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For someone who was almost certainly one of Oberstein’s spies, the untidy man presented to Duke Reinhard von Lohengramm aboard his flagship Brünhilde didn’t look the part. According to his personnel file, Lieutenant Yang Wen-li was nine years older than Reinhard, but was a newly minted soldier. Yang didn’t look his age, with his soft features and fine dark hair. His slightly rumpled uniform and easygoing demeanour was a good act, if an act was what it was.
Yang didn’t waver under Reinhard’s searching stare, standing quietly with his hands folded behind his back. He had some steel in him, at least. Oberstein had a knack for finding the right tools for the right job. Reinhard didn’t bother rising from his seat. His cabin aboard Brünhilde was larger than the others but was stark and functional rather than luxurious—Yang cast a curious glance around it before boldly looking right back at Reinhard.
“Senior Admiral Oberstein tells me that you’re a historian,” Reinhard said.
“Yes, your Excellency. From the Imperial College of the Arts in Odin.”
“That’s not a military college.” Reinhard had never paid much attention to the various civilian institutions of study in the Empire, having never had much personal use for them.
“No, your Excellency.”
“You were promoted to the rank of Lieutenant by Oberstein. Very recently, according to your file.”
If the accusation in Reinhard’s tone fazed Yang at all, he didn’t show it. “That is true,” Yang said.
“Isn’t that irregular?”
Yang looked puzzled. “You’re the supreme commander of the Imperial military, your Excellency. If you believe it irregular, by all means, undo it. It’s just a rank.”
Reinhard stared at him keenly. “You don’t value rank?”
“The system has become rather arbitrary of late. Your Excellency,” Yang said, as an apparent afterthought, as though recently and poorly coached. Another act?
Reinhard frowned. “I would’ve expected more enthusiasm for a man positioned to become my historian.”
That gave Yang pause. He studied Reinhard quietly—one could even call it brazenly—then he smiled. It was a small and self-deprecating smile, one that softened his features further and made Reinhard sit up, an unfamiliar feeling stirring within him that he didn’t recognise. “May I speak honestly, your Excellency?” Yang asked.
“Always. I have no time for lies and flattery.”
“To be perfectly frank,” Yang said, “I don’t want this job. I was happy in the Imperial College writing my second dissertation, working toward eventually getting a tenured position. The call from the Senior Admiral came out of nowhere and threw a multitool into all that. Before I knew it, I’d been fitted into a uniform, promoted up a concerning number of ranks, and now I’m face-to-face with someone who will be Kaiser within the week. It isn’t exactly what I want out of life. Your Excellency.”
Somewhat taken aback by this torrent of brutal honesty, Reinhard said, “And what do you want out of life, Lieutenant?”
Yang didn’t hesitate. “I’d like it to be quiet and preferably peaceful, somewhere with a lot of things to read and tea to drink.”
“You don’t aspire to very much.”
“I’d leave higher aspirations to other people.” Yang paused. “Your Excellency,” he said conscientiously.
“You’ve never met or had any contact with Senior Admiral Oberstein before this?”
Yang shuddered. “No. Thankfully, no.”
Reinhard smirked. “You don’t like the man?”
He expected Yang to talk about Oberstein’s bionic eyes, or about his reputation: statements that would’ve revealed Yang to either have been coached on what to say or shallow, depending on his delivery. Yang grimaced and scratched his hair. “If you really must know, he rather reminds me of the Dean. Of the Imperial College,” Yang elaborated when Reinhard blinked. “The Senior Admiral has this unsettling way of making you think that you owe him a lot of money even though you don’t. Ah, your Excellency.”
“I see,” Reinhard said, momentarily too surprised to think of a better answer. “What was your first dissertation about?”
That got another self-deprecating smile. “The inevitable futility of humanity’s varying attempts at self-governance.”
Reinhard laughed, startled. “How did that get published?”
“Honestly, it’s been a year, and I still have no idea. Either my opinion of the Dean has been ill-conceived all this time, or he’s trying to get me killed.”
“I’d like to read a copy if you have one on hand.” That, surprisingly, had not been in the personnel file.
“Of course. I have a physical copy in my cabin; I’ll go and get it.” Amusingly, Yang turned and headed for the door.
“I haven’t dismissed you,” Reinhard said. Yang jerked to a stop and briefly back to attention, only to slump back into his usual relaxed poise.
“Ah, right. Sorry. I mean, my apologies.” Yang smiled awkwardly at Reinhard. “I’m not exactly used to all this. The College isn’t so formal.”
Either Yang was one of the finest actors Reinhard had ever met, or he wasn’t one of Oberstein’s usual sort of creatures. Curious about the game that his spymaster was playing now, Reinhard said, “Bring the copy to me. After I’ve read it, I’ll consider the necessity of having a personal historian on hand. You may leave,” Reinhard said, as Yang hovered uncertainly by the door.
Alone in the cabin, Reinhard considered calling for a private encrypted line to Oberstein and thought better of it. Oberstein had already submitted a meticulous statement along with Yang’s personnel file, stating the importance of having the ‘correct’ version of history written and disseminated ‘as soon as possible’, particularly once Reinhard became Kaiser. Yang had come recommended from the Dean of the Imperial College of the Arts in Odin and had been published before, etc. Dispatches from the frontlines, Oberstein had explained, were popular for morale and solidarity among both Imperial citizens and the newly conquered populations alike.
Reinhard could see his point, though he wondered what Kircheis would think about it. His late best friend, gone so young, and all because of one of Reinhard’s errors of judgment. Was he making another one now? Fingering the pendant containing a lock of Kircheis’ hair around his throat, Reinhard grew lost in thought.
#
Life in the Imperial College of the Arts had been frugal, thanks to the continuous cuts to the budget as military spending had ramped higher and higher over the years. Still, it was heaven compared to life in the military. Yang rued every moment he’d ever complained about his previous life as he was forced awake by a too-early alarm and shuttled into a communal bathroom facility with other Imperial soldiers. Due to his unusual situation, he hadn’t been assigned to any particular regiment, and none of the other soldiers knew what to make of him—many took a long look at him and left him alone.
Breakfast was at least better than what Yang was used to back home, with supply lines having been recently strengthened by conquest. He’d heard horror stories about military rations, but the warm chunk of bread he’d been given had a nice crust, and the bowl of stew was reasonably palatable. There was no brandy, though, or tea, only coffee. Yang forced down a cup and followed a regiment at random out of the mess hall.
Yang was being shouted at by a drill instructor at the firing range when a lieutenant located him. “Lieutenant Yang Wen-li,” said the young woman, “the Kaiser requires your immediate attendance.”
“You mean the Duke,” Yang said. As he noticed the hostile glances thrown his way from the drill instructor and the soldiers within earshot, Yang shrugged helplessly and slunk away on the lieutenant’s heels.
Yang had tried to work on writing his ‘living history’ last night, as the Dean put it, but had gone to sleep over his desk after a few false starts. As Yang had thought, the entirety of this strange adventure was a waste of time. He was hardly used to writing ‘history’ on the fly—that was something better suited to a journalist. Not that any half-decent journalists remained in the Imperial territories, in Yang’s opinion, but the Empire would just have to reap what it had sowed.
Reinhard had Yang’s dissertation in his lap as he drank coffee and cream from a finely-made cup, his gaze intent on what he was reading even as Yang was left alone in the room. “Your Excellency,” Yang said, wondering whether he was meant to bow or salute. He wasn’t good at either, to the despair of the ethics tutor that had been sent to him.
“I remain surprised that this was published,” Reinhard said, turning a page without looking up.
Maybe the Dean had wrangled Yang into this out of revenge after all, for too much backtalk and dissension. Death through firing squad would be quick. Messy, maybe, but it wouldn’t be Yang’s problem at that point. “That’s a popular opinion in the College,” Yang said.
“Do you truly think that humanity lacks a genuine capacity for compassion?” Reinhard asked in a mild tone.
“Those aren’t my words. I believe that humanity has a very limited capacity for compassion, and that limited capacity has in turn shaped the oeuvre of human civilisation,” Yang said, quoting word-for-word from his dissertation, being too lazy to paraphrase and having nothing to lose. At an idle ‘go on’ gesture from Reinhard, Yang explained, “Take tragedies, for example. If I were to tell an average person about a death of a family, informing them of their names, the way they died, the way they had lived and such, many people would feel sad. Sympathetic, perhaps. A model few would even try to help.”
“But the deaths of many won’t make an average person flinch?” Reinhard said. There was something strange about his eyes, an unsettling intensity to them. This question was important to him somehow, and Yang could guess why even from a short study of Reinhard’s life to date. A more ambitious or self-serving man would’ve demurred and deflected.
Well. Yang had never claimed to be either. “Past a certain volume of death, death becomes a statistic that people look on with muted horror. We’re not capable of understanding death on a grand scale, even if we’re the immediate causes of it. You should know, your Excellency.”
“Death is an inevitable part of war,” Reinhard said. He stared into Yang’s eyes, a restless lion hungry for its next kill, golden and ferociously beautiful.
Yang stared back, unafraid. “Death is not an inevitable part of politics, your Excellency. Westerland was not inevitable.”
Reinhard stiffened. Anger twisted through his handsome face—that much Yang expected to see—but it was swiftly replaced by regret, which he did not. Reinhard’s hand clenched tight over the locket he wore, and he looked away. “I could have you killed for speaking to me like that,” Reinhard said.
“Oh, right,” Yang said. At the sharp look Reinhard shot him, Yang pointed out, “I thought, if anything, that you’d be more upset over the part in my dissertation about young dictators. But maybe you haven’t read that far.”
Reinhard’s melancholy eased into startled laughter. “You…! Yes, I read it. I recall some tired metaphor about how fine-edged new blades convert poorly into spades.”
That hadn’t been his finest work. “Duly noted, your Excellency.”
Reinhard’s amusement faded. “You’d revise your dissertation for my sake?”
“Eh, well,” Yang hedged, scratching at his hair, “I wouldn’t want to, but I doubt I’d have a choice. Isn’t that the efficient thing about an autocracy?”
“Do you think that democracy would fare much better?” Reinhard patted Yang’s dissertation. “‘The best argument against democracy would be a five-minute discussion on the key topics of the day with the average voter’, according to you.”
“You’d have to define ‘better’,” Yang said, having had time to think over his dissertation in-depth after publishing it had briefly inundated the College with hate mail. Granted, since the public didn’t generally read history dissertations, the hate mail had all been from fellow academics, and as such had been at the least legible and fairly spellchecked.
Reinhard smiled. The lion was amused, though the amusement of a lion was both a beautiful and terrible thing—as it smiled, it showed its teeth. “A topic I’d be interested in discussing again with you when we have more time. Lieutenant Yang, you are welcome aboard the Brünhilde as my historian. Unless otherwise informed, you will accompany me as one of my staff. You will provide me with a considered opinion whenever asked for one. Your free time is your own, and you may retain the use of your current quarters aboard my ship.”
“That’s all?” Yang said, bewildered.
“What do you mean?” Reinhard frowned, irritated. His indulgences were limited.
“I thought you’d want to see a draft of anything I write or have me take part in—” Yang swallowed the rest of his words. He had no wish to undergo combat training or worse.
Reinhard sniffed. “I have no interest in what you plan on writing—your ability as a writer is mediocre at best. You do, however, have an incisive mind and an utter lack of self-preservation, which makes you honest. I may be able to value your opinion in the days to come, and that means more to me than whatever you plan to write.”
“You don’t believe in the pen being mightier than the sword?” Yang said with a wry smile.
“You have one pen. My sword is the greatest fleet that this galaxy has ever seen.” Reinhard made a dismissive gesture and sipped his coffee, turning another page. “Leave. You may attend me on the bridge in an hour.”
#
Yang was not the most unobtrusive of personal staffers—he looked visibly uncomfortable in uniform, often forgot to salute, and tended to absent-mindedly leave scraps of his writing around the place, sometimes shedding them like leaves as he walked with a cup of tea in one hand and books in the other. “If this is a ploy by Oberstein,” Wolfgang Mittermeier said to Oskar von Reuenthal when they retired for a private drink after Reinhard’s coronation, “it’s a strange one.”
Reuenthal grunted and stared into his glass of wine, his brown and blue eyes fixed on a distant object that only he could see. Both of them had been newly minted as Imperial Marshals, an honour that only Mittermeier appeared to appreciate in full. Reuenthal had taken it as his due, mindful of the secret challenge that Reinhard had once set him. If Reuenthal ever felt that he could overthrow Reinhard, then Reuenthal was free to challenge him. Such audacity deserved to be common knowledge.
“I thought you’d have more opinions than that,” Mittermeier prompted into the silence. They were both lounging in the garden of Mittermeier’s house, drinking wine, having cheese, and watching the moon. On a passing glance, they would’ve looked like opposites: a cold man with dark hair and mismatched eyes, and a blonde man with an easy laugh.
“I don’t entertain unworthy opinions,” Reuenthal said.
Where many would’ve bristled with indignation or been cowed into silence, Mittermeier laughed. “Please. I’ve heard enough of your unworthy opinions to know that that isn’t true.”
“It might be a ploy by Oberstein,” Reuenthal said, annoyed. “But so what?”
“What do you mean, so what?”
“If Oberstein wanted to undermine or hurt the Kaiser, he could’ve done so by now. More subtly.” Reuenthal drank. Oberstein was a worthy opponent. If he wasn’t, he would’ve been beneath Reuenthal’s notice. “Besides, I see his point. It’d be good to have someone on hand documenting the Kaiser’s movements. After all, the Kaiser has nothing to hide, does he?”
Mittermeier had drunk enough wine that he missed the bite to Reuenthal’s words, instead chuckling as he poured them both another glass. “That he doesn’t. Another toast?”
“Another toast,” Reuenthal said, raising his glass. He kept the rest of his observations to himself. Mittermeier didn’t need to know that Reuenthal had seen Reinhard’s gaze drawn towards Yang on subtle occasions, lingering over the lines of his frame. A lion, looking at a lamb.
#
“All things being equal,” Yang said as Reinhard waved him to a seat, “popular FPA political theory would have us believe that true democracy—fully participatory, fully accessible, fully representative, elected by a fully educated public—is the least worst form of government.”
Reinhard chuckled, setting aside the work on his desk and leaning back in his chair. He didn’t remember when he’d started to look forward to these scheduled interludes with his assigned shadow. The topics they discussed were random and free-ranging. A few days ago, they’d discussed the price of tea, a discussion that had become unexpectedly heated enough that Reinhard had nearly shouted Yang out of his office. Reinhard had appointed another professor to write the history of the Goldenbaum Dynasty, but it amused Reinhard to think that his own history would be written by this simple, fearless, and occasionally infuriating man before him.
“You sound like you don’t agree,” Reinhard said. Through the walls of the modest office, they could both hear the heavy traffic below, snaking through the lungs of the new Imperial Capital on Phezzan. The weather was pleasantly cool—the work of centuries of accumulated terraforming. Whatever the native landscape of Phezzan had been before humanity had arrived to devour it whole was now a memory consigned to museums and docupics.
“It doesn’t matter whether I agree. I’m here to record your opinion on the matter.”
Reinhard grimaced. Despite looking like a bumbling scholar, Yang could be petty. Those were the exact words Reinhard had used before almost throwing Yang out of the office for insolence, days prior. Reinhard had only held himself back because Yang had laughed, artless and so oddly joyous when in open intellectual conflict against the most powerful man in the galaxy. Faced with that, Reinhard’s anger had faded with the wind, leaving only confusion in its wake. He hadn’t had much sleep that night.
A lion need never apologise to a lamb, however. “All things being equal,” Reinhard said, “a fully representative democracy spanning entire worlds would still be mired in constant, crippling bureaucracy.”
“I agree. The problems suffered by the FPA are pre-Space Age problems writ large. The bigger a government, the more labyrinthine its processes, and a government that bestrides multiple planets must by nature be massive. To have a single Chairman in charge of it all is patently inadequate, a sad throwback to pre-Space era political processes.”
“What would you have counselled them to do?” Reinhard countered, leaning his chin against a palm. “As much as I found the FPA inefficient, a series of multiple equal democratic governments banding together under a coalition is surely a recipe for constant deadlock and strife.”
“Ancient records from pre-Space Earth civilisations do indicate as such,” Yang agreed. “Pre-Space historians generally agree: the lead-up to the final wars over resources that so devastated much of a world ravaged by climate change was sparked off by the collapse of various democracies into populism. The rise of fearmongering, short-sighted strongmen into power coincided with the demise of inter-government alliances like the ‘European Union’.”
“Yet humanity survived, rising again into power like a phoenix,” Reinhard said. Under his rule, there would be peace. He would see to it himself.
“Rising again like a roach,” Yang said and shuddered. Roaches and other vermin were some of the invasive Earth species that had spread across the galaxy along with human expansion, and they held a particular horror for Yang.
“Did you just call me a roach?” Reinhard raised his eyebrows in mock indignation.
“Technically, I called all of us roaches. Come to think of it… though… urgh… forgive me, your Excellency. I mean, your Majesty. I think I need a drink.” Yang had gone a little pale, no doubt from imagining gigantic roaches walking around everywhere instead of people.
Reinhard summoned refreshments. As Yang poured himself a finger of black tea and topped it up with a generous portion of brandy, Reinhard said, “Perfection in politics is impossible because people are by nature imperfect.”
“That is true,” Yang said as he industriously stirred his tea. “What was I saying again? Ah yes. All things being equal or unequal, by debating only the merits of autocracy against democracy, we are narrowing our options down to only those presented to us by post-colonial Earth history.”
Reinhard paused in the middle of lifting his cup of coffee to his lips. “What do you mean?”
“Putting aside the fact that there were functional forms of pre-Space governments beyond pure 'democracy' or 'autocracy'... long before humanity ever thought about venturing out into space in a rocket, there were several ancient civilisations. Many indigenous civilisations were either wiped out or violently subsumed into colonial rule. The arc of human history is bookmarked continuously by outbreaks of violence and murder, of the powerful consuming the less powerful.”
“Ancient peoples,” Reinhard said, frowning as he took a sip. “If a civilisation lacked the power to resist being conquered… Were any of them then sufficiently complex enough to have a refined system of government?”
“That’s just it. The pieces of ancient indigenous history we have access to in the Imperial College are fragmentary and have been shaped by ancient colonial historians. Not just history—archaeology, biology, medicine… sadly, over time, people in power still haven’t lost their aberrant tendency to try and impose their version of reality over the powerless.”
Early on in these discussions, Reinhard had sometimes grown defensive or annoyed at comments like this. Yang would always react with genuine surprise at his ire. Such statements were just blithe sparks from his uncommon mind, often firing out with little input from his imperfect brain filter. They were not meant as a criticism of Reinhard or his rule—or so Yang claimed. Reinhard had learned to tolerate them. Mostly.
“Isn’t assuming that extinct cultures had a better way of governance romanticising what they were?” Reinhard asked.
“I think assuming that they knew no better because they went extinct from conquest infantilises their memory. What little that’s left of it.” Yang took a deep sip of his tea. “The fact that we’re both here, discussing such a thing over tea speaks to the privilege of our ancestry. That across the FPA and the Empire what largely remains is a division between ‘Eastern’ and ‘Western’ nomenclatures and people tells me that we’ve lost far more than even history would like us to believe, a loss that we have inflicted on ourselves.”
“And yet you’re a historian,” Reinhard said, surprised at the heat in Yang’s tone.
Yang’s mouth twitched into another one of his self-deprecating smiles. “That’s why I drink as much brandy as I do,” he said, and the conversation turned to more straightforward matters.
It occurred to Reinhard later in the day as he prepared for bed that he hadn’t enjoyed anyone’s company like this since Kircheis’ death, and he curled his hand so tightly into the pendant that the edges bit into his skin. No one would replace what Kircheis had been to Reinhard. He would see to that.
#
“It occurs to me,” Imperial Marshal Mittermeier said to Vice-Admiral Hildegard von Mariendorf, “that the Kaiser has been rather less friendly with his pet historian of late.”
Hilda pursed her lips. She had only recently returned from inspecting innovations in the Imperial shipyards and had just finished her report to Reinhard when she’d run into Mittermeier outside the hotel. They were now in a private room within a discreet restaurant several blocks away, the immediate rooms around them filled with their private guard details. As the only female Admiral on either side of the war, Hilda had long learned to be careful about her privacy.
“I wouldn’t be aware,” Hilda said after a moment’s thought.
“Forgive me for prying, but I was under the impression that you and Lieutenant Yang were friends.”
“So we are.” Hilda inclined her head, choosing her words with care. “He’s a genuinely affable person—if he decides that he likes you.”
Her reserve embarrassed Mittermeier—the fearless Imperial Marshal known as the “Gale Wolf” in battle ducked his gaze. “I’ve been indiscreet.”
“No, not at all. Your statement caught me by surprise.” Yang hadn’t said a word about any animosity between himself and Reinhard. “That being said, I didn’t see him around when I visited Reinhard to give my report.” Yang wasn’t always present during meetings—particularly highly confidential meetings—but a meeting about shipyards wouldn’t have been deemed something that Reinhard felt necessary to keep out of the annals of history. Concerned, Hilda said, “Is Yang still on Phezzan?”
“I believe so. Holed up in his rooms drinking and writing, according to the aide assigned to him.” Mittermeier’s honest face scrunched up. “Reuenthal said something about drawing a diagram and presenting it to the most clueless party?”
“A diagram?” Hilda said, mystified. “What kind of diagram?”
“I was hoping you knew,” Mittermeier said helplessly, as though Hilda was in any way privy to the strange workings of Reuenthal’s mind. “I demanded that he explain himself and he made a crude gesture that I’d hesitate to reproduce in polite company. When I asked if he was drunk, he said he wasn’t the only one.”
“Hm.” Hilda made a mental note of the matter. Was Reuenthal referring to Yang? “If this is worrying you, I’ll broach the matter with His Majesty when I meet him for dinner.”
#
“I wished to account for my recent behaviour,” an uncharacteristically flustered Reinhard said once he and Yang were alone in his office. “It wasn’t my intention to make you appear as though you’ve offended me.”
Yang looked perplexed. “I… offended?”
“By limiting our usual discussions? Avoiding you in headquarters?” Reinhard trailed off into silence as Yang merely looked even more baffled. Embarrassment was rapidly chased off by astonishment, which led rapidly into indignation. “You… you didn’t even notice?”
“Ah? I just assumed you were busy,” Yang said, scratching his hair. “You’re the Kaiser of an entire galactic empire.”
Reinhard had always found it easier to be angry than chastened. Clenching his hands over his lap, he growled, “I’m glad to see that I was under a misapprehension. Get out.”
“Now I’ve offended you,” Yang said, and slouched into the only guest chair before Reinhard’s desk that wasn’t currently inundated with reports.
“You dare disobey a direct order from your Kaiser?”
“I don’t see you calling in soldiers to drag me out,” Yang said, in that annoyingly reasonable tone he liked to assume whenever he felt that he was in the right. “To be fair,” Yang conceded as Reinhard opened his mouth to give the very order, “I’ve been out of sorts these past few weeks myself.”
“Oh?”
“I thought I might make a start on the book by coming up with a suitable title, but I haven’t been able to think of anything.”
“So you sought inspiration from the bottom of a bottle of brandy?” Reinhard said, wondering if he was being mocked.
“That? No, that was just me staying hydrated,” Yang said, though he brightened. “Though if you think brandy could work in such a way—”
“No, no. You drink too much as it is. Hydrated? You should drink water to stay hydrated!”
“I don’t see you drinking water,” Yang said, even more reasonably. “If I shouldn’t be drinking so much brandy, you shouldn’t be drinking so much coffee.”
Reinhard surprised himself by letting out a loud laugh, the uneasy tension that had been eating at him after his talk with Hilda fading from his shoulders. “That’s the final straw, you wretch. That had better not be in your book. Out.” He pointed at the door, but Yang sank deeper into his chair. “I mean it this time, Yang. I’m very busy.”
“Do you know,” Yang said as an afterthought, “a day or so ago, I received an anonymous off-planet transmission? Untraceable, sadly.”
“A threat?” Reinhard asked, wary now. He was used to threats targeting his person, but Yang? That would be new. The thought made him a little angry. “And you didn’t tell me?”
“It wasn’t a threat; it was a strange diagram. I didn’t think that it was worth showing you. Eh… I thought it was a joke,” Yang said, scratching his hair again and studying Reinhard, “but now that I’m here, I’m starting to see its point.”
“A strange diagram?” Reinhard repeated, mystified. “From whom? A friend?” Who in the galaxy would have Yang’s private contact details? As far as Reinhard was aware, Yang was an orphan and had few friends beyond the Imperial College. “From the College?”
“I printed it out to think it over in case it was a cipher of some sort. Here.” Yang dug a crumpled wad of paper from within his jacket and tossed it to Reinhard.
The diagram was carefully hand-drawn with precise, confident lines. It could be called a plan of attack if the battle conditions it depicted weren’t so horrifyingly crude. There were contingency plans. There was a mind map. Reinhard shut his eyes and let out a slow breath. Heat was climbing up his throat. “What in Loki’s name—”
“I feel a little insulted right now,” Yang said, his voice drifting closer.
“You have every right to. I’ll have the transmission traced.”
“I mean,” Yang said, close enough that Reinhard’s eyes startled open, “personally, I would’ve opted for a more direct approach.” His hands were braced on the armrests of Reinhard’s chair, and his smile, while nervous, was more self-deprecating than uncertain. The skin of this lamb was draped over something more, Reinhard could see that now, something with teeth of its own. Something that wore the same hunger that burned in Reinhard himself. “That is, if—”
“Quiet now,” Reinhard commanded. He could bear no more, reaching up to tangle his fingers into Yang’s untidy hair as he pulled Yang into a clumsy kiss. Teeth scraped against teeth until they finally found the right angle for a kiss, at which point an over-enthusiastic attempt by Yang to climb into Reinhard’s lap tipped the chair over, sending them both crashing to the floor.
Yang let out a muffled yelp as he bore the brunt of Reinhard’s weight. As they tried to disentangle themselves, the door to Reinhard’s office burst open and Reinhard’s personal guard charged through, hands on their blasters. “Your Majesty! Are you all right?”
“Fine… it was an accident. Out, all of you! Don’t come back in without my say-so,” Reinhard snarled. The guards fled so quickly that the last man stumbled over himself in his haste to close the door.
Pinned under Reinhard, Yang started snickering as he buried his mouth in Reinhard’s thick golden mane. “Pressing the attack appears to have resulted in an unfortunate over-extension,” Yang said.
“Inviting a counter-attack from your opponent,” Reinhard said, unbuttoning Yang’s creased military jacket.
“Do I face certain defeat? Or is it a feint?” Yang leaned up on an elbow, pressing playful if tentative kisses against Reinhard’s jaw. “Should I retreat in the presence of a superior opponent?” He tickled his fingertips gently down Reinhard’s throat to the embroidery on his collar.
“You’d have more experience than I do in this particular theatre of war,” Reinhard confessed. He’d unbuttoned Yang’s jacket, but he wasn’t entirely sure what to do next.
“I doubt it,” Yang said, his gaze lingering over Reinhard’s face.
“You’d be wrong. I… I don’t have any experience at all.”
Yang blinked. “Oh.” His hands froze over the catches on Reinhard’s jacket. “Haha. That’s going to be a problem.”
Tenderness quickened easily into anger instead of embarrassment. “How dare you—”
“Well,” Yang said, carefully picking at the catches again, “it isn’t as though I have any experience either.”
Reinhard stared at him. “At your age?”
“That’s hardly a kind thing to say. Age doesn’t mean a thing.” Yang grinned up at him. “With your looks?” he said, mimicking Reinhard’s tone.
“Now you’re mocking me,” Reinhard growled, though his irritation left him as Yang leaned up for another clumsy kiss, then another.
“Hrm,” Yang said, as he worked down the jacket, “I suppose we should move to a bed.”
“Excellent suggestion. There’s a cot in the side room that I sometimes use when I need to rest my eyes,” Reinhard said. They could easily do that.
“After that… eh…” Yang scratched his head. “I guess we could refer to the diagram?”
“No. I categorically refuse.” Some of the suggested plans of attack were not physically possible. Reinhard’s head hurt to imagine it. “That diagram shall be destroyed.”
“We’re at the book-burning stage of your administration, I see.” Amusement was bright in Yang’s tone.
“Don’t you dare joke about something like that.”
“All right, all right,” Yang said, petting Reinhard’s flanks soothingly. “Let’s just stick to what we know for now.”
They moved to the side room, shedding shoes and clothes in a messy trail. The strategy wasn’t as easily executed as Reinhard had thought—at one point, Yang tripped over his belt and nearly went head-first into the wall. Somehow they made it onto the narrow bed without severe mishaps, and it struck Reinhard during the awkward tangle they made how ludicrous the situation was: two grown men fumbling against each other with no idea what they were meant to be doing. He was Kaiser of almost all of human civilisation that remained, while Yang was both no one of particular note and yet was someone who had become one of the most consequential people in Reinhard’s life.
Yang was chuckling against him as they tried to find a comfortable fit against each other. “Why are you laughing?” Reinhard asked.
“Forgive me, your Majesty, but the improbability of this matter briefly consumed me,” Yang said beneath him, affecting the measured courtesy of a politician. Reinhard often forgot that Yang perceived more than he let on—Yang had an instinct for people that was more incisive than most. During their free-ranging conversations, Reinhard usually enjoyed this part of Yang. In bed, however, it only keenly reminded Reinhard of his inadequacy.
Scowling at Yang, Reinhard was about to snap something when Yang murmured, “I think… like this?” and spat into his palm, reaching between them to tentatively grasp them both. Reinhard stiffened up with a low groan, jerking into Yang’s grip. Startled, Yang let go, only to go still as Reinhard hastily closed his fingers over Yang’s.
Sex was far messier and more awkward than Reinhard could have imagined. There was something helplessly ridiculous about two people pressed skin to skin and grinding against each other, the tension between them broken by groans. Reinhard had thought himself immune to immodesty between men due to his military education, but it was somehow easier to focus on Yang’s face as they moved coltishly together. Pleasure built in fits and starts, slowly consuming them both. Yang whispered Reinhard’s name as his hips stuttered and went still, warmth spurting between them. Reinhard hissed, burying his face in Yang’s hair and thrusting, holding Yang’s fingers tightly over his flesh until he was trembling into their grasp and adding to the mess.
Yang’s eyes were closed as Reinhard rolled gingerly off and onto his flank, an ungainly fit for the bed. “Yang,” Reinhard said, uncertain. Was Yang regretting this now? He was unsettlingly quiet. Reinhard prodded Yang in the shoulder. “Yang!”
“Hrm?”
“What are you thinking of?”
Yang stretched. “I’d really like a sandwich and a cup of tea about now. Oh… Rein—your Majesty? What did I say?”
#
“The Kaiser would like the anonymous sender of a certain diagram to know that any future help of a similar nature would be unappreciated,” Hilda said as she met Reuenthal for refreshments within his office in Iserlohn Fortress.
Reuenthal’s expression stayed carefully put together as he dug out two glasses and a decent bottle of whisky. “I’m sure that I have no idea what you mean.”
“Quite so,” Hilda said, amused, but only allowing it to show in a faint narrowing of her eyes.
“Are matters of a certain biographer nature resolved?”
“I’m not entirely sure,” Hilda admitted, having tried and failed to winkle an answer to the same out from Yang not so long ago. Yang was hard to move when he didn’t want to be moved.
“Suffering in silence it is.” Reuenthal poured them both a generous measure of whisky. “To the lion and the lamb.”
“The lion and the ‘lamb’,” Hilda said with a slight smile, raising her glass.