In Taiyuan, the chill had yet to retreat in the second month.
In the northwestern corner of Prince Jin's residence's Rear Garden stood a small courtyard with its own entrance.
An old plum tree stood within. Its flowering season had passed, and lingering petals clung to its branches, rustling down whenever the wind blew until they covered every step.
Pei Zhi sat in the Corridor, his thin lips stern, his brows lowered over his eyes.
One incense burner, one serving of tea, a curtain half lowered.
At home, he wore only a worn gray cloth robe, its sleeves rolled halfway up to expose a length of pale, slender wrist.
Three stacks of dispatches lay on the desk.
One came from the Northwest, on coarse paper sealed with military sealing wax.
One came from the Northern Capital, on thick paper densely covered in writing.
One came from the Capital, the thickest stack and also the most varied.
Pei Zhi opened them one by one. With each letter, he inspected the seal first, then the sealing wax, and finally the writing.
Then he placed it on the desk in order of date, missing not a single word.
The three stacks of paper stood arrayed on the desk like three armies at solemn attention.
Whenever people spoke of strategists, they praised their ability to "foresee events like gods."
Pei Zhi alone did not believe in gods.
The Art of War said: know yourself and know your enemy, and a hundred battles will bring no peril.
But "knowing the enemy" was no divine miracle. It required only eyes and ears that reached everywhere.
Laying plans without channels of information was like playing chess with one's eyes shut. However ingenious the hand, every move landed in emptiness.
Pei Zhi finished reading every dispatch.
Xie