Chapter Thirty: The Charter

The last rays of the setting sun vanished beyond the horizon, and the pigeon-grey dusk poured into the desolate river valley.

The crest of his helmet, now stripped of its small flag, cast a low and shadowy brim over his face. The red-edged armor of the frontier garrison, padded with cotton and lined with iron, encased the strong man so tightly that not a breath could pass through, rendering his expression all the more grim.

Gao Xian leaned against the side of the wagon, setting down a leather water pouch adorned with tinkling bells on the shaft. He broke off a piece of scallion flatbread, slowly bringing it to his mouth as if savoring every nuance of its flavor.

A few paces away, Liu Chengzong, similarly armored, returned from the riverbank. He placed a water bucket onto the cart and said irritably, “Bad luck—there’s a dead man across the river.”

Gao Xian made no reply, only biting off a large chunk of bread in silence. With his left hand, he looped the wrist cord of his waist-knife onto his belt.

“If you’re fine, take your time relishing it. The body’s about to burst from soaking in the water, face up—a man, most likely died three or five days ago, and there’s not a soul nearby.”

Liu Chengzong spoke with the matter-of-factness of one accustomed to such sights. Bodies in the water follow a pattern: men, with less fat on their rears, float face up; women, the opposite. He clapped Gao Xian on the shoulder, grabbed a flatbread wrapped in burlap and oil paper from the cart, and, frowning, ate as he walked. He squatted a short distance away beside Yang Dingrui, who was building a campfire from river stones and dry branches.

“Teacher, is Ansei County really in such chaos?”

It was hard to call it chaos. They had already traveled forty li, and the shallow little river beside them was called the Peony Brook, only twenty or thirty li from Ansei. This was the border of Fushi, Anding, and Ansei counties—places where, even in peaceful times, bandits preyed upon travelers and smugglers conducted their trade. Yet now, in Ansei, cannibalism had begun.

Yang Dingrui explained that he had returned to Ansei on official business, accompanying his contemporary, the imperial envoy Ma Maocai, dispatched to Shaanxi to investigate the famine in various counties. They hadn’t even managed to enter the city. Three li outside, at the roadside inn, a desperate crowd surged upon them, clamoring for food. Lacking any to give, the mob sought to kill his horse. Frightened, Yang Dingrui shot one of them with his bow. To his horror, after the man was wounded, the others, daunted by Yang’s resistance, gave up the chase and instead killed the injured man themselves, dragging his body away.

By the campfire, Yang Dingrui looked up toward the riverbank. Within his sight, he could not see the corpse Liu Chengzong had mentioned. At last, he only sighed in silence, “Too many have starved to death. The county magistrate has no recourse but to prevent a plague by digging several large pits outside the city for the dead, each holding two or three hundred bodies. When I left, three pits were already full. Ansei is a small county—barely two thousand households, twenty thousand people. If things are so dire outside the city, why would anything surprise you, Lion?”

Liu Chengzong, sitting cross-legged on the ground, pushed up the visor of his helmet, scraping his forehead with a thumbnail and silently wishing he had brought a couple more men along.

He said, “When we get closer to the city, we’ll need to hide the cart.”

Yang Dingrui nodded at once. “I asked you to accompany me for peace of mind, not for killing. If we can avoid bloodshed, all the better.”

The changes in Liu Chengzong were startling even to Yang Dingrui, who had not seen him in years. The boy who once scrambled after him up mountains was now draped in armor, bow in hand, hunting bandits and Mongols—seasoned, familiar with the face of death.

“The government—how could things get so out of hand…”

Dry branches crackled in the flames. Liu Chengzong dragged over a discarded door he’d found in an abandoned kiln to shield them from the wind. “Why hasn’t the government sent relief?”

“Disaster relief isn’t something that can be conjured at will, especially in calamities of this scale. A single county or prefecture cannot cope. First, the local authorities must report the situation; then the court sends envoys to verify the severity. The envoys return to request funds, after which capable officials are dispatched with money and supplies for relief.”

Yang Dingrui continued, “I’m here on official business, accompanying the envoy precisely to assess the disaster.”

“Our Shaanxi’s disaster should have been reported last year, but the governor and inspector delayed it. Since the defeat at Sarhu, the governor and inspector in Shaanxi and Yansui are both incompetent, each in their own way—one greedy beyond measure, the other obsessed with repairing the imperial halls. Bandits and vagrants roam every year, refugees move constantly. From the imperial court down to the local yamen, the purge of the Wei faction is in full swing, and there are more vacancies in officialdom than can be counted.”

“The chief officials are all southerners, unfamiliar with the land; their deputies hail from great local families, traveling by sedan chair, presiding over hearings, reading documents but never seeing the people. The petty clerks know the truth, but times are not what they once were.”

“In seven years, three emperors have ascended the throne. This year, Lord Wei holds the reins; next year, the Donglin scholars will govern. Time and again, officials from county to province have been replaced. Clerks don’t know which superior dares to act; even if they did, they wouldn’t dare align themselves with such a man.”

He shook his head. “Besides, the three frontier garrisons’ stipends are in arrears, and the tax farms of Qin are behind on payments—insoluble knots.”

“When the border troops go unpaid, morale falters; when morale falters, the barbarians become a threat—this is the external problem. When tax farms fail to deliver, the court demands revenue, and the people scatter—this is the internal one.”

“When one matter arises, the localities can no longer govern themselves. If Shaanxi does not view the north as part of the whole, and the court does not see Shaanxi as part of the empire, then the ruin of Qin is the peril of all.”

Night had fallen completely. The wagon was now only a silhouette near the fire. A biting wind swept through. Yang Dingrui drew his garments closer, as if to reassure himself after painting such a grim picture. He forced a smile and made a bow to the east. “Fortunately, His Majesty is wise. Once he learns of this, he’ll send envoys. I expect that at the latest, in three months, the court will issue relief regulations.”

Three months?

Liu Chengzong had his doubts. If it were as simple as Yang Dingrui claimed, why had the Ming dynasty in the other memories fallen to peasant armies?

He suspected Yang Dingrui was only trying to placate him.

“If three months is all it takes, why then did you resign your post, Teacher?”

“Not three months—half a month would be too long for me.” Yang Dingrui shook his head. “I am an official of the court, but also a husband and father. My wife and children are in Ansei. Had they not told me something was amiss, I would never have known. Yet when I went to see, Ansei was so close—how could I return to the prefecture, sit in judgment as if nothing were wrong?”

“If the world is lost, one more Yang Dingrui means nothing; if it’s saved, one less is of no consequence. I am an official, but may not mobilize troops to save my family. If I return home and come to harm, the local authorities will accuse the starving people of rebellion, and more will die for it. Better to resign, lighten my burdens, and try to rescue my wife and children—if I can.”

He nodded softly. “If I cannot, then let me perish with them. Such is fate—so be it.”

Night along the Peony Brook was tranquil; only here, in such darkness, could one still be fortunate enough to hear the insects’ spring chorus.

Liu Chengzong’s thoughts, carried by Yang Dingrui’s words, drifted eastward, toward a far-off place he had never seen—the Forbidden City. Yet in memories not belonging to this age, that place stood out with unnatural clarity.

He felt a deep sorrow: the young emperor, nominal ruler of all under heaven, imprisoned in his palace, knew nothing of the tragedies unfolding in his land. Yet he was also grateful for that emperor, who reigned under the era name Chongzhen; for had he known what Liu did, he might have hanged himself on the old, crooked tree behind the hill the very first day he took the throne.

At that moment, the scholar beside him said, “If things go badly in Ansei, don’t worry about me. With horses and armor, breaking out won’t be hard.”

Turning, Liu Chengzong nodded gravely. “Rest assured.”

“Once we gather our families, the day after tomorrow at this hour, we’ll be home, eating together.”