Houses stood like a forest, eaves overlapping upon eaves; in the darkness, the scattered lights among the city’s dwellings gathered into a spreading river of fire, tracing out, crisscrossing, the shape of Bianjing in this night at summer’s end and autumn’s beginning.

Mealtime had long since passed, yet even in the deep of night, the bustle of Bianjing showed not the slightest sign of dying down. Having stood for nearly two hundred years, Bianjing was, without question, the true heart of the Wu Dynasty, drawing merchants and travelers from across the realm, connected to every corner of the empire. Countless travelers and merchants passed through here daily, moving north and south; the imperial examinations, held every year or every few years, gathered the realm’s talents and scholars here as well, and here too was concentrated the greatest concentration of powerful officials in the entire empire, encircling the emperor’s throne, governing the workings of the whole realm.

Since the Sui and Tang dynasties, commerce had gradually flourished, curfews had been abolished, and the city had become essentially a place without night—even in the quietest hours before dawn, a great swath of lights still burned at its center. And now, in the tail end of the dog days of summer, the heat kept the city’s people from retiring early all the more. Along the roadsides, in small courtyards, among the pleasure houses, in teahouses, people dotted the scene quietly or noisily amid the sultry air—a picture at once prosperous and at ease.

The fighting in the north had not disrupted this city’s rhythm in the least. Whatever actions the court took stirred little real disturbance within the city itself. The movement of troops, the transport of supplies—all of it proceeded quietly beneath some vast, overarching momentum, as though everyone could sense the activity underway without truly understanding its inner workings. At most, it gave certain well-informed people something extra to gossip about as though they’d witnessed it firsthand, or occasionally prompted merchants gathered in Bianjing to discuss the prospects for trading northward—but there was little real tension or anxiety in the air. The brothels, wine houses, and teahouses remained as lively as ever, and the poetry composed at gatherings of scholars and literati carried the same confident, spirited tone of a nation at peace—proof enough, in its own way, of the general mood.

Toward the city’s center, beside the imperial palace, the plaque for the Right Chancellor’s residence had only just recently been hung. It was a mansion of some age, unostentatious yet dignified in its layout, with a deep sense of gravity to it. This had originally been Qin family property; when Qin Siyuan had left office eight years before, the house had been sold off, changing hands twice more over those eight years, always among people with some prior connection to Qin Siyuan. Now that Qin Siyuan had returned to power, risen to Right Chancellor, and come back to the capital, he had, as a matter of course, bought it back—and in fact, the mansion’s layout had scarcely changed at all in the meantime.

The Qin family had served as officials in the capital for two generations before this. When Qin Siyuan left eight years ago, he had dismissed the household staff; now, having returned, most of them had been recalled once more—proof enough that though the man had left, his influence had never truly cooled. The household’s various collections of books and scrolls had remained untouched throughout, and this time even more had been added, though Qin Siyuan himself was not a man who set much store by such things. Compared to the Qin household of years past, the place now felt somewhat emptier—certain relatives and family members who had once lived here had, after all, been unable to make the journey back in time. For now, the only residents of the great mansion were Qin Siyuan himself, along with one wife and one concubine; the rest, however brightly the lamps might burn, were simply servants.

These past days, Qin Siyuan’s official duties had kept him extraordinarily busy, with scarcely a free moment to spare. The two highest-ranking men at court now were Li Gang, the Left Chancellor, who took the lead on major matters of state, and Qin Siyuan, the Right Chancellor, who leaned more toward practical affairs.

In truth, he had been away from Bianjing for eight years, and though he still had many former students and old associates here, his influence and command over the capital had diminished considerably—particularly in matters requiring real practical handling, which he could hardly hope to take up all at once. Li Gang, who knew him well, had strongly supported his appointment as chancellor, and had initially said he would take on the bulk of the workload himself. Yet Qin Siyuan had not, in the end, handed over much of it—instead, from the very outset, he had taken it all firmly in hand, and within a matter of days had laid out a clear plan for everything that needed handling.

Li Gang was generous by nature, his temperament rather blunt and fiery, carrying a stern, upright bearing. He had, over these past years, been the greatest advocate for going to war, and adhered more strictly than most to Confucian principle—though his words could be sharp, his conduct in practice carried a certain measure of humility. This was not to say he was some rigid old pedant; his convictions simply ran more forthright and unbending. Had the moment not called so urgently for someone of unwavering resolve to steer the war effort, he likely would never have become Left Chancellor at all.

Qin Siyuan, too, was a great Confucian scholar of his age, gifted in composition, yet outwardly far more mild and cultivated in temperament, never speaking in absolutes. When he argued a point with others, he could be forceful and resounding, his words landing with real weight, yet never displaying the kind of bristling anger that marked Li Gang. In his conduct, his methods tended toward the proper and the gentle—yet in terms of results, he consistently proved more effective, using the sheer weight of circumstance to bring people around, like a frog boiled slowly in warming water: by the time others noticed the danger, the matter was already settled, with nowhere left to turn.

Since coming to the capital, the bulk of what he had taken on involved first reconciling military logistics—using consummate skill to make the mobilization and gathering of war supplies proceed smoothly and almost silently, to the point that most people in the capital hadn’t even sensed the atmosphere of impending war. In less than two months since arriving, he had already demonstrated formidable resolve and skill, leaving no one able to underestimate the force he had kept in reserve through eight years of quiet retirement.

Of course, all of this rested on an extraordinarily heavy workload—even a man like him had to give everything he had to manage it. Today he had come out of the palace very late, and had barely managed a few bites of dinner back home when three former students arrived to call on him; he received the three of them while still eating.

Of the three, the youngest was thirty-eight, named Chen Kai, courtesy name Yantang, now serving in the Ministry of Works, concurrently holding a post overseeing the Bureau of Design. The second, already forty-two, was surnamed Zhao, given name Dingchen, courtesy name Chengzhi, now serving as Vice Prefect of Kaifeng, a position already carrying considerable power. The third, now forty-eight, was named Feng Yuan, courtesy name Zikai, serving in the Censorate; he was a disciple of Qin Siyuan, and since the Vice Censor-in-Chief Qin Hui also now claimed kinship with the Qin family, Feng Yuan found himself thriving in the Censorate as well, held in considerable regard.

Though this was a chancellor’s residence, Qin Siyuan himself was eating nothing more than a simple bowl of fish and a bowl of greens; the servants brought out three bowls of chilled mung bean soup for the guests, along with a fan for each of them, and the four settled into easy conversation in the hall. Given the teacher-student relationship between them, and knowing Qin Siyuan’s temperament well, the three felt no need for excessive deference, and the conversation flowed casually enough.

To have been away eight years and still manage to return was, by most accounts, no small stroke of fortune for Qin Siyuan. And yet those eight years away had also seen a great deal change—developments that now left him with a certain regret, a sense of having lost his grip on things.

At the time of the Black Water Pact, Emperor Jinghan, Zhou Zhe, had only just ascended the throne, and Qin Siyuan had then served as something of a half-tutor to the emperor—though in practice fulfilling much of a tutor’s role in many matters, he had never formally held that title, at best counting as a trusted minister of state. The young Emperor Jinghan, though indecisive, had nonetheless carried some spark of ambition; when the Liao army invaded, the court prepared to sue for peace, and afterward felt the sting of humiliation. Qin Siyuan, disheartened at the time, had nonetheless found himself driven to the most reckless act of his career—stirring the emperor toward secret preparation, cultivating and supporting every possible anti-Liao faction, and assuring Zhou Zhe that this was merely a temporary concession, that with a few years’ preparation, the tide would surely turn. At the time, though he had laid out a great many plans and arrangements, he had held little real confidence in them himself—who could have known it would actually come to pass now?

Yet this very undertaking had also drained the treasury of enormous sums. When Emperor Jinghan first took the throne, he had, on the advice of his ministers, abolished practices like the Flower and Rock Convoy from the previous reign—yet within a year or two, with the court’s expenses mounting too high, such practices had been quietly revived.

“These matters—Grand Marshal Gao Qiu and his lot must have had a considerable hand in it, surely?”

“Reporting to my teacher, this matter involves a great many people indeed. At first it was only that His Majesty spoke of financial strain, and some sought to curry favor by offering various schemes in response. Grand Marshal Gao was certainly one of them; at the time Vice Minister Tang and others also lent their support. This student argued the point at the time, that the Flower and Rock Convoy ought never to be revived—but looking back now, the court was short of funds to begin with, and His Majesty sought some means of relief. It began on a small scale, but once everyone had tasted the benefit, it was allowed to expand freely. The building of the gardens and the renovation of the palace quarters at the end of Jinghan’s fourth year, and everything that followed, all trace back to this…”

Feng Yuan answered with a frown. The “Vice Minister Tang” he referred to was Tang Ke, courtesy name Qinsou, then Vice Minister of Revenue, now risen to Minister of Revenue. In recent times Tang Ke had aligned himself with the peace faction; Feng Yuan and the others naturally followed their teacher’s lead toward war, and since Qin Hui too now favored war, they had little regard for Tang Ke.

Qin Siyuan simply continued eating his fish. “You were all here in Bianjing while I was in Jiangning—both prosperous places, but I only ever heard of these things secondhand, rarely witnessed them myself. The Flower and Rock Convoy extorted the common people mercilessly to fatten a handful of officials—those under Gao Qiu’s wing… Tang Qinsou himself isn’t especially greedy, only he has a great many mouths to feed behind him. It’s men like Li Bangyan and Wu Min, with their great families and vast influence, who fill the official ranks in droves… Ah, thinking on it now, I suppose that’s simply how it goes—once begun, it can’t be stopped… And those Daoist priests—what were they thinking? His Majesty led astray, and in six or seven years not a single man dared submit a memorial against it? Except for that one man, Tang Kejian.”

Emperor Jinghan, Zhou Zhe, had spent these recent years devoted to Daoist mysticism, showering favor on Daoist priests to a degree that had by now spilled over into state affairs. For years no one had dared speak against it—except for the man Qin Siyuan mentioned, Tang Kejian, who had been exiled two years prior and had died along the way. Qin Siyuan sighed at the thought, then, after a moment, gave his chopsticks a small shake.

“Enough, enough—let’s not speak of this today… Chengzhi, has that shipment of military grain from Yanzhou arrived yet?”

“This student wasn’t directly involved, but I heard it arrived this afternoon.”

“Good, that’s good…”

They went on discussing minor matters of state simply enough for a while, until something occurred to him and he asked idly, “The Astronomical Bureau sent word the day before yesterday of an earthquake in the southeast. There’s no confirmed news on it yet—do any of you know anything?”

The three had heard a little of it. Chen Yantang, now serving in the Ministry of Works, spoke up: “There’s unlikely to be confirmed news on this anytime soon. The seismoscope can determine a rough direction for the quake at best—it can’t measure distance or true severity, since the instrument itself can’t be moved, and readings grow less reliable the farther away the source. The former head of the Astronomical Bureau, Yu Qi’an, once proposed to the Ministry of Works that three identical seismoscopes be built and placed a hundred li or more apart from each other, so that when an earthquake struck, its location, distance, and intensity could be calculated more quickly. But a seismoscope is a delicate instrument—having three truly identical ones proved impossible. Master Yu suggested at the time that three different instruments would do just as well, so long as a baseline value could be established and compared against data collected over several or even a dozen years, allowing future earthquakes to be calculated against that record. In the end, though, the project was never completed—the instruments degrade with age in any case…”

Chen Yantang had been treating the matter of the seismoscope as an amusing aside, but seeing Qin Siyuan’s expression turn grave, he added quickly, “Teacher needn’t worry too much over this. This student once inquired specifically—the southeast doesn’t usually see major earthquakes, so this likely isn’t too serious. What matters most for teacher right now is the preparation for war—there’s no need to trouble yourself over this.”

Qin Siyuan nodded. “I had wondered about that myself. It’s only that once an earthquake strikes, many at court will likely try to make political hay of it. Heh, this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and yet all these men can think of is their own household interests—wanting to strike at Fang La first, or Wang Qing, or Tian Hu, or Song Jiang. They think that with the Jin and Liao at war with each other, we can simply take our leisure settling our internal troubles first, then swoop in to profit once the two exhaust each other in battle. Ah, there’s too much political maneuvering at court these days—as if scheming alone were enough to handle matters of state and war…”

This was, in fact, the most troublesome matter Qin Siyuan had encountered since arriving in Bianjing. Most people were not opposed to war outright—there were, of course, some genuine pacifists who believed war would only bring ruin to the common people, but these were few. Most supported going to war, yet questioned the timing.

In peaceful times, these same men, for the sake of their own various family interests, had been willing to revive practices like the Flower and Rock Convoy, extorting the people ruthlessly to gather enormous personal gain, entangling countless interests in the process until they’d grown monstrously large. Now, with much of the populace suffering and uprisings breaking out across the realm, these same men were the first to demand the court use its reserves of strength to quell internal unrest—internal unrest being, after all, the concrete matter directly affecting all those interest-holders below them. As for reclaiming the Yan-Yun territories, in their view, that could wait—now that the Jin and Liao were locked in conflict with each other, such matters could be dealt with anytime, letting the two exhaust each other while they themselves played both sides for advantage… Such men had mastered the art of political maneuvering at court to a fine degree, yet even in matters of national war, they seemed to think scheming alone would suffice—not understanding that without a genuine show of strength, all the scheming in the world would only breed resentment.

For now, though, there was nothing to do but keep maneuvering alongside them, holding firm until the troops could finally be dispatched—only once victory was secured could Qin Siyuan finally breathe easy enough to deal with those he truly wished to deal with. Turning these thoughts over, he found himself recalling a conversation with Ning Yi from before he’d left Jiangning.

Ning Yi had given him a rather disorganized little handbook at the time, containing a number of ideas he himself hadn’t fully understood. A few of the points ran roughly like this: the state could steer various commercial and agricultural sectors to link them to the war effort, directing the interests of all parties toward supporting the war—so that those with various family interests at stake would eventually abandon their original positions and start clamoring loudly for the state to go to war, since once war broke out, they’d be the ones selling grain and military supplies.

At the time, though, Ning Yi had only mentioned it in passing.

“Actually doing this properly would take a year or two, and balancing the commercial chains deliberately is enormously complicated. Since we’re fighting this year, it’s probably too late to use it…”

He had said it then in something of a joking tone—that young man always had a way of coming up with ideas that made one think. And just as he’d said, the method was, for now, indeed too late to put into practice. Still, a few of the smaller techniques in that handbook had found their way into how he’d managed the various logistics of war preparation, and had proven effective.

Thinking of Ning Yi, the old man, even as he spoke, found himself comparing the young man to the students before him now, though he couldn’t easily draw any firm conclusion. Just then, from outside, a gatekeeper came running in to report Chancellor Li’s arrival. Before Qin Siyuan could even answer, Li Gang—Li Wenji—had already entered the front courtyard unannounced, still apparently adjusting his robes as he came.

Left Chancellor Li Gang was now well past seventy, gaunt of face, his hair and beard entirely white, yet still sharp and vigorous, his health sound. His gaze was stern, his lips pressed tight, and even as he walked he was already clasping his hands in greeting. “Forgive my entering unannounced, Siyuan—the matter is urgent. Look at this document first…” He drew a document from his sleeve. “We must go to the palace at once.”

The students rose to greet Li Gang; he merely waved a hand. Qin Siyuan took the document and scanned it briefly—his expression changed at once. “How could this be… how many people have already seen this document?”

“It can’t be contained much longer, I’m afraid. The rider carrying it had his horse stumble and was injured himself along the way—this eight-hundred-li relay dispatch has likely already been seen by a good many people. By now, someone may already be bringing Cao Lingrou of the Astronomical Bureau and his people into the palace…” The current head of the Astronomical Bureau, Cao Lingrou, was a student of Wu Min’s, one of the less resolute members of the faction favoring internal pacification first.

“Bring my hat and robes.” Qin Siyuan called this out toward the eaves nearby, then was already striding for the door. “Let’s go, quickly.”

At the Start of Autumn, that evening, the earth had split open across the Suzhou-Hangzhou region; countless houses had been destroyed, the dead and wounded impossible to count for now. This dispatch had come from Suzhou; the Grand Canal itself had likely been damaged as well—of all the regions in the Jiangnan area, that one was by far the most prosperous. As the carriage rolled toward the palace, Qin Siyuan turned these thoughts over, then, struck by something else, murmured, “Hangzhou… Hangzhou…”

The dispatch spoke mainly of Suzhou, but Hangzhou would surely have been affected as well—though its condition remained unclear. Li Gang frowned and asked, “What of Hangzhou?”

Qin Siyuan sighed. “Heh, I merely recalled a young friend of mine—he happens to be there just now. If only…” He was thinking of Ning Yi’s disaster-relief handbook; if Ning Yi could somehow take overall charge in the Jiangnan region right now, he might well be able to minimize the damage. But the thought only flickered briefly through his mind—Ning Yi held no official rank nor real backing, and there was, in the end, no possibility of his stepping into such a role. Besides, that handbook had already been circulated, and the officials of Suzhou and Hangzhou were not all incompetent fools—for now, all he could do was place his hopes in them, while he himself had to hold firm against the mounting pressures at court.

With the palace drawing near, he set these fleeting speculations aside and turned his mind toward the real, practical matters that lay ahead…