The Burning God (The Poppy War #3) - R.F. Kuang Page 0,187

last. “Nezha’s finally putting his pieces on the board. So let’s play.”

She stepped outside the tent to summon the messenger. He extended his hand, expecting a written reply, but she shook her head. “I’ll be brief. Tell Venka to route to Dragab quick as she can. We’ll be waiting.”

Chapter 27

“I see you found some seamstresses.” Venka’s eyes roved over the Southern Army’s neat brown uniforms as she dismounted from her horse to clasp Rin’s hand in greeting. “Do I get one?”

“Of course,” Rin said. “It’s waiting in the tent.”

“General’s stripe and everything?”

“Is this your way of asking for a promotion?” Kitay asked.

“I’ve just handed you the north,” said Venka. “That’s half a fucking country, mind you. I think the title General Sring is a little overdue, don’t you?”

“Honestly,” said Rin, “I thought you’d just take the title for yourself.”

“Honestly,” said Venka, “I did.”

They grinned at each other.

Venka and Cholang’s troops filed into the southern camp at Dragab, falling eagerly on the prepared meals by the campfires. They’d emerged from their northern expedition with close to their original numbers—an impressive achievement, given that the Dog Province’s militia had historically only waged battle against underequipped raiders from the Hinterlands. They also came bearing gifts—wagon upon wagon of spare armor, swords, and shields carted down from the forges in Tiger Province.

After Venka and Cholang had eaten, they joined Rin and Kitay on the floor of the command tent with a map spread between them to piece together their joint intelligence.

“It’s an odd play.” Venka marked Republican columns in blue ink along the eastern end of the Xuzhou ravine. “I really don’t know why he’s not just committing all his defenses to Arlong, especially if he can control the fucking river.”

“Agreed,” Kitay said. “But we think that’s the point. He wants to take the Phoenix out of the equation.”

“Why, just because we’ll be fighting in close quarters?” Cholang asked.

“And because of the rain,” Rin said. “He can call the rain, can make it fall as hard or as thick as he likes. Bit hard to sustain a flame when the sky keeps putting it out.”

They all regarded the map for a few seconds in silence.

The battle for Xuzhou had become a game of warring tactics, a puzzle that Rin had to admit was highly entertaining. It felt like the sort of exam question she might receive from Master Irjah. Xuzhou was the field of engagement. The limiting conditions were known: The rain disadvantaged them both by damping down fire and fire powder alike. Nezha had superior numbers, better artillery capabilities, and fresher troops due to a shorter march. Nezha had the rain. But Rin had shamans Nezha didn’t know about, and she could get to Xuzhou first.

Given the circumstances, piece together a winning strategy.

After a moment, Venka sighed. “What’s this coming down to, then? Pure attrition? Are we just going to slug it out in the mud?”

None of them wanted that. No good commander ever left an outcome to the chances that sheer, mindless friction produced. The brunt of the fighting might very well come down to swords, spears, and shields, but they had to find some gambit, some hidden advantage that Nezha hadn’t thought of.

Suddenly Kitay began to chuckle.

“What?” Rin asked. She didn’t follow; she didn’t know what he’d seen that she hadn’t. But that didn’t matter. Kitay had solved it, and that was all she needed.

“This is very smart,” he said. “You’ve got to give Nezha credit, really. He’s reduced the number of factors at play until the only vectors that matter are the ones where he holds the advantage. He’s swept almost all the chess players off the board.”

“But?” Rin pressed.

“But he’s forgotten one thing.” He tapped his forehead. “I’ve always thrashed him at chess.”

Xuzhou was a city of tombs. The Red Emperor had designed it to be an imperial graveyard, the final resting place for his most beloved generals, advisers, wives, and concubines. He’d commissioned the most skilled sculptors, architects, and gardeners across his territories to build grand monuments to his regime, and over the decades, what had begun as a single cemetery sprawled into a memorial the size of a city. Xuzhou became a place with the sole economy of death—its inhabitants were artisans employed to sweep the tombs, light incense, play ritual concerts to tame vengeful ghosts, and craft intricate mansions, clothes, and furniture out of paper to be burned as offerings so that the deceased might receive them in the afterlife. Even after the Red Emperor’s regime