City of Blades (62 page)

“So I must hide,” says Sigrud.

“Yes. You must run, and hide. Be someone new. Use an identity you've never used before or never even
had
before. One that you can use for a long time.”

“A long time?”

She nods. “I'm afraid it must be so. You killed five soldiers, Sigrud. You killed them brutally during one of the worst assaults in Saypuri history. Those in power—or those who are about to
be
in power—will not be forgiving of that.”

“So I am alone,” says Sigrud softly. “Again.”

“I'm sorry. The United Dreyling States are in no position to shield you. They depend wholly upon Saypur just to stay solvent, and there is an inquiry into what happened at the harbor. I am already in conversation with your wife about…about how to distance herself from this incident.”

“From me,” says Sigrud. “To distance herself from me.”

“Yes, from you.”

He sighs. “When I first came to Voortyashtan, I wanted nothing more than to make the world leave me alone, to leave the trappings of power behind. But now to actually do it…” He shuts his eyes and shakes his head, fighting tears. “I wish to see my family so
much
.”

“I know,” says Shara. “When it is possible, I will do what I can. I'm so sorry, Sigrud. I'm so sorry.”

He sniffs and wipes his nose. “Did…Did you know about the swords? About Voortya? About the City of Blades?”

“No, I didn't. I assumed there was malfeasance and corruption taking place at Fort Thinadeshi—but I had no idea it would spiral into something like this.”

“In that case, I must ask…Why did you send Mulaghesh?”

“Why? What do you mean, why?”

“I mean…I know you, Shara. I know you never play the short game. There is always a bigger objective when you do anything. So why Mulaghesh? Why pull a general out of retirement and send her to Voortyashtan if you thought it was just common corruption?”

Shara sighs deeply. “Well. If you really must know…You are aware, of course, that my term in this office is not long for this world?”

“It would be hard not to know this.”

“Well.” She clears her throat and adjusts her glasses. “The incoming party is riding quite high off of a wave of anti-Continental sentiment. They do not like my policies and programs. They wish to see them end. So if they win, then the harbor will likely be much reduced. Financial support will be cut. All aid to the Continent—that will be cut. Any programs encouraging the participation of Continentals in their own politics—those will be cut. Basically anything Saypur sends to the Continent, except for guns and the soldiers to point them, will be cut.”

“So…what does this have to do with Mulaghesh?”

Before Shara can answer there's a noise from behind her, from the curtains of the bed: “Momma?”

Shara freezes and turns around just as a small, round face pokes through the curtains of the bed. It's the face of a young Continental girl, perhaps no older than five, and she blinks sleepily at Shara and rubs her eyes. “What are you doing?”

“Shhh, my dear,” says Shara. “It's nothing. Just talking to myself. Go back to sleep.”

“You're talking to that mirror.” The girl looks at Sigrud and frowns. “You're talking to that
man
in the mirror.” She pouts and holds out her arms to Shara.

Shara sighs, holds out her arms, and the girl jumps into Shara's embrace—perhaps a little too hard for Shara's comfort, judging by her face. Then the girl lays her head on Shara's shoulder and turns just enough to stare at Sigrud quizzically.

“Did she say…Did she call you
momma
?” asks Sigrud, astounded.

“Yes,” says Shara quietly. She strokes the girl's hair and chin. “Sigrud, this is my daughter—Tatyana.” She leans in close to speak into the girl's ear. “Tatyana, this is an old friend of mine.”

“How is he in a mirror?” the girl asks.

“It's a special mirror,” says Shara.

“Oh.” She appears to accept this explanation wholeheartedly.

“You…You adopted a Continental?” says Sigrud.

“Yes,” says Shara. “When revisiting Bulikov. There was an orphanage. It was”—she glances at the girl—“not in the best of conditions. She asked to come with me. I took her. I've kept it quiet, you see. Maybe because I didn't need to be linked with the Continent any more than I already am—and maybe because I am unwilling to allow the public to know anything of my private life. When I am voted out of office, I will retire with Tatyana to the countryside, and attempt to live a quiet life. The worst thing I can do for my policies is come near them. My very presence is toxic to my own goals, you see. But I must leave
someone
behind to fight for them, and for the Continent.”

“So you think…Are you saying you think Mulaghesh could do this?”

Shara sits up straight, and suddenly it's quite easy to see how she was elected. “Yes. General Turyin Mulaghesh is a born leader. She has fought for her country numerous times, was subjected to abominable trauma at the age of sixteen, and somehow came out of it a better person. She has defended Saypur's soldiers from Divine forces
twice
now, in full view of the public. She is admired by the public and respected by the military. She is moral and judicious to a fault. She knows a damned sight more about the military than any politician currently holding office. She is, in short, a highly electable candidate.”

“You mean to force her into
politics
?” says Sigrud, somewhat horrified.

“I must leave someone behind to fight for my policies, Sigrud,” says Shara quietly. “I must have a champion. When Mulaghesh quit, it was quite a blow. But I believed I understood why she left. Turyin Mulaghesh is someone who has chosen to live her life for the safety and betterment of others. She has chosen, in a word, to serve. If she feels she is not serving, she feels she has no worth. I sent her to Voortyashtan to awaken her, to remind her of this, to be with common soldiers again and remember who she is and why she does what she does.” Shara bows her head. “I feel Turyin Mulaghesh is very awake now. Perhaps more than she has ever felt in her life. Much more than I intended.”

“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 cruelest.”

“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 realize 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 seabirds 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 civilization, 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 mustache?”

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.