The Dragon Republic. R.F. Kuang
from within by some unearthly afternoon glow. Everything was somehow golden; it was like the rest of the Empire had dulled to shades of black, white, and bloody red during the war, and Lusan had soaked up all the surrounding color, shining brighter than anything she had seen in months.
Close to the city walls Rin saw a woman walking down the riverbank with buckets of dye and heavy rolls of cloth strapped to her back. Rin knew the cloth was silk from the way it glimmered when it was unrolled, so soft that she could almost imagine the butterfly-wing texture on the backs of her fingers.
How could Lusan have silk? The rest of the country was garbed in unwashed, threadbare scraps. All along the Murui, Rin had seen naked children and babies wrapped in lily pads in some effort to preserve their dignity.
Farther downriver, fishing sampans glided up and down the winding waterways. Each boat carried several large birds—white creatures with massive beaks—hooked to the boats on strings.
Nezha had to explain to Rin what the birds were for. “They’ve got a string around their necks, see? The bird swallows the fish; the farmer pulls the fish out of the bird’s neck. The bird goes in again, always hungry, always too dumb to realize that everything it catches goes into the fish basket and that all it’ll ever get are slops.”
Rin made a face. “That seems inefficient. Why not just use a net?”
“It is inefficient,” Nezha agreed. “But they’re not fishing for staples, they’re hunting for delicacies. Sweetfish.”
“Why?”
He shrugged.
Rin already knew the answer. Why not hunt for delicacies? Lusan was clearly untouched by the refugee crisis that had swept the rest of the country; it could afford to focus on luxury.
Perhaps it was the heat, or perhaps because Rin’s nerves were already always on edge, but she felt angrier and angrier as they made for port. She hated this city, this land of pale and pampered women, men who were not soldiers but bureaucrats, and children who didn’t know what fear felt like.
She simmered not with resentment so much as with a nameless fury at the idea that outside the confines of warfare, life could go on and did go on, that somehow, still, in pockets scattered throughout the Empire there were cities and cities of people who were dyeing silk and fishing for gourmet dinners, unaffected by the single issue that plagued a soldier’s mind: when and where the next attack would come.
“I thought I wasn’t a prisoner,” said Kitay.
“You’re not,” said Nezha. “You’re a guest.”
“A guest who isn’t allowed off the ship?”
“A guest whom we’d like to keep with us a little longer,” Nezha said delicately. “Can you stop glaring at me like that?”
When the captain announced that they had anchored in Lusan, Kitay had ventured abovedeck for the first time in weeks. Rin had hoped he’d come up for some fresh air, but he was just following Nezha around the deck, intent on antagonizing him in any way possible.
Rin had tried several times to intercede. Kitay, however, seemed determined to pretend she didn’t exist by ignoring her every time she spoke, so she turned her attention to the sights on the riverbank instead.
A mild crowd had gathered around the base of the Seagrim, made up mostly of Imperial officials, Lusani merchants, and messengers from other Warlords. Rin surmised from what snatches of conversation she could hear from the top deck that they were all trying to get an audience with Vaisra. But Eriden and his men were stationed at the bottom of the gangplank, turning everyone away.
Vaisra had also issued strict orders that no one was to leave the ship. The soldiers and crewmen were to continue living on board as if they were still out on open water, and only a handful of Eriden’s men had been permitted to enter Lusan to purchase fresh supplies. This, Nezha had explained, was to minimize the risk that someone might give away Rin’s cover. Meanwhile, she was only allowed on deck if she wore a scarf to cover her face.
“You know you can’t keep me here indefinitely,” Kitay said loudly. “Someone’s going to find out.”
“Like who?” Nezha asked. “My father.”
“You think your father’s in Lusan?”
“He’s in the Empress’s guard. He commands her security detail. There’s no way she would have left him behind.”
“She left everyone else behind,” Nezha said.
Kitay crossed his arms. “Not my father.”
Nezha caught Rin’s eye. For the briefest moment he looked guilty, like he wanted to say something that he couldn’t, but she couldn’t imagine what.
“That’s the commerce minister,” Kitay said suddenly. “He’ll know.”
“What?”
Before either Nezha or Rin could register what he meant, Kitay broke into a run at the gangplank.
Nezha shouted for the closest soldiers to restrain him. They were too slow—Kitay dodged their arms, climbed onto the side of the ship, grabbed a rope, and lowered himself to the riverbank so quickly that he must have burned his hands raw.
Rin ran for the gangplank to intercept him, but Nezha held her back with one arm. “Don’t.”
“But he—”
Nezha just shook his head. “Let him.”
They watched from a distance, silent, as Kitay ran up to the commerce minister and seized his arm, then doubled over, panting.
Rin could see them clearly from the deck. The minister recoiled for a moment, hands lifted as if to ward off this unfamiliar soldier, until he recognized Defense Minister Chen’s son and his arms dropped.
Rin couldn’t tell what they were saying. She could only see their mouths moving, the expressions on their faces.
She saw the minister place his hands on Kitay’s shoulders.
She saw Kitay ask a question.
She saw the minister shake his head.
Then she saw Kitay collapse in on himself as if he had been speared in the gut, and she realized that Defense Minister Chen had not survived the Third Poppy War.
Kitay didn’t struggle when Vaisra’s men marched him back onto the boat. He was white-faced, tight-lipped, and his madly twitching eyes looked red at the rims.
Nezha tried to put a hand on Kitay’s shoulder. Kitay shook him off and made straight for the Dragon Warlord. Blue-clad soldiers immediately moved to form a protective wall between them, but Kitay didn’t reach for a weapon.
“I’ve decided something,” he said.
Vaisra waved a hand. His guard dispersed. Then it was just the two of them facing each other: the regal Dragon Warlord and the furious, trembling boy.
“Yes?” Vaisra asked.
“I want a position,” Kitay said.
“I thought you wanted to go home.”
“Don’t fuck with me,” Kitay snapped. “I want a position. Give me a uniform. I won’t wear this one anymore.”
“I’ll see where we can—”
Kitay cut him off again. “I’m not going to be a foot soldier.”
“Kitay—”
“I want a seat at the table. Chief strategist.”
“You’re rather young for that,” Vaisra said drily.
“No, I’m not. You made Nezha a general. And I’ve always been smarter than Nezha. You know I’m brilliant. I’m a fucking genius. Put me in charge of operations and you won’t lose a single battle, I swear.”