That was why he was still alive, still in a position to command. The west had been less important, his failure had attracted less attention—and less consequence.
The commanders above Hanjin had been executed by now, most of them.
Shenwei Huang had made it south from his own disastrous battlefield, hurrying past Xinan (which was doomed to fall) and across the Wai River.
He had found a fair-sized barracks attached to a town called Chunyu near the Great River, established that he outranked the officers, and made these soldiers, smoothly enough, his own small force. There’d been no one to gainsay him. If any one thing mattered in an army, it was rank.
His new troops patrolled against outlaws until winter, when the Altai began their campaign of vengeance. Commander Shenwei elected to abandon Chunyu and lead his men across the Great River into the region near the marshes.
His soldiers were not generally unhappy about this, even if some did desert to stay in or near the town. The Altai had better than fifty thousand riders. They were doing terrible things, and it wasn’t as if Shenwei Huang’s small force was going to stop them, was it?
In the event, their town and barracks proved to be far enough south and west not to have been endangered, but, really, what would have been the point of taking chances?
A little later, in spring, after the Altai had been stunningly defeated in the east, Commander Shenwei made his way to Shantong—it had become clear the new court would be there. He sent his soldiers back across the river to their barracks. They had served their purpose.
He presented a cautious presence in the early days at the new capital, for fear that someone who mattered might know too many details of his actions in the north, or just dislike him (there were a few of those). But, he swiftly realized, the chaos of the court’s arrival, crowning a new emperor, assembling the rudiments of a functioning bureaucracy, meant there might be room for a man clever in certain ways—if not, perhaps, especially skilled on a battlefield.
Commander Ren Daiyan had slaughtered a large number of the Altai on the Great River. The barbarians were retreating north. Ren Daiyan, a man not entirely normal, in Shenwei Huang’s view, was following them.
Word began to emerge in Shantong that a peace treaty was being negotiated. Whatever the terms might be, Shenwei Huang realized that he was unlikely to have to fight the Altai any more.
He felt reasonably confident of being able to deal with bandits and rogue troops on their side of any new border—if he was given enough men, of course. Extreme numerical superiority was the great secret of warfare as far as he was concerned. And timing was the key to success at any court.
Accordingly, when it was made known that Ren Daiyan had been summoned back from his wild (and evidently unauthorized) adventure in the north and was almost certain to lose his command—well, what man of ambition would not see a chance hanging in front of him, like fruit on a low branch?
Huang was able to procure an audience with the emperor and his prime minister. It cost him some money, but that sort of thing always did.
He wasn’t sure how he felt about the new prime minister. Hang Hsien was the son of the most alarming of the previous ones, so he bore watching, that much was clear.
Shenwei Huang had judged his young emperor to be both anxious and direct, and he tried to address each of these things. His message was simple: the unpredictable Ren Daiyan was an obvious concern, but no affair of his. Huang had no doubt the court could deal with the man. Commanders could not, in Kitai, be unpredictable.
Commander Ren’s army was another matter. His army was very large, and likely to be dangerously loyal to him and to his deputy commanders, his friends. Commander Shenwei humbly proposed that he be sent to take control of that force, which would be along the Wai by now—if they’d followed orders. Following orders, he added, was what he’d done all his life in the service of the empire, even when faced with overwhelming forces opposing him.
He proposed to divide that army into four smaller ones (he’d given this thought). A single force that large was dangerous, he said. He would post three army groups along the Wai, east, central, west, and change their commanders regularly. The fourth would be assigned to deal with outlaws wherever they might be found, or provincial governors with unseemly ambitions in this challenging time when Kitai needed every man to be loyal to a fault.
The emperor listened, the prime minister listened. They suggested he remain in Shantong while they considered his proposal “in the light of larger affairs.”
He was summoned back two days later, to the throne room this time. Important advisers were present. Standing before the new Dragon Throne, Shenwei Huang was elevated three full degrees in rank and named Left Side Commander of the Pacified Border.
He was ordered to travel immediately, with trusted officers, to take command from whomever Ren Daiyan (not Commander Ren, Huang noted) had left in control of that army. He was to proceed, once there, as he’d suggested to the emperor. His ideas were regarded as sound, his loyalty commended as an example.
Shenwei Huang was deeply gratified but not unduly surprised. Turbulent times meant opportunities. History taught as much to any man with eyes to see.
HAD HE BEEN PRIVY to the exchange between emperor and prime minister that took place after he’d left that first, private audience, a shadow might have fallen upon his pleasure.
“If that ridiculous man,” said the emperor of Kitai, “had any more wind in him, kites could fly when he spoke.”
The prime minister laughed aloud, startled. The emperor smiled briefly. Hang Hsien would later regard that moment as the one where he first began to think the nervous, intense young man he was serving had perception and understanding. That they might achieve some things together, sustain a dynasty, and Kitai.
It was agreed between them that Shenwei Huang would be promoted and extolled and sent to command—and divide—the army of Ren Daiyan. His ambition was laughably transparent and his incompetence as a soldier was known to both men in the room. But neither of these things, for the present, was seen as a threat, and that was critical just now. It was a precarious time.
The man could always be dismissed, stripped of any new rank, when need came. Such things were easily done, the prime minister told the emperor.
“Sometimes we might be required to do more,” the emperor said thoughtfully.
The two of them had had a very different encounter in this same room with the emissary sent from the Altai in summer. Terms had been proposed, some in writing, some not.
Negotiating a peace was a delicate affair. You demanded, and had demands made of you. You rejected and accepted, gave and were granted, depending on your need, and your power.
LEFT SIDE COMMANDER Shenwei Huang left the city seven days later. He crossed the Great River with fifty men and a hundred horses, heading for the Wai and command of a battle-hardened army of nearly sixty thousand.
He never reached it.
In the extreme disruption and violence of a terrible year, when so many had fled the Altai, displaced from their homes, sheltering in woods or swampland or roaming the countryside, there were even more outlaws than was customary in Kitai.
Some of the bands that had formed were very large. Indeed, this was the task Huang had proposed for a quarter of the army on the Wai: to clean out the more dangerous outlaws, starting with those in the southeast, alarmingly close to the emperor.
His escort of fifty included twelve senior officers, carefully chosen for the unlikelihood any of them would conspire against him—or be likely to achieve anything if they did.
The soldiers, his personal guards, were perfectly capable. But the outlaws that attacked their party outnumbered them significantly and fought with surprising skill. Shenwei Huang was experienced in exaggerating the numbers of his foes when he’d had to report a lost battle, but in this instance there really were two hundred men who ambushed them at a point between the Great River and the Wai, loosing deadly arrows from the woods while
springing forth to block the road before them and behind.
They were not, however, outlaws.
Ren Daiyan was led before his emperor the same day he arrived in Shantong.
Not even a chance to change his clothing, rest, take a meal. He was dusty from the road, barely had time to wash his face. He still wore riding boots. His sword and bow were taken at the palace doors.
The throne room was crowded, with a buzz and hum of anticipation. This afternoon’s encounter, it was generally agreed, was likely to be both entertaining and important. It might even represent a defining moment in this new empire of the Southern Twelfth.
The prime minister of Kitai was uneasy for many reasons. He wasn’t sure how he felt about the crowd here, the number of witnesses who might spread various reports. His usual method of resolving such dilemmas—what would his father have done?—afforded no immediate solution. He had proposed making this encounter a private one. The emperor had refused.
He did wish that the governor of Jingxian had not taken it upon himself to be here. Wang Fuyin had arrived in Shantong before the commander. He had every right to be present, as a distinguished member of the new bureaucracy. He was also a friend of Ren Daiyan’s.
There was a worrisome phrase in use, from a new song by Lu Chen. It was being sung in marketplaces and pleasure houses: From Hanjin to Shantong is the path of our sorrow.
That was bad. He needed to do something about it. You could ban songs, phrases, poems, punish those caught singing or speaking them. It wasn’t generally a good idea, especially not if the writer was as celebrated as this one was. Better, really, to make the words untrue.
He needed time for that. And help. There was a chance to make this succeed, he did believe that was true. A peace that endured, trade bringing more back than they sent north, the double-crop rice fields feeding Kitai from Szechen to the sea. A new Kitai could become something that flourished and endured.
He needed a chance. He needed a good emperor, one not defined by his fears. He looked at his emperor, the one he had. He looked down a crowded room at the man walking slowly towards the throne, like a soldier come from a battlefield.
His father had liked this Ren Daiyan, had said as much at Little Gold Hill.
The commander looked tired, which was to be expected, given how far he’d come and their decision to give him no time to rest, prepare, consult with anyone. At the same time, there was a hint of amusement on the man’s face when he glanced at Hang Hsien, as if he understood these strategies.
His bows to his emperor were precise, unstinting. Three full obeisances, three times. When he rose to Zhizeng’s gesture he turned and bowed twice to Hsien. He was smiling.
Hsien wished the man hadn’t smiled. He wished he didn’t feel so uneasy. He doubted his father had ever felt this way in a throne room. Well, perhaps at the very beginning?
His father, blind and frail and alone, had ended his life when his home had been invaded by Altai riders. This man, Ren Daiyan, had been intending to destroy the last invaders in Kitai and retake the capital.
There was, Hang Hsien thought, no way to be easy here.
FUYIN HAD POSITIONED himself in the second row of officials, most of the way towards the throne. Governor of a large city, formerly chief magistrate of Hanjin, he was entitled to be this close, even had a right to the first row, which he’d chosen not to take. He wanted to see what was happening, but not be too visible. He worried about his expressions, what he might reveal if he wasn’t cautious. Although if he were truly cautious he wouldn’t be here at all, would he?
“We are pleased to see you prompt to our summons, Commander Ren,” said the emperor of Kitai. His voice was too thin for real majesty, but it was clear and precise.
“Kitai’s servant is grateful to be received, exalted lord. And honoured to serve the empire in any way I can.”
He should probably have said the emperor or the throne, Fuyin thought. He wiped perspiration from his forehead. The man on his left looked at him curiously. The prime minister, he saw, was standing right next to the throne. In the old court prime ministers had positioned themselves more to one side. Protocols had changed, were changing.
The Wai River was to be the northern border of Kitai. This city was now their capital. This was their emperor.
Their emperor said, “Does that service include recklessly endangering the largest part of our army? Leaving this court utterly exposed?”
It is here, Fuyin thought. There was to be no subtle emergence of the point today. And the emperor was doing this himself. Fuyin wiped his face again, with a silk cloth, ignoring the man on his left.
He saw Daiyan react—saw the moment when his friend realized how direct today would be, what this summons was. He saw him take a breath, the way one does before shouldering a burden, accepting it. Daiyan lifted his head. He looked at the prime minister for a moment, then back to the emperor. He smiled. Stop that, Fuyin wanted to cry. You are dealing with a frightened man! And then, very suddenly, with no warning at all, a thought came to him.
As it happened, the same idea in the same moment occurred to the prime minister of Kitai, watching as intently: that Ren Daiyan, before his emperor and the court, might be addressing others beyond this room, or even their own time.
Long after, Wang Fuyin would say, truthfully, that he’d had this thought and had feared it, as one feared an angry ghost on a moonless country lane.
Daiyan said, voice pitched to carry, “Serene lord, all that your servant has done has been with a mind to safeguard Kitai. And its emperor.”
“Is it so? Racing, without orders, towards the Altai forces?”
“Towards the rescue of the emperor’s suffering people, my lord.”
The prime minister stirred, seemed about to speak, but it was Daiyan who went on. “I had a battle-tested army, and we had destroyed half the barbarian force, as the emperor knows. As they knew. They were in retreat, and smaller than us.”
“They were smaller when they shattered our armies above Xinan and Hanjin!”
“But not above Yenling, gracious lord. As I believe the emperor will be generous enough to remember.”
Who in the room—or on the throne—would not remember? The emperor looked suddenly to his left, to his prime minister, as if for help. Fuyin still had that odd sense that Daiyan was saying words he had not intended when he’d walked in. That something had changed for him with the emperor’s first question.
Hang Hsien cleared his throat. He said, “The Altai were inside the city, Commander Ren.” He used the title, Fuyin noted. “Winter was approaching, any siege you undertook would have caused our own people inside the walls ...”
He stopped, because Ren Daiyan was vigorously shaking his head, another transgression. He was a soldier, a soldier, doing this to the prime minister of Kitai!
He said, gravely enough, “My lord prime minister, I thank you for your thoughts. For considering such matters. I agree. We could not have subjected Hanjin to a siege. We were not about to do so.”
“You’d have flown over the walls?” The emperor, his voice a little too harsh.
“Gone under them, my lord.” Daiyan paused. “The same way I came out last winter when I saved the illustrious emperor from the Altai camp.” He waited again. “And then guided him safely here, destroying his pursuers.”
Such a dangerous game, Fuyin was thinking. But Daiyan had to do this, didn’t he? Remind them all, in this very public way, of the things he’d done for Kitai. For Zhizeng.
It was the prime minister who answered. “Kitai and the glorious Emperor Zhizeng are aware of the services you have rendered in the past. It is not a response to current error to cite previous deeds.”
“Perhaps not,” said Daiyan, quietly, “but might they not be a response to allegations of disloyalty?”
A murmuring. Oh, Daiyan, please, Wang Fuyin thought. Have care.
The prime minister said, “No such allegations have been made, Commander Ren.”
“
Thank you,” said Ren Daiyan. “May I ask then what I am doing here? Instead of killing barbarians who rode through Kitai murdering our people? I should be serving my emperor by freeing us from their oppression!” For the first time an edge in his voice.
Hang Hsien said, “It is the task of the emperor and his advisers to determine what course Kitai is to take, Commander Ren. It is not for a soldier.”
And here it was, Fuyin thought. The old battle and the old fears. This endless clash, this chasm ... the sorrow of the land.
Time’s river flowed east, never to return, the sages taught. But there were so many ruins along the banks. Commanders rebelling, millions dead, dynasties falling. Armies as weapons against the state, the court, the emperor under heaven. Military leaders seizing the mandate of heaven for themselves. Chaos and savagery, wilderness inside walls. The heart crying for what the eye saw.
“Of course it is for the court to make such decisions,” said Daiyan, quietly. “But must the emperor’s loyal commanders not do their tasks properly in the field? When invaders come upon us?” Passion again in his voice. “We had beaten half of their army, they were weary of warfare, and I knew how to get into Hanjin! We were about to destroy the last barbarian force in our land. Tell me, my lord emperor, how would it have been disloyal for me to do that for you? My life is sworn to the service of Kitai. August lord, my body is marked with characters that say as much.”
Absolute silence. A feeling in Fuyin’s heart of something larger than he could hold inside. He wasn’t breathing, sensed that others around him weren’t doing so either. And he still felt, terribly, that Daiyan had made some decision, had understood something. He wasn’t only speaking to them any more. Through them, perhaps, that they might remember, and tell.
But the young man on the throne was not weak or uncertain about his own needs and desires, his own understanding, even in the face of something like this. This, too, needed to be known, and Governor Wang Fuyin and the court in Shantong learned it then.
“No,” said the emperor of Kitai. “No. Loyalty is humility. If you had been wrong, if they had reinforcements come, if your plan to enter the city failed, if you were defeated in that battle, we were naked here. No soldier of Kitai can take that much upon himself! And there were things you did not know, did not wait to know. We had agreed to a peace, a border, trade. No more slaughter of our beloved people, who are—always—the endless duty of an emperor.”