The Khan's Shadow
Excluding Barnio, who had shouldered the blame and vanished, the first person the Emperor singled out was the Director of Intelligence. His opening words concerned the appearance of a Khan.
In an instant the Director found himself saddled with an enormous title and countless stares. He was the sort of man who spent most of his days sealed alone inside the Intelligence Bureau’s offices and was ordinarily sensitive to others’ gazes, yet the gravity of the matter seemed to render those eyes invisible to him now. He continued with calm precision.
“As Your Majesty well knows, the recent consolidation and uprising of the nomadic tribes centered on the Gaar Tribe. After the Rebel Against Heaven was suppressed, we thoroughly scoured the Gaar Tribe’s strongholds.”
In the long span of history the nomads had never once been unified. The Gaar Tribe had been the first to achieve that feat, so the Empire had every reason to erase them completely. I myself had taken part in that purge—playing with fire, you might say—and we had cleaned them out in spectacular fashion.
“Yet the Gaar Tribe has risen again, centered on Udesr Dorgon, blood of the Rebel Against Heaven, and the long-missing Keshik. They have subjugated the surrounding tribes and rapidly gathered strength. This intelligence was secured by the Blue Talon Knights during their withdrawal, and the Intelligence Bureau regards it as certain.”
A claim of certainty, delivered before every high official and offered as a report to the Emperor himself. That meant Dorgon’s consolidation of power and his self-proclamation as Khan was no mere rumor; it was truth. Even if he had not yet claimed the title of Khan, the signs of a single unified force—exactly as five years ago—were unmistakable.
Those tribes, then.
A sigh threatened to escape me. I could already guess which tribes Dorgon had gathered.
Kagan had swept away every pro-Empire tribe in the north, yet he had not shattered every tribe that refused to join him. Ambiguous neutrals, tribes too apathetic toward war to be worth recruiting—those third-camp groups had slipped through Kagan’s fingers. Nominally under his banner, they had in reality lounged in the rear as a kind of reserve force. It was only natural. Even the anti-Empire coalition Kagan had forged was riddled with tribes that loathed one another; adding more whose loyalty was optional would have been madness even for him.
We should have dealt with them then.
After the war the Empire had failed to seize control of those third-camp tribes. We neither purged them on the pretext of their former allegiance to Kagan nor actively courted them for northern influence. At the time the Empire simply lacked the strength to succeed at either course. And this was the result: while the Empire limped and groaned, Dorgon had swiftly bound those same tribes together again and secured a force large enough to threaten us.
“Furthermore, the forces Udesr Dorgon has gathered number between fifty and seventy thousand—”
“Director of Intelligence.”
The Emperor’s call was edged with displeasure. The Director hastily bowed his head.
“To face twenty thousand nomads on open plains requires no fewer than five full legions. Speak with precision.”
The Director hesitated, then forced the words out.
“I beg Your Majesty’s forgiveness. After the Great Subjugation War, the great majority of the Empire’s eyes and ears in the north were lost. Unlike before, we can no longer ascertain the size of each tribe. Nor can we guarantee the numbers of the remnants still hidden inside the dungeons.”
A minister admitting his own inadequacy before the Emperor. In that miraculous, breath-stopping moment the Emperor’s brow twitched—then settled once more. It was true, after all, that the Great Subjugation War had gutted the Empire’s northern intelligence network. Strict though he was, the Emperor was no madman who berated men for the impossible. If anything, the Bureau deserved praise for bringing even rough figures.
“…In this humble servant’s judgment, the chance that the number falls below sixty thousand is vanishingly small.”
“Is that so.”
The Director’s desperate addendum left the Emperor’s voice utterly still. The margin of error had shrunk from twenty thousand to ten. Ten thousand was still no small range, yet narrowing it further would have required guesswork rather than intelligence.
“Minister of War.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
Having heard the Director’s report, the Emperor turned his gaze to the Minister of War.
“How far has the restoration of the cavalry progressed?”
“The Peerless Cavalry is in no way inferior to its former self, and its numbers have recovered to seventy percent. Its training, however, still falls short of the nomads’.”
The Minister bowed deeply, as though the admission shamed him. The Emperor showed no reaction. This too lay within the bounds of his understanding, and he let it pass. Cavalry was not a branch completed simply by handing a man a spear and a horse. Only training that spilled blood and tears, only the state of becoming one with the mount, produced true cavalry. Against nomads the effort required was several times greater still.
“Yet every other branch of our forces has recovered its former scale.”
“The Minister of War’s labors have been truly great.”
The news was somewhat encouraging, yet the Emperor’s face remained blank. Scale had been restored; the claim of restored training had never been made. The Minister had spoken only to soothe the imperial temper a little.
In any case, by receiving the reports in this fashion the Emperor had shared the information with every high official gathered in the Grand Council Chamber. Afterward he fell silent. He had heard the numbers of nomads massing in the north and confirmed the state of the cavalry—the essential arm for facing them. Anyone could see these were questions preparing for war, and the nobles began to eye one another.
How many private troops would have to be mustered once war began? How much military materiel secured? Was the grain supply sufficient? Their minds were already racing along those tracks.
“Iron Blood Duke.”
“To restore the regions damaged by the Great Subjugation War, vast quantities of materials were sent north. Relatively little remained for the production of military stores—therefore, though I speak with the greatest reverence, a prolonged campaign will encounter severe difficulties.”
“Wise Duke.”
“By the blessing of the Great Emperor, last year brought a rich harvest. Yet successive relief efforts have left the reserves themselves low; like the Iron Blood Duke, I cannot guarantee a long war.”
The Emperor broke his silence by calling the two dukes, and that summons alone was enough for the Iron Blood Duke and the Wise Duke to supply the answers he required. In the midst of it the complete absence of any drunken slur in the Wise Duke’s voice sent a fresh ripple of unease through the nobles. To gauge the crisis level by whether or not she was drunk—was that even human?
This is insane.
Of course, whether the Wise Duke was sober hardly mattered now. The reports of the Minister of War and the two dukes meant that the Empire’s own condition was far from rosy.
This year the Empire had staged a splendid New Year’s Audience and flaunted its recovery from old wounds. The Empire that had bled in the Great Subjugation War and the succession struggle now showed the nobles that its former glory had returned. Half of that display, however, was bluff.
Three years was never enough to erase those scars completely.
If I had to compare the Empire’s state, it was a boxer who had gone the full twelve rounds, vomiting blood, bones broken, a mild concussion grazing past. The Empire had indeed risen from its sickbed and regained a fair measure of its pre-war strength. Still, asking a patient who has only just left the hospital bed whether he feels like stepping back into the ring is pure madness. That was exactly where the Empire stood. It could fight if ordered, yet if it overreached now the aftermath—win or lose—would be severe.
A restaurant on the verge of collapse hanging a sign that read “Open for Normal Business.” The present Empire was only a little better than that. At least it had not yet collapsed like the restaurant; that much was a mercy.
“Your Majesty. Grant me leave to speak a word.”
From among the restless nobles a middle-aged man requested the floor.
“Granted.”
“Long live Your Majesty. I thank you for your mercy.”
The man bowed with formal courtesy at the Emperor’s permission.
The Speaker?
Count Bardon, Speaker of the Imperial Diet. An Imperial Count who served as the Emperor’s shadow, his hands and feet, his rubber stamp—yet here, before every high official, he was requesting an independent statement. The other nobles’ eyes fixed on him as one at this ominous turn. Was this truly the Speaker’s own initiative, or a performance prearranged with the Emperor?
“Your Majesty, it is true that many shackles bind the Empire at present. Even so, the Empire must move.”
“You acknowledge the Empire’s unfitness yet insist we must move. Speaker, what do you mean?”
“You must show decisive blood and majesty to those rebels who seem to have forgotten the Rebel Against Heaven’s end.”
The moment the words left his mouth, Imperial Counts one after another requested leave to speak. Naturally the Emperor granted them all.
“Your Majesty, the Empire’s history has known many hardships, yet in the end it was always the Empire that triumphed. The present hardship is merely another page of that history.”
“It is true the Empire has not yet regained its former glory, yet if we fail to act now the northern rebels will only grow more arrogant. Then we shall have to prepare for still more blood and tears. Your Majesty, the Empire must move now.”
“Your Majesty. Your peerlessly loyal soldiers and the ministers who have received the grace of the Imperial House wait only for Your Majesty’s command.”
The chorus of demands for war transformed the once-silent Grand Council Chamber into a place of denunciation against northern arrogance and treasonous ambition.
So it was the latter.
I watched the Speaker step back a pace while the Emperor nodded with bland composure at the Imperial Counts. Of course an Imperial Count would never voice an independent opinion. This was a game prearranged with the Emperor.
…And I just learned that the Minister of Palace Affairs has summoned every minister. His Majesty the Emperor has personally proceeded to the Imperial Diet.
Suddenly Section Chief Two’s earlier report surfaced in my mind. I had wondered why the Emperor was visiting the Diet before issuing the summons; from that moment he had already been contemplating war.
As time passed, other nobles who had grasped the situation gradually joined the denunciation. Their faces were twisted, yet that twisting was not born of anger at the north alone.
“With so many loyal ministers, We are truly a blessed Emperor.”
Those words sealed it. Through the Imperial Counts’ agitation the nobles’ consensus had shifted to war. Now, if the Emperor declared war, he would no longer be “the Emperor who started a war despite the Empire’s unfitness,” but “the Emperor who accepted his loyal subjects’ spontaneous request for war.” In short, he would not need to offer a single word of apology to the nobles who would suffer losses by participating. As ever, politics came to him as naturally as breathing.
“Your words are just. The Empire has always stood firm, and no matter what trials it faces, it is the Empire that remains standing at the end. Even a Khan is, in the eyes of Us who have received Heaven’s Mandate, merely one among the feudal lords.”
Having so proclaimed, the Emperor rose from the throne. As he stood, the nobles—and even the Crown Prince and Ainter standing attendance behind him—dropped to their knees and bowed their heads.
“To those who know not Heaven’s Mandate We shall show Heaven’s Mandate; to those who deny Our majesty We shall establish majesty.”
A voice too resonant to have come from an aging frame filled the Grand Council Chamber.
“The north that has left the Empire’s embrace, the nomads who know not the father of all under heaven—We shall place them in their proper order.”
?
Huh?
Wait. What?
Something was wrong. This no longer sounded like a simple order of suppression. “Left the Empire’s embrace”? “Place them in their proper order”?
“From the southern tip of this continent to its northernmost end, the light of Livnoman shall shine as it ought.”
No matter how I listened, this was not mere will to suppress. This was a declaration of conquest over the north.
“Long live His Majesty the Emperor! Long live Livnoman!”
“Crefelofen forever! Long live His Majesty the Emperor, long live, long live, ten thousand years!”
Yet no one could raise an objection. In this atmosphere, a single wrong word would brand a man a traitor on the spot.