It was another day of patrolling the streets. Ye Qingxuan led the three men through the streets of Southern District. Cheng Yuan and Zhao Hu stayed seven or eight paces behind him, talking filthily about the gambling houses in voices neither loud nor soft—just loud enough for him to hear. Wei Datong followed at Ye Qingxuan's side, his face purpling with suppressed anger. His hand clenched and loosened around his saber, then clenched again.
Ye Qingxuan acted as though nothing had happened. Whatever entered one ear blew straight out the other. His eyes remained fixed on the activity in the streets: which shop's signboard had grown shabby, which beggar crouching in a corner had been replaced.
By the time the sun was about to set, their duty was considered done. The four of them headed back to the yamen. As they passed a stall selling shaobing, a ragged little boy of about seven or eight came running over with a broken bowl and tugged at Ye Qingxuan's hem.
"Sir, please, have mercy. Give me something to eat."
From behind them, Cheng Yuan let out a snort. "Even beggars know to look for the new constable. What a sharp eye."
Ye Qingxuan ignored him, fished two copper coins from his robes, and dropped them into the broken bowl. The boy thanked him profusely and left. Ye Qingxuan was about to take another step when he realized that, before leaving, the boy had slipped something hard into his hand.
Without changing expression, he closed his fingers around it and continued forward. When they reached a corner, he used straightening his sleeve as an excuse to spread his palm and take a look.
It was a small lump of tightly packed mud.
He crushed the lump, revealing a tiny rolled-up piece of paper