City of Blades (17 page)

One of the tribal leaders crosses his arms triumphantly, as if his point has just been proven beyond a measure of a doubt.

“Thank you, Rada,” says Biswal. “Though this threat, Mr. Sokola, was indeed uttered at the last assembly, the victims at Poshok were not gutted, nor burned, nor were they members of your clan, the Hadyarod clan—as you surely know. And if I recall, that exact curse has been used at nearly every assembly of the tribal leaders, sometimes more than once per meeting. At the moment, I am not convinced that it is an indication of guilt, and I would prefer if we adhere to ways you all can
cooperate
with our investigation, or volunteer more pertinent informa—”

Biswal's next words are drowned out by shouting. He sighs and looks to Rada, who shrugs in return and attempts to write down some of the more prominent shouts.

“This is a bit more energetic than most meetings,” says a voice.

Mulaghesh, who's been slouching deep in her seat, looks up to see Signe standing above her. She's wearing her usual scarf, but has opted for a leather jacket today rather than the sealskin, though it too bears the SDC insignia. “Oh?”

“Yes. Even Brursk there is getting into it.” She points at an obese man in a blue leather jerkin who is making a fist and screaming across the aisle at someone. “He's usually as placid as a cow.”

“This doesn't seem like very placid company.” She looks through their ranks again, trying to spy anything suspicious; but, in her opinion, the whole lot of them look like mad bombers. She can't imagine what Biswal wanted her to do here. “Do you come to these things often?”

“I try to. Don't let their tattoos and their crude threats fool you, General—
some
of these people are quite clever, and smell change in the wind. The more powerful leaders imagine the harbor and all of its profits to be a pie, and themselves the only ones authorized to do the cutting. Hence why I'm here.”

Something slowly clicks in Mulaghesh's head. “Is that why the SDC headquarters is so permanent looking?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You keep claiming that the harbor will be done within two years. Why would you want to build something so permanent—unless you wanted to be here for a long, long while?”

“And what would you imagine us doing?”

“Taking your slice of the pie, of course,” says Mulaghesh. “The harbor's a one-time deal. But if you're
the
shipping company on the Solda—by the seas, you'd make billions of drekels every year.”

Signe smiles serenely. “Hm. You're no fool, General, I'll give you that. Though some of these damn tribes intend to milk us for all we're worth, threatening to give away portions of the shipping rights to other companies….But they forget who it is who'll control the mouth of the Solda itself.”

“I do wonder, CTO Harkvaldsson,” says Mulaghesh, “if it's possible for you to even piss without some amount of skullduggery and plotting.”

“Well, I also take it upon myself to be an ambassador for the harbor.” She leans forward, listening. “Speaking of which…”

“…murders were committed by no clansman!” a thin woman is shouting below. “Nor committed by any human hand! No Voortyashtani that we know did such a thing, this I assure you! This is a curse, a Divine retribution for the sacrilege being committed to our ancient ancestral home!”

“I assume, Mrs. Balakilya,” says Biswal, “that you are referring to the harbor.”

“The Dreylings and their great machines grind up the bones of our very culture!” cries the woman. “They awaken many things that lie sleeping! The Divine will not tolerate this insult, and we shall all pay the price!”

Biswal nods. “Thank you for your opinion on the matter, Mrs. Balakilya. But I do believe CTO Harkvaldsson is present in the balcony, so perhaps she'd like to comment.”

All heads turn to Mulaghesh and Signe. Mulaghesh is used to being the focus of the ire of a crowd, but so many furious eyes make even her cringe a little. Yet one group of tribal leaders in the back—their necks dyed a soft yellow—stands and strikes a reverential pose, as if saluting them.

Or perhaps specifically saluting Signe, who stands at the railing and says in a loud, clear voice, “As I have testified to and even personally shown some of the assembly members, what the Southern Dreyling Company is hauling up from the floor of the Solda Bay is nothing more than rotting stone. We researched our undertaking carefully and concluded that no surviving architecture is present in the bay. What we drag up is sand and silt and rubble, and nothing more. If we were to find any artifact or item of cultural import, we would notify the assembly immediately.”

“These are lies!” cries the thin woman—Balakilya—but again, the assembly dissolves into shouts.

“I assure you,” says Signe calmly, “they are not.”

Yet then there's one shout that rings out above the muttering: “
Who is that there?
”

Everyone stops, frowning, to see who's shouting. It proves to be a bowlegged man at the back with a ratty beard, and he leaps up onto his bench and flings a finger at Mulaghesh. “
Who is that beside you? Who is that with the wooden hand?
”

“Ah, shit,” mutters Mulaghesh, sinking low in her chair.

Then someone else cries out: “It's the soldier who was there when Kolkan was slain!”

Balakilya screams triumphantly, “You see? Do you see? Why would Saypur bring the lieutenant of the god-killer if they did not fear the retribution from the Divine? Why would she be here if not to defend them against the vengeance of Voortya!”

“I…think I'm going to back out on this one,” Mulaghesh says, standing. “I'm pretty sure my presence here isn't helping much.”

“Leave now,” says Signe, “and you'll only inspire more questions.”

“She leaves because it's true!” shouts Balakilya, striding to stand in the central aisle. “She fears the truth, so she flees from it!”

“See?” says Signe.

“General Mulaghesh,” says Biswal, looking up, “perhaps if you could spare a few words for—”

“She's come to murder whatever's left of our culture!” cries Balakilya.

“She's here to force us to bow to the whip of Saypur!” shouts another man.

“Oh, for the love of…” Mulaghesh walks to the railing. “You want to know why I'm here? Here of all places on this damned world?”

“Tell us!” shouts one of the men below. “Tell us!”

“Fine!” snarls Mulaghesh. “
I'm on vacation, you dumb sons of bitches!
”

A loud silence echoes over the Galleries. Mulaghesh turns and strides away. As she walks through the door she hears someone say, very quietly, “Did she say
vacation
?”

Mulaghesh sulks in the hallways of the Galleries as she waits for the assembly to end. The Galleries are a deeply strange place to her: the interior is like being inside the bones of a massive beached whale, its roof made of white, arcing ribs, topped with a line of vertebrae with spinous flowerings. The thunderous shouts from the assembly chamber begin to feel like the roar of water, and suddenly it's not so difficult to believe that she's trapped in the belly of some undersea leviathan.

Bored, she looks at the displays along the walls of the Galleries, which are curated like the walls of a museum. She strolls down the hallway, absently looking at each one—though she quickly sees these aren't just art pieces.

The first display is a massive, rounded standing stone that—according to the sign beside it—was carved by Saint Zhurgut himself during his “elevation.” It looks to Mulaghesh as if the stone's been run through a sawmill: it's been hacked and slashed many, many times, yet never cracked. Whatever blade sank through this stone did so perfectly, like a knife through butter. The sign reads:

Upon gripping his blade forged by Voortya, Saint Zhurgut was elevated, ascending into a state of pure warfare and battle, and this stone was his first test of power. Voortyashtani blades held many purposes beyond battle, however: stories suggest that the ancient Voortyashtani swords could communicate, serving as conduits for thought and speech. Swords were such a way of life among this ancient polis that many records suggest that human and weapon were considered indivisible. Regrettably, no Voortyashtani blades have survived to see modern times.

“What a tragedy,” mutters Mulaghesh. But she doesn't feel really disturbed until she looks at the next display.

She stops and stares. She's happy she's alone, for she feels she might make a scene.

The exhibit is completely empty except for a stone mask standing on a thin steel pole. Unlike many of the other displays this mask is not large, though it is perhaps slightly wider and taller than the average human face. It's also a little too round, as the normal human skull is somewhat oblong. But it's the face that is the most disturbing part: the eyeholes are small and set both too far apart and far too low, leaving a prodigious brow above them with a single ridge-like seam running through their middle. The seam ends in a tiny, insignificant point of a nose with no nostrils, and below that are two short rows of needle-like teeth, a bad parody of a human mouth. Around the edges of the mask are many small holes through which, presumably, one once threaded string to tie the mask onto one's face.

It's not the real thing. Mulaghesh knows it isn't. But she's seen an abundance of sketches and paintings, for these masks haunt Saypur to this day. These masks—the
real
ones, the ones made of steel and bone—were present in Saypuri life for hundreds and hundreds of years, right up until the Night of the Red Sands.

For wasn't every Saypuri terrified of waking up and finding such a face staring in through their window? Wasn't every road and every river and every port watched by those blank, staring eyes? Mulaghesh was told that the people (if they could even be called such things) that wore those masks would go by Saypuri slums at night while everyone slept, and toss in little metal tokens through the open windows, tiny coin-like baubles fashioned to resemble their headgear. The Saypuri slaves would then wake up and find these distorted, grinning skulls no bigger than the palm of their hand waiting on their floors or on their tables, and they would understand the unspoken message:
We were here. Walls mean nothing to us. Nothing can be kept from us.

Mulaghesh, breathing hard, looks at the sign beside the display:

CLAY RE-CREATION OF A VOORTYASHTANI SENTINEL MASK.

There is nothing else. But of course there isn't: there is nothing more to say about such things.

“Not an original, of course,” says Signe's voice.

Mulaghesh turns to see her walking down the hall in her quick, efficient pace. “It had fucking well better not be.”

“They're wrapping up in there,” says Signe. “Biswal and Rada should be out any time, if you're waiting.” She stops and looks at the mask, then thinks and asks, “What do you see, General, when you look at it?”

“I see millions of my fellow citizens tortured and dead,” says Mulaghesh.

Signe makes a small
hm
sound and nods, as if understanding her sentiment.

“Why? What do you see?”

“A culture that worshipped death,” says Signe, “and particularly those who dealt it. Their ancestors, mostly. For instance, Voortyashtanis believed that if you picked up the sword of an ancient sentinel it would possess you, take you over—you'd become them, in essence, but cease being you.”

“Sounds like a raw deal.”

“Yes—to them, a sword was a vessel of the soul. To do such a thing would be to lose your soul entirely. But I'm told they only did it in desperate situations. They didn't only admire their ancestors, though. They also respected their foes, if they felt they were worthy. Hence why things went so smoothly just now, after your outburst.”

“Huh? You mean I
helped
things in there?”

“Of course you did,” says Signe. “Voortyashtanis respect those who have tested themselves in battle. You're not only a veteran, but you were in a battle against a
god
. They grudgingly admire you, General Mulaghesh. It put them on uneven footing. I thought that was why Biswal wanted you there in the first place?”

Mulaghesh cocks her head, turning this over. “Huh. You're probably right. Speaking of admiration…Why did that one group stand up when you spoke? Some of them looked like they were saluting you, in some way.”

Signe is silent for a long while. “That would have been the highland Jaszlo tribe, General.”

“Ah. Your old family, then?”

“They are not my family.” Her voice is arctic. Not quite as cold as when Mulaghesh provoked her into talking about Sigrud, maybe, but close. “They hold to traditions that I no longer honor. But they gave us shelter when we needed it.”

Mulaghesh looks Signe over carefully.

“What?” says Signe, irritated.

“You said they respected those who dealt death,” says Mulaghesh. “And they seemed to respect you a whole lot in there, CTO Harkvaldsson.”

Something in Signe's jaw flexes. Then she pulls out her beaming, perfect smile. “Have a good afternoon, General.”

Mulaghesh waits for the tribal leaders to file out before entering the assembly chamber. Biswal and Rada are quietly conversing, reviewing the notes.

“You know, Lalith,” says Mulaghesh as she approaches, “if you wanted me to put some scare in these people, you could have just asked.”

Biswal looks up at her over his spectacles. “Some scare?”

“That's why you really wanted me here. To distract them, make them all hot and bothered. It's easier to herd sheep when they're skittish.”

His eye gains the slightest of twinkles. “They
were
much easier to handle when they realized you were here, that's true. But if I'd asked you to come and be my celebrity guest, Turyin, I felt sure you'd turn me down.”