City of Blades (6 page)

“It was you, wasn't it.”

Signe pauses just long enough to satisfy modesty. “I had the idea on a…somewhat grand, abstract scale. I
did
formulate the modular process and oversee its sourcing and detailing, yes. And portions of the arm design are mine. Though there were countless other SDC teams that played their part.”

“I guess you don't get to be chief technology officer for nothing.”

“Who can say? My position is the first in the company's history. We've never had a CTO before me.”

“So…how exactly does a member of the Dreyling royal family come to have a hand in all this?”

Signe blinks, confused. “Dreyling royal family?”

“Your daddy is, unless I'm forgetting, the heir to the Dreyling throne?”

Signe exhales slowly through her nostrils and taps her cigarette ash into the ashtray in the armrest. “The United Dreyling States are a free democracy now. We no longer cater to a monarchy, or to the pirate kings like we did back during the Republic days.”

“Even if that monarchy was originally yours?”

Her eyes glitter. “It is not
mine,
General. It was
never
mine. And that has nothing to do with the harbor.”

“So you're saying your father has nothing to do with your position here?”

Signe pinches out the end of her cigarette with her thumb and forefinger, her skin hissing as it touches the ash, though her face registers no pain.
Those calluses run deep,
thinks Mulaghesh. “My father, General,” Signe says slowly, “has terribly little to do with anything significant happening these days, as far as I can tell. And if you want his opinion on the matter, I suggest you find someone who would know more than I do. Or, moreover, someone who would
care
to know.”

Signe looks up as the train comes to a halt. The white shaft of the lighthouse hovers above them. Signe's composure immediately returns, the clever smile blooming back on her pretty face. “Ah! We're here. Allow me to take you to dinner. I know it's late, but I'm sure you're starving.” Without another word, she strides off the passenger car, leaving Mulaghesh to struggle with her bags.

Mulaghesh and Signe dine in the private dining room just below the control rooms for the lighthouse. It's clear this is reserved for the upper echelons of the company: Signe had to use multiple keys just to get to this part of the building. Their server—a Dreyling boy with a wispy half-beard—enters and exits through a secret panel door beside the bookcase in the corner. Everything about the room is designed for privacy, a place to hold conversations and do the real work once the formal meetings are done, though it feels like an extremely upscale whalers' inn: everything is dark, ornate wood, and most of the walls are covered in the bones of unsettling sea creatures, some with harpoon barbs still lodged in them.

“One way to keep a skilled workforce,” Signe explained to her when they entered, “is to give them every creature comfort. These men have come out to the end of the world to risk their lives—so even if they are hard laborers and seamen, we give them the best chefs, the best entertainment, and the best accommodations money can buy.”

But Mulaghesh also notes that the accommodations are quite permanent. One wouldn't build such a site if you weren't intent on staying here for a while. And if they truly expect to get the harbor ready in a matter of months, then what comes after?

From this angle she can see Fort Thinadeshi: a dark, squatting, massive installation on the cliffs just north of the lighthouse. Its most immense cannons are pointed at the city, threatening to rain death down on them at any second. She wonders how the Voortyashtanis must feel with those cannons pointed at them day and night.

“You're briefed on the situation?” asks Mulaghesh quietly.

Signe picks up her napkin and delicately dabs at the corner of her mouth. “Sumitra Choudhry. Yes.”

“So,” says Mulaghesh. “What can you tell me about her?”

“She came here a half a year ago. Sent to investigate some discovery made just on the outskirts of the fort.”

“Do you know what discovery that was?”

“No. When I volunteered to be your contact here they made it very clear that, for me, this was a need-to-know situation, and I did not need to know
that
.” She sniffs. “Anyway. At first Choudhry stayed up at the fortress, but then she started coming down and asking questions of my employees. I chose to handle it for the company. She seemed quite…disturbed.”

“Disturbed?”

“Yes. I wondered if she was slightly mad. Bit loopy in the head, if I may say so. At some point in time she had suffered a head injury,” says Signe, gesturing to her left brow, “a white bandage here, so I wondered if that was it, but I wasn't sure.”

“How'd she get injured?”

“I'm afraid she didn't say, General. She asked us a lot about geomorphology—the way land is formed. I suppose that because we were doing all this work on the bay, she thought we would know something. But we're just fixing damages done a few decades ago, not millions of years.” She points out the window to an area just west of the fortress. “People would see her wandering the cliffs with a lantern at night, looking out to sea. I'm told she looked like a painting—the maiden awaiting the return of her beloved, or whatever. Like I said, we thought she was mad.”

“Then what happened?”

“Well, then one day we got word she was just…gone. I heard rumors it took the fort some time to even realize she was AWOL—that's how odd her movements were. They conducted searches out as far as they could, but found nothing. And that, quite seriously, is all I know.”

“Would any of your employees know anything more?”

“Possibly. Why? Would you like to talk to each and every one of them? How much time do you have, General?”

“I was thinking you might have an alert you can send out. A notice to all SDC employees to come forward if they ever had any contact with Choudhry.”

“Well…we do have a system somewhat like that, but it's usually reserved for emergencies, an—”

“If you can put that alert through I'll be quite grateful, CTO Harkvaldsson.” Mulaghesh studiously ignores Signe's irritation. “But what I find most curious right now is—why you?”

“Why me what?”

“Why are you the one to help me, of all people? You're not involved with anything at the fortress. And I'm surprised SDC can spare their CTO to help out on a clandestine military operation.”

“Oh, they can't. Not really. Though we did just go through one of the more difficult crane sitings, so that does make it a little easier. Less burdens upon my back.”

“So why you?”

“I'm familiar with the country, the culture,” says Signe. “I was raised just outside of this polis, after all.”

“You were?”

“Yes,” says Signe. She kneads her napkin in between her finger and thumb. “I'm a Dreyling, certainly. But after the coup we couldn't stay in the Dreyling Shores. There were plenty of people who wished to see me and my family dead. So we had to hide away somewhere. Voortyashtan was closest, and the least likely place for anyone to look.”

“What did you do when you got here?”

“Survive, mostly. And little more than that.” She smiles, and there's a touch of bitterness to it. “So, after thirty years here, I know the culture. I know the people. I know the geography, and I know the history. And I have resources that you can't get at the fortress without raising questions.”

“But you don't actually want to help,” says Mulaghesh.

“Does anyone actually
want
to help in a clandestine investigation?”

“Saypur says, ‘Dance,' you say, ‘How many turns?' Is that it?”

“Hm…True enough,” Signe says acidly. “Your nation does have mine by the delicates, as one might say. But there is also the matter of your reputation.”

“My reputation? And what reputation is that?”

“General Mulaghesh,” she says, “you are, whether you like it or not, something of a celebrity. You're not only associated with the prime minister of Saypur, you are also associated with the death of two Divinities. And you're
also
associated with an unimaginable amount of destruction and devastation done to the city of Bulikov, damage that city still hasn't fully recovered from—if it ever can.”

“
I
couldn't have helped that!”

“Possibly. But, nevertheless, your reputation is such that your very presence in this city makes me wary. It also makes a lot of
investors
wary. Voortyashtan is an old friend of violence. The concern is that you, as innocuous as your cover story may be, could be a catalyst.”

“So what? They think I'm going to show up and blow up the city?”

“You forget that these people have cannons pointed at them day and night,” says Signe. “And although you might have developed a reputation as something of a cautious taskmaster in Bulikov, there are still many rumors surrounding what you did
before
your stint as governor.” Signe smiles so wide Mulaghesh can see her molars. “None of it's confirmed, of course—but you and General Biswal have some kind of special connection to the capture of Bulikov during the Summer of Black Rivers, don't you?”

Mulaghesh says nothing.

“Continentals fear you, General,” Signe says. “They fear Biswal, especially. And they fear those cannons. And now you're all in the same place. I think their concerns are quite valid—don't you? So it's wise that
someone
has to keep an eye on you. It might as well be me.”

I do not envy Lalith Biswal. He made what was likely the most difficult choice of his career, if not the whole of the Summer, and I believe no matter what he chose he knew he and his soldiers would be punished for it—if they survived, which he surely thought unlikely.

Perhaps history will one day be a better judge of him than you or I shall be. For though the Yellow March was likely the very thing that turned the tide during the Summer of Black Rivers, such was its nature that we cannot ever acknowledge that it actually happened.

—LETTER FROM CHIEF OF ARMED FORCES GENERAL ADHI NOOR TO PRIME MINISTER ASHARA KOMAYD, 1722

M
ulaghesh sits at the window of her spacious room, staring out. The view is gorgeous—Voortyashtan is like a wall of fireflies below her—but she cannot bring herself to enjoy it. Not after that conversation.

Just what in the hells have I gotten myself into?

She walks back to her bags, rummages about, and takes out something wrapped in an old scarf.

Mulaghesh is not an eager neophile, but she knows efficiency when she sees it, which is why, unlike many commanders her age, she took the time to train in firearms. Her favorite is this particularly vicious little piece of technology: a short, thick, snubby little contraption called a “carousel,” which earned its name because of its cyclic design of five little barrels each containing one shot, rotating to the next with each squeeze of the trigger. The carousel is much easier for a person with one hand to load and unload than most other weapon systems, as you just need to pop off the empty barrel cylinder and pop on a full set. She hasn't used it on a live target yet, and frankly hopes she never has to, but she places it on her nightstand, just in case.

She lies down on the bed. Tomorrow, she's decided, she'll go to the last place Choudhry was seen: Fort Thinadeshi.

She shuts her eyes and tries to listen to the waves outside.

Don't forget where you are. Don't forget where you are.

Mulaghesh wakes at 0500, grabs a portfolio for notes, commandeers one of the few telephones in the SDC headquarters, and phones Fort Thinadeshi. The tinny voice of an on-call sergeant answers, surprised: they expected her, but not this soon. She's in luck, though, as General Biswal is present at the fortress, having returned from a tour of other installations in the region, and can indeed make time on his calendar for her. “Provided the car can make it down to you in time, General,” adds the sergeant.

“Why wouldn't it?”

“Well, there's really only one road down to the city from the fortress, and it's a little…variable in quality. It's the only road in the city that will tolerate an automobile, but even then it's a stretch.”

“So don't bring any cups brimming with hot tea, is that what you're saying?”

“That's about the cut of it.”

“Great.”

When the auto arrives it's hard to believe there's a functional vehicle underneath all the mud and moss and sprays of gravel, which stick to the sides like barnacles on a ship. She's happy she wore her fatigues rather than her dress uniform. “Holy hells,” she says when the driver hops out. “I damned well hope the wheels stay on.”

Then she looks at the driver and does a double take. He's a young man, short but fit with a well-trimmed beard. He would be considered quite handsome were it not for his rather weak chin. But there's something familiar in his face, especially in the way he's grinning at her.

He gives a sharp salute. “Morning, General. Ready for the trip up?”

“I know you,” she says, stepping closer. Then in a flash, she has it. “Damn. Sergeant Major Pandey, isn't it? From Bulikov. Is that you?”

His grin practically glows, pleased and proud. “It is, ma'am. Happy to see you again.”

She remembers him a little more than some of the other soldiers she had under her command in Bulikov: he was captain of the barracks rowing team, which practiced in the summer on the Solda, much to the displeasure of the Bulikovians. And she remembers he was a wickedly talented swordsman, sparring with a liquid grace that even Mulaghesh, who was no slow hand with a blade herself, found remarkable.

“You went and got yourself all grown up, I see,” she says. “What in the hells are you doing all the way up here?”

“Mostly driving, ma'am,” Pandey says. “Turns out there aren't too many soldiers up here knowledgeable with automobiles, so I've been stuck with this noble duty.”

Instinctively she looks Pandey over, checking his arms and legs for a sign of injury, his cheeks for any hint of malnourishment, his teeth for any sign of scurvy.
He's not yours anymore,
she thinks.
He's Biswal's now—or, perhaps, he's his own
. “Well, I hope you've honed your skills. I need to get up the cliffs and quick, but I'd like to do it in one piece.”

Pandey throws open her door. “The road is a vasha string, General,” he says, referring to the Saypuri instrument, “and the auto my bow. I'll give you a grand performance.”

“If you can drive half as well as you can talk, Pandey,” she says, climbing in, “I expect I'll be fine.”

Ten minutes later Mulaghesh watches out the window as Voortyashtan lurches by, the auto pitching and yawing like a boat in a storm. She spies tents and yurts and ditches and alleys, makeshift structures that can hardly bear the brunt of the wind. Standing throughout this disordered sprawl are tall, curious stone formations, tottering, misshapen cairns that run in lines along the Solda. Something about the cairns disturbs her, but it's difficult for her to say what.

“It's like a damned refugee camp,” says Mulaghesh.

“It would be similar, General,” says Pandey. He points at one of the cairns. “Were it not for those.”

“What do you mean?” She looks closer at one as they drive underneath it. It's much taller than she'd anticipated, twenty or thirty feet, but she spies the suggestion of human features on the bulbous top of one towering cairn: the shallow dimples of eyes, the soft bulge of what could be a nose. She examines the others in the distance, searching for the divots of shadow at their tops, and sees the same.

“Statues,” says Mulaghesh. “They're
statues,
aren't they?”

“They were, once,” says Pandey. “Rumor has it they guarded the Solda, greeting those who floated down to the old city, passing through the gates.” He nods at the two peaks along the river. “The change in climate's been none too kind to them.”

She imagines what they might have once been: tall, human figures dotting the shores, perhaps splendid and regal, now beaten and twisted into something barely recognizable, staring down forever at a missing city. “What must it be like, living in the shadows of these things?”

They come to the clifftops. Fort Thinadeshi broods on the horizon like a storm cloud, immense and dark and gleaming wetly, so covered with cannons that it resembles a vast porcupine. “I suppose the shtanis are used to living with threats hanging over their shoulders, General,” says Pandey.

“Shtanis?”

“Oh. Um. It's what we call the locals here, ma'am.”

Mulaghesh frowns. The word puts a bad taste in her mouth, or perhaps it's the sight of the fortress looming ahead.

As they approach the first perimeter of fences, Mulaghesh looks northwest of the fortress and sees a curious installation not more than two miles from the fort's walls. The structure looks bland and benign, a dull, small concrete creation, but it's got twice as many fences and watchtowers as the rest of the fortress's perimeters.

“What in the hells is
that
?” she says. “That's a damned truckload of wire sitting around it, whatever it is.”

“I believe they're considering expansion, General,” says Pandey. “Or so I'm told. Haven't made much progress, though, or so it seems.”

She nods pleasantly, fully aware that this is a cover story—though she can't tell if Pandey knows that. That little gray button of a building, she suspects, must be the extraction point for whatever ore they discovered out here.

“What brought you here, Pandey?” she asks. “After Bulikov you could have gone anywhere.”

“Well, when General Biswal took command here, I couldn't resist. He was your old commander, wasn't he? It was an education serving under you, ma'am. I suppose I wished to continue it.”

“Why's that?”

“Well…” Pandey struggles for the words. “It seems like there are only a few of the true old heroes still serving today. When they retire, so much history will be forgotten with them.”

Mulaghesh looks out the window toward the fir-dotted hills, stark and looming under the gray skies, and tries not to think of the first time she saw countryside like this. “What a pity that will be.”

Fort Thinadeshi—named after the famed innovator Vallaicha Thinadeshi—is one of the oldest military installations on the Continent, half coastal fortress, half military base. Sporting an immense coastal battery, precipitous battlements, tangles of wire fences, and a sprawling barracks, there is something both grimly majestic and crudely improvised about Fort Thinadeshi, all things for all situations, for all situations are found and met here in Voortyashtan.
What a grand and noble mess it is,
thinks Mulaghesh as the auto putters through a gate, the dark walls towering over her.

She imagines what Sumitra Choudhry would have thought of it. She thinks back to when she read Choudhry's files aboard the
Kaypee
with Pitry. The girl served eighteen months in the Saypuri Military, a common practice undertaken to improve one's odds of Ministry recruitment. During her time in uniform she received a Silver Star and a Golden Stroke for “Distinguished Service” during an “altercation” when a Continental charged a checkpoint.

Mulaghesh was experienced enough to parse through these neutral phrases.
She shot and killed someone,
she said aloud,
when someone really needed her to do it
. She glanced at the Silver Star notation.
And she got injured doing it.