City of Blades

by Robert Jackson Bennett

  “But why do it at all?”

  “It sounds like…like some kind of ritual,” says Mulaghesh. “A ceremony. The way the bodies are mutilated, the way the person doing it dresses. And someone watches, from a distance, needing to make sure it happens….”

  “Voortyashtanis have many ceremonies,” says Gozha. “And surely they had more before the collapse, the Blink. But I never knew of this one.”

  “That’s not to say it didn’t exist,” says Mulaghesh. “But what it’s meant to do is beyond me.”

  Gozha begins to walk away. Then she stops at the door and says, “It feels strange to say this to an easterner. But I hope you catch these people.” Her gaze sharpens. “We are not pigs or goats, General Mulaghesh.”

  “I know that.”

  “I hope the others who wear your uniform think the same as you.”

  Mulaghesh goes to the doorway and watches Gozha walk away through the forest. Then she looks up and tries to gauge the position of the sun in the sky. It’s early afternoon. She needs to be back in the city by evening. If she misses her hour with Signe tonight, she’ll probably die of old age waiting around for an opening again. She takes one last look around the shack.

  She stops. Cocks her head. Then walks to the corner.

  There’s a trace of something silvery on the floor in the corner of the shack. Mulaghesh touches it with her fingertips and looks at them in the light.

  It looks a little like graphite, soft and powdery.

  “Ah, shit,” says Mulaghesh. “It can’t be….” She looks around for the trapdoor, finds it, tears it open, and drops down to the earthen basement.

  It’s close, dark, and damp down here. She lights a match, sending warm, fluttering luminescence dancing over the dark walls. Bohdan stocked this room with the bare essentials, pots of water and skins for sleeping on. She looks up, guessing where she saw the residue, and walks to the corner.

  The earthen floor glimmers at her feet. She squats to examine the loose pile of light, dusty ore collected in the corner, where it must’ve trickled through the cracks in the floor. She touches it with her fingers. It falls apart like powdered sugar.

  She knows what it is. She saw mounds of it yesterday, after all.

  “Thinadeskite,” she whispers. “Well, I’ll be fucking damned.”

  ***

  Nadar’s eyes dance around Biswal’s office as she thinks. “That’s…not possible.”

  “I don’t know how, either,” says Mulaghesh. “I could be wrong—I’d prefer to be wrong. But I dumped out my water and put it in here so you could check to make sure.” She holds her canteen out. “How long would it take for Prathda to confirm this is actually thinadeskite?”

  Nadar takes it, still stunned and blinking as she tries to process this revelation. A dove flits by the windows of Biswal’s crow’s nest, glancing at these three strange creatures having a discussion at the top of the tower. “An hour at most,” she says. “It’s easy to identify.”

  “Then I suggest we start now,” says Biswal. He sits staring eastward at the Tarsils, fingers steepled and deep in thought. “The security implications are…concerning.”

  “You’re absolutely right, sir,” says Nadar. There’s a gleam of sweat around her temple. “To have such a substance appear in Voortyashtani hands…”

  “And at the scene of a brutal murder,” says Mulaghesh.

  “And, if what you’ve said is correct,” says Biswal, “a murder that a missing Ministry intelligence operative had some knowledge of.”

  “Maybe,” says Mulaghesh. “There are a lot of maybes here. We still haven’t worked out how Choudhry could have predicted the murders.”

  Biswal sits back in his chair, eyes fixed on the distant Solda. “There are no other verified or known sources of thinadeskite in this region. We’re the only source. So somehow it got from here to there. Now I have to wonder what else might be getting from here to there, or vice versa—intelligence, resources, weapons….Could someone have an operative or an informant in Fort Thinadeshi? Someone who could tell insurgents how to cut through the perimeters, throw open the gates, and work around the schedules of our patrols?”

  “Determining this is a priority for me, sir,” says Nadar. She looks pale. Mulaghesh isn’t surprised: having a security breach take place under your watch is something your superiors aren’t quick to forget.

  “I’m glad to hear it. Have your most trusted people run the tests on what General Mulaghesh brought back,” says Biswal. “Then do a thorough probe and reevaluation of the mining and research operations. We’ll want to know what happens to the thinadeskite every step of the way, and who’s involved. See if anyone squirms under the pressure. And have General Mulaghesh here check out the mines, too.”

  Mulaghesh’s heart nearly sings. She was hoping Biswal would say that. If he didn’t, she was going to have to ask for it herself, and requesting access to such a highly controlled site could be a considerable overreach of authority.

  “Yes, sir,” says Nadar. “I…I would like for my own investigators to get a look first, if that’s possible.”

  Biswal looks to Mulaghesh. “Sure,” she says. “I’m here to help, if I can. I’ve no talent for vacations. Make use of me if you can.”

  “We appreciate your assistance in this matter,” says Biswal. “Without your attention we wouldn’t have even known about this issue.”

  Mulaghesh keeps her face still as she nods, though she doesn’t want his compliments. She doesn’t need Nadar being more frustrated with her than she already is, and she knows the captain doesn’t think of this as a “we” situation: this is Mulaghesh riding into Fort Thinadeshi and making everyone look bad, especially Nadar.

  “It would take about four days for reevaluation, sir,” says Nadar. “And that’s a quick turnaround time.”

  “Four days…and on the fifth, we’re talking to the tribal leaders.” He rubs his brow, groaning slightly. “General Mulaghesh can take her tour that afternoon, then, I suppose. I’ve no doubt you and I will have plenty to occupy us by then, Nadar.”

  “We can make it work, sir.”

  Biswal nods at Nadar. “Good. Dismissed, Captain. Thank you.” Nadar nods at him, then turns and trots down the stairwell.

  “Take a seat, Turyin,” says Biswal. He reaches down, pulls out two small glasses, and pours some plum wine. “You know, when I said I could give you some problems to handle, I didn’t mean you needed to go out and find some new ones we didn’t know about.”

  “You’d prefer I keep silent the next time?”

  “Hells no. I just never figured you’d be one of those soldiers who spend their golden years banging around military halls, trying to find problems to fix.”

  “Let’s watch it on the whole ‘golden years’ shit. And also, this is coming from a man who fought to take command here.”

  “Fair point.” He slides a glass over, then picks up his own and holds it to his temple. He sighs. “But you’re getting some impression of all the problems we’re having here. All the problems I’ve inherited, in other words. And, if you can believe it, this new one isn’t even the most alarming.”

  “I’ve got a feeling you’re about to ask me to do something, Lalith.”

  “I do outrank you, remember.” He smiles sardonically and taps the bars on his collar. Biswal is a third-class general of the Saypuri Military, whereas Mulaghesh is fourth-class, the lowest class one could possibly occupy while still possessing the rank of general. Mulaghesh is well aware that the only reason she has the rank at all is that Shara wanted her on the military council, which is forbidden to anyone below the rank of general. But then, nepotism is so rampant in Ghaladesh currently that there are more generals and colonels in service than there are captains and lieutenants.

  “True,” she says. She sips at her wine. It tastes like vinegar to her tongue. “I also know I don’t want to be in your seat, so you can keep outranking me all you want.”

  He sighs. “You can say that again. W
hen I brought up security breaches earlier, materials and resources mysteriously leaving the fortress…This wasn’t the first time.”

  “I kind of got that impression.”

  “A year and a half ago a supply train traveling from Fort Hadj to Fort Lok was hit by highland insurgents. They dragged a bunch of logs up onto the track so the train had no choice but to stop. And this particular train was carrying a great deal of weapons, ammunition—and explosives.”

  “Shit.”

  “Yes. My predecessor waged a vigorous campaign in response and managed to recover most of the weapons and ammunition, and all of the explosives—or so he thought. This would be, as a note, the very campaign that he wound up dying in. But last month we did an inventory check, and we found fifteen pounds of the explosives we recovered aren’t actually explosives at all. They’re sand and clay. Mock-ups.”

  “Shit.”

  “Yes. We don’t know when the switch took place, unfortunately. Maybe when the insurgents first took possession of it. But now that you’ve found what you’ve found, maybe someone switched it here, at the fortress.”

  “You think that if someone helped secret thinadeskite out,” says Mulaghesh, “they might have done the same for your explosives.”

  He nods, his steely gray eyes shining bright. “That’s correct. And I worry enough about what happens outside these walls and wire. To have a rat amidst us…”

  “So where do I come in? I don’t want to horn in on Nadar’s command here any more than I already have.”

  “I don’t want you to, either,” says Biswal. “Nadar is an exceptional officer in a difficult situation. No, I want you to talk to the CTO of SDC for me.”

  “Ah,” says Mulaghesh. “Harkvaldsson. You’re worried about the harbor.”

  “I am. Fifteen pounds of explosives in insurgent hands…That has me looking around, wondering exactly what’s vulnerable. And there’s a lot vulnerable down at the harbor. It wouldn’t be the first time they tried. A sharpshooter once took a shot at our ambitious, young CTO a few months ago. He missed and the SDC guards mowed him down pretty quick—but still.”

  “Why not talk to her yourself?”

  “We don’t have the…” He grumbles and stares out the window. “Well. The easiest relationship. She asks for a lot. I say no a lot. It’s a dance we do every time we meet. But I want her to respond to this threat adequately. It might help if the warning comes from someone else.”

  “I hardly deal with her any better,” says Mulaghesh. “But I need to talk to her anyway. I’ll take care of it.”

  “There’s also the tribal leader meeting in five days,” says Biswal. “They’ll know all about the murders at Poshok by now. I want you to be there.”

  “What, to testify?”

  “We don’t have anything to testify on yet. No, I just want another set of eyes. You dealt with people like this in Bulikov. See if you spot anything squirrelly. Odds are someone in that room will be the person responsible for stealing those explosives—and possibly the thinadeskite, too.”

  “I’m not a mind reader, Lalith.”

  “But you’re better than nothing. And nothing is what we have now.” He stares glumly into his wineglass, then drains it. “Harkvaldsson sent us new forecasts. Three months until the harbor and rivers are dredged. Then two years until the harbor itself is a functioning port. She says the dredging is the hard part—they’ve been at it for years already. And from an engineering standpoint, that might be true. But I’m concerned about what comes after.”

  “After?”

  “What’s it going to cost to keep the peace? And how long are we going to be here?” He looks at her balefully. “Not all of us are lauded heroes such as you, Turyin. We don’t get to hop from place to place. Some might be sailing out of that port soon. But I won’t. I expect me and the rest of the troops here will be in Voortyashtan for a long, long time.”

  I was told she spoke, once, in younger days. I was told the other Divinities could see her face, her eyes, her smile, and she would talk to them, sometimes as a friend.

  But no more. When I saw her there was only her queer, cold faceplate—how I hated its placid expression, a mockery of a face—and the never-ending silence of her eyeless gaze.

  Empress of Graves, Queen of Grief, She Who Clove the Earth in Twain.

  I hoped to never hear Voortya speak.

  —MEMOIRS OF SAINT KIVREY, PRIEST AND 78TH WIFE-HUSBAND OF JUKOV, C. 982

  Mulaghesh is in a cheerless mood when she walks into the SDC board club. She’s done nothing here but find more questions, each one more troubling than the last. And while at first she worried over how Sumitra Choudhry could have known about the murders before they happened, now she keeps thinking about what Gozha said at the charcoal maker’s shack….

  A short woman, thinks Mulaghesh. Every inch of skin concealed.

  Choudhry came here eight months ago. The murders at Ghevalyev took place seven months ago. Then Choudhry disappeared two months later. The timing’s right—Choudhry was in the region—though does anyone have any proof that Choudhry’s not in Voortyashtan now, hiding out?

  Let’s not jump to conclusions, she thinks, shoving the door open. Even if they seem so easy to get to.

  She sits, and the Dreyling boy with the wispy mustache slinks out of the secret door in the wall and places a platter before her: fried biscuits, a variety of smoked or pickled fish, and some sort of dark green concoction that Mulaghesh isn’t familiar with and doesn’t wish to be.

  She checks the clock on the wall. Just past 1900. Yet there’s no Signe in sight.

  She pulls out her portfolio and idly flips through the files she found in Choudhry’s room. She stares at the painting of Vallaicha Thinadeshi, wondering what grave she lies in in this country.

  “Why are you reading about Thinadeshi?” asks a voice over her shoulder.

  “Huh?” She looks up to find Signe standing over her, clipboard nestled under her arm, a gray scarf piled around her neck, and a tiny porcelain thimble of ink-black coffee in her hand. “Oh, ah…Well. Choudhry was reading about her.”

  “Choudhry might have wanted a broad view of the region,” says Signe, sitting, “but I didn’t realize she wanted a view that broad. Thinadeshi disappeared here, what, fifty years ago?”

  “Sixty some-odd, yeah.”

  “Well, that I could’ve chatted to her about. She was a childhood hero of mine, you know. The great engineer. And we had something in common, of course….”

  “And what was that?”

  “Why, we both had a fucking miserable time here in Voortyashtan, didn’t we?” She smiles briefly, then checks her watch, a complicated, sleek contraption. “We have a little over fifty minutes. What is it you’d like to discuss with me, General?”

  “Well, now I have something new to talk with you about. Something…delicate.”

  “How delicate?”

  “About as delicate as it gets.” She begins to outline Biswal’s briefing, but—as she expected—Signe doesn’t let her get too far into it.

  “A bomb?” says Signe, appalled.

  Mulaghesh holds up a hand as she chews a fried biscuit. “Well, realistically, it’s probably several bombs.”

  “Several bombs?”

  “Fifteen pounds of explosives…That’s quite a bang. Better to distribute it throughout your target. Or parcel it out and do a long, sustained, exhausting bombing campaign.”

  Signe is so horrified she’s brought to her feet. “You…You can’t be serious!”

  “I am. Biswal is requesting you allocate your security forces appropriately.”

  “Requesting!” Signe hisses. “Requesting! How polite and considerate of him!”

  “Sit down. And calm down. I’m about to say something that might ease your fears a little—but I still want to make sure you absolutely understand that this is a threat to be taken seriously.”

  “Does it look like I’m not taking it seriously?” shouts Signe. Mulaghesh has to admit, this
is the most rattled she’s seen Signe yet. Threatening the harbor, she thinks, is like threatening her child.

  “Sit,” says Mulaghesh forcefully. “Once I’m done you can go tell your chief of security. But I want you to hear this first.”

  Signe does so, her face pink with fury.

  “Let’s look at the timeline,” says Mulaghesh. “A year and a half ago, the train gets raided. Biswal’s predecessor wages an extensive campaign to recover what was lost and loses his life in the process. And now, just in the past days, we discover that the explosives that were recovered were fakes, and the real explosives are still out there.”

  “So?” says Signe.

  “So whoever has the explosives hasn’t done anything with them for over a year and a half,” says Mulaghesh. “That doesn’t make sense. You steal something, you try and use it before the owner figures out it’s stolen. You wait too long and then the owner starts investigating and trying to make sure you can’t ever use it. Which is what we’re doing now.”

  Signe lights a cigarette. “So?”

  “So something doesn’t add up. This isn’t a ‘lull your enemy into a false sense of security’ situation. We’ve been in a false sense of security for months, and they didn’t do anything. Just glancing at the timeline, it almost makes me think those explosives aren’t in insurgent hands anymore. Haven’t the tribes been warring with one another for months?”

  “Of course.”

  “So you’re telling me that for nearly a year, the insurgents found no opportunities to use fifteen pounds of high-impact explosives against the people they despise?”

  “I suppose that’s a good point….”

  “And why would they come after the harbor?” says Mulaghesh. “Everyone’s squabbling over the money you and SDC are going to make everyone. It’s not like you’ve done anything to piss off the highland tribes, have you?”

  At that Signe’s face does something interesting to Mulaghesh—nothing. Her mouth doesn’t purse, her eyebrows don’t wriggle, and her pupils don’t move one jot. She barely seems to even breathe.