The Burning God (The Poppy War #3) - R.F. Kuang Page 0,194

column over the river at a point that Nezha wouldn’t anticipate. She wasn’t working with a fast, tiny strike force anymore; she couldn’t pull off the kind of surprise ambushes she used to.

Moreover, she had to assume Nezha had spies within her ranks. Perhaps not in her inner circle, but certainly from the officer ranks down. That was inevitable in war—she had to plan every operation with the assumption that something would be leaked. The question was whether she could limit how much they knew. If she could trust Cholang and Venka, then she could break up a plan into pieces to give her generals limited, but sufficient, information.

“We split this army into seven parts,” she said. “Nezha could get lucky with a random pick if we split into just two or three. Seven makes guessing much harder.”

“The consequence, of course, is that you send at least a seventh of your army to certain death,” said Kitay.

She paused, then nodded. They’d have to stomach that. They had to accept that they wouldn’t only lose troops—they’d lose good officers, too, because a clear imbalance in power distribution would appear all too suspicious.

There was no way around it. They had to absorb the risk, and hope that the other six squadrons made it across to rendezvous outside Arlong.

“Let’s assume the worst,” Kitay continued. “Assume Nezha realizes we’ve got to set up decoys, and he splits his forces accordingly. Suppose you end up with only three squadrons at the rendezvous. How do you distribute those along Arlong’s forces?”

“We don’t have to conquer Arlong,” Rin said. “We just have to poison the grotto. And you don’t need six squadrons for that, you just need one.”

“Fine.” He nodded grimly. “So let’s figure out how to get the one.”

For the next three hours they hashed out an itinerary over the most detailed maps they could find. One squadron, led by Venka, would cross over the Sage’s Ford. That was where Nezha would expect them to go—it was the shallowest crossing, the one that didn’t involve bridge-building equipment. But the obviousness of that strategy, combined with the fact that Rin was visibly absent, should be enough to deter Nezha from striking hardest at Venka. They would dispatch three other squadrons to wide bridges, and one to a narrow ford crossing, and one to a stretch along the Murui where there was no crossing at all.

During the long march, Kitay had come up with an ingenious design for a self-supporting bridge that could be assembled in minutes from portable wooden crossbeams. They hadn’t used it in the mountains for want of lumber, but now they had plenty. If the bridge didn’t exist, they’d build it.

“And where do we cross?” Kitay asked.

“Anywhere.” Rin nudged the pieces. “Does it matter? It’s a one-in-seven chance no matter where we go.”

He shook his head. “One in seven is too high. There must be some way to reduce it to zero.”

“There’s not.” She understood his urge for perfectionism, knew he’d be anxious unless he resolved every last variable, but she also knew better than to underestimate Nezha a second time. They could make their chances pretty good by avoiding the bulk of the Republican defense line, assuming their intelligence was accurate, but otherwise one in seven would have to be good enough.

“We’ll take the narrow bridge at Nüwa’s Waist,” she decided. “Our squadron won’t have to move any heavy artillery, so the width constraints won’t matter.”

“Then how do you want to cross?” he asked.

“What are you talking about? There’s a bridge.”

“But suppose they blow up the bridge in advance,” he said. “Or suppose they’ve got soldiers stationed all around it. How do we get around that?”

These questions were rhetorical, Rin realized. Kitay leaned back, watching her with a familiar, anticipatory grin.

“You are not sending me up in a kite,” she said.

He beamed. “I’m thinking something bigger.”

“No,” she said immediately. “You’ve never gotten that thing up in the air. And I’m not dying in a Hesperian death trap.”

His grin widened. “Come on, Rin. Trust me. I gave you wings once.”

“Yes, and that’s how I got this scar!”

He reached over and patted her on the shoulder. “Then it’s a good thing you’ve never cared much about looking pretty.”

Six squadrons dispersed the next morning to designated crossing points spread out over a ten-mile radius. Most had a good chance of making it across. Kitay had sent crews out to decoy crossing points the night before to chop haphazardly at nearby bamboo groves. Bamboo made good material