Bai Jiu waited behind the dry herb shed with a sack balanced on one shoulder. Red cord bound the mouth in a double knot. He had set it down on a crate rather than carry it into the main yard.
“You’ve started hiding your deliveries,” Yan said.
“I’m hiding them from the rain. The guild roof leaks over the west stall.” Bai tapped the sack. “This holds the things respectable buyers refuse: cracked pills, faded labels, and a jar of powder no one can name.”
“Then why bring it here?”
“I remember that you ask questions before you pay.”
Yan loosened the cord and turned the mouth of the sack toward himself. A dozen paper packets had been tucked into the folds. Most were crushed or water-stained. At the bottom, wrapped twice in a scrap of oilcloth, rested a cloudy glass jar with a blank lid. He left it where it was.
“Not that one,” he said.
“I wasn’t offering it as medicine.” Bai crouched beside him. “I don’t know what it is. I’m only telling you it came in with the rejects.”
“Keep it wrapped and don’t put it beside the pills.”
Bai retied the oilcloth and set the jar on the far side of the crate. They spread the packets on the bench, sorting those with broken seals from the ones still closed. Yan inspected each label against the courier tags. Two had intact seals, clear source marks, and listed ingredients. One bore an Ashfall Guild storeroom stamp and a weak qi benefit. Its warning said a user might tremble after taking it.
The other package had a faded batch number. The seal looked intact, but the source tag named only a market stall that had closed last winter.
“Those aren’t the same kind of uncertainty,” Yan said.
Bai leaned over the faded tag. “The pill itself is sealed.”
“The source can’t be checked. We leave it.”
Bai slid it back into the sack. “The guild-stamped one is sound, then?”
“It has a traceable route. That doesn’t mean it’s a general remedy.”
“What does the warning say?”
“Tremor.” Yan checked the dosing slip. “I can test one measured dose after my shift. I won’t sell it to anyone as a solution for shaking.”
“Fair.” Bai named the courier fee. Yan paid it before taking the pill. Bai entered the amount in his route book, then wrote the source tag and batch number beside it. Yan copied those details into his own reject map and folded the receipt around the packet.
By the time Yan finished work, the afternoon heat had settled into the shed. He washed his hands, sat on a low stool, and drank water before opening the package. The pill smelled faintly of roasted grain. He read the slip again, measured the dose, and swallowed it with a mouthful from his cup.
Qi gathered in his dantian, modest and steady. The listed tremor came a few breaths later. His fingers quivered once against the cup. He set it down and watched his hand. The vibration changed into a smoother hold. His grip steadied without effort, while the ordinary warmth of the pill remained in his abdomen.
A silent notice named the retained qi and the reversal of the cultivation-linked tremor. Yan waited several more minutes. The steadier grip lasted, but he felt no sudden force or urge to test it.
Bai came around the shed carrying a walnut. “You’re still sitting. Should I assume the pill failed?”
“It did what the slip said, then the tremor changed.” Yan held out his hand. “Give me that.”
Bai dropped the walnut into his palm. Yan pressed his thumb against the seam and cracked the shell with a clean twist. The kernel remained whole. He offered Bai one half of the nut and kept the other.
Bai took it. “That is a very expensive way to open a snack.”
“It was your demonstration request.”
“I asked you to show steadiness, not to make me hungry.”
A worker passing with a basket slowed at the sound of the shell. “Are you selling those?”
Bai glanced at the labeled packet, then at Yan. “We have one tested dose and one route record. We are not selling this as a cure.”
The worker examined the tag. “It says tremor. Would it help my mother’s hands?”
Yan rested the walnut half in his palm. “I can only tell you what happened to me. I felt the pill’s qi benefit. The tremor changed into a steadier grip for me. That doesn’t establish what it will do for your mother, and it isn’t a general treatment.”
The worker looked at the ingredient list. “I’ll ask the infirmary before I buy anything.”
“That’s sensible,” Bai said. “If you want the source written down, I can show you the route tag.”
The worker asked to see the batch mark once more. Bai held the packet open without breaking its seal and pointed out where the guild stamp matched the line in his courier book. The worker copied the number onto a scrap of his own. He asked whether Bai would hold the packet until the infirmary answered.
“I can’t promise the stock will wait,” Bai said, “but I can write down who asked and when.”
“Do that. I don’t want to forget which batch it was.”
Bai made a short entry and gave the worker the number. No sale changed hands. The man tucked the scrap into his sleeve and continued toward the yard, now looking at the packet as something to ask about rather than a quick fix for his mother.
Bai ate the walnut half and brushed crumbs from his sleeve.
“You could have made a sale,” he said.
“Not one I could explain.”
Bai checked the route book. “The storeroom stamp should make the next delivery easier to trace. I’ll ask the clerk if this batch came from a returned order or a damaged box.”
“Ask before you bring more.”
“I know. You’ll inspect the cord next.”
Bai pulled out the receipt and compared it with his entry. The courier fee had been paid even though Yan bought only one packet, just as they had agreed. Bai had penciled a small mark beside the fee, then rubbed it away with his thumb.
“Was that a discount?” Yan asked.
“No. I was thinking I should have charged more for the detour.”
“You carried it across the yard.”
“I also spent the morning checking which packets were intact.”
“Then put the time in your book and charge the next run fairly. Don’t hide it inside a pill price.”
Bai looked at him. “You’re very particular about my books for someone who buys one dose at a time.”
“It helps me know what I paid for.”
Bai restored the small mark and wrote “sorting” next to it. “There. Now when I complain about the fee, you can point to the entry.”
“I will.”
Yan smiled. “Only if the cord has a label.”
Bai retied the sack. The blank jar stayed wrapped apart from the tagged packets. He marked it in his book as unidentified and not offered for use. Yan kept the tested wrapper and the route tag together in his reject map. He had gained a little qi, and his fingers now held steady around the remaining walnut. Before leaving the shed, he gave Bai the better half.
“You cracked it,” Bai said.
“You carried the sack.”
Bai accepted the trade and took his red-cord bundle toward the gate. Yan watched him keep the wrapped jar away from the pill packets, then tucked his notes beneath his arm and went back to finish the day’s count.