The decree reached Yong'an folded into other men's worries.
It came on cheap paper, inked too dark, carried by a wagoner who thought it was just another notice about grain. Ren the scribe prised it from the bundle in the pigeon loft, wiped chicken feathers off the seal, and read it once with his lips pressed tight.
By the time Ziyan reached the square, the copy Ren had made was already nailed to a temporary board beside their own freshly carved stone.
People clustered close, breath frosting. Stone Gate's refugees stood with their shoulders still remembering smoke. Haojin traders squinted, breath smelling of river and suspicion. Reed Mouth's delegate, a boy with more freckles than beard, craned his neck from the back.
Ren read it aloud, voice flat to keep it from carrying too much of Zhang's cadence.
"By order of the Regent of Qi," he intoned, "a group of seditious elements based in the traitor-nest Yong'an have falsely named themselves 'Road City,' claiming authority over ignorant peasants and city-trash alike. They are nothing more than bandits and rebels cloaking theft in talk of 'law'."
He glanced at Ziyan, then went on.
"Any hall or village displaying their sparrow-mark or obeying their so-called tablets is warned: you are misled. Tear down these marks, renounce their lies, and deliver the ringleaders to the nearest officer, and your back taxes will be forgiven and grain granted for three winters. Persist, and you will be treated as hostiles."
He lowered the paper.
The square breathed in.
"Three winters' grain," someone muttered. "That's enough to marry a son."
"Enough to eat," another said, quieter. "Enough not to bury children after bad rains."
Wei's jaw bunched. "He writes like we're fleas," he growled. "Annoying, but only worth crushing if we bite the wrong throat."
"He writes like he thinks poor men count better than they remember," Han said.
Zhao tilted his head, eyes bright with a fox's amusement and dread. "He's given us a price for betrayal," he said. "That's generous in its way. Now any hall that doesn't tear down their sparrow has, what do you call it—declared themselves expensive."
Feiyan stood with her back to the stone, scanning faces instead of words. "Listen," she said.
A murmur was rising from the crowd. Not outrage; not yet. A buzz of argument.
"Three winters," a Haojin boatman said. "You hang the bird, you get trouble. You tear it down, you get rice."
"And what happens when the three winters end?" Aunt Cao's nephew demanded, voice sharp. "You think he won't remember who knelt fast?" He spat. "He'll take more, because you proved you'll bend."
Cao Mei shifted the shrine tablet on her back, the weight familiar now. "We burned without ever seeing this decree," she said. "We didn't even know we'd been priced. I'd rather be worth enough to make him pay attention the first time."
Sun Wei, just arrived from Haojin with river mud still drying on his hems, lifted his chin. "He can write what he likes," he said. "We already hung the board. He's late to his own threat."
Ziyan rested her hand on the fresh-carved words of shall not be named rebel without us answering. The stone dust under her nails felt like grit under a scab.
"He offers forgiveness for tearing us down," she said, loud enough to carry. "What he doesn't offer is protection if something else comes after. Grain for three winters, and then what? You've cut your own shield in pieces for him, and he can step through the gap whenever he likes."
"Easy for you to say," someone snapped from the back. "You have walls."
Ziyan nodded. "Yes," she said. "We do. We built them with burnt hands and bad stone. Now we are saying: if you hang the sparrow and keep it hanging, that wall extends as far as our riders can ride. If you take it down because you fear his decree, we will not send knives to your beds. But we will know where we cannot spend our riders' lives."
That quietened them more than any curse.
Feiyan's eyes flicked to Ziyan. You meant to be gentler, that look said. You can't afford to be.
Ren cleared his throat. "News has already come from two places," he said, lifting two scraps of silk. "One from Green Dike. One from Grain Ford."
"Read," Ziyan said.
He did.
"Green Dike," he read, "says: 'We saw the decree. We saw the price. Our headman asked us if law fills bowls. We told him it keeps soldiers from taking bowls away. Our sparrow stays. If that makes us bandits to the capital, so be it. We were already thieves by their count when we ate before paying tithe.' They ask for advice on where to hide extra grain, as they expect attention."
A ripple of approving noise. Someone muttered, "Good headman."