“Has anyone thought of anything?”
In the late-night room, the lamplight flickered faintly. Though Ning Yi’s words had been a question, they hadn’t been posed all that formally. After speaking, he sat down in a chair. The others in the room glanced at one another, but for a moment, no one answered.
Since founding Bamboo Records and steadily growing it, Ning Yi had gathered no small number of talented advisors around him. In terms of life experience, they might not measure up to figures of the age like Yao Zunian, Jueming, Ji Kun, or Cheng Zhouhai, but that was because, in this era, knowledge itself was an extraordinarily precious resource, and the process of turning knowledge into wisdom followed no fixed pattern. In such a time, those who rose above the rest usually possessed exceptional individual ability, relying mostly on self-study and their own capacity for drawing conclusions.
Much like a great household with someone widely learned and experienced who could guide the family’s younger generations, teaching each according to their aptitude—such families produced far more capable heirs. Children of ordinary families, even if they scraped together enough money to study, often failed to truly absorb what they read, unable to convert knowledge into genuine wisdom. Even the rare clever ones who managed some conversion, once they went out to make their way in the world, would often find that a single small mistake, without background or connections to fall back on, could be enough to end their prospects for good—for someone to truly rise to the very top, mistakes and setbacks were, in themselves, an indispensable part of the process.
The advisors Ning Yi chose were, for the most part, exactly this type of person—people who might seem unremarkable to others, but who had systematically followed Ning Yi in learning how to get things done, mastering scientific methods step by step, relying on relatively rigorous cooperation to bring out the tremendous power of the group. Only once the path grew a little smoother would they try out some bolder, more unconventional ideas, and even if they failed, they would be met with tolerance rather than being crushed by it. Such people, cut off from the system, the collaborative methods, and the information resources around them, might well flounder helplessly on their own—but within Ning Yi’s Bamboo Records system, most of them were able to perform at a level far beyond what their individual abilities alone would suggest.
The handful still working late into the night these past evenings, reviewing and compiling material, were among the very best of these advisors.
But no matter how capable one might be, even the most skillful cook cannot make a meal without rice.
“…The two ideas we discussed earlier—we think the odds of success are slim. We’ve gathered far too little information on the Jurchen’s internal affairs. There may indeed be some small rift between Zongwang and Nian Han. But… to try to drive a wedge between them, and through that influence the outcome at Taiyuan… it’s simply too difficult, given that we not only lack sufficient information, but Zongwang’s army is now a full fifteen days’ journey away…”
The advisor standing at the front looked at Ning Yi, saying this with some visible reluctance. Ning Yi had always held them to strict standards, and it wasn’t as though he’d never lost his temper with them before. He firmly believed that there was no such thing as too outlandish a scheme—given the right conditions and a step-by-step approach, even the most far-fetched plan was never truly impossible. This time, the matter under discussion was Taiyuan, and one avenue they’d proposed externally was to use espionage or various small tactics to disrupt the Jurchen leadership, pushing them toward a more willing withdrawal. Once that direction had been raised, everyone had gone through a fair amount of imaginative, even fanciful discussion.
But it was clear that, this time, none of these ideas stood any real chance of being carried out. Time, distance, and information—all three factors were working against them, not to mention that the intelligence bureau’s penetration into the Jurchen leadership was far from adequate; there wasn’t even a decent foothold to work with.
Ning Yi said nothing, rubbing his forehead, showing that he understood. His expression, too, carried a trace of fatigue. The others exchanged a few glances. After a moment, an advisor from the back of the room came forward, holding out something to Ning Yi. “Sir, I went through some files tonight and found something that might be useful for putting pressure on a few people close to Grand Preceptor Cai. Yan Zheng has always kept himself quite upright, but…”
These men were, for the most part, older than Ning Yi, but through years of working together, they had come to regard him with genuine respect. That this advisor had brought this material to him didn’t necessarily mean he thought it would actually prove useful—mainly, he wanted to show Ning Yi some incremental progress. Ning Yi looked it over, listened as the man explained, and after they exchanged a few more words, he finally nodded.
“Keep compiling it for now, but as I’ve said before, the crux of this matter still lies with His Majesty. The ultimate goal is to be certain enough to sway him—stirring up trouble prematurely won’t do, we mustn’t act rashly.” He paused, his voice low. “As I’ve said—until we have a solid, complete plan, we don’t act recklessly. The intelligence bureau is meant for gathering information; if we start using it as a bargaining chip in political struggles, everyone will end up living in fear, and whether we’re in the right or not, we’ll only be bringing trouble on ourselves… Still, this is good work. Record it for now.”
The advisor nodded in agreement and returned to his seat. Ning Yi looked up at the map above, and as he stood, his gaze grew clear and sharp once more.
“It looks like there’s still about half a month,” he said, turning to look at the others, his tone even. “It would be good if we could find a solution, but if we can’t, once the Jurchen launch their full assault on Taiyuan, we’ll have another opportunity then. I know everyone’s exhausted, but at this level of the game, there’s no room to retreat, and no use complaining about the hardship. Just do your best to see it through.”
He smiled. “Get some rest soon.”
He left the room, and looking up from the ground-floor courtyard, the night had settled into stillness, the full moon of the fifteenth glowing bright and clear like a pool of amber. Ning Yi returned to his room on the second floor, where Juan’er was tidying up, then brought in a pot of hot tea, said a few quiet words, and withdrew, pulling the door shut behind her.
Ning Yi sat behind his desk, picked up his brush, and thought for a while. On the desk lay an unfinished letter—a letter written to his wife.
“…The rest of the family need not return to the capital for now…”
After thinking it over a while longer, he wrote the following:
“…Though the fighting has ended, the aftermath is far from settled, and the situation in the capital is complicated—I still can’t quite make out its direction. From the fact that old Qin’s resignation was rejected, it’s clear the old man still holds His Majesty’s favor. And yet, deep down, I still sense something is amiss—there are a few signs that run counter to what I originally expected, though I still can’t see it clearly. I’ve also gotten wind of it several times now—it seems there are already stirrings of factional struggle at court, which was to be expected, only I don’t yet know the scale of it. This matter has too much riding on it—if new blood wishes to rise, the old guard will hardly step aside willingly, and if they won’t step aside, it may well come to open conflict.
Taiyuan plays a crucial role in the situation unfolding in the capital right now, and it may very well prove to be the deciding factor. I myself have no certainty about it, and feel quite anxious, though thankfully Wenfang and Juan’er are sharing some of the burden. Thinking it over, the intelligence bureau is a sharp instrument in Chancellor Qin’s hands—though I’ve done my best to keep it out of political struggles, if things in the capital do come to a head, the other side will surely be wary of it. My attention right now is focused north, while you’re in the south, so the deployment of the intelligence-gathering staff is yours to direct as needed. The contingency plans are already in place, and with you overseeing things on my behalf, my mind is at ease.
Since returning to the capital, I’ve been eating well; the small wound I took on the battlefield has fully healed by now, and these past few days I fear I may have even put on a couple pounds. The truly life-or-death struggles are behind me for now, so you needn’t worry too much. A few nights ago I dreamed of you and Xi’er, of Xiao Chan and her child, of Yun Zhu, of Jin’er—the setting seemed to be somewhere warm in the south, and by then the fighting seemed to have settled, everyone at peace and happy—perhaps a glimpse of what’s still to come. Xiao Chan’s child still hasn’t been named—apologize to her on my behalf, and please comfort the rest of the household for me as well…”
He finished the long letter, read it over once, and though there were a few places he was tempted to revise, he held his brush still for a moment before finally deciding to leave it as it was. He sealed it into an envelope, then sat at the desk a while longer, lost in thought.
The lamp burned on through the night, long past midnight, until the moon sank low toward the west. It was only as dawn drew near that the light in that window finally went out…
The half month that followed was, in the capital, a joyous and lively one.
The large-scale ceremonies honoring merit had already begun, with a great many figures in the military receiving commendations. This round of military honors, naturally, centered first on the imperial guard units who had defended the city, and on the Wuchi Battalion stationed outside it. A number of heroic figures were put forward for recognition—commanders who had died defending the city, men like Long Hui who had given their lives outside the walls. The families of many of these men were arriving in the capital one after another to receive their honors, and there were parades on horseback through the streets, held every few days.
As for what rewards had been settled on so far, these remained largely material in nature; as for how military merit would translate into promotion, nothing had yet been made clear. At present, over a hundred thousand troops remained gathered around Bianliang, and whether they would eventually be disbanded and reorganized, or follow some other arrangement, was still under discussion at court—though every faction seemed to be deliberately dragging its feet, none of them eager for a decision to be reached just yet.
No one knew whether, over the next month or two, these troops might yet be called upon to deal with problems no one wished to see arise.
Amid all this festivity and bustle, the weather in Bianliang had gradually begun to warm. With so many young, able-bodied men dead, cracks were already beginning to show in the functioning of society, and the livelihood of the entire city still felt somewhat unsettled, as though it had yet to find solid ground. As Ning Yi ran himself ragged during this period, the propaganda and mobilization efforts at the lower levels went smoothly and with great fanfare, while the effort to get the Wuchi Battalion dispatched to Taiyuan had come to nothing at all. The various factions of officials at court seemed to have settled into a kind of deliberate stalemate—everyone watching and waiting, and no matter who pushed, or in what direction, the same resistance always seemed to push back.
Amid all this, the Emperor, too, remained silent. In a certain sense, Ning Yi could understand his silence. And yet, time and again, seeing the families of those who had died in the fighting, seeing those who wished to contribute but received no response, and especially seeing the maimed soldiers—men who had once charged fearlessly at the enemy at Xia Village, some of whom had kept fighting even as they fell, only now, with the heat of battle having cooled, to face what might be a lifetime of hardship ahead—he couldn’t help but feel a certain bitter irony in it all. That thin sliver of opportunity, won through the sacrifice and struggle of so many, was gradually slipping away amid the tangle of self-interest and cold indifference.
And what struck him as even more ironic was that he understood, deep down, that others likely saw people like him in much the same light: having won one battle, now wanting to stir up trouble, wanting to keep fighting, scheming for power, utterly blind to the bigger picture, with no thought at all for easing the nation’s burdens…
When the first spring rain fell, Ning Yi found himself surrounded by nothing but a mountain of trivial matters. He ran back and forth between inside and outside the city; as the rain and melting snow brought an added chill, beneath the propaganda praising heroes that filled the city streets lay a quiet sense of wrongness, as so many households had been irrevocably changed—as if there were some faint sobbing woven through it all, only, with everything outside so festive, and the court having promised substantial compensation to come, the orphans and widows simply looked on numbly, uncertain whether they should even allow themselves to cry.
To discuss matters with various people, Ning Yi made several trips to the Fan Tower. In the crisp chill of early spring, the lights within the Fan Tower glowed with warmth, the mingled sound of strings and flutes chaotic yet pleasing to the ear, giving off a strange sense of being lifted out of this troubled land entirely. In truth, though, most of what he discussed there in private amounted to little more than idle maneuvering—the line of flags advancing across the map in Bamboo Records’ meeting hall still had no decisive solution in sight. All he could do was wait.
As Zongwang’s army continued its advance, the delay in each piece of news grew longer and longer. It was now the second day of the second month, the day the Dragon Raises Its Head, and rain began falling in the capital. By the morning of the third, the rain was still coming down. By afternoon it had stopped, and by evening, the air after the rain carried a chill that left one strangely clear-headed. Ning Yi set aside his work, opened the window to let in some air, then went out and climbed up to sit on the rooftop.
The sky was washed clean and blue, the sunset radiant and clear as though it too had been freshly rinsed, its light slanting in from the west, the air carrying a faint hint of rainbow. Across the way, someone had opened a window in another tower to look out as well; below, in the courtyard, people had come out to sit and take in the refreshing sunset scene, some holding cups of tea—most of them advisors from Bamboo Records.
For a moment, everyone simply watched the beautiful view, no one speaking.
…
A thousand li to the north, the sky told a different story.
The snow had not yet melted. Taiyuan remained wrapped in a pale, snow-locked stillness—until, at some point, unrest began to stir.
Officials and generals rushed up onto the city walls. As the sunset faded, in the sprawling Jurchen camp across the way, at some point signs of a large-scale troop movement had begun to appear.
And those signs showed no sign of stopping…
Reinforcements were arriving from the south, steadily filling in beneath the city walls. Infantry, cavalry, banners fluttering in the wind—the siege equipment Nian Han had spent this time stockpiling was being wheeled out, one cart after another. Qin Shaohe rushed up onto the wall and looked south toward Bianliang; the reinforcements he had been hoping for were nowhere to be seen, still far, far away…
On the fourth of the second month, Zongwang fired an arrow bearing a letter demanding surrender, calling for Taiyuan to open its gates, claiming that the Emperor of the Wu dynasty had already agreed, in the first round of negotiations, to cede the city…
On the fifth, over Taiyuan, heaven and earth seemed to change color.