The Poppy War

by R. F. Kuang

  “Unless you’ve got a weapon, don’t aim for the face.” Jeeha guided Venka’s hand down so her extended knife hand strike would land on Nezha’s throat rather than his nose. “Aside from the nose, the face is practically all made of bone. You’ll only bruise your hand. The neck’s a better target. With enough force, you could fatally collapse the windpipe. At the very least, you’ll give him breathing trouble.”

  Kureel knelt down next to Kitay and Han, who were rolling around the ground in mutual headlocks. “Biting is an excellent technique if you’re in a tight spot.”

  A moment later, Han shrieked in pain.

  A handful of first-years clustered around a wooden dummy as Jeeha demonstrated a proper knife hand strike. “Nikara monks used to believe this point was a major ki center.” Jeeha indicated a spot under the dummy’s stomach and punched it dramatically.

  Rin took the bait to speed things along. “Is it?”

  “Nah. No such thing as ki centers. But this area below the rib cage has a ton of necessary organs that are exposed. Also, it’s where your diaphragm is. Hah!” Jeeha slammed his fist into the dummy. “That should immobilize any opponent for a good few seconds. Gives you time to scratch out their eyes.”

  “That seems vulgar,” said Rin.

  Jeeha shrugged. “We aren’t here to be sophisticated. We’re here to fuck people up.”

  “I’ll show you all one last blow,” Kureel announced as the session drew to a close. “This is the only kick you’ll ever need, really. A kick to bring down the most powerful warriors.”

  Jeeha blinked in confusion. He turned his head to ask her what she meant. And Kureel raised her knee and jammed the ball of her foot into Jeeha’s groin.

  Mandatory drill sessions lasted for only two hours, but the first-years began staying in the studio to practice their forms long after the period had ended. The only problem was that the students with previous training seized this chance to show off. Nezha performed a series of twirling leaps in the center of the room, attempting spinning kicks that became progressively more flamboyant. A small ring of his classmates gathered around to watch.

  “Admiring our prince?” Kitay strolled across the room to stand next to Rin.

  “I fail to see how this would be useful in battle,” Rin said. Nezha was now spinning a full 540 degrees in the air before kicking. It looked very pretty, but also very pointless.

  “Oh, it’s not. A lot of old arts are like that—cool to watch, practically useless. The lineages were adapted for stage opera, not combat, and then adapted back. That’s where the Red Junk Opera got their name, you know. The founding members were martial artists posing as street performers to get closer to their targets. You should read the history of inherited arts sometime, it’s fascinating.”

  “Is there anything you haven’t read about?” Rin asked. Kitay seemed to have an encyclopedic knowledge of almost every topic. That day over lunch he had given Rin a lecture on how fish-gutting techniques differed across provinces.

  “I have a soft spot for martial arts,” said Kitay. “Anyway, it’s depressing when you see people who can’t tell the difference between self-defense and performance art.”

  Nezha landed, crouched impressively, after a particularly high leap. Several of their classmates, absurdly, began to clap.

  Nezha straightened up, ignoring the applause, and caught Rin’s eye. “That’s what family arts are,” he said, wiping the sweat off his forehead.

  “I’m sure you’ll be the terror of the school,” said Rin. “You can dance for donations. I’ll toss you an ingot.”

  A sneer twisted Nezha’s face. “You’re just jealous you have no inherited arts.”

  “I’m glad I don’t, if they all look as absurd as yours.”

  “The House of Yin innovated the most powerful kicking-based technique in the Empire,” Nezha snapped. “Let’s see how you’d like being on the receiving end.”

  “I think I’d be fine,” Rin said. “Though it would be a dazzling visual spectacle.”

  “At least I’m not an artless peasant,” Nezha spat. “You’ve never done martial arts before in your life. You only know one kick.”

  “And you keep calling me a peasant. It’s like you only know one insult.”

  “Duel me, then,” Nezha said. “Fight to incapacitation for ten seconds or first blood. Right here, right now.”

  “You’re on,” Rin started to say, but Kitay slapped a hand over her mouth.

  “Oh, no. Oh, no, no.” Kitay yanked Rin back. “You heard Jun, you shouldn’t—”

  But Rin shrugged Kitay off. “Jun’s not here, is he?”

  Nezha grinned nastily. “Venka! Get over here!”

  Venka broke off her conversation with Niang at the other end of the room and flounced over, flushed at Nezha’s summons.

  “Referee us,” Nezha said, not taking his eyes off Rin.

  Venka folded her hands behind her back, imitating Master Jun, and lifted her chin. “Begin.”

  The rest of their class had now formed a circle around Nezha and Rin. Rin was too angry to notice their stares. She had eyes only for Nezha. He began moving around her, darting back and forth with quick, elegant movements.

  Kitay was right, Rin thought. Nezha really did look like he was performing stage opera. He didn’t seem particularly lethal then, just foolish.

  She narrowed her eyes and crouched low, following Nezha’s movements carefully.

  There. A clear opening. Rin raised a leg and kicked out, hard.

  Her leg caught Nezha in midair with a satisfying whoomph.

  Nezha uttered an unnatural shriek and clutched his crotch, whimpering.

  The entire studio fell silent as all heads swiveled in their direction.

  Nezha clambered to his feet, scarlet-faced. “You—how dare you—”

  “Just as you said.” Rin dipped her head into a mocking bow. “I only know one kick.”

  Humiliating Nezha felt good, but the political repercussions were immediate and brutal. It didn’t take long for their class to form alliances. Nezha, mortally offended, made it clear that associating with Rin meant social alienation. He pointedly refused to speak to her or acknowledge her existence, unless it was to make snide comments about her accent. One by one the members of their class, terrified of receiving the same treatment, followed suit.

  Kitay was the one exception. He had grown up on Nezha’s bad side, he told Rin, and it wasn’t about to start bothering him now.

  “Besides,” he said, “that look on his face? Priceless.”

  Rin was grateful for Kitay’s loyalty, but was amazed by how cruel the other students could be. There was apparently no end of things about Rin to be mocked: her dark skin, her lack of status, her country accent. It was annoying, but Rin was able to brush the taunts off—until her classmates started snickering every time she talked.

  “Is my accent so obvious?” she asked Kitay.

  “It’s getting better,” he said. “Just try rolling the ends of your words more. Shorten your vowels. And add the r sound where it doesn’t exist. That’s a good rule of thumb.”

  “Ar. Arrr.” Rin gagged. “Why do Sinegardians have to sound like they’re chewing cud?”

  “Power dictates acceptability,” Kitay mused. “If the capital had been built in Tikany, I’m sure we’d be running around dark as wood bark.”

  In the following days Nezha didn’t utter a single word to her, because he didn’t have to. His adoring followers wasted no opportunity to mock Rin. Nezha’s manipulations turned out to be brilliant—once he established that Rin was the prime target, he could just sit back and watch.

  Venka, who was obsessively attached to Nezha, actively snubbed Rin whenever she had the chance. Niang was better; she wouldn’t associate with Rin in public, but she at least spoke to her in the privacy of their dorm.

  “You could try apologizing,” Niang whispered one night after Venka had gone to sleep.

  Apologizing was the last thing Rin had in mind. She was
n’t about to concede defeat by massaging Nezha’s ego. “It was his idea to duel,” she snapped. “It’s not my fault he got what he was asking for.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Niang said. “Just say you’re sorry, and then he’ll forget about you. Nezha just likes to be respected.”

  “For what?” Rin demanded. “He hasn’t done anything to earn my respect. All he’s done is act high and mighty, like being from Sinegard makes him so special.”

  “Apologizing won’t help,” interjected Venka, who apparently hadn’t been asleep after all. “And being from Sinegard does make us special. Nezha and I”—it was always Nezha and I with Venka—“have trained for the Academy since we could walk. It’s in our blood. It’s our destiny. But you? You’re nothing. You’re just some tramp from the south. You shouldn’t even be here.”

  Rin sat up straight in her bed, suddenly hot with anger. “I took the same test as you, Venka. I have every right to be at this school.”

  “You’re just here to fill up the quota,” Venka retorted. “I mean, the Keju has to seem fair.”

  Annoying as Venka was, Rin scarcely had the time or energy to pay much attention to her. They stopped snapping at each other after several days, but only because they were too exhausted to speak. When training sessions ended for the week, they straggled back to the dormitory, muscles aching so much they could barely walk. Without a word, they shed their uniforms and collapsed on their bunks.

  They awoke almost immediately to a rapping at their door.

  “Get up,” said Raban when Rin yanked the door open.

  “What the—”

  Raban peered over her shoulder at Venka and Niang, who were whining incoherently from their bunks. “You too. Hurry up.”

  “What’s the matter?” Rin mumbled grumpily, rubbing at her eyes. “We’ve got sweeping duty in six hours.”

  “Just come.”

  Still complaining, the girls wriggled into their tunics and met Raban outside, where the boys had already assembled.

  “If this is some sort of first-year hazing thing, can I have permission to go back to bed?” asked Kitay. “Consider me bullied and intimidated, just let me sleep.”

  “Shut up. Follow me.” Without another word, Raban took off toward the forest.

  They were forced to jog to keep up with him. At first Rin thought he was taking them deep into the mountainside forest, but it was only a shortcut; after a minute they emerged in front of the main training hall. It was lit up from within, and they could hear loud voices from inside.

  “More class?” asked Kitay. “Great Tortoise, I’m going on strike.”

  “This isn’t class.” For some reason, Raban sounded very excited. “Get inside.”

  Despite the audible shouting, the hall was empty. Their class bumbled around in groggy confusion until Raban motioned for them to follow him down the stairs to the basement floor. The basement was filled with apprentices crowded around the center of the room. Whatever stood at the center of attention, it sounded extremely exciting. Rin craned to get a glimpse over the apprentices’ heads but could see nothing but bodies.

  “First-years coming through,” Raban yelled, leading their little group into the packed crowd. Through vigorous use of elbows, Raban carved them a path through the apprentices.

  The spectacle at the center was two circular pits dug deep into the ground, each at least three meters in diameter and two meters deep. The pits stood adjacent to one another, and were ringed with waist-high metal bars to keep spectators from falling in. One pit was empty. Master Sonnen stood in the center of the other, arms folded across his broad chest.

  “Sonnen always referees,” Raban said. “He gets the short straw because he’s the youngest.”

  “Referees what?” Kitay asked.

  Raban grinned widely.

  The basement door opened. Even more apprentices began to stream inside, filling the already cramped hall to the brim. The press of bodies forced the first-years perilously close to the edges of the rings. Rin clenched the rail to keep from falling in.

  “What’s going on?” Kitay asked as the apprentices jostled for positions closer to the rings. There were so many people in the room now that apprentices in the back had brought stools on which to stand.

  “Altan’s up tonight,” Raban said. “Nobody wants to miss Altan.”

  It must have been the twelfth time that week Rin had heard that name. The whole Academy seemed obsessed with him. Fifth-year student Altan Trengsin was associated with every school record, was every master’s favorite student, the exception to every rule. He had now become a running joke within their class.

  Can you piss over the wall into town?

  Altan can.

  A tall, lithe figure suddenly dropped into Master Sonnen’s ring without bothering to use the rope ladder. As his opponent scrambled down, the figure stretched his arms behind his back, head tilted up toward the ceiling. His eyes caught the reflection of the lamplight above.

  They were crimson.

  “Great Tortoise,” said Kitay. “That’s a real Speerly.”

  Rin peered inside the pit. Kitay was right; Altan didn’t look close to Nikara. His skin was several shades darker than any of the other students’; a darker hue, even, than Rin’s. But where Rin’s sun-browned skin made her look coarse and unsophisticated, Altan’s skin gave him a unique, regal air. His hair was the color of wet ink, closer to violet than black. His face was angular, expressionless, and startlingly handsome. And those eyes—scarlet, blazing red.

  “I thought the Speerlies were dead,” said Rin.

  “Mostly dead,” said Raban. “Altan’s the last one.”

  “I am Bo Kobin, apprentice to Master Jun Loran,” announced his opponent. “I challenge Altan Trengsin to a fight to incapacitation.”

  Kobin had to be twice Altan’s weight and several inches taller, yet Rin suspected this would not be a particularly close fight.

  Altan shrugged noncommittally.

  Sonnen looked bored. “Well, go on,” he said.

  The apprentices fell into their opening stances.

  “What, no introduction?” Kitay asked.

  Raban looked amused. “Altan doesn’t need an introduction.”

  Rin wrinkled her nose. “He’s a little full of himself, isn’t he?”

  “Altan Trengsin,” Kitay mused. “Is Altan the clan name?”

  “Trengsin. The Speerlies put clan names last,” Raban explained hastily. He pointed to the ring. “Shush, you’ll miss it.”

  They already had.

  She hadn’t heard Altan move, hadn’t even seen the scuffle begin. But when she looked back down at the ring, she saw Kobin pinned against the ground, one arm twisted unnaturally behind his back. Altan knelt above him, slowly increasing the pressure on Kobin’s arm. He looked impassive, detached, almost lackadaisical.

  Rin clenched at the railing. “When did—when did he—”

  “He’s Altan Trengsin,” Raban said, as if this were explanation enough.

  “Yield,” Kobin shouted. “Yield, damn it!”

  “Break,” said Sonnen, yawning. “Altan wins. Next.”

  Altan released Kobin and offered him a hand. Kobin let Altan hoist him to his feet, then shook Altan’s hand once he stood up. Kobin took his defeat with good grace. There was no shame, it seemed, in being defeated by Altan Trengsin in less than three seconds.

  “That’s it?” Rin asked.

  “It’s not over,” Raban said. “Altan got a lot of challengers tonight.”

  The next contender was Kureel.

  Raban frowned, shaking his head. “She shouldn’t have been given permission for this match.”

  Rin found this appraisal unfair. Kureel, who was one of Jun’s prized Combat apprentices, had a reputation for viciousness. Kureel and Altan appeared matched in height and strength; surely she could hold her own.

  “Begin.”

  Kureel charged Altan immediately.

  “Great Tortoise,” Rin murmured. She had
trouble following as Kureel and Altan began trading blows in close combat. They matched multiple strikes and parries per second, dodging and ducking around each other like dance partners.

  A minute passed. Kureel flagged visibly. Her blows became sloppy, overextended. Droplets of sweat flew from her forehead every time she moved. But Altan was unfazed, still moving with that same feline grace he had possessed since the beginning of the match.

  “He’s playing with her,” said Raban.

  Rin couldn’t take her eyes off Altan. His movements were dancelike, hypnotic. Every action bespoke sheer power—not the hulking muscle that Kobin had embodied, but a compact energy, as if at every moment Altan were a tightly coiled spring about to go off.

  “He’ll end it soon,” Raban predicted.

  It was ultimately a game of cat and mouse. Altan had never been evenly matched with Kureel. He fought on another level entirely. He had acted the part of her mirror to humor her at first, and then to tire her out. Kureel’s movements slowed with every passing second. And, mockingly, Altan too slowed down his pace to match Kureel’s rhythm. Finally Kureel lunged desperately forward, trying to score a hit on Altan’s midriff. Instead of blocking it, Altan jumped aside, ran up against the dirt wall of the ring, rebounded off the other side, and twisted in the air. His foot caught Kureel in the side of the head. She snapped backward.

  She was unconscious before Altan landed behind her, crouched like a cat.

  “Tiger’s tits,” said Kitay.

  “Tiger’s tits,” Raban agreed.

  Two orange-banded Medicine apprentices jumped immediately into the pit to lift Kureel out. A stretcher was already waiting by the side of the ring. Altan hung in the center of the pit, arms folded, waiting calmly for them to finish. Even as they carried Kureel out of the basement, another student climbed down the rope ladder.

  “Three challengers in one night,” Kitay said. “Is that normal?”

  “Altan fights a lot,” said Raban. “Everyone wants to be the one who takes him down.”