echo came from the northern border.

Seb’s letter was one sentence only: "Teacher, the code has reached the north. The soldiers on the wall have each copied a passage. They say that from now on, holding the wall has something to lean on."

Lu Zhu laid the three letters side by side and pressed them down at the desk’s corner. Under the paperweight, they did not stir a hair.

"All have arrived." he said. "The book has, you might say, put its root down."

After winter set in, A-Shi came to take his leave.

"Teacher," he said, "my mother has sent word. The family is to build a house. I want to go back and build one for my mother, by the code."

"Go." Lu Zhu said. "Take the House volume’s copy along. Where you are not sure, open the book. While the book is there, it is as if I had gone with you."

A-Shi shouldered his baggage and walked to the landing, then turned back and kowtowed to Lu Zhu once.

"Teacher," he said, "when the house is built, I will ask you over to sit."

"I will surely come." Lu Zhu said. "Then I will eat the flatbreads your mother steams."

A-Shi left. Half a month later, he sent word by another’s hand: the house was built. The walls half a foot thick, the roof double-pitched, the wall foot raised. The day his mother moved in, she wept. All her life, she said, it was the first time she had lived in a house that let in no rain and no wind.

Lu Zhu told this to the apprentices in the schoolhouse.

"Did you all hear that?" he said. "This is our craft’s capital. Learn one thing, and your family has one thing more. Learn ten things, and your village has ten more." He paused. "A-Shi is not the cleverest. But he put what he learned to use in the place that most needed it."

That night, under the lamp, Lu Zhu turned through the House volume once more. Coming to the section on the mud brick, he stopped. The passage Nefer had added was still there:

"The women who form the bricks carry more cracks on their hands than the walls carry seams."

He lifted the brush and added one line beside it:

"Yet on the day the brick is done, one family’s wall stands, and one family’s heart rests. The cracks, then, were not cracked for nothing."

That night, the river bend’s lamps were lit one by one. Lu Zhu stood on the landing and looked back over the river’s face. On the water lay the reflection of the new capital’s lights, far off, one point at a time, very still. He knew the book had gone into the palace, into the archive, into the hands of all the craftsmen who were to come. But in his heart there was one thing left undone. Many years ago, a man had said one sentence to him. He had remembered it all this time. Now, he should go see that man. The wind came off the river, cool and thin. On the northern edge of the sky, a stretch of gray cloud was slowly, slowly drifting south.

(End of Chapter 8)