The Tiancheng Imperial Palace had been newly built upon the ruins of the palace of the preceding dynasty. Old had been torn away and new added, until no trace of the original remained, save for three layers of palace walls. From the mountains beyond Quecheng, they appeared like three concentric rings set inside one another.

The central hall of the palace was called Yuanming Hall. Before it stretched the Guangming Corridor, and when the hundred officials made their morning audience at dawn, it was as though they walked upon a road to heaven. Yet within the hall itself, no “brilliance” could be found. Yuanming Hall was long and narrow; after entering the great doors, one walked a hundred paces before reaching the imperial dais, and those hundred paces had no windows to the side and no skylights above — only luminous pearls to provide illumination. Night or day made no difference; the hall was shadowed as a dreamscape, and those who remained within it long enough began to lose all sense of the passing hours.

At the ministers’ request, the palace eunuchs had placed a great bronze lotus water clock at the center of the hall. But the ministers had not anticipated this: the current emperor was inscrutable by nature and sparing of speech, and whenever the hall fell into silence, the steady dripping of the clock echoed through the vast space like a chanted death knell — deeply unsettling to all present.

At this moment, that was precisely the scene before them.

Drip. Drip.

The water clock’s sound reverberated through Yuanming Hall, weaving together with the relentless rain outside. A hundred officials stood upon the floor like clay figures — no one stirred, no one spoke.

The figure seated upon the high throne had also been silent for a very long time. Heavy layers of bead curtains obscured his face, rendering his gaze all the more impossible to read. He was like a stone idol enshrined in an ancient palace — cold and awe-inspiring.

At last, that voice — so composed it carried no variation at all — rang out through the hall, roughened faintly with disuse.

“Why are my ministers so silent? Have I asked too much of you?”

Too much? This was not merely too much — it was utterly impossible!

The unrest at Bijiang had persisted for over a decade. Since the new emperor’s ascension, he had hardly uttered a word about recovering the lost territory, and now, without any preamble, he was speaking of a three-month deadline. This was trying to take people’s lives!

The ministers fumed inwardly. Cold sweat trailed down their faces, nearly pooling with the sound of the water clock.

Among the whole assembly, only the three men standing at the very front remained visibly unmoved. Xiao Zhun was one of the three.

“This minister requests to make the attempt.”

It was the Qinghuai Marquis again. The assembled ministers breathed a quiet sigh of relief — then felt a creeping unease.

And indeed, from the throne came the emperor’s languid voice. “The General’s loyal devotion is deeply gratifying to me. Yet the peace of the capital region cannot do without the General’s presence. Therefore, the task of pacifying the White Clan rebels must fall to another worthy candidate.”

The silence shattered, replaced by a wave of startled murmuring. A three-month deadline for the return of Bijiang — yet the Grand General himself was not permitted to lead the campaign? The capital’s security was already maintained by the Six Armies. What need was there for the Xiao Zhun — that great figurehead — to remain? What on earth was the emperor thinking?

“We humbly urge His Majesty to reconsider.”

Grand Commandant Xuyou spoke first, and the ministers added their voices in agreement.

Xuanyuan Wang Su Che stood just at Xiao Zhun’s side, yet at this moment he was silent. He was considerably tall — even taller, it seemed, than Xiao Zhun, despite his military bearing — and his hair and beard had begun to show streaks of grey, though his eyes remained sharp as ever.

“Why does my Royal Uncle say nothing? Does he have something to say?”

His Majesty truly had keen eyes — from that distance, he could still catch who had spoken and who had not.

Su Che stepped forward and bowed deeply. “This minister believes that perhaps sending troops to fight may not be the wisest strategy.”

Xuyou, now animated, did not agree. “This minister cannot follow Duke Xuanyuan’s meaning. Surely our soldiers of Tiancheng, having rested and recovered for so many years, cannot be unequal to a mere band of local rebels?”

Duke Xuanyuan’s expression did not change. “Grand Commandant Xuyou is mistaken. When two sides go to war, far more than two sides are entangled in it. If there were truly nothing to fear at our backs, why would the matter of Bijiang have been left to fester for so many years?”

What the Duke of Xuanyuan spoke of was precisely what had weighed on Xiao Zhun all along.

The Tiancheng Dynasty had not yet reached its centennial. Setting aside the threat of Bijiang, it might seem to have no external dangers — yet in truth it was beset on multiple sides. To the east, the Shen Clan of Huozhou held a strategic pass of natural advantage, their allegiance ambiguous. To the north, the Gele’te Plateau was vast and remote, far beyond easy reach. To the southwest, Wancheng had once been the most stable region, but the fall of adjacent Bijiang had left it increasingly precarious.

And the White Clan had chosen Bijiang precisely because of its vast, boundless terrain and complex geography, where a large army might find no advantage — without precise intelligence, a search would become a serious difficulty, and sustained conflict would inevitably follow. Once a great army marched out, the rear of Quecheng would be left dangerously exposed, and even the smallest latent threat could then ignite upheaval throughout the dynasty.

The reigning emperor, of course, knew all of this perfectly well.

“My Royal Uncle speaks truly — but I wonder what brilliant stratagem might resolve this dilemma?”

The burning question was tossed back into the Duke of Xuanyuan’s hands, and the assembled ministers, it being none of their business, settled in to watch the spectacle.

Before Su Che could reply, another voice spoke.

“This minister believes that the unrest at Bijiang has not been a crisis of a single day, and the matter of pacification ought to be considered with great care and deliberation.”

The speaker was a white-faced elderly man with a sparse beard — the third of the three who had been standing at the fore. He was the current Prime Minister, Bai Zhaoyu.

These words gave voice to what all the ministers had been thinking, and throughout the hall there was a flurry of nodding, much like a flock of small birds pecking at grain.

The emperor inclined his body slightly, propped his chin in one hand, and assumed an expression of languid amusement.

“The Prime Minister is mistaken. From the disturbances at Yu’an to the traitor White Clan’s flight into Bijiang, the whole affair took no more than a month. And yet I have given a full three months — an exceedingly generous concession.”

There was something distinctly childish in the logic. Yes, the White Clan’s flight to Bijiang had taken barely a month — but that had been over a decade ago. Even the late emperor had been unable to deal with it, and now, after all these years of festering, the problem had only become more deeply entrenched. It was hardly something that could be treated as a minor disturbance. Yet when the emperor chose to be unreasonable, what could his ministers say? After all was said and done, they had simply grown too accustomed to years of quiet recovery, and now, to suddenly call for battle and bloodshed — no one was quite ready.

Bai Zhaoyu appeared to be nearing seventy. Each sentence cost him a cough or two in between, and he looked like a lamp flame that might be snuffed out by the next passing breeze — yet the words he spoke had iron in them. “What Your Majesty describes was true of those times. More than a decade has since passed, and the situation has greatly changed. It requires careful and considered handling.”

The old Prime Minister’s words drifted out through the air, tremulous and feather-light — like a single plume brushed against the whiskers of a great tiger seated above.

The assembled ministers held their breath, praying that they might simply get through this one difficult day.

The drowsy tiger finally lifted its eyelids. It appeared to be in a passable mood today, and elected, for the moment, to release the flock of nervous sheep cowering beneath it.

“I am well aware of the difficulty this presents for my ministers.”

The assembled ministers exhaled in collective relief — then the emperor’s next words landed without pause.

“Let us say this: a one-month period to start. After that month, I trust each of my valued ministers will find his own way to shine and submit his proposed strategy for pacifying this lingering disorder. Those who are entirely without ideas or ability, I will not force. They need only contribute a portion of grain and funds.”

With that, the figure on the throne rose and strolled away at his leisure, as the eunuch called out in a high voice: “Court is dismissed!”

This was an open threat, plain and unmistakable.

The ministers could only lament, and felt their steps weighed down as they made their way out of the hall.

— ✦ —

The crowds departing from court scattered in twos and threes. Civil officials and military officers each carried their own burdens, and though they knew they were still within the palace walls and could not openly gather and discuss matters, they exchanged meaningful glances as they passed one another. There would likely be no empty private rooms at any of the city’s fine taverns that evening.

Xiao Zhun’s mind was unsettled, and his pace quickened of its own accord. By the time he reached the entrance of Yuanhe Hall, he came face to face with Prime Minister Bai Zhaoyu.

Xiao Zhun raised an eyebrow. He had made straight for this place after court was dismissed. Within the Tiancheng Imperial Palace, running was forbidden for all except those delivering military reports; within the first layer of palace walls, even quick walking was prohibited. So he had simply walked briskly — yet his soldier’s stride was longer than most to begin with. He had not expected the old Prime Minister’s legs to prove considerably more nimble than he looked.

Bai Zhaoyu looked up and saw Xiao Zhun, then lowered his gaze again, coughing twice as he caught his breath. The heavy court robes he wore seemed ready to press the breath out of him.

Xiao Zhun bowed his head in greeting. “Prime Minister.”

Bai Zhaoyu composed himself and returned the salute. “Grand General Xiao.”

Xiao Zhun carried two titles — Qinghuai Marquis, and Grand General of the Cavalry. But in private, court officials preferred to address him as Grand General rather than Qinghuai Marquis.

Qinghuai — “Cherishing Qing.”

Qing was the personal name of the late Prince Shuo, Xiao Qing. The title had been conceived with deliberate care when the emperor bestowed it. It was a name others could say without difficulty, but hearing it in his own ears always brought Xiao Zhun a measure of pain — so except for the man upon the throne, most people simply called him General, or Marquis. Few ever invoked the words “Qinghuai.”

“Is the General here to see His Majesty? What matter has brought you, if I may ask?”

Xiao Zhun paused only a moment before answering directly. “I have come regarding the matter of sending troops to Bijiang.”

Bai Zhaoyu, who had long since refined himself into something like a fox, had only asked as a formality — he had almost certainly guessed the reason long before.

Bai Zhaoyu gave a light cough and looked at Xiao Zhun with an expression that was half a smile and half something else. “I hear the Qinghuai Marquis went to the palace yesterday as well, seeking an audience with His Majesty on this very matter. Did His Majesty grant him a private audience and discuss it with him?”

Xiao Zhun went still at that, and then fell into silence.

He had entered the palace yesterday before the third watch of the night, together with Grand Commandant Xuyou and Military Commander Ma Mengren. Any one of the three would ordinarily warrant a royal audience — let alone all three together.

But the emperor had only called the three of them to wait in a side hall, remaining behind a curtain as he kept them company for roughly an hour, spending most of that time watching them debate among themselves. After an hour, the emperor said no more — yet kept all three of them in the side hall for a meal. By midday, Xuyou and Ma Mengren had each taken their leave, and Xiao Zhun, unwilling to give up, stayed a while longer — only to have a eunuch carry out a puzzle box, with the message that if Xiao Zhun could solve the interlocking mechanism, His Majesty would be willing to meet with him in person.

Puzzle boxes were notoriously intricate, and this particular one was especially troublesome. Xiao Zhun worked at it until night had fallen and still could not solve it. He asked to take it back to the mansion and think it over — only to be told it could not leave the palace. He had no choice but to give it up.

Looking back now, it was clear the emperor had been deliberately making things difficult for him.

“To be candid with the Prime Minister — His Majesty has rarely been willing to discuss the matter of pacification with me face to face of late. Even when it came to the recent feudal unrest, there was no talk of sending troops. Today’s court session was the first chance to raise it in some time, yet even then I was barred from leading the campaign…”

“General.” Bai Zhaoyu interrupted him gently. “What the General speaks of is a decision handed down by His Majesty. Where there is a decision, there is a purpose behind it. A minister’s greatest failing is to question too much; between ruler and subject, the greatest danger is too much suspicion. Does the General not agree?”

Xiao Zhun looked into the old Prime Minister’s bright, steady eyes, and for a brief moment felt as though he were looking at his late father, who had often offered such counsel in the old days. In those times, he had always been high-spirited and proud, and had never been willing to lower his head.

He had changed a great deal since then. Yet whenever this particular matter arose, he still could not bring himself to pretend he did not care.

“Does the Prime Minister know what it means — to have a grievance that cannot be laid to rest?”

Bai Zhaoyu suppressed a quiet sigh, and in the next instant had drawn his gaze away again. “Even a three-year-old child wandering the streets of Quecheng could tell you the General’s heart — how would His Majesty not know it too? The General’s feelings are not difficult to read. But His Majesty’s heart is — and the General would do well to reflect carefully. Ahem — this old minister has an appointment with His Majesty for tea. Would the General care to join?”

Xiao Zhun thought of that puzzle box waiting outside the side hall the other day, and something settled quietly into place within him.

“In that case, I will trouble the Prime Minister to show me the way.”

Bai Zhaoyu glanced at the man beside him — seemingly unaware of a single thought passing through his mind — and smiled pleasantly as he walked on ahead.