City of Blades (Divine Cities #2)

by Robert Jackson Bennett

  Mulaghesh watches her go, frowning. ‘That was rather abru—’

  ‘I will go too,’ says Sigrud. ‘I need to get very drunk and lie down somewhere very dark.’

  ‘Typical Dreyling curative?’

  ‘Something like that.’ He stands and lumbers away, limping down the steps.

  Mulaghesh stands alone on the hillside, wondering what tomorrow will bring. But something troubles her.

  Signe saw something, she thinks. Just now. Didn’t she? She saw something that made her want to leave.

  She scans the streets of Voortyashtan with a keen eye. Eventually she notices the short, grey-coated figure standing in the shadow of a tumbled-down house, his peaked cap barely visible in the evening mist.

  ‘Pandey,’ says Mulaghesh quietly.

  She sits perfectly still, waiting for him to move. When he does she follows, carefully.

  *

  Pandey heads north, climbing up out of the city and across the cliffs. Mulaghesh falls back when he enters the open country, moving from stone to stone and tree to tree, her hip screaming that she is a complete and utter idiot with every step.

  Mulaghesh curses herself for not acting on this sooner. Signe accused me of being an industrial spy once, she thinks, and here she is with a spy of her own up at the fortress! She ducks down behind a boulder and watches Pandey hurry over the cliffs. Oh, Pandey, you stupid boy. What have you gotten yourself into?

  They pass the ruined mines, the copse of trees where she found the tunnel, farther and farther north. She makes careful note of his boot print and begins to read its small, ridged scar in the landscape. It should be almost impossible to lose him now.

  Yet she comes to the cliffs, and finds she has. She looks to the left and right, wondering if she could have missed him, or perhaps he dove off into the sea itself. Yet when she looks over the edge, she sees only a smattering of sharp, murderous rocks, and the grey gravelly shore.

  She pauses. A small sculling shell rests on the shore with two oars nestled inside. As she leans out to look she sees a small stone staircase has been cunningly hidden in the folds of the cliffs, perhaps carved by someone decades ago.

  Mulaghesh gets down on her elbows and knees and watches as Pandey finishes climbing down the narrow staircase and walks over to the sculling shell. He looks around, then looks up.

  She moves back, waits, and then looks back out again.

  Pandey is now stripping down to his undergarments, carefully folding his clothes and setting them on the gravel. Even though it’s evening and cooling off quick, he’s naked to the waist now, wearing only a pair of dark-grey breeches. He shoves the sculling shell out onto the waves, wading in chest-deep, and then ably lifts himself up and into the shell. She sees his rowing prowess hasn’t diminished one jot, for he capably navigates his way through the jagged rocks and out to the sea, where another craft is ponderously making its way north to meet him.

  Mulaghesh shields her eyes and squints at the craft. The boat is not half as sleek as Pandey’s, a fat washtub of a thing. She takes out her spyglass and places it to her eye, and is not surprised to see it is Signe labouring away at the two oars . . . however, she is a little surprised to see that SDC’s chief technology officer has also stripped down quite a bit for this jaunt, though she still wears her scarf. Even if she’s holding a clandestine meeting with a spy, it’s . . . a bit much.

  ‘What the hells?’ mutters Mulaghesh.

  When Pandey’s shell nears Signe he pops the oars out, slides them in, and hops into the open water. Mulaghesh feels cold just watching him. He loops a rope to the prow of his shell, frog-kicks over to Signe’s bathtub of a boat, and knots it to the stern, with her assistance. When he grabs onto the edge of the boat Signe leans out over him, and Mulaghesh frowns when she sees the huge, ecstatic grin bloom on the Dreyling girl’s face.

  Pandey lifts himself out of the water, shoulders rippling and flexing, and places a kiss upon the smile.

  Mulaghesh’s mouth drops open. ‘Oh. Oh.’

  Pandey climbs in with Signe and rows to some hidden, rocky inlet along the coast. As the boats slowly leave Mulaghesh’js range of vision Signe undoes her ponytail, her bright gold hair rippling down in a shimmering curtain, and then she reaches down and starts to lift her shirt.

  ‘Oh, shit,’ says Mulaghesh. She lowers the spyglass, ashamed.

  ‘Yes,’ says a voice behind her.

  Mulaghesh jumps so much she almost goes tumbling off the cliffs. She turns to see Sigrud about twenty feet down the cliff, sitting with his legs dangling over the edge and watching the waters with a strange look on his face, as if he is both puzzled and pleased by what he just saw.

  ‘Damn it!’ says Mulaghesh. ‘You nearly made me kill myself just then!’

  Sigrud is silent.

  ‘You were following her, weren’t you?’ asks Mulaghesh.

  ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘And you were following yours.’

  ‘Right. So your daughter . . . Uh, and Pandey . . .’ Mulaghesh scratches the back of her head.

  ‘They are lovers,’ says Sigrud.

  ‘Well, if they weren’t already it sure looks like they’re going to be.’

  ‘No . . . The familiarity of their movements . . . They have done this before, many times.’

  Mulaghesh holds up her hands. ‘Okay, please stop. Remember this is your daughter you’re talking about.’

  ‘Why should this discomfort me, to see my daughter doing this?’ He looks into the sunset. ‘Two young people who nearly died last night, embracing life. That was what I saw.’

  ‘With a . . . With a damned sergeant major in the Saypuri Military? I thought Signe would be into, I don’t know, some astronomically wealthy banker or something. Or at least someone of her own race. A Saypuri courting a Dreyling . . . I can’t imagine how such a thing would work. He’d need to tie cans on his feet to dance with her.’

  ‘You underestimate her.’

  ‘Maybe. Either way, it’s dangerous.’

  ‘Affairs of the heart often are.’

  ‘Don’t get sentimental with me. There’s a lot that could go wrong here. If either of them is telling the other anything . . .’

  Sigrud thinks about it. ‘I do not care.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘I do not care about espionage, about decorum, about security. I worried my daughter had only work in her life, only success or miserable failure. To see her smile in such a manner makes my heart glad.’

  ‘Well, goody for your fucking heart! Pandey was one of my soldiers. I can’t believe he’s . . . fraternising with a foreign official in such a manner!’

  ‘Didn’t you sleep with a member of the Bulikov police department?’ asks Sigrud.

  ‘That’s beside the point!’ snarls Mulaghesh. ‘The stakes were different then!’

  ‘Were they?’ Sigrud scratches his chin. ‘They are young. Both of them leave soon for uncertain fates. I say let them be humans for as long as circumstances allow. Why is this breach of decorum your concern, when so much else is at risk?’

  ‘And I thought I was getting old and soft. You sound like a cheap novel, Chancellor.’ She sighs. ‘Come on. Help me get my broken ass back to HQ.’

  12. The tooth

  Ask a person what they want most desperately and they will say a child, a home, a fortune, a power, or an influence over their fellow men.

  These are all variations on the same thing – a wish for lasting influence, for legacy, for eternity.

  We wish to be remembered.

  – WRITS OF SAINT PETRENKO, 720

  Two days later, three hours before the break of dawn, Mulaghesh – still stiff, still bruised, still aching – reviews the craft that Signe has bobbing beside a small SDC dock.

  ‘So . . . are we sailing or going on holiday?’ she asks.

  ‘I take it you’re no sailor,’ says Signe as she makes her preparations. Despite the impending voyage, she’s still dressed the same: same black boots, same scarf, though she is now
wearing a life jacket. Mulaghesh tries very hard not to remember the proper young CTO in the state of undress she saw just days ago.

  ‘Maybe not, but I’m not sure how keen I am to get on that thing in the open seas.’ She walks the length of the craft. It’s a forty-foot white yacht labelled Bjarnadóttir, which Mulaghesh isn’t going to even attempt to pronounce, and it looks to her eye to be more suited for a jaunt across a still lake than navigating the rocky coastlines of Voortyashtan.

  ‘Don’t doubt it,’ says Signe. ‘I know a Dreyling who sailed one of these fifteen thousand miles single-handedly.’

  ‘If you are talking about old Hjörvar,’ says Sigrud, walking down the dock, ‘that man sailed slower than a cow gives birth.’ He’s still moving gingerly, his right arm still in a sling. Mulaghesh shakes her head: firing a Ponja from an upright position would be like getting hit by a truck. But never was there a person more born to bear punishment than Sigrud.

  ‘Hjörvar is one of the most accomplished seamen I know of,’ says Signe, nettled.

  ‘The reason we all thought Hjörvar was so slow,’ says Sigrud, ‘is we assumed he kept masturbating in the cockpit instead of sleeping. He was known for that.’

  ‘Anyway,’ says Signe, ‘she is a good vessel, and she’ll take us where we need to go.’

  Mulaghesh looks at Sigrud. ‘Is it a good vessel?’

  He holds up a hand and wobbles it back and forth. ‘It will do.’

  Signe scoffs as she carries more supplies on board. Mulaghesh eyes the crate as Signe walks past. ‘Four riflings, ammunition . . . and grenades? Why grenades?’

  ‘You’ve not been to the Tooth, General,’ Signe says over her shoulder. ‘I have. And if you think something Divine is awakening in Voortyashtan . . . I would prefer we be careful.’ She slips through the hatch.

  Sigrud and Mulaghesh stand on the dock, both slightly bent from their injuries. He says, ‘Take care of her.’

  ‘I think she’s going to be taking care of me. I don’t know a damn thing about sailing.’

  ‘She may know sailing. But she does not know combat. And she is going to a place that I think could be quite dangerous. We do not even know if Choudhry came back from this Tooth. We do not know what awaits.’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  Signe emerges from belowdecks. ‘We’ve got more shipments coming in shortly. If we want to depart, now’s the time.’

  ‘Ah, hells,’ says Mulaghesh. ‘Here we go . . .’ She steps on board, her hip still complaining.

  Signe shoves a second life jacket in her arms. ‘Wear this. And keep out of the way.’

  ‘Fine, fine,’ says Mulaghesh. She sits down before the hatch and slips the jacket on.

  Signe turns to face her father, and for a moment Mulaghesh sees how their relationship could have been, had the world been different: Sigrud, tall, proud, stern, standing upon the dock with his arms crossed and the haze of early sunrise behind him; and before him his daughter, young and fierce, confidently balanced on the balls of her feet as the craft bobs up and down. They exchange some wordless moment that is inscrutable to Mulaghesh: perhaps each recognises the competence of the other, and signals their pride; but then each acknowledges that there is work to do, and they must return to it.

  ‘Safe sailing,’ says Sigrud.

  ‘Safe work,’ says Signe.

  And with that Sigrud bends low, unties the hitch, and throws the line aboard. Signe catches it one-handed, stows it aboard, then walks to the stern and starts the little diesel engine with a single jerk. Then, the engine sputtering and smoking, she guides the little yacht out to the open sea.

  She does not look back once at her father. When Mulaghesh looks to shore, Sigrud, too, is walking away without a glance back.

  *

  For two days and two nights they sail southwest, and most of what Mulaghesh does is stay out of Signe’s way. That, and vomit.

  She once mocked Shara for her weak stomach, but now that she’s on such a small craft on the open seas she regrets it: every bend of every wave is magnified a thousand times on this tiny vessel, and time and time again she feels sure the yacht will capsize, its mainsail plummetting into the dark waters of the North Seas, dragging her and Signe both down to a dark and watery grave.

  This never happens, of course. Signe is far too skilled a sailor. She’s a flurry of activity for nearly all of their voyage, scurrying over the bow and the hatch to adjust the tiller or the boom bail, checking the traveller rig or the becket block, or any other piece of nautical anatomy that sounds wholly made up to Mulaghesh. Signe pauses only to mention, ‘Watch the boom,’ as the mainsail comes hurtling at her head, or perhaps, ‘Throw me that there.’

  As the first night falls Signe says, ‘We’re in a good spot now. And were I a serious sailor, I’d have trained to sleep in twenty-minute shifts, waking up to see the seas ahead. But as I’m not, we’ll have to take shifts.’

  ‘So what do I do?’

  ‘Sit in the cockpit and shout if you see a damn thing, of course.’

  ‘And what does a damn thing look like?’

  ‘It looks like a big damned rock, General,’ says Signe. ‘Or a big damned boat, if we stray into the shipping lanes – which we shouldn’t, if I’ve set the right course. But you never know.’

  The first night is terrifying to Mulaghesh, alone in the dark with the sails fluttering gently and the moon shining down on her. The world hasn’t ever felt so empty to her before. She supposes she should be glad the weather is clear, but all she can think of is the sight of Voortya’s face bursting up through the reflection of the moon on the waves, and rising, rising, water pouring off her vast metal body . . .

  There’s the soft click of the hatch opening. Signe silently walks across to sit beside her in the cockpit. For a moment or two, they say nothing.

  ‘You ought to get some sleep, Skipper,’ says Mulaghesh. ‘I can’t have you passing out on me at the tiller.’

  ‘I won’t. Just . . . the purpose of our voyage weighs on me.’

  ‘Me, too. Do you know anything about what’s over there? In the City of Blades itself?’

  ‘Folklore,’ says Signe. ‘And rumours. I’ve heard stories of Voortyashtanis contacting and, yes, passing over into the City of Blades. These instances were always highly controversial, and only done in extreme situations, when departed elders needed to be closely consulted.’

  ‘Did those who came back say what was on the other side?’

  ‘There’s supposedly a gatekeeper, of some sorts,’ says Signe. ‘Some entity or . . . or something over there that only allows certain people in. When someone who wasn’t suitable arrived in the City of Blades, they were expelled.’

  ‘Who’s considered suitable?’

  ‘A great warrior. Someone who’s shed the blood of many.’

  ‘That probably won’t be a problem, then,’ says Mulaghesh grimly. ‘But if I’m wrong?’

  ‘Depending on their stature or demeanour, frequently the expulsion was . . . lethal.’

  ‘But not always?’

  Signe shakes her head. ‘There were ways beyond this ritual to visit the City of Blades. If we had a Voortyashtani sentinel’s blade, for example, and if we were trained in the meditative arts of the sentinels, we could hold their sword and project our consciousness there.’

  ‘Project your . . . What? I thought picking up a sentinel’s sword got you possessed,’ says Mulaghesh. ‘That’s what happened to that poor guy at the harbour.’

  ‘It’s a two-way street, in a way,’ says Signe. ‘You could use their sword like a telephone, I suppose, directly communing and conversing with them in the City of Blades. It’s just that when Oskarsson picked up the blade, well, for one thing, he wasn’t skilled in the meditative arts – but more so, Zhurgut clearly had intentions other than education. Either way, back in the ancient days, this gatekeeper was also responsible for blocking or expelling these pilgrims, preventing the unworthy from projecting themselves into the City of Blades.’


  ‘So if I can get past this gatekeeper,’ says Mulaghesh, ‘then what’s after that?’ She remembers her brief vision of the City of Blades, and the strange white citadel beyond. ‘A castle? A tower? The home of Voortya herself?’

  ‘I don’t know, General,’ says Signe. ‘You know more than I do. You’ve been there before.’

  ‘Great,’ says Mulaghesh.

  Signe looks east, at the ragged grey coast of Voortyashtan. The cliffs look like the folds of a dark, crinkled tablecloth glowing silver in the moonlight. ‘I forget it can be beautiful, sometimes.’

  Mulaghesh grunts.

  ‘Vallaicha Thinadeshi’s son is buried out there, in that region there. Did you know that?’

  ‘Huh?’ says Mulaghesh. It takes her a moment to remember her history. ‘Oh, right. The baby.’

  ‘I believe he was four years old when the plague took him. But yes.’

  ‘It was mad for her to try and take her family with her.’

  ‘Times were different then, and I don’t believe she intended to get pregnant out here. But you’re right. Ambition and responsibilities . . . Not very good bedmates.’

  Mulaghesh looks side-eyed at Signe. She’s never seen her look so mournful and contemplative. ‘What do you see out there?’

  ‘Besides the rocks? It’s complicated.’

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ She points. ‘I see an excellent site for a hydroelectric dam. Numerous ones, actually. Megamundes, gigamundes worth of power generation. I see fruitful sites for refineries, plants, berths for industries of all types and kinds. Water’s the lifeblood of industry, specifically freshwater – which Voortyashtan is rich in. Once we crack the river open . . . Oh, what a spark that will be, what a country this will make.’

  ‘Sometimes I can’t tell if you hate this place or love it.’

  ‘I love its potential. I hate its past. And I don’t like what it is.’ She hugs her knees close to her chest. ‘The way you feel about the place you grew up in is a lot like how you feel about your family.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  She thinks about it for a long time. ‘Like isn’t the same thing as love.’