Dark clouds, desert snow, the city walls.
Bian Liang.
This city, home to a million souls, no longer carried its usual clamor in this winter season. Just beyond a single wall, beneath the northern ramparts, the moat had quietly frozen into thick ice; blood, corpses, and objects thrown down from the wall lay half-sunk beneath the ice, half protruding above it, and through the endless cycle of freezing and thawing, had gradually merged into grotesque ice sculptures. By now, along with the distant Jurchen encampment, all of it had fallen silent.
Within the thick, towering walls, everything was tinged in shades of grey and white; even the occasional flash of red firelight seemed muted, without vibrancy. The city remained sunk in the sorrow of death, unable yet to recover; the bodies of the vast majority of the dead had already been cremated at the edge of the city, and the families of the fallen carried handfuls of ashes home to place in coffins, setting up memorial tablets. Since the city gates remained sealed, many of the smaller, poorer households couldn’t even manage to procure coffins. The sound of funeral horns rose and fell; in household after household, weeping was the norm—and when grief ran deep enough, even weeping itself fell silent. Some elderly and women, upon receiving news of the deaths of children or husbands, succumbed themselves—to cold, to hunger, or simply to overwhelming grief—and died quietly in turn.
Such sorrow and desolation was something this entire city had never before witnessed. And though the great battles of siege and defense had ceased, the tension gripping the city, both within and without, had not yet faded. Since the Western Army’s total defeat under Zhong Shizhong against Zongwang, the negotiations outside the city had continued, day after day. With the talks still unresolved, no one could say for certain whether the Jurchen might yet return to attack the city.
The fierce resolve that had once driven everyone to stand ready to die alongside the city had long since passed; now that things had eased somewhat, the pain had begun to surface, and few still carried that same sharp edge. The people within the city felt a persistent unease, watching closely for news from the north; sometimes even their footsteps grew hushed, for fear of provoking the beasts on the other side. In this long winter of siege, the entire city seemed, little by little, to be freezing solid.
Undercurrents stirred quietly beneath the surface.
Wintersweet blossoms bloomed, lending a touch of delicate red to a corner of the courtyard; servants walked carefully past the corridor, and in the main hall of the courtyard, the household’s masters were talking. Leading the conversation was Tang Ke, courtesy name Qinsou; his guest was Yan Zheng, courtesy name Daozhang.
Charcoal burned in a bronze brazier shaped like a beast; the two men spoke in low voices, without much stir.
“…The battle for Bian Liang has come to this point, and the dead and wounded are beyond counting. These deaths cannot be for nothing… Though I myself pushed hard for peace earlier, my views largely align with those of Chancellor Li and Chancellor Qin. The Jurchen are as fierce as tigers and wolves—now that war has broken out, and we’ve managed to force them toward peace, we mustn’t back down further in the negotiations. Otherwise, the Jurchen will surely return in force… Brother Xidao and I have discussed this often these past few days…”
“…What you and Minister Geng have in mind, I naturally understand. Peace negotiations mustn’t be handled rashly—only, Minister Li Zhuo is far too cautious by nature; my worry is that he’ll simply try to complete his assigned task and end up mishandled in his response. And yet this matter can’t be dragged out too long either—if it drags on, once the Jurchen run short of grain, they’ll have no choice but to go on a rampage of plunder for hundreds of li around, and then the negotiations will surely collapse. It’s a delicate balance to strike…”
“…Grand Preceptor Cai understands this well. But as I see it… with the Wuriu Army stationed outside the city, the Jurchen likely won’t dare act recklessly, and now that we’re also gathering up the scattered remnants of the Western Army, I believe Wanyan Zongwang has no wish to linger here much longer either. The core of the negotiation, above all else, comes down to two things: elite troops, and Taiyuan. Only with elite troops can we withstand the next Jurchen invasion; only by holding Taiyuan will this great war not end in a crippling, bone-deep loss. As for the silver and tribute, we might as well follow the precedent set with the Wu-Liao treaties…”
“It’s a pity that this matter isn’t for us to decide…”
“…Indeed. In this great war, those who bore the heaviest burden were the two Chancellors, Left and Right, along with the Western Army and Marshal Zhong. We of the peace faction have, frankly, had little role to play. Still, at a time like this, the court needs to pull together as one. Just yesterday, Tang had a discussion with Chancellor Qin—in this great battle, no one contributed more than the Right Chancellor’s household. His two sons—Shaohe holding the line against Zonghan at Taiyuan, Shaoqian driving back the Resentment Army at Xia Village—these are achievements unmatched in a generation. And yet, to avoid any appearance of impropriety, the Right Chancellor seems already inclined toward retirement…”
“…Chancellor Qin is a hero for the ages—if he could retire now with his integrity intact, it would make for a fine tale indeed…”
“…For the sake of the nation and its people, a true man goes forward though a thousand oppose him; with the nation in crisis, how can he withdraw lightly merely to avoid slander over his own reputation? I understand full well what’s on the Right Chancellor’s mind—he and I have clashed many times before over questions of war and peace, but those clashes were always for the sake of the nation, never out of personal enmity. For Qin Siyuan to withdraw now, out of caution, would not serve the nation’s interests. Brother Daozhang, the Wuriu Battalion must not lightly change commanders, and Taiyuan must not be lost—all of these matters rest, in the end, on the Right Chancellor’s shoulders…”
“…Since Brother Tang puts it this way, I shall stand with you, together, whatever comes…”
As the charcoal burned on, the low murmur of conversation gradually drew to a close; Yan Zheng rose to take his leave, and Tang Ke saw him out. Outside, in the courtyard, wintersweet blossoms set against the white snow made for a scene of pure, elegant beauty. After exchanging further parting words, Yan Zheng smiled: “Heavy snow this year, and much trouble besides—may the coming year bring peace; perhaps this is an auspicious snow, promising a bountiful harvest.”
“An auspicious snow promising a bountiful harvest—let us hope so.” Tang Ke returned the smile, cupping his hands.
He saw Yan Zheng out, then turned back inside; beneath the eaves outside the hall, another old man was already standing there, holding a teacup, watching the snow—this was Xu Xiangxuan, a renowned scholar and advisor within his household.
“Standing together, whatever comes—nobly spoken, but this Yan Daozhang is a man without backbone.”
“Let’s hope he carries these words back to Grand Preceptor Cai…”
Within the court, Yan Zheng enjoyed a fine reputation—on one hand for his forthright character, and on the other for his frequent association with men of talent and virtue like Tang Ke. But in truth, he was a pawn of Cai Jing. Ordinarily inclined toward the peace faction, at critical moments he was, in the end, nothing more than a messenger.
“Just now, Minister Geng and the others sent word—as for His Highness the Prince, there’s been some evasiveness there too. It seems, in this matter, he has no wish to take the lead…”
“Having reclaimed the Yan-Yun region and now stepping back at the height of success—Prince Guangyang has already secured his reputation, both in life and for posterity; it’s only natural he wouldn’t want to take the lead now.”
The two men chatted a while longer, then fell silent once more; inside the room, a spark burst from the charcoal fire, and outside, the snow lay bitterly cold. Tang Ke gazed at the snowy scene for a moment, then sighed.
“Winter still isn’t over yet…” he murmured, closing his eyes, exhaling a breath of white mist.
“And already the Awakening of Insects approaches…”
…
Xue Changgong, bandages wrapped around his body, sat in a chair; before him stood two superior officers from the army who had come to visit—one named Hu Tang, the other Shen Jue, both senior figures within the Peng Ri Army. They had already been talking for a while.
“…Now that the Jurchen’s front has withdrawn, the city’s garrison duties can ease up a bit. Though Brother Xue’s position remains a critical one, you can rest easy and recover for now—it won’t cause any trouble.”
“…Once the negotiations conclude, everyone can finally breathe a sigh of relief. Brother Xue is sure to be credited with the greatest merit this time—what a stroke of fortune. Once that happens, everything in your household will need a proper upgrade.”
“My humble household has only managed thanks to the generous regard of you gentlemen and my fellow officers; I haven’t even finished tallying the gifts that have been sent. After such a great battle, with my brothers’ bones not yet cold, thinking of this weighs on my conscience.” Xue Changgong managed a weak smile.
Hu Tang waved a hand. “Ah, that’s not how it should be seen. We men of arms earn our glory by the blade, carrying heads tied to our belts. The brothers beneath the earth have no such fortune left to enjoy—those of us lucky enough to survive ought to eat well, drink well, and enjoy whatever pleasures are due to us. Those scholarly types would scold me for saying so, but that’s simply how it is in the army. It’s good that Brother Xue thinks of the men under him, but don’t deny yourself anything you’re owed. Only then will the brothers be willing to risk their lives for you again.”
Shen Jue laughed. “If we survive this, promotion and riches are all but assured. When that time comes, Brother Xue, you’ll have to treat us at the Fan Tower—I’ll definitely be there, haha…”
What they said was, of course, perfectly reasonable, and Xue Changgong smiled and nodded along. “…Only, how do things actually stand outside the city right now? I’ve been bedridden these past few days, and only heard bits and pieces from others… Peace talks can’t be trusted entirely—if our morale weakens and the Jurchen come again, that would be a catastrophe of the highest order… Also, I heard something happened to Young Marshal Zhong—I don’t know the details…”
“The Western Army are real men, unlike those others outside the city.” Hu Tang shook his head. “In the final battle at Wuzhang Ridge, Young Marshal Zhong was gravely wounded, yet personally led his men in a charge against Zongwang, and in the end was beheaded and killed. Many of his cavalry guard, who could have fled, instead charged back five times in succession trying to recover his body—by the last charge, only some thirty remained, all badly wounded, men and horses alike drenched red, until the whole force was finally wiped out entirely. Old Marshal Zhong showed real backbone too—word in the army has it that when Young Marshal Zhong charged out, he sent men asking the capital to send troops as a diversion; after his defeat, he sent his own guards to beg for reinforcements, and when those guards made it into the city, Old Marshal Zhong detained them there… Now, at the Jurchen main camp, the heads of Young Marshal Zhong and the several hundred men who charged with him are all hung outside the command tent—this matter is now one of the points on the negotiating table…”
“I heard someone say that Young Marshal Zhong fought on until his death still believing Old Marshal Zhong would bring troops to save him—on the battlefield, he used those words several times to rally morale. But right up to the end, the five armies within the city never moved.” Shen Jue said quietly. “There’s also a rumor that Young Marshal Zhong, once he engaged Zongwang and couldn’t escape, already knew how it would end—and that what he said was simply a lie, meant only to keep the men’s spirits up…”
Shen Jue paused. “After Young Marshal Zhong’s death, the Wuriu Battalion moved out, and after that, the Wusheng and Wuwei armies also arrived; Chen Yanshu, Fang Lian, Lin Hetang, and others, leading over a hundred thousand men, have been advancing… In truth, if not for that strike by the Western Army, this peace negotiation likely wouldn’t have come together so quickly…”
Having defended the city for nearly a month now, they had already witnessed no shortage of tragic, heroic events—yet even now, speaking of this particular matter, the room fell into a certain silence. After a moment, Xue Changgong, still nursing his wounds, coughed a few times. Hu Tang smiled.
“Speaking of military merit—that group at Xia Village drove back Guo Yaoshi, and now they’re facing off against the Jurchen outside the city as well. If merit were being properly rewarded, they might well end up with the greatest credit of all.”
Shen Jue lowered his voice. “Our dynasty has always placed civil officials at the head of military command; those of us in the army have suffered no end of restrictions and interference. In the end, when we couldn’t win, they said the soldiers were incompetent, and we military men had no way to argue back. Qin Shaoqian… he’s the Right Chancellor’s own son, and naturally isn’t bound by such constraints—that’s how he managed to crush the Resentment Army so decisively. It’s a good thing, but… ah, well, in any case, a victory is always a good thing…”
“Things aren’t easy for them outside the city either.” Hu Tang laughed. “The Xia Village army—nominally led by the Wuriu Battalion—but in truth, the forces outside the city had already been scattered long ago; now they’re facing off against the Jurchen on one hand while wrangling over politics on the other. Those commanders—Chen Yanshu, Fang Lian, Lin Hetang—none of them is an easy customer. I hear they’ve camped their troops outside the city and go daily to the Wuriu Battalion demanding men back—superiors demanding from above, subordinates demanding from below, sending their own men to lobby for it. That Xia Village bunch has at least earned themselves some real backbone through this; having them as a backbone means the fighting, when it happens, won’t look too shameful. Everyone’s short on manpower right now, and everyone wants to borrow someone else’s chickens to lay their eggs…”
“We haven’t yet had direct dealings with the forces outside the city, but once the Jurchen leave, there’ll likely be some friction between us too. The men Brother Xue commands are the sharpest in our Peng Ri Army—we’re the ones who faced the Jurchen head-on, while they maneuvered outside the city against Guo Yaoshi. Which side had it harder is genuinely hard to say. When the time comes, our troops here in the capital shouldn’t throw their weight around, but we shouldn’t let our own standing be diminished either…”
“No need to worry too much. Their troubles outside the city are far from over. Sometimes, standing out from the crowd isn’t a good thing—those who truly profit are often the ones who make their fortune quietly, without fanfare…”
The men went on discussing matters outside the city, though not entirely out of schadenfreude—rivalry over military credit within the army was simply a common occurrence, and everyone privately understood as much.
For ordinary commoners, once the fighting ended and victory was secured, that was the end of it. For men like these, once the fighting ended, much of what would follow was already foreseeable. As for that force which had defeated Guo Yaoshi, they were curious about it, but had never actually laid eyes on it, and didn’t quite know what to make of it. Thinking it over now, in their standoff with the Jurchen, that army had, in the end, benefited from the Western Army’s desperate strike. If it had truly come to blows, they too would surely have been routed. It was only that, facing over a hundred thousand troops outside the city, with Guo Yaoshi already gone, even if the Jurchen could still win, having witnessed Bian Liang’s resistance, there was little point left in pressing further—discussing all this made them feel somewhat more at ease.
After all, the real wrangling, the real inside dealings, remained firmly in the hands of the great men at the top. What these lesser men cared about was only the small share of benefit that might trickle down to them.
Having discussed this for a good while, with Xue Changgong still recovering from his wounds, the two men took their leave, declining his offer to see them off. Looking out from the courtyard beyond the door, dark clouds blanketed the bitter winter, as if confirming that the dust had not yet settled.
Back in the rear courtyard, a maidservant informed him that Miss Shishi had come to visit.
In the bedroom, Shishi had brought some precious medicinal herbs to see He Lei’er, still bedridden and unable to move; the two women spoke quietly together. This was her second visit since the fighting had paused a few days earlier.
With the fighting over and negotiations underway, Shishi’s work at the field hospital had also drawn to a close. As a courtesan of the capital whose star had begun, of late, to fade somewhat, after her time spent laboring within the army, her frame had grown noticeably thinner—though the experience had also brought her a fresh surge of renown. These past few days had clearly not been easy for her, and traces of fatigue still lingered on her face.
Even fading somewhat in popularity, Shishi’s standing within the Fan Tower remained worlds apart from He Lei’er’s. Xue Changgong had no idea why she’d come to see He Lei’er in particular. This was, after all, still a time when military men held sway, but even so, a man like himself, Xue Changgong knew, was hardly a match for a courtesan of Shishi’s caliber, and so he didn’t dwell on it too much. When Shishi came out, the two exchanged greetings and made brief small talk.
Recalling the Fan Tower’s reputation, Xue Changgong couldn’t help asking Shishi a few questions about the peace negotiations—junior and deputy officers like himself, discussing things privately, could hardly see through the true state of affairs, but at the Fan Tower, where all manner of dignitaries were entertained, the women there would surely know more.
“…From the tone of several of the ministers, the peace talks shouldn’t run into any major snags—General Xue can rest easy.” After a moment’s silence, Shishi said this. “Though I hear the Peng Ri Army has earned the greatest merit this time—I do hope, General, that once you rise to greater things, you won’t forget this humble sister of mine.”
Li Shishi’s time was never abundant; having said her piece, she took her leave. As the carriage rolled through the snow-covered avenues, the sounds of the city drifted in from time to time; lifting the curtain, most of what she heard was weeping—people meeting along the road exchanging a few words, unable to help sighing, faint sounds of grief; here and there, a small strip of white cloth hung over a doorway marking a death in the family, children running blankly through the streets, and in a blacksmith’s half-shuttered shop, a child swinging a hammer, the monotonous clang of metal carrying no sign of life at all.
These past few days, time seemed to flow like thick paste.
What she’d told Xue Changgong had been simple and optimistic, but of course, reality was never so simple. In a battle that had claimed the lives of tens of thousands, even hundreds of thousands, sometimes the simple matter of victory or defeat barely mattered anymore. What truly weighed on people was that, within all this winning and losing, they could no longer clearly untangle any simple sense of tragedy or joy—all their feelings seemed to have lost any straightforward place to settle.
The war wasn’t even over yet, and already all manner of chaotic business had begun.
Within the court, one high official after another maneuvered, conspired, and schemed in secret. The Fan Tower, naturally, couldn’t see all of this clearly, but the faint traces of it, in private, were easy enough to find. The will of Grand Preceptor Cai, the will of His Majesty, the will of Prince Guangyang, the wills of the two Chancellors, the wills of the peace faction—flowing beneath the surface like some hidden river, these things had quietly become the true substance of it all, while the will of the dead—that hardly mattered, and, it seemed, never truly had.
Shishi, too, was someone who understood a great deal of what went on behind the scenes—but only this once did she hope that, for the moment at least, there might still be something simple left before her. Yet the more deeply she thought everything through, the more completely such things seemed to vanish.
The Western Army’s fierce, tragic stand, Zhong Shizhong’s head still hanging at the Jurchen camp even now, the court’s negotiations still unable to bring his remains home. Minister Li Zhuo’s negotiations with Zongwang were, if anything, even more tangled—anything at all could happen—yet behind it all, the tangled mixture of competing wills left one unable to find anything genuinely stirring in it. During the siege, the Right Chancellor’s office had handled logistics and coordination, mobilizing vast numbers of people to defend the city, but now it had begun to fall quiet, because there were, faintly, some ominous signs in the air.
When news of the great victory at Xia Village first arrived, it had stirred people’s hearts with excitement—but by now, all sorts of forces had begun reaching out toward that army. The hundred-thousand-plus men still facing off against the Jurchen outside the city, and within the Xia Village army’s own camp, endless wrangling had already begun day after day; word had come just yesterday that a small-scale armed clash had even broken out. According to the dignitaries who frequented the Fan Tower, these matters were clearly being stirred up deliberately by certain interested parties, meant to keep the soldiers and officers of the Wuriu Battalion from enjoying their victory too smoothly.
And the interested parties involved were not limited merely to the senior figures among the hundred-thousand-plus men outside the city. Through its network of information, the Fan Tower could faintly sense that the wills of men within the city too—including Grand Preceptor Cai, Tong Guan, and others—had already reached out beyond the walls as well.
Compared to these hidden tendrils and undercurrents, the ten-thousand-odd troops presently facing off against the Jurchen showed no fierce counteraction of their own—nor, indeed, could they. Separated by the towering city wall, the Fan Tower could glean little further information from that quarter; for Shishi, all these tangled undercurrents seemed to flow past her like something happening just out of reach. As for the negotiations, the ceasefire, the value and meaning of all those who had died, she found herself, all at once, unable to find any simple place to rest her thoughts.
She watched these things carefully, and in the depths of night, drifting toward sleep, she also held a small, quiet hope—that within the Wuriu Battalion, after all, there was still that person she knew. Given his character, surely he wouldn’t simply sit and wait to be acted upon. Since their reunion, he had repeatedly accomplished things that seemed almost unbelievable; this time too, she hoped that once all the threads of news had finally come together, he might already have launched some counterstroke of his own, delivering a sharp slap across the face of all these tangled, troublesome people—even if that hope seemed faint, at least for now, she could still allow herself to hold onto it.
Returning to the Fan Tower by carriage, she heard a piece of unusual news upon arrival.
“Young Master Su from Bamboo Registry came by just now, and passed along something for us.”
Madam Li Yun called her over and handed her a small notebook; flipping through it briefly, Shishi found that it recorded accounts of various people’s deeds on the battlefield—not only the fighting at Xia Village, but stories from other armies as well, including the Western Army—most of them plain, tragic tales, well suited for public retelling.
“Bamboo Registry actually started arranging for storytellers to spread these a few days back, but let me tell you, Mother—word on the street isn’t quite right. Whether this bet pays off or not, even I can’t say. You can help them spread the word if you like—I won’t hold you to it either way.”
Li Yun poured her a cup of tea to warm her hands, and seeing Shishi look up at her, her gaze calm yet complicated, sighed and turned to look out the window.
“These matters concerning the great and powerful, neither you nor I are in any position to speak on.” She sat down in the chair across from her, sighed, and looked up. “This time, with the Jurchen coming south, the very heavens themselves seem about to shift—who will hold power hereafter, no one can truly say… In all these years in the capital, some have risen, some have fallen, and some have enjoyed decades of glory without ever toppling—but whenever something momentous happens, without fail, some rise and some fall. This time, daughter, I don’t know who will rise and who will fall, but that something is coming—that much is certain…”
Shishi held the notebook, falling into a brief silence.
“Let’s not speak of this anymore.” Li Yun waved a hand, then lowered her voice. “I’ve heard that Young Master Ning has quietly returned to the capital, and is secretly meeting with people—all of this must surely be his doing. I know you can’t sit still. I’ll give you the day off—go find him. Whatever he means to do, whatever the Right Chancellor’s household means to do—if he can give you a clear answer, I’ll feel a good deal more at ease myself…”
Shishi’s eyes brightened; after a moment, she rose and bowed in thanks, then asked for the location, and headed out the door.
The carriage rolled through the streets of Bian Liang, light snow gradually beginning to fall; Shishi instructed the driver to take her to several places, including a branch of Bamboo Registry and the Su family residence. Toward evening, as the carriage turned past the small bridge beside Wenhui Tower, it came to a stop.
Shishi, dressed in a white cloak, stepped down from the carriage. On the second floor, by a window glowing with warm yellow lamplight, Ning Yi sat quietly, gazing out at something below. He had grown a beard, his expression calm and composed; as if sensing the gaze from below, he turned his head and saw the woman standing by the carriage below, just lowering her hood, snowflakes drifting slowly down around her.
Someone seemed to have entered the room upstairs; Ning Yi glanced that way and rose, then turned back to look at Shishi once more, before closing the window. Through the glass, a blurred silhouette could be seen moving to greet the visitor, and then only the faint glow of lamplight remained.
Then, Shishi crossed the street and walked into the restaurant…