Qin's Moon: Yang Shi's Long Song

After daybreak, Yang Hui went out.

He walked down the alley behind the Zilan Pavilion—the alley where he had knocked two short knives out the night before last. A faint scratch remained on the bluestone wall at the base of the wall, as if a blunt object had grazed it. He didn't stop to look, but his pace slowed slightly. He was confirming: no one was guarding this place. At the corner of the alley leading to the main street, there was a small stall selling steamed buns. Steam rose from the gaps in the steamer, carrying the aroma of wheat flour. As he passed, the stall owner glanced up at him. He turned his head to look at the way the stall owner tied his apron—his hands wrapped around his waist and tied in a single knot behind his back—his hands were rough, with large knuckles, the hands of someone who kneads dough, not someone who uses a knife.

He continued walking.

It took him about 15 minutes to walk from Zilan Pavilion to the North Gate. He chose the westernmost route—not the shortest, but the least likely to attract attention. The western street was narrow, lined with old houses and closed workshops. There were few pedestrians, and dampness from dew seeped from the corners of the walls, with moss seeping from the cracks in the bricks, making it slightly slippery underfoot. He noticed a pair of old shoes on the stone steps in front of one house, soles facing upwards, the wear concentrated on the outer side of the left foot—someone in that household walked with a leftward gait. He didn't delve into it at the time, simply storing it in his memory. After walking for about the time it takes to drink a cup of tea since leaving Zilan Pavilion, he passed the West Market—empty in the early morning, all the wooden doors closed, except for one breakfast stall that was half-open, from which came the sound of oil sizzling in a wok. He didn't stop, but he slowed his pace slightly, his gaze sweeping across the stall's entrance.

A man squatted at the shop entrance, drinking a bowl of hot soup. His back was to the street, so his face was hidden. But his build—his shoulders were narrower than average, his back slightly hunched—looked like someone who spent years hunched over a desk. Yang Hui didn't stop, only glancing at him before continuing onward, silently confirming that the man wore no insignia on the back of his collar. After dawn, Xinzheng was filled with more sounds than at night—the first hammer blow from the blacksmith's shop, camel drivers urging their animals to slow down, and the faint shouts coming from the direction of the city gate in the distance. As he passed through the third alley, the wind blew in from the north, carrying the dry smell of harvested crops from the fields outside the city and a layer of dust from travelers. The northern city wall of Xinzheng came into view.

North Gate.

He stopped about eighty paces from the city gate, standing under the eaves of a closed cloth shop, like a passerby taking a break. The north gate was larger than he had expected—the archway was about two zhang wide, with two soldiers standing on each side, swords hanging at their left waists and shields leaning against the wall at their feet. He observed for a while; the two soldiers stood loosely, leaning against the wall pillars, their gazes neither focused nor unfocused. The flow of people in the middle of the city gate wasn't dense; those pushing carts, carrying loads, and those empty-handed passed by about three to five people every ten breaths. Those entering the city had to slow their pace to be scanned, while those leaving generally passed directly. The changing of the guard was in the sentry post on the west side inside the city gate—he saw that the door was half-open, and there was movement inside.

The sergeant, wearing his uniform, emerged from his sentry post, a cloth draped over his shoulder, carrying a rough earthenware bowl with a chipped rim. He wasn't on duty; he was drinking water against the doorframe during a break from his shift. Yang Hui recognized him—not from his face, but from the old fishmonger's description of him as someone who "couldn't sleep at night and slept during the day." The sergeant's slightly round face resembled the old man's, but he was about half a head taller and had broader shoulders—after standing at the city gate for so many years, he exuded a taut, almost masculine air, a result of years of standing in the wind. After finishing his water, he turned and went back to his sentry post.

Yang Hui turned his gaze back. He scanned the crowd queuing at the city gate—in the direction of entering the city, on the right-hand side, there was a line of three grain carts. They were all loaded with sacks, covered with tarpaulins and tied tightly with hemp rope. Each cart was flanked by two men, not in uniform, wearing coarse cloth shorts and cloth shoes; they looked more like hired cart drivers than soldiers. At the rear of the grain cart line was a separate two-wheeled wooden cart, older than the previous three, empty, with several dried mud streaks on its planks, and the axles creaked slightly as they turned.

Yang Hui glanced at the people entering and leaving the city, then at the guard positions on the city wall, before turning and leaving. He didn't linger near the city gate. He walked back along the same route, his pace as unhurried as before, but he had already mentally processed the information: grain carts entering the city was routine, and the escorts wouldn't be subjected to strict checks. If Gai Nie walked alongside the grain carts, no one would give him a second glance. Entering by blending into the entourage on the right side of the grain carts was the most natural route.

When he returned to Zilan Pavilion, Han Fei was just coming downstairs, carrying an empty bowl. The two passed each other at the top of the stairs, and Han Fei, seeing his expression, asked, "Confirmed?"

"Grain carts. Entering the city tomorrow."

Han Fei didn't say "good" or "stable enough," but nodded, holding the empty bowl, and went into the kitchen. Yang Hui went upstairs and pushed open the door to his room. The window was open, and the morning breeze blew in from the north, carrying the dusty smell of the same road he had just walked. He sat down at the table, took the Wentian Sword from the wall, and placed it on his lap. He didn't draw it, but simply ran his palm slowly from one end of the scabbard to the other, as if making a silent confirmation with the sword.

The touch from his fingertips remained consistently cool, heavy, and restrained, just like the first of the three times. Then he hung it back on the wall.

Tomorrow morning, at the North Gate. The silent man will walk in from the grain convoy. Then, he won't be the only one with him.