Across the river, the outlying watchfires wavered. Men stood on berms they had built before they believed in Ziyan; now they pointed. A horn sounded—a short, ugly bleat—to summon officers whose hands loved whips more than maps. The long drum in Xia's central camp paused between beats, then resumed at a different pace, listening with a professional ear to lies that sounded enough like truth to deserve attention.
"Shields," Han muttered, pleased. "They're thinking."
"Good," Feiyan said. "Thinking slows charges."
They kept the ruse breathing. Drums rolled from north to south in waves that pretended to be brigades rotating, then doubled back as if reinforcements had arrived. A singer with a ruined voice and a good memory stepped onto a rock and began an old war hymn whose words even the river knew; men who had never marched beyond their province hummed the refrain under their breath and felt taller. Han's riders moved in pairs along the tree strips, lanterns hooded, unhooded, then hooded again, so that from the far bank the hills seemed to crawl with quiet purpose.
Two hours into the performance, the first cost arrived. A patrol of Xia's scouts crossed low on skin-boats and slid like eels into the reeds. Feiyan's hand twitched open and closed—patience—then she and Wei were gone, knives and spear speaking in the old grammar. One scout died quietly; two died less so; one bolted upriver, stubbing his foot on a root, throwing dignity behind him.
"Let him run," Ziyan said. "He is part of the story."
But the river wanted more of a price. A little later, a crack ran through the drums where the rhythm had not agreed to be perfect. Xia's arrows found it. One of Han's lieutenants—barely older than his horse—took a shaft through the ribs and went down with surprise on his face and no complaint on his mouth. Wei dragged him back, fingers red, while Li Qiang stood over them and discouraged anyone with a bow from developing a hobby.
"Name," Ziyan demanded.
Huo knelt, eyes flat. "Luo Ping."
Ziyan memorized it, because names that die deserve work after their last breath. "He bought us a night," she said. "Spend it."
Midnight thinned. The dust settled into opinion and the drums learned the limits of echo. Ziyan walked the ridge and felt the heat on her face as if from an argument she'd won. She did not let herself enjoy it. Feiyan limped out of the brush, thigh blood-soaked, head steady.
"Arrow grazed," Feiyan said, as if commenting on weather. "The fellow aiming it will not be doing more along those lines."
Ziyan went to one knee and wrapped the wound with cloth that smelled of cedar and hands. "You're not allowed to be mortal tonight," she said.
"Noted," Feiyan said dryly, and rose before the knot finished cinching.
The jar almost left them in the chaos that followed. A stray arrow, more luck than skill, snapped the strap on the pack horse. The jar slid, pivoted, kissed the dirt with the intimacy that breaks old things. Li Qiang was there with a hand and a curse, catching the sling, his wrist taking all the weight that the road had meant to take in slower increments.
"I have it," he grunted.
"Of course you do," Ziyan said, and her voice surprised both of them by being gentle.
Toward the fourth watch, the far bank's activity condensed into uncertainty. Xia's forward commanders argued with shadows they could not stab; runners took paths they did not trust; the great drum hesitated again, this time long enough to be called doubt. Ziyan beckoned Huo and handed him three lines to carry to three places that needed the right lie first: Hold your fires. Move your drums east. Let them think we run where we do not.