Xuan was still on his knees when the other three patriarchs reached him. Soot and oil marked their robes. The crossbow guards had begun to pull themselves out of the scree. One held his arm against his ribs and used the other to drag a man clear of the broken gangway.
Pei Jing rested the Astral Bone Blade across his shoulders. He took a sheet of mulberry paper from his satchel and smoothed it on the flat of the blade.
“We’ll settle the account now,” he said.
“What account?” Xuan asked.
Pei Jing wrote with a piece of dry charcoal.
“Four ships came onto the peak without leave. Your guards fired twelve bolts. Your flagship has spilled eighty gallons of spirit oil across the terrace.”
He folded the paper and put it in his pocket. On the other side of the trench, Chen’s hand moved toward his storage ring. Pei Jing looked at him. Chen brought his hand back into sight.
“By the rules you came here to enforce, I could keep all four ships and put their commanders to death. Then sixteen prefectures would spend the winter fighting over your granaries and roads. Here’s what you’ll do instead.”
