City of Blades (Divine Cities #2)

by Robert Jackson Bennett

  ‘. . . no blood on the door. Could be inside, but I doubt it. She’s still here somewhere.’

  She shifts slightly to the right to look down at her injury. She didn’t give it the treatment it deserved, but she didn’t have the time for it: she’d hardly applied the tourniquet when she heard Mulaghesh kick in the door, which made all the soldiers come sprinting up. Her calf throbs so much that sometimes it’s all she can do to keep from whimpering. She is also disconcertingly aware that she feels quite faint, no doubt from loss of blood: not only has she just been shot, but she also ‘donated’ to Mulaghesh’s ritual.

  She hears screaming from inside the house. The soldiers go quiet. It takes her a moment to recognise that it’s Rada screaming, howling in rage: she only ever heard the woman quietly stutter and stammer through life, so to hear her scream like that is queerly disturbing.

  A soldier says, ‘General Biswal is on his way, correct? Good. But tell him to hurry!’

  She groans inwardly. If Biswal is coming it’s almost certain more troops will be coming too. And the more troops that come, she thinks, the higher my chances are of being discovered.

  She feels faint, and knows that time is running out.

  *

  ‘And what,’ says Rada Smolisk, ‘is that thing?’

  ‘Shut up,’ barks Mulaghesh. She shuts her eyes and tries to concentrate.

  ‘Is that a sculpture? A piece of a sword?’

  ‘Shut up!’ She mentally reaches out to the sword, trying to feel for it. When she saw the sword in Thinadeshi’s hand it seemed to speak to her, to become something in her head, a medley of ideas and sensations and histories. Yet now when she needs it most it’s just a lump of metal in her hand.

  ‘Is that one of Komayd’s trinkets?’ says Rada. ‘I know she had them. Things stolen from the Continent to use against us . . . It won’t work. None of this is Divine anymore. None of this is fuelled by miracles, General. It’s powered by the rage of the dead.’

  ‘Will you shut your mouth?’ shouts Mulaghesh.

  ‘No. Why would I? I’ve nothing to lose. I’ve never had anything to lose.’ She laughs miserably, massaging her wounded knee. ‘Don’t you agree with them, General, just a little bit? These forgotten soldiers, furious that their nation and their god didn’t give them what was promised? Haven’t you and thousands of your comrades been abandoned the exact same way?’

  Mulaghesh stuffs the sword hilt in her pocket, draws her carousel, and points it at Rada’s head. ‘By all the damned seas, I’ll do it!’ she shouts. ‘I’ll shoot you, you damned fool!’

  Rada doesn’t even blink. Her face is calm and still, eyes watchful and wide. ‘Do it. I don’t care. In a way I’m an even better soldier than you are, aren’t I, General? The best soldier doesn’t value life, not even their own.’

  ‘You’re no soldier,’ says Mulaghesh furiously. ‘You think yourself a martyr, but you’re the world’s fool, Rada, fulfilling a prophecy no one even wants anymore.’

  ‘This world should have never been,’ says Rada calmly, staring up at her along the carousel. ‘It is accidental. The first thing we should have done after the Blink was line up and calmly walk into the ocean, entering the oblivion from which we no longer had refuge. What is the point of living if there is nothing beyond life?’

  ‘Do you even hear how foolish you sound?’ Mulaghesh holsters the carousel. ‘I’ve lived my life in the shadow of oblivion, Rada. I’ve seen good people go to it and bad. And I’ve always known I’d go there eventually, one way or another.’ She looks at Rada. ‘Maybe I’ll go there now and take you with me.’

  She pulls a grenade from her belt. Rada’s eyes grow large as she realises what she means to do.

  ‘No . . .’ whispers Rada.

  ‘The sword of Voortya won’t work,’ says Mulaghesh calmly. ‘And the forge won’t work. But what if I detonate four grenades here in this basement with you? What about that?’

  ‘You wouldn’t.’

  ‘I wouldn’t?’

  ‘You’d be killing yourself! You can’t! There’ll be nothing after this!’

  ‘That’s the difference between you and me, Rada,’ says Mulaghesh. She wedges the grenade between her left arm and her body and puts her finger in the ring. ‘You think what you’re doing is a victory over death, in its own way. But I know there’s no beating it. So I’m not afraid.’

  She closes her eyes.

  *

  Corporal Udit Raghavan grips his rifling as the auto bounces down the path to the polis governor’s house. He listens carefully as General Biswal speaks in the backseat, his voice calm, controlled. Raghavan has been close to Biswal all throughout the excursion into the highlands, and has seen an extraordinary amount of fighting in the past week; but one thing that both calms him and excites him is Biswal’s seemingly impenetrable serenity, which appears to stem from an unshakable belief that what they’re doing is absolutely, unimpeachably right.

  Doubt is not a thing that exists for General Lalith Biswal. And this unspoken belief spreads to his soldiers.

  And Raghavan, like many of his comrades, has desperately needed this in the past few days. In the mire of the highland settlements, when civilians were almost indistinguishable from insurgents, when a child of fourteen could somehow produce a pistol from within its rags and point it at your friends and comrades and fire away . . . Raghavan badly needed the shelter of Biswal’s confidence not only to pull the trigger when he needed to, but also to forget the bodies left behind: some of which were quite young, or quite old, and, occasionally, unarmed.

  The fog of war is an inevitability, he remembers Biswal saying. We must accept it and move on.

  He listens to Biswal now as the polis governor’s house comes into view: ‘. . . must make sure to take all necessary precautions. General Mulaghesh might be one-handed, but despite this she is one of the most accomplished soldiers I have ever commanded, and it appears she has lost none of her talent. Remain aware of that – but do not shoot unless the situation is critical.’

  ‘Do we know anything about General Mulaghesh’s motives, sir?’ asks a lieutenant.

  ‘We do not,’ says Biswal. ‘But her collusion with the Dreylings is extraordinarily troubling. She knew of threats to our national security, and she chose not to reveal them to us.’

  ‘Are . . . Are you saying she’s a traitor, sir?’ asks the lieutenant.

  Biswal is silent for a very long while. ‘I find that difficult to believe, even now. But she has lied to us since she first came here. And her lies have endangered the souls of everyone in this city, and in Fort Thinadeshi.’

  One of the soldiers curses under his breath.

  ‘I am concerned,’ says Biswal. ‘I will say that. I am very concerned.’

  The auto comes to a stop before the polis governor’s house. Biswal steps out and discusses the situation with the sergeant who was first on site. Then he says, ‘I’m going in to talk to her. For now, we need to establish a perimeter. We’re extremely close to the harbour, and the Dreylings are well-armed and highly disciplined. Be on alert.’

  Raghavan watches as Biswal and his lieutenant enter the home. Then he takes a forward post, overlooking the cliff that leads down to the harbour.

  It’s difficult for Raghavan to come to terms with his disgust, his outrage. He looks back up at the polis governor’s house. It’s traitorous to think so, but he half hopes Biswal will shoot her. It’d be a terrible incident, but then the press might get involved, and they’d see how suspicious her conduct has been, and then perhaps they’d turn their gaze toward Ghaladesh, and the prime minister, and what she’s asking of her soldiers.

  Then he frowns. Something’s wrong.

  He can see Private Mahajan standing in the trees just before the house; but then Mahajan jumps as if startled, and starts to turn, but he hasn’t lifted his gun.

  Raghavan’s mouth falls open as a figure rises out of the bracken. Someone tall with a sheen of gold on their head . . . Blond hair? A Drey
ling?

  And is that a rifling she has in her hand, using it as a support?

  She lifts the rifling up . . .

  Raghavan hears himself saying stop. He feels himself moving. It’s as if he’s out of his body, reacting completely by instinct, the stock of the rifling hitting his shoulder, the sights swinging to rest on the figure . . .

  And suddenly all the experiences he’s just had out in the highlands come rushing back to him. The children with bolt-shots shooting at them from ditches; the old woman he tried to help stand up trying to cut him with a tiny knife; returning from a patrol to find Private Mishra facedown in the road, a screaming teenage shtani girl stabbing him over and over again, and Raghavan pulled out his pistol and he . . .

  Pop.

  The rifling leaps in his hands.

  The figure falls to the ground among the bracken.

  Raghavan blinks as he looks down the sights.

  Did I do that?

  Even from here he can see Private Mahajan’s eyes widen in shock. Mahajan shouts, ‘No! No! Who fired? Who fired!’

  Raghavan doesn’t answer. He lowers his rifling and sprints up the hill to Mahajan. Other soldiers are streaming over as well.

  Mahajan is stooped in the bracken, screaming, ‘Who fired? Who the fuck was it who fired? We need a medic over here! We need a fucking medic over here!’

  ‘What happened?’ says Raghavan as he nears. ‘Who was that?’

  ‘She was surrendering!’ shouts Mahajan. ‘I was talking to her! She was surrendering! Who the fuck was it who fired, damn you!’

  Raghavan’s stomach goes cold. ‘They . . . They had a gun . . .’

  Mahajan looks at him. ‘Was it you? Was it you, Corporal? She was surrendering, damn it. She was giving me the gun, Corporal! Do you have any idea who you’ve shot? Do you have any idea what you’ve done?’

  Raghavan looks over Mahajan’s shoulder at the body on the ground.

  His hand flies to his mouth.

  ‘Oh, no,’ he whispers. ‘Oh, no, no, no, no, no.’

  *

  Mulaghesh can hear boards splintering above her. Her knuckle around the pin on the grenade is white. Her heart is beating so fast her blood is a roar in her ears.

  Just do it, she thinks. Just pull already! What are you waiting for? Don’t think; just do it!

  But her hand doesn’t move.

  ‘You don’t have the courage for it, do you,’ says Rada.

  ‘Like hells I don’t,’ says Mulaghesh, sweating.

  ‘Well, if you do . . . I always thought a Saypuri would kill me,’ says Rada. ‘It only gives me a slight pleasure to know that you’ll die with me.’

  The faint voices of the sentinels are still echoing in her head:

  ‘. . . brought the blade down and I grinned and laughed to feel the blood upon my face . . .’

  ‘. . . harged forward and our feet ate up the earth and we howled to the sun above us and made it know fear . . .’

  ‘. . . abandoned the children to run from us, but it did not matter, young or old they were our foes . . .’

  ‘Damn you for making me choose to do this, Rada,’ she says. ‘And damn my own soldiers for saving you in Bulikov, for doing their job.’

  ‘They didn’t save me,’ she says softly. ‘I died in that building. I just didn’t know it then.’

  There’s a tremendous smash from above. Then a rough shout – Biswal’s voice – saying, ‘Turyin? Turyin, are you down there?’

  ‘Get the hells out of here, Lalith!’ she shouts. ‘Get away! I’m . . . I’m going to blow this whole damn house up!’ Her hand begins trembling.

  ‘What? Turyin, don’t be insane! I’m coming down!’

  ‘No! No, get the hells out of here! I mean it! I really do!’ She shuts her eyes. Tears spill down her cheeks. ‘It’s the only choice! You’ve got to get your troops out of here!’

  ‘Don’t do anything! Just . . . just wait!’ The tumble of footsteps.

  ‘No!’ screams Mulaghesh. ‘No, don’t come down! Get away, get away!’

  He doesn’t stop. She sees muddy boots, and then Biswal slowly descends the stairs, hands raised.

  Even in her state his appearance shocks her: it’s clear General Lalith Biswal has just returned from war. His uniform is covered in spattered mud and ash, and there’s a splash of what Mulaghesh knows is blood on his right sleeve. His face is grey and haggard, and he looks years older than when she saw him last. She looks into his eyes, which are small and faded with fatigue, lost amidst pendulous bags. She isn’t sure who’s more haggard and disheartened: the old man on the steps who looks like he just lost a war, or the old woman by the forge with her finger in the ring of a grenade.

  ‘You’ve got to run, Lalith,’ she pleads. ‘You’ve got to run!’

  Rada’s large, dark eyes flick back and forth between the two of them.

  ‘What are those voices?’ says Biswal. He looks around the room, confused. ‘Who is talking, saying those things?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter, Lalith, just get out of here!’

  Biswal shakes his head and begins walking forward. ‘No. I won’t. I don’t know why you’re here, Turyin, or what’s going on or why you think you need to do this. But I know Turyin Mulaghesh, and I know she wouldn’t do something like this.’

  ‘It’s the only way!’ she says. ‘These swords she’s made . . . Lalith, they’re waking up the Voortyashtani dead! The sentinels, Lalith! That’s who’s talking! They were promised an invasion, a war that would end the world, and now they’re going to do it! I’ve got to destroy these swords, Lalith, I’ve got to!’

  Biswal glances around at the swords. ‘I admit, this . . . is damned suspicious. But we can talk about this, Turyin. You can explain everything to me. Whatever you’re trying to do, this isn’t the way to do it.’

  ‘I can’t explain because there’s no time! I have to destroy them and destroy them now!’

  He keeps walking. ‘I have soldiers here with plenty of firepower. You don’t need to destroy yourself in order to do it. If you explain all this to me then I’d be happy to do it for you.’

  ‘Lalith . . . Please, you’ve got to run.’

  ‘Put the grenade down, Turyin. Just put it down, nice and easy. There are four soldiers upstairs, and if you pull that pin you won’t just kill me, you’ll kill all of them, too.’

  Mulaghesh shuts her eyes. ‘Damn it . . .’

  ‘I know you won’t. You’d never kill another soldier. Just drop the grenade. I’m here. This is all over now. Just tell me what’s happening.’

  Mulaghesh lets out a long, slow sigh. Her whole body is taut, trembling. Then – very, very slowly – her crooked finger works itself free of the ring.

  There’s a thunk as the grenade falls to the floor. Mulaghesh follows shortly after, collapsing to the ground. She sits on the floor with her head between her knees, taking in huge, gasping breaths.

  Biswal walks over to her and extends a hand. ‘Your sidearm, too, Turyin.’

  ‘What?’ she says numbly.

  ‘Your carousel. I’ll need it to be sure.’

  Without thinking, she unholsters the carousel and hands it over to Biswal. ‘Now,’ he says. ‘What’s this about these swords?’

  ‘You hear them in your head? Those voices saying those terrible things?’

  He nods, his face grim.

  ‘They’re sentinels,’ says Mulaghesh. ‘The voices of sentinels. The sword and the warrior were one, and that’s what “thinadeskite” is – the pulverised swords of sentinels, with traces of their souls still trapped inside. Rada here realised that by remaking the swords she could awaken the dead, lure them into invading and destroying creation, as they were promised so many years ago.’

  Biswal stares at her, shocked. ‘That . . . That can’t possibly be true. It’s ridiculous! It can’t possibly be true.’ He looks at Rada. ‘Can it?’

  Rada’s face is serenely triumphant. ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘It’s true. And it’s over. I’ve won
. You just don’t know it yet.’

  ‘You . . . You truly believe this?’ he asks her.

  ‘I don’t need to believe it,’ says Rada. ‘It’s reality. It’s going to happen, and it’s going to happen soon. A god manifested in Bulikov five years ago, General – but what’s going to happen this evening will make that look like a minor skirmish.’

  He looks back at Mulaghesh. There’s a queer light in his eyes. ‘She . . . She wants to start another Battle of Bulikov?’

  ‘No. Worse. It’ll be a massive invasion.’

  ‘By sentinels – like Zhurgut?’

  ‘Thousands of them,’ says Mulaghesh wearily. ‘More. They’ll come by ship. Sailing across the sea from the City of Blades. That’s how the stories go, and that’s what they were promised.’

  ‘You can’t fight them,’ says Rada. ‘None of you can. You saw what Zhurgut did to the city. They’ll shred you like ribbons. Even your most advanced weaponry can’t stop them.’ She smiles beatifically. ‘I’ve freed them, you see. Trapped over there in their ruined city . . . I’ve let them out of the dark.’

  Biswal is silent. Then, to Mulaghesh: ‘It’d be a war, then.’

  ‘War on a level we’ve never seen,’ says Mulaghesh. ‘We have to stop it. We have to.’

  ‘It’s too late,’ says Rada. ‘It’s happening. Somewhere out in the sea, two realities are converging. Soon the seas will be dark with longships, and then this entire era will be over.’

  Biswal looks to Mulaghesh. ‘Be honest with me, Turyin. Speak to me as a soldier, as my equal. You really, truly believe what she’s saying will come to pass?’

  ‘I do,’ she says. ‘I’ve been to the City of Blades; I’ve seen the army of waiting dead. That’s why I’m stained red, Lalith, I . . . I know it doesn’t make any sense, and I know it seems impossible, but it’s the truth. It’ll be battle and war on a scale we’ve never seen before.’

  He holds her gaze for a long time, his eyes small and sad, the eyes of a man who has seen much death recently and expects to see more soon. ‘Battle and war,’ he says to himself, ‘on a scale we’ve never seen before . . .’ Then something hardens in his gaze, something cold and furious, and he says quietly, ‘I believe you.’