In the Ash Hall, Zhang read his own decree posted in three prefectural copies and smiled, satisfied, when he saw the phrase bandit confederation echo his own word.
He was less pleased when reports filtered back a week later of how many halls had claimed the grain and how many had claimed the sparrow instead—and of how often prefectural treasuries had been lightened in the process.
"Poor men are quick studies," Ji Lu murmured as Zhang snarled over complaints of false 'Road halls' springing up overnight like mushrooms.
"Then we teach them a harsher lesson," Zhang said. "No more grain for confession. Only the whip."
Ji Lu bowed. Wang Yu's eyes closed momentarily. Both could feel the west slipping, inch by inch, out of the sort of control men in Ash Halls preferred.
In Yong'an, Ziyan stood with Cao Mei on the wall as the first snow that would truly stick began to fall.
"Green Dike kept their sparrow," Cao Mei said. "Grain Ford tore theirs down. Both hung your proclamation."
"And?" Ziyan asked.
"Green Dike sent thanks for the warning and asked if they could copy the tablets onto stone," Cao Mei said. "Grain Ford sent nothing. But a trader says their headman hid a little tile under his wife's bed."
Ziyan smiled without quite feeling it reach her eyes.
"Then he's left himself a path back," she said. "Good. The Road allows for cowardice, as long as it doesn't turn into cruelty."
Cao Mei watched her.
"You really think words can stand against men like Zhang?" she asked. "Against armies?"
"No," Ziyan said. "Words don't stop blades. They tell hands where to hold them." She looked out at the thawing road, the faint line of smoke from some distant hall that might or might not hang a sparrow. "We'll still bleed. We'll still lose places. But every time someone chooses to keep those tiles despite decrees and hunger, Zhang loses a little of the fear he eats."
"And if no one chooses?" Cao Mei asked.
Ziyan's hand went to the hairpin at her wrist, to the jade ring, to the memory of Ye Cheng's wall.
"Then we choose for as long as we can stand," she said. "After that, the Road will belong to those who survive us."
Feiyan came up the stairs, snow dusting her scarf.
"News," she said. "From a place called Pomegranate Bend. They took the grain. Tore the sparrow. But when bandits came a day later waving Zhang's decree like a shield, the village lined up with sticks and said, 'We're part of the Road City. You want to hit, you do it under witness.' The bandits decided they didn't like witnesses and left."
Wei, following her, grinned. "Someone told them that story you wanted," he said.
Feiyan's eyes were bright with a hard satisfaction. "Zhang's reward bought them their first courage," she said. "Our name kept it."
Ziyan let out a breath that almost felt like warmth.
"Good," she said. "Then this will be the last time I let his ink define us without answering. From now on, every decree he sends west finds our word waiting under it."
Snow thickened, softening the hard lines of walls and roofs.
Below, in the square, Ren hammered another sparrow tile into place above the stone.
The Road City was still more idea than jurisdiction, more stubbornness than army. But it had survived its first summoning to the executioner's block and walked back out with its name intact.
On the horizon, beyond hills and other men's banners, Xia's fires flickered like a second storm. Between that and Zhang's ash, Ziyan and her city took one more step forward, trying to learn how to be both road and wall at once.