by R. F. Kuang
Nezha held his hands up. “Jinzha’s orders. Nothing we can do.”
Rin suspected Captain Salkhi had also requested a transfer on grounds of disobedience. Salkhi had been deeply frustrated that the Cike had stormed the mission without her command, and Baji hadn’t helped things by pointing out that they wouldn’t have needed the rest of her troops regardless. Rin’s suspicion was confirmed when Jinzha took twenty minutes informing her and the Cike that they would follow his orders to the letter or find themselves tossed into the Murui.
“I don’t care that my father thinks the sun shines out of your ass,” he said. “You’ll act like soldiers or you’ll be punished as deserters.”
“Asshole,” Rin muttered as they left his office.
“He’s absolutely awful,” Kitay agreed. “It’s a rare person who makes Nezha look like the pleasant sibling.”
“I’m not saying I want him to drown in the Murui,” Ramsa said, “but I want him to drown in the Murui.”
With the fleet united, the Republic’s northern expedition began in earnest. Jinzha set a direct course that cut straight through Hare Province, which was agriculturally rich and comparatively weak. They would pick off the low-hanging fruit and solidify their supply base before taking on the full force of the Militia.
Hesperians aside, Rin found that traveling on the Kingfisher was a marked improvement from the Swallow. At least a hundred yards long from bow to stern, the Kingfisher was the only turtle boat in the fleet, with a closed top deck wrapped over by wood paneling and steel plates that made it nearly immune to cannon fire. The Kingfisher functioned as more or less a floating piece of armor, and for good reason—it carried Jinzha, Admiral Molkoi, almost all of the fleet’s senior strategists, and most of the Hesperian delegation.
Flanking the Kingfisher were a trio of sister galleys known as the Seahawks—warships with floating boards attached to the port and starboard sides shaped like a bird’s wings. Two were affectionately named the Lapwing and the Waxwing. The Griffon, commanded by Nezha, sailed directly behind the Kingfisher.
The other two galleys guarded the pride and battering ram of the fleet—two massive tower ships that someone with a bad sense of humor had named the Shrike and the Crake. They were monstrously large and top-heavy, outfitted with two mounted trebuchets and four rows of crossbows each.
The fleet proceeded up the Murui in a phalanx formation, lined up to adjust to the narrowing breadth of the river. The smaller skimmers alternately ducked in between the warships or followed them in a straightforward line, like a trail of ducklings following their mother.
It was such a beauty of riverine warfare, Rin thought, that the troops never had to weary themselves with marching. They just had to wait to be ferried to the Empire’s most important cities, which were all close to the water. Cities needed water to survive, just like bodies needed blood. So if they wanted to seize the Empire, they needed only to sail through its arteries.
At dawn the fleet reached the border of Radan township. Radan was one of Hare Province’s larger economic centers, targeted by Jinzha because of its strategic location at the junction of two waterways, its possession of several well-stocked granaries, and the simple fact that it barely had a military.
Jinzha ordered an immediate invasion without negotiation.
“Is he afraid they’ll refuse?” Rin asked Kitay.
“More likely he’s afraid they’ll surrender,” Kitay said. “Jinzha needs this expedition to be based on fear.”
“What, the tower ships aren’t scary enough?”
“That’s a bluff. This isn’t about Radan, it’s about the next battle. Radan needs to be used as an example.”
“Of what?”
“What happens when you resist,” Kitay said grimly. “I’d go get your trident. We’re about to start.”
The Kingfisher was fast approaching Radan’s river gates. Rin lifted her spyglass to get a closer look at the township’s hastily assembled fleet. It was a laughably pathetic amalgamation of outdated vessels, mostly single-mast creations with sails made of oiled silk. Radan’s ships were merchant vessels and fishing boats with no firing capacity. They had clearly never been used for warfare.
The Cike alone could have taken the city, Rin thought. They were certainly eager for it. Suni and Baji had been pacing the deck for hours, impatient to finally see action. The two of them could have likely broken the outer defenses by themselves. But Jinzha had wanted to commit his full resources to breaking Radan. That wasn’t strategy, it was showmanship.
Jinzha strode onto the deck, took one look at the Radan defense fleet, and yawned into his hand. “Admiral Molkoi.”
The admiral dipped his head. “Yes, sir?”
“Blow those things out of the water.”
The ensuing battle was so one-sided that it seemed impossible. It wasn’t a fight, it was a comic tragedy.
Radan’s men had rubbed their sails down with oil. It was standard practice for merchants, who wanted to keep their sails waterproof and immune to rot. It was not so clever against pyrotechnics.
The Seahawks fired a series of double-headed dragon missiles that exploded midair into a swarm of smaller explosives, which spread a penumbral shower of fire across the Radan fleet. The sails caught fire immediately. Entire sheets of blistering flame engulfed the pathetic armada, roaring so loudly that for an instant it was all anyone could hear.
Rin found it oddly pleasing to watch, the same way it was fun to kick down sandcastles just because she could.
“Tiger’s tits,” Ramsa said, perched on the prow while flickering flames reflected in his eyes. “It’s like they weren’t even trying.”
Hundreds of men leaped overboard to escape the searing heat.
“Have the archers pick off anyone who gets out of the river,” said Jinzha. “Let the rest burn.”
The skirmish took less than an hour from start to finish. The Kingfisher sailed triumphantly through the blackened remains of Radan’s fleet to anchor right at the town border. Ramsa marveled at how thoroughly the cannons had demolished the river gates, Baji complained that he hadn’t gotten to do anything, and Rin tried not to look into the water.
Radan’s fleet was destroyed and its gates in shambles. The remaining population of the township laid down their weapons and surrendered with little trouble. Jinzha’s men poured into the city and evacuated all civilians from their residences to clear the way for plundering.
Women and children lined up in the streets, heads down, quivering with fear as the soldiers marched them out the gates and along the beach. There they huddled in terrified bundles, glassy eyes staring at the remains of Radan’s fleet.
The Republican soldiers were careful not to harm the civilians. Jinzha had been very adamant that the civilians were not to be mistreated. “They are not prisoners, and they are not victims,” he’d said. “Let’s call them potential members of the Republic.”
For potential citizens of the Republic, they looked well and truly terrified of their new government.
They had good reason to fear. Their sons and husbands had been lined up in rows along the shore, held at sword point. They were told their fates hadn’t yet been decided, that the Republican leadership was debating overnight on whether or not to kill them.
Jinzha intended to let the civilians pass the night unsure of whether they would live until the sun rose.
In the morning, he would announce to the crowd that he had received orders from Arlong. The Dragon Warlord had meditated on their fates. He recognized that it was no fault of their own that they were misled into resistance by their corrupt leaders, seduced by an Empress who no longer served them. He realized this decision was not made by these honest, common people. He would be merciful.
He would put the decision in the hands of the people.
He would have them vote.
“What do you think they’re doing?” Kitay asked.
“They’re proselytizing,” Rin said. “Spreading the good word of the Make
r.”
“Doesn’t seem like fantastic timing.”
“I suppose they have to take a captive audience when they can get it.”
They sat cross-legged on the shore in the Kingfisher’s shadow, watching as the Gray Company’s missionaries made their way through the clumps of huddled civilians. They were too far away for Rin to hear what they were saying, but every now and then she saw a missionary kneel down next to several miserable civilians, put his hands on their shoulders even as they flinched away, and speak what was unmistakably a prayer.
“I hope they’re talking in Nikara,” said Kitay. “Otherwise they’ll sound ominous as hell.”
“I don’t think it matters if they are.” Rin found it hard not to feel a sense of guilty pleasure watching the crowds shrinking from the missionaries, despite the Hesperians’ best efforts.
Kitay passed her a stick of dried fish. “Hungry?”
“Thanks.” She took the fish, worked her teeth around the tail, and jerked off a bite.
There was an art to eating the salted mayau fish that made up the majority of their rations. She had to chew it up just so to make it soft enough that she could extract the meat from around the bones and spit out the spindly things. Too little chewing and the bones lacerated her throat; too much and the fish lost all flavor.
Salted mayau was a clever army food. It took so long to eat that by the time Rin was finished, no matter how little she’d actually consumed, she felt full on salt and saliva.
“Have you seen their penises?” Kitay asked.
Rin nearly spat out her fish. “What?”
He gestured with his hands. “Hesperian men are supposed to be much, ah, bigger than Nikara men. Salkhi said so.”
“How would Salkhi know?”
“How do you think?” Kitay waggled his eyebrows. “Admit it, you’ve thought about it.”
She shuddered. “Not if you paid me.”
“Have you seen General Tarcquet? He’s massive. I bet he—”
“Don’t be disgusting,” she snapped. “They’re horrible. And they smell awful. They’re . . . I don’t know, it’s like something curdled.”
“It’s because they drink cow’s milk, I think. All that dairy is screwing with their systems.”
“I just thought they weren’t showering.”
“You’re one to talk. Have you gotten a whiff of yourself recently?”
“Hold on.” Rin pointed across the river. “Look over there.”
Some of the civilian women had started screaming at a missionary. The missionary stepped hastily away, hands out in a nonthreatening position, but the women didn’t stop shrieking until he’d retreated all the way down the beach.
Kitay gave a low whistle. “That’s going well.”
“I wonder what they’re saying to them,” Rin said.
“‘Our Maker is great and powerful,’” he said pompously. “‘Pray with us and you shall never go hungry again.’”
“‘All wars will be stopped.’”
“‘All enemies will fall down dead, smitten by the Maker’s great hand.’”
“‘Peace will cover the realm and the demon gods will be banished to hell.’” Rin hugged her knees to her chest as she watched the missionary stand on the beach, seeking out another cluster of civilians to terrify. “You’d think they’d just leave us well enough alone.”
Hesperian religion wasn’t new to the Empire. At the height of his reign, the Red Emperor had frequently received emissaries from the churches of the west. Scholars of the church took up residence in his court at Sinegard and entertained the Emperor with their astronomical predictions, star charts, and nifty inventions. Then the Red Emperor died, the coddled scholars were persecuted by jealous court officials, and the missionaries were expelled from the continent for centuries.
The Hesperians had made intermittent efforts to come back, of course. They’d almost succeeded during the first invasion. But now the common Nikara people remembered only the lies the Trifecta had spread about them after the Second Poppy War. They killed and ate infants. They lured young women to their convents to serve as sex slaves. They’d more or less become monsters in folklore. If the Gray Company hoped to win converts, they had their work cut out for them.
“They’ve got to try regardless,” Kitay said. “I read it in their holy texts once. Their scholars argue that as the Divine Architect’s blessed and chosen people, their obligation is to preach to every infidel they encounter.”
“‘Chosen’? What does that mean?”
“I don’t know.” Kitay nodded past Rin’s shoulder. “Why don’t you ask her?”
Rin twisted around.
Sister Petra was striding briskly down the shore toward them.
Rin swallowed her last bite of fish too quickly. It crawled painfully down her throat, each swallow a painful scratch of unsoftened bone.
Sister Petra met Rin’s eyes and beckoned with a finger. Come. That was an order.
Kitay patted her shoulder as he stood up. “Have fun.”
Rin reached for his sleeve. “Don’t you dare leave me—”
“I’m not getting in the middle of this,” he said. “I’ve seen what those arquebuses can do.”
“Congratulations,” Petra said as they returned to the Kingfisher. “I’m told this was a great victory.”
“‘Great’ is a word for it,” Rin said.
“And the fire did not come to you in battle? Chaos did not rear its head?”
Rin stopped walking. “Would you rather I had burned those people alive?”
“Sister Petra?” A missionary ran up from behind them. He looked startlingly young. He couldn’t have been a day over sixteen. His face was open and babyish, and his wide blue eyes were lashed like a girl’s.
“How do you say ‘I’m from across the great sea’?” he asked. “I forgot.”
“Like so.” Petra pronounced the Nikara phrase with flawless accuracy.
“I’m from across the great sea.” The boy looked delighted as he repeated the words. “Did I get it right? The tones?”
Rin realized with a start that he was looking at her.
“Sure,” she said. “That was fine.”
The boy beamed at her. “I love your language. It’s so beautiful.”
Rin blinked at him. What was wrong with him? Why did he look so happy?
“Brother Augus.” Petra’s voice was suddenly sharp. “What’s in your pocket?”
Rin looked and saw a handful of wotou, the steamed cornmeal buns that along with mayau fish comprised most of the soldiers’ meals, peeking out the side of Augus’s pocket.
“Just my rations,” he said quickly.
“And were you going to eat them?” Petra asked.
“Sure, I’m just taking a walk—”
“Augus.”
His face fell. “They said they were hungry.”
“You’re not allowed to feed them,” Rin said flatly. Jinzha had made that order adamantly clear. The civilians were to go hungry for the night. When the Republic fed them in the morning, their terror would be transformed into goodwill.
“That’s cruel,” Augus said.
“That’s war,” Rin said. “And if you can’t follow basic orders, then—”
Petra swiftly intervened. “Remember your training, Augus. We do not contradict our hosts. We are here to spread the good word. Not to undermine the Nikara.”
“But they’re starving,” Augus said. “I wanted to comfort them—”
“Then comfort them with the Maker’s teachings.” Petra placed a hand on Augus’s cheek. “Go.”
Rin watched Augus dart back down the beach. “He shouldn’t be on this campaign. He’s too young.”
Petra turned and gestured for Rin to follow her onto the Kingfisher. “Not so much younger than your soldiers.”
“Our soldiers are trained.”
“And so are our missionaries.” Petra led Rin down to her quarters on the second deck. “The brothers and sisters of the Gray
Company have dedicated their lives to spreading the word of the Divine Architect across Chaos-ridden lands. All of us have been trained at the company academies since we were very young.”
“I’m sure it’s easy to find barbarians to civilize.”
“There are indeed many on this hemisphere that have not found their way to the Maker.” Petra seemed to have missed Rin’s sarcasm entirely. She motioned for Rin to sit down on the bed. “Would you like laudanum again?”
“Are you going to touch me again?”
“Yes.”
At this rate Rin was going to run the risk of backsliding into her opium addiction. But this choice was between the demon she knew and the foreigner she didn’t. She took the proffered cup.
“Your continent has been closed off to us for a long time,” Petra said as Rin drank. “Some of our superiors argued that we should stop learning your languages. But I’ve always known we would come back. The Maker demands it.”
Rin closed her eyes as the familiar numbing sensation of laudanum seeped through her bloodstream. “So, what, your missionaries are walking up and down that beach giving everyone long spiels about clocks?”
“One need not comprehend the true form of the Divine Architect to act according to his will. We know that barbarians must crawl before they walk. Heuristics will do for the unenlightened.”
“You mean easy moral rules for people who are too dumb to understand why they matter.”
“If you must be vulgar about it. I am confident that in time, at least some of the Nikara will gain true enlightenment. In a few generations, some of you may even be fit to join the Gray Company. But heuristics must first be developed for the lesser peoples—”
“Lesser peoples,” Rin echoed. “What are lesser peoples?”
“You, of course,” Petra said, utterly straight-faced, as if this were a simple matter of fact. “It’s no fault of your own. The Nikara haven’t evolved to our level yet. This is simple science; the proof is in your physiognomy. Look.”
She pulled a stack of books onto the table and flipped them open for Rin to see.
Drawings of Nikara people covered every page. They were heavily annotated. Rin couldn’t decipher the scrawling, flat Hesperian script, but several phrases popped out.