The Divine Cities Trilogy: City of Stairs, City of Blades, and City of Miracles, With an Excerpt From Foundryside

by Robert Jackson Bennett

  “What a tragedy,” mutters Mulaghesh. But she doesn’t feel really disturbed until she looks at the next display.

  She stops and stares. She’s happy she’s alone, for she feels she might make a scene.

  The exhibit is completely empty except for a stone mask standing on a thin steel pole. Unlike many of the other displays this mask is not large, though it is perhaps slightly wider and taller than the average human face. It’s also a little too round, as the normal human skull is somewhat oblong. But it’s the face that is the most disturbing part: the eyeholes are small and set both too far apart and far too low, leaving a prodigious brow above them with a single ridge-like seam running through their middle. The seam ends in a tiny, insignificant point of a nose with no nostrils, and below that are two short rows of needle-like teeth, a bad parody of a human mouth. Around the edges of the mask are many small holes through which, presumably, one once threaded string to tie the mask onto one’s face.

  It’s not the real thing. Mulaghesh knows it isn’t. But she’s seen an abundance of sketches and paintings, for these masks haunt Saypur to this day. These masks—the real ones, the ones made of steel and bone—were present in Saypuri life for hundreds and hundreds of years, right up until the Night of the Red Sands.

  For wasn’t every Saypuri terrified of waking up and finding such a face staring in through their window? Wasn’t every road and every river and every port watched by those blank, staring eyes? Mulaghesh was told that the people (if they could even be called such things) that wore those masks would go by Saypuri slums at night while everyone slept, and toss in little metal tokens through the open windows, tiny coin-like baubles fashioned to resemble their headgear. The Saypuri slaves would then wake up and find these distorted, grinning skulls no bigger than the palm of their hand waiting on their floors or on their tables, and they would understand the unspoken message: We were here. Walls mean nothing to us. Nothing can be kept from us.

  Mulaghesh, breathing hard, looks at the sign beside the display:

  CLAY RE-CREATION OF A VOORTYASHTANI SENTINEL MASK.

  There is nothing else. But of course there isn’t: there is nothing more to say about such things.

  “Not an original, of course,” says Signe’s voice.

  Mulaghesh turns to see her walking down the hall in her quick, efficient pace. “It had fucking well better not be.”

  “They’re wrapping up in there,” says Signe. “Biswal and Rada should be out any time, if you’re waiting.” She stops and looks at the mask, then thinks and asks, “What do you see, General, when you look at it?”

  “I see millions of my fellow citizens tortured and dead,” says Mulaghesh.

  Signe makes a small hm sound and nods, as if understanding her sentiment.

  “Why? What do you see?”

  “A culture that worshipped death,” says Signe, “and particularly those who dealt it. Their ancestors, mostly. For instance, Voortyashtanis believed that if you picked up the sword of an ancient sentinel it would possess you, take you over—you’d become them, in essence, but cease being you.”

  “Sounds like a raw deal.”

  “Yes—to them, a sword was a vessel of the soul. To do such a thing would be to lose your soul entirely. But I’m told they only did it in desperate situations. They didn’t only admire their ancestors, though. They also respected their foes, if they felt they were worthy. Hence why things went so smoothly just now, after your outburst.”

  “Huh? You mean I helped things in there?”

  “Of course you did,” says Signe. “Voortyashtanis respect those who have tested themselves in battle. You’re not only a veteran, but you were in a battle against a god. They grudgingly admire you, General Mulaghesh. It put them on uneven footing. I thought that was why Biswal wanted you there in the first place?”

  Mulaghesh cocks her head, turning this over. “Huh. You’re probably right. Speaking of admiration…Why did that one group stand up when you spoke? Some of them looked like they were saluting you, in some way.”

  Signe is silent for a long while. “That would have been the highland Jaszlo tribe, General.”

  “Ah. Your old family, then?”

  “They are not my family.” Her voice is arctic. Not quite as cold as when Mulaghesh provoked her into talking about Sigrud, maybe, but close. “They hold to traditions that I no longer honor. But they gave us shelter when we needed it.”

  Mulaghesh looks Signe over carefully.

  “What?” says Signe, irritated.

  “You said they respected those who dealt death,” says Mulaghesh. “And they seemed to respect you a whole lot in there, CTO Harkvaldsson.”

  Something in Signe’s jaw flexes. Then she pulls out her beaming, perfect smile. “Have a good afternoon, General.”

  * * *

  —

  Mulaghesh waits for the tribal leaders to file out before entering the assembly chamber. Biswal and Rada are quietly conversing, reviewing the notes.

  “You know, Lalith,” says Mulaghesh as she approaches, “if you wanted me to put some scare in these people, you could have just asked.”

  Biswal looks up at her over his spectacles. “Some scare?”

  “That’s why you really wanted me here. To distract them, make them all hot and bothered. It’s easier to herd sheep when they’re skittish.”

  His eye gains the slightest of twinkles. “They were much easier to handle when they realized you were here, that’s true. But if I’d asked you to come and be my celebrity guest, Turyin, I felt sure you’d turn me down.”

  “Probably true.”

  “You asked me to make use of you,” says Biswal. “Which I did. I hope you won’t hold it against me, but…the ends sometimes justify the means.”

  Something in Mulaghesh curdles at that. This isn’t the first time she’s heard him say that. Then she slowly realizes that little Rada Smolisk is staring at her with giant, shocked eyes.

  Biswal glances at her and says, “I’m sorry, I haven’t properly introduced you both yet. Governor Rada Smolisk, this is General Mulaghesh. Turyin, this is…”

  Rada stands. Something in her posture makes her look even smaller when she’s on her feet. “P-Polis Governor R-Rada Smolisk,” she says. Her voice is almost less than an echo, and it’s as though she has to dig each syllable out from some deep, difficult part of herself.

  Mulaghesh smiles thinly. She doesn’t like the idea of a Continental as polis governor—adders in charge of the chicken coop and all that—but she finds it hard to be worried by this small, shrinking creature. “Very nice to meet you, Governor.”

  The two of them look at Rada, expecting her to carry on in the pleasantries. But instead Rada gets a faraway look on her face, as if just remembering an awful nightmare she had last evening.

  “Rada?” asks Biswal.

  Rada snaps to attention. “G-General Mulaghesh, I’m s-sorry, but…I w-would like to s-say this while I h-huh-have the chance.”

  “Okay?”

  She swallows and stares into the floor as she tries to assemble the words. “I—I am originally a n-native of B-Bulikov, and I—I was there in the B-Battle of Bulikov. And if it were n-not for you and y-your soldiers, I w-wou…Well. I most cer-certainly w-would have d-died.”

  “Uh, thank you,” says Mulaghesh, surprised. This was about the last thing she expected to hear. “I appreciate the words, but we were just doing our jo—”

  “M-my family’s house c-collapsed,” says Rada. “My wh-whole family d-d-d-perished. And I was tr-trapped in the ruins w-with them. For f-four days.”

  “By the seas, child, I…”

  “It was your s-soldiers that found me. They d-dug me out. They didn’t h-h-have to. There were th-thousands in n-need. But they d-did. They t-told me they had a p-p-policy of never leaving a-uh-anyone behind.” Rada looks up. “I have al-always wante
d to th-thank you for what y-you and y-your soldiers did.”

  “Your thanks are warmly received.” Mulaghesh bows. “I’m happy to hear we were of service. But how, if I could ask, did you wind up in Voortyashtan?”

  “I was a m-medical student at Bulikov University. A-after the battle, I w-went to Ghaladesh on a Ministry program. I’d become interested i-in humanitarian a-aid—as you c-can probably u-uhh-understand.”

  “Of course.”

  “Th-then news came th-they were tr-trying to escalate th-their w-work here in V-V-Vv…” Rada trails off, her face bright red. She sighs, surrendering. “In this place. They n-needed a new p-polis governor, one w-with a m-more humanitarian f-focus. I applied.” Then she thinks and counts off on her fingers: “D-during my tenure here, w-we’ve reduced infant death by twenty-nine percent, maternal death by twenty-four percent, death by infectious disease by fourteen percent, child malnourishment by thirty-three percent, and I’ve personally performed seventy-three successful surgeries.” She looks up from her fingers and glances around, dazed, as if just remembering where she is.

  “Sounds like you’ve got a pretty good record going,” says Mulaghesh. She notes Rada didn’t stutter a bit while firing off those statistics.

  “Thank you,” she says meekly. Then she stoops and gathers up her papers. “I have to go and make formal copies of the m-m-minutes. I-I-eh-eh-uh, uhhh-i-it was a p-p-pleasure meeting you.” She bows.

  “A pleasure,” says Mulaghesh, bowing back. She watches as Rada Smolisk scampers off, wondering if she was wrong to mistrust a Continental as polis governor. If anyone could have a desire to help Saypur reconstruct the Continent, it’d be a Bulikovian, someone who’s witnessed the Continent’s own gods wreak destruction on their very people.

  “The girl is odd,” says Biswal, watching her go. “As anyone who went through that would be. But she is a brilliant doctor. Much cleverer than a lot of the medics we have up at the fortress.” He stops and looks around himself. “Now. What in the hells am I doing.”

  “Giving me access to the mines.”

  “Ah. That’s right. Pandey and you seem to get along, so I’ve given him the proper clearances to take you on a tour of the facility. His auto is waiting outside, which you can take. I’ll be going up to the fortress…” He sighs. “Well. Much later.”

  “More to clean up here?”

  Biswal signs a report with unusual ferocity, nearly slicing the paper in half with the nub of his pen. “Always more. I was taught that peace is the absence of war. But I wonder if these days we’ve simply replaced conventional war with a war of paper. I’m not so sure which is better.”

  * * *

  —

  As Pandey drives her out to “the extraction site,” as they call it, she watches the wire fences out the window, running along either side of the road with a threatening tangle of razor wire lining the tops. “Seven miles long,” Pandey remarked when they first started out. “One hundred tons of aluminum, all stretched along the road. Though the fences are a little inconvenient now, as the road requires a lot of maintenance.”

  “So you knew this wasn’t an expansion when you first brought me to the fort,” says Mulaghesh. “As you claimed.”

  He coughs. “Ah, yes, ma’am. Cover stories and all that.”

  “Well. I’m pleased to find you could dupe me so thoroughly, Pandey.”

  “Always keen to impress, General.”

  She sees tall forms up ahead: towering lights, another fence. Fences within walls, walls within fences, she thinks. It’s almost as bad as Bulikov. “We’re here, ma’am,” says Pandey.

  They get out and approach the checkpoint. Another guard booth, another string of yellow and red warning signs. Pandey holds up their credentials, and the guards let them through.

  “We call this the dock,” says Pandey. One side of the concrete structure has a retractable aluminum door, which is open. They walk inside the concrete structure, which is really just three concrete walls, a tin roof, and some bare bulbs. The floor is iron, and Mulaghesh notices there’s a seam running along it, forming a square.

  Pandey walks to a small switch standing in the middle of the grated floor and says, “If you can, ma’am, please step closer.”

  Mulaghesh does so. As she does she sees Pandey is pale and ashen. “Something the matter, Pandey?”

  “Ah…Well. Not too keen on the mines myself, ma’am.”

  “Why not? Do you have a problem with close, dark places?”

  “Not that I’m aware of, ma’am. It’s just…” He pauses. “Well. You’ll see.”

  “See what?”

  “I hesitate to give you the wrong impression, ma’am. If you’re ready, ma’am…”

  He flips a switch, and the floor drops out from underneath her. Well, not quite, but that’s what it feels like: as she steadies herself, she realizes that the center of the floor is like an elevator of some kind, made to bring up huge quantities of material.

  Exactly how much thinadeskite do they plan on mining here?

  At first the walls of the elevator shaft are sheer, smooth concrete. Then these begin to ripple and churn, turning into raw rock, dark granite with glinting silicates. Mulaghesh remembers Signe telling her about the tomb and inspects the shifting walls for any sign of architecture or civilization, but finds none. She cannot imagine there having ever been any ruin buried down here: it’s all just curdled stone and shadows.

  A large tunnel rises up to them, its ceiling lined with oil lanterns. The elevator comes to a sharp halt. Ten feet before them is a guard seated on a stool. He nods at them.

  “And these, ma’am,” says Pandey, “are the thinadeskite mines of Voortyashtan.”

  He and Mulaghesh pace forward, then stop as she looks at the tunnel walls. They are still dark granite, but the walls are riddled with holes, as if giant termites have been laboring here for decades.

  “So…how does it work?” asks Mulaghesh.

  “I suggest we start at an active branch, ma’am,” says Pandey. “That’ll probably be more informative.”

  They wind through the dark tunnels, ducking this way and that to avoid the dangling oil lamps. The air is cool and still, yet somehow Mulaghesh thinks she feels a breeze. She imagines the tunnels as the bronchi and alveoli of a giant lung, a vast underground mass of spongy tissue, gently flexing to push air through its endless corridors….

  “I can see why you said this place was unpleasant,” she says. “There’s something odd about it.”

  Pandey takes a sharp left. Mulaghesh hears a scraping and grinding up ahead. “Are you worried about it being Divine, ma’am? Like the Ministry is?”

  “Well, yeah. Some. Can you imagine this stuff just naturally occurring?”

  “Perhaps. Once when I was a child,” says Pandey, “I was walking along a dry creek bed. I walked it many times in my youth, but that day I saw one of the creek bed walls had fallen in, General. And inside this wall, in all the loose earth piled there, were dozens and dozens of crystals. Quartz, of course. I didn’t know that it was a commonly found thing, not then. I couldn’t imagine something like this just existing. You know? It was beautiful and wonderful to me, because I didn’t know any better. So now, faced with this strange stuff, I have to wonder if we just don’t know any better.”

  “Maybe you have a point, Sergeant Major,” says Mulaghesh. “Maybe.”

  “Imagine the first person to discover magnets. Or flint. Or milk! We Saypuris like to think we know so much about how the world works, ma’am, when in truth we’re as ignorant as anyb—”

  Another breeze.

  The lights fade around her.

  The temperature drops—no, it plummets. Then everything goes full dark.

  Mulaghesh keeps moving forward, arms and legs pumping.

  What’s going on?

  The ground is no longer hard stone, b
ut soft.

  Like moist grass…

  A cold white light begins to seep through the darkness.

  Mulaghesh squints and sees forms against the light, tall and thin.

  Trees. It’s impossible—this can’t be happening—but she sees a small copse of trees ahead, the air heavy with mist and fog, the cold light of the moon shining through behind them. Pandey is nowhere to be found.

  Somewhere there is the cheep of meadowlarks and wrens, and the soft sound of the ocean.

  A stag slowly canters over the wet grass. A beautiful creature the color of pearl, its flanks shimmering in the moonlight. Its breath steams; its shanks are flecked with dark mud.

  A young man emerges from the shadow of the trees. He is smeared with mud, the whites of his eyes bright against the earthen hues. Something in his hand glints: a small knife, made of bronze.

  The stag looks at him, dark eyes watchful. It snorts, curious, distrustful. The young man extends his free hand to it. His palm is slick with something—honey.

  She understands what will happen. No, it’s like she remembers: it’s like she’s always known that the white stag will come and sniff the honey on his palm, and he will leap forward and bury the knife in the stag’s neck, and he will ride it as it thrashes against him, leaking blood, and he will come back down to the waters from the cliffs anointed with steaming blood, fresh from his kill, and there he will face them, their helmets proud and regal and terrifying….

  She thinks: How do I know this?

  An image slips into Mulaghesh’s mind: seven Voortyashtani sentinels standing in a line, hands resting on the pommels of their massive swords, the vast, strange, twisting oceanopolis of Voortyashtan behind them—the Voortyashtan of old, like some sort of massive coral reef alight with candlelight. The sentinels will watch this blood-drenched young man, and he will kneel in the gravel before them, head bowed, and await their decree.