City of Blades (24 page)

Mulaghesh pokes her head around the statue of Zhurgut. She sees Signe talking to a richly dressed Dreyling, a man in dark red robes wearing a ceremonial fur hat with lots of gold embroidering. Signe looks very pale, very still, and very awkward, which is unusual, as her ample charisma has always filled any room.

Mulaghesh can't imagine why this man upsets her, in his white fur gloves and white fur boots and white fur belt. He's an absolute fop, if Mulaghesh must say so; but it isn't until he turns to scratch his cheek that she sees the bright gold eye patch covering up one eye.

Oh, by the seas,
she thinks.
It's Sigrud.

She keeps watching, dumbfounded, staring at his rich, ridiculous clothing, the rings on his fingers, the chain dangling from his neck.

Holy hells,
she thinks,
he looks like a fucking parade float!

It takes all of her effort not to burst out laughing. She could never have imagined Shara Komayd's most trusted assassin dressed in such a manner in her life.

Then he speaks, and his voice is the same, tremendously low and scratchy, as if it's been marinating in dark ale. “And what,” he says slowly, “were they used for?”

“What?” says Signe, irritated. “The statues?”

“Yes,” he says. “You said they were utilitarian. What was their use?”

“We have no idea. No idea what they did, or if they're doing anything now.” The answer is curt, impatient, even downright rude. Signe seems to realize this, for she continues: “We've noticed a name carved on each of the statues, sometimes in an unobtrusive place. Some of us believe that these are memorials, of a sort—works of art commissioned in honor of the departed. Some are different—we found some that were small chambers, resembling little tombs. You can see one there, a modest little box of a structure—but they contain nothing that appears to have supported a body. Only…weaponry.”

“Weaponry?”

“Well, one weapon apiece. There is a plinth inside each little tomb that seems designed to hold a sword. But we've found no swords. Perhaps they too vanished in the Blink, or were washed out to sea when old Voortyashtan fell apart.”

Sigrud stares around at the statues, quiet. Perhaps provoked by his silence, Signe goes on: “We have used our contact at the fortress to procure a list of Divine tests. Methods that can be used to determine the Divine nature of any…phenomenon, or object, or whatever. All the statues tested as negative. That should suffice, shouldn't it?”

He is silent.

“Shouldn't it?” she says again, angrier.

“I heard,” he says quietly, “that someone once shot at you.”

“What?”

“Someone shot at you. Clipped your hair. Is this true?”

“Oh. That. Yes, that happened some time ago. We've taken extra security measures since.”

“And the bombing? The explosives? You considered this a threat as well?” He looks at her, his one eye shining strangely.

“Yes,” says Signe, her words harsh and clipped. “But such fears proved unfounded. So. Back to the issue at hand. Our security
here
has thus far been airtight. If it wasn't, the tribal leaders would be all over us to force us to hand the statues over. As it is, my current intent is to use these statues as collateral to force the tribal leaders to give us shipping rights on the harbor. Otherwise we will report their existence to the Ministry, and, this being Voortyashtan, I have no doubt the Ministry would wish to confiscate and review them. Extensively. They'd stay in Saypuri hands indefinitely.”

Silence.

“Do you think our current strategy is wise?” she asks. “Or do you wish to…correct it for me?”

Sigrud is quiet for a long, long time.

“Well?” says Signe.

Finally he shrugs. “I trust what you are doing.”

She stares at him, surprised and suspicious. “You…do? You…You think this is a good idea?”

“I did not say
that
. If it were me I'd throw all this shit back in the ocean. I hate everything Divine, dead or not. But it is not me. It is
you
. And if you think this is a good idea, then I will let you do as you see fit.”

Signe is so taken aback by this that she's lost for words. Then: “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why are you willing to let me do this, if you think it's a bad idea?”

“Because…” He gives a great sigh. “I think you are good at this.”

“You don't seem too happy about it.”

Sigrud is quiet yet again.

“I get quite sick of your silences,” says Signe. “They aren't nearly as clever as you think they are.”

“I am not being clever. I just do not know what to say.” He pauses. “I want to ask…How…How many times has someone tried to kill you here?”

“Why?”

“Because I wish to know.”

“I don't think that matters.”

“I do.”

She snorts, contemptuous.

“More than once, then. Do you think this is worth it?” he asks. “Is it acceptable, to risk your life to build this? If you died here, on the shores of this country, below these cranes, would you feel you spent your life well?”

Signe crosses her arms and looks away. “This is an abrupt change in your disposition.”

“Why? Should I not be concerned about my daughter's welfare?”

“Do you have any idea,” says Signe, suddenly furious, “how many times someone tried to kill me and mother and Carin when we
lived
here? Do you know how many times we almost
starved
to death? Yet I did not see any sign of your concern then.”

A long pause.

“We…” Sigrud struggles for words. “We have
had
this conversation. We—”

“We had
your
conversation,” says Signe. “The conversation
you
wanted to have with everyone, in front of everyone. How absolutely absurd it is that you—the man who has risked his life for all kinds of murderous, horrible reasons—are suddenly asking if it's wise for me to do the same for somewhat decent ones!”

Sigrud is torn, it seems, between frustration and shock. “I forget how young you are sometimes.”

“No,” she says. “What you forget is that you don't really know me at all.” She checks her watch. “I need to confirm with Biswal and Nadar that they're ready to receive you. You may stay here if you like, and see yourself out as soon as you see fit.” Then, without so much as a glance back that Mulaghesh can see, she strides away from her father through the forest of statues and out the iron door, which shuts with a
clang
behind her.

Sigrud gives a great, sad sigh. He stares up at the canvas roof, contemplative and melancholy. Then he says aloud, “All right, Turyin. You can come out now.”

Mulaghesh pokes her head up. “How long have you known I was here?”

“From the start,” says Sigrud. His scarred, battered face is still doleful. “Your boot polish…You use too much of it. I'd recognize the smell anywhere.”

“It always creeped me out, how you could catch a scent like that.” Mulaghesh stands, wipes some of the mud off of her pants, and walks over to him. “Thanks for not ratting me out, I guess.”

He shrugs. “It is no affair of mine. I assume Signe did not wish to tell you what was in these walls?”

“Yeah. I chose to come see for myself.” She pauses, feeling fiercely awkward. “I'm sorry I overheard all that.”

“Yes…My adjustment to public life”—he holds out his arms and looks at his clothing—“is not quite as easy as I'd hoped it'd be. For anyone.”

“Yeah, you look…” She holds back a cringe. “You do look different.”

“These damned things…
Pah!
” He rips off his fur hat and eye patch and tosses them away. When he turns back his left eye is once again the familiar hooded, empty socket. “I feel more like a human without them.”

“That was probably, like, a two-hundred-drekel hat.”

“These old specters can have it.” He looks up at the giant stone images, leaning over them like predators. “By the seas. Look at them. To imagine my country would one day spend blood and treasure to haul such things from the ocean…”

“Your girl's got a pretty cunning idea, though,” says Mulaghesh. She walks up to Saint Zhurgut, strikes a match on the statue, and lights a cigarillo. “Blackmailing the tribes might work. And she has some damned brass in her blood, too. Hiding these things right under the nose of Fort Thinadeshi…I'd be impressed if I wasn't so pissed.”

“She is a very cunning, clever thing. As I said, she is very good at what she does.” There's another uncomfortable pause. He looks her over. “You seem to be doing well.”

“As do you. You must have done pretty good for yourself during the coup.”

“Ah,” says Sigrud, waving a hand. “It was hardly a coup for me. I barely struck a blow. It was like a courtly dance, so many pre-arranged steps, and I merely had to move from one to the next. Shara did all the real work, though no one knew.”

“As usual.”

“As usual, yes. What about you, have you seen any action?”

“Not a jot. They stuck me behind a desk. Then after I quit I stuck myself behind a bottle. So no new scars or limbs lost, or at least not yet. You look like you're all in one piece, or at least what I can see above those kingly robes does.”

“Eh. Not quite.” He pulls his left lip down, revealing an utter dearth of back molars on the left side of his jaw. Mulaghesh can see extensive scar tissue around the lip, suggesting a broken jawbone.

“Holy hells. Did you try and catch a cannonball with your face?”

“A carpenter's hammer. Makes eating soup difficult these days, and drinking even more so. Three years ago, we boarded the ship of the pirate Lindibier…do you know this man? Lindibier?”

“ 'Fraid not.”

“Well.” He considers it thoughtfully. “He was a real piece of shit.”

“Okay.”

“Anyway, we board, we kill, well, almost everyone, and then there's just the cabin boy, hiding down in the aft. I walk over to him, he's, what, fourteen? I take pity on him. I ask him, ‘You need food? Water?' And he looks at me, and he leaps at me, and then…” He taps the side of his head. “He could swing a hammer, for a boy.” He looks away, wistful. “I strangled him and threw his body in the ocean. Let the fish turn him to shit as fast as they could. It took time for me to recover. That was when they made me a chancellor. Or my wife did. To save my life, she said.”

“Your wife?”

“Hild. Yes. She's…” He is quiet for some time. “…like Shara. Or Signe. A very, eh, cunning person. She's a chancellor, too. Just a more important one than me—the sort of chancellor that makes other chancellors. Which she did, to me. But I know what I'm good for. I just want to hunt meat and chase pirates. But they've had me behind a desk. Stuck me in a big, nice office where I never see anyone, and no one ever sees me. Though I insisted I come out when Kvarnström attacked a village. Do you know him? The pirate Kvarnström?”

Mulaghesh shakes her head.

“Oh. Well. He is a real piece of shit.”

“I'm sensing a theme.”

“Yes. We had been so caught up in this harbor thing, our dicks big and hard thinking of money, we had forgotten how to deal with pirates. The pirates took us, what, two years to get under control? Three? And then we forget it all, stumbling all over ourselves to do this job. Anyway, I hopped on a ship and took pursuit. We almost caught him, about sixty miles from here. But he damaged our mast with a chainshot, a cowardly way to fight.”

“I heard something about that,” she says, suspecting why Sigrud's wife might not want someone who casually uses the phrase “dicks big and hard thinking of money” in the public eye. “So you're actually here because your ship got damaged?”

“Partially. Some months ago Signe sent a signal to the UDS asking if she had approval to move forward with this tactic. I wanted to see what was going on, and a damaged ship is a good excuse. Besides, what are you doing here? This is a strange place for you to be, isn't it?”

“Shara,” she says, as if that explains everything.

“Ah. Was you quitting part of her game?”

“No. That was my choice. She just dragged me back in.”

“A bad thing, to haul an old warrior back onto the field. What game is she playing now?”

She's relieved Sigrud doesn't ask about the circumstances of her exit, as she's so tired of fielding questions about it. “They discovered some kind of ore or metal or whatever up near the fort. Shara's concerned it might be Divine.”

The two of them sit on the plinth of Saint Zhurgut, and she summarizes the generalities of Sumitra Choudhry's investigation and disappearance. He listens intently, smoking his pipe—his
old
pipe, she notices, not a fine little ivory piece but the filthy, scarred, oaken thing he was always carrying around. And suddenly Mulaghesh feels more relaxed and more open than she's felt in weeks. It takes her a moment to realize she might be being more honest with him than she should, but she doesn't care. She and Sigrud passed through fire and death together, and spent weeks recuperating in a hospital outside Bulikov, trapped in their beds. Though she still holds a grudge against him for making a fast and mostly full recovery—which astonished the doctors, who had all written him off as either permanently crippled or, much more likely in their opinions, soon to be dead. Mulaghesh's recuperation was far longer and far more excruciating, fighting infections and trying to keep what was left of her arm.

He thinks for a long while when she's finished. “What kind of ore is this, again?”

“It's an electrical conductor. Like, what they use to make the electric lights work. They think they can use it to…I don't know, power more of them, do it easier, faster.”