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The river made no promise about the third night.
It moved past the bend as it had on the first and second, carrying its weight with the quiet strength of a thing that had never needed to be asked to work. Yet something in its movement felt watchful, as if it had been told there would be a test.
At the Emerald Leaf, morning began with the old pot already warm. Shy Lin had set it there before light reached the lane. Sparrow Chen came in from the back carrying the jar and rope Jiao had given them, looped over his arm like a banner waiting for wind. Lin Xun added the quiet scale to the wooden box and closed it gently, so the click of the latch sounded like the end of a sentence they would soon speak again.
They did not open the shop. The bell rested. The counter kept its own counsel. Outside, the city prepared for a day it did not yet know would bend.
Shy Lin checked the pouch of river frost once, not to use it, but to remind herself that it waited. Sparrow Chen polished the metal petal until it caught the low light and gave it back in a soft gleam. Lin Xun tested the lid of the pot with his palm, feeling the clay agree to the work ahead.
By the time they stepped into the lane, Wen was already waiting at the quay. The ledger hung from her hand like a shield that had learned not to need a fight to be useful. Jiao leaned against a post with his rope tied in a neat coil. The two young crew leaders from the night before stood together, eyes on the far side of the river where the warehouse stacks waited in their shadow.
The stacks were not tall, but they were old. Their wood had soaked years of river damp and warehouse breath. Lantern poles rose between them, most unlit, as if the space had decided that darkness could do the work of privacy better than any wall.
Shen Lan was nowhere in sight. That was how they knew she was already in place.
The map pressed into Wen's mind as they walked... three circles, the narrow line, the stacks. She led them into the space between two warehouses where the air smelled of rope, tar, and the faint sweetness of grain that had been stored too long. Here, the river sound dulled. It did not vanish, but it became a murmur under the boards, as if the water were listening through cracks.
They set their table where the narrow line in the map pointed. Low, plain, cloth spread with the care of a ritual. The old pot took its place. The quiet scale rested on the lid for a single breath, then was lifted away. River water was drawn without a ripple.
"Bright Lotus?" Sparrow Chen asked.
"Bright Lotus," Lin Xun said. "And the thread that listens."
He measured the leaves as if they were moments, not things. The pour began. The ribbon found the air. Even in the stillness of the stacks, it moved without hurry.
Voices came first... not loud, not hurried, but with the weight of men who carried their own rules. Footsteps followed, six pairs, approaching from two directions.
The first three wore work coats, their sleeves rolled to the elbow. They carried nothing in their hands, but their eyes measured the table as one might measure the size of a doorway before bringing a large load through. The second three came from the opposite side, two with poles balanced on their shoulders, the third with a folded paper in his hand.
The man with the paper unfolded it without looking at it. "Stack watch fee," he said. "Third night rate."
Wen kept her hands on the ledger's cover. "There is no fee," she said. "The stacks work for the river, and the river works for all of us."
One of the men with poles smiled without warmth. "River works harder when it's thanked," he said. "Coin is the best thanks."
Shy Lin shifted her weight. Sparrow Chen's hand rested near the tinder in his pouch, though he did not touch it.
Lin Xun poured two cups. One he set on the table, one on the low post nearest the men. The steam moved in a slow arc, bending between crates and lantern poles, brushing past the paper in the man's hand.
The one with the paper took in a breath he had not meant to take. His eyes flicked to the cup, then to the pot, then to the quiet scale resting on the cloth.
"This is not a buying place," Wen said. "It is a keeping place."
The man with the pole shifted as if to speak, but the steam reached him first. His shoulders eased. The pole lowered to the ground without a sound.
One of the work-coated men stepped closer, then stopped as if he had walked into the edge of something that was not there but could be felt. His gaze dropped to the rope coiled at Jiao's side.
"You tie the bend," he said, almost curious.
"I tie what holds," Jiao replied.
The man nodded once, as if the answer had filled in a missing piece. He stepped back.
Shen Lan's voice came from above, quiet and even. "You are in the wrong corner," she said.
They looked up. She stood on the warehouse roof, sword still at her side, one foot on the beam, one on the tiles.
"This is not a corner," one of them said.
"It is tonight," she answered.
The man with the paper folded it and tucked it away. He glanced at his companions. They said nothing. Slowly, as if carrying something they did not wish to spill, they turned and walked back the way they had come. The poles went over shoulders again. The sound of boots on boards faded into the river murmur.
Shen Lan stayed where she was, watching until the last of their shadows left the stacks. Only then did she move, slipping out of sight with the ease of a shadow returning to its owner.
The watch continued. A skiff came to unload grain, its crew glancing once at the table and then going about their work without pause. A boy ran past carrying a folded net and grinned as he went. Somewhere deeper in the stacks, a gull called once and was answered.
When the night had worn to its quietest point, Wen closed the ledger without writing. "This place will not collect tonight," she said.
"No," Lin Xun said. "It has given enough."
They packed the pot, the scale, the cloth. The rope went back over Jiao's shoulder. The stacks watched them leave without changing shape.
The walk back was without speech. The river breeze cooled the sweat they had not realised had gathered at the back of their necks. Somewhere upstream, a lantern went out.
Back at the Emerald Leaf, the room welcomed them like an old friend who had waited without pacing. Shy Lin lit the smallest lamp. Sparrow Chen set the metal petal on the counter. Lin Xun placed the pot in its place and rested his hand on the lid.
The quiet in the room was not the quiet of absence, but of something held in balance. Wen lingered a moment longer, running her fingers along the ledger's spine.
"They will test again," she said.
"Then we will pour again," Lin Xun replied.
Outside, the river kept moving, carrying the night's shape toward the bend and whatever waited beyond it.
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