I
IT WAS APRIL 4 when Kaiser Reinhard was informed of the confrontation that had occurred on Heinessen between von Oberstein and the three admirals. Coincidentally, April 4 would also have been Yang Wen-li’s thirty-fourth birthday, although this was not, of course, designated as a holiday by the empire. Reinhard himself had turned twenty-five on March 14. His birthday was an important holiday in the imperial calendar, with troops receiving leave and a special bonus. Out of consideration for the kaiser’s condition, a planned garden party was canceled, but an oil painting by a well-known artist depicting linden trees, wallflowers, and strawberries arrived as a gift from the Archduchess von Grünewald. These plants represented love between spouses, bonds of affection, and long life, respectively—an expression of Annerose’s wishes for her younger brother and his wife.
The unpleasant report from Heinessen arrived after all this, however, when Reinhard had more or less fully recovered. In the bedroom at Stechpalme Schloß, Hilda sat up in the canopied bed while Reinhard sat on its edge.
“Fräulein—no, kaiserin—what do you think of this matter?”
As it turned out, the two of them spent far more time discussing matters of state and war than murmuring sweet nothings to one another. Their residence was separated from Imperial Headquarters only by geography. In practice, even their bedroom at Stechpalme Schloß was an extension of headquarters.
“May I hear Your Majesty’s thoughts first?”
“It was I who granted von Oberstein the authority he wields. To evade responsibility for this would be unseemly. But I never thought he would adopt methods such as these.”
Reinhard was surely angry, but the weight of the problem von Oberstein had forced on him seemed to be cooling his rage somewhat. Even Reinhard had to hesitate when asked directly whether he meant to shed the blood of millions to satisfy his personal emotions. Minister von Oberstein was no ordinary man.
Could this be added to the handful of examples where Reinhard had chosen the wrong person for the job? Hilda was not quite sure. Reinhard was not, of course, unaware of the incompatibility in character between von Oberstein and Wittenfeld. Despite this, however, he had made his decision assuming that they would keep their private emotions in check as they dealt with matters of state.
“But it appears I was mistaken. Von Oberstein always, no matter what the situation, puts his responsibilities as a public figure first. Even though this is exactly why he is so despised.”
Von Oberstein is potent medicine—clinically efficacious, but with significant side effects. Whose words had those been? Marshal Mittermeier’s? The late Marshal von Reuentahl’s?
“Do you intend to recall Minister von Oberstein from Phezzan, Your Majesty?”
“Hmm. That might be for the best.”
This somewhat indecisive reply was unlike Reinhard. But Hilda saw what was in the young conqueror’s heart, even if his concern for his new wife—who was, moreover, with child—made him hesitant to speak it aloud.
“Perhaps, Your Majesty, you would rather go to Heinessen to resolve the situation yourself?”
Reinhard’s cheeks reddened, very slightly. Hilda’s insight had struck the mark. “I can hide nothing from you, mein Kaiserin. It is just as you say. Only I can effect such a resolution. But even if I were to leave this very day, the dishonor of taking hostages in order to demand surrender would not be erased…”
If Reinhard’s way of thinking and of living were “military romanticism” crystallized, von Oberstein was surely the only one of his high-ranking officers utterly unaffected by that tendency. Independent thinkers were indispensable to any organization. Without them, they risked becoming bubbles of complacency and blind faith. Von Oberstein was therefore an important presence, but Hilda would have preferred it if his role had been played by someone more like Yang Wen-li, for example. For now, however, the task before her was to lighten the burden that Reinhard felt pressing down on his sense of honor.
“Your Majesty, what if the demand were not for surrender but for negotiations?”
“Negotiations?”
“Yes. Last year, Your Majesty sought to open negotiations with Yang Wen-li. Why not realize that aim now, and welcome the leadership of this ‘Iserlohn Republic’ as honored guests rather than criminals?”
Hilda viewed this proposal as a compromise, but it was an easy one for Reinhard to accept. He could release the political prisoners before negotiations began and then, if progress was not forthcoming at the negotiating table, simply open hostilities anew. This would allow him to correct the course that von Oberstein had forcefully set them upon.
“Kaiserin, I have not once felt any affection for von Oberstein. And yet, looking back, it seems to me that I have followed his counsel more often than any other’s. He always insists on the sensible thing, the correct thing, to the point that there is no room left for refutations.”
Reinhard’s recollections sparked a vision in Hilda’s mind. A stone tablet, engraved with things that are right—only things that are right—in an eternally frozen wasteland. Incontrovertible as the words on that tablet might be, no one would feel moved to approach it. Centuries later, however, later generations might objectively—which is in a sense to say, irresponsibly—praise its rightness.
“That man…if I ever become a liability to the empire, he might just depose me.”
“Your Majesty!”
“A joke, mein Kaiserin. But how beautiful you are when indignant!”
Hilda doubted that Reinhard had spoken entirely in jest. He was as awkward with jokes as he was with compliments, but there was no point trying to change that now.
Nor could Hilda put aside her concern for Reinhard’s health. If matters had been severe enough to cancel the garden party for his birthday, an interstellar journey of thousands of light years was nothing to take lightly.
At one time, Hilda’s cousin, Baron Heinrich von Kümmel, had been deeply jealous of Reinhard—or more precisely, of the fusion of graceful beauty and splendid vitality that he embodied. That jealousy had been von Kümmel’s undoing, but had he survived, what would he think of the kaiser’s frequent bouts of fever and confinement to his sickbed? An ailment of the flesh alone was one thing, but what if physical weakness dragged Reinhard’s mental state down also, weakening his spirit and vitality? Hilda could just imagine the baron’s cold smile from beyond the grave.
If matters reached that point, the luster would fade from Reinhard’s very life. Compared to the fear that Reinhard would cease to be the Reinhard she knew, concern over the risks of prolonged travel hardly seemed worth bringing up.