City of Blades (16 page)

“Huh? I thought every Divinity had dozens of those. There were hundreds of various hells or heavens or purgatories you could wind up in, right?”

“Toward the end, sure, and Kolkan alone produced, oh, about forty hells for his various followers. But Voortya was the first, and, unlike all the other Divinities, the nature of her afterlife remained consistent for all one thousand three hundred years—or however much it was—of her reign. If you were a follower of Voortya—if you ‘took up the sword' and shed blood for her, yours or someone else's, as she wasn't particularly picky about that sort of thing—then when you died, your soul would sail across the ocean to a white island, a city, where Voortya would gather all of her flock: the City of Blades.”

“I thought Voortyashtan was the City of Blades,” says Mulaghesh. “That's what everyone calls it.”

“An old confusion,” says Signe. “Traveling Voortyashtanis were prone to discussing their longing to go to the afterlife, describing this ‘City of Blades.' They talked about it so much even the other Continentals began assuming they were describing their home city. The assumption stuck.”

Mulaghesh grunts and makes a note of it.

“Once she'd assembled the most righteous and the most powerful souls in the City of Blades, they would sail back across the ocean to the mortal realm, each returning to ‘where their swords fell'—where they fell in battle, or so the story goes—and make war upon the whole of the world, bringing down the stars and the sun and the skies and the seas, until all of creation was utterly annihilated. They called it the Night of the Sea of Swords.”

“Wait, wait,” says Mulaghesh. “You can't tell me the other Divinities tolerated the threat of that?”

Signe shrugs. “Voortya's afterlife started well before the Divinities united. And when they finally did unite…Well, these things have momentum. It's tradition. You can't just stop tradition, even if the world changes around it. And Voortya and her followers took it very, very seriously. It was a pact, you see, a promise Voortya made between herself and those who loved her. That's another way Voortya is quite different from all the other Divinities—with the exception of Olvos, perhaps, no other Divinity brought themselves down to the level of their followers as she did, creating an agreement among equals. Or perhaps she gave herself to them, as if she'd made the afterlife
from
herself, pulled from her very body. It's a little unclear—but all Divine things usually are.”

“So where does the tomb enter into this?”

“Well, theoretically, somewhere around here was a resting place for the Voortyashtani dead. All of them. Ever.”

Mulaghesh whistles. “That'd have to be some tomb.”

“One would assume. In
The Great Mother Voortya atop the Teeth of the World,
it's described as filling the whole of the center of the world. Maybe. Poets have a tendency to get somewhat hyperbolic, I find. But imagine finding
the
tomb belonging to a culture that more or less worshipped death! I expect that would be a huge, huge find for someone at all interested in the history of the Continent.”

“But…why in the hells would Choudhry be looking for that?” asks Mulaghesh. “What does the tomb have to do with…well, anything?”

“Who can say? She did seem to go mad.
This
certainly suggests so.” She gestures to the portfolio.

“And what could drive her mad?”

She exhales smoke through her nose. “This place…This place affects a weak mind, I think. People find themselves changed by it. Bulikov might have controlled the world, certainly, but it was Voortyashtan that made that happen. Without the support of Voortyashtani sentinels, the Divine Empire would have collapsed. Even though almost all of Voortyashtan is lost, I think…I think the stones and the hills remember.”

That may be true, Mulaghesh thinks, but it seems unlikely that Choudhry would be a creature of a weak mind. Most of the Ministry intelligence officers she's encountered have been harder than a coffin nail, despite their cultured appearances. Trained for all kinds of torture and interrogation scenarios, certainly. And from her file, Sumitra Choudhry was as straight as a straight arrow could get, the sort of soldier any officer would love to have under their command.

What could an ancient tomb,
she thinks,
have to do with Choudhry's real mission—thinadeskite?

The obvious answer is that thinadeskite is mined from the ground, and tombs are underground…so perhaps the tomb could have affected or even
caused
the thinadeskite's existence? But though this is the obvious answer, wouldn't someone
notice
if they were mining directly into the walls of an ancient tomb? Especially the Saypuri Military, which still treats any whiff of the ancient Continent with extreme—and justified—paranoia.

And what possible interest could the tomb have held for Choudhry, anyway? Even if it was once Divine, shouldn't all of its Divine and miraculous qualities have ended when Voortya took a shot to the face back in the Night of the Red Sands? However wondrous it might have been, now it's certainly another damned hole in the ground.

“Is one officer worth all this?” asks Signe.

“Huh?”

“She's just one officer. Surely the Ministry has hundreds of them, thousands of them. Is it worth dragging in a general to chase her down?”

Mulaghesh slaps her portfolio closed. “We asked for servants, and she agreed. We asked her to come to the ends of the world for us, and she agreed. We asked her to risk her life for us, and she agreed. I don't care how many officers the Ministry has. She's worth it.”

Signe raises her eyebrows, as if she didn't realize how sensitive the subject would be.

“Biswal mentioned a tribal sniper once took a shot at you,” says Mulaghesh.

“Oh, that. Yes.”

“You seem pretty blasé about it.”

“He gave me quite a haircut,” says Signe. She taps her ponytail. “I turned my head at the right moment—or, for him, the wrong one—and he clipped off about an inch or two. My security detail more or less shredded the little shack he was in, which contained a chicken coop. Feathers everywhere. Quite a scene.”

“And was that worth it? You almost died. Is the harbor worth it?”

She nods, conceding the point. “Anything else you wish to ask me, General?”

At first Mulaghesh is about to say no, but then she gets an idea. “You certainly seem to know a lot about the Divine around here.”

“It's difficult
not
to.”

“Because you're Voortyashtani, right? Adopted, at least. What tribe did you live with?”

Signe pulls a face as if she's just asked her something deeply distasteful.

“What? It's not like I asked you your sexual preference or something.”

“By the seas…I'm not sure if you could find a way to be cruder.”

“What were you? Highland or river?”

Signe glares at her. “The Jaszlo tribe. Highland. They took us in.”

Mulaghesh thinks back to what the apothecary salesman said. “Pretty traditional, then, yeah?”

“Very.”

“So let me test your memory. If one were to have rosemary, pine needles, dried worms, grave dust, dried frog eggs, and bone powder…what Divine ritual would one be able to complete?”

There is a long pause as Signe considers it. For a moment Mulaghesh thinks she won't tell her, but then she says, “I believe the frog eggs give it away—those are the reagents one once used to complete the Window to the White Shores.”

“The what?”

“The White Shores—the City of Blades itself. The rite would allow those that performed it to see across to the City of Blades and consult with their deceased friends and relatives.”

“How would this rite work?”

“If memory serves, the components were placed in a sackcloth, which was then tied up with dried seaweed and set alight. But it doesn't work anymore, none of Voortya's miracles do. I've seen them tried. Why? What could that possibly have to do with anything?”

Instantly Mulaghesh remembers Nadar telling her in the laboratory:
Some of our operations crew noticed signs that someone had started a fire in one of the branches….It looked as though whoever had done it had been burning just…well, plants, I suppose. Leaves. Some cloth. Things like that.

Mulaghesh takes in a long, slow breath.

Choudhry snuck into the thinadeskite mines,
she thinks.
And performed this rite down there.

Which leaves the question: why? What did Choudhry think she could accomplish by going down to the mines and performing a Divine ritual that almost certainly wouldn't work anymore? If Voortya's miracles don't work anymore, certainly the afterlife she created is gone, too. And—perhaps more damning—
how
did Choudhry manage to bypass security to do it?

Thinadeskite shows up in a shack miles away from the mine,
thinks Mulaghesh.
At the scene of a murder that Choudhry had some knowledge of. And now it seems Choudhry had some way of infiltrating the mines….

Suddenly things look quite bleak for the reputation of Sumitra Choudhry.

“Are you quite all right, General?” says Signe.

“No,” says Mulaghesh huskily. “No, I certainly am not.”

Over the next four days Mulaghesh's work grinds to a slow, creaking halt. She pores over the communications Choudhry sent to Ghaladesh and back. Mostly it's just requests for documents and references. She hauls out the codex of encryption keys and runs through any text of Choudhry's she can get her hands on. None of them produce anything, but she didn't expect them to: all of these messages would have been received by the Ministry, who would have done all this already, and then some.

If I were a Ministry operative,
she thinks,
would I spy countless codes hidden in the margins? Would I know all the tradecraft about infiltrating the mines?
She has no idea, because she's a far cry from a Ministry officer. She's just a beat-up old military officer running into walls.

Mulaghesh spends her four days watching the SDC harbor works. Initially this was just an idle way to pass the time, checking to make sure Signe and her security people were reacting properly to the possible bomb threat. But as she watches them she notices something—something she's seen in combat drills before, when commanders didn't distribute their forces correctly.

She's fairly sure she's identified the most flagrant vulnerabilities in the harbor works so far: there's the fuel yard, which the whole harbor draws from in order to run; and then there are three manufacturing yards that see a lot of traffic, trucks and forklifts pouring in and out from the break of dawn until late at night. What they're manufacturing, she doesn't know—something for the cranes and the ships, she assumes—but hitting any of these four yards would probably cripple the harbor works.

Yet only a handful of new SDC guards are stationed at these three sites. No more than four to five more people, from what she can see—three at the main entrances and two performing surveillance. It's barely anything at all.

Instead the vast majority of any new security measures are stationed at Signe's test assembly yard, which is on the other side of the harbor works, far away from most of the construction. Mulaghesh spends two days, mornings and evenings, watching as over a dozen new security employees—thuggish-looking Dreylings with riflings thrown over their backs—take up positions along all the lanes leading to the yard. Signe's security chief Lem is almost always with them, glowering and scanning the streets, his hand close to his weapon.

On the evening before she has to attend Biswal's meeting of the tribal leaders, Mulaghesh slinks through the harbor yard and finds a hiding place among a stack of pallets. The SDC workers have seen her with Signe, so most just accept her presence here; but seeing her watching the door to the assembly yard with a spyglass pressed to her eye would be another thing entirely.

For hours, there's nothing. Then she watches as Signe strides up, clipboard in hand. Lem steps forward. They exchange a word or two. She nervously flicks away a cigarette, stops in front of the door, and checks something on her clipboard. She looks pale and ashen, like she's eaten something foul.

She's anxious,
thinks Mulaghesh.
No. She's
terrified
….

Signe turns back around and nods to the guard posted at the test assembly yard door. He gives her a quick salute—a curious gesture, for what's essentially a commercial operation—and he cranks a lever somewhere in his checkpoint booth.

The door must function with some kind of mechanism, for it slowly falls back. It's almost like a bank vault door, now that she's watching, and beyond its threshold she sees…

A second door. Much like the first door.

Signe walks in, turns, and watches as the first door slowly, slowly shuts. It's only when it's almost shut that she turns and begins to open the second door.

They really, really don't want anyone knowing what's in there,
she thinks.

The first door slams shut with a faint
boom
.

Mulaghesh smirks. “Test assembly yard, my ass.”

O, the things we kill for our dreams, forgetting all the while we shall wake up to find them naught but dust and ash!

What fools we are to pretend that when we walk to war we do not bring our loved ones with us.

If I had known the grief I'd bring upon myself, I would have been a toymaker instead.

—VALLAICHA THINADESHI AT THE FUNERAL OF HER FOUR-YEAR-OLD SON, JUKOSHTAN, 1659

I
n the white citadel the goddess opens her eyes.

She knows what she'll see. She knows she'll see the huge, white, cavernous halls, the crenellated white columns, and the endless, twirling white staircases. She knows she'll see the cold white moonlight pouring in through the windows. And she knows if she goes to the windows she'll see the endless beaches beyond, the massive white statues, and hear the slow murmur of the sea.

She knows she'll see these sights because she has been in this white palace forever, since the dawn of time and all things.

She shakes herself. Her plate mail tinkles slightly with the motion.

This isn't true,
she tells herself.
You haven't
always
been here….Don't you remember that?

She wanders the white halls, her metal boots clinking on the white stone floor. She wanders for what could be hours, or perhaps days, she isn't sure. She sees no one, hears no one. She is alone here. Except for her, this enormous palace is utterly deserted.

At least, the
interior
is: what lies outside of the palace is an entirely different matter.

She can hear their thoughts even from far within the palace's depths. They toy at her mind, these pained desires and plaintive, wheedling pleas, begging for her attention, for her action. She tries to ignore them, to keep them out, but they speak so much and there are so
many
of them….

Mother, Mother—give us what was promised to us. Give us what we need
.
Give us what we fought and died for….

She finds herself walking up the stairways, perhaps to flee them—she isn't sure. She isn't sure of much these days. She has faint memories of how things were before, and she knows that, in some fashion, she
chose
to be here—but it gets quite difficult to remember sometimes.

She comes to a window. She hesitates—she doesn't want to see, she desperately doesn't want to—but she knows she needs to look. They're getting so much stronger that she can't quite help herself.

She walks to the window and looks out. She's high up, several hundreds of feet at least, looking down on a clutch of porcelain-white towers, shimmering and queerly organic, like sea sponges or lumps of coral. More disturbing are the statues, which stand among the towers and straddle the streets, massive figures that are only vaguely human, frozen in positions of combat: a raised blade, a thrusting spear.

These are not what disturb her the most. Because standing far below her, upon the shores of this island and along its many canals and in the streets, are…

Monsters. Abominations. Tall, horrific, glittering creatures with blank, primitive faces, their backs and shoulders covered in horns and tusks.

Their thoughts batter her mind like the winds of a hurricane upon a house:

Mother…Mother! Please, let us go! Please, give us what we were promised….

She shuts her eyes and turns away. Some part of her knows that they were once human, that they became these things only because it was asked of them. But was it she who asked it of them? She can't quite remember.

She walks up the stairs to her throne room, and the great, hideous, red seat is waiting for her. It is like a living thing, in some ways: a creature she created, begging for her presence. To sit upon the red throne is to become more of herself.

It's not yours,
she reminds herself.
Not really.
Yet some part of her remains unconvinced.

But to be near the throne makes her stronger, somehow, and it helps her remember. It helps her remember the very strange thing she saw the other day: she came across a window to another world, and inside that window were men. They didn't know she was there, that she was listening, listening as they described a mine they were building, a deep hole in the earth….And she'd realized with sudden fury and disbelief what they were doing, whether they realized it or not.

As she remembers this, standing there before her great red throne, her fists clench, and she is filled with horror and rage and disgust.

After what
she
did for
them,
they would do this to her? They would make all of her sacrifices count for nothing?

She knows she must do something. She must act. But to do so might kill her.

Is it worth it?

She thinks about it.

Yes. Yes, it is.

She focuses, holds out her hand, and reaches for the sword.

The sword is always there. It is never truly gone, because since the day she picked it up it's been a part of her, or perhaps she's a part of
it,
for she knows deep down that it is really so much more than a sword: to grip the black handle and see the flickering blade is to bear witness to a thousand battles and a thousand murders and a thousand years of brutal conflict, to hear the shouts of thousands of armies and see the skies darkened with thousands of spears and arrows and watch the ground grow soft and dark with the blood of thousands of lives.

She holds the sword in the white tower.
You're me,
the sword whispers to her.
You're of me, and I'm of you….

This isn't true, she knows. She
thinks
it isn't true, at least. But she needs to believe it just a little longer. Cooperating with the sword lets her do so much….

Including the ability to cross over to the land of the living, and wreak almost limitless destruction.

She takes a breath, shuts her eyes, and listens to the sword.

During Mulaghesh's seventeen-year tenure as polis governor of Bulikov, she oversaw 127 assemblies of the Bulikov City Fathers, 314 city hearings, 514 town hall meetings, and 1,073 Worldly Regulations trials for those who had dared acknowledge the Divinities under the surveillance of Saypur. She knows the exact number because after each one of these meetings—which sometimes lasted up to ten hours—she would go back to her offices, pull out her portfolio, and make a single, solitary tick mark on the very last page.

Just one. Because somehow making these little tick marks helped her compartmentalize all of her contempt and fury and frustration, bottling it all up and releasing it in that one tiny, contained motion, gouging the nib of the pen along the soft, vulnerable surface of the page. And she often had plenty to release, for another delightful feature of any meeting of civic-minded Bulikovians was the heaps and heaps of insults, scorn, and outright threats they hurled at her at the top of their lungs.

Yet as Mulaghesh watches the assembly of tribal leaders from the balconies of the Voortyashtani Galleries—the civic center of the city—she reflects that her stint in Bulikov was a leisurely stroll in comparison to this.

She watches, eyebrows raised, as an elderly, bearded man with a red band of a tattoo around his neck stands up from his bench, assumes a posture of deepest grief, and bellows, “I wish to lay deaths at the feet of the Orskova clan! I wish to hang the deaths of my tribe from their necks and their shoulders!” His comments are met with a chorus of boos and remarkably specific threats from about half the assembly.

Biswal, seated at the table at the front of the Galleries, rubs his temples. “Mr. Iska, you have been told twice now that the Laying of Deaths has been eliminated as a formal motion of the assembly. Please sit down.”

“Then how shall the wrongdoers and murderers in this room with me know guilt?” shouts the man. “Shall the names of my brothers and sisters and children who have died wrongly be forgotten, and perish into ash?”

More boos and catcalls. Mulaghesh thins her eyes as she watches the tribal leaders. They are all skinny, haggard things, dressed in robes and furs, their necks brightly tattooed and covered with curious patterns. Some are women, she sees, which surprises her: Bulikov strictly forbade women from doing anything more than firing out children as quickly and efficiently as possible.

But then,
she thinks,
Voortya probably wouldn't have tolerated that bullshit.

“The persistence of the names of anyone,” says Biswal wearily, “dead or alive, is no longer part of the charge of the assembly. That was decided three meetings ago. Now may we please move on to the primary item on our agenda?” He raises a piece of paper for the assembly to see. “The murders at the town of Poshok, which Fort Thinadeshi is asking for any assistance on.”

“Murders committed by the Ternopyn clan!” shouts a woman at the back. “Butchers and thieves and liars!”

The Galleries fill up with bellowed accusations. Mulaghesh rolls her eyes. “Oh, for the love of…”

While Biswal deals with the commotion, Mulaghesh focuses on the unusual figure to his left: a small, mousy Continental woman of about thirty, with big dark eyes and a timid mouth, wearing clothes that look about three sizes too large for her. She sits hunched in a manner that suggests she wishes to fold up and disappear into the back of the chair. She scribbles madly on a large pad of paper as they talk, her fingers and wrists black with ink.

Biswal raises a hand in response to someone's question. “I believe we might need to check with Governor Smolisk on this issue. Rada, would you happen to have last month's minutes on hand?”

So that's the Continental governor,
thinks Mulaghesh. She watches as Rada digs frantically through a sack behind her chair, produces a sheaf of papers, flips through them, and reads aloud, “Th-The representative in que-qu-question s-s-said at the t-t-time, and I qu-quote…” She takes a deep breath, and reads, “ 
‘M-may all the sons and d-daughters of the Hadyarod clan be g-g-gutted as rabbits and d-die upon the f-flames
.
' 
”