‘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 cruellest.’
‘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 she 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 realise 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 sea-birds 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.
It smells and sounds, in other words, like civilisation, in all its filthy, raucous splendor. It’s been twenty-three days since she shipped out of Voortyashtan to finally stop here on the last leg of her journey back to Ghaladesh. The Ahanashtani docks are no one’s idea of a peaceful respite, so she’s not sure why she feels so at ease here. But she remembers something Sigrud said to her years ago, in the hospital in Bulikov: Many people despise ports. They think them filthy, dangerous. And perhaps they are. But sea ports are the staging places of better things.
She looks at her bedside table, where a gleaming metal hand sits, its fingers extended in a curious position, as if waving farewell. Some mechanism inside was damaged by Pandey’s blade, and she can’t get some of the knuckles to work right. But she doesn’t care. She takes it off her nightstand, affixes it to her left arm, which is still bandaged from her duel with Pandey, and with five simple clicks the prosthetic falls into place.
Not completely broken. Still good. Better than what she had before, certainly.
She packs up, tosses her duffel bag over her shoulder, and heads out to port, scanning her papers for her next ship. As she approaches the dock she looks up and does a double take.
‘Ah, shit,’ she says. ‘Of all the shitting luck . . .’
The blinding white hull of the luxury ship Kaypee stands a few hundred feet before her. She’s not looking forward to spending the next three days with a bunch of families and infants and lovers. She’s glad she’s not wearing her uniform, as that would attract a lot of unwanted attention.
But as she approaches the ship she sees that, though the other passengers are indeed very young, they aren’t who she expected.
About thirty young privates, all in fatigues, stand on the dock with their bags in piles around their feet, waiting nervously for permission to board. She glances at their uniforms and sees they’re from the 7th Infantry, which last she heard was stationed somewhere inland – Bulikov or Jukoshtan, she can’t remember which. Probably being sent back to Ghaladesh to prep for new deployment, new assignments. They have a brittle sort of nervousness to them, and Mulaghesh guesses that her nation must be making some bold military moves if they’re willing to pull these troops out and buy up the Kaypee for it. But they would have to be bold, considering what happened. Saypur must posture, and prove it’s not vulnerable.
She’s not surprised no one told her. Her country likely has no idea what to do with her right now.
She gets in line behind the young soldiers and drops her duffel bag. It makes the boards quake, causing a few of the soldiers to glance back at her, watching as she lights a cigarillo. One of them takes in her bruises, bandages, scars, her prosthetic left hand. He gives a nod to her, a gesture between equals. But of course it would be. If she were senior rank, she’d be in uniform. She nods back.
She looks closer at their uniforms. ‘Seventh Infantry, huh?’ she says.
The soldiers look back. ‘That’s right,’ says one, a young woman.
‘Last I heard you were in . . . Jukoshtan, right?’
‘Right.’
‘That’s an exciting assignment.’
She smirks. ‘Not hardly.’
‘Yes, a great station to work on your Batlan game, they told me. Any of you serve under Major Avshram?’
‘Uh. Yes, actually. I did,’ says the young woman.
‘He still got that fucking moustache?’
The soldiers grin. ‘That he does,’ says the young woman. ‘Despite any sense of common decency.’ She looks her over. ‘You in the service?’
‘Used to be. Might be still. Won’t know until we get home.’
They nod sympathetically. To be a soldier is to no longer own your life.
‘Where were you stationed?’ asks the young woman.
‘Well, technically,’ says Mulaghesh, ‘I was on vacation.’
She laughs in disbelief. ‘That must’ve been some vacation.’
‘You’re telling me.’
They chat and joke and share cigarettes as they wait to board. One bold young private tries one of Mulaghesh’s cigarillos, one of the foul things she purchased at the docks. He turns a dull green a few puffs in, inciting peals of laughter and raucous ridicule. Mulaghesh smiles, watching them, drinking in their adolescence, their optimism, their naiveté, their mannered cynicisms. She knows such youth is far behind her, but she has always felt that to foster it, protect it, and watch it grow is still a fine thing. Perhaps one of the finest things.
She thinks about what could have happened to these children if she hadn’t picked up the sword, if she hadn’t listened to it speak, and then spoke to the sentinels in turn. She wonders what would have happened if she’d figured it all out earlier, if she’d listened and watched Rada a little closer. A contained disaster, she thinks, is still a disaster. Hundreds of people died deaths that could have been avoided. And Nadar, and Biswal, and Pandey and Signe . . .
She watches light bounce off the waves and dance along the hull of the ship. Gone, she thinks. All gone. And yet again, I survive.
Her arm aches. Less than it used to. But it’s still there. Maybe it’ll always be there.
The young soldier who tried her cigarillo is now trying to feed it to a seagull, much to the amusement of his comrades. Mulaghesh smiles. I don’t know if I’m ever going to wear a uniform again, she thinks, watching the soldiers, but I will still fight for you.
The line starts moving. They throw their bags over their shoulders, lean forward, and start up to the plank to the Kaypee.
The young soldier looks back at her, and says, ‘Well. No matter what’s waiting for you in Ghaladesh, I hope you find some rest, and peace.’
‘Peace?’ says Mulaghesh, a touch surprised. ‘Well, maybe. Maybe.’
They climb aboard and ready themselves for the short journey home.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to Brent Weeks, who read City of Stairs and gave me some very foresighted advice about the state of Sigrud’s health.
Thanks to my editor, Julian Pavia, for helping me cut one whole book out of the middle of this one, much to the improvement of everything.
Thanks to Deanna Hoak and Justin Landon, whose observations about these books have fuelled ideas for future ones. Innovation sometimes arises from the simplest mistakes.
Much thanks to Myke Cole, for taking time out of his busy schedule to educate me on all things military for this novel. I now know the difference between a clandestine and a covert operation.
Many thanks to Ashlee and Jackson, who continue to tolerate me for reasons unknown.
And many, many thanks to those who read City of Stairs, without whose support this book would surely not exist.
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