by R. F. Kuang
“Has that ever happened?” Rin asked.
Raban just laughed.
The third challenger turned his shaved head up to the lamplight, and Rin realized with a start that it was Tobi—the apprentice from the tour.
Good, Rin thought. I hope Altan destroys him.
Tobi introduced himself loudly, whipping up yells from his Combat classmates. Altan picked at his sleeve and again said nothing. He might have rolled his eyes, but in the dim light Rin couldn’t be sure.
“Begin,” Sonnen said.
Tobi flexed his arms and sank back into a low crouch. Rather than forming fists with his hands, he curled his knobby fingers tightly as if wrapping them around an invisible ball.
Altan tilted his head as if to say, Well, come on.
The match quickly lost its elegance. It was a knockdown, bloody-knuckled, no-holds-barred struggle. It was heavy-handed and abrupt, and full of brute, animalistic force. Nothing was off-limits. Tobi clawed furiously at Altan’s eyes. Altan ducked his head and slammed an elbow into Tobi’s chest.
Tobi staggered back, wheezing for air. Altan backhanded him across the head as if disciplining a child. Tobi tumbled to the floor, then rebounded with a complicated flipping motion and barreled forward. Altan raised his fists in anticipation, but Tobi threw himself at Altan’s waist, pushing both of them back to the ground.
Altan slammed backward onto the dirt floor. Tobi pulled his right arm back and drove his clawed fingers into Altan’s stomach. Altan’s mouth opened in the shape of a soundless scream. Tobi dug his fingers in deeper and twisted. Rin could see veins protruding from his lower arm. His face warped into an wolf’s snarl.
Altan convulsed under Tobi’s grip and coughed. Blood sprayed from his mouth.
Rin’s stomach roiled.
“Shit,” Kitay kept saying. “Shit, shit, shit.”
“That’s Tiger Claws,” said Raban. “Tobi’s signature technique. Inherited arts. Altan won’t be able to shit properly for a week.”
Sonnen leaned forward. “All right, break—”
But then Altan wrapped his free hand around Tobi’s neck and jammed Tobi’s face down into his own forehead. Once. Twice. Tobi’s grip went slack.
Altan flung Tobi off and lunged forward. Half a second later their positions were reversed; Tobi lay inert on the ground as Altan kneeled atop him, hands pressed firmly around his neck. Tobi tapped frantically at Altan’s arm.
Altan flung Tobi away from him in disdain. He glanced at Master Sonnen as if awaiting further instructions.
Sonnen shrugged. “That’s the match.”
Rin let out a breath she hadn’t known she was holding.
The Medicine apprentices jumped into the ring and hauled Tobi up. He moaned. Blood streamed from his nose.
Altan hung back, leaning against the dirt wall. He looked bored, disinterested, as if his stomach weren’t twisted into a sickening knot, as if he had never been touched at all. Blood dripped down his chin. Rin watched, partly in fascination and partly in horror, as Altan’s tongue snaked out and licked the blood from his upper lip.
Altan closed his eyes for a long time, and then tilted his head up and exhaled slowly through his mouth.
Raban grinned when he saw their expressions. “Make sense now?”
“That was—” Kitay flapped his hands. “How? How?”
“Doesn’t he feel pain?” Rin demanded. “He’s not human.”
“He’s not,” said Raban. “He’s a Speerly.”
The next day at lunch, all any of the first-years could talk about was Altan.
The entire class had fallen in love with him, to some extent, but Kitay especially was besotted with him. “The way he moves, it’s just—” Kitay waved his arms in the air, at a loss for words.
“He doesn’t talk much, does he?” Han said. “Wouldn’t even introduce himself. Prick.”
“He doesn’t need to introduce himself,” Kitay scoffed. “Everyone knows who he is.”
“Strong and mysterious,” Venka said dreamily. She and Niang giggled.
“Maybe he doesn’t know how to talk,” Nezha suggested. “You know how the Speerlies were. Wild and bloodthirsty. Hardly knew what to do with themselves unless they’d been given orders.”
“The Speerlies weren’t idiots,” Niang protested.
“They were primitive. Scarcely more intelligent than children,” Nezha insisted. “I heard that they’re more closely related to monkeys than human beings. Their brains are smaller. Did you know they didn’t even have a written language before the Red Emperor? They’re good at fighting, but not much else.”
Several of their classmates nodded as if this made sense, but Rin found it hard to believe that someone who fought with such graceful precision as Altan could possibly have the cognitive ability of a monkey.
Since arriving in Sinegard, she’d come to learn what it was like to be presumed stupid because of the shade of her skin. It rankled her. She wondered if Altan suffered the same.
“You heard wrong. Altan’s not stupid,” Raban said. “Best student in our class. Possibly in the entire Academy. Irjah says he’s never had such a brilliant apprentice.”
“I heard he’s a shoo-in for command when he graduates,” said Han.
“I heard he’s doped up,” Nezha said. He was clearly unused to not being the center of attention; he seemed determined to undermine Altan’s credibility in any way possible. “He’s on opium. You can see it in his eyes, they’re bloodshot all the time.”
“He’s got red eyes because he’s Speerly, you idiot,” Kitay said. “All the Speerlies had crimson eyes.”
“No, they didn’t,” said Niang. “Only the warriors.”
“Well, Altan’s clearly a warrior. And his eyes are red in the iris,” Kitay said. “Not the veins. He’s not an addict.”
Nezha’s lip curled. “Spend a lot of time staring at Altan’s eyes, do you?”
Kitay blushed.
“You haven’t heard the other apprentices talk,” Nezha continued smugly, like he was privy to special information that they weren’t. “Altan is an addict. I heard Irjah gives him poppy every time he wins. That’s why he fights so hard. Opium addicts will do anything.”
“That’s absurd,” said Rin. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
She knew what addiction looked like. Opium smokers were yellowed, useless sacks of flesh. They did not fight like Altan did. They did not move like Altan did. They were not perfect, lethal animals of graceful beauty.
Great Tortoise, she realized. I’m just as obsessed with him myself.
“Six months after the Non-Aggression Pact was signed, Empress Su Daji formally banned the possession and use of all psychoactive substances within Nikan’s borders, and instituted a series of harshly retributive punishments in an attempt to wipe out illegal drug use. Of course, black markets in opium continue to thrive in many provinces, provoking debates over the efficiency of such policies.” Master Yim looked up at his class. They were invariably twitching, scratching in their booklets, or staring out the window. “Am I lecturing to a graveyard?”
Kitay raised his hand. “Can we talk about Speer?”
“What?” Yim furrowed his brow. “Speer doesn’t have anything to do with what we’re . . . Ah.” He sighed. “You’ve just met Trengsin, haven’t you?”
“He was awesome,” Han said fervently to nods of agreement.
Yim looked exasperated. “Every year,” he muttered. “Every year. Fine.” He tossed his lecture notes aside. “You want to talk about Speer, we’ll talk about Speer.”
The class was now paying rapt attention. Yim rolled his eyes as he shuffled through a thick stack of maps in his desk drawer.
“Why was Speer bombed?” Kitay asked with impatience.
“First things first,” said Yim. He flipped through several sheets of parchment until he found what he was looking for: a wrinkly map of Speer and the southern Nikan border. “I don’t tolerate hasty historiography,” he said
as he tacked it up on the board. “We’ll start with appropriate political context. Speer became a Nikara colony during the Red Emperor’s reign. Who can tell me about Speer’s annexation?”
Rin thought that annexation was a light way to put it. The truth was hardly so clinical. Centuries ago the Red Emperor had taken the island by storm and forced the Speerlies into military service, turning the island warriors into the most feared contingent in the Militia until the Second Poppy War wiped them out.
Nezha raised his hand. “Speer was annexed under Mai’rinnen Tearza, the last warrior queen of Speer. The Old Nikara Empire asked her to give up her throne and pay tribute to Sinegard. Tearza agreed, mostly because she was in love with the Red Emperor or something, but she was opposed by the Speerly Council. Legend has it Tearza stabbed herself in desperation, and that final act convinced the Speerly Council of her passion for Nikan.”
The room was silent for a moment.
“That,” Kitay mumbled, “is the dumbest story I’ve ever heard.”
“Why would she kill herself?” Rin asked out loud. “Wouldn’t she have been more useful alive to argue her case?”
Nezha shrugged. “Reasons why women shouldn’t be in charge of small islands.”
This provoked a hubbub of responses. Yim silenced them with a raised hand. “It was not that simple. Legend, of course, has blurred the facts. The tale of Tearza and the Red Emperor is a love story, not a historical anecdote.”
Venka raised her hand. “I heard the Red Emperor betrayed her. He promised he wouldn’t invade Speer, but went back on his word.”
Yim shrugged. “It’s a popular theory. The Red Emperor was famed for his ruthlessness; a betrayal of that sort would not have been out of character. The truth is, we don’t know why Tearza died, or if anyone killed her. We know only that she did die, Speer’s tradition of warrior monarchs was discontinued, and the isle became annexed to the Empire until the Second Poppy War.
“Now, economically, Speer hardly pulled its weight as a colony. The island exported almost nothing of use to the Empire but soldiers. There is evidence that the Speerlies may not even have been aware of agriculture. Before the civilizing influence of the Red Emperor’s envoys, the Speerlies were a primitive people who practiced vulgar and barbaric rituals. They had very little to offer culturally or technologically—in fact, they seemed centuries behind the rest of the world. Militarily, however, the Speerlies were worth their weight in gold.”
Rin raised her hand. “Were the Speerlies really fire shamans?”
Muted snickers sounded around the classroom, and Rin immediately regretted speaking.
Yim looked amazed. “They still believe in shamans down in Tikany?”
Rin’s cheeks felt hot. She had grown up hearing stories upon stories about Speer. Everyone in Tikany was morbidly obsessed with the Empire’s frenzied warrior force and their supposed supernatural abilities. Rin knew better than to take the stories for the truth, but she’d still been curious.
But she had spoken without thinking. Of course the myths that had enthralled her in Tikany only sounded backward and provincial here in the capital.
“No—I mean, I don’t—” Rin stammered. “It’s just something I read, I was just wondering . . .”
“Don’t mind her,” Nezha said. “Tikany still thinks we lost the Poppy Wars.”
More snickers. Nezha leaned back, smug.
“But the Speerlies had some weird abilities, right?” Kitay swiftly came to Rin’s defense. “Why else would Mugen target Speer?”
“Because it’s a convenient target,” Nezha said. “Smack-dab between the Federation archipelago and Snake Province. Why not?”
“That makes no sense.” Kitay shook his head. “From what I’ve read, Speer was an island of little to no strategic value. It’s not even useful as a naval base—the Federation would be better off sailing directly over the narrow strait to Khurdalain. Mugen would only have cared about Speer if the Speerlies could do something that terrified them.”
“The Speerlies were terrifying,” Nezha said. “Primitive, drug-loving freaks. Who wouldn’t want them gone?”
Rin couldn’t believe Nezha could be so terribly crass in describing a tragic massacre, and was amazed when Yim nodded in agreement. “The Speerlies were a barbaric, war-obsessed race,” he said. “They trained their children for battle as soon as they could walk. For centuries, they subsisted by regularly raiding Nikara coastal villages, because they had no agriculture of their own. Now, the rumors of shamanism probably have more to do with their religion. Historians believe they had bizarre rituals in which they pledged themselves to their god—the Vermilion Phoenix of the South. But that was only ever a ritual. Not a martial ability.”
“The Speerly affinity for fire is well documented, though,” said Kitay. “I’ve read the war reports. There are more than a few generals, Nikara and Federation alike, who thought the Speerlies could manipulate fire at will.”
“All myths,” Yim said dismissively. “The Speerly ability to manipulate fire was a ruse used to terrify their enemies. It probably originated from their use of flaming weapons in nighttime raids. But most scholars today agree that the Speerly battle prowess is entirely a product of their social conditioning and harsh environment.”
“So why couldn’t our army copy them?” Rin asked. “If the Speerly warriors were really so powerful, why couldn’t we emulate their tactics? Why’d we have to enslave them?”
“Speer was a tributary. Not a slave colony,” Yim said impatiently. “And we could re-create their training programs, but again, their methods were barbaric. The way Jun tells it, you’re struggling with general training enough as it is. You’d hardly want to undergo the Speerly regimen.”
“What about Altan?” Kitay pressed. “He didn’t grow up on Speer, he was trained at Sinegard—”
“Have you ever seen Altan summon fire at will?”
“Of course not, but—”
“Has the very sight of him addled your minds?” Yim demanded. “Let me be perfectly clear. There are no shamans. There are no more Speerlies. Altan is human just like the rest of you. He possesses no magic, no divine ability. He fights well because he’s been training since he could walk. Altan is the last scion of a dead race. If the Speerlies prayed to their god, it clearly didn’t save them.”
Their obsession with Altan wasn’t entirely wasted in their lessons, though. After witnessing the apprentices’ matches, the first-years redoubled their efforts in Jun’s class. They wanted to become graceful, lethal fighters like Altan. But Jun remained a meticulous coach. He refused to teach them the flashy techniques they’d seen in the ring until they had thoroughly mastered their fundamentals.
“If you attempted Tobi’s Tiger Claws now, you couldn’t kill a rabbit,” he sneered. “You’d just as quickly break your own fingers. It’ll be months before you can channel the ki that sort of technique requires.”
At least he had finally bored of drilling them in formation. Their class was now handling their staves with reasonable competence—at least, the accidental injuries were minimal. Near the end of class one day, Jun lined them up in rows and ordered them to spar.
“Responsibly,” he emphasized. “Half speed if you must. I have no patience for idiotic injuries. Drill on the strikes and parries that you’ve practiced in the form.”
Rin found herself standing across from Nezha. Of course she was. He shot her a nasty smile.
She wondered, briefly, how they could possibly finish the match without harming each other.
“On my count,” said Jun. “One, two—”
Nezha launched himself forward.
The force behind his blow stunned her. She barely got her staff up over her head in time to block a swing that would have knocked her out cold—the impact sent tremors through her arms.
But Nezha continued to advance, ignoring Jun’s instructions completely. He swung his staff with savage abandon, but also with startlingly good aim. Rin wielded her weapon clum
sily; the staff was still awkward in her arms, nothing like the spinning blur in Nezha’s hands. She could barely keep her grip on it; twice it almost spun out of her grasp. Nezha landed far more hits than she blocked. The first two—elbow strike, upper thigh strike—hurt. Then Nezha landed so many that she couldn’t feel them anymore.
She had been wrong about him. He had been showing off earlier, but his command of martial arts was prodigious and real. Last time they’d fought, he’d gotten cocky. Her lucky blow had been a fluke.
He was not being cocky now.
His staff connected with her kneecap with a sickening crunch. Rin’s eyes bulged. She crumpled to the ground.
Nezha wasn’t even bothering with his staff anymore. He kicked at her while she was still down, each blow more vicious than the last.
“That’s the difference between you and me,” muttered Nezha. “I’ve trained for this my entire life. You don’t get to just stroll in here and embarrass me. You understand? You’re nothing.”
He’s going to kill me. He’s actually going to kill me.
Enough with the staff. She couldn’t defend herself with a weapon she didn’t know how to use. She dropped the staff and lunged upward to tackle Nezha around the waist. Nezha dropped his staff and tripped over backward. She landed on top of him. He swung at her face; she forced a palm into his nose. They pummeled furiously at each other, a chaotic tangle of limbs.
Then something yanked hard at her collar, cutting off her airflow. Jun pried them apart in an impressive display of strength, held them suspended in the air for a minute, then flung them both to the ground.
“What part of block and parry was unclear?” he growled.
“She started it,” Nezha said quickly. He rolled to a sitting position and pointed at Rin. “She dropped her—”
“I know what I saw,” Jun snapped. “And I saw you rolling around the floor like imbeciles. If I enjoyed training animals, I would be in the Cike. Shall I put in a word?”
Nezha cast his eyes down. “No, sir.”
“Put your weapon away and leave my class. You’re suspended for a week.”