“I’m just reporting what they’re all thinking. Don’t kill the messenger.”
Rin should have been angrier, but she understood, too, just how pervasive that mind-set was. To most Dragons, the southerners barely registered as Nikara. She could see through a northerner’s eyes the stereotypical Rooster—a cross-eyed, buck-toothed, swarthy idiot speaking a garbled tongue.
It shamed and embarrassed her terribly, because she used to be exactly like that.
She’d tried to erase those parts of herself long ago. At fourteen she’d been lucky enough to study under a tutor who spoke near-standard Sinegardian. And she’d gone to Sinegard young enough that her bad habits were quickly and brutally knocked out of her. She’d adapted to fit in. She’d erased her identity to survive.
And it humiliated her that the southerners were now seeking her out, that they had the audacity to wander close to her, because they made her more like them by sheer proximity.
She’d long since tried to kill her association with Rooster Province, a place that had given her few happy memories. She’d almost succeeded. But the refugees wouldn’t let her forget.
Every time she came close to the camps, she saw angry, accusing stares. They all knew who she was now. They made a point of letting her know.
They’d stopped shouting invectives at her. They’d long since passed the point of rage; now they lived in resentful despair. But she could read their silent faces so clearly.
You’re one of us, they said. You were supposed to protect us. You’ve failed.
Three weeks after Rin’s return to Arlong, the Empress sent a direct message to the Republic.
About a mile from the Red Cliffs, the Dragon Province border patrol had captured a man who claimed to have been sent from the capital. The messenger carried only an ornamented bamboo basket across his back and a small Imperial seal to verify his identity.
The messenger insisted he would not speak unless Vaisra received him in the throne room with the full audience of his generals, the Warlords, and General Tarcquet. Eriden’s guards stripped him down and checked his clothes and baskets for explosives or poisonous gas, but found nothing.
“Just dumplings,” the messenger said cheerfully.
Reluctantly they let him through.
“I bear a message from the Empress Su Daji,” he announced to the room. His lower lip flopped grotesquely when he spoke. It seemed infected with something; the left side was thick with red, pus-filled blisters. His words were barely understandable through his thick Rat accent.
Rin’s eyes narrowed as she watched him approach the throne. He wasn’t a Sinegardian diplomat or a Militia representative. He didn’t carry himself like a court official. He had to be a common soldier, if even that. But why would Daji leave diplomacy up to someone who could barely even speak?
Unless the messenger wasn’t here for any real negotiations. Unless Daji didn’t need someone who could think quickly or speak smoothly. Unless Daji only wanted someone who would take the most delight in antagonizing Vaisra. Someone who had a grudge against the Republic and wouldn’t mind dying for it.
Which meant this was not a truce. This was a one-sided message.
Rin tensed. There was no way the messenger could harm Vaisra, not with the ranks of Eriden’s men blocking his way to the throne. But still she gripped her trident tight, eyes tracking the man’s every movement.
“Speak your piece,” Vaisra ordered.
The messenger grinned broadly. “I come to deliver tidings of Yin Jinzha.”
Lady Saikhara stood up. Rin could see her trembling. “What has she done with my son?”
The messenger sank to his knees, placed his basket on the marble floor, and lifted the lid. A pungent smell wafted through the hall.
Rin craned her head, expecting to see Jinzha’s dismembered corpse.
But the basket was filled with dumplings, each fried to golden perfection and pressed in the pattern of a lotus flower. They had clearly gone bad after weeks of travel—Rin could see dark mold crawling around their edges—but their shape was still intact. They had been meticulously decorated, brushed with lotus seed paste and inked over with five crimson characters.
The Dragon devours his sons.
“The Empress enjoins you to enjoy a dumpling of the rarest meat,” said the messenger. “She expects you might recognize the flavor.”
Lady Saikhara shrieked and slumped across the floor.
Vaisra met Rin’s eyes and jerked a hand across his neck.
She understood. She hefted her trident and charged toward the messenger.
He reeled backward just slightly, but otherwise made no effort to defend himself. He didn’t even lift his arms. He just