Midnight arrived with a thickening of the fog that crept off the Grand Canal. That turned the royal avenues into grey tunnels of cold moisture.
The rain had slackened to a fine mist that coated the tiled roof edges of the Forbidden City with a slick gloss. Along the outer edge walls, torches flared inside iron cages, their flames sputtering against the damp air. Patrols of the Black Feather Guard marched with rhythmic tread, their heavy brigandine armor clinking softly at each step. Yet their vigilance was hollow. Since the sky bell had rung and the white crane had left into the autumn overcast, a pall of fatalism had settled over the royal precinct. Sentries walked with downcast eyes. Their minds already turned to whether their own children would be requisitioned for the five hundred child tribute.
Pei Jing moved through the shadow of the western gallery without disturbing a single pebble.
His boots, crafted from three layers of tanned boar-hide with felt inner soles, made zero sound contact with the paving stones. In the Tendon Stretching stage of his foundation, the plantar muscle tissue and calf muscles acted as nonstop shock absorbers. It drained away downward force before it could transmit through stone. He stayed close to the water drains, slipping from shadow to shadow like a night-hunting beast navigating its hunting grounds.
