Shen Yao pulled his hood up as he stepped out of the private room and headed downstairs.
The commotion had not died down. If anything, it had grown louder—angrier. By the time he reached the bottom of the stairs, he could see the crowd gathered in a loose circle near the entrance. Voices overlapped, some accusing, some murmuring, one booming above the rest.
He moved toward the edge of the crowd and stopped.
In the center of it all knelt a boy. Fifteen, maybe younger. His clothes were stained and torn, and his head was bowed so low that his forehead nearly touched the floor. People pointed at him. Some laughed. Most just watched
Shen Yao listened to the whispers around him, piecing together what had happened.
The boy had run out in front of a carriage. The carriage had forced to a halt. Then the child had fallen to his knees and begged the man stepping out of the carriage—a fat nobleman in expensive robes—to help him.
"His mother died," someone whispered on Shen Yao's left.
"His sister had an accident," added another voice to his right. "She hasn't woken up."
Shen Yao's eyes narrowed beneath his hood. He watched as the fat nobleman continued hurling insults at the boy, his face red with self-importance. According to another guest, the nobleman had agreed to help the boy—on one condition. Then, once they had entered the tea house, he had turned on the child and accused him of theft.
"He says the boy took his pouch."
"But no one saw it."
"Doesn't matter. He's a noble."
Shen Yao's gaze drifted back to the boy. The child hadn't spoken a word in his own defense. He just knelt there, head down, dirty hands clenched at his sides.
Shen Yao frowned beneath his hood. He turned slightly to glance at Xi Shu, who had followed close behind. Xi Shu's face had turned serious—the same look he wore when he sensed danger that hadn't yet shown itself.
Shen Yao gestured with two fingers.
Xi Shu nodded once, then turned and disappeared into the crowd.
Now alone, Shen Yao stepped forward. His movements were unhurried, but the crowd parted around him without being asked. People sensed something different about the hooded figure moving toward the center of the circle.
He stopped a few paces from the kneeling boy. Then he turned to face the fat nobleman, who was still red-faced and shouting.
"Your name," Shen Yao said.
The nobleman's mouth snapped shut. He blinked, then looked Shen Yao up and down—taking in the ordinary clothes, the plain hood, the lack of any visible status.
"You," the nobleman said, pointing a thick finger at Shen Yao. "Who do you think you are? This has nothing to do with you."
Shen Yao didn't acknowledge him. He turned his head slightly, looking down at the boy.
"Your name," he said again.
The child glanced up. For a moment, their eyes met beneath the shadow of Shen Yao's hood. Then the boy looked back down at the floor and said nothing.
Shen Yao exhaled slowly. He had expected that.
But something else caught his attention. The boy's right hand was clenched at his side, empty. His other hand—the left one—was hidden beneath the folds of his torn sleeve.
No one else seemed to have noticed. They were all too busy watching the nobleman, waiting for the show to continue.
Shen Yao's lips curved slightly beneath his hood.