"On the day he came for you," she said, "we were carving our name on our own stone, two days away. Too slow. Too small. That is the truth." She lifted her hand, palm open. "Today, we are bigger by your presence. That is also the truth. If you want to curse us, I will not stop you. If you want a bowl and a roof while you decide whether our law is worth anything, I can offer that."
The boy with the charred beam spoke up, voice cracking.
"Will you send riders back?" he demanded. "To see if anyone—" His throat closed.
Feiyan's gaze flicked to Ziyan's. "We can spare five," she said softly. "Huo's already saddling."
Ziyan nodded. "We will send riders," she told the boy. "They may find only ash. But if anyone still breathes in it, we'll bring them here."
The shrinetablet-woman hesitated.
"And after?" she asked. "After we've eaten your grain and slept under your law? What then? When Zhang comes and says, 'Give them back, they are mine to punish'?"
Ziyan thought of the proclamation they had not yet engraved, rolled silk still drying on Ren's table.
"Then," she said, "we answer him as a city, not as a frightened village. We tell him: those who hang our sparrow are under our judgement. If he wants to contest that, he can do it in the square, under witness. Not with fire at night."
A low murmur ran through Yong'an's faces: fear, yes, but also a strange, treacherous pride.
"You think he listens to arguments?" the woman scoffed.
"No," Ziyan said. "I think he listens to cost. The more of us there are, the more expensive we make his message. Stone Gate burned because we'd left its tile standing alone. We won't make that mistake again."
Wei muttered under his breath. "You're promising a lot."
"I'm promising we'll stand," she said, without looking at him. "We may fall. But we won't pretend his ash isn't our concern."
The shrinetablet-woman's shoulders sagged a fraction.
"Fine," she said. "We'll eat your grain and test your law. If it's as good as your promises, we'll stay. If not, we'll go find somewhere else that doesn't know our names."
The boy clenched his beam tighter. "There is nowhere else," he muttered.
"Then we'll build it here," Ziyan said.
The midwife elbowed her way to the front, staff jabbing shins with impunity.
"Enough speeches," she barked. "You lot, to the west quarter. Lin Chang has rooms; we have pallets; if anyone steals, I'll break their fingers myself under witness. Children, this way. You'll eat before you faint on my square and make it look untidy."
She herded them with the efficiency of a woman who had delivered babies in cities on fire.
Ziyan stepped aside to let them pass.
As the shrinetablet-woman moved by, she paused.
"You talk like you're not afraid," she said quietly.
"I am," Ziyan answered. "Every day."
"And you still call yourself Speaker," the woman said.
Ziyan's mouth crooked. "I got tired of letting men who fear nothing speak for me," she said. "Men who fear nothing tend to burn things."
The woman snorted, which might have been the first step toward a laugh.
"What's your name?" Ziyan asked.
"Cao Mei," she said. "My husband died pulling our youngest out of the yard. The eldest is somewhere on this road with a broken cart wheel. Don't make me bury any more."
"I'll try not to," Ziyan said honestly.
Cao Mei nodded once and followed the midwife, the tablet on her back bumping gently between her shoulder blades like a stubborn past.
When the last of Stone Gate's survivors had shuffled through, the gate swung shut again. The drums beat once: new mouths, new weight.
Wei leaned against the wall, sweat at his temples despite the cold.
"You've just vowed to protect every sparrow-marked wall between here and the sea," he said. "Did you notice?"
"Yes," Ziyan said.
"And?" he demanded.
"And now we have to be clever enough to make it look like we meant to," she replied.
Feiyan's laugh was brief. "Spoken like someone who has finally admitted what she is," she said.