In the front hall of Yuhe Palace, silver-silk charcoal glowed faintly within a brazier, while the scent of dragon incense, stirred by waves of heat, lingered at the tip of the nose.
Zhou Cong, Minister of War, felt his official robes damp with sweat. The waistband beneath his paunch pressed so tightly against his skin that he could barely breathe. He shifted his feet to the right, trying to put as much distance as possible between himself and the brazier. "Reporting to Your Majesty," he began, "the Quanrong envoy has been lingering at the Honglu Temple for over a month. This summer, the Turkic cavalry raided the Qingli Grassland three times, inflicting heavy losses on the Quanrong tribes. If the Turkics attack again, the Quanrong, left only with the old and infirm, will likely have no strength to resist. The envoy requests that Your Majesty allow their elderly and weak to spend the winter at Mulan Pasture to avoid the scourge of extinction."
Pei Hengyu, his hand gripping a vermilion brush, did not look up. "I have already read the memorial. Mulan Pasture is too small; it is barely sufficient for the garrison to conduct training. Where is there room to house the Quanrong people? Go and tell them: Dasheng has always been compassionate toward the weak. The garrison is already stationed at Mulan Pasture. If the Turkics strike again, they need only report it, and within half a month, Dasheng’s troops will arrive. Let them stay on their own grasslands and pass the winter in peace…
Chapter 47