R.F. Kuang - The Dragon Republic

“I didn’t. I was in the camp when word got out that Emperor Ryohai was dead. The soldiers who had captured me arranged to trade me back to my father in exchange for a safe exit from the country.”

“Did they get it?” she asked.

He grimaced. “They got an exit.”

When they reached the hull of the warship, Nezha hooked four ropes to the ends of the rowboat and whistled at the sky. Seconds later the boat began to rock as sailors hoisted them up.

The main deck hadn’t been visible from the rowboat, but now Rin saw that soldiers were posted at every corner of the ship. They were Nikara in their features—they must have been from Dragon Province, but Rin noticed they did not wear Militia uniforms.

The Seventh Division soldiers she had met at Khurdalain wore green Militia gear with the insignia of a dragon stitched into their armbands. But these soldiers were decked out in dark blue, with a silver dragon pattern visible over their chests.

“This way.” Nezha led her down the stairs to the second deck and down the passageway until they stopped before a set of wooden doors guarded by a tall, spare man holding a blue-ribboned halberd.

“Captain Eriden.” Nezha stopped and saluted, though according to uniform he should have been the higher rank.

“General.” Captain Eriden looked like a man who’d never smiled in his life. Deep frown lines seemed permanently etched into his gaunt, spare face. He dipped his head to Nezha, then turned to Rin. “Hold out your arms.”

“That’s not necessary,” said Nezha.

“With all due respect, sir, you are not the one sworn to guard your father’s life,” Eriden said. “Hold out your arms.”

Rin obeyed. “You’re not going to find anything.”

Normally she kept daggers in her boots and inner shirt, but she could feel their absence; the Cormorant ’s crew must have removed them already.

“Still have to check.” Eriden peered inside her sleeves. “I’m to warn you that if you dare to so much as point a chopstick in the Dragon Warlord’s direction, then you’ll be shot full of crossbow bolts faster than you can breathe.” His hands moved up her shirt. “Do not forget we also have your men as hostages.”

Rin shot Nezha an accusing glare. “You said we weren’t hostages.”

“They aren’t,” Nezha said. He turned to Eriden, eyes hard. “They aren’t . They’re our guests, Captain.”

“Call them whatever you like.” Eriden shrugged. “But try anything funny and they’re dead.”

Rin shifted so that he could feel the small of her back for weapons. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

Finished, Eriden wiped his hands off on his uniform, turned, and grasped the door handles. “In that case, I’m to extend you a welcome on behalf of the Dragon Warlord.”

“Fang Runin, isn’t it? Welcome to the Seagrim. ”

For a moment Rin could only gape. She couldn’t look at the Dragon Warlord and not see Nezha. Yin Vaisra was a grown version of his son without scars. He possessed all the infuriating beauty of the House of Yin—pale skin, black hair without a single streak of gray, and fine features that looked like they had been carved from marble—cold, arrogant, and imposing.

She’d heard endless gossip about the Dragon Warlord during her years at Sinegard. He ruled the richest province in the Empire by far. He’d single-handedly led the defense of the Red Cliffs in the Second Poppy War, had obliterated a Federation fleet with only a small cluster of Nikara fishing boats. He’d been chafing under Daji’s rule for years. When he’d failed to appear at the Empress’s summer parade for the third consecutive year, the apprentices had speculated so loudly that he was planning open treason that Nezha had lost his cool and sent one of them to the infirmary.

“Rin is fine.” Her words came out sounding frail and tiny, swallowed up by the vast gilded room.

“A vulgar diminutive,” Vaisra declared. Even his voice was a deeper version of Nezha’s, a hard drawl that seemed permanently coated in condescension. “They’re fond of those in the south. But I shall call you Runin. Please, sit down.”

She cast a fleeting glance at the oak table between them. It had a low surface, and the high-backed chairs looked terribly heavy. If she sat, her knees would be trapped. “I’ll stand.”

Vaisra raised an eyebrow. “Have I made you uncomfortable?”

“You bombed my ship,” Rin said. “So yes, a little.”

“My dear girl, if I wanted you dead, your body would be at the bottom of Omonod Bay.”

“Then why isn’t it?”

“Because we need you.” Vaisra drew out his own chair and sat, gesturing to Nezha to do the same. “It hasn’t been easy to find you, you know. We’ve been sailing down the coast of the Snake Province for weeks now. We even checked Mugen.”

He said it like he’d meant to startle her, and it worked. She couldn’t help but flinch. He watched her, waiting.

She took the bait. “What did you find?”

“Just a few fringe islands. Of course, they had no clue of your whereabouts, but we stayed a week or so to make sure. People will say anything under torture.”

Her fingers tightened into fists. “They’re still alive ?”

She felt like someone had taken a bar to her rib cage. She knew Federation soldiers remained on the mainland, but not that civilians were still alive. She’d thought she had put a permanent end to the country.

What if she hadn’t? The great strategist Sunzi cautioned to always finish off an enemy in case they came back stronger. What would happen when Federation civilians regrouped? What if she still had a war to fight?

“Their invasion is over,” Vaisra reassured her. “You made certain of that. The main islands have been destroyed. Emperor Ryohai and his advisers are dead. A few cities on the edges of the archipelago remain standing, but the Federation has erupted into frothy madness, like ants pouring out of a hill once you’ve killed the queen. Some of them are sailing off the islands in droves, seeking refuge on Nikara shores, but … well. We’re getting rid of them as they come.”

“How?”

“The usual way.” His lips twitched into a smile. “Why don’t you sit?”

Reluctantly, she drew the chair out as far from the table as she could and sat at the very edge, knees locked together.

“There,” Vaisra said. “Now we’re friends.”

Rin decided to be blunt. “Are you here to take me back to the capital?”

“Don’t be stupid.”

“Then what do you want from me?”

“Your services.”

“I’m not murdering anyone for you.”

“Dream a little bigger, my dear.” Vaisra leaned forward. “I want to overthrow the Empire. I’d like you to help.”

The room fell silent. Rin studied Vaisra’s face, waiting for him to burst into laughter. But he looked so terribly sincere—and so did Nezha—that she couldn’t help but cackle.

“Is something funny?” Vaisra asked.

“Are you mad?”

“‘Visionary,’ I think, is the word you want. The Empire is on the verge of falling apart. A revolution is the only alternative to decades of civil warfare, and someone has to start the ball rolling.”

“And you’d bet on your odds against the Militia?” Rin laughed again. “You’re one province against eleven. It’ll be a massacre.”

“Don’t be so certain,” Vaisra said. “The provinces are angry. They’re hurting. And for the first time since any of the Warlords can remember, the specter of the Federation has disappeared. Fear used to be a unifying force. Now the cracks in the foundation grow day by day. Do you know how many local insurrections have erupted in the past month? Daji is doing everything she can to keep the Empire united, but the institution is a sinking ship that’s rotted at the core. It may drift for a while, but eventually it will be dashed to pieces against the rocks.”