"Meat!" I shouted down from the second-story window and threw the first strip.
"Meat! Meat! Meat!" the alley answered like a bell.
"That's enough to make a soldier forget his orders," Caibai said at my shoulder, voice dry and loud enough to reach the carts. He held his own strip of pork between thumb and forefinger and pinched it like a man checking the weight on a scale.
"Then let them forget," I said. I tossed another piece and watched a dog snap it out of a boy's hand. The boy cursed and laughed at once. The noise did my work for me.
"They'll crush each other," Caibai said. "Perfect."
"Good," I said. "Shout rebel. Shout northern army. Say Prince Qiu's men cut off the rations."
A woman below pointed at the militia line by the gate and hollered, "They say the northern rebels—"
"Rebels!" someone else shouted. The word rolled down the street and grew teeth.
"Soldiers!" a man in a musty coat cried. "Soldiers, there are soldiers!"
I leaned over and let the next strip fall slow, like a prize. The crowd surged, not towards the meat but towards the gate where the soldiers stood uneasy and thin. Soldiers are taught to hold the line. They are not taught to hold hunger.
"Caibai," I whispered. "Now. Spread it. Daxiong waits at the gate."
He nodded and vanished down the stairs, slipping through people with the quiet of a man used to pockets and
