The warm room burned with candlelight, thick with the smell of medicine.
A small wooden table sat atop the large bed, piled high with heavy quilts; several sheets of paper already covered in writing lay upon it. The old man’s hand trembled as he continued writing his letter. After a while, he waved a hand to the side, and the elderly maidservant brought over some water. “Master, you mustn’t…” Her voice carried a note of anxious, choked-back tears.
“It’s all right.”
The water was ginseng broth; after drinking it, the old man’s spirits revived somewhat, and he continued writing. “…There isn’t much time left for me. These letters can secure a few more years of peace for the sons of the Shi family here in Jin territory. It’s all right.”
The old man was over eighty years old, and at present one of the highest-ranking figures in all of Yunzhong Prefecture—among the most honored Han people anywhere in Jin territory. Shi Li’ai. His body had reached its limit—not from any treatable illness or injury, but simply from the frailty of extreme old age, with the mandate of heaven drawing near. This was a trial no man could escape, and he had long since sensed it coming.
His original wife had passed away long ago; though there were concubines in the household, the old man had always treated them merely as diversions, and at a moment like this, he hadn’t summoned any of them to attend him, keeping only the old maidservant who had followed him her whole life, never having married, by his side. That day he had received an urgently transmitted letter from the south, and so had begun writing letters from nightfall onward—not, however, a testament or final arrangements for his family, since his will had long since been written, with no need to leave it for a moment like this.
Once several letters were finished, he sealed each with his seal, addressed the envelopes in his own hand, and sealed them with wax. Only then did he summon several young men of the Shi family waiting outside the room, hand the letters over to them, and instruct them in what needed doing.
At that same hour, at the residence of Xiyin, a good number of people were likewise preparing to set out on a long journey. Chen Wenjun received several groups of visitors in succession in the reception hall, while the brothers Wanyan Dezhong and Wanyan Youyi were inside selecting armor and weapons for the coming expedition; many of the household guards had already changed into travel dress, and the kitchen was working at full tilt to prepare provisions for the road.
In the three months since news of Zonghan’s crushing defeat in the southwest had arrived, the nobility of Yunzhong Prefecture had mostly worn a dark, dispirited air—an atmosphere of gloom that sometimes turned to cruelty, sometimes to hysterical madness—yet the grim truth beneath it all was something no one could escape. Only now, with today’s news arriving, did the small number who’d received it in the city seem to come back to life.
In the preceding period, the defeated Western Route Army returning home had briefly faced off against the forces of Lou Shuwan and Yu Yulin in Jin territory, but before long the two sides had reached a preliminary understanding, allowing the remaining Western Route Army to pass safely through the Central Plains. By now the army had drawn close to Yanmen Pass, though it would still be some time before it reached Yunzhong.
The ordinary night grew ever darker, and around midnight, the sound of gongs and drums signaling a fire broke out in the north of the city, startling a number of people awake, who then drifted back to sleep. By around the hour of Yin, in the pre-dawn darkness, mounted parties began departing one after another from the Shi residence, the Xiyin residence, and various other places across the city.
Wanyan Dezhong and Wanyan Youyi bid farewell to Chen Wenjun, who fussed over them with endless last-minute reminders, and made their way to the assembly ground near Yunzhong’s southern gate to report in. The Shi family’s men had already arrived as well; the brothers went over to greet them and asked after old Master Shi’s health. In the north wind of the early morning, more people continued to arrive, many of them highly distinguished nobles, some, like Wanyan Dezhong and Wanyan Youyi, escorted by household guards, who exchanged greetings upon meeting.
Standing off in a corner was Chief Constable Amuda Lu, who had earned merit some two months earlier for hunting down and executing the Huaxia Army’s highest-ranking intelligence officer in the region—though at this moment, his standing drew no attention whatsoever from anyone present.
The whole company numbered close to two hundred, with even more horses, and before long, once fully assembled, they departed Yunzhong Prefecture under the leadership of a veteran general.
The company left the city still under cover of darkness, riding for over an hour along the relatively easy roads outside the city before the eastern sky began to grow faintly light, at which point they picked up their pace.
For the Jurchens of this age—especially those of rank and status—horsemanship was an essential skill. The company rode on and on, stopping only once along the way to change horses and rest, and did not make camp until nightfall had fully settled. The next day was another forced march, and by that afternoon, while trying their best to keep everyone together, they finally caught up with another company heading northeast.
This company, too, traveled on horseback, flying the banner of Grand Marshal Wanyan Zonghan. The two companies merged into one, and at its head the assembled riders finally saw Wanyan Zonghan himself, his hair entirely white, his frame gaunt and thin, and beside him, equally travel-worn, Xiyin.
This southern campaign had dragged on for two full years; the great army had suffered a crushing defeat in the southwest, and Zonghan’s two accomplished sons, Xiebao and Sheyema, had both died in battle one after the other. At present the main body of the Western Route Army returning home had only just reached Yanmen Pass—few people knew that Zonghan, Xiyin, and the others had already, without pause, pressed on toward the northeast.
Zonghan had fallen gravely ill during the journey home, but had since recovered; though his body had grown gaunt from the illness, his eyes and bearing had already returned entirely to the commanding presence of the grand marshal who had once, with a mere turn of his hand, held half of Jin territory in his grip. Considering the deaths of Sheyema and Xiebao, everyone present couldn’t help but regard him with solemn respect. Once the two companies merged, Zonghan did not slow the army’s pace at all, but rode on ahead while having the Shi family’s sons and others come forward one by one to speak with him.
Wanyan Xiyin had set out with hair already half-grey; by now it had turned entirely white. Together with Zonghan, he received a number of key figures who had come along this time—Amuda Lu and the other petty officials among them not included. That night, once the army had made camp, he finally found time in his tent to ask his two sons about matters at home.
Dezhong and Youyi told him everything about the situation in Yunzhong Prefecture and the household over the recent months. Having lived through so little themselves, they couldn’t help feeling deeply anxious about the many developments following the Western Route Army’s crushing defeat.
“…Earlier, when the Eastern Route Army returned triumphant while we in the west were defeated, plenty of people felt that trouble was surely coming. The merchants passing through the city these days all say Yunzhong is bound to see disaster. Even Zongfu’s people, once they got back, deliberately kept several tens of thousands of troops stationed at Zhangjiakou—people say it’s meant to intimidate Yunzhong, that the blades are already being drawn… Father, why did the Grand Marshal bring so few men on this trip to the capital? If fighting breaks out, and Zongfu and Zongbi presume on their strength to make a move…”
Over the past decade or more, everyone had spoken with great certainty about the rivalry between the Jurchen eastern and western courts, and now, with the Western Route Army’s defeat, most people saw the outcome as already decided, leaving the nobles in Yunzhong Prefecture who favored Zonghan deeply uneasy. Wanyan Dezhong and Wanyan Youyi, who usually served as models of confidence among their clan, projecting strength to the outside world, naturally couldn’t help voicing their doubts once in front of their father.
Xiyin looked at his two sons and shook his head with a smile. “The dispute between the eastern and western courts isn’t something that concerns those below us to resolve. If it were ever to come down to settling things by force of arms, why would we have bothered marching south at all this time? You needn’t worry about matters outside—victory or defeat still hangs in the balance at the level of the court itself. This time concerns the very fate of our Jurchen people, which is why I’ve called you here. You must watch and learn well while we’re at the capital.”
The two young men’s eyes lit up. “So there’s still room for things to turn around?”
“Wrong question,” Xiyin said, still smiling—perhaps tired from the day’s travel, his smile carrying a hint of weariness, though within that weariness a flame still burned. “Whether or not there’s room for things to turn around isn’t what matters. What matters is that so long as we old men haven’t died yet, we won’t be quick to give up. That’s true of me, and it’s true of the Grand Marshal as well.”
He didn’t answer his son’s question directly, but upon hearing these words, both Wanyan Dezhong and Wanyan Youyi straightened their backs, feeling a flame kindle within their hearts. Of course—after everything the Grand Marshal and their father had lived through to arrive at this point, how could a mere setback make them retreat? If men of their age could still stand this firm, what was there for the younger generation to fear?
“Your son understands.”
Wanyan Dezhong bowed solemnly, and Wanyan Youyi received the lesson in silence beside him. Xiyin patted their shoulders, then stood by the tent flap looking out at the sky. “There is, however, something important I do need to tell you—things I saw and learned during this southern campaign. I need to tell you what this so-called Huaxia Army is really like, and just what it was, in the end, that brought about our defeat this time…”
Night fell deeper, and the north wind began to moan. Firelight burned across the camp, flickering in the wind. In many of the tents, people, enduring the day’s exhaustion, were still attending to matters that needed attending to, receiving one visitor after another, discussing whatever needed discussing.
From Yunzhong to the capital at Shangjing Huining lay nearly three thousand li—even at full speed, the journey would take over twenty days. They had already suffered a crushing defeat and lost the initiative, yet, just as Xiyin had said, the fate of the entire Jurchen people now rested on this journey, and no one was willing to give up lightly.
“…The situation at the capital currently stands as follows…”
Waiting on Tang Minjie’s arrangements, Xu Xiaolin remained in Yunzhong Prefecture for two more days. On the eleventh day of the eighth month, in the small courtyard where he was hiding, Tang Minjie gave him a thorough rundown of the intelligence gathered on the Jurchen side—the essential details could be encoded into a secret report, but the broader picture of the situation would simply have to be committed to memory.
“…The Jurchens originally operated under a clan system; choosing an emperor was never as formalized a matter as it is in the south—within the clan, the principle was that the most capable should rise. Though Aguda and his brother Wuqimai have held the throne in succession, in truth, the current upper echelons of the Jin state are, for the most part, all related by blood, tracing back two generations to Aguda’s grandfather, Wanyan Wugunai, from whose line they’ve all branched out.”
“Wanyan Wugunai had many sons; today, three of his lines have proven relatively successful. The most prominent is Wanyan Helibo, father to Aguda and Wuqimai, and it’s this family’s line that now holds the whole realm of Jin. But Helibo’s elder brother, Duke of Han Wanyan Hezhe, had a son named Saga, and Saga’s son is Zonghan—if everyone were so inclined, Zonghan too could become emperor, though at present that looks rather unlikely. Beyond Helibo and Hezhe, there was another brother, Wanyan Hesun, enfeoffed as Duke of Yi. Hesun’s son, Pujianu, you’ve probably heard of—he currently holds the title of Zhabojile in the Jin state, and technically has grounds to claim the throne too, though with so few siblings, his odds aren’t great. Whatever happens, the next emperor of Jin was always expected to come from one of these three branches.”
“Among them, Zonghan was originally the foremost man beneath Aguda, and the one with the strongest claim,” Tang Minjie said. “It’s also an old Jurchen custom that the throne should rotate. When Aguda passed away, by rights the throne should have returned to the senior branch—Hezhe’s line—meaning it should have gone to Zonghan for a turn. I’ve heard this was originally Aguda’s own intention too, but the custom was broken in the end—Aguda’s own group of brothers, along with his eldest son Wanyan Zongwang, wielded enormous influence, and refused to hand over the throne, which eventually passed to Wuqimai instead.”
“There must have been some deal made behind the scenes over this—something to placate Zonghan, a promise that his turn would surely come next. Everyone probably suspects as much in their hearts, and this is where the rivalry between the eastern and western courts originated. But such promises can only be trusted halfway—after all, even if you’re given the chance at the throne, you still need the actual strength to seize it… This fourth southern campaign, most people had originally favored Zonghan to succeed. Unfortunately for him, he ran into us.”
Tang Minjie smiled.
“In the past, to counter Zonghan, Wanyan Aguda’s several sons stuck closely together. His legitimate son Zongjun had little talent to speak of; the most formidable among them in the old days was the ‘God of War’ Wanyan Zongwang, the one man capable of matching Zonghan in strength—unfortunately, he died young. The third son Zongfu and the fourth son Zongbi—the two bastards who led the Eastern Route Army south this time—lacked the standing to match him, so the one they put forward to stand at the front was Aguda’s son by a concubine, Wanyan Zonggan, currently the Hulu Bojile of Jin.”
“As things stand now, with Zonghan defeated and out of the running, and the Pujianu brothers and sisters too few in number, the man with the greatest standing at present is this very Hulu Bojile, Wanyan Zonggan. If he ascends the throne, it would return once more to Aguda’s own line, and Zongfu and Zongbi would certainly settle every score and repay every grudge—Zonghan and Xiyin would then be as good as dead… Of course, there’s another complication in all this as well.”
“In the past, the struggle over the Jin throne has always played out openly and covertly between Aguda’s line and Zonghan’s side. But in recent years, Wuqimai has been maneuvering to secure some power for his own son—his legitimate eldest son, Wanyan Zongpan, was elevated to Bojile himself a few years back. Naturally, neither side took him seriously at the time; compared to men like Zonghan, Zonggan, and Pujianu, Zongpan commanded no popular standing whatsoever, and his elevation to Bojile was seen by most as nothing more than a small indulgence on Wuqimai’s part toward his own son. But over these past two years, it seems the situation has begun to shift somewhat.”
“Taking advantage of the two armies’ southern campaign, and after Wuqimai suffered a stroke, Wanyan Zongpan has been quietly recruiting men and building up his own forces, privately cultivating support and spreading word that Wuqimai’s own son, too, could become emperor. A fair number of opportunists have flocked to his banner over these past two years. Though he still lacks any real advantage compared to men like Zonghan or Zonggan, who’s to say how things will turn out in the end… There’s certainly room to make something of this situation… Of course, up until now it’s always been Manager Lu holding things down at Huining, so I don’t have too detailed a grasp of the finer points myself.”
Yunzhong and Huining, after all, lay a considerable distance apart; in the past Lu Mingfang would come to Yunzhong periodically to exchange information, but even so, the lag in updates remained significant, and there were many details even Tang Minjie couldn’t fully grasp. Having roughly laid out the likely directions of internal strife within the Jin state, he then said, “Also, I hear Zonghan, Xiyin, and the others have left the main army behind and set out ahead for Huining. This upcoming period—Wuqimai’s funeral rites and the gathering at the capital—will be crucial. If we could get them to spill each other’s blood in the streets, that would be the best news we could hope for, no less significant than a major victory on the battlefield.”
As Tang Minjie spoke, he glanced over at Xu Xiaolin, who committed all this to memory with a furrowed brow, then gave a faint, wry smile. “I understand what you’re thinking, but in my own view, it was Manager Lu who knew Huining best of all, and now that he’s been killed, even if we wanted to act, it would be extremely difficult—all the more so given the current situation. Before I set out, the staff department had estimated that the Jurchens’ slaughter of the Han people would likely continue for at least six months to a year, so… we must think, above all, of preserving the lives of our comrades. I haven’t been here long, and it’s not my place to tell you what to do, but this is my own personal view, for what it’s worth.”
“What you say makes sense.”
Tang Minjie nodded, for he wasn’t the sort to argue for argument’s sake among his own people. Given the current situation, everyone’s freedom to act in Yunzhong had grown far more constrained—let alone the situation two thousand li away at Huining, the capital.
Lu Mingfang, you really did die at the worst possible time…
He sighed inwardly.