“Look me in the eye,” says Mulaghesh, stepping closer, “and tell me that.”
Signe’s glacial eyes burn brightly. “I promise. I promise, General.”
Mulaghesh holds her gaze for a moment, then nods. “All right. I believe you. For now.”
“And…And the statues…Will you, ah…”
“Tattle? Maybe. I haven’t made up my mind yet. I have fatter lambs to cook at the moment, and doing something like that would just complicate things.”
“I suppose I’ll have to accept that for the time being. If we are all done threatening one another, can I please escort my father to meet with Biswal? And where is your hat?”
Sigrud shrugs. “The wind took it.”
“Oh, well. We’ll find you a replacement. Come on. Let’s go.”
The three of them begin to exit the yard. Sigrud coughs and mutters about how after this he’ll be happy to return to the headquarters for a night’s rest.
“Your rooms are already prepared for you,” says Signe curtly. “You will have the lighthouse suite.”
“Oh,” he says.
“It’s the nicest suite in the building,” she says. Mulaghesh isn’t sure how, but Signe manages to pack a lot of animosity into this statement.
“I do not need that,” says Sigrud. “I have slept in far worse pla—”
“I know you have,” she says. “That’s not the point. The point is that you are the dauvkind, and everyone here will expect you to be treated as such. If I stuck you in one of the laborers’ quarters they would think I was being disrespectful.”
“Then…I will tell them not to think these things!” says Sigrud, bristling. “I will tell them to mind their own business!”
“And you can’t do that, either! Then it will look as if you’re trying to cover for me. You aren’t just a nobody anymore! People expect things from you!”
“You sound like your mother,” says Sigrud.
“If by that you mean I sound intelligent, then yes, I do, and I will take it as a compli—”
Mulaghesh stops listening. She hasn’t been to this part of the yard yet, so she hasn’t seen the massive, fifteen-foot statue that rests up against the iron wall. The very sight makes her stop where she stands and sends a shard of ice shooting into her heart.
She knows it immediately. Of course she does. Did she not see a much larger version of that carven figure just last night, rising from the sea to place her giant hand upon the cliffs? Weren’t every one of the ghastly illustrations on that plate mail burned into Mulaghesh’s memory, a solid wall of unimaginable violence?
“Voortya,” whispers Mulaghesh.
She stares at the statue. It’s so pale the light almost seems to filter through it, like it was made from the purest of snows. The statue stands on a plinth, but set before it is a wide bowl, almost like a claw-footed bathtub. Carved into the bottom of the plinth are many titles:
EMPRESS OF GRAVES
MAIDEN OF STEEL
DEVOURER OF CHILDREN
QUEEN OF GRIEF
SHE WHO CLOVE THE EARTH IN TWAIN
She wonders how anyone could ever come to love and worship such a thing. But then she realizes: Because they won. It’s as Biswal once said to her, during the gray, savage days of the Yellow March, outside Dzermir: “War is a hell beyond anything the Continentals and their gods could ever dream of. It behooves us to act accordingly. Those who accept it for what it is will be the victor.”
And the Voortyashtanis, perhaps, were all too happy to accept it for what it was. They embraced it, made a nation out of it, a whole culture birthed out of the willingness to inflict the unimaginable horrors of war. And, having done so, they won, over and over again. They survived the Divine Wars and went on to conquer nearly every piece of territory in the world.
Of course they loved her. No matter how cruel or indifferent, she helped them win.
Mulaghesh wanders forward, staring into that cold, still face. She remembers hearing that Voortya never spoke, not to the other Divinities, nor to her followers. But she wouldn’t need to, would she? Just look into that face, and you’ll understand all you need….
She notices something moving before the statue. It’s a tremor in the air, like a heat haze, like there’s a fire on the ground but she can’t see it. She squints at the disturbance, trying to track its source.
But was there a fire on the ground once? The mud below the tremor still bears charred sticks and a smattering of gray ashes, as if someone once camped here.
Mulaghesh’s brain starts whirring. Just like in the thinadeskite tunnels. Did Sumitra Choudhry come here to perform her miracle, too?
She walks over, eager to see if there’s any sign of burned rosemary or dried frog eggs.
But as she rushes over, things…change.
Mulaghesh stops and looks up into the face of Voortya.
The world goes still.
There is someone in the statue. It’s the strangest of sensations, but it’s undeniable: there is a mind there, an agency, watching.
“There’s someone in there,” she whispers.
“What?” says Signe’s voice, faraway.
She stares deeper into the empty, vacant gaze. “There’s someone behind those eyes. There’s someone…looking back.”
The statue of Voortya seems to lean forward to her. And then she sees the sea.
* * *
—
Dark waters churn under the light of the yellow moon. She plunges down into the sea, down, down, through the rippling depths and the glimmering spears of moonlight, the swirls of bubbles and the flick of distant fish.
The light changes below her, as if there is a second moon and a second sky at the bottom of the sea, and this moon is not yellow but white, white, the purest white.
She bursts through dark waters, rises up into this second sky, and sees…
An island resting on the horizon, surrounded by mists. Strange peaks cut through the clouds gathered about it, like the growths of coral.
There are voices in the night: Mother, Mother. Why did you leave us?
The island speeds up to her. Beaches white as bone, delicate as mother-of-pearl, and rising from those strange sands is a mass of enormous structures, massive towers that have the look of chitin and claw. Some of the buildings, she sees, are not buildings at all, but statues, bigger than the biggest skyscraper in Ghaladesh, so vast she can hardly see their tops….
Mother. We loved you. We love you. Please, give us what you promised us.
Mulaghesh floats through the white city. The cold white moon fills the dark sky above her. She thinks: Am I really here? Have I been brought here? She finds she cannot say. She simply drifts through this strange, bloodless world of bulging structures that rise to become curling, delicate towers, a world of massive, silent giants concealed by the clouds.
Yet then she realizes she is not alone.
The streets and beaches ahead are filled with people….But not normal people. She needs only glance at the hundreds of points on their shoulders and backs to see what they really are.
Thousands and thousands of Voortyashtani sentinels stand perfectly still in the moonlight, shoulder to shoulder in the streets and the city squares and on the distant beaches. Mulaghesh nearly screams, terrified, certain that these monstrous creatures will turn and tear her to pieces. But they do not. Instead they watch the horizon, their thorned hands resting on the pommels of their massive swords, staring at something high up above them.
Please, Mother, they whisper. Please, speak to us.
Mulaghesh drifts among these malformed warriors, staring at their skeletal masks and their hideous armor, half antlers and half seashell. Then she slowly follows their gaze.
They are staring at a tall, white tower at the center of the city. At the very peak of the tower is a balcony, and
though she knows that in waking life her eyes would never be this clear, she can see someone up there, pacing back and forth.
Mother, they say. Come to us.
Then one of the massive statues ahead of her…shifts. Just the barest of movements, the tiniest twitch, yet she knows she saw it. The statue is turned away from her, but she recognizes this figure, gleaming in the moonlight—didn’t she pour all of her carousel into that very thing no more than two nights ago?
Voortya, she thinks.
Beautiful and terrible and resplendent, cruelty incarnate, Voortya stands up straight in the mist. To see such a massive figure move so silently fills Mulaghesh’s heart with pure terror.
Then the goddess slowly turns, twisting her head around as if she heard someone mention her name.
No, no, thinks Mulaghesh. No, please, no…
The dark, blank eyes turn to face her.
Mother, whisper the sentinels. Mother, Mother…
Then there’s a voice just over Mulaghesh’s shoulder: “Are you supposed to be here?”
She turns to see something huge standing over her, a towering creature of chrome and metal. Before she can open her mouth to scream she’s suddenly plunging into the ocean again.
Up, up, up. Back through the swirling dark waters, rocketing up to the fluttering light of the yellow moon.
She bursts through, and the world spins around her.
* * *
—
“Turyin?” says Sigrud’s voice. “Turyin!”
She feels cold mud on the back of her neck and realizes that the back of her head hurts. She draws breath into her lungs and is suddenly racked with coughs.
“General Mulaghesh?” says Signe’s voice. “Are…Are you all right?”
She opens her eyes and sees, to her horror, pale white statues standing over her…but they’re the ones from the harbor yard, not the massive, terrifying things she glimpsed in the other place.
But what was that other place?
I know what it was, she says to herself, terrified. I know where I just went.
Sigrud’s face appears above her. He kneels to help her. “Turyin? Say something, if you can.”
“It’s still there,” she says, gasping. “It’s real….”
“What? What is?”
She feels herself growing weak, as if what she saw bruised her very mind. Before she passes out she tries to shout to them, “The City of Blades! It’s still there! The City of Blades is still there!”
But before she can, darkness takes her.
Life is but a prelude to death. Other worlds await.
Live your life and choose your path knowing this secret. We shall all find one another past the dark veil at the edge of this land. We shall embrace one another on distant white shores and celebrate our final victory.
—WRITS OF SAINT ZHURGUT, 721
She wakes with a start and realizes she’s screaming. She sits up and her hand goes to her hip for the carousel, but it’s not there. She slowly realizes she’s lying on her bed in her room in SDC.
“For the love of…,” says Signe’s voice from nearby. “What is the matter with you?”
Mulaghesh’s head snaps to the side to see Signe sitting in a chair in the corner. From the pile of black cigarette butts in the ashtray on the floor beside it she’s been there for a while.
“The fuck are you doing?” asks Mulaghesh. She sniffs and rubs her eye. “Keeping vigil?”
“Looking after you. You passed out like you had some episode or something. I chose to keep an eye on you while my father began to make the formal rounds.”
“Shit.” Mulaghesh sits forward and rubs the center of her forehead. It feels like insects are trying to gnaw their way out of her skull.
“Head hurt?” says Signe.
“Shut the fuck up for a second.”
“Mm. Aren’t you a pleasant creature in the morning. Though it’s closer to noon.”
Mulaghesh replays the last thing she saw in her head—or what she thought she saw. That moment, that vision, felt like it was beyond seeing, as if she experienced that world with senses beyond the common five.
Her pulse rises immediately. It’s still there. The City of Blades is still out there…somehow.
It’s an absurd idea, yet what she saw doesn’t leave a trace of doubt in her mind. To say otherwise would be like walking through a rainstorm for the first time in your life and then denying you were ever wet.
There’s another world out there, she thinks. There’s a place below this one, floating on an ocean underneath reality.
She thinks of the sentinels, the dismembered bodies, Gozha whispering about the man made of thorns, and everything starts to suggest a dreadful idea to her.
And maybe the boundaries are beginning to blur.
“Are you all right?” says Signe, worried. “Is it…Are you having flashbacks?”
“What?” snaps Mulaghesh.
“Flashbacks. You’re a soldier. I know…What is it they call it…War echoes? Battle echoes?”
“Where’s your dad? With Biswal?”
“No,” says Signe. “That was canceled. And that’s another reason why I’m here. There’s been a…development.”
“Which is?”
“They’ve…found another body. Or parts of another body. Much as you found them at the farmhouse, or so I’m told, but these were on the cliffs west of the fortress.” Signe sucks at a cigarette hard enough for Mulaghesh to hear the crackle across the room. “It’s a Saypuri woman. It was, I mean.”
The pulsing in her ears goes silent.
“Choudhry?” she asks quietly.
“I don’t know, I’m afraid. They haven’t found the head. A patrol discovered it on the cliffs west of the fortress, just where she used to walk. It seems…likely.”
“Where’s the body now?”
“The”—Signe searches for the right word—“parts are with Rada. I suggested to Biswal that this would be wise, as she’s the medical expert here, and I thought you’d wish to do a dissection.”
“Autopsy.”
“Yes. One of those. He consented. The rest of the fortress is quite busy with the collapse of the installation, or so it appears, so he was happy to give this duty to you. He mentioned that there are rather a lot of dead Saypuris for him to worry about these days.”
Mulaghesh tries to leap out of bed, but her legs fail and she almost plummets to the floor.
“By the seas…” Signe stands and helps her up. Mulaghesh is surprised at how strong she is. “You’re not well.”
“You’re damned right I’m not well! Where’s my weapon?”
Signe retrieves the carousel from a drawer and hands it to her. “Off to duel with someone, General?”
“You see your father, you tell him I want to see him,” says Mulaghesh, holstering the pistol.
“And what shall I tell him you wish to see him for?”
Mulaghesh tries to think of how to say this without sounding barking mad. “Tell him it’s Ministry work. Just tell him that.”
* * *
—
Two hours later Mulaghesh knocks on the front door of Rada Smolisk’s house. It’s pouring rain, a bitter thunderstorm suddenly springing on them from offshore, and Mulaghesh is thankful she wore her peaked cap today. Rada’s house is nestled in a small forest just below the clifftops on the northwest side of the city, so it’s somewhat equidistant between the Galleries and fortress, perhaps as a grand metaphor for Rada’s difficult position. The home also overlooks the harbor yards, which lie about five hundred yards below. Mulaghesh can even see the yard of statues, including the tiny hole she carved in its canvas roof last night.
Rada answers her front door wearing a ridiculous and quite ugly fur dress, which she almost completely jumps out of when she sees Mulaghesh st
anding on her door. “G-General! You’re up. I h-heard you w-weren’t w—”
“Another body?” says Mulaghesh. “Another one?”
Rada nods solemnly. “I’m afraid so. A woman, this time. A S-Saypuri. Biswal and Nadar did g-g-give me p-permission to perform an a-a-uhhh-autopsy, though they s-said to w-wait for—”
“Show me.”
“Certainly. C-Come in.”
Mulaghesh brushes rain off her sleeves and steps over the threshold. The front room is dark, messy, and was obviously never intended to receive visitors, as every surface is concealed by tottering towers of books and cups of tea. It’s terribly cold inside, a common symptom of a lonely house, in Mulaghesh’s experience. But most curiously, Rada’s walls are covered in taxidermied animals: sparrows, thrashing fish, the heads of deer and hogs and certain mountain cats. It’s as if all the fauna of the hillsides crept down her walls and suddenly found themselves frozen.
Mulaghesh says, “Uh. Do you hunt?”
“No. W-Why? Oh, yes, the a-animals. No. Th-Those I do m-myself.”
“You…stuff them yourself?”
“Oh, y-yes. It’s a hobby of m-mine. There’s a lot of hunters here, and they t-tend to d-d-discard much of animals. I f-find a way to use them. I pr-practice in these r-rooms, through here,” she says, leading Mulaghesh through a door. On the other side is a much more normal space—a white, plain, medical office one would normally expect to see when looking for a doctor. “N-no one, um, ever actually c-c-comes to the other d-door.”
“Oh. I’m, uh, sorry.” She coughs. “I didn’t realize.”
“No, it’s qu-quite all right.”
Rada’s taxidermy skills are still on display here, though in a more restrained capacity: the snarling head of a boar and a duck in midflight hang on the walls just beside the entry door. Rada asks Mulaghesh to wait while she changes into something more functional. “The body is qu-kwuhhite, uh, m-messy you see.”
“I see.” Mulaghesh takes off her rain-slick greatcoat and hangs it in the corner.
The Divine Cities Trilogy: City of Stairs, City of Blades, and City of Miracles, With an Excerpt From Foundryside Page 70