The proposition hung in the teahouse air, heavy with the scent of opportunity and danger, long after the man in grey had been swallowed by the river of people. Walking into the fortress of a powerful stranger was a fool's gambit; information was the most valuable currency in this city, and I was bankrupt.

  I caught the eye of the xiǎo'èr the next time he bustled by, gesturing to the empty seat my 'brother' had just vacated.

  "Friend," I said quietly, "a moment of your time?" I slid five copper coins across the table, a handsome sum for a few minutes of conversation.

  The waiter's eyes lit up. With a glance towards his manager, he deftly pocketed the coins and perched on the edge of the seat. "Sir! How can this one help?"

  "My brother," I began, keeping the charade alive, "He mentioned work at the Garden of Serene Thought in the XingNing Ward. I want to be prepared. What can you tell me of the place?"

  At the name, the young man's cheerful demeanor vanished, replaced by a look of profound awe mixed with fear. He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "The Garden of Serene Thought... sir, that is the private residence of Feng Shìláng."

  He paused, as if the name itself had physical weight.

  "Lord Feng," he continued. "He is one of the most powerful men in the Ministry of Rites. They say he is a favorite of the Chancellor himself. He is… very influential."

  The waiter nervously wet his lips. "Everyone in Chang'an knows of Lord Feng. He is famous for two things. First, his taste. They say his garden is a paradise, with rare flowers from the south and strange rocks from the great lakes. His wealth is bottomless." He hesitated, glancing over his shoulder.

  "And the second thing?" I prompted gently.

  "The second thing," he whispered, "is that you do not cross him. Ever. His rise to power was… swift. Men who were once his rivals had… accidents. Nothing can ever be traced back, of course. People are afraid of him." He gave me a knowing look. "The men who guard his estate are not city guards. They are his private retainers, loyal only to him. Common folk call them 'Feng's Wolves'. The people who work there are paid more than they could dream of. But they belong to the estate. You don't just quit a job with Lord Feng."

  The picture he painted was terrifyingly clear. Lord Feng was a ruthless wolf cloaked in the silks of a high-ranking official.

  "It is a golden ladder, sir," the waiter said, his voice now barely audible. "But the rungs are made of swords. Once you start climbing, you cannot get off." He bowed low and scurried away, leaving me with my now-cold tea and a stark choice.

  To refuse was to remain a ghost, scrounging for coins and sleeping in shared rooms, always looking over my shoulder. To accept was to trade the freedom of anonymity for a gilded cage.

  Did I really have a choice? Would the grey man even hesitate to report my actions if I didn’t show up? He certainly could find me again.

  I chose the cage.

  I spent a sleepless evening in the Wayfarer's Rest. Given the opportunity to rest, a deep sense of loss began to settle in. My fiancée was not waiting for me after a long day any longer and it began to dawn on me I might never see her again. I had no idea how I got here in the first place. I had no frame of reference for what her experience might be. Did time still flow for her? Would everything we held dear disappear the moment the butterfly effect of my presence here began to spread through history?

  And what of my parents and friends? I supposed they'd manage without me, but I'd have no way of knowing if I'd just… disappeared without a trace.

  The room was cold, but my heart felt colder still.

  The walk from the West Market to the XingNing Ward the next morning was a lesson in the city's social geography. The character of Chang'an transformed with every block. The chaotic, vibrant energy of the international market gave way to a stately, ordered calm. The streets grew wider, cleaner, and were lined with weeping willows. The noisy, open-fronted shops were replaced by the high, forbidding walls of private estates. I saw fewer merchants and laborers, and more officials in flowing silk robes, accompanied by retinues of servants. Luxurious sedan chairs, carried by sweating porters, glided past, their occupants hidden behind silk curtains. This was where the real power of the empire resided, hidden from the grime of the common world.

  After nearly an hour, I found it. The Garden of Serene Thought. The name, written in elegant calligraphy on a plaque of dark wood, was an understatement. The estate was a fortress. Its walls were ten feet high, built of sturdy grey brick. The northern gate was a marvel of black lacquer and heavy bronze fittings, polished to a dull gleam.

  And then there were the guards.

  They were exactly as the waiter had described. Two of them stood perfectly still on either side of the gate, each armed with a straight dāo with a gleaming polished sheath at his hip. Their black lamellar armor was immaculate, their posture ramrod straight. Their eyes were cold, alert, and constantly scanning the street. These were indeed wolves watching over their master's den.

  I found a spot across the street and watched. A well-to-do merchant approached the gate, bowing and attempting to hand a servant a scroll. One of the guards stepped forward, a silent, impassable wall. He spoke a few quiet words. The merchant protested, but seemed to shrink under the guard's unwavering stare, bowing hastily and scurrying away. There was no argument, no room for a bribe.

  A bribe would be an insult. Taking a steadying breath, I stepped into the street. As I approached, both guards locked their eyes onto me, the intensity of their focus a physical pressure. I stopped ten feet away and gave a formal bow, my hands clasped before me.

  "The winter plum blossoms, awaiting the spring breeze," I said, my voice clear and steady, but soft enough so others might not overhear. "I'm here to see Steward Feng."

  The guard on the right gave a barely perceptible nod. The overt hostility receded, replaced by a cold, professional efficiency. He turned without a word and disappeared through a small door set into the larger gate. A minute later, I heard a heavy bar being lifted, and the door opened again. He gestured for me to enter.

  I stepped across the threshold, out of the public world and into a spartan stone courtyard. The man in grey who had followed me, I guessed he must be Steward Feng, stood in the center. He had changed from his non-descript robes into a fine, dark blue silk tunic befitting his station, his posture infused with an undisguised authority.

  "You are the one," he said. It was not a question. "Follow me. Lord Feng will see you now."

  I gave a formal bow and fell into step behind him. I tried to move with a measured, confident grace, my head held high, my eyes taking in my surroundings with quiet curiosity. I was playing the part of a confident scholar even if my clothing did not play the part. I supposed a downtrodden scholar was common enough.

  The transformation from the spartan courtyard to the garden proper was breathtaking. We followed a winding path of smooth river stones set in a sea of perfectly raked white gravel. To my left, a cluster of strangely twisted and hollowed rocks rose from a bed of dark green moss. To my right, a stream gurgled, its banks lined with miniature bamboo and flowers of unnaturally vibrant colors. The air was fragrant with pine and unknown blossoms, the silence profound, almost unnerving. Other figures, guards standing like statues in the shadows, gardeners pulling weeds with meticulous care, moved with a reverence that bordered on fear.

  Steward Feng led me to a large, tranquil pond. In its center, connected to the shore by a graceful zigzagging bridge, was an open-sided pavilion. Inside, a man stood at a tall table, a brush in hand, his back to me. The steward stopped at the bridge and bowed his head, indicating I should proceed alone.

  The man in the pavilion was in his fifties, slender and dressed in a simple but exquisitely tailored robe of deep indigo silk. He remained focused on the large sheet of rice paper before him, and with a final, fluid stroke, he completed a large, complex character. Only then did he place his brush on a jade rest.

  My mind wandered briefly before my focus returned. My fiancée used to practice calligraphy as well. I recognized that the character he was practicing was "勢", rather fitting for an official like him. Part of me worried he'd test me on my brushwork. I knew for a fact I was awful at it.

  I stopped a respectful ten paces away and performed a deep, formal bow.

  "Zhang Rulin pays his respects to Lord Feng."

  The man, Lord Feng, finally turned. His face was narrow and pale, with a silky beard and long, elegant fingers stained with ink. He was not physically imposing, he had to look up to meet my eyeline, but it felt as if he was looking down on me. His eyes were like chips of obsidian, calm, ancient, and possessing a terrifying intelligence. He studied me for a long moment as I remained bowed.

  "Rise," he said at last. His voice was soft and cultured, carrying easily across the pavilion.

  I straightened, meeting his gaze without insolence. Lord Feng gestured to the giant, multi-colored carp swimming lazily in the pond below.

  "My steward tells me you are a man of rare and… direct talents," he said, a small, knowing smile on his lips. "Yet, you present yourself as a scholar. Your etiquette is excellent. Your name, Rulin, 'Like a Forest', suggests a wealth of knowledge. A fascinating contradiction." He turned his full attention to me. "Tell me, Zhang Rulin… what sort of skills grow in this forest of yours?"

  I bowed my head slightly. "This humble one's martial skill is unremarkable, but I am well-read, skilled in mathematics, and understand the art of war."

  The humility was a stark contrast to my confident posture, a statement felt so blatantly false it became a form of etiquette. Lord Feng's smile widened into a mirthless grin.

  "'Unremarkable'?" he repeated. "Steward Feng's report on the events in the West Market alley would suggest otherwise. But modesty is a virtue, Scholar Zhang… however misplaced." He dismissed my fighting prowess with a wave of his hand. I was still troubled by when and how it was he'd noticed me, and where he watched my little incident from.

  "To have read ten thousand scrolls… to understand the art of war… and mathematics." He savored the last word. "Now those are skills of a rarer and more valuable kind. Any bandit chief can hire a strong arm. A discerning mind, however, is a treasure."

  He began to walk slowly around the pavilion, circling me. "Let us engage in a small thought experiment. A test for this mind of yours." He stopped, his eyes gleaming.

  "Imagine a frontier garrison of 5,000 soldiers. The nearest supply depot is 300 lǐ away." A lǐ is a Chinese half-mile, about 500 meters. "A supply cart can travel 60 lǐ per day, so a round trip takes ten days. Each soldier consumes one unit of grain per day. The cart's driver and ox also consume one unit of grain per day each. Each cart can carry a maximum of 200 units of grain."

  He fixed me with his sharp gaze. "To meet the garrison's daily needs over a ten-day period, how many carts must depart from the depot at the start? Show me the forest of your thoughts."

  I processed the question, recognizing it as a relatively straightforward problem of cascading losses. It would hardly be impressive to answer it correctly, even with mental math involved. "Lord Feng," I began, my tone respectful but firm, "the question has two answers: the answer on paper, and the answer in the real world."

  I started with the simpler calculation. "Each cart carries 200 units but its driver and ox consume 20 on the ten-day journey. Its net delivery is 180 units. To deliver the required 50,000 units, a clerk in the capital would dispatch 278 carts."

  Lord Feng's expression remained neutral, but his eyes narrowed. He was listening and anticipating a more interesting answer.

  "However," I pressed on, "the real world is not so neat and a convoy will suffer losses. We must assume ten percent for spoilage and pests. Another ten percent, on a dangerous frontier road, is a conservative estimate for losses to banditry."

  The bold phrase hung in the air.

  "That reduces the practical delivery of each cart to 145 units. Furthermore, an unprotected convoy is an invitation to disaster. A single guard per cart is a minimal defense. That guard must also eat for ten days, consuming another 20 units of grain, drawn from the cart he protects."

  "A guard who eats as much as a man and an ox?" Lord Feng raised an eyebrow. "That must be quite the appetite."

  "Certainly," I agreed, and I noticed the flicker of surprise on his face. "Though I'd suspect the bulk of that grain could be saved given better enforcement, but then who would enforce the enforcers?"

  Lord Feng nodded quietly.

  I delivered my conclusion. "When you account for the realities of the road, the true delivery of each cart is closer to 125 units. To ensure the garrison receives its 50,000 units, you would need to dispatch no fewer than 400 carts. Anything less would be a gamble with the lives of 5,000 men at stake."

  The pavilion was silent. After a long moment, Lord Feng let out a short, sharp laugh, a sound not of mirth, but of some satisfaction.

  "Good," he said quietly. "It was a simple question, but I have directors who would have given me the clerk's answer."

  He stroked his beard as he thought, his face broke into a smile that belonged to a man who had found an exciting new TV show. He turned to the Steward who had been watching from the corner of the room.

  “What are your thoughts Steward?” Lord Feng asked, in the manner of a manager asking his subordinate to confirm what he already knew.

  The Steward bowed deeply. "I think Scholar Zhang has his merits." He emphasized the word Scholar. The Steward then lifted his head slightly, his cold, piercing eyes looked up into my own. "His martial skills aside, he realised he was being followed and took steps to deal with that. He is not a scholar lost in the classics nor does he appear to have other ties I could identify. It would be a shame for such a…useful man, to be relegated to the role of a guard, as I had initially suggested."

  "Then you will not be a guard," Lord Feng declared, nodding. "You will be an aide. You will serve me directly." He turned away, the audience concluded. "Steward Feng will see to his needs. See that he is quartered in the Eastern Wing and given appropriate attire. I will have need of him by week's end."

  Steward Feng bowed deeply to his master, then turned to me and I couldn't tell if he was pleased by the result or not. "This way," he said, his voice crisp. "Your current clothes are… insufficient."

  "Thank you, my lord, for your favor," I murmured, bowing one last time to Lord Feng's back. He gave a final, satisfied nod before turning back to his calligraphy table, dismissing me from his presence as completely as if I had vanished into thin air.

  So ended the admittedly short life of a nameless wanderer. I was now a piece on a powerful man's board.