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“Don’t be unfair,” Nezha said. “They’re just people: they’ve never studied warcraft.”
“So then they shouldn’t rule!” she shouted. “They need someone to tell them what to do, what to think—”
“And who’s that going to be? Daji?”
“Not Daji. But someone educated. Someone who’s passed the Keju, who’s graduated from Sinegard. Someone who’s been in the military. Someone who knows the value of a human life.”
“You’re describing yourself,” said Nezha.
“I’m not saying it would be me,” Rin said. “I’m just saying it shouldn’t be the people. Vaisra shouldn’t let them elect anyone. He should just rule.”
Nezha tilted his head to the side. “You want my father to make himself Emperor?”
A wave of nausea rocked her stomach before she could respond. There was no time to get up; she lurched forward onto her knees and heaved the contents of her stomach against the tree. Her face was too close to the ground. A good deal of vomit splashed back onto her cheek. She rubbed clumsily at it with her sleeve.
“You all right?” Nezha asked when she’d stopped dry-heaving.
“Yes.”
He rubbed his hand in circles on her back. “Good.”
She spat a gob of regurgitated wine onto the dirt. “Fuck off.”
Nezha lifted a clump of mud up from the riverbank. “Have you ever heard the story of how the goddess Nüwa created humanity?”
“No.”
“I’ll tell it to you.” Nezha molded the mud into a ball with his palms. “Once upon a time, after the birth of the world, Nüwa was lonely.”
“What about her husband, Fuxi?” Rin only knew the myths about Nüwa and Fuxi both.
“Absent spouse, I guess. Myth doesn’t mention him.”
“Of course.”
“Of course. Anyway, Nüwa gets lonely, decides to create some humans to populate the world to keep her company.” Nezha pressed his fingernails into the ball of mud. “The first few people she makes are incredibly detailed. Fine features, lovely clothes.”
Rin could see where this was going. “Those are the aristocrats.”
“Yes. The nobles, the emperors, the warriors, everyone who matters. Then she gets bored. It’s taking too long. So she takes a rope and starts flinging mud in all directions. Those become the hundred clans of Nikan.”
Rin swallowed. Her throat tasted like acid. “They don’t tell that story in the south.”
“And why do you think that is?” Nezha asked.
She turned that over in her mind for a moment. Then she laughed.
“My people are mud,” she said. “And you’re still going to let them run a country.”
“I don’t think they’re mud,” Nezha said. “I think they’re still unformed. Uneducated and uncultured. They don’t know better because they haven’t been given the chance. But the Republic will shape and refine them. Develop them into what they were meant to be.”
“That’s not how it works.” Rin took the clump of mud from Nezha’s hand. “They’re never going to become more than what they are. The north won’t let them.”
“That’s not true.”
“You think that. But I’ve seen how power works.” Rin crushed the clump in her fingers. “It’s not about who you are, it’s about how they see you. And once you’re mud in this country, you’re always mud.”
Chapter 18
“You’re joking,” Ramsa said.
Rin shook her head, and her temples throbbed at the sudden movement. Under the harsh light of dawn, she’d come to deeply regret ever touching alcohol, which made the task of informing the Cike they’d been disbanded very distasteful. “I’m unranked. Jinzha’s orders.”
“Then what about us?” Ramsa demanded.
She gave him a blank look. “What about you?”
“Where are we supposed to go?”
“Oh.” She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to remember. “You’re being reassigned. You’re on the Griffon, I think, and Suni and Baji are on the tower ships—”
“We’re not together?” Ramsa asked. “Fuck that. Can’t we just refuse?”
“No.” She pressed a palm into her aching forehead. “You’re still Republic soldiers. You have to follow orders.”
He stared at her in disbelief. “That’s all you’ve got?”
“What else am I supposed to say?”
“Something!” he shouted. “Anything! We’re not the Cike anymore, and you’re just going to take that lying down?”
She wanted to cover her ears with her hands. She was so exhausted. She wished Ramsa would just go away and break the news to the others for her so that she could lie down and go to sleep and stop thinking about anything.
“Who cares? The Cike’s not that important. The Cike is dead.”
Ramsa grabbed at her collar. But he was so scrawny, shorter even than she, that it only made him look ridiculous.
“What is wrong with you?” he demanded.
“Ramsa, stop.”
“We joined this war for you,” he said. “Out of loyalty to you.”
“Don’t be dramatic. You entered this war because you wanted Dragon silver, you like blowing shit up, and you’re a wanted criminal everywhere else in the Empire.”
“I stuck with you because we thought we’d stay together.” Ramsa sounded like he was about to cry, which was so absurd that Rin almost laughed. “We’re always supposed to be together.”
“You’re not even a shaman. You’ve got nothing to be afraid of. Why do you care?”
“Why don’t you care? Altan named you commander. Protecting the Cike is your duty.”
“I didn’t ask to be commander,” she snapped. Altan’s invocation brought up feelings of obligation, duty, that she didn’t want to think about. “All right? I don’t want to be your Altan. I can’t.”
What had she done since she’d been put in charge? She’d hurt Unegen, driven Enki away, seen Aratsha killed, and gotten her ass kicked so badly by Daji that she couldn’t even properly be called a shaman anymore. She hadn’t led the Cike so much as encouraged them to make a series of awful decisions. They were better off without her. It infuriated her that they couldn’t see that.
“Aren’t you angry?” Ramsa asked. “Doesn’t this piss you off?”
“No,” she said. “I take orders.”
She could have been angry. Could have resisted Jinzha, could have lashed out like she’d always done. But anger had only ever helped her when it manifested in flames, and she couldn’t call on that anymore. Without the fire she wasn’t a shaman, wasn’t a proper Speerly, and certainly wasn’t a military asset. Jinzha had no reason to listen to or respect her.
And she knew by now that the fire was never coming back.
“You could at least try,” Ramsa said. “Please.”
There was no fight left in his voice, either.
