The courier’s cart entered the council yard with four wagons behind it. The drivers had tied white cloth to their rails, the Registry’s sign for aid cargo. That sign drew a small crowd before the first wheel stopped. Two clinic workers came from the storehouse with empty baskets. One carried a list of patients whose fever medicine had nearly run out; the other had the empty jar wrapped in cloth so it would not chip. A woman from the border watch asked whether the grain was included. A boy asked if the medicine could help his grandmother. No one reached for a crate, but people leaned close enough to read the labels. Ning saw the boy’s grandmother waiting beyond the gate, supported by a neighbor. “We will check it as quickly as we can,” she said. “We won’t give you a guess and call it care.” The boy looked toward the clinic, then nodded and went back to her.
Ning stepped between the lead wagon and the crowd. “Let the team unhitch first. We’ll check the manifest before anything comes down.”
The courier climbed off the seat. His dark coat bore the brass seal of the Registry, dulled by road dust. He held up a tube with a silver cap. “A letter from Heaven Registrar Yan Wuchen, and supplies sent under his authority. Grain, bandages, and rare medicines. The grain is enough for several weeks.”
