Chapter 41
Matiyu Nuwa loves San-Er.
That doesn’t mean he likes it, though. It smells bad and it’s cramped and when he breaks their self-imposed confinement to hurry out and source more instant noodles, it is inevitable that he will run into some type of trouble. San-Er is hectic, and it is awful, and it is his.
He won’t be driven out from his home.
“Will you put the baton down?” he hisses over the turnstile. “Don’t act like I’m a stranger.”
The cleric, Woya, regards him warily from the other side of the entryway. Matiyu wasn’t seeking entry into the Palace of Union anyway, so there is no need for this treatment. He’s here to talk. And haggle.
“It is after hours at the palace,” Woya replies. “I cannot socialize.”
Matiyu adjusts the umbrella to rest over his other shoulder, putting less strain on his one free arm while the other is out of commission.
His elbow is feeling better, at least. There’s less pain with each passing day.
Sometimes the hospitals in Er don’t set the bone correctly because they’re in such a rush to finish with each patient, so he had been worried.
“Wouldn’t after hours indicate that you are free to socialize?” Matiyu clears his throat before Woya can get annoyed at the correction. “In any case, you obviously know what I’m after. I need to stock up.”
“And I cited our prices already.”
The north entrance to the palace is usually a busy pathway.
It quieted while the heretics were running rampant, but after the Crescents blocked qi, the residents nearby have returned to regular routine.
In fact, when Matiyu adjusts to avoid knocking his umbrella into a lovely lady squeezing by, he wonders if it is even busier.
The Crescent Societies can no longer trade and traffic vessels, common criminals cannot commit theft by jumping.
For the first time in history, all who reside in the capital are utterly, utterly equal.
Which also means they’re equally vulnerable if August Shenzhi’s army arrives.
“I kind of hoped you were only following the market-price rules in front of your lackeys when you took my call,” Matiyu says. “Hey, remember when I took your call? In the surveillance room? That was a weighty favor.”
“That was not a weighty favor. That was you returning a favor for all the times I’ve gotten you out of scraps.”
“Look—”
“What’s going on?”
The voice comes from behind, and Matiyu scrambles to get his bearings. Where he could have easily turned around, the umbrella confuses his perspective, and he ends up whirling twice before facing Buira Makusa.
“You again,” she says.
“Matiyu was on his way,” Woya declares. “He was just bringing a home-cooked dinner to an old friend.”
“No I wasn’t,” Matiyu rebuts.
As if he would bring a home-cooked dinner to anyone. San-Er is running out of meat. He would likely only defrost a cut if the king of the heavens himself came down asking to be sat at his table and catered to. And maybe not even then, because what has the king of the heavens ever done for Matiyu?
“I was asking you about firearms,” Matiyu says. “Because the Crescent Societies are smuggling gunpowder and making firearms from scratch to keep the capital safe. Right?”
Woya’s eyes shutter, his lips thinning while he plans Matiyu’s murder in his mind. Buira whirls to the Crescent immediately.
“You have guns?” she demands. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?”
“They are nothing as they were a hundred years ago,” Woya says, each word careful. “Production schematics were destroyed. Craftsmen’s notebooks burned. All we can manage are the most basic prototypes. Some of the gunpowder chambers don’t even work.”
Buira folds her arms. When her heels click together, she is visibly standing in solidarity with Matiyu. He preens, feeling as though he’s picked up a compatriot.
“Bring them out,” Buira demands. “Distribute them.”
“Yeah!” Matiyu says. Yilas is going to hate that he’s acquiring more, but each of these firearms holds one bullet. How are they going to defend the cramped apartment in the face of battle?
“Miss Makusa,” Woya says, “have you come just to encourage this kid to underpay for his weapons?”
“No,” she replies. “I came because you need to shut every entrance of the palace.”
Woya rolls his eyes. “Now did you want me to do that before or after bringing out our firearms for free? Maybe I should start a charity and feed everyone in the twin cities while I’m at it.”
“You’ll want to move fast,” Buira says. “There’s movement outside the wall. Multiple heretics, forming a line. They’re coming.”
She walks away with a flounce.
And Matiyu blinks, dropping his umbrella. So much for a fellow compatriot. How did she bury the lede for that long? She should have started with that.
Woya pales. He looks to Matiyu, as though he is going to ask whether Matiyu can spare his labor, work for the Crescent Societies again and protect the capital.
The news stations have been running endless reports.
There were hundreds of casualties before the block activated.
Most of those incidents hadn’t intended to cause mass destruction—they were only people like the man at the seafood restaurant, lashing out with heavenly qi in a burst of anger.
San-Er is tired. It is hungry. It has been drenched in endless, grueling rain.
Calla Tuoleimi has abandoned them for her war in the provinces.
The Crescent Societies don’t know how to match the power that these heretics possess.
How quickly will the opponents outside level the twin cities to dust if they’re truly intent on annihilation?
“Matiyu—” Woya begins.
“No!” Matiyu calls in response. He’s already pivoted, running back to his apartment in Er. “No way!”