City of Blades (Divine Cities #2) Read online

  ‘Well . . . You have heard, perhaps, of what is called the “duration of servitude”?’

  ‘It sounds familiar . . .’

  ‘The basic gist of it is that, when an officer of the Saypuri Military is promoted to a new rank,’ Pitry says as he begins digging in his satchel, ‘their pay is automatically increased, but they must serve in that rank for a set duration of time before receiving the pension level associated with that rank. This was because twenty or some-odd years ago we had a series of officers get to a rank, and then promptly quit so they could live off the enhanced pension.’

  ‘Wait. Yeah, I know all this. The rank of general requires four years of servitude, right? I was almost positive I was well past that . . .’

  ‘You have served as a general for more than four years,’ says Pitry, ‘but the duration of servitude begins when your paperwork is processed. And as you were stationed in the polis of Bulikov at the time of your promotion, the paperwork would have been processed there – but a good deal of Bulikov was destroyed as, um, you are well aware. This meant they were quite delayed with, well, anything and everything.’

  ‘Okay. So. How long did it take Bulikov to process my paperwork?’

  ‘There was a delay of a little under two months.’

  ‘Meaning my duration of servitude was . . .’

  Pitry produces a piece of paper and runs a finger down it as he searches for the precise amount. ‘Three years, ten months, and seventeen days.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Shit!’

  ‘Yes. As your duration of servitude is not completed, when the fiscal year ends, your pension will revert to that of your previous rank – that of colonel.’

  ‘And how much is that?’

  Pitry puts the piece of paper on the desk, slides it over to her, and points to one figure.

  ‘Shit!’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Damn . . . I was going to buy a boat.’ She shakes her head. ‘Now I’m not even sure if I’ll be able to afford all this!’ She waves her hand at her cottage.

  Pitry glances around at the dark, crumbling cottage, which in some places is absolutely swarming with flies. ‘Ah, yes. Such a pity.’

  ‘So what? Are you just here to tell me I’m getting the rug pulled out from under me, I’m off, see you later? Is there no option to, I don’t know, appeal?’

  ‘Well, this is actually a common occurrence. Some officers are forced to retire early due to their health, family, and so on. In these instances, the military council has the option of voting to ignore the remaining time, and award the pension anyway. Being as you, ah, did not leave on the best of terms, they have not opted to do that.’

  ‘Those fuckers,’ snarls Mulaghesh.

  ‘Yes. But, we do have an option of recourse. When the officer in question has shown exemplary service to Saypur, they are often assigned to go on what I believe is magnanimously called the “touring shuffle”.’

  ‘Aw, hells. I remember this. I serve out the remainder of my time wandering around the Continent “reviewing fortifications”. Is that it?’

  ‘That is it exactly,’ says Pitry. ‘Administrative responsibilities only. No active or combat duty whatsoever. The prime minister has arranged it so that this opportunity is now being extended to you.’

  Mulaghesh taps her wooden hand against the tabletop. While her attention’s elsewhere Pitry glances at the prosthetic limb: it is strapped to a hinge at her elbow, which then buckles around her still-considerable bicep. She’s wrapped her upper arm with a cotton sleeve, presumably to avoid chafing, and he can see more of what looks like a harness wrapped around her torso. It’s clearly an extensive and complicated mechanism, and probably none too comfortable, which can’t help General Mulaghesh’s famously choleric moods.

  ‘Eyes, Pitry,’ says Mulaghesh calmly. ‘Or have you not been in a woman’s presence for a while?’

  Startled, Pitry resumes staring into the piece of paper on the table.

  Mulaghesh is still for a long time. ‘Pitry, can I ask you something?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘You are aware that I just shot a man?’

  ‘I . . . am aware.’

  ‘And you are aware that I shot him because he was on my property, and he was being an idiot.’

  ‘I believe you have articulated this, yes.’

  ‘So, why should I not do the same to you?’

  ‘I . . . I beg your pa—’

  ‘Pitry, you are a member of the prime minister’s personal staff,’ says Mulaghesh. ‘You’re not her chief of staff or anything, but you’re not just some damn clerk. And Shara Komayd would not send a member of her personal damn staff all the way out to Javrat to tell me my pension’s getting reevaluated. That’s why they invented the postal service. So why don’t you stop dancing around and tell me what’s really going on?’

  Pitry takes a slow breath and nods. ‘It is quite possible that . . . that if you were to do this touring shuffle, it would provide an excellent cover story for another operation.’

  ‘Ah. I see.’ Mulaghesh screws up her mouth and loudly sucks her teeth. ‘And who would be performing this operation?’

  Pitry stares very hard at the paper on the counter, as if somewhere in its figures he might stumble upon instructions on how to escape this awkward situation.

  ‘Pitry?’

  ‘You, General,’ he says. ‘This operation would be performed by you.’

  ‘Yeah,’ says Mulaghesh. ‘Shit.’

  *

  ‘I mean, damn it all, Pitry,’ snarls Mulaghesh. Her wooden hand makes a thunk as she brings both hands down on the countertop. ‘That’s some dirty pool right there, holding an officer’s pension hostage to make them go off and get themselves shot.’

  ‘I am sympathetic to your position, General. But the nature of the oper—’

  ‘I retired, damn it. I resigned. I said I was done, that I’d done what I needed to do, thanks, leave me alone. Can’t I just be left alone? Mm? Is that so much to ask?’

  ‘Well, the prime minister did suggest,’ says Pitry slowly, ‘that this might be just the thing you need.’

  ‘I need? What the hells does Shara know about what I need? What could I possibly need?’

  Again, she waves her hand at her cottage, and again, Pitry looks at the reeking, filthy home, with carpets tacked up against the windows and one kitchen cabinet door askew, and the counters littered with wine bottles and fish bones and tangled, dirty clothes. Finally he looks at Mulaghesh herself, and thinks only one thing:

  General Turyin Mulaghesh looks like shit. She’s obviously still in tremendous shape for a woman her age, but it’s been a long while since she bathed, there are rings under her eyes, and the clothes she’s been wearing are in desperate need of a wash. This is a far cry from the officer he once knew, the woman whose uniform was so starched you could almost carve wood with the cuffs, the woman whose glance was so bright and piercing you almost wanted to check yourself for bruises after she looked at you.

  Pitry has seen someone in such a state before: when a friend of his went through a rough divorce. But he can’t imagine what Mulaghesh divorced herself from, except, of course, the Saypuri Military.

  But though this explains some of what he’s witnessing, Mulaghesh’s complete and utter fall from grace is still confusing to him: because no one – not the press, not the military council, not Parliament itself – has any idea why Mulaghesh resigned in the first place. Almost a year ago now she telegraphed the Continental Herald ten words: ‘I, General Turyin Mulaghesh, resign from my position on the Saypuri Military Council, effective immediately.’ And in one instant, her retirement papers were submitted, and she was gone. As with so many of Mulaghesh’s actions, what she did is inconceivable to any ambitious, motivated Saypuri: how could someone just walk away from the position of vice-chairman of the Saypuri Military Council? The vice-chairman almost always becomes chief of armed forces, the second most powerful person in the
world after the prime minister. People pored through her interactions in the weeks before her resignation, but no one could find any hint of what could have pushed her over the edge.

  ‘So this is what Shara’s become?’ Mulaghesh says. ‘She’s a blackmailer? She’s blackmailing me into doing this?’

  ‘Not at all. You have the option of just doing the touring shuffle and not engaging in the operation. Or, you could forgo the shuffle and accept a colonel’s pay.’

  ‘So what’s the operation?’

  ‘I am told we are unable to reveal that until you have fully signed on.’

  Mulaghesh laughs lowly. ‘So I can’t figure out what I’m buying until I’ve bought it. Great. Why in hells would I want to do this?’

  ‘Well . . . I think she hoped that her personal ask might suffice . . .’

  Mulaghesh gives him a flat, stony stare.

  ‘But in the eventuality that it did not, she did ask me to give you this.’ He reaches into his satchel and holds out an envelope.

  Mulaghesh glances at it. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. The prime minister wrote and sealed this herself.’

  Mulaghesh takes it, opens it, and reads the letter. Pitry can see pen strokes through the paper. Though he can’t read the writing, it looks to be no more than three words.

  Mulaghesh stares at this letter with large, hollow eyes, and her hand begins to shake. She crumples up the letter and stares into space.

  ‘Damn it,’ she says softly. ‘How in the hells did she know.’

  Pitry watches her. A fly lands on her shoulder, a second on her neck. She doesn’t notice.

  ‘You wouldn’t have sent that if you hadn’t meant it, would you,’ she murmurs. She sighs and shakes her head. ‘Damn.’

  ‘I take it,’ Pitry says, ‘that you are considering the operation?’

  Mulaghesh glares at him.

  ‘Just asking,’ he says.

  ‘Well. What can you tell me about this operation?’

  ‘Very little. I know it is on the Continent. I do know that it concerns a subject lots of people are paying attention to, including some very powerful people in Ghaladesh, some of whom are not wholly benign toward the prime minister’s agendas.’

  ‘Hence the cover story you’re giving me. I remember when we used to do this stuff to dupe other nations, not our own. Sign of the times, I suppose.’

  ‘Things do continue to worsen in Ghaladesh,’ Pitry admits. ‘The press likes to describe Shara as “embattled”. We’re still suffering from the last round of elections. Her efforts to reconstruct the Continent continue to be enormously unpopular in Saypur.’

  ‘Imagine that,’ Mulaghesh says. ‘I still remember the parties when she got elected. They all thought we were about to start our Golden Age.’

  ‘The voting public remains quite fickle. And for some, it’s easy to forget that the Battle of Bulikov took place only five years ago.’

  Mulaghesh pulls her prosthetic arm in closer, as if it pains her. Pitry feels like the temperature in the room has just dropped ten degrees. Suddenly she looks a great deal more like the commander Pitry saw that day, when the god spoke from the sky and the buildings burned and Mulaghesh bellowed at her soldiers to man the fortifications.

  ‘I haven’t forgotten,’ she says coldly.

  Pitry coughs. ‘Ah, no. I don’t suppose you would have.’

  Mulaghesh stares off into space for a few seconds more, lost in thought. ‘All right,’ she says, her voice unnervingly calm. ‘I’ll do it.’

  ‘You will?’

  ‘Sure. Why not.’ She places the balled-up note on the kitchen counter and smiles at him. His skin crawls: it is the not-quite-sane smile he’s seen before on the faces of soldiers who have seen a lot of combat. ‘What’s the worst that can happen?’

  ‘I . . . I’m sure the prime minister will be delighted,’ says Pitry.

  ‘So what is the operation?’

  ‘Well, like I said, you won’t know until you’ve fully signed on . . .’

  ‘I just said yes, damn it all.’

  ‘And you won’t be considered fully signed on until you’re on the boat.’

  Mulaghesh shuts her eyes. ‘Oh, for the love of . . .’

  Pitry slides one file out of the satchel and hands it to her. ‘Here are your instructions for your transportation. Please make note of the date and time. I believe I will be rejoining you for at least part of your trip, so I expect I will see you again in three weeks.’

  ‘Hurrah.’ Mulaghesh takes the file. Her shoulders slump a little. ‘If wisdom comes with age, why do I keep making so many bad decisions, Pitry?’

  ‘I . . . don’t think I feel qualified to answer that question.’

  ‘Well. At least you’re honest.’

  ‘Might I ask for a favour, ma’am? I need to return to Ghaladesh for some final preparations, but, considering today’s events, I . . .’ He glances at her various armaments.

  ‘Would like something to defend yourself with on the road back to port?’

  ‘I mistakenly assumed Javrat would be civilised.’

  Mulaghesh snorts. ‘So did I. Let me dig you up something that’ll look scary but you can’t hurt yourself with.’

  ‘I did receive some basic training when I first joined the Bulikov Embassy.’

  ‘I know,’ says Mulaghesh. ‘That’s what I’m afraid of. You probably learned just enough to be a danger to your own damn self.’

  Pitry bows as she marches off into the recesses of her home. He realises that he has never seen Mulaghesh walk another way: it’s as if her feet know only how to march.

  When she’s gone he snatches the balled-up piece of paper on the counter. This is, of course, a grievous violation of his position, not to mention a betrayal of Shara’s trust in him. I am such a terrible spy, he thinks, before remembering that he’s not actually a spy at all, which makes him feel a little less guilty.

  He stares at words on the letter in confusion. ‘Huh?’ he says.

  ‘What was that?’ says Mulaghesh’s voice from the next room.

  ‘N-Nothing!’ Pitry balls the letter back up and replaces it.

  Mulaghesh returns carrying a very long machete. ‘I have no idea what the original owner used this for,’ she says. ‘Maybe hacking up teak. But if it can cut lukewarm butter now, I’ll be surprised.’ She hands it over and walks him to her door. ‘So, three weeks, huh?’

  ‘That is correct.’

  ‘Then that’s three weeks to eat as much decent food as I can,’ says Mulaghesh. ‘Unless the Continent suddenly figured out how to make dumplings and rice right. And, ugh . . .’ Her hand goes to her stomach. ‘I thought for so long my belly would never have to deal with cabbage again . . .’

  Pitry bids her good-bye and walks back up the hill. He glances back once, surveying her bland, unhappy little cottage, the sands around it winking with empty bottles and broken glass. Though he’s never been involved in an operation – besides Bulikov, which he feels doesn’t count – he can’t help but be a little concerned about how all this is starting. And he’s not sure why a letter containing only the words ‘Make it matter’ could have any impact on whether it starts at all.

  2. A reliable old horse

  I have trudged through fire and death to come and ask you this: Can we not be better? Can we not do better? Are we so complacent in our comfortable lives that we can no longer even dream of hope, true hope – not simply hope for Saypur, but for humanity itself?

  Our ancestors were legends who remade the world. Are we willing to be so small-minded with our brief time upon these shores?

  – PARLIAMENTARY ADDRESS BY PRIME MINISTER ASHARA KOMAYD, 1721

  She awakes in the night and tries not to scream. The scream rattles around in her throat, a hot bubble of air swelling up inside of her, and she flails around trying to find purchase on something, anything, her right hand twisting the bedsheets into a knot and the balls of her bare feet pressed against the stone wall. She push
es and strains as her brain insists she’s still there, she’s still at the embassy and it’s still five years ago, her arm trapped under the rubble and the sky thick with smoke, the whole world ruined and gone in an instant. She’s still turning over on the street, still glimpsing the young soldier facedown on the concrete, a dew drop of blood in his ear that swells and swells until it brims over, and a trickle of red weaves down his smooth cheek, the cheek of a boy.

  Mulaghesh listens for the waves. She knows the waves are there. She knows where she is. She just has to find something to hold on to.

  Finally she hears them: soft and steady, the gentle rise and fall as the waters scrape the sand on the shore, just a few hundred feet beyond her little cottage.

  You’re in Javrat, she tells herself. You know that. You’re not in Bulikov. All of that happened long ago. Just listen to the waves . . .

  She tries to remember how to relax. She tells each system of muscles to stop, just stop already, and she finally goes limp. It’s then that the pain seeps into her as every muscle remembers it’s been straining to the point of breaking.

  She takes a breath and moves her arms and legs to see if she’s strained or sprained anything. She aches, but she seems to be all right.

  She glances at her alarm clock. It’s not even midnight yet. But she knows she’ll get no more sleep tonight.

  Oh, well, she thinks. Only four hours to wait. She does not look forward to waiting on the docks for the ship to come in. She finds she doesn’t want to see people, or perhaps to be seen by them.

  Her gaze moves to the object to the right of the alarm clock: a human hand rendered in dark oak wood, frozen in mid-clutch. The artisan who made it for her said it would help her hold things, and while this is true, Turyin Mulaghesh has always found its pose slightly disconcerting: there is something painful about it, like the hand is so tense in its desire to grasp something that it can hardly move its fingers.

  Groaning as her stomach muscles protest, Mulaghesh sits up, takes the false hand and its harness, shoulders her way into its well-worn straps, and gently affixes the prosthetic to where her arm ends a few inches above the wrist. She wraps the soft cotton sleeve around her upper arm, then takes the four leather belts at the false hand’s end, ties them over the sleeve, buckles them, and draws them taut.