Nothing whatsoever had happened last night. And yet, waking the next morning, Wang Yu could still somehow feel a strand of hair tickling the tip of his nose, and a faint breath of lily perfume — and see a pair of eyes that seemed to speak whole sentences on their own.
"The flirting technique on this woman!"
If not for the breadth of experience his last life's many, many channels of study had given him, he'd be strung along like a hooked fish by now — or worse, fully converted into a simpering lapdog.
He was still marveling when a maid tapped at the door. "Your Highness — Steward Zhao has arrived."
"Come in." Wang Yu rose and dressed.
***
"The three generals and Commandant Zhao are here. We hold the memorial rite for the old prince first, then you receive them." Zhao Yingjie walked Wang Yu through the sequence as they went.
Wang Yu had changed into formal princely vestments, solemn from crown to hem, and made his way to the Manor's main hall with Zhao Yingjie in attendance.
Zhao Zheng was three months dead and long since buried, but with Wang Yu absent, the formal rite of mourning had waited. Now that he was home, it could finally be held.
This ceremony marked the changing of the Manor's master: out of the age of Zhao Zheng, and into the age of Zhao— of Wang Yu.
Banners streamed; drums and ritual music rang; incense smoke curled up in slow ropes, and the funeral texts were read out to the dark courts below.
The rite ran more than half the day. In truth, Zhao Rong presided over all of it; Wang Yu's actual duties were few. But he stood at the center of every eye — because this rite of mourning was also his investiture as master of the Westguard Manor.
Li Yunxiu and Qianqian attended in full mourning dress, one at his left hand and one at his right: the Manor's two new mistresses, presented to the household.
***
"We greet Your Highness!"
"Generals. Please rise."
Wang Yu studied the four men before him, and the four men studied Wang Yu.
An old man, hair and beard all white, a pride he didn't bother hiding sitting high in his eyes — Zhao Siqi, one of the original commanders who had built the Manor at Zhao Ling's side.
A giant not far off seven feet tall, girth fit for two and a half of Wang Yu — Peng Hu, a slaughter-god carved straight off the battlefield.
A man of medium build, unremarkable face, deep still eyes that seemed permanently busy reading everyone else — Lu Yunzhou, the Manor's famous strategist-general.
And a thickset, sun-blackened man who had yet to say a word — Zhao Defang, commandant of the three thousand Iron Hawk Cavalry.
Zhao Siqi and Zhao Defang were both of the Zhao clan proper — distant kin to Zhao Yu himself.
"Ten years confined in the capital, Your Highness. You have suffered," Lu Yunzhou opened.
"The old emperor had delusions of being his own dynasty's founding ancestor. Botched the north, botched the south, shook the whole realm loose — keep it up and we might yet get our turn to sit in that golden hall of his." That was Peng Hu, grinning through it.
"Silence! Is that talk for your mouth?" Zhao Siqi barked him down, then turned to Wang Yu. "The realm is unsteady, and the emperor has sent us a woman Top Scholar — plain as day, he means to use the Westguard Manor as filler for his own foundation.
As I see it: kill the woman at once. Cut the emperor's hopes off at the root, and set the world's worries to rest with the same stroke — one move, two gains. Then we can hold the northwest at our leisure, or ride out and contest the Central Plains. That is the proper road!"
The reception hall went instantly, perfectly quiet.
The other two generals and Zhao Defang said nothing. Zhao Rong, the only other man present, said nothing either — he was the Manor's grand steward, and where military and state affairs were concerned, it was not his place to cut in.
Wang Yu swept the room once. Whether or not the four had rehearsed this, one thing was beyond doubt: Zhao Siqi was mounting a test — showing the new prince the size of his own horns.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Wang Yu sat at the table, expressionless, knuckles falling on the wood, and regarded Zhao Siqi with a flat, mild gaze. "Are you teaching me my business?"
"I would not dare!" Zhao Siqi squared up, fists clasped. "I think only of the Westguard Manor. I will not see it made into a knife in the emperor's hand!"
Wang Yu's eyes narrowed slightly. He raised one finger.
"First. Li Yunxiu is my consort — not yet wed, known to all under heaven. Kill her and I have killed my wife. My name rots, and the Manor's name rots with it.
Second. The realm is unsteady — it has not yet collapsed. Kill Li Yunxiu and we have broken openly with the emperor. If he then decides the Westguard Manor is the example he needs — with our name rotted and the people's hearts lost — tell me, General: how do you propose to hold the northwest?
Third. Li Yunxiu took the top three of the palace examination and argued the whole court to silence; she is chancellor-grade and general-grade in one body. Kill her, and every talent in the realm crosses the Manor off forever. That is sawing through our own foundations. Tell me, General: with whom do you propose to contest the Central Plains?
Fourth. Keep Li Yunxiu — glove the court along politely — and the emperor stays soothed, her talents pour into the northwest, and our strength grows by exactly that much. That is what 'one move, two gains' actually looks like.
Fifth." Wang Yu's whole right hand was open now. "Keep Li Yunxiu, and when the court's orders favor us, we obey them loudly; when they don't, we set them quietly aside. That is what 'advance or hold at will' actually looks like."
He stared at Zhao Siqi. "Shall I go on to six, seven, and eight?"
Zhao Siqi's face swelled red, beard trembling, and no words came out of him.
"General Zhao — you fought shoulder to shoulder with my grandfather, decades of blood and dust across the northwest, and your merits are real. Which is what makes today's proposal so bafflingly far beneath your standard."
Wang Yu's mouth kept its smile; his voice came down like ice. "I am left to guess that age has finally caught your mind. Because the alternative — that you are deliberately steering me onto a road that ends with this Manor destroyed — surely that could not be it?"
Zhao Siqi went cold to the bone. "Never!"
"Good. Then it is indeed only age." Wang Yu's smile stayed exactly where it was. "I would hate to believe that decades of loyalty had curdled at the very end."
Zhao Siqi had just begun to breathe again when Wang Yu continued, pleasantly: "But since the general is getting on in years, he has more than earned his rest and the joys of family. I cannot bear to see an old man go on suffering in an army camp.
So: the general will lodge at the Manor for the present. Once the Xionglue Army has been put in order, we will see him escorted home in honor, to enjoy his twilight in peace."
Wang Yu's forefinger tapped the table once, twice, and his voice went flat and mild. "I'm finished speaking. Who's in favor? Who's opposed?"
A dropped pin would have echoed in that hall.
Zhao Siqi stared at him, fury and disbelief fighting for the same face. Peng Hu's mouth stretched — into an expression of unmistakable, thoroughly enjoyed schadenfreude. Lu Yunzhou glanced at Wang Yu once, withdrew the glance, fixed his gaze on the middle distance, and said nothing at all.
Zhao Defang had not spoken from beginning to end. He simply took two quiet steps sideways — and stood blocking the reception hall's door.
Zhao Rong glanced at Zhao Defang, shifted half a step nearer Wang Yu, and settled his eyes on Zhao Siqi's hands.
Zhao Siqi's face crimsoned; hair and beard seemed to bristle out from his head. "When your grandfather raised his banner, I rode at his stirrup! Northwest to the desert and back, decades, hundreds of engagements large and small, always first into the line..."
"Which is precisely why I believe the general intends me no harm," Wang Yu said, perfectly bland.
Zhao Siqi choked.
He looked at Zhao Rong, standing at Wang Yu's shoulder. He looked at Zhao Defang, filling the doorway behind him. And the air went out of him all at once — in the space of a breath, the man seemed to age ten years.
"I... obey Your Highness's command." His head dropped; his voice had gone to gravel.
Wang Yu turned to Zhao Rong. "General Zhao: decades of campaigns, hundreds of engagements, always first into the line — merit beyond counting. Go to the Manor's inner treasury yourself and choose some fitting gifts for him."
Zhao Rong bowed. "The treasury holds the golden armor of that Western Regions king — the one the general captured with his own hands. It would suit, returned to him now as an honor."
"Excellent," said Wang Yu.
And with that he ignored the visibly aged Zhao Siqi entirely, turning instead to the silent Zhao Defang — thinking: no wonder Zhao Zheng gave this one the Iron Hawks. Loyalty that acts and doesn't talk.
Zhao Siqi had likely been loyal to Zhao Ling; perhaps loyal to Zhao Zheng too. But confronted with the grandson's generation, he hadn't been able to resist playing the grandfather.
Whether he'd only meant to show the new prince his teeth, or genuinely thought clan seniority would let him steer the boy — either way, he had hoisted Wang Yu onto the fire in front of every general in the room and left him no ground to give.
One step back, and Wang Yu fell forever.
So it was Zhao Siqi who fell instead.
Wang Yu hadn't planned any of it. He'd walked in composing friendly openings for his first meeting with his generals — and come out having broken the most senior of them across his knee.
After that, everything went smoothly.
Peng Hu stayed loud and artless, and Lu Yunzhou betrayed nothing at all — but Wang Yu could feel the new weight of respect coming off both of them. Which told him one more thing: Zhao Siqi had acted alone. The others had merely watched him try.
"Your Highness sees ten moves deep. This general is impressed!" Lu Yunzhou said, smiling now. "I fear even Li Yunxiu will find no way out of Your Highness's palm. The Manor gains a mighty arm — congratulations upon congratulations!"
Peng Hu nodded along vigorously. "Congratulations upon congratulations!"
Only then did the three proceed to their reports.
Zhao Defang's Iron Hawk Cavalry stood camped north of Longshan city — placed to ride for the front at need, and to draw fodder from the pastures to the northeast.
Lu Yunzhou's Chengyuan Army and Peng Hu's Wuben Army lay resting in Fengming Prefecture to the south — and patrolling the northwest trade road as they rested, a standing watch against Qishan Bandit raids. They couldn't stop everything; the merchants' losses ran far lighter even so.
Zhao Siqi's Xionglue Army had come off the northern line only this year and sat camped south of Longshan city — conveniently placed, as it turned out, for its reorganization.
"Last autumn and winter the Black Qiang probed the border — several skirmishes with our outriders. There were disciples of Shi Mo among them, strong ones. They cost us dozens of men."
"The White Qiang have kept to their custom and their word: no raids, just the border markets — trading cattle and sheep for grain, salt, and tea. Our soldiers, at least, have eaten well."
The Qiang of the northern desert ran in two branches: the Black Qiang, who revered black, and the White Qiang, who honored white.
The Black Qiang chieftain dreamed only of burning his way into the Central Plains and seizing its good earth. The White Qiang chieftain harbored no such designs — trade, markets, and his people left in peace.
The Shi Mo whom Lu Yunzhou had named was the first master of the Black Qiang, known to the world as White Bones Like a Mountain — a pair of strange clawed weapons, the White Bone Claws, in his hands. Against Zhao Zheng at his absolute peak, the man had lasted three hundred exchanges, lost by half a step, and walked away in good order.
"With the old prince gone," Lu Yunzhou reasoned, "Shi Mo's thoughts may be moving again — urging the Black Qiang at the border, hunting a way through to plunder the interior."
Peng Hu snorted. "The passes are fortified and manned. They're not getting in!"
Lu Yunzhou nodded. "What worries me is the western detour — through the Thirty-Six Kingdoms. Last year the Qishan Bandits and the Western Regions horse-raiders joined hands and sacked the second city of Cheshi. They ate so well their mouths shone with grease.
The Thirty-Six Kingdoms have shown the world how soft they are. That kind of softness draws eyes — and the Qiang's may be next."