The afternoon sun was already high in the sky, indicating the time of the day already reaching noon.
Ishida sat in the common room of the inn he lodged in with a cup of tea and some pastries in front of him.
He had visited the two other minor houses, the Nakamura and the Ueda family, earlier that morning. Each meeting had gone as planned.
He had successfully and steadily planted seeds in cracked soil that was the business world of the Fire Capital.
He was once again in awe of Hina's insight, and through her, the young master's.
To the unobservant eye, the fire nation capital was quite prosperous with every necessity easily accessible, however, Hina was still able to predict the possibility of marginalized families that could be of help in entering the capital's market.
That level of foresight was impressive in itself and while he couldn't take the credit from her, he still wouldn't overlook the one behind her wisdom.
Upon arriving at the Nakamura Transport office in the city outskirts, he was met with a dusty yard filled with idle wagons, horses and frustrated drivers.
Fujimoto's fleets dominated the long-haul routes, leaving Nakamura locked to short, local hauls that barely paid for upkeep.
From the information he gathered, he knew that Nakamura's caravans waited days for loads, guards idled, and taxes ate what little profit remained after a successful transportation service.
Nakamura Taro, the broad-shouldered head, had met with Ishida after knowing he represented the Lotus Store, but unlike the others, he was quite wary.
He knew of their circumstances and understood that any business approaching him now would be trying to buy him out, but then, with the Fujimotos in the city, it seemed unlikely.
After a brief exchange of pleasantries, Ishida proceeded to take the discussion outside and had Taro provide a carriage where he then demonstrated a series of seal modules.
A tag stamped onto a practice crate, creating a tamper-alarm that chimed softly if disturbed.
Then a lightweight barrier for weather protection, no rain soak, no dust infiltration.
Taro's eyes had widened when Ishida added a cooling and a heating tag.
One to provide cold for the hot summer and heating tag for the cold winter.
Ishida had taken his time to explain the general information surrounding each sealing tag to the head.
The head showed obvious apprehension at the offer because these things were extremely valuable and he had nothing of worth in the face of these new potential or such a product.
Ishida knew the Fujimoto Family guards their routes like hawks, and the Nakamura's short runs lose goods to weather or thieves every other trip due to shortage of proper protection.
Technical and Physical.
These seal tags let the Nakamura's offer 'secure hauls' at the same price while charging a small premium for sealed crates.
This way, there would be no more waiting for Fujimoto's leftovers and partnership with the Lotus Store meant having these modules at cost.
Also, the Nakamura would pack up the Lotus household seals for traveling merchants as gifts for using their services.
They would also have direct partnership with their branded wagon services featured in the Pavilion.
This was an alliance that put the Lotus Store at a disadvantage.
It was just so difficult to believe.
In the end, Ishida agreed to send over some samples in a week and have the final discussion held in the second week.
The discussion with the Ueda Grain Brokers' silo was quieter.
Mizuno controlled the city's food flow, hoarding grain permits and storage rights, leaving Ueda to handle seasonal overflows at cut rates.
Their head, Ueda Mitsuo, was a soft-spoken middle aged man who had a perpetually worried expression.
From information he had gathered about Ueda Grain Brokers, they had excess rotting in open lots or sold cheap to avoid fines.
Ishida's proposal was simple. Similar to the Aoyamas incense sticks, he demonstrated the module's ability to create sealing tags and placed a couple preservation tags upon a couple bags of rice.
The content of the partnership was simple. Preservation modules would be provided at cost price and in exchange, Ueda would offer Lotus Store a direct route to sell the grains from Konoha in bulk.
And in the future, their grain will be featured in the Lotus Pavilion to be built in the future.
After another brief exchange of information, they agreed to formalise the agreement before the flood season arrived.
Now, back at the inn, Ishida sipped his tea, the pastries remained untouched.
Five minor houses, five understandings.
Morita for land and estate, Aoyama for the warehouse, the rest as partners to spread the seeds of expansion.
The majors in the capital would feel the shift in funds only when the Lotus Pavilion stood on this land, its shelves filled with allied goods, its tags in every common hand.
He mused as he praised the genius of the young master. Just then, his eyes caught two familiar figures at the corner of his eyes; Katsuro and Sumi.
They entered quietly, taking seats nearby. Their eyes held questions, but none voiced them out.
Ishida allowed himself a faint exhale and beckoned to them to join him at his table.
"You both didn't really need to follow me around the city," he said, picking up a cookie. "I daresay this is the safest place in the Land of Fire right now."
He tossed the cookie into his mouth and began munching. Katsuro and Sumi exchanged glances, half amused, half wary, before sliding onto the bench across from him.
Katsuro folded his arms as he sat. "Safe or not, the mission scroll says we stay close."
Sumi nodded, though her eyes flicked to the untouched pastries. "And you've been busy. We've been in this line of work long enough to know that while your visits have not been shady, it surely won't escape a few watchful eyes."
Ishida swallowed, brushed a crumb from his sleeve, and poured them both tea without asking.
"People always notice," he said mildly. "But noticing and acting are different things."
He paused, letting the steam curl between them.
"Tonight I'll visit the Whispering Crane again. Alone."
Katsuro's brow creased. "The teahouse from last night?"
"The same."
Sumi leaned forward slightly. "The scarred man?"
Ishida inclined his head and pushed the plate of cookies to her. "He has information I require. Nothing dangerous, just words over tea."
Katsuro's hand rested casually on the table. "We could stand watch outside. Or inside, at another table."
Ishida gave a small, almost grandfatherly smile.
"No need. The Crane is neutral ground." He then gave them a look, " Besides, Shinobi draw eyes and eyes talk. I prefer quiet."
Sumi opened her mouth as if to protest, but threw a piece of cookie into it, then closed it to continue munching.
Katsuro exhaled through his nose, clearly not agreeing but recognizing the tone of finality.
"Fine," Katsuro said at last. "But if you're not back within an hour or your departure—"
"I'll be back before then," Ishida cut in gently. "Enjoy the pastries. They're fresh."
He rose, leaving the plate between them like a peace offering, and walked upstairs without another word.
…
…
Night fell gently over the Capital, the autumn air cool and fresh blew beneath a clear sky.
The streets had thinned and lanterns lit along the main roads, but the side alleys carried only the occasional footsteps of late workers or patrolling guards.
Ishida moved at an unhurried pace, hands tucked into his sleeves, robe dark enough to blend with the night.
Three streets east of the inn, he turned into the familiar narrow lane.
The Whispering Crane's noren curtains swayed gently in the night air, and the painted crane barely visible in the dim glow from within.
Ishida paused at the threshold, listening to the low murmur of voices inside, then pushed the curtain aside and stepped in.
The corner table was occupied by the scarred man Ishida was here to see.
The man sat with his back to the wall, scarred cheek catching the lantern light, a half-empty cup in front of him.
His eyes lifted as Ishida approached, there was no surprise in his gaze but recognition.
Ishida slid onto the opposite bench.
"You're early," the man said, voice rough from disuse or drink.
"I'm always early," Ishida replied. "As long as you're still here. That's what matters."
A server appeared silently, set down a fresh cup for Ishida, and vanished.
The man leaned forward slightly.
"What do you need this time, old man?"
…
…
Tanaka Jiro was a man who had long ago learned to make himself part of the furniture.
To the casual eye, he was just another regular middle-aged, broad-shouldered man, but it was the scar that marked him as "not regular".
A thick, pale ridge running from just below his left eye down to the corner of his jaw, the kind of mark that made strangers look away.
Fifteen years ago, Jiro had worn the Takeda crest with pride.
Born into a minor samurai house sworn to the great Takeda Ledger Family, he had spent his youth doing the quiet, necessary work that kept the Capital's commerce flowing.
From collecting debts, witnessing contracts, and escorting payment caravans through bandit country.
He was good at it, sharp-eyed, soft-spoken, and utterly loyal.
The Takedas trusted him with their dirtier arbitration jobs, the ones that never made it to official records.
Then came the night everything changed.
A minor noble house had defaulted on a substantial loan and Jiro was sent to collect.
Upon arrival and investigation, what he found instead was a forged ledger and a trap meant to test his obedience.
When he refused to ruin an innocent man for his masters' gain, the "debtor" put a blade to his face.
The Takedas, unwilling to admit their own scheme, cut him loose with nothing but a polite letter of dismissal and a purse too small to cover his medical bills.
Loyalty, it turned out, was a one-way street.
After that, Jiro drifted. He took whatever work the shadows offered, listening in teahouses, carrying messages, trading rumors for coins.
He knew the Capital's undercurrents better than most: which houses were overextended, which officials could be quietly bought, which plots of land might soon change hands whether their owners wished it or not.
The Whispering Crane became his unofficial office; he always claimed the same corner table, back to the wall, eyes on the door.
He drank more sake than tea as the building name suggests.
The sake dulled the ache of old betrayals and kept the memories from sharpening too much. But it never dulled his mind.
When someone needed information that didn't appear in any official registry, they eventually found their way to Jiro's table.
He listened more than he spoke, and when he did speak, his voice carried the rasp of disuse, and of nights spent alone with too many cups.
Ishida and Jiro knew each other the way most men did in the Capital, through repetition. Ishida paid for information when he needed it, and Jiro sold it when he had it.
Some exchanges proved useful, others less so, but none ended badly. That alone was enough to remember a face.
Over the years, Ishida learned which questions Jiro would answer and which ones came with silence.
There were no favors between them. Only precedent.