The Apothecary Diaries Book 11

The Letters That Didn't

Another massive pile of papers had accumulated in Rikuson's office. It had been this way for days now, but they were necessary; there was nothing he could do about it. Instead, he worked his way through them, slowly and steadily, one thing at a time. There weren't enough administrators, and all the work those extra personnel might have done landed on Rikuson.

It had been more than a month since the enormous plague of insects. The grasshoppers had attacked several more times, but after that things had calmed down. Well, not "things." Just the grasshoppers. Having eaten their fill, the loathsome bugs were now trying to leave a new generation behind.

The problem was that people were fixated on the aftermath of the devastation. They were completely occupied with trying to make up for the damage to the harvest, but if they failed to take appropriate measures against the next swarm, the destruction would only get worse.

Rikuson could feel a headache coming on as he confronted all the damage reports and requests for emergency provisions. He wished he had the power to save all the people, but he was, ultimately, a mid-level functionary. There was only so much he could do.

He would have to assess the damage to each region and send support commensurate with the locality's population. If he miscalculated, it might cause more looting or even result in further death from starvation.

Rikuson wanted to tear his hair out. When considering how much to distribute, he also had to check the records and requests against their stores of provisions. It wasn't that he couldn't do the math, but this was a heavy and wide-ranging responsibility that weighed on him.

"This would be a lot easier if Sir Lahan were here," he muttered. A job like this would have been a walk in the park for him. He could have held an abacus in one hand and done most of the calculating in his head. He would have been able to look at the numbers purely as numbers and determine the fairest distribution.

Speaking of Lahan, it had been a long time since Rikuson had gotten any letters from him. The last one had come maybe two months before the swarm.

Rikuson had written to Lahan a couple of times after the event—he knew the other man was never averse to information of this variety. He would have expected a prompt reply. He realized that communications were not as reliable as they had been before the swarm, but could two separate letters fail to arrive? Or had someone discovered what was hidden in the letters he had been sending to Lahan and the Moon Prince?

Rikuson stopped an official who was just about to leave. "There haven't been any letters addressed to me, have there?" he asked.

"No, Master Rikuson, I'm afraid not," the official said flatly. This man was one Rikuson had seen much of ever since being sent to the western capital. He'd brought letters to the others a number of times, so if he said there was no mail for Rikuson, he probably meant it.

Was it only Rikuson who found that strange?

Lahan being who he was, there was no way he didn't know about the plague of insects that had swept I-sei Province. Moreover, he was a man with his share of curiosity—he certainly should have written to Rikuson sometime in the last month to try to sound him out about what was going on. Were things really that busy in the capital?

Wait—had Lahan written to anyone else recently? A thought of the young woman Lahan referred to as his little sister flashed through Rikuson's mind. He considered asking her if she'd heard anything from him, but then thought better of it. It would be best if he kept his distance from Maomao. He knew she would keep her distance from him—that she would have to. That would be better for both of them. That was why Rikuson had made the joking offer of marriage: a joke it was, but he knew that the hyperprotective elements around Maomao would respond immediately.

He mentally put the matter aside and decided to submit the papers he had finished reviewing. He stepped into the hallway to flag down an official, but then he spotted Gyoku-ou on the far side of the courtyard garden with several soldiers.

Suddenly, Rikuson didn't want to be there. He retreated back to his desk and picked up one of the requests for provisions.

Addressed to the governor, it came from one of the farming villages. They hadn't been able to harvest anything, so would he please send some food, it asked. The petition also touched on the conscription of soldiers. That wasn't something Rikuson would normally see—this matter should have been taken care of before it reached him. The administrators must have mistakenly included it among the mass of paperwork.

The petition included such expressions of love and loyalty as the farmers knew how to muster. It thanked Gyoku-ou for having supported them out of his private finances several times in the past. In every way, the letter looked like an innocent cry for help from some innocent farmers turning to the best ruler they knew.

It sounded like a lovely story of a kind and generous governor rescuing his impoverished and hard-pressed people. How must Gyoku-ou look to them? It was only natural that they would be willing to furnish him with soldiers.

"Conscription," Rikuson mumbled. He thought about Gyoku-ou, with his soldiers. What did he intend to do with them? Yes, the people were restless after the major disaster that had just occurred, but did he really need to raise more troops in order to suppress them?

Rikuson sighed. Gyoku-ou, popular with his people. An unprecedented disaster. The strategist and the Imperial younger brother, come from the royal capital.

The players were all here, the stage was set.

But set for what? Rikuson still wasn't sure. Because in his heart of hearts, he still cherished a wish, still held out hope.

Hope that Gyoku-ou would be a good governor after all.