It was true enough, the trading port and capital of the Hangyul clan would have been little more than a sleepy provincial town in the Syriot empire, aside from the great quantity of inhabitants. There was a massive technological difference between the two sides.
Vermilies shrugged. “The capital of the Kintari territory does a brisk trade as well. They’re known for their many kilns and the quality of their lacquerware. They have a small professional force as well, outfitted in lamellar armor and firearms.”
“Matchlocks,” the man said dismissively. “Like my grandfather used. No comparison to the wheellocks we have.”
Vermilies raised his eyebrows. “So you did pay attention.”
The soldier shrugged. “I heard the important part. They have a few ancient guns and cannons. I hear they don’t have the same quality of steel either,” the soldier remarked, his hand fiddling for something within the folds of his tunic. Finally he produced a dagger and stuck it into the table. He grinned to see it jutting up from the wooden table as if proud to own such a weapon. The tavern keeper glanced over worriedly again. She had been polishing the same mug for some time now, her movements mechanical and edged with tension.
“Their levees tend to use bamboo spears and wear little if any armor.”
“Bamboo!” the man chuckled. “Half-naked savages with sticks. This should be easy.”
Vermilies shrugged. He felt somehow defensive and cast his mind for something to scare the man. The Syriots must have said the same about us. They were right, of course, but damn them all the same.
“The nobility is also known to have a few elephants. They’re mostly for ceremony but princes and kings often ride into battle atop them. You’ve heard of elephants, right? Can you imagine fighting a beast like that?”
“Elephants? They don’t exist. What, they have dragons and sea monsters too?”
Vermilies shrugged. He hadn’t seen elephants before either, but he knew for a fact they existed. Some pygmy elephants lived on the more isolated islands of the Jade Sea archipelago, and his father had spoken of them before. He was not a man to lie idly.
“You’ll see,” Vermilies finished lamely. Why am I feeling so angry about this? He took another sip of his rice wine. “Well, they probably think the same of our horses.”
The man eyed him, suddenly tense. “The Captain said not to mention the horses.”
“Did he?”
The soldier put a finger to his lips and grinned. He drank thirstily from his cup, setting it down on the table with a solid clap.
“What do you think?” The soldier winked at Vermilies, casting a glance over at the tavern keeper. “You and me both. She’s no looker but she’ll do, don’t you think?”
Vermilies blinked. He waited a few moments, feeling an anger rise inside of him. “You’ll have to pay,” he said, his voice sounding calm as ever.
The soldier reached into his pockets, pulling out a collection of coins and staring at them for a moment, as if doing some complicated mental arithmetic.
“You know the language, don’t you? Go ask her.”
“No.”
The soldier simply looked puzzled. Behind him the tavern door swung open and Captain Salassi stepped in, sweating in his ridiculous woolen hat. At least he had finally removed his jacket as a concession to the climate. He stared into the dim interior, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. Other than Vermilies and the young soldier, three Syriots were idly dicing away their pay. They paused to look up at the captain.
“We’re moving out in twenty minutes,” Captain Salassi said. He noticed Vermilies in the gloom. “You’ll be coming with us, translator.”
“Am I?”
Vermilies swished his rice wine around. He still had a deal left and had expected some more time off.
“I haven’t heard anything from the general.”
“You’re hearing it now. I requested your assistance.”
“Well, it does feel good to be valued,” Vermilies said, swishing his cup around. “You know-” he paused as he looked up and saw the captain had left already.
Behind him wooden stools rattled as the dice players stood up.
“Hey, you think you could talk to her for me? There’d be a coin in it for you,” the young soldier wheedled once again.
“No,” Vermilies repeated.
“But you’re a translator,” the soldier insisted. He glanced at the woman again. “There’s enough time before we leave. I won’t take long.”
“Not sure that’s something to be proud of.” Vermilies took another drink. “You’re a soldier, but am I asking you to fight for me?”
The man blinked at him. Vermilies sighed.
“I’m not working right now. I have plenty of wine left.” Vermilies pushed the jug over. “Join me in finishing this, will you?”
The soldier looked at it skeptically and took a drink. He choked and coughed.
“It’s a strange vintage. And it looks like water.”
Vermilies shrugged. “Well, you wanted adventure. If you wanted your wines red, you could have stayed at home. They make wine from rice here.”
The soldier grunted and took another swallow. Time passed slowly in the dim interior of the tavern, a small amount of light making its way through the shuttered windows. I suppose I’m off to war again. He gazed into his cup. But why? It had seemed so simple at the time. Learn the language of the occupiers. Attend the prestigious new academy. Make the best of the new situation. Somehow I never really expected to be part of an invasion. He scoffed at himself. At least the Syriot knows why he’s here. Perhaps I’m the fool.
Vermilies looked at the tavern keeper once more. His mother must have been around the same age when the Syriots had arrived, he supposed. He had been just a boy then and growing up under Syriot occupation had always seemed natural. Vermilies stood, arranging his stool back into position. Across from him the soldier finished his drink in one long swallow and stood as well.
“Take care,” Vermilies said to the tavern keeper in the local dialect.
He left a coin on the table, part of the meager salary he had received for joining the expedition. One of the most valuable members of the entire invasion force and making just a quarter of the wage the Syriot idiot beside him was earning.
“Thank you for your hospitality.”
If the woman was surprised by hearing her native tongue spoken by a foreigner, she hid it well.
“It was nothing. Until next time.”
Chapter Twenty
Crossroads
The flowers smelled sweet and fresh as the mix of refugees and soldiers arrived in Napthalong, and Banisu leaned out his palanquin window to take a deep breath. They were almost enough to blot out the stink of fear, sweat, and despair that traveled along with him. Almost enough to make him forget the stench of death, as they passed refugees felled along the wayside, and the smell of the fire and smoke not so very far behind them.
Almost, but not quite.
Napthalong lay at a crossroads, and that perhaps explained why the palanquin slowed as it entered the town. A stray dog barked and tried to weave its way down the column of carts and haggard men, but was shooed away by a few tired spearmen. Banisu watched as the dog ran off panting down the northern road.
To the north of Napthalong lay the safety of the mountains and the secluded monasteries that abutted them. To the east lay sloping hills, bisected by the Irragonda River, and then the territory of the Kintari family where they currently fled for safety. Banisu did not know what the plan was once they forded the river. The emperor was not told anything.
From within his small window Banisu caught a glimpse of a family as the palanquin passed by. A woman, three children standing before her, faces blank as they watched the tired column of Hangyul soldiers retreating eastward. Banisu found himself wondering why they just stood there and stared.
Are they waiting for someone?
Half-deserted as Napthalong was, they were far from the only frightened onlookers
. The town had already descended into chaos and none of the townsfolk had even seen their first Syriot yet. Banisu knew a few of the soldiers had, the men dusty and sweat-stained but still bearing weapons, joining with Lord Marshal Feruke Hangyul’s army as they pulled back to safety. They had talked of beasts and balloons, of coordinated volleys of thunder, of units cut to rags in minutes.
Banisu knew in the past they might have been hanged as deserters but the Lord Marshal had instead welcomed them in, taking in any soldier still carrying a weapon, no matter how glum or dejected they might be. The palanquin was slowing to a crawl now, reaching traffic for the first time as soldiers with halberds pushed away frantic townsfolk. Through the dust and shouts Banisu made out Abbot Cibu, striding down the column, frowning as he went. His gaze shifted over to Banisu as he approached.
“We’re at a crossroads,” Abbot Cibu said. “The army will continue east. You will go north to the monastery. You will be safe there, though I’ve heard from runners that most of the tutors and novitiates have either left for their villages or for this ‘Righteous Army’ forming in the mountains.” He sniffed. “So I suppose it’s a vacation, isn’t it? Oh, I’ll expect you to attend to your studies but you will have time enough to play.”
Banisu hesitated. Time to himself, away from the constant drudgery of lectures and the rote memorization of ancient history? He’d dreamed of it for years as a boy.
“Can Lin come with me? I’d like to learn to use the bow.”
“Hmm? Oh, he’s sixteen now, isn’t he? He’s a man then, or near enough, and the Three Kingdoms needs all the brave men we can get. No, he won’t be able to play with you.”
“Archery isn't playing,” Banisu started to say, but Abbot Cibu was already pointing down the northern road, the palanquin bearers watching in silence. “Take him along the road until he reaches the monastery. Should there be any troub-”
“No,” Banisu said.
Abbot Cibu paused, looking at Banisu, more surprised than irritated. “No?” He said the word as if it was a concept with which he was unfamiliar.
“No,” Banisu repeated. “I’m staying with the army. It’s the army of the Three Clans, right? And they’ll need their emperor.”
A gust of wind blew in the sudden silence, Abbot Cibu’s bushy white eyebrows rippling in the breeze as he stared down at the boy emperor. A stray rag blew across the ground between them as the silence lengthened.
He might have insisted on the issue. He might have won, even, though Banisu felt more certain of his decision than any other he had made in his short life. Banisu might have had the title of emperor, but who would disobey Abbot Cibu?
The palanquin bearers and guards looked caught in the middle, grimacing, eyes downcast. There was no telling just who they’d listen to.
But then a laugh broke the silence as Lord Marshal Hangyul Feruke strode close, walking down the halted column.
“Good boy! I was just about to broach the issue. No, my dear abbot, we will in fact need the emperor with the army. My men will fight better knowing the Imperial standard flies beside my own clan’s banners.”
Abbot Cibu appeared to bite something back. Then he nodded, grimacing, and approached the palanquin. Banisu half-shrank back as if expecting a blow.
“You’re a good boy,” Abbot Cibu said in a soft voice.
“Not a boy,” Banisu muttered. The proper honorifics seemed to have fallen away along with a good portion of the army as the disorder continued all along the march. With every town they passed discipline slipped a fraction further, along with a growing number of deserters. Banisu considered insisting on his title but just couldn’t manage it with his old tutor.
Abbot Cibu grunted. For a moment Banisu saw, or thought he saw, a glimpse of genuine affection. But it was quickly masked. And Banisu was left wondering if he had merely wanted to see it.
“Don’t worry, Banisu, we’ll keep you nice and safe in the rear,” the Lord Marshal said, as Abbot Cibu strode down the dusty road ahead of them.
“It’s Emperor Banisu,” he mumbled, but the Lord Marshal didn’t take any notice.
“Back in the baggage train. Safest place in the Three Clans, actually, with my chosen men all around to watch over you.”
“Baggage train? Emperor Matanori led from the front during the Battle of-”
The Lord Marshal chuckled as he moved on. From within the palanquin Banisu could hear the man’s bellowing gradually diminish. Banisu twisted around to the other side and opened the curtains. The marketplace lay to the south. Or at least it had in the past.
A squad of discontented Hangyul swordsmen were muttering to each other, sitting on the ground as they took a break, one of them spitting on the dusty ground. Behind them stretched dozens of densely-packed wooden homes, with a large gap in the middle showing where the market had been.
A few stalls remained but it was still all but abandoned. Banisu leaned out, trying to make out the stooped figure rejoining the convoy, a taller man carrying an urn and shooing two stray dogs away.
“Uncle!” Banisu shouted. “Uncle Prasert!”
Banisu’s uncle looked up just as the column began moving once more, a few steps forward and then a jerky halt, as some refugees left the column for the northern road and Hangyul soldiers tried to clear the streets.
Lord Prasert’s eyes sparkled with recognition and he turned to hobble closer, passing through the muttering swordsmen who made no move to clear the way.
“Emperor Banisu! How are you holding up?”
Banisu could have asked the same question. He had seen his uncle off and on during the retreat but it was mostly from the window of his palanquin.
“Climb on in and we’ll talk a while, Uncle.”
Lord Prasert nodded, taking a tentative step close and reaching for the palanquin as it came to a halt. “You can walk along,” he said to his waiting attendant. “Keep the urn. I shall use the window.”
The closest palanquin bearer blanched but Banisu’s uncle took no notice. Instead he clambered in, slid the window shut, then turned and winked conspiratorially as he produced a canvas sack from within his robes.
“I did some shopping at the market just now.”
“I don’t want any sweets, Uncle. I’m not a little boy,” Banisu snapped petulantly.
And besides, I still have some lychees in my pocket.
“Hah! No sweets here, Emperor. A packet of red kava, all I could scrounge up from the traders still left in town. Precious few, though. All those with any sense have fled by now with whatever they could carry.”
Banisu looked at the satchel in some curiosity as Prasert pulled the string away. The red powder looked innocuous enough.
But I have seen black powder, coarse chalky material hauled and sifted from the mines of Golgandaru, and great kingdoms have risen and fallen from a lack of it.
“Should we test it out?” Banisu asked, unsure of exactly what he would see.
“No, I think not. With the Syriots so close behind I believe I shall save this until battle is joined.”
Banisu nodded. He had made room for his uncle and now opened the other window, heedless of the dust kicked up by thousands of tramping feet. A few forlorn faces glanced up at him. Several archers were walking along and something about one of the young men caught Banisu’s attention. He watched for a while as the archer marched along, massive unstrung bow resting on his back, and turned to make a comment to another man.
“Lin!” Banisu called out, and the dust-covered archer paused and turned to look at him, eyes reddened. He unstrapped his face armor, letting it hang loose by one cord, the relatively clean face contrasting with the grime all around him. But it was Lin Karatsu all the same and he smiled to see his friend the Emperor.
“Please tell me you’re not inviting him in,” Prasert muttered beside him.
“Emperor Banisu,” Lin said, and managed a half-bow.
Banisu grinned. It was a boyish grin, and a moment later he smoothed it into what he figured
to be a regal, expressionless face like he had seen on the statues of his ancestors. Lin approached, wiping dust and sweat off his forehead.
One of the palanquin bearers gave a tentative rap on the wooden door. “Your Emperor, begging your pardon, but three-”
“Join me,” Banisu insisted. “I would have your advice.”
Lin turned, saying a few words to the archers around him, slapping one on the back as he came close. Banisu opened the door and Lin slid in, heaving out a sigh. For a moment Banisu peeked past at the archers. Then he slid the window shut and with a great heave of effort the palanquin bearers started up again.
“Who are they?” Banisu asked. “Hangyul soldiers?”
“Oh, they’re not part of the army. Young nobles of minor families and such; they’ve just been drifting along with the current like us. They’re willing to do their part as loyal men of the Three Clans. You know, I’ve been thinking, we’re all good with the bow and perhaps we could be grouped together. For the coming fight, I mean.”
“Oh, the Lord Marshal would never allow it.”
Lin frowned. “But… you’re… the emperor. I mean.” He blinked at Banisu. “Don’t you want to be a real emperor?”
Banisu blinked, taken aback, as beside him Prasert snapped at Lin. “Of course he’s a real emperor, young man! Show him the proper respect!”
“I didn’t mean-”
“My brother, the former emperor, would never have tolerated this lack of-”
“No, no. Stop.” Banisu held his hand up and the two fell silent. He felt cramped now, and heard a strange singing over the uncomfortable silence. Banisu leaned past Prasert and slid the window open, ignoring the palanquin bearer’s muffled oath, and saw a capering man in Hangyul armor dancing several paces away.
He was weaponless, the smell of rice wine powerful even from here, and the man collapsed into the ditch beside the road. The soldiers trudged onward with barely a glance. Banisu frowned. It wasn’t so long ago that the clan leaders would have cut the man’s head off for that, but now the soldiers simply marched on listlessly, their drunken comrade forgotten in the ditch.
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