“That doesn’t explain why your guns are drawn,” Nikolai said mildly. “Something terrible has happened here. But it’s not the work of the Suli.”
“Their camp was untouched,” said Mirov, and Nikolai didn’t like the measured sound of his voice. It was one thing to calm a snapping dog, another to try to reason with a man who had dug himself a tidy trench and fortified it. “This … thing, this horror struck just days after they arrived on our land.”
“Your land,” said a Suli man standing at the center of the group. “There were Suli in every country this side of the True Sea before they even had names.”
“And what did you build here?” asked a butcher in a dirty apron. “Nothing. These are our homes, our businesses, our pastures and livestock.”
“They’re a cursed people,” said Mirov as if citing a fact—last year’s rainfall, the price of wheat. “Everyone knows it.”
“I hate to be left out of a party,” said Nikolai, “but I know no such thing, and this blight has struck elsewhere. It is a natural phenomenon, one my Materialki are studying and will find a solution to.” A heady combination of lies and optimism, but a bit of exaggeration never hurt anyone.
“They’re trespassing on Count Nerenski’s land.”
Nikolai let the mantle of Lantsov authority fall over him. “I am Ravka’s king. The count holds these lands at my discretion. I say these people are welcome here and under my protection.”
“So says the bastard king,” grumbled the butcher.
A hush fell.
Zoya clenched her fists and thunder rolled over the fields.
But Nikolai held up a hand. This was not a war they would win with force.
“Could you repeat that?” he asked.
The butcher’s cheeks were red, his brow furrowed. The man might well keel over from heart failure if his ignorance didn’t kill him first. “I said you are a bastard and not fit to sit that fancy horse.”
“Did you hear that, Punchline? He called you fancy.” Nikolai turned his attention back to the butcher. “You say I am a bastard. Why? Because our enemies do?”
An uncomfortable murmur passed through the crowd. A shuffling of feet. But no one spoke. Good.
“Do you call Fjerda your master now?” His voice rang out over the gathered townspeople, the Suli. “Will you learn to speak their tongue? Will you bow to their pureblood king and queen when their tanks roll over Ravka’s borders?”
“No!” cried Mirov. He spat on the ground. “Never!”
One down.
“Fjerda has loaded your guns with lies about my parentage. They hope you will turn your weapons on me, on your countrymen who stand at our borders even now, ready to defend this land. They hope you will do the bloody work of war for them.”
Of course, Nikolai was the liar here. But kings did what they wished; bastards did what they must.
“I’m no traitor,” snarled the butcher.
“You sure sound like one,” said Mirov.
The butcher thrust his chest out. “I fought for the Eighteenth Regiment and so will my son.”
“I bet you had quite a few Fjerdans running,” said Nikolai.
“Damn right I did,” said the butcher.
But the man behind him was less convinced. “I don’t want my children fighting in another war. Put them witches out front.”
Now Zoya let lightning crackle through the air around them. “The Grisha will lead the charge and I will take the first bullet if I have to.”
Mirov’s men took a step back.
“I should thank you,” Nikolai said with a smile. “When Zoya takes it into her head to be heroic, she can be quite frightening.”
“I’ll say,” squeaked the butcher.
“People died here,” said Mirov, trying to regain some authority. “Someone has to answer for—”
“Who answers for the drought?” asked Zoya. Her voice cut through the air like a well-honed blade. “For earthquakes? For hurricanes? Is this who we are? Creatures who weep at the first sign of trouble? Or are we Ravkan—practical, modern, no longer prisoners of superstition?”
Some of the townspeople looked resentful, but others appeared downright chastised. In another life Zoya would have made a terrifying governess—straight-backed, sour-faced, and perfectly capable of making every man present wet his trousers in fear. But a Suli woman was staring at Zoya, her expression speculative, and his general, who could usually be counted upon to meet any insolent look with a glare powerful enough to scorch forests, was either oblivious or deliberately ignoring her.