Lena Sanders spent half the day mending fishing nets, earning twenty copper coins—neither much nor little among the women working beside her.
After tucking away the coins, she took a bundle of shuttles and twine, left the fish market, and headed toward the Tongfu Inn once owned by Manager Zhao.
At the back of the inn stood a row of fourteen or fifteen small, backward-facing rooms, always crowded with destitute men and women who were just a step above beggars.
Two coins for a night, with hot water available morning and evening—there was no second place like it in all of Riverford City.
The three westernmost rooms were for women, separated from the men's quarters by a thin wall.
Lena paid two coins to the old gatekeeper woman, who also tended the fire, then entered the women's room and lay down on an empty cot, falling instantly asleep.
When she awoke, darkness had fallen completely.
She rose, pulled a large chipped bowl from her tattered bundle, went out to ladle some boiling water, and crouched in a shadowed corner, sipping slowly as she listened to the chatter around her.
The small courtyard was alive with people—some drinking hot water, some rinsing laundry in trickles of warmth, others scrubbing their hair or wiping down their bodies. Seven or eight children ran shrieking through the crowd.
"I saw Manager Yang at the yamen gate again today!" an old, sharp voice pierced the din. "Handing in another petition!"
"Another one? What's he accusing this time?"
"What else? Accusing Master Zhao of being unfilial! The last time, he was caged for five days and nearly died. Now, just a few days later, he dares offend again!"
"When was Master Zhao ever unfilial?" the gatekeeper woman snapped from beside her fire.
"The yamen ruled it so, didn't they? Five days in the cangue—if that's not unfilial, what is? The court can't be wrong!"
The scrawny washerwoman glared defiantly at the gatekeeper, her tone triumphant. The old woman snatched up a burning stick and struck at the ground, her face dark, and said nothing more.
"Ma, I'm hungry!" a child wailed, tugging at his mother's sleeve.
"Elder sister," the thin woman asked timidly, "didn't you say there'd be food here tonight? With fish and meat?"
"Not anymore. Ever since Manager Zhao died, nothing's left. Manager Yang sells every scrap for coin—there's nothing for the likes of you!" the gatekeeper answered sourly.
The courtyard fell silent.
After a long moment, an old woman near Lena sighed. "Master Zhao was a good man. Once, when I was ill, he sent for a doctor, paid for the medicine himself, even gave me ten coins."
"I heard he was a spy for the Northrealm," another whispered, "a traitor selling his country."
"Then Manager Yang's act was righteous indeed!" someone crowed.
"Manager Yang said by month's end, he'll tear down this row of rooms to build stables. The fine gentlemen up front need more space for their horses."
The gatekeeper's voice rose, full of spiteful glee.
The silence that followed was heavy as frost.
At last, the old woman muttered, trembling, "It's nearly midwinter… in this cold, where can we go?"
"Good deeds bring no reward. Everyone for themselves," the gatekeeper said coolly, dousing the fire and walking away.
Lena set her bowl aside and slipped out the door.
She turned into a narrow alley. Against the wall, crouched in darkness, Jack Golden rose and handed her a bundle, keeping his back to her, listening intently.
Lena changed into the clothes inside, drew out a comb to tidy her hair, wrapped her old garments neatly, and gestured to him. "Let's go."
"Blind Old Man said that at exactly the first quarter of dusk, the Marshal's Office broke into chaos—shouting about a thief on the roof, all swearing they saw a man in black running toward the posthouse."
Jack kept pace beside her, lowering his voice.
"As for Fan Ping'an, the horse dealer from East Stables—they said he got drunk, stumbled into the river by the stable yard, and drowned. That was the night before we took the escort job."
He glanced around, leaned closer, and whispered, "Boss… Fan Ping'an was the one who—stabbed that fellow, wasn't he?"
Lena's reply was quiet and curt. "Mm. We'll look at the Marshal's Office first. You eaten?"
"Two meat pies from Granny Cao's—half full."
"Then we'll go to the Lame Gao's place for roast meat."
She licked her lips slightly; after months on the road, she had missed Gao's roast lamb terribly.
"Think we'll have time to eat our fill tonight?" Jack asked, already salivating.
"No. Until we're safely home, we stay ready to fight."
They stepped from the shadowed alley into the bustling main street, slowing their pace to blend with the crowd.
Past the posthouse, the scent of roasted meat thickened in the air. Ahead, across from the Marshal's Office, a lantern bearing five bold characters—Lame Gao's Roasted Meat—swayed in the night wind. Beneath it, tables were full and voices loud.
They took a corner seat and ordered: a slab of roast lamb belly, a grilled green-onion river fish, and a steaming bowl of mutton-and-radish soup.
As Lena sliced into the lamb, she listened absently to the talk around her, her gaze drifting from the Marshal's Office to the posthouse, mind turning over the sequence of events—when the alarm over the stolen maps began, when the Prince Heir was attacked.
The uproar at the Marshal's Office had started at dusk's first quarter.
The Prince Heir had entered the teahouse beside Tongfu Inn at the second quarter.
He said he had met someone and examined a map for nearly fifteen minutes before the ambush struck—at roughly the third quarter.
From the alarm to the attack—barely half an hour. The timing was too perfect.
But from the Marshal's Office to the teahouse? Impossible in a quarter hour unless one could fly.
The theft must have been staged earlier. The commotion that night—merely a cover, to send the guards swarming out and trap the wounded Prince Heir should he still be alive.
Lena ate until she was two-thirds full, then rose with Jack.
They slipped back into the maze of alleys, weaving through darkness for more than half an hour before entering a ruined Guanyin Temple.
Lena kept watch while Jack dug quickly behind a crumbling wall and drew out a small wooden box. He handed it to her.
From it, Lena pulled a set of black garments and slipped them on over her clothes. She wrapped her head and face, readied her hand crossbow, and took up a short blade and a grappling hook.
"Wait for me in Cat-Ear Alley," she murmured. "If the Marshal's Office erupts again—don't look back. Run."
"Got it," Jack answered briskly.
Lena melted into the shadows beneath the trees, moving swift and silent as a ghost.