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A cascade of footsteps sounded outside the room. Rin peered around the door to see a line of soldiers marching out, fully equipped with shields and halberds. “Where are they all going? I thought the Militia hadn’t moved south yet.”
“It’s refugee patrol,” Baji said.
She blinked. “Refugee patrol?”
“You didn’t see all them coming in?” Ramsa asked. “They were pretty hard to miss.”
“We came in through the Red Cliffs,” Rin said. “I haven’t seen anything but the palace. What do you mean, refugees?”
Ramsa exchanged an uncomfortable look with Baji. “You missed a lot while you were gone, I think.”
Rin didn’t like what that implied. She stood up. “Take me there.”
“Our patrol shift isn’t until tomorrow morning,” Ramsa said.
“I don’t care.”
“But they’re fussy about that,” Ramsa insisted. “Security is tight on the refugee border, they’re not going to let us through.”
“I’m the Speerly,” Rin said. “Do you think I give a shit?”
“Fine.” Baji hauled himself to his feet. “I’ll take you. But you’re not going to like it.”
Chapter 26
“Makes the barracks look nice, huh?” Ramsa asked.
Rin didn’t know what to say.
The refugee district was an ocean of people crammed into endless rows of tents stretching toward the valley. The crowds had been kept out of the city proper, hemmed in behind hastily constructed barriers of shipping planks and driftwood.
It looked as if a giant had drawn a line in the sand with one finger and pushed everyone to one side. Republican soldiers wielding halberds paced back and forth in front of the barrier, though Rin wasn’t sure who they were guarding—the refugees or the citizens.
“The refugees aren’t allowed past that barrier,” Baji explained. “The, uh, citizens didn’t want them crowding the streets.”
“What happens if they cross?” Rin asked.
“Nothing too terrible. Guards toss them back to the other side. It happened more often at the beginning, but a few beatings taught everyone their lesson.”
They walked a few more paces. A horrible stench hit Rin’s nose—the smell of too many unwashed bodies packed together for far too long. “How long have they been there?”
“At least a month,” Baji said. “I’m told they started flooding in as soon as we moved on Rat Province, but it only got worse once we came back.”
Rin could not believe that anyone had been living in these camps for that long. She saw clouds of flies everywhere she looked. The buzzing was unbearable.
“They’re still trickling in,” Ramsa said. “They come in waves, usually at night. They keep trying to sneak past the borders.”
“And they’re all from Hare and Rat Provinces?” she asked.
“What are you talking about? These are southern refugees.”
She blinked at him. “I thought the Militia hadn’t moved south.”
Ramsa exchanged a glance with Baji. “They’re not fleeing the Militia. They’re fleeing the Federation.”
“What?”
Baji scratched the back of his head. “Well, yes. It’s not like the Mugenese soldiers all just laid down their weapons.”
“I know, but I thought . . .” Rin trailed off. She felt dizzy. She’d known Federation troops remained on the mainland, but she’d thought they were contained to isolated units. Rogue soldiers, scattered squadrons. Roving mercenaries, forming predatory coalitions with provincial cities if they were large enough, but not enough to displace the entire south.
“How many are there?” she asked.
“Enough,” Baji said. “Enough that they constitute an entirely separate army. They’re fighting for the Militia, Rin. We don’t know how; we don’t know what deal she brokered with them. But soon enough we’ll be fighting a war on two fronts, not one.”
“Which regions?” she demanded.
“They’re everywhere.” Ramsa listed the provinces off on his fingers. “Monkey. Snake. Rooster.”
Rin flinched. Rooster?
“Are you all right?” Ramsa asked.
But she was already running.
She knew immediately these were her people. She knew them by their tawny skin that was almost as dark as hers. She knew them by the way they talked—the soft country drawl that made her feel nostalgic and uncomfortable at the same time.
That was the tongue she had grown up speaking—the flat, rustic dialect that she couldn’t speak without cringing now, because she’d spent years at school beating it out of herself.
She hadn’t heard anyone speak the Rooster dialect in so long.
She thought, stupidly, that they might recognize her. But the Rooster refugees shrank away when they saw her. Their faces grew closed and sullen when she met their eyes. They crawled back into their tents if she approached.
It took her a moment to realize that they weren’t afraid of her, they were afraid of her uniform.
They were afraid of Republican soldiers.
“You.” Rin pointed to a woman about her height. “Do you have a spare set of clothes?”
The woman blinked at her, uncomprehending.
Rin tried again, slipping clumsily into her old dialect like it was an ill-fitting pair of shoes. “Do you have another, uh, shirt? Pants?”
The woman gave a terrified nod.
“Give them to me.”
The woman crawled into her tent. She reappeared with a bundle of clothing—a faded blouse that might have once been dyed with a poppy flower pattern, and wide slacks with deep pockets.
Rin felt a sharp pang in her chest as she held the blouse out in front of her. She hadn’t seen clothes like this in a long time. They were made for fieldworkers. Even the poor of Sinegard would have laughed at them.
Stripping off her Republican uniform worked. The Roosters stopped avoiding her when they saw her. Instead, she became effectively invisible as she navigated through the sea of tightly packed bodies. She shouted to get attention as she moved down the rows of tents.
“Tutor Feyrik! I’m looking for a Tutor Feyrik! Has anyone seen him?”
Responses came in reluctant whispers and indifferent mutters. No. No. Leave us alone. No. These refugees were so used to hearing desperate cries for lost ones that they’d closed their ears to them. Someone knew a Tutor Fu, but he wasn’t from Tikany. Someone else knew a Feyrik, but he was a cobbler, not a teacher. Rin found it pointless trying to describe him; there were hundreds of men who could have fit his description—with every row she passed she saw old men with gray beards who turned out not to be Tutor Feyrik after all.
She pushed down a swell of despair. It had been stupid to hope in the first place. She’d known she’d never see him again; she’d resigned herself to that fact long ago.
But she couldn’t help it. She still had to try.
She tried broadening her search. “Is anyone here from Tikany?”
Blank looks. She moved faster and faster through the camp, breaking into a run. “Tikany? Please? Anyone?”
Then at last she heard one voice through the crowd—one that was laced not with casual indifference but with sheer disbelief.
