A Broken Blade

The blade was broken at the midpoint, sheared clean by a weapon Que had not seen clearly because his eyes had been full of blood at the time.

He kept it anyway.

A broken sword kept in a plain scabbard was either poverty or philosophy, and Que was comfortable with people assuming either one. Philosophy started fights. Poverty started fewer.

He came into the town of Redpost from the south road, which was unusual — most travellers came from the north because most travellers had not just walked three days through the Shattermarsh. The gate guard looked at his mud-soaked boots and sword handle and did not ask for papers.

Smart guard.

"Looking for someone?" the guard said.

"Looking for a meal," Que said. "And a debt, if you know a man called Tan Fugou."

The guard's expression changed. "The Tan family owns the mill and three of the four inns."

"I know. That's why I'm here." Que smiled without warmth. "I'm not the first person Fugou has cheated. I've just got the longest memory."