After leaving the tavern, the servant did not leave the city.
He followed the long street west, passed through two lanes, then turned into an even narrower alley.
Deep in the alley stood a private dwelling: a small courtyard of blue brick, weathered door planks, split firewood piled halfway up a wall, and old cotton pasted over the window paper.
It was no different from its neighbors.
In the Northern Capital, there were countless thousands of such courtyards.
He hid neither in remote mountains nor in Buddhist temples, but mingled among ordinary homes, with firewood, rice, oil, and salt for neighbors.
Passersby knew nothing; officials passed without asking.
The servant reached the door. He did not knock, but raised a finger and tapped lightly on the planks three times.
One long, two short, a pause, then another long.
Footsteps sounded within. The door opened halfway, revealing a middle-aged man in a blue robe. Seeing him, the man stepped aside to admit him.
The courtyard door closed without a sound.
The room was dark, lit by a single lamp whose flame was no larger than a bean.
A book lay open on the desk beside a pot of cold tea.
The blue-robed man sat down. Without pleasantries, he asked, "How did it go?"
"The Heir of Yan had one thing to say." The servant stood with his hands lowered. "Our Yan Principality obeys only the Imperial Decree."
The blue-robed man took the cold tea and sipped. "Is he firm?"
"Firm." The servant shook his head. "And yet not firm."
At that, the blue-robed man set down his cup and chuckled. "That is enough."
"Enough?"
"The Guiguzi says: things have their inherent nature, and affairs their inevitable course.
Between the two, there must be a fissure. Where there is a fissure,