Chapter 45
When Bibi first arrived in Laho, she was always crawling around. It drove the Dovetail elders mad. She was too old to justify it, scuttling about like some small bear. But being on all fours meant she was less likely to be seen. Less likely to be picked on, pushed around.
There’s still a bit of that instinct sometimes.
She climbs to join the hubbub atop San’s wall, and she wants to curl in on herself, to stay close to the ground.
Keep her belly protected, her qi near the earth.
The storm has stopped, at least. No more rainfall clogging their drains, their floorboards, their very ears.
Though the dark clouds have not cleared, that isn’t so much a feature of poor weather and more the twin cities’ default state.
“Any movement?” Bibi asks the nearest Crescent.
The woman turns, briefly, to identify who is speaking to her. “Nothing. It’s as though they walked themselves into view and stayed put.”
In the distance, a dark line has formed.
It reminds Bibi of sea-foam, frothing along the edge of a wave and dragging upon the shore.
The Crescents would have written them off as mere rural dwellers, only they refused to come any closer once they appeared.
The Crescents even tried waving them in, saying that the wall was open, that the Crescent Societies were receptive to all who sought to join their ranks, but the bodies—there surely have to be over a hundred to make a line that long—did not move.
At that point, growing nervous, someone asked to fetch Buira Makusa, because she could see a little more into someone’s qi, and when Bibi climbed the wall, she couldn’t hold back her gasp.
Heretics or old gods, it doesn’t matter anymore. Whatever they are, they’re powerful enough that Bibi can see a mist surrounding their offense line—excess qi inundating the atmosphere. Each time Bibi blinks to clear it from her vision, the mist forms again after mere seconds.
“Buira.”
Bibi’s attention snaps to the watchtower at the end of the walkway. Her stomach clenches, but she makes her way over to Tsosia, careful on the wet bricks.
“The palace is closed,” Bibi reports. She hesitates, then says, “I would recommend sealing the capital too. Close the entrances. It creates one additional barrier on top of every—”
“The clerics do not agree,” Tsosia interrupts. “We cannot go against what we have always worked for.”
“But we must protect the capital before we can protect those seeking refuge from the provinces,” Bibi returns. “The people waiting out there are powerful.”
“The Weisannas are busy enough with August Shenzhi’s war. Perhaps these are individuals who only wish to monitor the situation in San-Er.”
Bibi swallows hard. Some of the Crescents are rushing down the ladder, calling among themselves to get more crossbows—hurry up, there has to be a weapons shop with a stash somewhere.
“I know you don’t believe that,” Bibi says. “Galipei Weisanna acted alone, not on August’s instructions. You understand it too. I saw you interrogate him on the cameras.”
Tsosia’s glare whips to her. “You make a habit of watching those?”
“I’m on duty over his capture—yes, I’m going to make a habit of watching those.”
Tsosia doesn’t appear pleased. “You should have told us he was captured from the beginning. To think we only found out from tattling prisoners.”
It is an admonishment without sting, because Tsosia has always known who Bibi is, and Tsosia alone understands that Bibi is not a Crescent, that she should not be expected to behave like one.
Tsosia and Bibi worked together best when they were plotting the ruin of the palace—after that, Bibi grew tired of the back-and-forth between clerics each wanting a say in what came next.
“I apologize,” Bibi says. “But you see it. Another guides his hand.”
For a moment, Tsosia is silent. A tremor beats through the waiting bodies. Some are moving. Those in the center, inching forward.
“The sister,” Tsosia says. “There is something odd about her.”
“Yes,” Bibi agrees.
The heretics are walking toward the wall. Only a small section, at first. Then another fragment.
“I noticed,” Bibi goes on, “that Otta Avia shares a fragment of qi with the princess. I assumed I was mistaken. But the more I muse upon it, the more I wonder if I saw correctly. She does not seem to be a city commoner who was brought into the palace. She seems old. Very old.”
During Bibi’s time undercover in the Palace of Union, she hadn’t interacted with either Calla or Otta Avia. But she caught sight of them in passing. She could read Otta’s qi. And now, having spent longer in Calla’s presence…
“There’s her mark all over these people,” Bibi says. “Otta Avia. Except it reeks of a Tuoleimi.”
Tsosia takes a beat. Considers everything she is implying, and everything she dares not to say.
“Close the entrance!” she bellows.
There’s sudden motion underneath, the Crescents of the Shard Temple working to slam the gate of the wall’s primary entrance.
Bibi nods to herself, because this will make a difference.
One additional barrier up against invasion.
Along the walkway, the Crescents who armed themselves with crossbows get in position. Poised to fire.
Bibi excuses herself from Tsosia’s side, shuffling along the wall where she can get a better angle on the approaching invaders.
Since the heretics emerged, the Crescents have scrambled like nothing before.
They have not put sigils on their own bodies, as Bibi expected, because they have realized that no amount of qi will match up to that of a god.
Perhaps Bibi is not as much of a believer as she thought she was, because she feels no worship for these individuals. Only dread.
“Fire at the first sign of attack,” a Crescent beside her instructs.
“What qualifies as an attack?” another returns.
“Use your judgment.”
They are all hoping and praying the heretics do not come any closer. That this does not escalate, because every member of the Crescent Societies can already predict how that will end.
San-Er, decimated.
Bibi picks at a piece of dead skin in the corner of her lip. It comes off too easily. A sharp pain pierces her mouth. The air trembles.
When the invasion begins, not a single Crescent has the time to shoot. The heretic moves faster than their eyes can understand. Launching from the center of the line, bolting for the wall and crashing straight through, putting a groaning hole in the middle of the thick barrier.
Crescents, screaming. The walkway atop the hole collapses. Bodies tumble down to the ground, losing their balance, colliding amid rubble. San’s wall was already made weak after the attack on the westernmost section. Rapid repairs were done to the central gate, but clearly it was not enough.
“Fire!” Tsosia bellows. “Fire!”
While the Crescents scramble to get their bearings, to steady their feet and aim their crossbows, Bibi hurries for the ladder and slides down. She’s right in time to see the heretic disappear between the city’s buildings. Will the qi block hold? How powerful are they inside the capital?
“Heavens have mercy,” she murmurs under her breath, and then she’s in pursuit, rushing into the alley too.
There’s a reason why no army in history has succeeded in storming San-Er.
It is impossible to coordinate. Impossible to create flanks and lines, because soldiers are split up in alleys, soldiers dive through stairwells aiming for a rooftop route only to find themselves crossing three buildings over instead.
Bibi squeezes herself into a thin opening that was most certainly not meant as a passageway, its path littered with broken flowerpot pieces, cigarette butts and lighters, discarded tissues forming globules after the rain.
She emerges out the other side, catching the heretic pausing at the thoroughfare. She launches herself at the invader.
They collide more easily than expected. The heretic has the appearance of a young boy—the height of Bibi’s shoulders, she realizes, as she grapples for footing.
The boy struggles. He does not say anything, does not bid her to get off.
When she pushes on his elbow and pulls a blade, she looks into his eyes and sees no response, no fear, no rage.
The sigil. Slash the sigil!
Bibi’s eyes drop, searching the heretic’s exposed skin.
But he bucks her off, and then he’s gone, faster than Bibi can comprehend.
She gasps for breath, her palms scraping against cement.
San-Er is screaming. The invasion line is rushing through the hole in the wall; the invasion line spirits into the capital’s thin, winding routes.
The block is not strong enough, then. It fails to protect against this sort of assault.
Not an army, but a frenzy. With her lungs tight, Bibi picks herself back up, stumbling the next street over where a market is still in operation.
She swipes a saucepan. A wooden spoon. The merchant protests and asks if she is going to purchase it, right before Bibi starts to bang them together, making a racket.
“Get underground!” she commands. “Find a basement!”
Something strikes a residential building to the north. The building teeters, seeming like it might hold for a split second, before its collapse accelerates, crashing into its neighbor.
The market-goers hurry to move. Bibi whirls around.
A flash—another heretic, sprinting across the alleys, making for the center of San, for the Palace of Union.
She makes chase, ditching the saucepan. More than once, she shoves aside a civilian who is still outside hanging their laundry, screaming at them to get inside.
How can people in San-Er be so hopeless about perceiving their surroundings?
They have been at war since the Crescents attacked the palace.
Since Calla took the crown from August. Do they not worry?
Do these millions think that their fortunes will be so lucky, spared by statistical improbability?