The Burning God, page 46
part #3 of The Poppy War Series
By far their best discovery was bolts and bolts of cotton linen and silk stacked up in massive piles inside a textile warehouse. Now they could make bandages. Now they could repair their shoes, which were in such tatters after the march over Baolei that many of Rin’s soldiers had fought the battle of Jinzhou barefoot. And now, for the first time in its short history, the Southern Army would have a uniform.
Up until now they’d been fighting in the same rags they’d worn out of the Southern Province. In battle they distinguished themselves with streaks of mud like Souji had suggested back when they’d broken the Beehive, or by putting on anything that wasn’t blue and hoping they weren’t killed by friendly fire. But now Rin had cloth, dyes, and a terrified guild of skilled Jinzhou seamstresses who were eager to comply with her every request.
The seamstresses asked her to pick a color. She chose brown, largely because brown dyes were the cheapest, made with tannins easily found in tree bark, shells, and acorn cups. But brown was also fitting. The Southern Army’s first uniforms had been dirt from a riverbed. When the Snail Goddess Nüwa had created the first humans, she had lovingly crafted the aristocracy from the finest red clay, lost patience, and hastily shaped the rest from mud. At Sinegard, they’d called her a mud-skinned commoner so often the insult felt now like a familiar call to arms.
Let them think of us as dirt, Rin thought. She was dirt. Her army was dirt. But dirt was common, ubiquitous, patient, and necessary. The soil gave life to the country. And the earth always reclaimed what it was owed.
“Great Tortoise,” Kitay said. “You’d think this was a Warlord’s palace.”
They stood in the main council room of Jinzhou’s city hall, a vast chamber with high ceilings, elaborately carved stone walls, and ten-foot-long calligraphic tapestries hanging at every corner. Long shelves gilded each wall, displaying an array of antique vases, swords, medals, and armor dating back as far as the Red Emperor. Miraculously, it had all survived the earthquakes.
Rin felt deliciously guilty as she perused the room and its treasures. She felt like a naughty child rummaging through her parents’ wardrobe. She couldn’t shake the sense that she shouldn’t be in here, that none of this belonged to her.
It does, she reminded herself. You conquered them. You razed this place. You won.
They’d sell it all, of course. They’d come here to find treasures they could turn to silver through Moag’s trading routes. As she ran her fingers over a silk fan, Rin fleetingly imagined herself wielding it, dressed in ornate silks of the kind Daji used to wear, carried through adoring crowds on a gilded palanquin.
She pushed the image away. Empresses carried fans. Generals carried swords.
“Look,” Kitay said. “Someone certainly thought highly of themselves.”
The magistrate’s chair at the end of the room was laughably ornate, a throne better fit for an emperor than a city official.
“I wonder how he made it through any meetings,” Rin said. The chair was nailed to a raised dais about half a foot off the floor. “You’d have to crane your neck just to look at anyone.”
Kitay snorted. “Perhaps he was just very short.”
Curious, Rin climbed up and settled into the chair. Contrary to expectations, the seat had actually been built for someone much taller than her. Her feet swung childishly from the edge, nowhere close to scraping the floor. Still, she couldn’t help feeling a small thrill of excitement as she looked out over the gilded chamber and the long council table at whose head she sat. She imagined the seats filled with people: soldiers, advisers, and city officials all listening attentively to her bidding.
Was this how it felt, day by day, to rule? Was this how Nezha felt seated within Arlong’s cerulean halls, halfway across the country?
She knew very well how total, dominating power tasted. But as she sat on the conquered throne, gazing down at the empty seats below, she understood for the first time the delicious authority that went with it. This was not a taste she had inherited from Altan, because Altan had only ever concerned himself with destructive retribution. Altan had never dreamed of seizing a throne.
But Rin could burn, was burning, much more brightly than Altan ever had.
Small wonder Nezha had chosen his Republic over her. She’d have done the same in a heartbeat.
Enjoy your Republic, she thought, fingers curling against the cold armrest. Enjoy it while it lasts, Young Marshal. Take a good look at your splendor, and remember well how it feels. Because I am coming to burn it all down beneath you.
Chapter 26
In the Principles of War, the strategist Sunzi wrote at length about a concept he named shi, which from Old Nikara translated vaguely into “energy,” “influence,” or “strategic advantage.” Shi was water rushing so quickly downstream it could dislodge stones from riverbeds. Shi was the devastation of boulders tumbling down a steep mountain slope. Shi dictated that energy, when present, accumulated and amplified itself.
Rin’s victory at Jinzhou was the push that sent the first rock rolling.
Things became so easy after that. Nezha didn’t have the troops to defend his outlying territories, so he rapidly retreated southeast, back behind the Qinling and Daba Mountains that served as Arlong’s natural defenses. Assaulted on two fronts, he made the only strategic decision he could—to center his defenses in Dragon Province, leaving the rest of the Republic to fend for itself.
On their way through Ram Province, Rin’s troops came across nothing but scorched fields and abandoned villages—evidence of civilians ordered to pack their things overnight and retreat into the mountains or back behind Republican lines. Anything the refugees couldn’t take, they had left out in the sun to spoil. On many occasions, the Southern Army stumbled upon piles and piles of animal carcasses, flies buzzing over split-open pigs whose meat might have been good just two or three days ago.
There was a classic principle of Nikara warfare: when facing enemy invasion, clear the countryside and erect high walls. When things looked dire, Nikara leaders destroyed rural settlements and moved food, people, and supplies behind walled cities to prevent them from becoming enemy assets. What couldn’t be moved was burned, poisoned, or buried. It was the oldest practice of Nikara military tradition, and amplified the suffering of innocents. Someone wants to conquer you, someone else wants to prevent you from turning into an asset, and you get fucked from both sides.
From the Mugenese, such extravagant waste would have been an act of spiteful defiance. But from Nezha, who had provinces to rule and subjects to protect, this was the ultimate sign of weakness. It meant his Hesperian allies were abandoning him. It meant he knew he couldn’t stop the southerners from marching on Dragon Province; he could only try to slow them down.
But the Southern Army had shi. It could not be slowed. Rin’s troops were running high on victory. They had sharper swords now, better armor, and more food than they could eat. They were fighting with more skill and energy than they ever had before. They carved through the countryside like a knife through tofu. More often than not, villages surrendered without their having to lift a finger; some villagers even readily enlisted, happy for the chance at steady coin and two square meals a day.
The reversal of fortunes was astonishing. Months ago, Rin had led a desperate march into mountains, had gambled the lives of thousands on the barest chance of survival. Now she marched on the offensive, and Nezha had lost almost everything that made her fear him. He was a boy king, limping by with the support of a recalcitrant ally that, judging from the quiet skies, had strongly reconsidered its commitments. Meanwhile, Rin had an army swelling in confidence, experience, and supplies. Above all, she had shamans.
And they were performing marvelously. After Dulin’s near breakdown at Jinzhou, Rin hadn’t expected them to last so long. She’d thought she might get a few weeks’ use from them at most before they inevitably died in battle or she had to kill them. She’d been particularly concerned about Lianhua, who regularly sank into daylong catatonic trances after her shifts on triage duty. This frightened Pipaji so much that she soon grew terrified of calling her own god, and had to be coaxed into participating in the next few battles.
But all three were getting more stable over time. Aside from a brief episode when Dulin was struck in the shoulder by an arrow and accidentally prompted an earthquake that split the battlefield with a ten-foot ravine, he never lost control again. Lianhua’s trances decreased to once a week, and then ceased completely. Pipaji managed to overcome her nerves; three weeks after Jinzhou, she infiltrated a village posing as a refugee and took out its entire defensive line that night by slipping through their ranks, brushing her fingers against every patch of exposed skin.
They all learned to cope in their own ways. Dulin started meditating at night, sitting cross-legged on the dirt for hours on end. Lianhua sang to herself while she worked to keep herself grounded, going through a wide array of folk ballads and ditties in an impressively lovely soprano. Pipaji began disappearing from camp every evening shortly after dinner, and rarely came back until after dusk.
One night Rin, slightly worried, followed her out of camp. She was relieved to discover that all Pipaji did was stand still in the forest, surrounded by trees with no other human beings in sight, and breathe.
“You’re not very good at hiding,” Pipaji said after a while.
Rin stepped into the clearing. “I didn’t want to disturb you.”
“It’s all right.” Pipaji looked somewhat embarrassed. “I don’t ever stay out here for very long. I just like to go where it’s quiet. Where there’s nobody I can hurt. It’s, um, relaxing.”
Rin felt an odd twinge in her chest. “That’s prudent.”
“You can stay if you want.”
Rin lifted her eyebrows, somewhat touched. “Thank you.”
For a moment they stood side by side, listening to the katydids shriek. It was, Rin agreed, oddly relaxing.
“You don’t get to go back to normal,” Pipaji said abruptly.
“Hmm?”
“I noticed your eyes. They’re always red. Our eyes go back to normal. Yours don’t. Why?”
“Because I’m too far gone,” Rin said. She was only partly lying. “I can’t shut it out anymore.”
“Then what brings you back?” Pipaji demanded. “Why haven’t you lost it like—like the rest of them?”
Rin considered telling her about the anchor bond. But what was the point? That option would never be possible for Pipaji—revealing it would only be cruel. And the fewer people who knew about Kitay, the better.
She liked Pipaji, but she wasn’t going to trust the girl with her life.
“I’ve struck a deal with my god,” she said after a pause. “And it’s learned to stay put.”
“You didn’t tell us about that.”
“Because it’s the least likely outcome,” Rin said. “You knew how this would end. There’s no point giving you hope.”
Her words came out flat and cold. She couldn’t think of anything reassuring to say, and she suspected Pipaji didn’t want to hear it. All her recruits had known this could only end two ways for them: death, or the Chuluu Korikh. She’d warned them many times over; she’d made sure they understood that volunteering was a death sentence.
“I’m not going to survive this war,” Pipaji said after a long silence.
“You don’t know that,” Rin said.
Pipaji shook her head. “I’m not strong enough. You’ll kill me. You’ll need to kill me.”
Rin gave her a pitying look. What good would lying do?
“Do you want me to say I’m sorry?”
“No.” Pipaji snorted. “We knew what we signed up for.”
And that was all it took to assuage Rin’s conscience. She hadn’t done anything wrong if they’d chosen this themselves. Dulin, Lianhua, and Pipaji were still here because they’d decided it was worth it. They’d foreseen and accepted their deaths. She’d offered them weapons, the only weapons strong enough to alter their miserable world, and they’d taken them. These were the choices war produced.
Several weeks later they occupied a small port town on the Western Murui at the border between Ram and Hare province, and made camp as they awaited an old friend.
“Well, look at you.” Chiang Moag, Pirate Queen of Ankhiluun, stepped off the gangplank and strode down the pier with a broad smile on her face. “Look what you’ve made of yourself.”
“Hello, Moag,” Rin said. They regarded each other for a moment. Then, because Moag hadn’t yet tried to stick a knife in her back, Rin waved down the twenty hidden archers who had been waiting to put an arrow through her head.
“Cute,” Moag said when she saw them disperse.
“Learned that from you,” Rin said. “I’m never quite sure what side you’re on.”
Moag snorted. “Oh, let’s call this what it is. The Republic is done for. That pretty little boy they’ve got on Arlong’s throne couldn’t manage even a village without his father’s help. I know where to throw in my lot.”
She sounded convincing, but Rin knew better than to take her words at face value. Moag was, and always would be, a liability. True, she’d granted Rin safe haven in Ankhiluun after her escape from Arlong, but she hadn’t lifted a finger to help since Rin left for the south. This entire war Moag had remained hidden in Ankhiluun, bolstering her fleets against an anticipated Hesperian attack. Moag was hedging her bets, waiting to see if she’d be better off resisting the Republic or playing by its rules.
Momentum was on Rin’s side right now. But should anything go wrong, Moag was just as likely to sell her out to Arlong. She’d done it before.
For now, Rin was willing to swallow that risk. She needed ammunition—all the fire powder, cannons, and missiles that she hadn’t been able to loot. Mobile warfare tactics worked well enough on underdefended cities from which Nezha’s troops had been hastily recalled. But she needed proper artillery to breach the dragon’s lair.
“It’s nice to see you in charge.” Moag clapped a broad hand on Rin’s shoulder. “What did I tell you? You were never meant to serve, much less beneath snakes like Vaisra. Women like us have no business putting our services for sale.”
Rin laughed. “It’s good to see you.”
She meant it. She’d always respected the Pirate Queen’s blunt, naked self-interest. Moag had risen from an escort to the ruler of Nikan’s only free city through ruthless, brilliant pragmatism, and though Rin knew very well this meant Moag was loyal to no one, she still admired her for it.
“What do you have for me?” she asked.
“See for yourself.” Moag stuck two fingers in her mouth and whistled to her crew. “Some old toys, some new ones. I think you’ll like them.”
Over the next hour, Moag’s crew and Rin’s troops together unloaded dozens of crates onto the riverbank. Moag unlocked one and kicked open the hatch, revealing coffins stacked in neat rows of four.
“Does this trick really work?” Rin asked.
“It does if you claim they’re plague victims.” Moag motioned to one of her crew. He pulled the nearest coffin out of the crate, jammed a crowbar under the lid, and pushed down until the lid popped open. A thick pile of fire powder glinted in the sunlight, fine and shiny. Rin had the absurd impulse to bathe in it.
“It’s an old smuggler’s trick,” Moag said. “Shockingly effective. Everyone’s prudent, but no one wants to die.”
“Smart,” Rin said, impressed.
“Save the coffins,” Moag suggested. “They’re good for firewood.”
For the rest of the afternoon they traded coffins crammed with swords, shields, missiles, and fire powder for the riches Rin’s troops had accumulated throughout Ram Province. All this happened outside on the riverbank. Rin didn’t want to let Moag near her camp—the less intelligence Moag gleaned about her forces the better—and Moag didn’t want to wander too far from her ships. The riverbank was a buffer that assuaged their mutual distrust.
Moag was thorough. She inspected every item in every trunk of jewelry, rubbing the larger pieces between her fingers to determine their value before nodding her permission for her soldiers to lug it back on board.
Rin watched the two lines walking in parallel, trading. There was a lovely symbolism to it. All the treasures of one bloated city, in exchange for enough cold steel and fire powder to bring down the rest.
“Now, then.” Moag stood back as the final crate was unloaded from her skimmers. “There’s the issue of payment.”
Rin balked. “What are you talking about?”
Moag showed her the figures she’d been marking in a ledger. “I’ve just unloaded twice as much weaponry as this pays for.”
“By what standards?” Rin asked. “Those prices are made up. Your whole pricing system is shot; we’re the only ones buying right now. You’d hardly be able to cut a deal in Arlong.”
“True,” Moag said. “But city magistrates are always buying. And I’m sure there are plenty of local platoons looking to improve their defenses now that they all know what’s coming their way.”
“If you try that shit,” Rin said very calmly, “I will kill you.”
There followed a long pause. Rin couldn’t read Moag’s expression. Was she afraid? Furious? Deliberating whether to strike first?
Rin’s eyes darted around the beach, mapping out the possible fallout. Her first move would be to incinerate Moag where she stood, but she had to hedge against the Black Lilies, any one of whom could take her out with a well-aimed poisonous hairpin. If she expanded her radius she could take the Lilies out, too, but they were intermingled with southern troops, almost certainly on purpose. If she killed Moag, then she’d have to suffer at least a dozen casualties.
