The Debt Certificate

Tan Fugou was a large man who had never needed to learn to fight because he had always been able to buy people who would fight for him.

He had four such people currently: two brothers from the Eastern Guard, a former tournament fighter, and a woman who wore her sword the way someone wears a birthmark — like she had forgotten it was there.

It was the woman who noticed Que first.

He was sitting at the inn's corner table eating rice porridge when Tan's retinue came through the door. He didn't look up.

"The wanderer at the corner," the woman said quietly to her employer. "He's been here two days. He doesn't gamble. He doesn't drink. He just eats and looks out the window."

"Probably nobody," Tan said.

"Probably."

Que finished his porridge and set the bowl down neatly.

He did not want to do this in the inn — the owner was a decent person and did not deserve the mess. But Tan Fugou showed no signs of moving to a more convenient location.

Que reached into his coat and placed a folded document on the table.

"Master Tan," he called. "I have a debt certificate here with your seal and signature. Fifteen years old. The original owner is dead. I am his designated heir for collection purposes." He paused. "Would you like to discuss the matter privately, or publicly?"