Chapter 63 | Bitter Medicine

"Young Master... don’t open that."

Xu’s thumb stopped against the clay stopper.

Qing’er stood close to his left side, her face still turned toward the little jar in his hand. The faint smile she’d worn a moment ago was gone. Behind her, the tournament grounds carried on as if nothing had changed. Someone shouted from a distant platform. A bell answered. Sandals scraped over stone near the guest rail.

Xu lowered the jar instead of breaking the thread.

"What did you smell?"

Qing’er hesitated, not from uncertainty this time. She leaned closer, drew a careful breath near the sealed stopper, then straightened.

"Something bitter. Medicinal." Her brows pinched. "But it shouldn’t smell like that. Not for a simple recovery salve."

Feng’s easy expression faded. Lin glanced from Qing’er to the jar.

Xu turned the clay vessel between his fingers. The thread was still tight around the stopper, exactly as it had been when the attendant handed it to him.

"Can you tell without opening it?"

"Not enough to tell you what it is." Qing’er looked up at him. Her voice had lost most of its shyness. "Enough to ask you not to use it."

That was enough for him too.

"Medicine Hall."

Qing’er blinked. "Now?"

"Now."

Feng pushed away from the rail. "I’ll come. If someone sent the wrong jar through the tournament, I’d like to know whose hands it crossed."

Lin’s gaze sharpened. "And I assume you’re going to remember that crossing a hand isn’t the same as owning it."

Feng gave her a thin smile. "I can manage the distinction. Most days."

Xu started toward the lower path. "Come on."

Qing’er hurried after him, medical box already in her arms.

The Medicine Hall side court smelled of boiled cloth, crushed herbs, and sun-warmed stone. Attendants were sorting jars beneath a narrow awning. An older man looked up when Xu approached, then recognized the tournament token at his belt and straightened.

"Something wrong with the salve?"

Xu held it out to Qing’er, not the attendant.

She accepted the jar with care. The original thread still crossed the stopper.

"This came from the recovery attendants after his bout," Qing’er said. "Do you have today’s ordinary recovery salve?"

The attendant frowned. "Of course. Same jars we’ve been issuing since morning."

He reached beneath the counter and set down another clay vessel.

Qing’er placed Xu’s jar beside it. For a moment she only looked. Then she touched the thread around Xu’s jar and glanced at him.

"Still sealed."

"Open it."

She nodded.

The thread snapped under the small blade from her medical box. Qing’er kept the broken length beside the jar instead of letting it fall. She lifted the stopper and immediately went still.

Feng, standing across the counter, watched her face rather than the salve.

"That bad?" she asked.

"Different."

The attendant opened the Medicine Hall jar. "This is ours. Filled from the same stock used today."

Qing’er didn’t answer him at once. She tipped a trace from each jar onto separate pieces of clean cloth and rubbed the mixtures between thumb and forefinger. Spread thin, the suspect paste looked duller than the Medicine Hall stock. She brought both cloths close enough to smell.

She worked quickly.

She pushed the suspect jar away from Xu.

"They’re not the same."

The attendant’s mouth opened. "What?"

Qing’er looked at Xu instead. "This isn’t the same mixture. The scent is wrong." She touched the cloth again, lips tightening. "And it leaves a heavy residue the proper salve doesn’t. I can’t tell you who changed it, and I won’t guess at the exact mixture without more work. But this isn’t the recovery salve they’re handing out today."

Xu’s eyes dropped to the open jar.

Nothing about it looked dramatic. No smoke. No strange light. Just a dull paste in a clay cup.

If Qing’er hadn’t caught the scent, he would have had no reason to question it.

"Tianlong... don’t use it," Qing’er said quietly.

The name came out softer than her medical tone. She seemed to realize it a heartbeat later and lowered her eyes, but she didn’t take the words back.

"I wasn’t planning to."

A little color returned to her cheeks.

Feng tapped a nail against the counter. "Who put it on the recovery tray?"

The attendant looked at her. "I don’t know."

"Then who took the tray from here?"

"Runners. We stack the issued stock at the side table. They carry it to the bout stations."

"All of them?"

"Whoever is assigned."

Feng’s smile held no warmth. "That’s almost an answer."

The attendant bristled. "It’s the answer I have."

Xu cut in before the exchange hardened. "Show us the handoff point."

The attendant exhaled through his nose. "Fine."

Qing’er resealed the suspect jar with its stopper, but the original thread was already broken. She folded that thread into a small square of cloth and kept it beside the jar in her box. The Medicine Hall comparison jar remained on the counter.

Xu didn’t touch either again.

The side-court runner desk was only a short walk around the same building. A wooden board hung above it, crowded with slips for food, water, medicine, and platform supplies. The young runner Feng finally found there looked as if he wanted to become part of the wall.

"I carried recovery trays," he said. "That doesn’t mean I filled them."

Feng leaned against the desk. "Nobody said you did."

"You looked at me like you did."

"I look at everyone like this."

The runner swallowed. "That’s not helping."

A faint laugh escaped Feng’s nose.

Xu let the silence stretch.

The young man glanced at him, then at the sword on his left hip. Xu hadn’t touched the hilt. He didn’t need to.

"I picked up a tray from the side table after the west-platform bouts started," the runner said at last. "There were recovery jars, wraps, water. Normal things. I took the west side. Another runner took the east."

"Who set down your tray?" Feng asked.

"I don’t know. Medicine Hall people, probably."

"Probably?"

"I wasn’t watching them fill it. I was told to collect it."

"By who?"

He rubbed the heel of his palm against his robe. "A desk attendant. I don’t remember which one. There were people coming and going all morning."

Feng’s eyes narrowed, but she didn’t press the same question again.

"Where did you leave the tray?"

"Recovery table beside the west lanes."

"Did anyone touch it on the way?"

"Not that I saw."

"Did you leave it alone?"

"For a little while." His jaw tightened before Feng could ask. "I had to carry water to a judge. The tray was still there when I came back."

That was new.

Xu watched the runner’s face. Fear, yes. Defensiveness. No clean path from either to guilt.

’A gap. Not an answer.’

"How long?" Xu asked.

"Not long. I... I don’t know."

Feng glanced at the supply board. "And the jars are paid through this desk?"

"Some stock is Medicine Hall. Some comes through outside suppliers when the tournament orders extra."

"Which was this?"

The runner looked toward the attendant who had followed them. "You’d have to check the payment slips."

The older attendant frowned at the crowded board. "Today’s copies are mixed with the supplier receipts. The clerk who settles them has already gone to the upper court."

"When is he back?" Xu asked.

"Morning."

Feng sighed. "Of course."

"You can tear the whole desk apart if you want," the attendant said, irritation creeping into his voice, "but most of those marks won’t mean anything without the clerk who wrote them."

"Then we don’t tear it apart," Xu said.

Feng looked at him.

"We have the jar. We know where it passed. Morning gives us the record."

The runner’s shoulders lowered by a fraction.

Feng noticed. Her mouth curved.

"Don’t look so relieved. I may still have more questions tomorrow."

"Wonderful."

"See? We’re becoming friends."

The runner stared at her.

Xu turned away before Feng enjoyed herself too much.

By late afternoon, the desk had given them nothing more. The unattended tray was a gap, but it didn’t name the hand that had changed the jar. No amount of staring at the runner fixed that.

So Xu stopped.

The tournament would still be there tomorrow. The jar would still be in Qing’er’s box. An accusation made early would only teach whoever had done it which part of the chain Xu had found.

Evening settled over the guest courts with a cool breeze off the mountain.

Lin had already sorted the next day’s tournament notices when Xu returned to the lower courtyard. Ruoxue sat beneath the covered walkway with a cup of tea. Qing’er had taken her medical box west to secure the suspect jar with her other supplies.

Feng came in behind Xu and rolled a shoulder. "The runner is either exactly what he looks like, or he’s a much better liar than his face deserves."

"Which is it?" Lin asked.

"Ask me when the clerk comes back." Feng exhaled through her nose, then looked at Xu. Her half-smile faded. When she spoke again, her voice was lower. "Tianlong..."

"Yes, Lianzhu?"