The Saga of Tanya the Evil, Vol. 7: Ut Sementem Feceris, ita Metes

by Carlo Zen

  …If they realized at some point that there really was no way to win, maybe then they could say it. But there were possibilities remaining. Which was why Rudersdorf, in charge of Operations, couldn’t spout nonsense like We can’t win, even by mistake, yet he still hinted at their limits.

  “…Do I make myself clear?”

  Rudersdorf was asking, between the lines, for their understanding.

  “General von Rudersdorf, General von Zettour. I’m asking you officially: Can that be said to be the consensus of the General Staff—and the army?”

  It was a question they could answer immediately.

  ““Of course,”” they answered, nodding in perfect synchronization.

  Now the debate must be settled. With that optimistic outlook, the tension started, just slightly, to leave his shoulders.

  They needed a plan for reducing the burdens on the home front, and there was the whole process of getting from a cease-fire to peace. Even if there were heaps of things to do…

  “…So you’re saying that even if it would be a challenge, there’s still a chance we could win?”

  Wait. The gears of Zettour’s mind stopped turning after hearing that incomprehensible absurdity. Even if it would be a challenge, there’s still a chance we could win?

  “We’ve heard what the army thinks about the situation. But further victories would be possible if the home front took the necessary measures, correct?”

  “Please wait. What are you talking about?”

  “General von Zettour, a question… Is it possible that if we agree to these terms in the negations via the Kingdom of Ildoa, we’ll appear weak-kneed to our opponents?”

  “…What did you say?”

  The reply to Zettour’s blank question was cutthroat. “I just wonder if we aren’t making it look like we’re rushing to negotiate. If our enemies think we aren’t able to continue fighting the war, we won’t be in a very strong bargaining position.”

  Someone else added a comment. Someone from the Ministry of the Interior, perhaps?

  “I’ll be frank. Do you have a solid grasp of trends in public opinion and sentiment? We can’t accept a cease-fire and peace with these terms. And Ildoa’s plan for the cease-fire is only temporary. It’s not clear if it would even lead to peace or not!”

  Zettour saw a man in a well-tailored suit stand up to follow the other speaker. One of those Foreign Office poseurs?

  “While the military cease-fire negotiations may be within the army’s purview, the official cease-fire and peace talks are the realm of diplomacy. Which means, as a matter of course, that jurisdiction should be handled by we of the Foreign Office. Isn’t it overstepping your authority for the army to exercise power as it pleases in this matter?”

  How come you can’t even understand that much? is what most of the people in the room seemed to be thinking as they attacked him.

  The stern looks he was getting!

  He was nearly thinking it was the sort of glare you’d give your enemies but then stopped himself.

  Maybe not the sort of.

  “We hope for peace just as much as you. But it must come along with right and acceptable reparations. If justice isn’t done…the hearts of the people won’t be satisfied.”

  “You’re prioritizing that over the restoration of peace?!” Zettour was about to yell, You must be kidding! but was interrupted by innumerable scowls.

  “The time for prioritizing an unjust peace ended when the war began!”

  “Sacrifices must be properly compensated!”

  “We can’t compromise so much! The Ildoan proposal is too easygoing!”

  The refutations Zettour was about to deliver were forestalled as if they were treason, and he was censured. It was so absurd that he would have wanted to laugh the response off as an emotional argument were this not a meeting of Supreme Command with none other than the group of people who handled all the practical matters in the Empire.

  …But not being able to laugh it off made it serious by necessity.

  “Supreme Command does not interfere in military orders as a rule. But certainly it has the right to exercise its abilities to make a request regarding national strategy.”

  “…And that is?”

  He couldn’t very well scream, Please don’t! Zettour had to face his fate, like a commander who realized the battle was lost.

  “With all due respect, we’d like the army to win better terms.”

  “…Am I meant to interpret that as the administration’s official opinion?”

  “To be accurate, it’s the will of the people and a valid request the imperial family agrees with. As such, we’d like the army to follow through on that goal.”

  From an institutional perspective, they were correct. As for the military perspective, for the longest time, Supreme Command was merely an organization that approved of the General Staff’s decisions. But the actual authority to decide lay unmistakably with Supreme Command. Even Zettour had no way to object.

  If he couldn’t express his dismay, and arguing back wasn’t allowed, then he would have to remain silent.

  But what does one person’s silence mean? Just as he was about to crack a self-deprecating sneer, someone ventured to speak.

  “…Fine. You’re telling us to win?”

  Shut your mouth, Rudersdorf!! he wanted to scream.

  Maybe he should have. But having been rendered speechless, Zettour couldn’t even muster a wordless cry to stop him.

  “We’ll show you a victory… As long as you give us what we need, the army will win as many times as you want.”

  Zettour immediately shot a look at Rudersdorf, but it didn’t reach him. As the civil servants, nodding in satisfaction, reported various details and the conversation went back and forth, Zettour alone was depressed.

  How? Why?

  THE SAME DAY, IMPERIAL EMBASSY IN ILDOA

  News of a victory is always good. Especially when it comes with optimal timing. It permeates every corner of the body, naturally warming the limbs. In the sense of that familiar comfort, it is every bit as good as alcohol.

  Like a good tequila or perhaps scotch.

  As news of the victory spread throughout the Empire, all the imperial subjects at the embassy in Ildoa shared the same excitement.

  The military attaché to Ildoa, Colonel von Lergen, shook his head. In the pursuit of accuracy, we should probably revise: These people, who were involved directly in diplomatic negotiations, were more ecstatic than most. The embassy was such a madhouse, they were downing fine wine like college kids.

  It wasn’t that they didn’t have the will to moderate themselves. They understood the word restraint. They were adults with both age and standing. They were well aware of how bad it looked to lose control in front of others.

  Yet here they were, sloshed.

  The drinks were just too delicious.

  Ildoa had mediated the negotiations between parties who refused to back down, not even hiding the fact that they were playing both sides. The representatives from the Empire, exhausted in both mind and body, had intended to simply enjoy a social drink, but before they knew it, they were mentally and physically overdoing it.

  They were so sure the balance had tipped in their direction that they celebrated.

  They really did it.

  Lergen himself was one of those who cheered from the pit of his stomach.

  News of a victory—it could only be divine assistance!

  He was so moved, he nearly shed tears in spite of himself—they had done such a good job. Before he knew it, he was reaching for a bottle he’d been treasuring for years. Not only had he been keeping it since before the war started, but these days, you couldn’t even get a reliable supply of this Commonwealth spirit in neutral countries.

  When he undid the tight seal and pulled out the cork, he was greeted with a smell that was appropriately rich for the bottle’s age.

  Even just taking ice from the embassy’s refrigerator and preparing to po
ur his drink into an Ildoan cut-glass tumbler was thrilling.

  When, after carefully pouring, he was savoring the relatively mild—for 40 percent—experience, that warm font of energy permeated his heart.

  “Delicious.”

  The quiet comment expressed his deepest feelings. Whether it was from an enemy country or not, a good drink was a good drink. He had long forgotten this flavor.

  “I can really taste it. Words can’t describe how indebted I am to the troops for this chance to drink something so nice.”

  Alcohol in his system made him chatty—especially when he was drinking mature spirits to celebrate a victory. It intoxicated him more than usual.

  But decidedly not in a bad way.

  It was a lightness that banished his anxiety about the future as well as his frustration. The feeling spreading through his body was accompanied even by a kindness like that of an old friend. The cool, melodious clink of the ice in his glass, too, was exquisite. It was like looking up at a clear blue sky.

  Above all, this atmosphere!

  Today I can even tip one down the hatch in the attaché office and no one will question it!

  “Oh, Colonel von Lergen. You have good taste.”

  The one who spoke to him was the usually serious ambassador. But today there was a mood he couldn’t hide written all over his face.

  “If it isn’t our ambassador! And you, sir? What’s that bottle you have? If memory serves, that’s the X-brand stuff the Foreign Office was keeping under lock and key for diplomatic use!”

  Even under blockade, etiquette had to be maintained, or they would lose face. Lergen had been surprised to learn that part of the job of diplomats stationed abroad was to acquire wine.

  “Ha-ha-ha! Right you are. It’s a valuable bottle I smuggled back through a neutral country in my diplomat bag, but there’s no being stingy today! I’m going all out!”

  Apparently, the ambassador, who should be the one rebuking those getting out of line, had given instructions to hold a victory celebration and was in such high spirits, he was popping the corks on bottles of wine he had bought to send back to the home country for diplomatic use.

  “Come, come, Colonel. Please have some. I hope you’ll propose a toast to the Imperial Army’s fierce fighting.”

  “Well, if you insist…”

  Normally, every bottle was strictly accounted for. But just for today, there were no rules. He expressed his gratitude for the glass, filled to the brim, and admired the richness of the red liquid.

  He had completely forgotten the scent of the real thing.

  “To victory and the hard fight!”

  “To our brothers-in-arms and their self-sacrifice!”

  “Glory to the fatherland!”

  What grand words to raise in cheers.

  “God is with us!”

  The moment the fixed wording left his lips, the possibility that it was actually grace came to Lergen’s mind. The future of the fatherland would begin now. So maybe, he couldn’t help but think. Perhaps pragmatists like him should be praising the Lord, too: May it be so.

  So it was that among all the deeply moved men, he, too, engaged in congratulatory remarks.

  “May the Empire reign always!”

  “““Hooray!!!”””

  Their arms around one another, the men in full dress boomed “Prosit!” and it must have thundered even outside the embassy.

  Well, let them hear it.

  It was a shout of the Empire’s triumph. A laurel from the heart bestowed on the heroes of the eastern front, the defenders of the fatherland, our Reich. You could call it a joyful song.

  Let us raise our voices out of love for the Empire!

  Give in to the intoxication and belt it out—let it resound throughout this foreign land!

  Perhaps it’s not a respectable way for an officer to unwind. Even so, why should I hesitate?

  Who could not celebrate their nation’s victory in words? Any human who has sworn loyalty to their country as a soldier is surely compelled to applaud its success.

  “C-Colonel von Lergen?”

  “Hmm? Oh, from the on-duty group. You poor fellows. I had the kitchen make something for you. Was there not enough to go around?”

  “No, it’s…for your ears only, sir. May I ask you to come with me?”

  The deferential mood implied that was no small matter. Though Lergen was riding rather high on their victory, it wasn’t hard to detect the urgency once he composed himself.

  “Let’s go.”

  He apologized for causing extra work for the duty officer as he took him into the empty corridor. Even in one’s own embassy, there could be ears that shouldn’t be listening.

  The duty officer scanned the area, seeming awfully nervous.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s from the General Staff.”

  “…Hmm? You mean…the results of the Supreme Command meeting?”

  “Yes, it appears to be. I thought I should inform you…”

  The duty officer seemed concerned as to whether it had really been worth interrupting his superior’s celebration, but Lergen reassured him with a sincere smile. “Thank you. That was the right decision.”

  It was a message from the home country.

  And so soon—he was impressed. The timely classified message had his heart pounding with anticipation.

  “I suppose I should read this in my office. Excuse me.”

  Moved that the home country would reach a conclusion about the negotiations so immediately, Lergen went back to his office.

  It was hard to keep from grinning. What a sap I am, he thought, before realizing that there wasn’t actually any rule keeping him from expressing his joy. Maybe if he was actually in the middle of negotiations, but in his current situation, it was only natural that the entire range of emotions be allowed.

  “…Ha-ha-ha. It’s been so long…” …since I’ve smiled so freely. He grinned wryly and hurried on. In one hand, he carried his glass of aged wine, and in the other, the encoded message that, based on when it came in, would probably illuminate how they planned to end the war.

  If he didn’t use the book in the safe in his room, he wouldn’t be able to read it.

  Though the signal itself was also encoded, if they were monitored long enough, there was a risk of the enemy deciphering it. In light of that, they exchanged messages written in a very specific way, which had to be compared to a cipher only Lergen and the General Staff possessed in order to make any sense.

  I’m so excited to decode it, thought Lergen as he stepped lightly toward his room.

  With the flush of the drinks still in his cheeks, his heart pounded in a way it never had before as he pulled the codebook out of his safe.

  The pleasant buzz he felt wasn’t only the alcohol.

  What man would be able to contain himself? He’d had the honor of participating in the saving of his nation’s destiny. Why wouldn’t he be thrilled?

  “Okay, okay. Here’s the important part. I sure hope there’s a coherent plan for how to end the war…”

  Elated, he lined up the book and the telegram next to each other. Then he worked his quill pen for a time to decode it. When he reached a part that decoded as “victory on the eastern front,” he flipped through the codebook, knowing what came next would be what he had been waiting for.

  “…? Huh?”

  Unexpectedly confused, he drained his glass like a pick-me-up and poured out a little more.

  “Ohhh, how silly of me… I must have made a mistake somewhere.”

  His first thought was that he had gotten a bit too drunk. He smiled wryly at the glass in his hand and shook his head. It seemed he had made a terrible reading error.

  “So this is… And this… Huh? No, but…”

  His blood vessels, warmed with spirits, contracted as if he’d been showered in close-range cannon fire.

  Without even realizing he had dropped his glass, Lergen stared at the telegram in horror.


  “…What?”

  After reviewing each word, each punctuation mark, closely, taking care not to miss any lines, he was still confused. It’s not a misreading?

  Couldn’t it be? Please?

  Or am I just not comprehending it correctly? Maybe…not?

  He frantically reread it, but the content remained mercilessly unwavering.

  An encoded telegram followed a template in official language that left no room for misunderstandings. There were no errors of reading, comprehension, or composition. The one who drafted it had to have been an outstanding officer. He had certainly done his job polishing this official document.

  “Regarding the victory on the eastern front, we see fit to renegotiate and press for much greater concessions.”

  He wanted it to be a joke.

  That’s how he felt as he abruptly read the text aloud without thinking, but his brain still stubbornly refused to understand.

  Well, he got it; he just didn’t want to.

  If he understood it, if he accepted it…

  “‘R-regarding the victory on the eastern front, we see fit to renegotiate and press for much greater concessions’?!”

  This wasn’t a message to confirm the adoption of the proposal that Lergen had struggled so hard to pull together. You could say it was bad news that the home country didn’t accept, and it was.

  Actually, he thought he had been prepared for potential bad news from the outset. But this? This wasn’t one of the scenarios he’d had in mind. The worst case is always the horror you can’t predict.

  “…B-but I negotiated all…all of this…”

  They didn’t even consider all the friction and the struggling it had taken to reach this result.

  “R…r-r-renegotiate? Go back to the drawing board?”

  Is this really the home country’s, Supreme Command’s, the Empire’s intention? When we worked so hard to reach a patch of common ground, and things were only just starting to take shape, at long last?

  He groaned softly.

  How?