Chapter 8: A Hand Under the Table

Pine Hall was lit with sixty lanterns, and the long table was crowded with dishes.

There was braised bamboo shoot, steamed mountain trout, and a whole roasted duck glazed with honey.

Cloud Pine's elders sat on the left.

Salt Tide's captains sat on the right, in black, with their swords stacked neatly by the door.

At the head of the table, the two old Masters sat together, one stooped and one broad.

They looked as if they had been doing it for thirty years.

Mo Zhenhai had his bad knee propped on a stool.

Master Feng had a hot cup of ginseng broth that he held in both hands to hide the shaking.

Zhaoxue sat halfway down the table, and Linxia sat beside her, with a fresh black sleeve tucked over the bandage.

Linxia's thigh pressed against hers under the low table.

Neither of them had mentioned it.

"A toast," Mo Zhenhai said, and rose with a cup.

"To the Silver Stream, which has been a pain in my side for ten years."

A ripple of uneasy laughter ran around the hall.

"I have wasted a decade on a ford toll and a spring neither of us needs.

"I ask pardon, Feng Dehuai, for every letter I wrote in a temper."

He drew a folded red paper out of his sleeve and slid it down the table.

It stopped in front of Master Feng, who unfolded it with his shaking fingers.

"The ford deed," Master Feng said slowly.

"It's yours. The toll is yours. The next time my men cross, they'll pay you in silver, and be glad of it."