Yimulei did not stop walking. He fell silent for a few moments, then asked a practical question: "Who are you sending it to?"
Nuoyaji hesitated. Who was he sending it to? The person he wanted to write to was not on any page of his address book yet. He had no address, no recipient's name, no information he could put on an envelope.
But he knew a way, one known to very few people, of having it forwarded through a particular channel. Meweiro had taught him that method in his previous life, but that was his previous life. In this life, he had yet to prove to her that he deserved to contact her that way.
But it was worth a try.
"Lady Meweiro, in Stone Watchtower Town," Nuoyaji said.
Yimulei's steps finally paused, just for a moment, before returning to their normal rhythm. He did not ask why Nuoyaji wanted to write to that important figure, what his relationship with her was, or what the letter said. He simply walked in silence, as though digesting the name.
"All right," Yimulei said. "Give me the letter when you've finished. I'll have someone deliver it."
Nuoyaji said nothing more. He silently worked out the contents of the letter in his head. It could not be too long, or she would not finish reading it. It could not be too short, or it would seem perfunctory. It could not be too warm; their relationship was not close enough for warmth yet.
It could not be too cold; he needed her help. It could not be too contrived; she would spot that at a glance. It could not be too casual; she had very little tolerance for casualness.
Writing letters really was physical labor.
Stone Watchtower Town, the Old Oak Inn.
It was called an inn, but it was really just a three-story stone building. Its outer walls had been whitewashed, though most of the whitewash had peeled away, exposing the mottled gray stone bricks beneath. A wooden sign hung above the ground-floor entrance, carved with a crooked oak tree. Beneath the tree, smaller lettering spelled out "Old Oak Inn." Wind and rain had worn the letters so indistinct that one had to lean close to make them out.
Meweiro sat by the window of a second-floor guest room, her chin resting on one hand, her other hand on the armrest. Her long, pale golden hair spilled over her shoulders, glowing softly in the afternoon sunlight.
She wore white clothing made from a soft wool blend that draped beautifully. Dark silver vine patterns were embroidered around the collar and cuffs, understated, but close inspection revealed the exquisite needlework. Her white outer coat lay across the back of her chair, ready to be put on at any moment.
Her gray-blue eyes looked almost gray in sunlight, with a faint blue tint in shadow. When those eyes looked at someone, they gave a sense of being enveloped by something, neither cold nor warm, only making one feel-she had seen you.
A knock sounded at the door.
Three knocks, neither soft nor loud, neither hurried nor slow, with a deliberate, calculated rhythm.
"Come in." Meweiro did not rise or even turn her head. She merely withdrew her hand from the armrest and laid it on her knee.
The door opened, and a young woman in fitted black clothing entered. Her hair was gathered behind her head in a neat ponytail. A short blade hung at her waist in a black sheath without any decoration. Her steps were quick but landed lightly, as though she were walking on cotton. She stopped behind Meweiro and bowed slightly.
"Lady Meweiro." Her voice was quiet, her speech measured. "A letter from Luoweida. The same person again."
She held a letter in her hand. The envelope was fine parchment, sealed with wax bearing the impression of a copper ring-the ring Nuoyaji always wore on his thumb, a keepsake left to him by a comrade from his previous life, which he still wore in this life.
The copper ring had left a somewhat irregular circle in the wax. At its center was a blurred design resembling some kind of bird, too indistinct to make out clearly.
Meweiro reached out and took the letter.
The young woman in fitted black stepped back and stood quietly in the corner, hands behind her back, eyes facing straight ahead, like a doll that did not need recharging.
Meweiro pried open the wax seal with a fingernail and drew the letter from its envelope. The paper had been folded twice and was only palm-sized when unfolded. The handwriting was neat and densely packed, every character squeezed into its square without a single stroke extending beyond it.
She read it from top to bottom, then read it again before folding it up and slipping it back into the envelope.
"Him again."
Her voice was very soft, as though she were speaking to herself, or to someone behind her who was not there.
She laid the letter on the table and weighed it down with the silver inkstand. Her gaze lingered on the envelope for a moment, then moved away toward the window.
Outside lay Stone Watchtower Town's main street. There were few people about, only the occasional miner passing with tools over his shoulder, or women carrying children hurrying past with their heads lowered. In the distance, the storm had torn the roofs off several buildings, exposing dark attics like eye sockets stripped of their eyes.
She tapped the armrest lightly twice.
Those looks, born at that time...
The scene of her meeting with Nuoyaji outside the granary that day rose in her mind. He had stood before her in that apprentice's robe washed pale, with a chipped iron sword at his waist.
His eyes had been bright-not with the spirited brightness of youth, but with the brightness of someone who had been through a great deal, letting every emotion settle deep in his eyes and leaving only a little light to shine through.
She had asked what year he was born. He had answered without hesitation, without questioning her, without any expression of "why are you asking me this?" He had simply answered, then waited for her next question.
If he was "that person's" child... Meweiro turned the thought over and over in her mind. His age matched, and there was some resemblance in his features, especially that bearing that came from deep within, neither servile nor overbearing, which made it impossible to treat him as a child.
But that person had never mentioned having a child to her.
No. Stop thinking about this.
Meweiro swept those stray thoughts aside and reached for another document on the table. Its paper was far coarser than the parchment of Nuoyaji's letter, the cheap sort the imperial authorities bought in bulk, pressed from pulp and shredded cloth.
The document also followed the standard official format: heading, body, signature, seal. Everything that belonged was there, and nothing that did not belong was included, rigid as something spat out by a machine.
She read it again. Not because she had failed to understand it, but because she wanted to make sure she had not misread it.
What exactly was going on with the Lord High Speaker?
Meweiro put down the document and leaned back in her chair, her gray-blue eyes on the ceiling. A crack ran from the corner of the wall all the way to the chandelier, yellowed slightly on either side as though water had leaked through.
This was as good as an inn in Stone Watchtower Town got. Having a room that kept the rain out already counted as good luck.
The empire's higher-ups had not been quite right in the head lately. She had already heard about the situation in the capital-the conservatives and reformists were arguing furiously in the Grand Assembly, each accusing the other of being responsible for the storm. The conservatives claimed the reformists' steam magic had polluted the magic veins and angered the gods.
The reformists claimed the conservatives' ancient sacrificial rites were the real superstition, that the storm was a natural phenomenon and had not a copper's worth of connection to the gods. They had argued for more than a week without reaching any conclusion, while leaving several urgent disaster relief proposals completely shelved.
At a time like this, the Lord High Speaker had sent her to Stone Watchtower Town-to "observe the situation."
When Meweiro first received the order, she thought she had misheard. Stone Watchtower Town? A small town in the southern empire, near the border, supported mainly by farming and mining? What was there to observe? The disaster damage? Then send a disaster relief commissioner. The people's circumstances? Then send a civil affairs inspector. Observe what?
She had asked. The Lord High Speaker's aide had replied, "His lordship did not specify. Please use your own judgment."
Meweiro had wanted to throw that aide out the window on the spot. But she had restrained herself. She was not particularly good-tempered; losing her temper simply would not solve the problem.
Investigate the people's circumstances? Those people in the capital were practically beating each other's brains out, and they cared about this?
Meweiro's brows drew together slightly, then quickly relaxed. She had a suspicion she did not much want to admit-the Lord High Speaker had given her this order not to have her "observe the situation," but to get her away from the capital. With her absent, certain people could do certain things without worry.
But what were those people planning to do? She could not find out. Her intelligence network had told her that several normally inactive powers had begun making frequent moves after the storm.
Some were contacting local lords, some were buying off merchant associations, and some were moving troops along the border. Their movements were discreet, so discreet that she would never have noticed had she not been watching them all along.
And now she had been sent off to Stone Watchtower Town, hundreds of li from the capital and even farther from her intelligence network. Here, all the information she received was what others wanted her to see. Whatever they did not want her to see, she could not see now.
Meweiro tapped the armrest twice more.
She kept feeling that she was being kept in the dark.
The document beside her still needed handling. She picked it up and glanced over it again-it was an official letter from the Imperial Mining Association, requesting that she send people to the western mines to inspect the damage, assess the storm's long-term effects on the mining district, and submit a detailed report.
The western mines.
Meweiro frowned.
The western mines again. The duke's document called for going to the western mines, and so did the Mining Association's official letter, as though everyone in the empire had suddenly developed a keen interest in that remote mining district.
What exactly was there?
She did not know. But she would find out.
Meweiro laid the official letter on the table beside Nuoyaji's letter. One was handwritten, the other printed. One had neat handwriting on fine paper; the other had rigid lettering on coarse paper. One came from a person she was trying to understand, the other from an organization she would never understand.
The window was open, and wind blew in from outside, rustling the papers on the table.
Meweiro reached out and held down the envelope to keep it from blowing away.
Beneath her fingertips, she felt the slight coolness of the parchment and the smooth, faintly raised impression of the copper ring on the wax seal.