Against the frozen mud of the canal road, the wooden wheels of the supply wagon groaned.
Along both shoulders of the sunken highway, twisted weeping willows leaned into the freezing drizzle like row upon row of hooded mourners.
From their gnarled boughs hung hundreds of fraying white silk ribbons, their hems stiff with dried road-mud and blackened river mold.
Each scrap of silk had been tied there by grieving kinsmen to mark where a conscript or starved refugee had collapsed into the ditches.
Now, under the bitter northern gusts, the banners fluttered with a dry, papery rattle that mimicked the chatter of frozen teeth.
An Ni pulled on the hemp reins. That brought the two mountain mules to a halt before a low, sprawling timber compound.
“White Silk Post-Station,” she said.
Her breath plumed white in the damp chill. Her fingers wrapped was tight around the ash-wood handle of her cold-iron forging hammer.
