He felt it then, clean and bright as a blade oiled and set into a scabbard: the line between hunting and arrival.
He knew exactly how close he was because the crane head under his wrist went warm, stupid, superstitious warmth—just blood moving right under his skin when a man who has promised himself something is about to collect.
He stepped to the side and put his hand on the mule path's low wall.
"Come out," he said. Not loud. Not a shout. An invitation to make a mistake.
Nothing moved.
He smiled. He put two fingers to his mouth and made a sound that wasn't a whistle and wasn't a bird.
The men in the ditch moved like water.
A shape broke from the scrub above, cutting left instead of right the way all men did when they thought there was still time. Gaoyu took him in the shoulder with a throw. The shape staggered, kept his feet, and flung a bundle toward the brush.
The bundle rolled once, twice, hit the low wall and stopped.
