BEGW C69

Chapter 69

For the watermill, grinding such a small amount of flour was the simplest of tasks.

With Ying Changchuan working in concert, Jiang Yuxun soon finished processing a sack of wheat.

Unaware of how time had slipped by, it was already noon.

The chill stream plunged from a height, striking great boulders, splintering into fine mist.

At the mill’s threshold, sunlight burst forth in dazzling brilliance; the officials of the Xuan Yin Bureau bowed in unison to the two men.

The Emperor, as was his custom, returned their salutes with a nod, and began the slow descent down the mountain.

Qi Pingsha, commander of the Bureau, followed closely, carrying the flour from the mill.

As he passed Jiang Yuxun, he did not neglect to nod again.

At that moment, his gaze happened inadvertently to fall upon Jiang Yuxun’s exposed forearm.

In the valley, the mountain wind’s faint chill swept gently over that spot.

Walking with the others down the slope, Jiang Yuxun felt an inexplicable pang of guilt, and instinctively tugged his rolled-up sleeve down.

Had Qi Pingsha noticed the state of my sleeve?

…Might he suspect something?

Summer robes were light enough; in pulling too swiftly, Jiang creased the fabric.

Qi Pingsha, mildly puzzled, called, “Master Jiang?”

His voice was neither loud nor soft, but it was enough to make Ying Changchuan glance back.

Even in laughter, the smoke-grey eyes carried a trace of aloof cold.

That single glance finally brought Jiang’s reason back to him.

Yes… I have done nothing wrong.

Why am I acting as though caught in misdeed?

“It is nothing,” Jiang cleared his throat at once, smoothing his sleeve as he walked on, “…I thought there was an insect on my hand.”

Carrying the sack, Qi Pingsha accepted it without doubt. “Insects are indeed plentiful in the hills—it is wise to let the sleeve fall.”

“Yes.”

The party continued their unhurried descent; in the corner of his vision, Jiang noticed a faint, elusive smile at the edge of the Emperor’s lips.

He could not know whether that expression betrayed recognition of his untruth…

Jiang’s heart began to drum once more.

With early autumn came swelling waters to both banks of the Yihe River.

A few autumn rains quickly swept the summer heat from the plain; in merely two or three nights, the river’s level had risen close to the warning mark.

By now, the “diversion channel” at the river’s neck had been partly dug.

The Emperor summoned Yin Songquan, overseer of the Yihe works, to Xianyou Palace.

After several days of close discussion, it was resolved—what was scheduled to begin in winter, the breaching of embankments, would now be advanced to autumn, to spare as much as possible the risk of floodwater smashing through the dams uncontrolled.

When the decree was issued, engineers of ordnance were brought by the Bureau to the Fulín Army camp, there to join arithmeticians recently recruited from the civil populace, to compute and recompute, and to conduct repeated explosive trials.

With all aspects verified and free from error, word spread that the court would advance the partial breaching of the Yihe’s banks.

Though complete plans had been made, this matter touched upon life and death, brooking no negligence nor mishap.

Three days before the start, the Bureau had cordoned off several danger zones.

Earlier still, the people living near the threat of the river were organised by troops to move to safe ground.

By the time the breaching came, even those who lived further downstream had fled to the heights.

Unlike a year past, these folk of the Yihe’s banks had now learned not only how to patrol the river and protect its dikes, but acquired from government teachers some fundamentals of hydrology.

Only the youngest children still leaned their chins on their mothers’ shoulders, yawning to ask in puzzlement: “Mama, why must we leave home today?”

The mother tousled her hair, carefully fitting a hat on her.

“Of late there is much rain. The Yihe twists and turns along its course; the court fears that floodwater might run straight down without time to turn aside, so they plan to cut through the dike ahead of time. If flood should truly come, it will drain faster, and for we who live downstream, safety will be greater.”

By then, the group had reached high ground.

The woman, speaking, turned with her child in her arms to look at the river coiled like a dragon across the plain.

“See—there.” She pointed to the newly dug channel. “In future, the river will pour straight along the new way.”

“I see,” the little girl’s gaze was solemn. “If people went to dig, would it not be dangerous?”

“Indeed,” murmured the woman, knowing the Yihe’s force. “I wonder what means the court intends this time…”

At her words, her neighbours too raised their eyes to the river, gathering in small clusters to discuss the breaching.

“You know not,” said a slightly unfamiliar man, peering into the distance. “I heard the court will not use human labour for this breach.”

His tone bore an air of mystery, as though privy to some secret.

“What else could it be?” asked one as they climbed toward the mountain refuge. “Surely not beasts of burden?”

Lowering his voice, the man said, “I hear they mean to borrow the power of ‘thunder.’”

“Thunder?!” The words startled those nearby. “That is dangerous talk—thunder is the power of Heaven; how could man seize it at will?”

One walker beside him grew tense. “Even the shamans themselves could not summon that.”

The man did not contest them, merely said, “In time, you will see—” And with that, he hastened into the crowd, disappearing at once.

“Master Jiang, the word of breaching the dike by ‘thunder’ has gone abroad, as you advised,” said a Bureau official in civilian garb, bowing. “Now the people await to see how giant thunder shall cut the dike!”

Jiang Yuxun smiled, lifting his head from the river chart he was checking for the last time. “Good. And those few noble guests—be sure they are not forgotten. The greater the spectacle, the better.”

The Bureau man replied at once, “Rest assured—Lord Fei has taken the matter in hand; in his arrangements there will be no fault.”

At this, Zhuang Youli, also in the hall, asked in puzzlement: “Ahchun, why do this?” Then, lowering his voice, “Shouldn’t such a weapon be kept secret?”

Though some present had known Jiang’s plans, the past days’ busyness had allowed no time for questioning.

Hearing Zhuang raise it now, all turned with curiosity toward him.

Finding a moment’s leisure, Jiang continued inspecting his chart as he answered softly: “By the original plan, Great Zhou is to raise near a hundred thousand cavalry within these years; counting the reserves, that would make one hundred and fifty thousand.”

Seeing he meant to explain, Zhuang set down what he was doing, prepared to listen.

“These horsemen, before ever setting foot on the battlefield, must learn to coordinate—not only with the traditional footsoldier formations, but with firearms. Most essential, the warhorses must be desensitised as much as possible.”

“This requires graduated training and adaptation,” said Gu Yejiu, who had often visited the Fulín camp and seen the cavalry drill in person.

“Just so.” Jiang rolled up the chart. “Such a matter involves many men—Zhezhuo will know sooner or later. Compared to the safety of those on the Yihe’s banks, when this becomes known is of lesser importance. What is more, past firearms experiments were too small in scale—the court needs a chance for large-scale trial, to prove their force.”

“That makes sense…” Zhuang nodded.

As Jiang stood from his desk, he added, “Even if Zhezhuo learns of the breach, they will not link it to weapons for a while—nor care for it.”

“I see now!” Zhuang clapped his hands. “That thing for breaching dikes, named ‘earth thunder’—at first I thought it some sorcery from the Ling Tian Terrace. Zhezhuo are proud by nature; even if they hear of it, they will dismiss it as rumour, or some tale spun by commoners. They will not care much.”

Jiang smiled faintly. “Something like that… Indeed, with their temperament, they will only believe when beaten by it directly.”

At that, Fei Jinyuan, Comptroller of the Palace, came from outside.

He smiled at Jiang: “Ling Tian Terrace has received word—tomorrow at dawn Shang You will come in person to watch the proceedings!”

Ling Tian Terrace held that wind, rain, thunder and lightning were powers of Heaven, and believed mankind small, able only to endure calamities like flood, or placate Heaven by sacrifice.

Though the ‘earth thunder’ borrowed only the name, there was no better chance to humble the arrogance of Ling Tian Terrace.

The court would not waste it.

Jiang returned the greeting quickly. “I thank Lord Fei for his trouble.”

“Nay, it is my duty!” Fei laughed. “If firearms show their face, it must be in full splendour. Besides Shang You, the envoy from Kehan has been told likewise. When the time comes, this place will be livelier than you imagine, Master Jiang.”

Jiang laid down the folded chart and walked out beside Fei.

Speaking, he lifted his gaze to the distant Yihe, flowing gently eastward. Seen from afar, it was a long, white ribbon wrapped around dark-brown soil.

Tomorrow, the plain’s quiet would be shattered by thunderous sound.

—More than any, Jiang Yuxun awaited that hour.

At the hour of yin, before dawn, the Chunhao Mountain on the Yihe’s northern bank was already alive with bustle.

At the Emperor’s invitation, all civil and military officials of the realm had come with their families.

Xing Zhi, who had meant to leave Zhaodu swiftly for the north, stayed several extra days upon hearing of the event, even using his status as son of the Chief of the Imperial Clan to join the watchers.

The patricians were all splendidly dressed, formal in attire.

Amid such splendour, Shang You and his retinue, in lead-white ceremonial robes, appeared starkly plain.

With cries of “Long live,” the Emperor ascended Chunhao, seating himself at the fore of the prepared viewing terrace.

The breaching hour was yet to come, and palace maids brought the morning meal to each table first.

“Is this ‘fragrant melon’?” asked Tsijia, the Kehan envoy, gazing at the platter in surprise. “…Is it not chiefly harvested in late spring to summer, and unable to keep long?”

From childhood he had studied the speech of Great Zhou, and knew something of its produce and scenes.

Before coming to Zhaodu, he had wished to taste fragrant melon’s sweetness, but the season had passed.

Unable to resist, Tsijia picked a cut piece with chopsticks, holding it to his nose to inhale deeply.

Hearing him, Jiang Yuxun turned from nearby. “It was grown in a greenhouse—ripens even out of season.”

“…Ah, indeed!” Tsijia’s face lit in realisation.

Tasting it, the cool sweetness drove all drowsiness away. “Delicious!”

In the days past, Tsijia had been schooled by others in the ways of ‘greenhouses,’ and told how peonies could bloom in winter.

But he had not grasped that in less than a year, such greenhouses now dotted the Yihe plain.

Flowers were but a small part—most space grew vegetables and fruits.

Not only estates, but commoners with the means had tried simple greenhouses themselves.

Under the lure of food, “Heaven’s mysteries” were set aside for the time.

Dietary habits in Zhaodu, even all Great Zhou, began to change.

※

The breaching was set for the hour of mao.

As breakfast ended, the far sky paled; the time approached.

Jiang’s hands, lightly resting on his knees, were clenched tight without his noticing.

The plan had been rehearsed again and again, yet tension did not lessen in the least.

From any angle, breaching a riverbank was no small matter.

Today, all assumed Jiang the chief in charge.

At such a moment, he could not betray a flicker of panic.

While waiting for dawn, many came to speak with him—he forced himself to appear composed, answering each in turn.

Only when Eunuch Sang came to say the Emperor summoned him to the front did the crowd disperse.

…

Bowing, he said, “Your Majesty, you send for me?”

Without replying, Ying Changchuan let his gaze fall upon the Yihe.

After a moment, Jiang seated himself beside his sovereign, joining him in looking toward the foot of Chunhao.

Morning mist thinned, revealing the plain’s fields laid out like a chessboard.

The workmen who had carved the channel long left; now they waited on an open ground at the mountain’s foot to see the outcome.

The dug-yet-unjoined channel lay like a dragon half-hidden in cloud.

Most wheat had already been sown; only time remained.

Upstream, villagers still ploughed through the night to catch the last days of autumn planting.

The mountain wind made Jiang squint.

But without the hum of congratulation around him, his heart found a rare calm.

From this modest height, both river and plain spread beneath the view.

Following the official road westward, Jiang saw faint dots approaching—grain carts.

Summer’s taxes had been gathered smoothly; now even grain from the farthest western county had reached near Zhaodu, awaiting storage in Ningping Granary.

The carts rolled eastward, but were stopped by guards before they reached Chunhao’s base—the river’s front was no longer safe.

Further off, faint smoke rose above dwellings.

All was orderly.

The mist lifting, the plain awaited that hour.

Near mao, the Emperor turned his eyes to Jiang. “Is my dear minister nervous?”

As a senior minister now, how could he admit to nerves?

He meant to deny it—yet his head nodded even as his mouth answered honestly: “Just now, I was near to death with nerves.”

Wind at the mountain’s foot lifted a strand at his temple; with hair astray, he looked less tautly composed.

He hurried to set himself right.

The Emperor smiled. “So exaggerated?”

He had taken in the forced poise of Jiang earlier; in this moment, the anxious and concerned Jiang was one only he saw.

That singularity pleased him in some unspoken way.

“Yes,” Jiang abandoned struggle. “If aught goes wrong, it would disgrace so many’s labour, the trust of the people and my colleagues…”

He paused, then, quietly, “…and Your Majesty’s.”

Jiang would not see anyone’s trust in him disappointed—whoever they might be.

“So you are nervous only for fear of betraying that trust?”

Before crossing here, he had only just graduated university; through all that followed he had matured greatly, and now could feign composure to perfection.

But under this pressure, he spoke softly: “More important… I dare not think what should be done with the channel if this plan fails.”

His voice shook. Shamed, he added with a sudden grin:

“But I’ll accept all results, for good or ill.”

The earnest tone showed he truly was ready to bear failure and blame.

Then a great bronze bell tolled; the viewing terrace shook with its sound.

Jiang’s hard-won calm faded into tension; his face paled, hands clenched tight.

“The time is nearly here…” he murmured.

From his seat at the fore, he saw a light-armoured horseman gallop from the base toward the river—bearing a torch for the fuse.

Jiang fixed all his sight on him, watching him bend to bring flame to cord.

This, the man had drilled countless times.

In an instant, cord flared.

At once he wheeled his horse to run back toward the mountain.

Bell sound rang again.

Silence fell upon the terrace; all eyes turned to the river, awaiting the ‘thunder cut.’

The bell tolled a third; the horseman vanished into the foot, cord burned to its end.

—The moment!

The faint spark vanished from the river.

Jiang’s hands clenched harder, breath forgotten.

Whispers rose.

“…What’s happened?”

“Did you see the fire just now?”

“Where’s the thunder?” Someone looked up at the sky.

“Perhaps Heaven did not grant it…”

Even the Kehan envoy turned to question his fellows.

Jiang’s nails bit into flesh.

He could feel the weight of all gazes behind him.

Then came the Emperor’s voice: “Do not fear.”

Jiang turned at once.

All others watched the foot with taut anxiety; only Ying Changchuan sipped tea unhurriedly.

His words cut through the rising murmurs: “Powder measure has been calculated and tried many times—no flaw.”

“And if—against all odds—something does fail…” He set down the cup and met eyes black as a raven’s wing. “Is there not still I, the Emperor?”

The bell tolled again; Jiang’s heart seemed struck numb.

Though unspoken, the meaning was clear—should this fail, he would not wield sovereign power merely to fix the ruin, but bear the doubt alongside him.

“Boom—”

A muffled roar drowned the bell; Chunhao and the plain shuddered.

Someone leapt up in panic: “Earthquake?!”

“Quick, hide!”

“…No, not quake,” said an official, staring ahead. “The riverbank—it’s been cut!”

At mao, much of the populace still slept; the roar woke them.

Fear rose, then memory—the breach was set for this morning.

On the terrace, even shamans rose, unable to stay seated.

Only Jiang and the Emperor remained seated at the very fore.

Explosion continued; the long earthen bank split apart.

Fine soil turned to yellow mist, borne by wind across the plain.

The great dyke was like a golden dragon tearing free of chains.

Beneath the smoke, the unchecked river rushed eastward.

Like a green dragon tangled with a golden, the waters and sand surged forward.

Even before the sound waned, the flood’s roar rattled ears.

Someone cried out—

“Broken!”

“The dyke broke by itself!”

Once-soft waters shattered the last frail barrier; waves like spilled blood rolled out over the fields.

Jiang’s pulse pounded to the point of bursting.

Then, through smoke, came the familiar voice—

“Let go.”

Startled, he inhaled dust and coughed. “What?”

With a half-smile, almost helpless, the Emperor’s warm hand closed over his, patting gently. “Loosen your grip.”

The dyke split entirely; the blasts ceased.

“Ah?” Confused, Jiang eased his grip and looked to his palm.

In clenching so hard, his nails had torn the skin, and blood welled freely.

The sight startled him; pain came to him late.

“Hss—” He sucked in a sharp breath.

“Do not move.”

On skin white as snow, blood bloomed like red plum petals on frozen ground.

A man long steeled to war should be no stranger to wounds and blood—yet now there was an unfamiliar ache.

Frowning, the Emperor drew a silk kerchief from his sleeve; gently pried apart Jiang’s fingers, and carefully wiped the torn palm.

Soft fabric avoided the wound, carrying away the glaring red.

Never had his touch been so cautious.

The smoke had not yet cleared, the plain’s dragon still roared—

And only the two of them knew what had occurred here.