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“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.” Kitay’s voice broke at the end. Rin saw his throat bob, saw the veins protruding from his jaw, and knew that he was holding back tears.
“I’ll consider it,” Vaisra said.
“You knew, didn’t you?” Kitay demanded. “You’ve known for months.”
Vaisra’s expression softened. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to be the one to have to tell you. I know how much pain you must feel—”
“No. No, shut the fuck up, I don’t want that.” Kitay backed away. “I don’t need your fake sympathy.”
“Then what would you like from me?”
Kitay lifted his chin. “I want troops.”
The Warlords’ summit would not commence until after the victory parade, and that stretched over the next two days. For the most part Vaisra’s soldiers did not participate. Several troops entered the city in civilian clothes, sketching out final details in their already extensive maps of the city in case anything had changed. But the majority of the crew remained on board, watching the festivities from afar.
Every now and then an armed delegation arrived aboard the Seagrim, faces shrouded under hoods to conceal their identities. Vaisra received them in his office, doors sealed, guards posted outside to discourage curious eavesdroppers. Rin assumed the visitors were the southern Warlords—the rulers of Boar, Rooster, and Monkey provinces.
Hours passed without news. Rin grew maddeningly bored. She’d been over the palace maps a thousand times, and she’d already trained so long with Eriden that day that her leg muscles screamed when she walked. She was just about to ask Nezha if they might explore Lusan in disguise when Vaisra summoned her to his office.
“I have a meeting with the Snake Warlord,” he said. “On land. You’re coming.”
“As a guard?”
“No. As proof.”
He didn’t explain further, but she suspected she knew what he meant, so she simply picked up her trident, pulled her scarf up higher over her face until it concealed all but her eyes, and followed him toward the gangplank.
“Is the Snake Warlord an ally?” she asked.
“Ang Tsolin was my Strategy master at Sinegard. He could be anything from ally to enemy. Today, we’ll simply treat him as an old friend.”
