The Grace of Kings (17 page)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

KINDO MARANA

THE BIG ISLAND: THE THIRD MONTH IN THE FOURTH YEAR OF THE REIGN OF RIGHTEOUS FORCE.

Kindo Marana never dreamed that he would one day have to put away his abacus, wear a suit of armor, and strap a sword to his belt.

He preferred watching the emperor's treasury fill up with the money collected from all the Islands, not thinking about how to kill men in large numbers. He wanted to spend his time devising techniques for catching tax dodgers, not plotting strategy and examining casualty reports.

He had been a good student, showed a mind for figures, and worked his way diligently up the bureaucratic ladder. He enjoyed counting piles of coins and bushels of beans and bolts of cloth and jars of oil and bundles of dried fish and strings of shells and bags of rice and wheat and sorghum and sacks of wool and tins of fish scales. He found joy in classifying things, putting them in their rightful places, and checking their names off a list. He would have been happy doing that until he was old enough to retire.

But the regent was clear in his order. Somehow, a career bureaucrat who had never fought a single day in his life was now the Marshal of Xana, commander-in-chief of all of Xana's forces on land, at sea, and in the air.

Well, a servant's role was to discharge the duties of his post with diligence. He would begin with what he did best: an inventory of what he had to work with.

Nominally, Xana's forces on land numbered one hundred thousand. But just as Kindo Marana's yearly revenue projections for the treasury were never met, this number had to be discounted in seve­ral ways.

First, there was the matter of control. The only territories that the emperor still effectively held consisted of the Xana home islands of Dasu and Rui, Crescent Island in the northwest, Écofi Island in the southwest, and a butterfly-shaped slice of the middle of the Big Island, made up of the rich fields of Géfica and Géjira. The tall peaks of the Damu Mountains and the Shinané Mountains, and the broad expense of the Liru River and the rapids of Sonaru River, for now, held the rebels at bay—and the deadly expanse of the Gonlogi Desert also helped.

Haan, in the northwest corner of the Big Island, was also still completely under Imperial occupation. But the garrisons of the other territories had either surrendered and joined the rebels or were sealed in their cities and cut off from his command. They couldn't be counted in the asset column of the ledger. The troops that he truly could command numbered only about ten thousand, consisting of the most loyal units around the Immaculate City.

Second, even in the areas that Xana still controlled, the situation was far from secure. The large number of prisoners and corvée laborers, forcefully conscripted from all over Dara to work on the Mausoleum and in the Grand Tunnels, could easily be turned into a rioting mob. They would welcome the rebels from their homelands as “liberators” if they should launch a coordinated attack on the Imperial heartland.

Third, the navy and the air force were in bad shape. The great airships were expensive to maintain and operate, as the lift gas leaked slowly but steadily from the silk gasbags, which had to be refilled periodically. Since there was only one source of lift gas in the whole world, scheduling the refill flights became a chore that many air force commanders avoided in peacetime. Except for the few airships that had accompanied Emperor Mapidéré on his constant tours, most of the Xana airships from the Unification Wars had been grounded for years. The navy was also barely a shell of its former self. Except for those patrolling for pirates in the north, the navy's ships had sat in docks for years, infested by shipworms and barely afloat. These were yet more liabilities.

Finally, morale was abysmal. Marana understood well how the way a man felt about something affected the way he went about doing it. Back when Xana was still only one Tiro state among seven, not an empire, the people of Xana had resented the way the other Islanders treated them as unsophisticated rubes, semi-barbaric poor cousins. When King Réon began his wars of conquest and the taxes had to be raised to support them, there was a palpable sense of purpose among the populace that Xana had to fight for its rightful place in Dara, and the people paid the tax collectors almost willingly. This changed quickly under the peace of the empire. And right now, that sense of hope and purpose belonged to the rebels of the Six States, while Xana soldiers were on the run, depressed, and uncertain about the justness of their cause.

Having tallied up the balance sheet, Marana methodically went about improving it. That was a task he was familiar with. During the later years of the Reign of One Bright Heaven, and especially now, the Reign of Righteous Force, the palace made many unreasonable demands of the Treasury. Yet, he had somehow always found ways to fulfill them.

He would begin by turning a liability into an asset. The corvée laborers could be impressed into the Imperial army, and the prisoners and slaves freed on condition that they distinguish themselves in battle. To train these men, the veterans of elite Xana units would be promoted into squad leaders, sergeants, fifty-chiefs, and hundred-chiefs in the new, expanded army. The inexperienced new conscripts would be organized and integrated in such a way that no squad would consist of too many soldiers with the same homeland. Thus divided, disciplined, and watched over by Xana veterans, they might yet prove effective at holding off an assault by the rebels on the Imperial heartland, at least temporarily. While debasing currency alone never solved a budget problem for the long term, it would work for a while.

But the real solution lay in Rui and Dasu, the Xana homeland. He would have to go back and raise up an army of dedicated believers in the cause of Xana and the empire.

Never mind the harshness of the empire's rules. Never mind that Xana's poor groaned under the Imperial yoke as loudly as the poor in other states. If he could inflame their love of country and manly pride, the fresh troops from Xana could and would reconquer the Six States one by one until Emperor Mapidéré's dream was complete again. It seemed a tall order, probably as challenging as his attempts to get the merchants and farmers of the empire to comply with the tax code—but he had done pretty well at that, hadn't he? Perhaps just as the tax code was a microcosm of all the policies that animated an empire, what he knew of administering the taxes was a microcosm of statecraft.

Maybe the regent had picked him for a reason.

Kindo Marana sighed. There was so much to do.

The Krima-Shigin Expeditionary Force met early success.

The Marshals Krima and Shigin decided to begin by clearing the southern shore of the Liru River of all remaining Xana garrisons. The Liru itself was patrolled by the Imperial navy, and crossing the wide river was not an option just yet.

City after city fell to the rebels, often after little fighting. The Imperial soldiers had no desire to resist and often simply opened the city doors, took off their uniforms, and tried to blend in with the civilian population as the rebels got close.

Krima and Shigin attributed the victories to their own genius and bravery. Who needed books of military strategy and tactics? These were simply more ways for the old nobles to make themselves sound important. The two of them, mere peasants, nonetheless made the fearsome Imperial soldiers run away at the mere sight of their banners.

The two newly minted dukes never ran drills or tried to assemble the troops into battle formations. What was the point? Theirs was an invincible army based on the righteous power and anger of the people!

They ignored all forms of discipline and the chain of command. Even uniforms were optional. Every rebel soldier dressed however he wished, and if a soldier really wanted a sign to prove his revolutionary zeal, he could tie a red bandanna around his head with the twin-raven insignia of Cocru. Everyone marched as fast or slow as he liked.

As for weapons, men could choose to wield swords taken from captured Imperial armories or stick with farm and kitchen implements if they felt more comfortable with them. There was no pay—except what soldiers could loot and take from civilians who were reported to have Imperial sympathies in conquered cities. The rebels laughed, joked, told stories, or even sat down to take a nap when they felt like it. When the Expeditionary Force approached a city, it was like a giant mob of peasants coming to market.

But woe to any unfortunate merchant, farmer, woodsman, or fisherman who was caught by the rebels in their sweeping march through northern Cocru. Goods, money, livestock, crops—the rebels took whatever they wanted. “We're requisitioning these for the liber­ation of Cocru,” they would say to the owners. “You
do
want to do your part to bring down the tyranny of Xana and contribute to the glory of King Thufi, don't you?” Any owner not convinced by these eloquent arguments would soon be convinced by fists or worse.

The dazed victims were left on the ground, nursing their wounds and watching the dust kicked up by the mob-army fading into the distance. The country through which the rebel army traveled looked like a field picked clean by locusts.

“How are we different from bandits?” Ratho asked his brother. They each carried a sack laden with loot taken from the last merchant caravan they had passed on the road. “I don't feel like a liberator.”

“Rat, don't worry about it,” Dafiro said. He was richer than he had ever been. “Your job is not to ask why. Your job is to do what the marshals have told you to do. This has always been how wars are fought. Let wiser heads than ours philosophize about it and sort it out.”

When Phin Zyndu heard about the exploits of the new Marshal and Vice Marshal of Cocru, he threw up his hands in disgust. “What is King Thufi thinking? We have been waiting for him to follow the proper ancient rites and come to Tunoa on an auspicious date and invest us with the leadership of Cocru's army, as was done in your grandfather's time. But he doesn't seem to understand what is expected of him.”

“This will not end well, Uncle,” Mata said. “We must cross over to the Big Island. If King Thufi will not come to us, then we must go to him. Cocru again needs the firm hand of the Zyndus, the real marshals of Cocru.”

As the double-raven flags of Cocru and the chrysanthemum banners of the Zyndu Clan flapped in the cold breeze coming off the sea, eight hundred men lined up on shore in a tight phalanx. A fleet of fishing boats bobbed in the sea, waiting to take them to the Big Island.

Phin slowly paced before them, locking eyes with each soldier in turn.

“Thank you,” Phin said. “
You're
the reason that Cocru lives again. I am honored to lead you.”

A few soldiers began to chant. Soon, other voices joined in until eight hundred men were shouting as one.

“Zyndu! Zyndu! Zyndu!”

Phin nodded and smiled and tried to wipe away his tears.

Behind him, Mata leapt onto an anchor stone so that he towered even higher over the assembled men, and his voice rang out over their heads: