Dawn arrived with a blade between its teeth. Frost clung to the ramparts of Yong'an and made every breath sting like an admonition. Lord Han's riders gathered in the lower yard—light cavalry on lean, offended horses, saddles tight, eyes tighter. Ziyan stood with one palm on the kiln-fired jar and the other on the map that an old sergeant had scrawled with charcoal over boards. The river bent there like a man reconsidering a lie. Bridges stitched the banks together where the ground grew honest enough to try.
"Three crossings within a half-day," Han said, armored but unhurried. "Two wooden, one stone. The stone was built to impress a visiting prefect, so it impresses no one who knows rivers. The wooden ones have old worm in them; the river has wanted them for years."
"Then we will give it back what it's owed," Ziyan said.
Feiyan hooked a coil of rope over her shoulder, the movement as casual as putting on a thought. "We take them in this order," she said, tapping the map with one slim knuckle. "Downstream first—burn the wagons trapped on the far bank while the smoke is still an opinion. Then the middle—cut the pilings so the river learns the new truth. The stone one last, when the alarm has traveled faster than the men can."
"Pitch?" Shuye asked, hopeful.
"And wedges," Feiyan said. "This is carpentry. It just screams more."
Lord Han's glance crossed Ziyan's, an assessment that had grown less suspicious and more interested. "You'll have twenty riders," he said. "No banners, no horns. If you succeed, I'll call it intelligence. If you fail, I'll call it overzealous scouts and dine on humble words before Zhang sends for my head."
"We won't fail," Wei said, too flat to be bravado.
The stone-stitched envoy from Zhang, housed–not comfortably–in the south chamber, watched them saddle from a narrow window that wasn't supposed to be watched from. He had eaten well and slept poorly. He wore a face that liked to practice contempt. When Ziyan passed beneath, he said softly, just enough for her to hear, "When they build your story, girl, this will be the page where they discover you were not clever enough."
Ziyan didn't look up. "When they build yours," she said, "no one will remember which page it was."
They rode with the light, a seam of color pried under the horizon. Hoofbeats were a low drum that the hills decided not to echo. Han had given them a scout—Huo, scar along his jaw and courtesy you could trust. He led by not forcing the road to argue with him. The river smell came early: wet, iron, an old animal turning in sleep.
The first bridge announced itself by complaining. Joints creaked where ropes had learned to imitate sinew. On the far bank, a cluster of tarps and half-built ovens promised a camp that had not yet grown teeth. Smoke stuttered from two little braziers as if embarrassed to be seen. Wagons stood with their wheels chalked like coins placed on a corpse's eyes.
"Lazy," Wei said, the single word a prayer he knew would be answered.
Feiyan slid off her horse and vanished to ground level, where the world keeps its useful secrets. Ziyan counted guard posts—two men pretending to be four, one man pretending not to nap. Shuye produced a handful of the small pitch jars, each kissed with a cloth fuse. Li Qiang loosened his sword and dismounted with the calm of someone who has agreed with danger about what each of them is allowed to do.
"Rope first," Feiyan murmured, the river lifting her voice to the right ears and no others. She and Huo ghosted under the near-side slats, hands moving in quiet grammar. Two knots, three, spliced to pillars that had forgotten how to consider consequences. Shuye crawled after with his jar and his ridiculous, perfect grin.
When she surfaced, Feiyan looked to Ziyan. "Speak like a petty officer," she said. "It will travel faster than running."