“Come on,” she says, and the two hop down and begin limping up the cliff paths to the first of the checkpoints.
The city is like a ghost town, a nightmare cityscape, dark and ruined. The only sounds she hears are distant cries and moans and the constant wind. Just an hour ago it was a bustling if unsightly little town: now it is inconceivable that people once lived and worked here.
“I smell gunpowder,” says Sigrud suddenly. “And blood.”
“Blood?”
“Yes. Blood.” He lifts his head, catching the wind. “Lots of it.”
They run up to the first checkpoint and find it abandoned, though the door and side are riddled with bullet holes. Then when they rise up to the top of the first hill they stop, look out, and see.
The hills are a cold, dark gray in the moonlight. Mulaghesh sees many still, dark forms lying where the road slashes through the countryside. Figures sprint back and forth atop the hills before the fortress. There is the sporadic flash of gunfire, like distant lightning, and screams—some bellowing orders, others in pain or fear.
“No,” whispers Mulaghesh. Suddenly she is running, running toward the group of soldiers she sees gathered ahead.
“Stop!” shouts Sigrud. “Stop, Turyin!”
As she runs her mind takes in all the signs, reading the story written in the countryside: she can see where the Saypuri battalion was marching down the road; she sees where the first volley hit them from the east; she can see where the Saypuris—surprised, terrified—took cover among the dales just west of the road; and she can see where the enemy—whoever it was—took positions north of them, cutting them off from the fortress, leaving them to either stay where they were, retreat to the cliffs, or descend to Voortyashtan, and expose themselves to Saint Zhurgut’s hellish assault.
A simple maneuver, really. But a very successful one.
Someone shoves her from behind and falls on top of her. She can tell by the way the impact pains them that it’s Sigrud.
“They will shoot you,” he croaks.
“Get off me!”
He groans as she pushes against his bad side, but he doesn’t budge. “They will shoot you dead on sight.”
“Let me go, let me go!” she cries. “I need to help them, I need to—”
“There is nothing to do. The enemy has fled. But the soldiers are wary. They will not take any more chances.”
Mulaghesh relents and lies there on the ground, helpless and miserable. He’s right, of course: whatever happened here, there’s not much for her to do now. She despises feeling so useless.
“Find me a body,” she says.
“What?” asks Sigrud.
“There’ll be an aid kit on one of the Saypuri soldiers. Yellow rubber thing, waterproof. Inside of that are some flares and a flare gun. Bring it here. You’re better at sneaking than I am.”
“You ask much of an injured man.” But he releases her and withdraws into the darkness. She sits up and stares around herself, mindful now that someone out in the shadows might take a shot at her. She recognizes the movements of the shapes in the distance: infantry securing the perimeter, closing down points of entry and escape.
Sigrud rises up out of the shadows, dragging something behind him. He drops it with a heavy thump. It reeks of sweat and coppery blood. She can see the outline of a cheek and a clutched fist in the darkness.
“That doesn’t look like a flare gun,” she says.
“No,” he says. “I thought you would like to see for yourself.”
He takes out a flare gun and hands it to her. She hesitates before pointing into the air and firing.
The flare is bright and brilliant, a festive cherry red, and as its light flickers across the hillsides it touches upon the face of the young man lying on the ground: a Voortyashtani boy of about fifteen, his neck elegantly tattooed, a perfectly round entry point drilled just below his collarbone. Strapped to his chest is a Saypuri pistol. He had to adjust the holster considerably to allow for this slight, boyish frame, perhaps two or three years from truly being a man. Mulaghesh is still staring into his face when the Saypuri troops surround them.
Peace is but the absence of war. War and conflict form the sea through which nation-states swim.
Some who have had the fortune to find clear, calm waters believe otherwise. They have forgotten that war is momentum.
War is natural. And war makes one strong.
—WRITS OF SAINT PETRENKO, 720
She looks for Biswal in the fortress hospital, though the term feels out of place with what she sees: Fort Thinadeshi’s medical wings are dark, primitive, and dirty. Rickety cots and beds line the walls, almost all of them occupied.
As she walks through the hospital she’s faintly aware of the bloodstains on the front of her fatigues, none of them hers—she and Sigrud assisted the medical corps as much as they could—and from the deep ache all along her right side she knows she needs to see a medic now. But mostly she hasn’t the mind for it: the sight of these young men and women trapped in their beds brings back memories of her hellish recuperation in Bulikov. Her arm aches just to think of it. She pities them.
She stops a nurse and asks, “The general?”
He points to the back of the hospital, to the morgue. Mulaghesh walks to the morgue doors, hesitates, and pushes them open.
The room is larger than she expected. Tall cabinets line the walls, cold and blank. One of them is open, with a table on wheels half-rolled out of its dark, chilly depths.
Lalith Biswal stands in front of the table, looking down on the body on the table. The deceased soldier is short, her clothes dusty, her hands chalky and pale, the queer colors of the dead. The room is quite dim, but Mulaghesh can tell by the gleaming scar on the forehead that it was once Captain Kiran Nadar.
Biswal looks over his shoulder, nods to Mulaghesh, then turns back to Nadar. Mulaghesh pauses, wondering how to be respectful, then walks to stand beside him.
She was shot three times in the left side. She must have died quickly, as none of her clothes have been removed for operation. Her cheek bears a purple slash, the flesh around it dark. Mulaghesh guesses she fell, likely from her horse.
“They targeted her specifically,” says Biswal quietly. “She was riding at the front of the line. Standard shtani behavior, as of late. Kill the officers first.”
“What happened?”
“I did tell you we were under surveillance. Shtanis in the hills, watching our movements. They saw us preparing to send a battalion down to the city. When the…that horror began his assault on the city, the passages in and out of Voortyashtan were flooded with civilians escaping the slaughter. Under this cover over seventy insurgents took positions east along the main passage. They ambushed us, pinned us down, inflicting heavy casualties. They retreated when we mounted a counterattack.”
Mulaghesh bows her head, disgusted and furious. “We were trying to help them.”
“Yes. We were trying to help the city. But they do not see it in those terms.”
“It feels rude to ask, but…Sergeant Major Pandey…”
“He’s alive, miraculously enough. He was at the front with Nadar, and survived the first volley. He sought shelter in a checkpoint and ably defended a group of civilians that were fleeing the horror in the city. A group that included CTO Harkvaldsson.”
Once again, Signe and Pandey are thrown together. It’s all too coincidental for her tastes.
Biswal looks at her. “What in the hells happened in that city, Turyin? What in hells was that thing that attacked us?”
Mulaghesh decides that now’s the time to lay as many cards on the table as she can, to try to convince Biswal that something Divine is unfolding here in Voortyashtan. So she summarizes her conclusions about Zhurgut and the sentinels and the murders, aware as she speaks that she sounds more and more outlandish: magic swor
ds, possessed bodies, secret mines, ancient ore. She doesn’t say anything about the City of Blades and Voortya, feeling it would be a step too far in the current circumstances.
Biswal is perfectly still as he listens. When she finishes he says, “Do you still believe the issues with the insurgents to be wholly separate from the murders and the interference with the mines—as well as the Divine horror that awoke in the harbor, I suppose?”
“I…suspect so. I don’t think the insurgents were behind any of this. Their concerns are earthly—they’re fighting over land. Whoever is behind this is far more concerned with the spiritual.”
Biswal looks down at Nadar and shakes his head. “Thirty-seven soldiers. The most we’ve ever lost since the Battle of Bulikov.” He shakes his head again, his neck cracking and popping. “The prime minister tells me to do one thing. Parliament signals that it wishes me to do something very different. And now you, Turyin, you now come here and tell me stories of the Divine, of plots and conspiracies taking place under our very noses.”
“Lalith…”
“You tell me that these are two very separate things, the insurgents and the Divine. You say this despite the mine collapse taking place just after the tribal leaders came to this city. You say this despite the appearance of that Divine horror coinciding perfectly with an orchestrated insurgent assault. You and the prime minister, Turyin, you have some gall.” He whirls on her. “What are you really here for, Turyin? You aren’t here on the touring shuffle, are you? Don’t lie to me, Turyin, I’ll know.”
Mulaghesh decides to tell the truth. Or some of it, at least. “I was sent here to find Choudhry.”
“Why keep that a secret?”
“They weren’t sure what had happened to her. They thought maybe—”
“That one of her own comrades had killed her, one of her fellow soldiers.” Biswal laughs bitterly. “The prime minister thinks so poorly of the soldiers in her service. She thinks us cutthroats and brigands.”
“She didn’t know what had happened. She thought it better to be careful tha—”
“Oh, of course she did, and I am so tired of being told to be careful!” snarls Biswal. “I am so tired of being told to draw back, stay firm, appease, and placate! And I am so tired of being told that this is not a war. Any fool with eyes in their head can see that these people will never cooperate, never be civilized! They treat us like enemies. And those who treat us as enemies should be treated the same in turn.”
“What are you saying, Biswal?” asks Mulaghesh.
Biswal draws himself up to his full height. “I am saying that, in light of recent events, I am reinterpreting my orders,” he says. “I will defend the harbor. I will placate the tribes. And I will do this by pursuing those who dared attack us, and destroying them and anyone who might give them shelter.”
Mulaghesh stares at him. “You’re planning an invasion of the damned highlands?”
“I am saying that Fort Thinadeshi, along with the other installations of Voortyashtan, will be conducting a full-scale counteroffensive against these aggressors.”
“Will you just ignore the fact that a damned saint appeared in the city outside your gates, and killed what is likely dozens if not hundreds of people?” says Mulaghesh, furious.
“Oh, I’ve flagged the Ministry,” says Biswal. “I’ve notified them. They’ll send their agents here, I’ve no doubt, and I will let them deal with that. That is their jurisdiction, just as mine is to pursue the insurgents to my full satisfaction. We each have our purposes, don’t we, Turyin?”
He walks to the door and places his hand on the handle. Before he can open it, Mulaghesh says, “It’s the wrong move, Lalith. They know the terrain, and they’ve likely had time to prepare. The casualties you’ll suffer will be terrible.”
He looks over his shoulder at her, his eyes glittering with disdain. “You doubt the effectiveness of my soldiers?”
“What I doubt, General Biswal, is that this will have the same effect as the March,” she says. “Times have changed.”
He looks at her for a moment longer. Then he says, “You’re a coward, Turyin. You fled the military because you couldn’t live up to the trials of true leadership. Instead, our gutless prime minister has turned you into a craven spy. Perhaps you’ve forgotten after the Battle of Bulikov, but this”—he gestures to Nadar’s body—“is what real combat looks like. Or perhaps you were too busy being commended for bravery to visit the frontlines.”
“You sound,” she says acidly, “a little jealous, General Biswal.”
He stares at her coldly. “Do what you need to in the city, Turyin. But if I see you in my fortress again, I’ll have you locked up.” Then he walks out and slams the door, leaving Mulaghesh alone in the morgue.
* * *
—
Mulaghesh limps down the road to Voortyashtan. She borrowed a crutch from the medics at the fortress, but it’s not easy to operate a crutch one-handed, even with Signe’s prosthetic—especially when your good arm is covered in bruises. She badly, badly needs to see a medic, yet as she approaches the checkpoint she sees a familiar figure standing in the road, smoking and apparently waiting for her.
“Ah, General,” says Signe. “I was told you’d passed through here recently….I’ve something you need to see.”
“A bed?” says Mulaghesh miserably. “And opiates?”
“I’m afraid not,” says Signe. “Rather, it’s something you’ve seen a lot of recently—a security breach.”
Thirty minutes later Mulaghesh slows as they approach the statue yard. It looks much the same to her eye—same high walls, same giant door, same canvas roof—except for two key differences. One is that the door is open, just slightly, something Mulaghesh is sure the guards would never allow. The other is the dead body lying in the mud before the door.
“That’s the door guard, isn’t it?” says Mulaghesh.
“Yes,” says Signe. “Ericksson was his name. Shot through the neck with a bolt.”
“So while we were dealing with Saint Zhurgut, someone made a beeline for the statue yard, shot the guard, took his keys, and opened the door?”
“It would appear so. We’re being carefully watched, I think.” She looks up and around them. “But as most of Voortyashtan is uphill from here, it would only take a good vantage point and someone with a high-powered telescope to track us.”
Mulaghesh hobbles toward the door. “I assume nothing’s stolen? They’d have to use a truck to get any of those damn things out.”
“Not as far as we can tell. Nor have any changed in any way—no secret doors opened, no missing trinkets. Again, as far as we can tell.”
“So…someone knows about your stolen statues,” says Mulaghesh. “That’s plenty bad as it is. If Biswal gets a whisper of that, he’ll come down on you like a monsoon. He’s already on the warpath. He’s going toaaaargh!”
“I’m sorry, he’s going to what?”
She grips her side, almost bending double. “Ahh, damn. Starting to get the idea I broke a rib last night…”
“Oh. So I’m getting the idea that I shouldn’t have brought you here first before going to a medic.”
“For someone who’s so smart,” growls Mulaghesh, “you’re also pretty damned stupid sometimes.”
“Now, now. Why don’t I take you to see Rada? That’s where I sent my father; he was pretty banged up too. She’ll do a much better job of patching you up than our people will.”
Mulaghesh sighs. “That’s a long way up. But I do need to get the gang together. Someone needs to know what Biswal’s about to do.”
“I’ll have someone drive us.” She pauses, suddenly awkward. “I suppose I must say…Well.” She grimaces, as if trying to remember how to speak a phrase from another language. “The thing I wish to say is…thank you.”
Mulaghesh looks at her cockeyed. “Come again?”
“Thank you for stopping the bloodshed, for saving the harbor last night. For putting down Saint Zhurgut—which I still frankly can’t believe you did. I know I’ve not been easy. None of this has been easy. But—thank you. Now. Let’s get you to Rada.”
* * *
—
Rada Smolisk’s home no longer has the feel of a medical office as much as it does a field hospital. Civilian men, women, and children are packed in in front of her door, almost all of them wounded or tending to the wounded. When they climb out of the SDC auto Mulaghesh shakes her head. “I can’t get treated here. I won’t take up Rada’s time, not when these people so desperately need it.” Then she pauses, noticing the many medics in SDC uniforms wading among the civilians. “Wait. What are so many SDC medics doing here?”
“Following orders,” says Signe.
“Huh?”
“I consulted with the other SDC senior officers, and we decided to dispatch nearly all of our medical staff to Voortyashtan.”
“Don’t you have your own injured to look after?”
Signe gives her a grim look. “Do you believe that in hand-to-hand combat, Zhurgut left people merely injured?”
“Ah. Ugh.”
“Yes. We have all experienced tragedies in the past day.” Signe walks to Rada’s side door and knocks three times. “Best to focus on the tragedies one can still fix.”
The door opens, and the bruised, scowling face of Lem, Signe’s security chief, peeks out at them. Then he nods and holds the door open. Mulaghesh and Signe step inside to be greeted by the glassy, terrified stares of the numerous taxidermied animals arranged on Rada’s walls.
“Well,” sniffs Signe, “she hasn’t changed her décor much.”
They find Rada in the operating room, performing a grisly procedure on a young Voortyashtani girl with a mangled knee. Sigrud and an SDC medic stand beside her, and though Sigrud is in his shirtsleeves and his arm is in a sling, he seems to be acting as a fairly competent assistant.
“Most of the debris has been removed,” Rada mutters—again, Mulaghesh notes, her stutter is gone. “And the wound is clean. I’ll close it up now. You’ll be turning cartwheels again before the end of the month.”
The Divine Cities Trilogy: City of Stairs, City of Blades, and City of Miracles, With an Excerpt From Foundryside Page 81