The Burning God (The Poppy War #3) - R.F. Kuang Page 0,33

this, somehow, was scarier.

The civilians here were thin, haggard, clearly downtrodden, but alive—and not just alive, but free. They weren’t locked up in holding pens, nor were they crouching inside their homes in fear. Civilians—visibly Nikara civilians—strode around the township so casually that if Rin didn’t know better she wouldn’t have guessed there was a Mugenese presence at all. As they snuck deeper into the township, Rin saw a band of men—laborers with farming implements that could easily be used as weapons—walking toward the fields without so much as a single armed guard. Closer to the town center, there were long queues looping around an unbelievable sight—a rationing station, where Mugenese troops doled out daily portions of barley grain to civilians waiting patiently with copper bowls.

She could barely form the question. “How—?”

“Collaboration,” Souji said. “It’s how most of us have been getting along. The Mugenese figured out pretty quickly that their original depopulation policy was only going to work if they were getting supplies from the island. Island’s gone, and there’s no point to clearing out space anymore. What’s more, they need someone to do their cooking and cleaning.”

So the soldiers without a home had formed a sick symbiosis with their intended victims. The Mugenese had merged with the Nikara into a society that, if not necessarily nonviolent, at least looked stable and sustainable.

Rin found evidence of wary coexistence everywhere she looked. She saw Mugenese soldiers eating at Nikara food stands. She saw Mugenese patrolmen escorting a group of Nikara farmers back through the city gates. No blades were drawn; no hands were bound. This looked routine. She even saw a Mugenese soldier fondly stroke the head of a Nikara child as they passed each other on the street.

Her stomach churned.

She didn’t know what to do with this. She was so used to absolute destruction, a complete binary of the extremities of war, that she couldn’t work her mind around this bizarre middle ground. How did it feel to live with a sword hanging over your head? How did it feel to look these men in the eyes, day by day, knowing full well what they were capable of?

Rin followed closely behind Souji as they moved through the streets, her eyes darting nervously about with every turn. No one had reported, or even seemed to care about, their presence. Occasionally someone narrowed their eyes at Souji in questioning recognition, but no one so much as breathed a word.

Souji didn’t stop walking until they’d reached the far edge of the township, where he pointed to a small, thatched-roof hut half-hidden behind a cluster of trees. “The chief of Leiyang is a man named Lien Wen. His daughter-in-law came from the same village as my mother. He’s expecting us.”

Rin frowned. “How?”

“I told you.” Souji shrugged. “I know these people.”

A skinny, plain-faced girl about seven years old sat outside the door, hand-grinding sorghum grain in a small stone bowl. She scrambled to her feet when they approached and, without a word, gestured for them to follow her inside the hut.

Souji nudged Rin forward. “Go on.”

For the home of a township chief, Lien Wen’s was not particularly luxurious. The interior would barely have fit ten men standing shoulder to shoulder. A square tea table occupied the center, surrounded by three-legged stools. Rin squatted down on the nearest stool. The uneven, scratched-up legs wobbled every time she shifted position. That was oddly calming—this kind of poverty felt familiar.

“Weapons over there. Father’s orders.” The girl pointed at a cracked vase in the corner.

Rin’s fingers twitched toward the knives hidden inside her shirt. “But—”

“Of course.” Souji shot Rin a stern look. “Whatever Chief Lien asks.”

Rin reluctantly dropped the blades into the vase.

The girl disappeared for several seconds, returned with a plate of coarse-grain steamed buns, and set it down on the tea table.

“Dinner,” she said, then retreated to the corner.

The starchy grain smelled terribly good. Rin hadn’t seen proper steamed buns in ages; in Ruijin, they’d long ago run out of yeast. She reached out for a bun, but Souji slapped her hand away.

“Don’t,” he muttered. “That’s more than she eats in a week.”

“Then why—”

“Leave it. They’ll save it for later if you don’t touch it, but if you touch it and put it down then they’ll insist you take it with you when you leave.”

Stomach growling, Rin returned her hand to her lap.

“I didn’t think you’d come back.”

A tall, broad-shouldered man filled the doorframe. Rin found his age impossible to place—his lined eyes and white whiskers