Chapter 169: Negotiation

On the fourth day, Wanyan Honglie suddenly proposed to inspect Lin’an’s city defenses.

The request itself was impolite—how could an envoy inspect the capital’s fortifications unless he meant to say, “Let me see if your walls are sturdy enough”? But what enraged the Southern Song court even more was that Wanyan Honglie did not make the request politely; he simply sent a messenger to the Ministry of Rites: “Tomorrow at Chen hour, Prince Zhao will depart from Doutingyi and inspect Lin’an’s defenses along the route of Yongjin Gate, Qiantang Gate, and Wulin Gate. Please arrange accordingly.”

When Han Tuozhou heard this, he slammed his teacup down on the table: “Does he think Lin’an is his Zhongdu?”

Yet in the end, he approved it—after making arrangements. All military camps along Wanyan Honglie’s route were emptied; soldiers were relocated outside the city, and only a few elderly, weak guards remained on the walls. Valuable weapons were removed from the armories. Han Tuozhou’s plan was simple: show weakness to make Wanyan Honglie overconfident, so he would return and urge the Jin emperor to launch a southern invasion, thereby wasting Jin forces on the southern front and creating better conditions for Han’s own northern campaign.

At Chen hour the next day, Wanyan Honglie arrived punctually beneath Yongjin Gate.

He rode a tall Hequ horse, followed by twenty guards, observing as he went. When he reached Wulin Gate, he halted beneath the city tower.

He looked up at the defenders on the tower—several gray-haired old soldiers, leaning on spears, slouching in ill-fitting armor. Wanyan Honglie stared for a long time, then suddenly laughed. His laughter echoed hollowly through the empty gate tunnel, sharp and jarring.

“Han Taishi,” he murmured, his voice just loud enough for the Southern Song officials to hear, “I said I brought three things. It seems he chose the knife.”

He turned his horse and never looked at the walls again, riding straight back to Doutingyi.

That night, Wanyan Honglie sent a letter to Han Tuozhou. It contained only one line: “Prince Zhao has seen Lin’an’s defenses. At noon tomorrow, please come to Doutingyi. Just you and me. Not to discuss state affairs—only to chat like old friends.”

Han Tuozhou stared at the letter for a long time. His hands were steady, yet he turned the paper over and over, reading it three times. Finally, with no expression, he folded it and slipped it into his sleeve.

“Tell him,” he said to the messenger, “Han will be there punctually at noon tomorrow.”

After the messenger withdrew, Han Tuozhou sat alone in his study for a long time. Winter rain fell outside the window, tapping sharply against banana leaves. Snow was rare in Lin’an, but the damp cold seeped into the bones.

Wanyan Honglie’s final words in the letter were “not to discuss state affairs—only to chat like old friends.” But Han Tuozhou knew: a Jin prince who had stood against the Xinming Party for years on the northern steppes would not travel all the way to Lin’an just to chat.

The letter in his sleeve grew warm from his body heat. The ink blurred as sweat moistened the paper; the words “old friends” slowly smeared, like an omen of ill fortune.

Doutingyi, main hall.

Wanyan Honglie dismissed all servants. Only he and Han Tuozhou remained in the courtyard. Two jugs of wine, several cold dishes, and a single oil lamp stood on the table. The flame flickered under the winter wind gusting through the windows, casting their shadows on the wall—long, short, shifting like two swords testing each other’s edge.

Han Tuozhou brought no guards. He was not unafraid—he could not afford to be. Wanyan Honglie dared enter Lin’an alone; if Han Tuozhou dared not walk into Doutingyi unaccompanied, the entire court would be whispering behind his back tomorrow.

“Han Taishi, please,” Wanyan Honglie gestured, then sat down first.

Han Tuozhou sat opposite him, glancing at the wine jugs: “Your Highness said we would not discuss state affairs.”

“Drink first, then talk,” Wanyan Honglie said, pouring two cups and pushing one toward Han. “This is wine I brought from the northern frontier—not fine, just what the herders brew themselves: mare’s milk wine. Sour, but strong. The northern border troops rely on it to warm themselves in winter.”

Han Tuozhou lifted the cup, sniffed—it reeked of sourness and fish. He took a small sip, and his brow instantly knotted. Wanyan Honglie watched, chuckled, and drained his own cup in one swallow.

“Han Taishi isn’t used to it,” he said, setting the cup down and leaning back, relaxed as if hosting an unfamiliar distant relative in his own home. “I didn’t get used to it either. Took me years in the north. The first time I drank it, I vomited all over the ground. My veteran soldiers laughed at me for half a month.”

Han Tuozhou set his cup down, watching him silently. Wanyan Honglie’s demeanor tonight was utterly different from when he entered the city—then he had been a drawn blade; now he was a middle-aged man warming himself by a hearth, chatting with an old friend. This shift made Han Tuozhou even more alert.

“How long have you been in the north?” Han asked, following his lead.

“Nearly five years,” Wanyan Honglie said, holding up his hand, fingers spread. “From Mingchang Five until now. I returned to Zhongdu twice, less than three months total. The rest of the time, I’ve been on the border wall. Summer, I shed three layers of skin. Winter, my ten toes cracked open. Spring winds could blow a man off the ramparts. Anyone who’s been there knows—it’s no place for humans.”

“Yet you stayed five years.”

“Because if I didn’t, the north would have been lost already,” Wanyan Honglie said, his tone flat, as if describing a trivial matter—but his eyes changed suddenly. Not with killing intent, but with something deeper: the look of a man who has trudged through a blizzard and finally sees firelight.

He poured himself another cup, but did not drink. He held it in his palm, warming it.

“Han Taishi, there’s no one else here. Let’s skip the empty formalities.” He met Han’s gaze, calm and direct. “You’re preparing for a northern campaign. I know. I can guess your timing—this winter or next spring. I know your goal: retake Kaifeng, seize Luoyang, ride your horses to the Yellow River—ideally, reclaim both capitals and wash away the humiliation of Jingkang, eighty years ago.”

Han Tuozhou said nothing—neither denied nor confirmed. He simply held his cup, expressionless.

“But Han Taishi,” Wanyan Honglie set his cup down with a soft clink, “before you act, I advise you to clarify one thing.”

“What?”

“Who you’re really fighting.”

Han Tuozhou frowned slightly: “What do you mean, Your Highness? My Great Song’s northern campaign targets the Jin.”

“No,” Wanyan Honglie said, shaking his head. His voice dropped, slow and hushed, as if afraid of disturbing something forbidden. “You’re not fighting Jin. You’re fighting the one who will descend the moment Jin and Song are both broken, to reap everything. You’ve never seen them. But I have.”