Hu Shui leaned back into the cushion seat of the carriage she had found. Said carriage was white.Not off-white, not cream, not "white-adjacent" like the robes Long Ti had tried to pass off as presentable before Shui rejected them and made him find better ones. This was white. Blinding, aggressive, sun reflecting everywhere, brighten the streets, confrontational white. The kind of white that existed solely to make everything around it look dirty by comparison. Four horses pulled it, each one groomed to a mirror sheen that reflected the slum buildings they passed through like a moving accusation against the entire district's aesthetic choices… Also equally white and pristine. Shui had found the carriage in the Gilded Knives' storage basement, stolen from a noble family a few years ago and kept as a trophy.She'd requisitioned it. That was the word Long Ti used. Requisitioned.Shui preferred liberated.The interior was lined with silk cushions dyed a deep crimson that clashed magnificently with the exterior. Gold filigree traced patterns across the ceiling that depicted scenes of mythological battles between creatures she didn't recognize and didn't care about. A small table bolted to the floor held a tea set that rattled with every bump in the road, each piece painted with tiny phoenixes whose expressions suggested they were deeply uncomfortable with their current employment.Shui sat in the centre of the rear bench with her legs crossed and her chin tilted at the exact angle she'd copied from Ancestor when he wanted people to understand that their existence was being tolerated rather than enjoyed.Mr. Mo Mo rested across her lap.Around her, packed into the carriage like expensive sardines in a very expensive tin, sat nine gang leaders who had been told to dress well and behave or face consequences that Shui had left deliberately vague. The old beggar (...)