The grassland road in early summer was treacherous.
A heavy rain a few days ago had turned the banks of the Black Water Ditch soft and mushy.
From a distance, it looked flat, but when a horse's hoof stepped on it, the muddy water could submerge the pastern. When a wagon wheel pressed into it, half the hub would sink into the muck.
When Uliji escorted the cargo team to the Black Water Ditch, he could no longer suppress his anger.
Eight wagons. The first few, loaded with silk, ironware, and strong liquor, moved slowly but could still be dragged out.
Only the third wagon, carrying boxes of glazed glass, tilted half a foot after its right wheel sank into the mud.
As the wagon bed slanted, the sound of wooden boxes colliding came from the carriage.
"Stop!"
Uliji whipped a herding slave on the back.
"Everyone stop! Whoever pulls blindly again, I'll chop off his feet!"
The draft horses snorted white steam, their four legs trapped in the mud, sinking deeper the more they struggled.
Amur stood at the rear of the wagon, the wound on his shoulder swollen from sweat. The rags had long worn out, and his flesh rubbed against the hemp rope, hurting with every movement.
He looked up at the tilted wagon.
It carried twelve wooden boxes. The outsides were nailed with double-layered wooden boards, the four corners wrapped in cured cowhide, and the seams stuffed with dry grass.
Inside the boxes, there were wool pads. Beneath the wool lay soft cloth, and nestled in the middle of the soft cloth were the glazed cups and bowls.
Along the way, Bayan had people check it three times.
The wooden boxes could be shielded from the rain, but the people could not.
The wooden boxes could be padded with wool, but the people slept on the wet ground.
If a wooden box tilted, the whole team stopped.
If a person fell by the roadside, the cavalry would just let those behind trample over them.
Uliji sat on his horse, looking down and flipping through a leather ledger.
"From Black Water Ditch to the relay station used to be half a day's journey. Now we've delayed for two hours, consumed three extra bundles of fodder, and used half a jar more of axle oil."
He looked up, his anger intensifying.
"If the glazed glass breaks again, who will pay for it?"
A low-ranking cavalryman nearby quickly spoke up.
"Centurion, how about we unload them and carry them over?"
"Carry?"
Uliji backhanded a whip, making the cavalryman shrink his shoulders.
"These boxes are off the wagon bed. If your hand slips and you drop them, can you afford it? Even if you dismantle your whole family's bones and sell them, it wouldn't equal half a cup!"
He turned and pointed at the group of herding slaves.
"You, come here!"
A dozen herding slaves were driven to the edge of the mud pit.
Uliji tapped the tip of his whip under the wheel.
"Get down, stuff your bodies under there, and steady the wagon first."
No one moved.
The wind blew from the ditch, carrying the fishy smell of the muddy water.
Uliji drew his saber half an inch.
"Don't you understand?"
An old herding slave, Bagen, knelt first.
He was old, his back severely hunched, and he always coughed when walking. Last night, when food was distributed, he had given half a hard cheese block to Amur.
Another old herding slave, Khar, also knelt, pressing his hands into the mud.
Amur's throat went dry.
"Grandpa..."
Bagen didn't turn back, only using his shoulder to press against the mud ridge next to the wheel, muttering a curse.
"Don't yell, it's useless."
The cavalry stepped forward and pressed the two old herding slaves down next to the wheel.
The muddy water reached their chests, the wooden wheel pressing against their ribs. When the weight of the wagon bore down, Bagen's back collapsed a bit.
"Pull!"
Uliji cracked his whip.
The four horses in front were whipped into neighing, and the drivers pulled the reins tight.
The wheels creaked and turned, churning the muddy water.
Khar cried out first.
The sound was cut off by the muddy water before it could fully escape.
The wheel rolled over the side of his chest, churning the mud and mixing blood into the grass roots.
Bagen grabbed the grass roots with both hands, trying to shift his body aside. The other wheel had already rolled up.
The sound of bones breaking mixed into the creaking of the axle.
Several herding slaves lowered their heads further.
The wagon finally made it out of the pit.
The glazed glass boxes didn't overturn.
Uliji walked to the back of the wagon, lifted the cowhide to take a look, confirmed the wooden boxes were steady, and then sheathed his saber.
"Record it. Two dead slaves, lost due to road conditions."
The accountant slave wrote in the leather ledger with a charcoal pencil.
Bayan sat on his horse on the slope, draped in a gray fox fur robe, not even dismounting.
He flipped through his own ledger and shouted to Uliji.
"Don't write the names wrong. Khar and Bagen originally belonged to the outer camp transport. Their loss counts for the outer camp, not the cargo team."
Uliji raised a hand.
"Rest assured, Chief Steward."
Khar hadn't died yet, his chest caved in, his fingers clawing at the mud a few times.
Amur wanted to go over and help.
An old herding slave nearby grabbed his sleeve.
"Don't move."
The wheel ruts were filled with bloody water.
The cargo team bypassed them; no one stopped.
The cargo moved on; the people stayed behind.
This was how accounts were settled on the grassland.
By the time they reached the relay station, it was completely dark.
This was the horse-changing point for the Right Wing leading to the Royal Court. A wooden fence enclosed two rows of felt tents. Inside were salt, fodder, record-keeping clerks, and high-level stewards dedicated to inspecting luxury goods.
Amur knelt at the back of the wagon, wrapping his shoulder with a rag.
That patch of flesh had long been chafed raw by the hemp rope, and having been soaked in muddy water last night, the edges had turned white. As the cloth strip tightened, yellow fluid seeped from the seams.
His teeth ached from the pain, but he didn't dare make a sound.
The old herding slave next to him shoved a muddy sheep bone into his hands.
"Take it, gnaw it fast, we'll have to work again soon."
Amur took the sheep bone.
There wasn't much meat on it, and the crevices were filled with grass ash and sand. He wiped it twice with his sleeve, didn't get it clean, but still brought it to his mouth to chew.
As long as it could go into the stomach, it was fine.
The rules on the grassland were always simple.
The Royal Court chose first, then the nobles, the Myriarchs took whole wagons, the Chiliarchs took whole boxes, and the Centurions got the jar openings and cloth remnants.
The low-ranking cavalry could still snatch some leftovers.
By the time it reached the herding slaves, all that was left were bones, dregs, torn waterskins, and spoiled cheese blocks.
If someone died on the road, their rations wouldn't be distributed to others.
The steward would write in the ledger: One dead slave, offset loss by half a measure.
Even dead people could be recorded in the accounts.
Living people, on the other hand, didn't necessarily count.
In the relay station, the escort cavalry, exhausted from the journey, had just parked the wagons when someone noticed that the cracked jar of strong liquor still had half a jar left.
The clay seal was broken, so by rule, it couldn't be sent into the Royal Court; it could only be recorded as a loss.
The low-ranking cavalry crowded around, everyone wanting a sip.
"I pushed the wagon all day, give it to me first!"
"Push my ass! You hid behind the horse when the wagon got stuck!"
"Snatch it again, and I'll chop your hand off!"
Before he finished speaking, the wooden ladle flew out, and the liquor spilled on the ground.
Three cavalrymen pounced on the liquor jar, wrestling.
One drew his saber, slicing a comrade's arm. Blood dripped into the liquor jar. The people around cursed even more fiercely.
Uliji hurried over and kicked the liquor jar over.
The liquor flowed into the mud.
"Do you all want to die?"
The several cavalrymen stopped, panting heavily.
The one with the injured arm still wanted to scoop up the liquor, but Uliji whipped him across the face.
"This jar is recorded as a loss. Whoever touches it again will be dealt with for stealing military supplies."
They didn't dare snatch it anymore, but their eyes remained glued to the liquor in the mud.
Amur crouched not far away, watching the liquor mix with the mud and seep into the grass roots.
Last night, Achou licked a little bit and lost his life.
Tonight, the cavalry fought like this and only got a few lashes.
The same jar of liquor; different people drinking it meant different accounts.
Bayan ignored the fight outside.
He entered the largest felt tent in the relay station.
The high-level steward Erdene sat on a leather cushion, two ledgers laid out before him.
One recorded goods.
One recorded the escort evaluation.
This evaluation was crucial.
If rated "Excellent," the cargo team would have two fewer inspections upon entering the Royal Court, and the rewards would pass through more hands.
If rated "Poor," Uliji would be punished, and Bayan would be scolded by Lord Temur.
Bayan had originally thought about keeping that chipped cup for Lord Temur's principal wife, but two slaves died at the Black Water Ditch, and a jar of strong liquor cracked.
If today's evaluation resulted in a "Poor" rating, let alone entering the inner tents, he wouldn't even be able to keep his seat as an outer camp steward.
As one climbs higher, one must first secure the patch of mud beneath one's feet.
Bayan bowed in greeting, took out the chipped glass cup from his sleeve, and presented it supported by a soft cloth.
"On the journey, one of the cups got a small chip on its rim. It would be unseemly to present it to the main tent, but it would be a pity to leave it in the storehouse."
He offered the soft cloth forward a little.
"The Chief Steward is experienced and knowledgeable; surely you can find a good place for it."
Erdene picked up the glass cup and turned it under the light.
The chipped edge was hidden by the soft cloth, revealing only the translucent body of the cup.
He gave a grunt of acknowledgment.
"Were there any mishaps with the caravan on the road?"
Bayan handed over the ledger.
"A cart got stuck in a mire, and we lost two slaves. The glassware is undamaged, one jar of strong liquor cracked, and all the silk and ironware are fully accounted for."
Erdene flipped through a few pages.
"Whose account are the dead slaves on?"
"The outer camp transport."
"And the liquor?"
"The low-ranking cavalrymen failed to guard it properly; their grain rations for this season will be docked."
Erdene placed the glass cup beside him, picked up a brush, and wrote down the evaluation on the document.
Excellent.
Bayan bowed his head in thanks, took the document, and withdrew.
Outside the tent, Amur had finished gnawing on that piece of sheep bone.
The bone was cracked from his biting, and the little bit of marrow inside had been sucked dry.
A cart-managing servant walked over and nudged his leg with the tip of his boot.
"You outer camp herding slaves don't need to go to the Royal Court anymore."
Amur looked up.
"We don't need to move the goods?"
"The goods are changing carts."
The servant pointed outside the palisade gate.
Four new carriages were parked there.
The bodies were wider, the wheels were iron-clad, and the interiors were lined with thick felt. The horses pulling them had also been swapped for fine steeds with glossy coats.
The chests of glassware were carried over by several inner tent servants.
They wore soft leather gloves, paused every three steps, and there were dedicated people beside the carts to steady the chests.
With those cups and bowls transferred to new carts, their journey would be much smoother.
For Amur and the others, their journey ended here.
"Then where do we go?"
The servant threw a wooden tag at his feet.
"The waystation is short on ditch diggers, fodder carriers, and rut repairers."
He urged:
"You all will stay behind to serve your labor."
Amur picked up the wooden tag.
Branded on it were four words.
Outer Camp Hard Labor.
Before he could speak, Uliji rode past on his horse.
The glassware caravan, now on new carts, followed behind.
Bayan sat beside the second cart, holding the document with the "Excellent" rating. A corner of his gray fox fur robe was lifted by the night breeze.
The wheels turned, the iron plating pressing into the mud, leaving smooth tracks.
Amur stood where he was, the wound on his shoulder beginning to ooze again.
Outside the gate, a horn sounded from the direction of the Royal Court.
The four luxurious carriages traveled far down the north road.
The glassware chests rested securely in the thick felt, with hay, wool, and soft cloth layered one over another, protecting every single cup perfectly.
Inside the gate, the managing servant began roll call.
"Amur."
"Here."
"Khar."
No one answered.
The servant frowned and made a stroke on the ledger.
"Dead slave, deduct half a measure."
He continued reading.
"Bagen."
Still no answer.
Another stroke.
Amur looked down at those two charcoal marks.
With a light stroke, two names were gone.
