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“Or they could be coming to poison our water supply, or to assassinate any one of us,” Jun snapped. “Do you really think we’ve won this war so easily?”
“They’re bearing a white flag,” the Ox Warlord said slowly, as if speaking to a child.
The Ram Warlord said nothing. His wide-set eyes darted nervously between Jun and the Ox Warlord. Rin could see what Ramsa had meant; the Ram Warlord seemed like a child waiting to be told what to do.
“A white flag doesn’t mean anything to them,” Jun insisted. “This is a ruse. How many false treaties did they sign during the Poppy Wars?”
“Would you take a gamble on peace?” the Ox Warlord challenged.
“I wouldn’t gamble with any of these citizens’ lives.”
“It’s not your cease-fire to refuse,” the Ram Warlord pointed out.
Jun and the Ox Warlord both glared at him, and the Ram Warlord stammered in his haste to explain. “I mean, we ought to let the boy handle it. The marsh victory was his doing. They’re surrendering to him.”
All eyes turned to Altan.
Rin was amazed at the subtle interdivisional politics at play. The Ram Warlord was shrewder than she’d guessed. His suggestion was a clever way of absolving responsibility. If negotiations went sour, then blame would fall on Altan’s shoulders. And if they went well, then the Ram Warlord still came out on top for his magnanimity.
Altan hesitated, clearly torn between his better judgment and desire to see the full extent of his victory at Khurdalain. Rin could see the hope reflected clearly on his face. If the Federation surrender was genuine, then he would be single-handedly responsible for winning this war. He would be the youngest commander ever to have achieved a military victory on this scale.
“Shoot them,” Jun repeated. “We don’t need a peace negotiation. Our forces are tied now; if the assault on the wharf goes well, we can push them back indefinitely until the Seventh gets here.”
But Altan shook his head. “If we reject their surrender, then this war goes on until one party has decimated the other. Khurdalain can’t hold out that long. If there’s a chance we can end this war now, we need to take it.”
The Federation delegates who met them in the town square bore no weapons and wore no armor. They dressed in light, form-fitting blue uniforms designed to make it clear that they concealed no weapons in their sleeves.
The head delegate, whose uniform stripes indicated his higher rank, stepped forward when he saw them.
“Do you speak our language?” He spoke in a halting and outdated Nikara dialect, complete with a bad approximation of a Sinegardian accent.
The Warlords hesitated, but Altan cut in, “I do.”
“Good,” the delegate responded in Mugini. “Then we may proceed without misunderstanding.”
It was the first time Rin had gotten a good look at the Mugenese outside the chaos of a melee, and she was disappointed by how very similar they looked to the Nikara. The slant of their eyes and the shape of their mouths were nowhere near as pronounced as the textbooks reported. Their hair was the same pitch-black as Nezha’s, their skin as pale as any northerner’s.
In fact, they looked more like Sinegardians than Rin and Altan did.
Aside from their language, which was more clipped and rapid than Sinegardian Nikara, they were virtually indistinguishable from the Nikara themselves.
It disturbed her that the Federation soldiers so closely resembled her own people. She would have preferred a faceless, monstrous enemy, or one that was entirely foreign, like the pale-haired Hesperians across the sea.
“What are your terms?” Jun asked.
“Our general requests a cease-fire for the next forty-eight hours while we meet to negotiate conditions of surrender,” said the head delegate. He indicated the wagon. “We know your city has been unable to import spices since the fighting began. We bring an offering of salt and sugar. A gesture of our goodwill.” The delegate placed his hand on the lid of the closest chest. “May I?”
Altan gave a nod of permission. The delegates pulled up the lids, displaying heaps of white and caramel crystals that glistened in the afternoon sun.
“Eat it,” suggested Jun.
The delegate cocked his head. “Pardon?”
“Taste the sugar,” Jun said. “So we know you’re not trying to poison us.”
“That would be a terribly inefficient way of conducting warfare,” said the delegate.
“Even so.”
Shrugging, the delegate obliged Jun’s request. His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Not poison.”
Jun licked his finger, stuck it in the chest of sugar, and tipped it into his mouth. He swilled it around in his mouth, and seemed disappointed when he couldn’t detect traces of any other material.
“Only sugar,” said the delegate.
“Excellent,” the Ox Warlord said. “Bring these to the mess hall.”
“No,” said Altan quickly. “Leave it out here. We’ll distribute this in the town square. A small amount for every household.”
He met the Ox Warlord’s eyes with a level gaze, and Rin realized why he’d said it. If the rations were brought to the mess hall, the divisions would immediately fight over distribution of resources. Altan had tied the Warlords’ hands by designating the rations for the people.
In any case, a trickle of Khurdalaini civilians had already begun to gather around the wagon in curiosity. Salt and sugar had been sorely missed since the siege began. Rin suspected that if the Warlords confiscated the trunks for military use, the people would riot.
The Ox Warlord shrugged. “Whatever you say, kid.”
Altan looked warily about the square. Given the ranks of Militia soldiers present, a large crowd of civilians had deemed it safe to form around the three delegates. Rin saw such open hostility in their eyes that she didn’t doubt they would tear the Mugenese apart if the Militia didn’t intervene.
“We will continue this negotiation in a private office,” Altan suggested. “Away from the people.”
The delegate inclined his head. “As you like.”
“The Emperor Ryohai is impressed with the resistance at Khurdalain,” said the delegate. His tone was clipped and courteous, despite his words. “Your people have fought well. The Emperor Ryohai would like to extend his compliments to the people of Khurdalain, who have proven themselves a stronger breed than the rest of this land of sniveling cowards.”
Jun translated to the Warlords. The Ox Warlord rolled his eyes.
“Let’s skip ahead to the part where you surrender,” said Altan.
The delegate raised an eyebrow. “Alas, the Emperor Ryohai has no intentions of abandoning his designs on the Nikara continent. Expansion onto the continent is the divine right of the glorious Federation of Mugen. Your provincial government is weak and fragile. Your technology is centuries behind that of the west. Your isolation has set you behind while the rest of the world develops. Your demise was only a matter of time. This landmass belongs to a country that can propel it into the next century.”
“Did you come here just to insult us?” Jun demanded. “Not a wise way to surrender.”
The delegate’s lip curled. “We came only to discuss surrender. The Emperor Ryohai has no desire to punish the people of Khurdalain. He admires their fighting spirit. He says that your resilience has proven worthy of the Federation. He adds also that the people of Khurdalain would make excellent subjects to the Federation crown.”
