Snow had learned how to fall sideways in Bai'an.
It scraped along the eaves like rice over a board, drifted into the palace courtyard in thin, slanting sheets, and piled politely in the corners as if afraid of blocking anyone's way. Ren Kanyu watched it from the colonnade, feeling the draft turn his fingers raw around the scroll.
A servant slid the inner doors aside. Incense sighed out, warm and unworried.
"The Emperor will see you," the attendant murmured.
Ren stepped inside.
The hall was the same as ever: polished floor, painted beams, courtiers fanned out like carefully arranged tiles. The Emperor stood at the east-facing window, hands knit in his sleeves, watching the pale blur where the city met the river.
Ren knelt. His knees knew the exact spot.
"Rise," the Emperor said. "Bring me my western troubles."
Ren came forward and offered the scroll with both hands.
"Qi's Regent has corrected himself," he said dryly.
The Emperor took the scroll, unrolled it with the care of a man opening someone else's wound. Zhang's characters stared back: neat, uncompromising.
"Mercy revoked," the Emperor murmured, eyes moving quickly. "Grain no longer for confession. Punishment for anyone who still claims the Road City. Captains who hesitate are to be… corrected."
He did not look up. "Ren Kanyu. What do your scouts say of this 'correction'?"
"They say some captains obey with enthusiasm," Ren said. "Some with reluctance. Some with creativity." He let Du Yan's name hang unspoken between them.
A faint sound escaped the Emperor, almost a laugh. "The captain who cut wood instead of necks," he said. "You wrote of him."
"Yes, Your Majesty," Ren said. "He obeyed the letter. He punished symbols, then his own corrupt patrolmen. Zhang will not be pleased."
"Zhang is rarely pleased," the Emperor said. "Especially when men remember they have spines."
He folded Zhang's decree, set it on the table, and held out his hand without looking.
Ren placed the second scroll there: the thinner one, on rougher silk, smelling faintly of smoke and clay. The Road City's answer.
The Emperor read it in silence.
We do not pay in grain for obedience… When fire comes, we ride first where the sparrow still hangs… We are not Heaven. We cannot be everywhere. Choose with open eyes…
When he finished, he kept staring at the last line.
"'We are not Heaven,'" he repeated softly. "Qi's Regent calls himself Heaven's whip. This woman refuses the word altogether. And yet she does the work our officials claim is theirs."
A courtier with the thin beard and thinner patience took a deliberate step forward.
"Your Majesty," he said, bowing. "This 'Road City' grows insolent. They answer Qi's decrees as if equal. If we let such language spread among our peasants, they will begin to weigh our edicts against clay as well."
Ren kept his gaze on the floor. "Some of them already do," he said quietly.
The courtier bristled. "You see? Even your generals speak as if thrones were merely one voice among many."
The Emperor held up a hand. The words slid to a halt.
"Qi's peasants are not mine," he said. "Nor are their rebels—or inconveniences." He let the alternate word sit there. "But I asked my general a question some weeks ago. Whether this Road City fed my people where my law has left them hungry."
He tapped Ziyan's scroll.
"This… is an answer," he said. "Not complete. But it says they bleed for those who keep their tiles. That they ride toward fire instead of away."
"They also teach our border folk to argue," the courtier said. "They make sparrows into banners."
"Better sparrows than wolves," the Emperor replied.
He turned to Ren. "Your report. Has the Road City made our border worse?"
"Less predictable," Ren said. "More words. Fewer beatings in taverns. Our tax collectors complain that villagers demand receipts now. Our soldiers grumble that they cannot take extra grain without someone shouting 'witness' and promising to write their name to a pigeon."
"And Xia's grain?" the Emperor asked.
Ren inclined his head. "Reaches our storehouses more regularly," he said. "Bandits avoid halls with sparrow marks. There are easier places to steal."
The bearded courtier clenched his hands. "Your Majesty, with respect—order must flow from the throne, not from tavern walls. Today they say no beating without witness. Tomorrow they may say no conscription without consent."
"Would that be so terrible?" the Emperor asked, almost idly.
The courtier stared, scandalized.
"Peace, Minister Qiao," the Emperor said at last, voice sharpening. "You fear ideas spreading. I fear hunger. One can be argued with. The other kills."
He picked up Zhang's decree in one hand, Ziyan's answer in the other.
"Qi tightens its fist and calls it correction," he said. "The Road City opens its hand and calls it law. I suspect they are both overconfident."
He set both scrolls down.
"This is my decree," he said, and the scribes leaned in like reeds toward wind. "Xia will continue not to march on Yong'an. We will not call the Road City enemy. We will not call it ally. We will treat halls with sparrow-mark and tablets as… experiment."
The word made Minister Qiao flinch as if struck.
"Write," the Emperor said. "'To all border generals and magistrates: any hall displaying the sparrow mark and obeying the following conditions shall be considered a protected neutral market, not to be raided or harassed under pretext of order.'"
He looked to Ren. "What are their three main rules?"
Ren did not need to think. "No seizing without record. No beating without witness. Lies pay double."
"Good rules," the Emperor said. "Even if they didn't come from my hand. Add them. 'As long as such halls keep these laws and pay their due tax to Xia, they are to be left to their chosen order. Bandits who claim the sparrow falsely are to be punished twice: once for theft, once for blasphemy.'"
"Blasphemy, Your Majesty?" Minister Qiao sputtered.
"Yes," the Emperor said calmly. "If the sparrow becomes a sign that says 'here, there is less cruelty,' then wearing it while practicing more is a sacrilege."
Scribes scratched furiously.