"Three hundred and fifty taels," the tavern keeper said, spreading the notes. "Do you accept?" "Three hundred and fifty," Chen Xiaoru repeated, calm and small in her patched coat. "Take it or leave it." "That boar's not worth—" Shou Mo began, fingering a whisker, then stopped because everyone was watching. "Is the boar alive?" a man called from the yard. "Alive," Chen Zhengti answered without looking up from stacking crates. "Strong. Grew on roots, not junk feed." Shou Mo glanced at the boar. It snorted, clean and fat, a dark knot of muscle under coarse hair. He licked his lips and counted the notes again. "Three hundred taels, I'll give you three," he bargained. Xiaoru tilted her head, small eyes narrow. "You said three fifty," she said. "You know what you said." Shou Mo forced a laugh that didn't reach his eyes. "A child with coins. I can raise it to three twenty. Business is business." "Then I'll go find another buyer," Xiaoru said. "You'll do nothing of the sort," a woman near the doorway chimed. "Who else in this market has silver to throw at a pig?" "People who sell dried mushrooms and salt," Shou Mo muttered. "Or the grain miller who thinks everything smells like money." "Do you accept?" Shou Mo repeated, louder, as if the words could change the price. Xiaoru's voice dropped to a level that made people lean in. "You want it. You need it. Bring it to my