The cypress incense burning in the bronze censer of the Pei Clan Ancestral Hall was meant to soothe the nerves. But the air inside was thick with acrid panic.
Second Uncle Pei Zhide stood beside the redwood meeting table. His ebony counting frame shook in his hands, his face the color of spoiled curd.
“You can’t send this!” Zhide shouted, his voice cracking into a shrill falsetto. “Jing’er, listen to your elders! Zhao Cangshan isn’t a river pirate like Hu Biao! He has practiced the Iron Sand Palm for forty years! He reached the Marrow Washing Middle Stage a decade ago! He has crushed solid granite blocks into dust with his bare hands! If you insult him with a demand for dock-wait, he will summon his fifty private pugilists and turn this compound into an ash heap!”
Third Elder Shouzheng nodded wildly, his hands clutching the arms of his carved chair. “A banquet invitation from a patriarch is a formal grace. Even if there are crossbows hidden behind the screens, we should send three barrels of refined iron, ten jars of vintage wine. A polite letter pleading illness! That’s how merchant clans survive!”
Pei Jing didn’t look up from the writing desk.
