“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.”
“What should I say to him?”
“You’ll remain silent. All he has to do is look at you.”
Rin followed Vaisra across the riverbank until they reached a line of tents propped up at the city borders as if it were an invading army’s. When they approached the periphery, a group of green-clad soldiers stopped them and demanded their weapons.
“Go on,” Vaisra muttered when Rin hesitated to part with her trident.
“You trust him that much?”
“No. But I trust you won’t need it.”
The Snake Warlord came to meet them outside, where his aides had set up two chairs and a small table.
At first Rin mistook him for a servant. Ang Tsolin didn’t look like a Warlord. He was an old man with a long and sad face, so slender he seemed frail. He wore the same forest-green Militia uniform as his men, but no symbols announced his rank, and no weapon hung at his hip.
“Old master.” Vaisra dipped his head. “It’s good to see you again.”
Tsolin’s eyes flickered toward the outline of the Seagrim, which was just visible down the river. “So you didn’t take the bitch’s offer, either?”
“It was rather unsubtle, even for her,” Vaisra said. “Is anyone staying in the palace?”
“Chang En. Our old friend Jun Loran. None of the southern Warlords.”
Vaisra arched an eyebrow. “They hadn’t mentioned that. That’s surprising.”
“Is it? They’re southern.”
Vaisra settled back in his chair. “I suppose not. They’ve been touchy for years.”
No one had brought a chair out for Rin, so she remained standing behind Vaisra, hands folded over her chest in imitation of the guards who flanked Tsolin. They looked unamused.
“You’ve certainly taken your time getting here,” Tsolin said. “It’s been a long camping trip for the rest of us.”
“I was picking up something on the coast.” Vaisra pointed toward Rin. “Do you know who she is?”
Rin lowered her scarf.
Tsolin glanced up. At first he seemed only confused as he examined her face, but then he must have taken in the dark hue of her skin, the red glint in her eyes, because his entire body tensed.
“She’s wanted for quite a lot of silver,” he said finally. “Something about an assassination attempt in Adlaga.”