Night fell.
The warehouse in the back alley of the Mediation Office was unlit.
The shadow at the foot of the wall did not move. He was waiting.
During the day, he had scouted along this wall. There were no guards in the alley, and the back door stood ajar.
He had not disturbed so much as a stray cat.
Once he finished scouting, he went back to report.
His report was simple: the alley was clear, and the back door was ajar.
Tonight, three men entered the alley.
They walked lightly, setting their soles down before lowering their heels.
Two bent low as they carried firewood into the warehouse.
They stacked the half-dry wood in a corner, tucking oil-soaked strips of cloth into the gaps.
The wood was damp. It would burn slowly and give off plenty of smoke.
Smoke was exactly what they wanted. It would drift out, and by tomorrow the whole village would smell it.
One man withdrew to the mouth of the alley, leaning against the wall and watching both directions.
Every so often, he glanced back into the depths of the alley, afraid someone might come around through the back door.
He looked twice. No one came.
He raised a hand and waved it twice toward the warehouse.
That was the signal: the alley entrance was clear. The two inside stopped holding back.
The man at the alley entrance was the shadow who had hugged the wall during the day.
Inside the warehouse, the first man crouched and pulled a fire striker from inside his clothes.
The second unrolled a sheet of paper, weighted it with a stone, and dipped his brush in ink.
The tip of the brush trembled as he wrote, very slowly.
He was writing a statement claiming that "the Mediation