The Dragon Republic. R.F. Kuang

only. No, that’s a paddle-wheel boat.”

      “What’s that?”

      He grinned. “Have you heard the legend of the Old Sage of Arlong?”

      She rolled her eyes. “Who’s that, your grandfather?”

      “Great-grandfather. The legend goes, the old sage was staring at a water wheel watering the fields and thought about reversing the circumstances; if he moved the wheel, then the water must move. Fairly obvious principle, isn’t it? Incredible how long it took for someone to apply it to ships.

      “See, the old Imperial ships were idiotically designed. Propelled by sculls from the top deck. Problem with that is if your rowers get shot out, you’re dead in the water. But the paddle-wheel pushers are on the bottom deck. Entirely enclosed by the hull, totally protected from enemy artillery. A bit of an improvement from old models, eh?”

      Nezha seemed to enjoy talking about ships. Rin heard a distinct note of pride in his voice as he pointed out the ridges at the bottom of the warship. “You see those? They’re concealing the paddle wheels.”

      She couldn’t help but stare at his face while he talked. Up close his scars weren’t so unsettling, but rather oddly compelling. She wondered if it hurt him to talk.

      “What is it?” Nezha asked. He touched his cheek. “Ugly, isn’t it? I can put the mask back on, if it’s bothering you.”

      “It’s not that,” she said hastily.

      “What, then?”

      She blinked again. “I just … I’m sorry.”

      He frowned. “For what?”

      She stared at him, searching for evidence of sarcasm, but his expression was open, concerned.

      “It’s my fault,” she said.

      He stopped rowing. “It’s not your fault.”

      “Yes, it was.” She swallowed. “I could have pulled you out. I heard you calling my name. You saw me.”

      “I don’t remember that.”

      “Yes, you do. Stop lying.”

      “Rin. Don’t do this.” Nezha stopped rowing to reach out and grasp her hand. “It wasn’t your fault. I don’t blame you.”

      “You should.”

      “I don’t.”

      “I could have pulled you out,” she said again. “I wanted to, I was going to, but Altan wouldn’t let me, and—”

      “So blame Altan,” Nezha said in a hard voice, and resumed rowing. “The Federation was never going to kill me. The Mugenese like to keep prisoners. Someone figured out I was a warlord’s son, so they kept me for ransom. They thought they might leverage me into a surrender from Dragon Province.”

      “How’d you escape?”

      “I didn’t. I was in the camp when word got out that Emperor Ryohai was dead. The soldiers who had captured me arranged to trade me back to my father in exchange for a safe exit from the country.”

      “Did they get it?” she asked.

      He grimaced. “They got an exit.”

      When they reached the hull of the warship, Nezha hooked four ropes to the ends of the rowboat and whistled at the sky. Seconds later the boat began to rock as sailors hoisted them up.

      The main deck hadn’t been visible from the rowboat, but now Rin saw that soldiers were posted at every corner of the ship. They were Nikara in their features—they must have been from Dragon Province, but Rin noticed they did not wear Militia uniforms.

      The Seventh Division soldiers she had met at Khurdalain wore green Militia gear with the insignia of a dragon stitched into their armbands. But these soldiers were decked out in dark blue, with a silver dragon pattern visible over their chests.

      “This way.” Nezha led her down the stairs to the second deck and down the passageway until they stopped before a set of wooden doors guarded by a tall, spare man holding a blue-ribboned halberd.

      “Captain Eriden.” Nezha stopped and saluted, though according to uniform he should have been the higher rank.

      “General.” Captain Eriden looked like a man who’d never smiled in his life. Deep frown lines seemed permanently etched into his gaunt, spare face. He dipped his head to Nezha, then turned to Rin. “Hold out your arms.”

      “That’s not necessary,” said Nezha.

      “With all due respect, sir, you are not the one sworn to guard your father’s life,” Eriden said. “Hold out your arms.”

      Rin obeyed. “You’re not going to find anything.”

      Normally she kept daggers in her boots and inner shirt, but she could feel their absence; the Cormorant’s crew must have removed them already.

      “Still have to check.” Eriden peered inside her sleeves. “I’m to warn you that if you dare to so much as point a chopstick in the Dragon Warlord’s direction, then you’ll be shot full of crossbow bolts faster than you can breathe.” His hands moved up her shirt. “Do not forget we also have your men as hostages.”

      Rin shot Nezha an accusing glare. “You said we weren’t hostages.”

      “They aren’t,” Nezha said. He turned to Eriden, eyes hard. “They aren’t. They’re our guests, Captain.”

      “Call them whatever you like.” Eriden shrugged. “But try anything funny and they’re dead.”

      Rin shifted so that he could feel the small of her back for weapons. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

      Finished, Eriden wiped his hands off on his uniform, turned, and grasped the door handles. “In that case, I’m to extend you a welcome on behalf of the Dragon Warlord.”

      “Fang Runin, isn’t it? Welcome to the Seagrim.”

      For a moment Rin could only gape. She couldn’t look at the Dragon Warlord and not see Nezha. Yin Vaisra was a grown version of his son without scars. He possessed all the infuriating beauty of the House of Yin—pale skin, black hair without a single streak of gray, and fine features that looked like they had been carved from marble—cold, arrogant, and imposing.

      She’d heard endless gossip about the Dragon Warlord during her years at Sinegard. He ruled the richest province in the Empire by far. He’d single-handedly led the defense of the Red Cliffs in the Second Poppy War, had obliterated a Federation fleet with only a small cluster of Nikara fishing boats. He’d been chafing under Daji’s rule for years. When he’d failed to appear at the Empress’s summer parade for the third consecutive year, the apprentices had speculated so loudly that he was planning open treason that Nezha had lost his cool and sent one of them to the infirmary.

      “Rin is fine.” Her words came out sounding frail and tiny, swallowed up by the vast gilded room.

      “A vulgar diminutive,” Vaisra declared. Even his voice was a deeper version of Nezha’s, a hard drawl that seemed permanently coated in condescension. “They’re fond of those in the south. But I shall call you Runin. Please, sit down.”

      She cast a fleeting glance at the oak table between them. It had a low surface, and the high-backed chairs looked terribly heavy. If she sat, her knees would be trapped. “I’ll stand.”

      Vaisra raised an eyebrow. “Have I made you uncomfortable?”

      “You bombed my ship,” Rin said. “So yes, a little.”

      “My dear girl, if I wanted you dead, your body would be at the bottom of Omonod Bay.”

      “Then why isn’t it?”

      “Because we need you.” Vaisra drew out his