That night, Ji Lu sat at the little desk Ren had cleared for him in a side room of the keep and wrote.
By tradition, the first draft of any report to the Regent was written in dense, looping script that wasted paper and obscured nuance. Ji Lu did not waste paper. He wrote small and neat, his brush making each word earn its place.
To His Excellency the Regent of Qi…
He detailed Yong'an's walls: old, patched, not easily taken by a small force, vulnerable to a full campaign. He noted the lack of formal garrison, the reliance on volunteer riders and exiles. He described the law tablets, the public hearings, the ridiculous spectacle of blanket disputes being given the same attention as grain theft.
He did not mention the way the crowd had leaned in, learning without knowing they were learning.
He wrote that Ziyan refused the offer of pardon. He wrote that she declined to return to "proper subject status." He wrote "self-styled Road Speaker" and "claims to govern by popular law."
He did not write the moment when she had turned the Regent's words back like a mirror.
He paused, brush hovering.
Assessment: Highly dangerous.
The characters waited under his hand, obvious as a trumpet.
He thought of the midwife, the boy, the way the tablets had given shape to a quarrel that would otherwise have ended as bruises in the dark. He thought of Zhang's hall of ash, of the Emperor coughing behind closed screens.
He let the ink drip, then wrote instead:
Assessment: Unstable but presently contained. Influence limited to Yong'an and one subsidiary trading-hall on the river at Haojin. Currently more useful as buffer and grain source than as target. Recommend continued observation and controlled tolerance until Qi's core borders are secure. Premature confrontation risks driving populace into active rebellion and gifting Xia a martyr.
He read it twice. It was true, as far as it went. It was also a rope, offered back along the Road for Ziyan to hold.
He made a second copy on rough silk, with fewer titles and more sharp words.
To General Ren Kanyu: You were right. They are different here. Their law walks on two legs. Zhang fears them more than he fears Xia. He gathers tales of them like tinder. I have written the Regent recommended patience. Whether he reads it that way, I cannot say. If you intend to keep this border quiet, you will need their chaos on your side. And perhaps—one day—you will need somewhere to stand when halls like ours burn.
He folded both letters, sealed them with different waxes: red for the Regent, plain for Ren.
When he slept, it was without the usual ache in his spine. The small room in Yong'an smelled of cedar and damp stone. Somewhere, a child was snoring through a blocked nose. Someone sang off-key in the courtyard.
In the morning, he left with his escort, the city's gate shrinking behind him. He did not look back often. When he did, he saw the sparrow carved above the arch, crooked and defiant.
"Dangerous," he murmured. "And necessary."
The words sat oddly easy in his mouth.