City of Stairs (34 page)

“We should wait for the ice to melt,” says Nesrhev, “or maybe start bonfires on it to melt it, and then see what we can do.”

“And what would you do then?” asks Mulaghesh. “Attack it in boats? With spears? Like a whale?”

Nesrhev hesitates; he looks around at his officers, who look none too pleased with the idea.

Sigrud makes another
tch
, as if weighing something in his mind. Then: “I can kill it.”

Silence.

Everyone slowly turns to look at him.

Shara glances at him, concerned:
Are you sure you want to start this?
But Sigrud’s expression is inscrutable.

“What?” says Mulaghesh. “
How?
”

“It is a”—he makes the constipated face that he always does when trying to translate a Dreyling expression—“a thing of the water,” he finishes. “And I have killed many things of the water.”

“But … are … are you
serious
?” asks Nesrhev.

“I have killed,” says Sigrud, “many things of the water. This would be different. …” He watches, keen-eyed, as Urav considers carving another hole in the ice before abandoning it. “But not
that
different.”

“What exactly would you have my men doing?” asks Nesrhev.

“I do not really think”—Sigrud scratches his chin, thinking—“that I would need any of your men at all.”

“You are genuinely suggesting that you, by yourself, can kill a Divine horror like
that
?” asks Mulaghesh.

Sigrud contemplates it; then he nods. “Yes. The circumstances are favorable. The river is not big.”

“The Solda,” says Nesrhev, “is almost a mile wide!”

“But it is not the sea,” says Sigrud. “Not the ocean. Which I am used to. And with the ice …” He shrugs. “It is quite very possible.”

“It’s killed almost thirty people tonight, sir,” says Nesrhev. “It would be an easy thing for it to kill you.”

“Perhaps. But. If so …” Again, Sigrud shrugs. “Then I would die.”

Nesrhev and the other officers stare at him in disbelief.

Shara clears her throat. “Before we continue down this line of thinking,” she says, “I’d first like to ask if Captain Nesrhev would approve.”

“Why the hells would you care about that?” asks Nesrhev. “It’s up to you if your man wants to get himself killed.”

“Well, despite all the Regulations, that thing under the ice
is
considered holy by most of the Continent,” says Shara. “It is, after all, a creature of stories and myths valued by your culture. It’s part of your heritage. If you wish us to kill it—to kill what is, in effect, a living legend—we would want to have your express permission to do so.”

Nesrhev’s face sours. “You,” he says, “are trying to cover your ass.”

“Perhaps. But Urav is an integral part to some of
your
treasured myths.
We
are not Continentals. To some Continentals, if we are successful in killing Urav, it would be tantamount to destroying a historic work of art.”

“In this case, though,” says Mulaghesh, “it’s a work of art that’s running around murdering people.”

Shara nods. “Quite.”

Nesrhev grimaces. As he wrestles with his position, three policemen come staggering up, panting: one of them is Viktor, the officer sent to warn Mikhail and Ornost; the other two are presumably those same two men. One of them is clutching his right arm, which is slick with blood.

“Mikhail’s hurt,” says Viktor. “It got his arm, and it … it took some fingers.”

Nesrhev pauses. He looks out at the soft light under the ice. Then: “Both of you, get back to the station and to the infirmary.” He looks to Sigrud: “What do you need?”

Sigrud looks back out at the river. “I will need,” he says thoughtfully, “two hundred feet of towing rope, three lengths of sailing rope a hundred feet in length, a lantern, two halberds, three strong fishing spears, and several gallons of fat.”

“Of
what
?” says Mulaghesh.

“Of fat,” says Sigrud. “Animal fat. Whale if you have it—beef or pork if you do not.”

Mulaghesh looks to Shara, who shrugs:
I have no idea, either.

Sigrud strokes his beard. “And I will need you to get a good fire going, for when I finish. Because to do this, I will likely have to be nude.”

* * *

“Flaxseed,” says Shara, and drops it into the cauldron of warm beef fat. “Willowgrass. Twine of six knots. And cedar pitch.” She looks back at the wheelbarrow of ingredients brought to her from the embassy. Screams echo up the river—again. She ignores them. “Salt and silver … that might be harder.” She slips a tiny silver dessert spoon into a bag of rock salt and shakes it up. “But this, I hope, should do …” She dumps it into the cauldron as well.

Pitry watches her, torn between fascination and disbelief. “You really think this will do something?”

“I hope so,” says Shara. She takes a fistful of arrowroot and drops it in. “The Divine familiars each had aversions to very specific elements. … We’re not sure, as always, if this was
intended
by the Divinities—maybe as a way to give their mortal followers some method of defense against the Divinities’ own creations, just in case—or if it was purely by accident, something each Divinity, maybe by nature, could never prepare for. Either way, the Divine creatures were strongly repelled by these elements: they caused asphyxiation, burning rashes, paralysis, even death. …”

“Like an allergy?” asks Pitry.

Shara pauses, realizing Pitry has just said something Saypuri historians have been struggling to articulate for years. “Yes. Exactly that.”

“And Urav is allergic to … to
all
of this?”

“I have no idea. These are some elements that often repelled Divine creatures. I am hoping,” she says as she drops in some wormwood, “that one or two of these will have some effect. A broad spectrum of elements, you could say.”

Sigrud and Nesrhev’s officers are almost finished: they’ve successfully looped the thick towing rope around the bridge itself and fastened it securely. Shara can see the seaman in Sigrud coming out now: he ties knots in seconds, heaves coils of the dense rope around his shoulders, scales the bridge like he has hooks on his toes. He dumps the three lengths of sailing rope over the bridge—they land with a
thud
on the ice. He lets the remaining length of towing rope drop to the ice as well, nearly a hundred or so feet. Urav, so far, has remained ignorant of their efforts, choosing to harry the docks a mile or so downriver, seeking anyone who’s chosen to ignore the evacuation order.

Sigrud walks over to where the weaponry is wrapped in waxed canvas. He picks up one fishing spear, which has a barbed tip as thick as Shara’s arm; at its back is an iron loop, meant for some incredibly thick line.
What sort of fish,
Shara thinks,
could that possibly be intended for?
Sigrud tests its flex, nods in satisfaction, and kneels and runs his finger along the halberd’s blade. “Good iron,” he says. “Good workmanship.”

“And you don’t doubt,” asks Shara, “the wisdom of your course?”

“We have done such things before,” says Sigrud. “What makes this so different?”

“This is not like the
mhovost
.”

“
That
,” says Sigrud contemptuously, “was not even a challenge.”

“Well. It is not like the
dornova
in Ahanashtan, either,” says Shara. “This is not some … some common imp or wretch for you to brutally execute!”

“Next you will say it is not like that dragon.”

“That was a
small
dragon,” says Shara. She holds her hands about three feet apart. “And besides,
I
was the one who finally killed that one.”

“After I did all the work,” says Sigrud with a sniff.

“You aren’t taking this seriously. As entertaining as our exploits may be,
that
”—she points a finger at the river—“is the closest thing to a walking, talking Divinity the world has seen in decades!”

He shrugs. “As I told you,” he says, “it is a thing of the water. Things of the water, they are all alike, deep down. No matter who made them or where they came from.”

“But are you so terribly sure of yourself that you’re really willing to try this
alone
?”

“The more you are at sea,” Sigrud explains, “the more you learn. And the more you learn, the more help and assistance is a troublesome bother. Dealing death, after all, is a solitary affair.” He takes off his coat, shirt, and breeches, revealing some very tight and ancient long underwear. He is covered in rippling muscle, huge in the shoulders and back and neck, yet rather than appearing bulky there is something lean and lupine about Sigrud: he is like an animal that burns far more energy fighting for its food than it gains in consuming it. “And I have always been so much better at dealing it alone.”

“Sometimes I … I swear, sometimes I tire so much of your posturing!” Shara says.

Sigrud looks up, confused and a little alarmed.

“You may think your laconic ridiculousness is a virtue, but it is not for
me
—not for anyone who values your life, even if you
don’t
.” She looks at him, genuinely afraid. “I am not asking you to do this. Do you know that? I would never ask you to do this.”

“I know that,” he says.

“Then why?”

He considers it.

“Why?” she asks again.

“Because it is all I know,” he says with a shrug. “And I am good at it. I could save lives tonight. And the only life risked would be my own.”

Shara is silent.

“Do I have your blessing, Shara Komayd?”

“I am not in the business of giving blessings,” she says. “But I accept what it is that you do. Even if I don’t like it.”

He nods, says, “Good,” and peels off his undershirt. Shara has seen him shirtless—and more—in their time together, but she is always shocked by the variety of horrific scars curling across his arms and back: she can see brands, whips, slashes, stabs … yet she knows the greatest damage he has ever sustained lies hidden behind the glove on his right hand.

He begins stripping off the rest of the long underwear. “I don’t
think,
” says Shara, “that it will be necessary for you to take off
all
of your clothi—”

“Bah,” says Sigrud, and drops his drawers, utterly unself-conscious.

Shara sighs. Nesrhev and his officers—all dour, stolid Bulikovians—stare at this frank display of nudity. Mulaghesh grins like a shark. “There are times,” she says, “that I kind of like my job.”

Sigrud is now totally nude except for his boots, the sheath for his knife (which is now strapped around his right thigh), the glove he wears on his right hand, and the gold bracelet on his left. He reaches into the cauldron of fat and scoops up a handful. He cocks an eyebrow at the arrowroot and the other substances floating in it—“Insurance,” explains Shara—and he shrugs and begins to slather it on his shoulders, chest, arms, and thighs. “Uh, let me know if you need help with that,” mutters Mulaghesh. Shara shoots her a scolding glare; Mulaghesh grins again, unrepentant.

Sigrud saves his face and hair for last; with this final touch, he resembles something primeval—a filthy, savage creature humanity left behind long ago. “I think,” he says, “I am ready.” He looks to Nesrhev. “Try to keep the thing toward the bridge, if it comes to it.”

“I don’t know how much we can do,” says Nesrhev. “But we’ll try.”

“Do only that,” says Sigrud. “I want it focused on me. On
me
, do you hear?” Nesrhev nods. “Good.” Sigrud looks up and down the length of the bridge, as if not quite convinced it will hold. Then he heaves up the armful of weaponry and starts down the bridge toward the shore.

Mulaghesh hands out a lantern, which he takes. “Good luck, soldier,” she says. Sigrud nods absently, as if being greeted by familiar passersby on a contemplative walk.

He stops next to Shara, removes the gold bracelet from his left hand, and hands it to her.

“I’ll keep it safe,” she says.

“I know. If I
do
die tonight … ,” he says. He hesitates, staring out at the icy expanse of the Solda. “My family … Will you … ?”

“I will always make sure your family is taken care of,” says Shara. “You know that.”

“But will you tell them … about me? About who I was?”

“Only if it’s safe to do so.”

He nods, says “Thank you,” and starts off down the bridge.

Shara says, “Listen, Sigrud—if it comes to that, it is likely Urav will
not
kill you.”

He looks back. “Eh?”

“It’s likely the people it’s taken tonight aren’t even dead. They may be
worse
than dead, actually—according to the Kolkashtava, in Urav’s belly, you are alive, but you are punished, filled with pain, shame, regret. … Under its gaze, no one holds hope.”

“How does it gaze at you,” asks Sigrud, “in its own belly?”

“It’s miraculous by nature. Inside of Urav, I think, is a special kind of hell. And the only thing that saves anyone is the blessing of Kolkan—”

“Which you can give me?”

“—which no one has received since he vanished, nearly three hundred years ago.”

“So what are you saying?”

“I am saying that, if it looks like Urav
will
devour you”—she looks down at where he has strapped his knife—“then it might be wise to take matters into your
own
hands.”

He nods slowly. Then, again, he says, “Thank you,” and adds, “It would probably be wise for you to get off the bridge, by the way.”

“Why?”

“One never knows,” says Sigrud, “how a good fight will go.”

* * *

Sigrud’s boots make hollow
thumps
as he walks across the ice. He can tell right away that the ice is slightly less than two feet thick.
A good ice,
he thinks,
for sleighs and horses.

He walks on over the frozen river. The wind bites and snaps at his ears. His arms and legs are bejeweled from millions of ice flecks trapped in the fat on his body: soon he is a glimmering ice-man, trudging across a vast gray-blue field.