The Poppy War (The Poppy War #1) - R. F. Kuang Page 0,22
are we supposed to do the rest of our homework?”
“Altan Trengsin learned it in a night,” said Irjah.
The class exchanged exasperated looks. The masters had been singing the praises of Altan Trengsin since the start of the term. Rin gathered he was some kind of genius, apparently the most brilliant student to come through Sinegard in decades.
Han looked as irritated as she felt. “Okay, but we’re not Altan.”
“Then try to be,” said Irjah. “Class dismissed.”
Rin settled into a routine of constant study and very little sleep; their course schedules left the first-years with no time to do anything else.
Autumn had just started to bite at Sinegard. A cold gust of wind accompanied them as they raced up the steps one morning. It rustled through the trees in a thunderous crescendo. The pupils had not yet received their thicker winter robes, and their teeth chattered in unison as they huddled together under a large mimosa tree at the far end of the second-tier courtyard.
Despite the cold, Jun refused to move Combat class indoors before the snowfall made it impossible to hold outside. He was a brutal teacher who seemed to delight in their discomfort.
“Pain is good for you,” he said as he forced them to crouch in low, torturous endurance stances. “The martial artists of old used to hold this position for an hour straight before training.”
“The martial artists of old must have had amazing thighs,” Kitay gasped.
Their morning calisthenics were still miserable, but at least they had finally moved past fundamentals to their first weapon-based arts: staff techniques.
Jun had just assumed his position at the fore of the courtyard when a loud shuffle sounded above his head. A smattering of leaves fell down right over where he stood.
Everyone glanced up.
Perched high up on a thick branch of the mimosa tree stood their long-absent Lore Master.
He wielded a large pair of gardening shears, cheerfully clipping leaves at random while singing an off-key melody loudly to himself.
After hearing a few words of the song, Rin recognized it as “The Gatekeeper’s Touches.” Rin knew it from her many trips delivering opium to Tikany’s whorehouses—it was an obscene ditty bordering on erotica. The Lore Master butchered the tune, but he sang it aloud with wild abandon.
“I can’t touch you there, miss / else you’ll perish from the bliss . . .”
Niang shook with suppressed giggles. Kitay’s jaw hung wide open as he stared at the tree.
“Jiang, I’ve got a class,” Jun snapped.
“So teach your class,” said Master Jiang. “Leave me alone.”
“We need the courtyard.”
“You don’t need all of the courtyard. You don’t need this tree,” Jiang said petulantly.
Jun whipped his iron staff through the air several times and slammed it against the base of the tree. The trunk actually shook from the impact. There was the crackling noise of deadweight dropping through several layers of dry mimosa leaves.
Master Jiang landed in a crumpled heap on the stone floor.
Rin’s first thought was that he wasn’t wearing a shirt. Her second thought was that he must be dead.
But Jiang simply rolled to a sitting position, shook out his left leg, and brushed his white hair back past his shoulders. “That was rude,” he said dreamily as blood trickled down his left temple.
“Must you bumble around like a lackwit?” Jun snapped.
“Must you interrupt my morning gardening session?” Jiang responded.
“You’re not doing any gardening,” Jun said. “You are here purely to annoy me.”
“I think you’re flattering yourself.”
Jun slammed his staff on the ground, making Jiang jump in surprise. “Out!”
Jiang adopted a dramatically wounded expression and hauled himself up to his feet. He flounced out of the garden, swaying his hips like a whorehouse dancer. “If for me your heart aches / I’ll lick you like a mooncake . . .”
“You’re right,” Kitay whispered to Rin. “He has been getting high.”
“Attention!” Jun shouted at the gawking class. He still had a mimosa leaf stuck in his hair. It quivered every time he spoke.
The class hastily lined up in two rows before him, staves at the ready.
“When I give the signal, you will repeat the following sequence.” He demonstrated with his staff as he spoke. “Forward. Back. Upper left parry. Return. Upper right parry. Return. Lower left parry. Return. Lower right parry. Return. Spin, pass through the back, return. Understood?”
They nodded mutely. No one dared admit that they had missed nearly the entire sequence. Jun’s demonstrations were usually rapid, but he had moved faster just now than any of them could follow.
“Well then.” Jun slammed his staff against the floor.