A year’s plans begin in spring. In the Wu court, once the old year had been bid farewell and the new one welcomed, heaven and earth stirred back to life, and in the halls of court, the customary series of grand court assemblies began—summing up the year past, looking ahead to the year to come. Zhou Junwu, as a matter of course, had to attend.

That year, he stayed in the capital for half a month, and for half a month the verbal sparring in the court assemblies raged on just as long. As Crown Prince, no one dared show him open disrespect. Yet beneath a stream of praise, the ministers’ words carried an undercurrent of malice. These officials laid out, one after another, the various problems lurking beneath the prosperity of the Wu Dynasty, the burdens holding it back—and in the end, though no one said it outright, all manner of opinion was steadily being pressed toward the Crown Prince’s estate.

Even having lost the Central Plains, Southern Wu’s years of vigorous growth—its economic expansion, its overflowing treasury, even the growth of its military strength—all seemed to prove the might of a dynasty that had learned from bitter suffering. These ever-leaping numbers seemed to vouch for the wisdom of the sovereign and his ministers, and since everything was growing, the small flaws that remained could be understood, could be tolerated.

No one could prove that, once the nation stopped favoring one thing over another, it could still soar as it had. And so, it seemed, some flaws, some growing pains, were bound to exist. Now, with the disgrace of Jingping behind them and the Jurchens still eyeing them hungrily, if the court devoted itself wholly to placating the refugees fleeing the north, then what of the treasury, what of the markets, what of the growth of arms?

The great scholars, spilling ink and citing the classics at length, argued the inevitability of all manner of things, and in doing so, subtly cast the Crown Prince and Princess’s faction as insufficiently wise, an obstacle to the Wu Dynasty’s development. Zhou Junwu had spent half a month tangled up in the capital; because of some piece of news he returned to Jiangning, and at once a stream of memorials followed him, earnestly urging the Crown Prince to be wise and heed advice, how could he simply storm off in anger—Junwu could only reply, again and again, that he had received their teaching.

Between the second and third months, as the snow thawed and the ice melted, as orioles took flight and grass grew tall, Wenren Bu’er, who had been holding the fort in the capital, arrived as well. Host and guest stood together atop Jiangning’s city wall, watching a great yellow balloon rise into the sky.

From the basket of the balloon, someone threw down an object. It fell from that great height, struck the grass below with a boom, and sent earth flying. Junwu’s brow furrowed. After a moment, people ran over one after another, calling out: “It didn’t explode—”

“Ten years ago, over on my master’s side, they had already worked out the hot air balloon. My side stumbled along, making little progress, until I found out they were using paper pulp to seal the air inside. A sky lantern’s paper can lift itself into the air, but for something this large, once you light the fire, you’d think paper couldn’t hold—yet it turns out it still can! That cost us another two years, and only now does Jiangning finally have one. Lucky I rushed back in time…”

The wind was strong atop the wall, and Junwu’s voice rose to match it. At twenty-six, the Crown Prince wore his robes loose and full; with the two wisps of a moustache he had grown, he now carried real authority. As he swept his arm lightly through the air, he looked the very picture of high spirits. Wenren Bu’er only pressed his hands together solemnly.

“Your Highness, mind your words regarding that traitor.”

“Brother Wenren speaks rightly. That regicidal villain—he and I share no sky.” Junwu laughed easily. Wenren Bu’er was a disciple of Qin Siyuan; Junwu himself had received the man’s instruction as a boy, and being of an easygoing nature, and holding Wenren Bu’er in high regard, he often addressed him as “elder brother.”

“Your Highness stormed out of the capital in anger, and the court at Lin’an is already abuzz with talk of it. In the future, you must be more careful.”

“Yes, this is a flaw in my nature,” Junwu said. “I know it is not good. These past years I have tried to hold myself back, but there are still times my feelings will not settle. Earlier this year, when I heard there had been progress with this, I simply abandoned the court and ran back here. I told myself it was for the balloon—but thinking on it afterward, it was only that I could no longer stomach the pettiness of court, and I found myself an excuse.”

Having admitted his fault so plainly, Wenren Bu’er said no more on the matter. The two walked on together along the wall. Junwu went on: “But truly, thinking it over again and again, I was never suited by temperament to be Crown Prince to begin with. I love the study of natural philosophy, but these past years, tangled up in one affair after another, that study has long since been set aside. The realm is in turmoil, and with no brothers of my own, the responsibility falls to me—I’ve tried to shield men like Yue Fei and Han Shizhong, and to save what refugees I can from the north. I told myself it would be manageable, but only once I was in the thick of it did I understand how many problems there truly were.”

He descended the stairway from the wall, his steps quick and sure. “The great clans, with two hundred years and more of standing, their power runs deep and tangled, their interests rooted so firmly they can’t be pulled free—generals who see no further than their own skin and fear death, officials corrupt and without shame, all woven into one great net. Some years back I took a hand in resettling the northern refugees in the south. On the surface, everyone applauded, but the moment my back was turned, they were inciting unrest, beating people to death, even stirring rebellion, executing men by the letter of the law—this connection, that connection—until at last it all landed on Father’s desk. More than once. In the end it was decided: southerners stay south, northerners stay north, and they called it unavoidable. How could the north ‘stay’ anywhere? The north has been smashed to pieces!”

“Look at General Yue. He is upright by nature, keeps every matter within his own territory firmly in hand, and will never bend to anyone—and because of that, he alone has managed to hold together a truly strong army. These past years, the memorials accusing him of arrogance, of high-handedness, of profiting at the people’s expense, even of harboring treasonous intent, have numbered in the hundreds—and that’s with me watching his back the whole while. Otherwise his head would have been taken long ago. As for Han Shizhong, he understands better how to maneuver, but with all the court officials he must keep sweet, he spends so much money that, compared with Yue Fei, his arms and equipment fall short.”

The two came down off the wall and climbed into a carriage. Junwu waved a hand. “What choice is there but to do it this way? Oh, you try to train an army—today some civil official shows up and says you should train it this way, give me some money or I’ll report you. Tomorrow another comes and says his brother-in-law should be made a company commander; the day after, that brother-in-law is skimming the soldiers’ pay, and when you want to execute him he tells you his brother-in-law is the Chancellor! Might as well give up fighting altogether and just let everyone die.”

The carriage rolled out through the city gate, onto the official road outside, then turned off onto a path through the fields. Having vented for a while, Junwu spoke in a lower voice: “Do you know why, in rebellion, one must kill the emperor?”

“Your Highness, mind your words!”

“Let me put it this way. Say you want to do… something great. The men under you have dealings with this whole crowd, and at first you want to play along, to laugh and go along with them for a while—say, two or three years. But you have no one backing you from above. Today someone comes and carves off a piece of what’s yours, and you bear it. Tomorrow someone plants a brother-in-law on you, and you bear it. Three years on, you’re ready to do something great, and you turn around, and everyone at your side has become just like them… Ha. Ha.”

Wenren Bu’er narrowed his eyes. Junwu’s mood today was clearly off—somewhat too excited, more reckless than usual. He had never seen the Crown Prince like this before. “Your Highness—has something happened?”

“No.” Junwu waved a hand, then lifted the carriage curtain and looked ahead. The balloon was still off in the distance. “Look—when we were building this, the censors came again and again to impeach us, saying the thing was a great and inauspicious affront, because ten years ago it could carry a man into the palace, fly higher than the palace walls, spy into the inner chambers… what nonsense about affronts and ill omens—they meant I intended regicide and failed. Because of that, I kept every one of these workshops here in Jiangning, running back and forth between great matters and small. Every time they impeached me, I apologized and admitted fault. Apologizing costs nothing… and now, at last, I’ve built it.”

“Your Highness…”

“Brother Wenren, this world—someday it may look entirely different, in a way neither you nor I can yet imagine.” Junwu closed his eyes. “Last year, before Zuo Duanyou passed away, I went to see him. The old man said that what Xiaocang River once said might well have been right—that to defeat them, we must at least become like them. Cannons have appeared, and they keep improving. This balloon has appeared—if you don’t have one, how can you fight them? Li Pin speaks of a New Confucianism, and even he has not skipped past natural philosophy. All these men at court, these great clans—whatever they say, whatever excuse they give, everyone connected to them has come to a bad end. But perhaps, if the study of natural philosophy someday flourishes, there will be another way.”

The carriage jolted and came to a stop amid a stretch of green fields. A good number of craftsmen had gathered nearby, and a balloon was in the midst of being filled with air. Junwu and Wenren stepped down from the carriage.

“I am no great scholar of Confucian learning, and I cannot say precisely how reform ought to proceed, how we ought to press forward. Two or three hundred years of roots grown deep and tangled—the rot runs all the way through. However lofty your ambitions, however pure your character, once you are inside it, a thousand men will block you, a thousand men will shut you out. You either turn corrupt, or you walk away. I have had some luck, becoming Crown Prince, and with everything I have, I have managed to protect only the likes of General Yue and General Han. If one day I become emperor, and I cannot even act as I truly wish, then even they may be beyond saving.”

“Relying on them alone, we cannot defeat the Jurchens.” Junwu stood there, still speaking, as the balloon ahead of them swelled and rose taller, pulling the basket upward with it. “But fortunately, we have the study of natural philosophy now—perhaps, relying on these men, this strength, we can find some turning point. Even if I end up remembered as stubborn and self-willed, I will not set this burden down. Here, and only here, do I see any hope.”

“Your Highness…”

Junwu walked forward. “I want to go up and see the sky. Brother Wenren, will you come with me?”

“Your Highness—”

The moment he said this, an uproar broke out all around—”Your Highness, think again,” “Your Highness, you mustn’t,” “The thing is not yet safe enough,” voices crying out all at once. The craftsmen responsible for the balloon’s construction, in terror, dropped to their knees all together. Wenren Bu’er rushed forward too, trying his best to talk him out of it, but Junwu only smiled.

“Since the turn of the year, this balloon has already flown up and down six times running. It is safe enough, and I myself took part in building it—whatever flaws it has, I know them all. You cannot fool me. My mind is made up on this; say no more. Today, my luck is everyone’s luck. If I should fall from the sky, then all of you may simply call it bad luck, and be buried alongside me. I, Junwu, thank you all for your trouble… Brother Wenren.”

The Crown Prince turned back at the edge of the basket. “Do you want to come up and see?”

Wenren Bu’er was silent for a long moment, and finally let out a sigh. Over these years, Junwu had labored to shoulder his burdens, and though he still carried something of a young man’s impulsiveness, on the whole he had proven remarkably level-headed. And yet this balloon had always been the great preoccupation of the Crown Prince’s heart. In his youth he had studied natural philosophy for exactly this reason—he had wanted to fly, wanted to see the sky from above—and though his position as Crown Prince had later forced him to set that aside, this dream of flight had never once left his thoughts.

The thing had truly only been finished for two or three months, and to fly using it meant real danger, a real terror of leaving the ground—how could he not understand that? But his mind was made up now, and nothing would change it; had it been otherwise, he would surely not have spoken the words he just had.

The Confucian arts of the past—the arts of governing a state—had run out of road before an enemy as strong as the Jurchens.

“This subject will follow Your Highness, of course.”

“If you fear heights, you need not come. I only think this is a fine thing, that is all.”

Ignoring the crowd kneeling all around him, he climbed without further ceremony into the basket, and Wenren Bu’er followed. Inside, a craftsman responsible for the ascent knelt as well. Junwu glanced at him. “Master Yang, get up and do your work. Would you have me operate this myself? I do know how.”

The craftsman rose, trembling, and after a moment began throwing sandbags of ballast over the side.

Junwu gripped tight a rope beside the basket, standing there, his body swaying slightly, his eyes fixed ahead.

“How much time do the ministers at court believe we have left?”

“The Chancellor and the officials of the Privy Council believe the times are not good—two or three years, perhaps, if fortune favors us, as much as five years to recover and rebuild our strength.” Wenren Bu’er, too, gazed ahead, his body stiff with tension. “After the Jurchens conquered the Central Plains, they made Liu Yu their king precisely because their own people were too few—they needed first to stabilize their entire Liao territory. Once they have fully secured everything north of Yanmen Pass, their first order of business will be the formal annexation and absorption of the Central Plains.”

The great balloon swayed, then began to rise into the sky.

“And yet, though the original Central Plains have been beaten down, Liu Yu’s grip on it has proven far from absolute. These past years, men of divided loyalty have appeared one after another north and south of the Yellow River. Most of them submit to the Jurchens on the surface, not daring to raise their heads—but should the Jin state truly move to annex the land outright, no small number would still rise up to resist. Conquering and ruling are not the same thing; to properly absorb the Central Plains, the Jin state will have to expend even more effort than before. And so perhaps we still have two or three years to catch our breath… hm—”

The view below shrank steadily smaller; they had risen into the sky. Wenren Bu’er’s tense recitation was cut short as well. Junwu was no longer listening. He stood there, looking down at the fields and farmland below, at people out planting rice seedlings, at oxen and horses pulling ploughs. In the distance, houses and rising cooking smoke stretched on and on; Jiangning’s city walls extended into the distance; the river wound its way through, and on the black-canopied boats, boatmen poled their long poles forward… In the brilliant light of spring, a scroll of vivid, thriving life unrolled before him.

Six years before, the Jurchens’ campaign to search the mountains and scour the seas had passed through this very place. Junwu still remembered the corpses outside that city wall, Grandpa Kang, who had died here. Now, all this life had grown so vivid and clear again—all these living things, lovable, hateful, impossible to sort into any single category—merely to watch them exist was enough to bring a person happiness, and yet from their very existence sprang countless kinds of suffering as well…

The balloon drifted upward.

For the rest of his life, Zhou Junwu never once forgot the land he saw with his own eyes that day.

In the spring of the ninth year of the Wujian era, he flew into the sky for the first time.

…

Under that same sky, past Yanmen Pass to the north, as the snow thawed and the ice melted, Datong, the Jin state’s Western Capital, was entering the height of its trading season.

Goods flowed in and out, merchants came and went, carts and horses crowded the streets. After more than ten years of plunder, absorption, and internal recovery, the Jin state, this rising power, had gradually taken on a face of prosperity and bustle. Through Datong’s four gates poured travelers; along the city walls, banners stood thick as a forest, fluttering in the wind, and patrolling those great walls, troop after troop of Jurchen soldiers marched, bows strong and blades sharp. Within the city, the markets stretched on, pedestrians moved like threads of a loom, and patrolling officers strode among them, backs straight, occasionally stepping in when a brawl broke out and grew too heated to control on its own—for the folkways of the north were fierce, and such things were common enough.

In the bustling blacksmiths’ shops, hammers rang out amid searing heat; in the taverns and eateries, food and pastries from every corner of the land were sold, though most catered to Jurchen tastes. Storytellers plucked their huqin and struck down their wooden gavels with a crack.

Han slaves in ragged clothes moved among the crowds—some so thin and gaunt, chains bound about them, used as nothing more than beasts of burden, all light long gone from their eyes; others worked as servers and cooks in the various eateries, their lives perhaps somewhat better, though their eyes, too, held only timid, downcast glances, not daring to look at anyone for long. In the bustling pleasure quarters, some of the brothels still held southern Han women who had been captured and brought north. Those from small, humble households were treated as nothing more than livestock, material for others’ release. But there were also wives and daughters from great clans and noble families, who could often command a high price, and even a few women of the imperial house—still, to this day, cash cows for the brothel trade.

Even among the Jurchens there were more than a few who fancied poetry and letters, and in coming to these brothels, they much preferred to spend their time in conversation with cultured southern ladies. Of course, here things differed from the south in one respect.

Here, there were no chaste courtesans.

A woman in gaudy, flowered clothing danced madly in the street, singing some tune from the Central Plains in broken, warbling snatches, before being dragged off by a rough-mannered Jurchen man through a brothel’s doorway, into a room, laughter still ringing out unbroken behind them. Many here now understood the speech of the Wu Dynasty, and that mad woman was laughing as she went: “Ha ha, husband, you’ve come for me… ha, ah—ha ha, husband, you’ve come to fetch me…”

From within that room, even as she was being violated, that same voice carried on. But those nearby all knew—her husband had been killed long ago. He had been a craftsman who tried to resist, tried to flee, and was beheaded before her very eyes, his skull turned into a drinking vessel afterward… As the caravan passed through the street, Shi Jin walked with his head bowed, listening to that voice, while a companion beside him spoke of it all in a low voice.

“…Hero, don’t dwell on it too much. There’s no end of things like this. Even the Wu Dynasty’s own emperor kneels in his own palace like a dog every year, and that empress of theirs is just the same… oh, look there, hero—that’s the Great Manufactory of Lord Gushen…”

Shi Jin looked up to see, at the far end of the river, a sprawling compound, columns of smoke rising into the sky above it, soldiers patrolling all around, the whole place under heavy guard. His companion tugged at his sleeve. “Hero, we mustn’t go there. Best not let yourself be seen, either…”

Shi Jin nodded and looked away.

He had been in the north three months now.

Shi Jin was chivalrous and bold by nature, and when he first arrived in the north months before and saw with his own eyes the suffering of countless enslaved Han people, he had not been able to hold himself back—he had struck out and killed, and afterward found himself hunted through the deep snow by Jin soldiers. But Shi Jin’s martial skill was formidable, and he feared none of it; he had long since set aside thoughts of life and death. Through more than a month in the snow, he had turned the tables and killed a dozen or more Jin soldiers, and word of it had spread far and wide. Afterward he had made his way north, and along the road had saved the life of a caravan guard, and through him at last found companions, making his way quietly into Datong.

Though the north held countless enslaved Han people, there were of course also Han and Liao people who had lived there all along. But as the Wu Dynasty was weak, Han people in these lands, though they might hold the status of free commoners, were, as a rule, treated with contempt and oppression. Most of the caravan’s guards were natives of the Sixteen Prefectures of Yanyun, who had first suffered under the Liao and then under the Jin. Men who lived by the blade, they held Shi Jin, a hero of his kind, in high regard, and though they knew he bore ill will toward the Jurchens, they were still willing to travel with him a stretch of the way.

Though Shi Jin traveled alongside these men, he naturally said nothing to them of his intent to assassinate Nian Han. On the journey north, he saw Jin soldiers gathering, and the atmosphere in Datong—already the center of Jin military and political power—growing tenser still. Unable to help himself, he made some inquiries, and through them, spotted cannons among the Jin troops; a little more asking revealed that the Jin had already studied and begun equipping such weapons, and that the man in charge of this effort among the Jin leadership was one called Gushen—Wanyan Xiyin.

After its southern campaigns, the Jin state had taken in a great many craftsmen from the Wu Dynasty, and Xiyin, drawing on the study of natural philosophy, had joined with officials such as Shi Li’ai to establish the Great Manufactory, developing firearms and all manner of new crafts and techniques. Beyond weapons, many novel goods had emerged from it as well, now circulating in Datong’s markets as popular merchandise.

Amid the clatter of carts and horses, the caravan reached its destination in Datong. Shi Jin, unwilling to linger, cupped his hands in farewell to the others. The guard who had traveled with him, a man who valued loyalty, said his goodbyes to the rest of the group and then took Shi Jin off to eat first. He laid out a table at one of Datong’s finer restaurants, to properly repay the debt of his life saved—this was a man who understood gratitude, and knowing that Shi Jin’s journey north surely had some purpose, he shared with him, bit by bit, what he knew of the city’s layout and conditions.

After several rounds of drink, faces flushed red, his words grew a touch bashful.

“…I know, hero, that you haven’t come here merely to travel, but I am, after all, a Han man of the north, born and raised for generations—still, I know something of the boldness and chivalry of the south. A debt of life owed can hardly be repaid with one table of wine. It’s only that, though I too resent the Jurchens’ arrogance, my family is here, I have a wife and children and elders to care for… Hero, this place, Datong, is no ordinary city. In earlier years, the Jurchens called this place their Western Court, but at that time, among the Jurchens, there was still the Second Prince, Zongwang, who could hold Zonghan’s ambitions in check. After Zongwang died, the Jin state split into an eastern and western balance of power, and here, Marshal Zonghan’s authority became every bit the equal of the Tianhui court in the east…”

“…This city of Datong has heavy troop concentrations, and with Gushen Xiyin here, master fighters gather beneath him, and the Great Manufactory is guarded most strictly of all. However formidable your skill, hero, you come from the south after all, and as a Han man you stand out far too easily. Please… be careful, and take good care of yourself…”

The guard urged this caution on Shi Jin, and in his heart, no small part of it was fear that Shi Jin’s exposure might drag him into trouble as well. But Shi Jin, being a man of chivalry and honor, understood that the man had already taken on too much risk in repaying his debt, and said nothing more of it. After a while, the guard thought to change the subject, and told Shi Jin instead of various tales from around Datong—men who defied the Jurchens and were hunted or put under warrant, great thieves who specialized in stealing treasures, and so on. Wanyan Xiyin had gathered many warriors to himself and had carried out several sweeps and purges against these figures of the martial world, but there were always some who managed to escape, becoming legends that people still told of.

The guard thought to himself that if this man ran into real trouble in the city, he himself would be in no position to help—but perhaps these very figures of legend might yet become his companions.

Once the meal was finished, the two formally took their leave of each other, cupping their hands in farewell. Shi Jin, pack on his back, watched the man go from the street, then turned back and saw, at the far end of that clattering blacksmith’s shop, Han slaves treated no better than pigs or dogs.

This year, in the Jin calendar, was the twelfth year of Tianhui—the twelfth year since Wanyan Wuqimai had taken the throne. In these twelve years, the Jurchens had consolidated their rule over the people beneath them, and the Jurchen presence in the north had settled firmly into place. And alongside it all came the suffering and disaster of countless Han people.

Three campaigns against the Central Plains, the disgrace of Jingping, the search of the mountains and the scouring of the seas… the Han slaves captured and taken north—after all these years, many still survived on this land, and yet they scarcely seemed human anymore…

Shi Jin’s whole life had been one of chaos and disorder. As a youth, he had been quick to violence and eager for a fight; later he had taken to banditry, and later still fought the Jurchens, weathered infighting within his own ranks… The bloodshed he had lived through had been sometimes righteous, sometimes shameful. In his reckless youth, his hands had naturally been stained with innocent blood as well, and since then he had witnessed countless tragic deaths. But never once had the distortion and anguish he felt cut as deep into his bones as it did now, on this bustling street of Datong.

He walked on down that street, and one enslaved figure after another passed before his eyes. Most people around him had long grown used to the sight; he, too, did not once break his stride. In the days that followed, he staked out the area near the Marshal’s residence, and on the twenty-third day of the third month, he launched his assassination attempt against Zonghan. A single bloody battle shook Datong to its core…