By the time the wounded reached the command post, the station kitchen had run out of clean bowls.
Fen stood at the kitchen door with a wooden ladle in one hand and a list of names in the other. Cooks carried pots to the triage area, where Qinghe was sorting the wounded into groups. Those who needed immediate care went to the infirmary. Those who could wait sat on benches with their injuries wrapped and their hands around cups of water.
Yan came in with his hammer over one shoulder. The bruise in his side tugged when he turned, so he placed the weapon against the wall before crossing the narrow kitchen lane.
“Fen, do we have rice for the new guards?” he asked.
“We have grain. We don’t have enough oil, and half the bowls chipped during the fighting.” Fen looked up from her list. “If I serve everyone in a cracked bowl, I’ll hear about it until next winter.”
“I can find more bowls.”
“I don’t need a promise. I need to know what the station can pay.”
Bai Jiu was checking his cart inventory beside the door. He had left the damaged wheel in place and wedged a wooden block under the axle. The cart held several sacks of grain and two jars of oil. “I can sell the oil at the market rate. I have bowls in the next load, but they’re for White Orchard.”
