* * *
—
It’s a brisk evening, the sun painting the skies with cherry-red swathes. Mulaghesh has pulled out her parade dress uniform for the first time in what feels like ages, and the town below is lit with torchlight as the reconstruction resumes. Yet despite the beauty, Mulaghesh’s heart is dull and leaden.
The rifling is heavy in her hand. She wishes Sigrud hadn’t asked this of her. But once he did, she couldn’t refuse.
She looks up as the smaller gates to the fortress’s west wall open. The litter comes rattling out, pulled by a single big draft horse. Noor walks beside it, also in his parade dress, and he gives Mulaghesh a single nod. There’s a small retinue of officers in tow, not large, just enough to be tasteful: this is, after all, not their moment. She waits until the litter draws close before she puts the rifling to her shoulder and walks beside Noor.
She glances up at the litter. It’s a hastily prepared thing, nothing like a decent hearse, and she can glimpse inside to the fur-wrapped figure within.
“Seems a damned odd ritual,” says Noor as they walk down to the city. “Burning the dead is one thing, but in a ship?”
“It’s symbolic,” says Mulaghesh.
“Seems a waste of a ship,” says Noor. “But then I guess the Dreylings have vessels to spare.”
“They feel they owe it to her, I suppose.”
It’s a long way down to the city, but it’s a familiar one now. Mulaghesh eyes the wooden frames rising along the streets, promises of sturdy Dreyling structures to come, though they’ve halted work for this. In three weeks, she thinks, I won’t even be able to recognize this city. But the biggest change is what’s happening down at the harbor, where the seawall and the lighthouse appear to be glowing a soft, shimmering gold.
“My word,” says Noor as they near it. “What is that?”
It takes Mulaghesh a minute to understand it, but then she sees that the seawall and every balcony of the lighthouse is lined with lights, and above each light is a face, grim and sad.
“Lanterns,” says Mulaghesh. “It’s all the workers. They’ve come to see. They’re holding lanterns, every one.”
“For…her? I thought she was just an engineer.”
The litter turns away from the harbor, south toward the northern shore of the Solda. “She did the impossible,” says Mulaghesh. She nods ahead to where the Solda is now flowing somewhat freely. “She freed the waters, she built the harbor. And by doing that, she kept their country afloat. The United Dreyling States can make good on all their loans.”
“The dauvkind’s daughter did all that, you think?”
“One big push, I suppose.”
The little boat lies on the shores ahead. It’s a small wooden craft, though perhaps in defiance of Signe’s tastes, as it’s also of a somewhat ornate design. SDC Security Chief Lem stands beside it, dressed in his SDC uniform, grim and downcast.
Mulaghesh walks up and sees the boat is empty, except for a small layer of kindling, which she didn’t expect. Lem gives her a guilty look. “We considered lining it with some of her old blueprints,” he says. “The ones she didn’t use. But we didn’t think she would have wanted that. She would have wished us to make use of them.”
“She had no time for creature comforts,” says Mulaghesh. “I doubt she drew much comfort from them, really. So…how does this work?”
“We set her in the boat,” says Lem softly. He lifts a tall, thick glass jar of yellow-orange oil. A candle sits in a small glass cup beside it. “We put the oil in the prow. Then we push it into the water, light the candle, and someone cuts the rope. And when it’s out to sea, it’s set alight. Traditionally it’d be with a flaming arrow, but…” He gives her rifling a guilty look. “Not too many skilled with a bow at the moment.”
“I see,” says Mulaghesh.
Mulaghesh steps to the side as Lem and another SDC worker gently reach in and lift the body out of the litter. They treat their burden as delicately as if it was a bundle of lily petals.
They gingerly lay her inside the boat. Lem reaches for the knot at the top of the furs, and he plucks at it and it falls apart. As it does the furs slide away to reveal the face beneath.
She looks as Mulaghesh expected: colorless, distorted, slightly swollen. Not like Signe, not like the person Mulaghesh knew in life, so filled with hunger and delight. But Mulaghesh has seen corpses before, so she knew what she’d see.
“Good-bye, Signe,” she says softly.
She and Noor turn and slowly make their way down to the seawall beside the Solda. The SDC workers there salute her solemnly, their faces lit with golden light from their lanterns. She salutes back and turns to look upstream.
How many times have I done this before? How many children’s funerals have I been to?
She looks upstream. Lem kneels, lights the candle, whispers something, and slashes the rope. The little boat bobs a bit, then slowly wanders downstream, picking up speed in the weak current. It’s going at a good clip when it passes Mulaghesh, and she snatches the barest glimpse of the still, pale face within.
I’ll wait, she thinks. I want her to see as much of what she built as I can allow before I do it.
The little boat passes the seawall, then drifts out beneath the cranes, which sit dark and hunched in the waters. Mulaghesh scans the horizon. Far in the distance, only a half a mile or so past the lighthouse, she thinks she can discern the slightest hint of a boat’s sail.
There, she thinks. Now he can see….
She kneels, places the rifling on the edge of the seawall—her left arm is still wounded from her duel with Pandey—and draws a bead on the little boat and the glimmering glass jar at the brow.
The rifling jumps. There’s a spark and suddenly the boat is alight. Within seconds it’s a bright, clean yellow flame, drifting out to sea.
And as the light filters across the bay, a strange sound accompanies it. It sounds like a wave or perhaps a roar, starting low and growing the farther the boat drifts to sea. Slowly Mulaghesh realizes the Dreylings are shouting, starting at the lighthouse and rushing down the seawall until all the men around her are shouting as well, a long, sustained cry.
It’s not a cry of grief, she finds, nor one of pain or loss or sorrow; rather, it’s a shout of triumph, of victory, of good-bye and farewell, a shout of love, love, defiant love.
When it’s over she and Noor trudge back up to the fortress. “Do you think it will be any different, Turyin?” he asks. “Do you really think the Voortyashtanis can ever truly be civilized?”
She shrugs. “Why only doubt the Voortyashtanis? I’m not even sure if we can civilize ourselves.”
* * *
—
Sigrud lies in the dark in the hatch of the yacht, unable to sleep. The waves toy with the boat mercilessly, but it took almost no time at all for his head to readjust, learning to move with the waves and the vast ripples of the ocean. He narrowly avoided a storm this morning, which was lucky as he doubted not only his arm but the quality of the ship’s jibsail. He’s not sure how his daughter managed to pilot this thing out to the Teeth of the World so well.
He does some calculations in his head about the time. Then he rolls over to the tiny porthole beside him, licks his finger, and begins to write upon the glass.
Frost creeps across the window, then recedes, leaving behind the moving image of a woman seated at a desk, staring at a sheet of paper in her hands.
She looks old, worn, and yet blearily noble, the look of a woman prepared to speak but no longer quite capable of believing what she’s about to say.
Shara Komayd glances at him, then does a double take. “Sigrud? Sigrud! What are you…My word, you look terrible.”
“Hello, Shara,” he says hoarsely.
To his surprise she appears to pick up the edges of the image and carry it away with her. He must have wound up
appearing in a hand mirror of hers by mistake, rather than a windowpane. “You can’t do this, Sigrud. You can’t contact me, not now. They’re looking for you, all of them! And I can’t intervene, not this time!”
“I know,” he says. “I…I just wanted to talk to you.”
She carries him into her bedroom and sets him down on the bedside table. It’s evening there. The four-poster bed sits behind her, its curtains drawn. “I’m…I’m so sorry about what happened, Sigrud. Your daughter…Her presence in the city was wholly incidental to why I sent Mulaghesh in the first place. Are you healthy? Are you safe? Don’t tell me where you’re going.”
“I won’t. I am…I am all right. I can’t tell you where I’m going, because I don’t know. But I will take your counsel. Shara…what should I do?”
“I’m afraid you must hide, Sigrud. I’m sorry, but…I don’t have the clout anymore to change the minds of the military. To attempt something like that after what I’ve done so far—it would cause considerable problems.”
“So I must hide,” says Sigrud.
“Yes. You must run, and hide. Be someone new. Use an identity you’ve never used before or never even had before. One that you can use for a long time.”
“A long time?”
She nods. “I’m afraid it must be so. You killed five soldiers, Sigrud. You killed them brutally during one of the worst assaults in Saypuri history. Those in power—or those who are about to be in power—will not be forgiving of that.”
“So I am alone,” says Sigrud softly. “Again.”
“I’m sorry. The United Dreyling States are in no position to shield you. They depend wholly upon Saypur just to stay solvent, and there is an inquiry into what happened at the harbor. I am already in conversation with your wife about…about how to distance herself from this incident.”
“From me,” says Sigrud. “To distance herself from me.”
“Yes, from you.”
He sighs. “When I first came to Voortyashtan, I wanted nothing more than to make the world leave me alone, to leave the trappings of power behind. But now to actually do it…” He shuts his eyes and shakes his head, fighting tears. “I wish to see my family so much.”
“I know,” says Shara. “When it is possible, I will do what I can. I’m so sorry, Sigrud. I’m so sorry.”
He sniffs and wipes his nose. “Did…Did you know about the swords? About Voortya? About the City of Blades?”
“No, I didn’t. I assumed there was malfeasance and corruption taking place at Fort Thinadeshi—but I had no idea it would spiral into something like this.”
“In that case, I must ask…Why did you send Mulaghesh?”
“Why? What do you mean, why?”
“I mean…I know you, Shara. I know you never play the short game. There is always a bigger objective when you do anything. So why Mulaghesh? Why pull a general out of retirement and send her to Voortyashtan if you thought it was just common corruption?”
Shara sighs deeply. “Well. If you really must know…You are aware, of course, that my term in this office is not long for this world?”
“It would be hard not to know this.”
“Well.” She clears her throat and adjusts her glasses. “The incoming party is riding quite high off of a wave of anti-Continental sentiment. They do not like my policies and programs. They wish to see them end. So if they win, then the harbor will likely be much reduced. Financial support will be cut. All aid to the Continent—that will be cut. Any programs encouraging the participation of Continentals in their own politics—those will be cut. Basically anything Saypur sends to the Continent, except for guns and the soldiers to point them, will be cut.”
“So…what does this have to do with Mulaghesh?”
Before Shara can answer there’s a noise from behind her, from the curtains of the bed: “Momma?”
Shara freezes and turns around just as a small, round face pokes through the curtains of the bed. It’s the face of a young Continental girl, perhaps no older than five, and she blinks sleepily at Shara and rubs her eyes. “What are you doing?”
“Shhh, my dear,” says Shara. “It’s nothing. Just talking to myself. Go back to sleep.”
“You’re talking to that mirror.” The girl looks at Sigrud and frowns. “You’re talking to that man in the mirror.” She pouts and holds out her arms to Shara.
Shara sighs, holds out her arms, and the girl jumps into Shara’s embrace—perhaps a little too hard for Shara’s comfort, judging by her face. Then the girl lays her head on Shara’s shoulder and turns just enough to stare at Sigrud quizzically.
“Did she say…Did she call you momma?” asks Sigrud, astounded.
“Yes,” says Shara quietly. She strokes the girl’s hair and chin. “Sigrud, this is my daughter—Tatyana.” She leans in close to speak into the girl’s ear. “Tatyana, this is an old friend of mine.”
“How is he in a mirror?” the girl asks.
“It’s a special mirror,” says Shara.
“Oh.” She appears to accept this explanation wholeheartedly.
“You…You adopted a Continental?” says Sigrud.
“Yes,” says Shara. “When revisiting Bulikov. There was an orphanage. It was”—she glances at the girl—“not in the best of conditions. She asked to come with me. I took her. I’ve kept it quiet, you see. Maybe because I didn’t need to be linked with the Continent any more than I already am—and maybe because I am unwilling to allow the public to know anything of my private life. When I am voted out of office, I will retire with Tatyana to the countryside, and attempt to live a quiet life. The worst thing I can do for my policies is come near them. My very presence is toxic to my own goals, you see. But I must leave someone behind to fight for them, and for the Continent.”
“So you think…Are you saying you think Mulaghesh could do this?”
Shara sits up straight, and suddenly it’s quite easy to see how she was elected. “Yes. General Turyin Mulaghesh is a born leader. She has fought for her country numerous times, was subjected to abominable trauma at the age of sixteen, and somehow came out of it a better person. She has defended Saypur’s soldiers from Divine forces twice now, in full view of the public. She is admired by the public and respected by the military. She is moral and judicious to a fault. She knows a damned sight more about the military than any politician currently holding office. She is, in short, a highly electable candidate.”
“You mean to force her into politics?” says Sigrud, somewhat horrified.
“I must leave someone behind to fight for my policies, Sigrud,” says Shara quietly. “I must have a champion. When Mulaghesh quit, it was quite a blow. But I believed I understood why she left. Turyin Mulaghesh is someone who has chosen to live her life for the safety and betterment of others. She has chosen, in a word, to serve. If she feels she is not serving, she feels she has no worth. I sent her to Voortyashtan to awaken her, to remind her of this, to be with common soldiers again and remember who she is and why she does what she does.” Shara bows her head. “I feel Turyin Mulaghesh is very awake now. Perhaps more than she has ever felt in her life. Much more than I intended.”
“After what she has been through,” says Sigrud, “after what she has seen and done—you wish to force her into leadership?” He shakes his head. “Shara, Shara…of all the things you could have said you’d done this for, this is by far the cruelest.”
“We all make compromises to try to better the world,” she says, her voice small. “This is but one of the many I’ve had to make. Saypur will soon have to decide what sort of nation it will be. Will it stay the same, and use its force blindly, unaware of the cost it is incurring upon itself and other nations? Or will it try to be something…different? Something wiser, perhaps, and more judicious? Mulaghesh is the best possible person to help my nation through this decision, and the wheels are already in motion, Sigrud. When sh
e arrives next week, I will formally ask her.”
“And if she says no?”
“I can be convincing,” says Shara. “As you know.”
“You are very talented,” says Sigrud bitterly, “at putting ideas into other people’s heads. I wonder if the world will ever forgive us for what we did in our lives, Shara.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean…I sometimes wonder if it was fate that took my daughter from me,” he says. “I have taken many lives in my life. Many children, perhaps husbands, wives, parents. Perhaps it is only just that this same violation was inflicted upon me. Perhaps it is just that one who lives a life of war becomes a refugee from it.” He looks at the little girl in Shara’s arms and tries to remember how that felt so long ago—how small she was, how warm, and how her gaze burned so bright. “If you had asked me last week if this fight was worth it, I would have told you yes. But if you asked me today, Shara Komayd, if you asked me right now if this was worth it—I would tell you no, no, a thousand times no. Never, ever, never could this fight be worth what it asks of us.” Then he wipes the glass with a finger, and Shara and her daughter are gone.
* * *
—
Mulaghesh wakes slowly, listening to the sound of the waves. Don’t forget where you are, she thinks to herself. Remember where you are.
It takes her a moment to realize she’s really awake. She opens her eyes and stares at the ceiling of the rundown little shitshack of a hotel. Then she sits up, takes a deep breath, and looks around her.
Sunlight streams in through the stained blinds, strobing as seabirds dip and rise above the docks outside her window. She can hear the longshoremen in the streets below calling to one another, cursing one another’s slowness or incompetence, or sharing a filthy joke. Everything smells like sea salt, or diesel, or cigarettes.
The Divine Cities Trilogy: City of Stairs, City of Blades, and City of Miracles, With an Excerpt From Foundryside Page 100