Twenty-sixth day on the road, dusk approaching
The land levelled into a wide marshy plain where the river Qi split like a snake's tongue.
Between the forks stood Border-Store Fort: a squat rectangle of black stone banded with iron, its bannerpole leaning slightly as if tired of wind.
Behind the ramparts rose wooden elevators used to hoist grain from barges; in front sprawled a shanty town of wagoneers, prostitutes, and honey-wine sellers who had scented profit in imperial rest-stops.
Smoke from charcoal kilns hung in a brown haze, smelling of resin and distant rain.
Lan Yue felt the place breathe—slow, damp, expectant, like a beast that had learned to sleep with one eye open.
First Camp Outside the Walls
Shen forbade entry at nightfall.
Instead the column pitched on a rise half a mile out, close enough to watch the gates, far enough to escape trebuchet range.
He posted three concentric rings of sentries, each line signalled by tin mirrors that caught the last light.
Yuan, ribs still bandaged, volunteered for river patrol in a skiff; Yue stayed in camp to catalogue the Red-Clay evidence—twelve copied ledgers, Wei's seal impressions, and a bundle of northern arrows still smelling of pitch.
She laid them inside a waterproof chest, then walked the perimeter until moonrise, boots caking with river-silt.
Night Council under Canvas
Shen spread a map drawn on lambskin so thin torchlight glowed through it.
Around the table sat his inner circle: Quartermaster Cao, Scout-Captain Liao, Yuan wrapped in a felt cloak, and Yue as archery liaison.
Shen's finger traced the fort's outline.
"Magistrate Wei's courier pigeon loft lies inside the east bailey.
If Wei warned them, grain may already ride north.
We must verify stocks before sunrise, but the commander here—General Rong—answers to the capital, not to border provinces.
Push too hard and we trespass military ground; too soft and the wagons vanish."
He looked at Yuan.
"Can your skiff approach the water-gate unseen?"
Yuan nodded.
"Fog forecast before dawn.
I can take two swimmers, count barges, mark guard rotations."
Shen turned to Yue.
"You ride in at first light as my herald—white banner, no drawn bow.
Observe, compliment, request courtesy tour.
If they refuse, we know guilt; if they accept, we map corridors."
He paused, candlelight carving fatigue beneath his eyes.
"And if steel speaks, aim for knees—a crippled witness testifies longer."
Personal Hour – Writing Letters
After the council Shen lingered at the writing desk, brush poised above three sheets of rice-paper each headed by different seals:
Imperial Command—requesting immediate audit cooperation.Military Dispatch—warning of possible smugglers inside army ranks.Personal Note to General Rong—recalling shared service at West-Sea Garrison fifteen years prior, invoking old favours.
He signed each, sanded ink, then folded with silk ribbons.
Yue watched from the doorway, surprised by the fatigue in his wrists.
"Which letter goes first?" she asked.
"None," he answered.
"All three leave together at sunrise.
Let Rong choose which truth he prefers to swallow."
He sealed them, pressed his father's jade ring into wax—a promise and a threat in one red bead.
Before Sleep – Yuan's River Sortie
Yuan and two scouts slipped into the reeds, blackened faces with charcoal.
Yue walked with them to the bank, carried the skiff's prow while they slid it over mud.
Before pushing off Yuan caught her sleeve.
"If I don't return by cock-crow, burn my belongings.
Letters from home would embarrass my ancestors."
She snorted softly.
"Return, and I'll burn nothing but the memory of your pessimism."
He grinned, shoved away, vanished into fog that smelled of fish and forge-smoke.
She stood listening until oar-splashes faded, then returned to camp, heart ticking louder than crickets.
Midnight – Sentry Walk
The plain lay silvered by mist; torches on the fort walls looked like orange moons hung in rows.
She patrolled outer ring, exchanging passwords, adjusting a loose saddle girth, pausing to watch constellations she had learned as a child—the Bowman, the Granary-maid, the River-fox.
Somewhere a fox barked for real, sharp and sudden.
She thought of her mother counting sacks in the family storehouse, hands quick, voice low:
Measure twice, trust once.
The memory felt distant, a different lifetime stitched inside the same skin.
Dawn Fog – Yuan's Return
He came belly-down on a drift-log, paddling with one arm, other hand clutching a rope that towed a reed-bundle.
Scouts behind him equally silent.
They staggered into camp as sky blushed pink.
Yuan's eyes burned bright with discovery.
"Six barges moored at the north dock, all riding high—full cargo.
Water-line fresh, loaded within two days.
Guard count: forty regulars, twenty mercenaries in northern fur.
General Rong paces the south wall at sunrise, alone—habit."
He gulped tea, winced as the hot bowl touched his wound.
"Also found this."
He unfolded a scrap of canvas cut from a sack: imperial sun over-stitched on top of a Wolf-head brand—the same concealment trick from Red-Clay.
Proof repeated.
Morning Herald Ride
Yue donned white herald tabard over armour, tied hair under a silver net, hung Shen's bow unstrung across her back—symbol, not threat.
She rode a pale mare whose mane had been braided with blue cords to signal diplomacy.
Behind her two cadets carried the sealed scrolls on lacquer trays draped in yellow silk.
They approached the gate at measured walk; drums answered, portcullis lifted.
Inside, cobblestones rang hollow beneath hooves, sounding like rain on an empty drum.
Audience with General Rong
He received them in a roofless drill yard where morning mist coiled like incense.
Rong was tall, hair iron-grey, face carved by wind rather than worry.
He broke the imperial seal first—formal courtesy—skimmed, expression unreadable.
The military dispatch he set aside for later.
The personal letter he slipped inside his sleeve unread, but his eyes softened a breath.
Then he looked at Yue.
"Your commander requests a tour.
I grant it, under my escort.
But understand—army stores are sovereign ground.
Question freely, but draw no blade without asking."
She bowed, hiding relief.
"Steel stays sheathed, General.
Truth alone seeks daylight."
The Tour – Grain Elevators
They climbed wooden platforms that swayed over the river.
Barges bobbed below; labourers heaved sacks upward via pulley and tread-wheel.
Yue noted markings: imperial sun crisp, stitches fresh, fabric beneath darker—original Wolf-head concealed.
She complimented efficiency while mentally counting: each barge roughly five hundred sacks, six barges, three thousand total—enough to feed a border battalion for a month, or Wolf raiders for a season.
Rong watched her face, not the grain.
"You tally well for a herald," he said.
"Numbers sing louder than flattery," she replied.
He almost smiled.
Storehouses Inside the Fort
Stone corridors smelled of lime and mouse-nests.
Bins stood half-open, showing golden millet.
She thrust both arms deep—dry, clean, weight true.
Yet when she lifted a handful to the torch, some kernels slid too easily—polished, as if tumbled in a merchant's drum to hide age.
A faint scent of camphor clung—preservative used to mask mustiness.
She asked casually,
"How long stored?"
Rong's aide answered,
"Since autumn harvest, kept pristine."
She let the grain fall, wiped hands, said nothing.
Proof of substitution grew, layered like varnish.
Barrack Visit – Northern Mercenaries
They passed a squad drilling with axes longer than regulations allowed.
The men spoke in guttural accents, rolled r's like stones.
Their armour bore no imperial stamp; pay tokens hung from necks—bronze wolf-teeth.
Rong's jaw tightened.
"Auxiliaries hired to supplement shortfall," he explained.
"Shortfall of loyalty or men?" Yue asked, voice mild.
Rong met her gaze.
"Both, perhaps.
The capital delays wages; I take what soldiers the river brings."
The admission hung raw, unexpected.
She bowed, acknowledging trust given, and stored the words for Shen.
Final Stop – Pigeon Loft
A small tower above the armoury.
Cages rustled with grey and white birds.
She asked to see message logs.
The keeper produced scrolls: most entries routine—supply requests, weather reports.
But pages for the last ten days had been razored out, new parchment stitched in.
She ran a thumb across the seam, felt the ridge.
Rong noticed, said nothing.
Above them a bird cooed, released a dropping that spattered on the windowsill—white streak on black stone, like a sentence unfinished.
Departure – Rong's Quiet Words
At the gate Rong walked beside her mare.
He spoke low, meant only for her ears.
"Tell your prince that soldiers follow the hand that feeds.
If the throne delays grain, the river finds other masters.
I would rather answer to the sun than the wolf, but hunger blinds."
He handed her a small brass token—a boar carved on one side, the imperial sun on the other.
"Present this to your commander.
It buys one honest conversation at whatever hour honesty becomes possible."
She tucked it inside her cuff, beside the iron swan.
They parted with formal bows, eyes holding questions neither could voice yet.
Return to Camp – Mid-day
She delivered verbal report while Shen read the silent ones: fresh-stitched labels, camphor scent, razored logs, northern axes.
He set the brass token on the map between river forks, spun it slowly.
"Rong walks a blade," he said.
"But blades can tilt."
He looked at Yuan, at Yue.
"Tonight we write one more letter—not to Rong, but to his hunger.
We offer grain before the wolves do."
He rolled the lambskin map, candlelight catching the grease spots like small moons.
"Rest.
When moon reaches zenith we load our own barges—not with grain, but with choice."
Personal Twilight
Yue sat by the river, cleaning the day's sweat from her neck.
She thought of Rong's eyes—tired, proud, cornered.
She thought of the girl in Sweet-Locust feeding sparrows, of Pei weeping amid bees, of sacks sailing toward enemy mouths.
She took the brass token, rubbed boar and sun together until both shone.
Somewhere downstream a night-heron called once, like a sentry uncertain of password.
Fog began to rise, soft as forgiveness and just as temporary.
She stood, buckled on her sword-belt, and walked back toward camp where lights flickered like promises trying hard to become facts.
Tomorrow the river would carry words, grain, or blood—perhaps all three.
Tonight she let the fog hide her face while she rehearsed the shapes honesty might take if honesty were given breath before dawn.