Ziyan stepped onto the bridge as if she belonged to its old decisions. "Inspection," she called, one hand wrapped in blue silk, jade ring catching light. "By order of Regent Zhang, all wagons will stand off until the under-bracing is checked. I will not have a prefect's son fall into the river for lack of diligence."
The nearest guard started to argue, then stopped at the word prefect. He had the instinct of a man who had been scolded often enough to prefer prevention. He waved the drivers back so emphatically that two wagons bumped and a barrel toppled, popping its lid like a poorly tied truth. Inside lay millet under a dusting of flour that tried to pretend at innocence.
Shuye hummed the kiln's old song and lit the first fuse. Pitch blossomed under the slats with a surprised roar. The guard yelped and stumbled backward, looking for someone to blame and finding only his own feet. Feiyan hauled on the first rope; wood shrieked like a woman who'd been told to be quiet and chose otherwise. Li Qiang swung his wedge-hammer twice—solid, precise—and the center spine of the bridge remembered the river's argument from a generation ago.
Flame climbed into the request the river had been making for years. On the far bank, men scrambled, some for buckets, some for orders, most for excuses. Wei vaulted the railing and landed in a crouch, sweeping a spear across ankles that had forgotten how important they were. Pitch jars arced, broke, learned the names of canvas and rope. Huo cut a tether and an ox decided to become air, bolting down the bank with a groan that would have been funny if it weren't so useful.
"Back!" Ziyan shouted, and they were, breath in, breath out, horses turning like thoughts you plan to keep. The bridge's middle gave. The two ends considered each other across new water. The river took it the way an old friend takes a returned coat and said nothing.
By the time horn-calls argued on the far bank, they were already out of range, a ribbon of movement through winter reeds. Feiyan's mouth curved in that way that meant work was teaching the world its lessons. "One," she said.
"Two more to graduate," Shuye panted, delighted.
The second bridge tried to be clever. A foreman had posted men where men should be posted and set sentries in pairs so that cowardice would have to find an accomplice. He'd even strung thin bells under the farthest slats so the river couldn't whisper people onto his pay without telling him. Feiyan found the bell wires with a tenderness that would have shamed most lovers, lifted them, weighted them with pebbles, and set them back down so they thought time had been kind.
"Riders there," Huo breathed, chin angling toward a low bluff where four silhouettes hunched. "Shields."
"Best to bring the house down while the guests are still choosing seats," Wei said.
This time, they didn't bother with orders and words. Ziyan flung a jar herself; it shattered and bloomed. Li Qiang drove another wedge home; the bridge spoke in a language that always ends in drowning. The archers on the bluff loosed two arrows, then a third; one skittered across Shuye's shoulder and made him consider pain as a future hobby. Feiyan took the bluff like a rumor and came down it with a new truth in hand: an unstrung bow and a guard who looked relieved to sit for a moment.
Flames leaped the gaps with a greedy intelligence. When the center sank, a wagon tried to ride the collapse as if it were a trick road, and for a breath it almost worked. Then the axle snapped and the river learned a new joke. Men shouted for the saint of commerce and found he kept poor hours.
"Two," Feiyan said, all economy.
The stone bridge waited like a lesson at the end of a chapter. It had survived floods and a governor's ambition; its arches were wide and pleased with themselves. Soldiers lounged under its shade because shade was the only authority they chose to respect. Dark flags—Zhang's habit—hung from poles hammered into the parapet. Between the flags, a drum. Between drumbeats, patience.