Chapter 172

Zhongdu, Daxing Prefecture, Ministry of Revenue.

Xu Chiguo had not returned home for four consecutive days. His wife sent three batches of cotton clothing to the office; all three were returned unopened—not because it wasn’t cold, but because he had no time to wear them. The abacus beads in the Ministry clattered from dawn till dusk; twelve senior clerks rotated shifts, their fingers cramping, charcoal braziers burned out, yet no one had time to replenish them. The entire building reeked of ash, ink, and sweat—a vast pawnshop.

Before him lay a freshly drafted military budget. Twenty thousand troops to be added to the northern front, fifteen thousand to the western front, ten thousand maintained on the southern front—forty-five thousand regular troops in total, plus civilian laborers and porters for building border walls, manufacturing arms, and transporting grain, bringing the total number requiring support close to six hundred thousand. The daily cost of food, firewood, winter clothing, arrows, and horseshoes for six hundred thousand men, converted into silver, was a figure that could wake the Minister of Revenue in the dead of night.

Xu Chiguo stared at the number, silent for a full incense stick’s duration. Then he picked up his brush and wrote a line at the bottom of the budget: “Increase salt and iron levies by thirty percent, print an additional five hundred thousand guan in paper currency, suspend silver coin recoinage, and convert old silver ingots into rations.”

The Vice Minister glanced at it and drew a sharp breath: “My lord, if we print another five hundred thousand guan in paper currency, the market value of jiao notes will collapse—”

“Collapse or not, we print.” Xu Chiguo didn’t look up; his brush continued moving across the paper. “Twenty thousand men on the northern front won’t wait for next spring’s tax revenue. If we don’t print notes, what do we pay them with? Our words?”

He slammed his brush onto the inkstone; ink splattered, darkening half the draft paper.

“Carry out my order. Starting next month, salt and iron monopolies nationwide will be taxed an additional thirty percent. Salt price rises from twelve wen per jin to sixteen wen; iron rises from eight hundred wen per hundred jin to one thousand and forty wen. All saltmakers and iron smelters must double their annual quotas; those who fail will be punished with three years of corvée labor. Furthermore, salt and iron certificates will be accepted only in silver and copper cash—not jiao notes.”

“Not accept jiao notes?” The Vice Minister widened his eyes. “Then what of the jiao notes in the people’s hands—”

“Precisely. We must distribute this batch before raising the levies.” Xu Chiguo’s voice was as cold as a winter anvil. “Issue the notes first, collect silver afterward. Let the jiao notes circulate for three more months. When their value plummets afterward, that’s the people’s problem—the court has already collected its silver.”

This was drinking poison to quench thirst. Xu Chiguo had headed the Ministry for fifteen years—he knew better than anyone what currency devaluation meant. Twenty years ago, when the Jin first issued jiao notes, one guan equaled one tael of silver, and everyone rushed to use them because paper was lighter than copper coins. Now? Five jiao notes were needed for one tael. If another five hundred thousand guan were printed, he dared not imagine how low the value would sink. But without issuing notes, winter clothing couldn’t reach the northern garrisons, border walls couldn’t be built, and every second Wanyan Honglie bought in the south would be wasted.

Drinking poison to quench thirst—but the poison takes time to kill. And the organization in the north wouldn’t give him that time.

Three days later, Wanyan Jing formally approved Xu Chiguo’s military budget in court. No minister objected—not because they didn’t want to, but because no one could propose a better solution. Tuandan Yi, after the session, told Jiagu Heng: “Old Xu’s plan is trading Jin’s future for its present. I hope we still have a future.”

Jiagu Heng said nothing. He walked slowly through the palace shadows. Outside the palace walls, faintly audible, came the clamor of the market—the morning bazaar of Zhongdu: vegetable sellers, blacksmiths, cloth merchants, as lively as ever. These commoners did not yet know that the thin jiao notes in their pockets would become worthless paper in three months.

Before leaving Zhongdu for Lin’an, Wanyan Honglie met Wanyan Anguo alone.

He chose the hour before dawn, when the Privy Council offices were empty, and only the night guards dozed at the gate. Wanyan Anguo was dragged from his bed, wrapped in an old fur coat, and rushed to the office—only to find Wanyan Honglie already standing before the map, holding a cold teacup, waiting who knew how long.

“Prince Zhao?” Wanyan Anguo rubbed his eyes. “Why are you here at this hour? What’s happened?”

Wanyan Honglie turned. His face was calm, but his eyes were sunken—he, too, had not slept. In his hand, besides the teacup, he held a list—the very list Wanyan Anguo had just finished drafting, ready for the Emperor’s review: the roster of Khitan officers.

“Anguo,” Wanyan Honglie cut straight to the point, “I’ve read your five proposals for controlling Khitan officers. I understand the timing. But I want to speak plainly with you.”

Wanyan Anguo’s expression hardened; he instinctively straightened. He knew this Prince Zhao was not here for idle chat.

“Speak.”

Wanyan Honglie paced two steps, his voice lowered as if afraid of disturbing something outside the window.

“Rotating garrisons, assigning supervisors, replacing key personnel—these standard measures must be implemented. But two areas demand extreme caution. First, the Khitan Jiu troops in Linhuang Prefecture. Second, the border defense forces in the Western Capital Prefecture. In both, the proportion of Khitans is too high. If you push them too far, even if just one or two officers defect with a few thousand cavalry, our entire defense will collapse from within. At that point, you won’t need the Xinming Party to strike—we’ll have opened the gate ourselves.”

Wanyan Anguo frowned. He knew exactly what the Prince meant. The Jiu troops of Linhuang Prefecture were a vital pillar of Jin’s northern frontier. Though the court had always distrusted the Khitans, decades of border service had made these Khitan cavalry irreplaceable in their knowledge of terrain and steppe tribes. The border defense forces of the Western Capital Prefecture formed the first line against the Western Xia; any failure there would be catastrophic.

“Then what do you suggest—”

“Send supervisors, but only those who speak Khitan and understand steppe affairs. Rotate troops, but don’t sweep all away—keep the Khitan officers with over twenty years of military service. Their families are in Zhongdu; they won’t flee. Replace key posts, but don’t fill them only with Jurchens. Leave some Xi and Bohai faces—so the Khitans think this is routine rotation, not a purge.” Wanyan Honglie paused, then offered a weary smile. “Anguo, I’m going to Lin’an to buy time—using my face as a target for Han Tuozhou to delay him a few days. Do you know what I fear most?”

Wanyan Anguo waited silently.

“I don’t fear Lin’an. Han Tuozhou’s resolve to invade is clear—I can’t stop it. What I fear is this: while I struggle to delay him in the front, our rear collapses. If the Khitans rebel, if the Xi rebel, if the steppe tribes we relocated to the interior rise up—then my trip to Lin’an is meaningless. A Jin already fractured internally doesn’t need external enemies—it will collapse on its own.”

Wanyan Anguo fell silent for a long time. The palace hourglass dripped drop by drop. A faint gray light crept in the east. Zhongdu was waking.

“I understand.” He finally said. “I will personally oversee the monitoring of Khitan officers. I will not give the Xinming Party any opening. I will immediately increase manpower to investigate the steppe tribe remnants settled in Zhongjing and Shangjing. Anyone without our dynasty’s household registration, of unknown origin, or with suspicious recent contacts—detain them immediately. In times of crisis, extraordinary measures are required.”

“No.” Wanyan Honglie suddenly shook his head. “Not detain—observe. Detention provokes backlash; observation gathers intelligence. Let them believe they are still free, then watch whom they meet, where they send letters. If these people truly have ties to the north, they become our best sources of intelligence.”

Wanyan Anguo paused, then nodded. “I see. Let the line out, catch the fish.”

Wanyan Honglie returned the list of Khitan officers to Wanyan Anguo, turned back to the map, and spoke his final words, his back to him.

“Anguo, remember—Jin’s greatest enemy now is neither north nor south. It is within us. External enemies can be resisted. Internal chaos cannot.”