"Bring the boar inside!" my father shouted as cart wheels chewed at the dirt. The boar didn't move so much as occupy space. Its bristles were a road's worth of mud and its eyes were small, suspicious rocks. People stepped back, then leaned forward. The market smelled of sweat, soy, and straw, and for once the smell favored us. "Xiaoru, make sure the snout's tied," my father said, all hands and muscle. He was already hauling a rope. He called out to the crowd. "Fresh! One huge boar, fat, enough to feed a month of soldiers." "How much will it fetch?" a woman to the left squawked. She had a basket of green beans and a tongue sharper than most knives. "Whoever carries it gets the smoke," a boy offered with a grin, meaning the buyer would get the butcher's first cuts. I stepped forward, small in cloth patched with old flour, and I put my hands on the boar's flank. It trembled once, then settled. "He eats well," I said. "He has feed enough for two months and a coat thick from cold nights. He'll last." "You selling giant pigs now?" a man in a blue jacket jeered. He'd been sniffing for a chance to lower our price all morning. "You always sell pig like this," another voice said. "One day it's a boar, next it's a mountain." "Speak plain," my father told the hecklers. "We have silver to buy