The column reached the town of Sweet-Locust by the river Qi.
Apricot buds had begun to speckle the grey hills, but the wind still carried enough bite to make horses curl their lips.
Sweet-Locust's fame was honey-cakes; its fortune was grain—state granaries carved into the limestone cliffs like giant swallow nests.
From a distance the bins looked serene, their wooden doors painted sky-blue, ropes of braided hemp dangling like festival streamers.
Up close the limestone was scarred with soot, and the air tasted of old smoke and fermenting millet.
Royal Inspection
Shen announced the inspection at dawn drums.
Town elders knelt in the mud, offering trays of steaming cakes sticky with last autumn's honey.
Yue took one, felt the sweetness coat her tongue, and wondered how anything could taste generous while warehouses loomed overhead like judgment seats.
Shen accepted the courtesy, then ordered the elders to open every bin—no seals, no delays, full daylight.
A nervous murmur rippled through the crowd; several bakers slipped away, aprons flapping like frightened geese.
Inside the Cliff Bins
The first three chambers rang hollow—empty floors swept clean, not even rats.
The fourth held grain: golden millet piled shoulder-high, smelling of sun and dust.
Shen thrust both arms deep, drew fists of perfect seed, let it trickle like bright rain.
"Good weight," he said.
"But where are the missing sacks from the ledgers?"
The head clerk, Mistress Pei, bowed.
"Stored deeper, Highness.
These are show-bins for travellers."
Her smile was practiced; her eyes flicked toward Yue only once, measuring threat.
Yuan's Discovery
While Shen pressed questions, Yuan led a quiet detour to the loading docks.
He found children sifting chaff from cracks, collecting kernels in clay cups.
One girl, no older than ten, hid a honey-cake behind her back as if ashamed.
Yuan knelt.
"Share?" he asked.
She broke the cake; beeswax oozed.
Between bites she whispered,
"Night-carts carry sacks to river barges.
Masked men pay copper cash.
Mama says hush or the bees stop buzzing."
Yuan ruffled her hair, stood, eyes hard.
He signalled two cadets; they followed wagon ruts toward the river.
Riverbank Noon
Hidden by reeds they watched barges moored under cliff shadow.
Laborers loaded millet sacks painted with Wolf-head brands—the same mark found on raided border villages.
A middle-man in fox-fur counted silver into Sweet-Locust clerk Pei's purse.
Yuan drew no blade; instead he memorised faces, measured barge capacity, then slipped away.
Back in town he cornered Yue beside the well.
"Grain walks south at dusk, probably to the border.
We can seize the barges tonight, but the town will riot if we move without proof of treason."
She nodded.
"Proof first, steel second."
Evening Plan
Shen convened cadets in a deserted mill.
Candle smoke mingled with flour dust.
He laid out twin courses:
Forge a false manifest claiming imperial requisition of the barges—paper trap.Ambush the convoy mid-river, secure sacks, bring Pei and fox-fur alive for questioning.
He assigned Yuan command of the river party; Yue would infiltrate Pei's household to seize ledgers.
"No fires inside town," Shen warned.
"Sweet-Locust burns like a honey-cake—fast and sticky."
Night Infiltration
Clouds masked the moon.
Yue scaled the cliff bins, entered Pei's office through a shutter warped by frost.
Inside smelled of ink, beeswax, and millet dust.
She found the strongbox beneath a floorboard, picked the brass lock with an arrowhead.
Ledgers lay wrapped in oiled silk—columns of grain received, grain shipped, grain vanished.
She copied key pages onto rice-paper by candle stub, then re-wrapped originals, replaced everything.
As she turned to leave, footsteps sounded—Pei herself, lantern in hand.
Confrontation
Pei entered, saw the shutter ajar, froze.
Yue dropped from rafter, landed silent.
Before Pei could scream, Yue pressed a gloved hand to her mouth, whispered,
"Silence keeps families safe.
Nod if you understand."
Pei nodded, eyes wide.
Yue spoke fast:
"Confess at dawn, name the fox-fur broker, return the silver.
Do this and your children keep their mother."
She released slowly.
Pei's breath trembled; tears cut channels through flour on her cheeks.
"I only wanted tax forgiven," she rasped.
"They promised."
Yue offered no comfort—only witness.
She slipped out, leaving Pei alone with the smell of honey and fear.
Mid-river Ambush
Yuan's party waited among reeds.
When barges poled downstream, lanterns hooded, he gave the whistle—three short, one long.
Cadets in small boats rammed the lead barge, wedged oars through gunwales.
Yuan leapt deck-to-deck, tackled fox-fur, pressed blade to throat.
Laborers surrendered; some cheered—they had thought the cargo imperial, not smuggled.
Sacks were slit: perfect millet gushed, proof alive.
They towed barges back, no blood spilled on water, only silver moonlight rippling like shaken silk.
Dawn Tribunal
Shen sat in the town square, townsfolk ringed silent.
Pei knelt, confessed ledger fraud, named the broker, produced returned silver.
Fox-fur, wrists bound, corroborated—border merchants paid triple for grain that would feed Wolf scouts.
Shen sentenced Pei to five years' labour in the imperial apiary—honey without profit.
Fox-fur and bargemen sent north in chains for full trial.
Seized grain—three thousand sacks—reloaded under imperial seal, destined for hungry garrisons.
Sweet-Locust's elders bowed low, offered fresh honey-cakes; Shen accepted one, broke it, shared among cadets.
The taste was still sweet, but no one lingered over the crumbs.
Afternoon Aftermath
Yue walked the cliff path alone.
Sunlight warmed the stone; larks spiralled above apricot buds.
She found the child from the docks feeding crusts to sparrows.
The girl grinned, showing missing front teeth.
"Bees still buzz," she said.
Yue knelt, tucked a copper coin into the small hand.
"Keep them buzzing."
Below, Yuan directed reloading crews, voice steady, red scarf bright against grey rock.
He glanced up, saluted with two fingers; she returned the gesture—simple, public, yet carrying the weight of shared night-work.
Campfire Conference
That night Shen rolled the updated map.
Two granaries remained: Red-Clay Hold deep in the hills, and Border-Store Fort hugging the river fork.
Intelligence from fox-fur hinted Red-Clay's magistrate stockpiled grain for speculative sale once war starts—priceless leverage.
Shen tapped the mark.
"Red-Clay is fortified, garrison loyal to magistrate first, throne second.
We may need more than ledgers there."
He looked at Yuan, then Yue.
"Rest while you can.
The next swallow nest may bite back."
Personal Hour
Inside her tent Yue unrolled the copied ledger pages.
Columns of numbers swam, but between strokes she smelled honey-cakes, heard Pei's cracked voice:
They promised.
She folded the papers, tucked them next to the iron swan charm—blackened, still warm from her chest.
Tomorrow the road would climb into red hills where spring arrived slower and mercy scarcer.
She closed her eyes, listened to distant sentries change call, and let the taste of stolen sweetness fade.
When sleep came she dreamed of bees carrying grains of millet across a river of fire, dropping them like seed into waiting palms—small, bright, enough to keep the world alive another day.