The rim of the coarse porcelain bowl at the West Market tea stall still bore a half-ring of water stains. Chen Wuya gently wiped them away with his thumb, his fingertip knocking dully against the bottom of the bowl. The seat across from him was empty; the man in the brown robe had long since vanished around the street corner with the slip of paper bearing the words "Green Plain Ferry." Five hundred taels of silver weighed in his travel pack, pulling one shoulder slightly lower.
He did not move, merely drew the wooden sword hilt closer to his waist and tightened the cloth binding around it. Wind blew in from the east, carrying the scorched fragrance of fried cakes from the morning market and the clamor of the crowd. Three days had passed. The news ought to have reached the Chancellor's residence by now.
Bai Zhi stood before a sugar figurine stall at the mouth of the alley, clutching a bright-red skewer of hawthorn berries, yet her gaze never left the entrance to the tea stall. She did not turn around, but her earring swayed faintly—that was the signal. Someone had arrived.
Chen Wuya lowered his head and took a sip of tea. His throat suddenly tightened as his true qi flowed backward through Misaligned Force along the Lesser Yin meridian, rushing straight toward his vocal cords. His voice changed, low and hoarse, with the distinctive clipped cadence of the Northern Lands, like grit scraping across an iron sheet. "Did your Chancellor send you for the 'Heavenly Machine Scroll,' or to silence me?"
The man halted mid-step. It was the black-clad man who had delivered the letter the night before last. He wore a short gray-cloth shirt, and that faint lingering fragrance still hid within his sleeves, though today