The runner came back for his slate and found Pei Jing stirring beef and roots in a pot. Pei Jing gave him the first bowl. The boy wrapped both hands around it without drinking.
“Do I mark a house empty if the old man inside won’t come down?” he asked.
“No. Mark what he needs.”
The boy thought about this. “A cart. He says he won’t leave his wife’s loom.”
“Then find room on a cart.”
When the runner left, Pei Jing pulled his tunic aside. The ridge on his left collarbone was still there. Three Black Tiger men had cornered the boy in the alley behind the grain stalls. The iron toe of a boot had sent him into the gutter. The boy died of shock and cold, and the auditor woke with the ends of the bone grinding against each other.
Decades later, a bronze hammer from the Upper Realm had struck the same spot and bounced. Now the torn piece of the Armored Soul lay against that bone. It ached when he lifted the pot. He ate his stew and let the warmth reach the shoulder before trying again.
