Chen Wuya drove the last cedar post into the foundation, striking it three times with the hammer—not too fast, not too slow. He straightened, and the movement tugged at the wound on his shoulder, causing fresh blood to spread another ring across the bandage. Bai Zhi came from beneath the eaves, carrying a bowl of medicinal brew whose steam had nearly faded.
"Drink another dose." She held out the bowl.
He took it and drained it in one gulp, the bitterness sinking down his throat. He did not frown, merely handed the empty bowl back and wiped the corner of his mouth. "Those people won't send just one wave."
Bai Zhi nodded, her gaze sweeping over the trampled field ridges before the yard and the crooked, fallen fence. "How long are you planning to keep repairing this place?"
"Until it can keep out the wind again." As he spoke, he bent to pick up the woodcutter's knife and resumed trimming the newly felled timber. The blade rasped across the bark with a soft shushing sound, like some low whisper.
A hen in the coop fluttered its wings, startling several fallen leaves into the air. The distant mountain pass was unnaturally quiet; even the wind seemed to pause for a moment.
Just then, footsteps sounded on the mountain path. Not the ground-hugging tread of hunters come to kill, but the crisp clack of boot soles on stone slabs—each step measured and steady, carrying the particular rhythm of officialdom.
Chen Wuya stopped working and looked up.
The man wore a purple-gold python robe, a jade tablet at his waist, and held an ivory court tablet in his hand. His features were proper, his gait composed. He had no attendants, only a yellow-silk-wrapped case slung across his back. He stopped five paces from