City of Blades (The Divine Cities #2)
Robert Jackson Bennett
To Sir Terry, who wrote words upon my heart
and to Nana, who was a never-ending fountain of books
He said to them:
“Life is death and death is life.
To shed blood is to behold this holiest of transitions, the interwoven mesh of the world, The flow from shrieking life to rot and ash.
For those who wage Her wars, who become Her swords,
She will deem you shriven and holiest of holies.
And you shall forever reside beside Her in the City of Blades.”
And he sang:
“Come across the waters, children,
To whitest shores and quiet pilgrims,
Long dark awaits
In Voortya’s shadow.”
—EXCERPT FROM “OF THE GREAT MOTHER VOORTYA ATOP THE TEETH OF THE WORLD,” CA. 556
Somewhere around mile three on the trek up the hill Pitry Suturashni decides he would not describe the Javrati sun as “warm and relaxing,” as all the travel advertisements say. Nor would he opt to call the breezes here “a cool caress upon the neck.” And he certainly would not call the forests “fragrant and exotic.” In fact, as Pitry uselessly mops his brow for the twentieth time, he decides he would rather describe the sun as “a hellish inferno,” the breezes as “absolutely nonexistent,” and the forests as “full of things with far too many teeth and a great desire to apply them to the human body.”
He almost cries with relief when he sees the little tavern at the top of the hill. He hitches up his satchel and totters over to the shoddy building. He’s not surprised to see it is almost deserted, save for the owner and two of the man’s friends, because life is quiet and slow here on the resort island of Javrat.
Pitry begs them for a glass of water, and the owner, exuding contempt, slowly complies. Pitry gives him a few drekels, which somehow makes the man even more contemptuous.
“I was wondering,” Pitry says, “if you could help me.”
“I’ve already helped you,” the owner says. He gestures to the water.
“Well, yes, you did do that, and I thank you for it. But I am trying to find someone. A friend.”
The owner and his two comrades watch him, their expressions stony and inscrutable.
“I am looking for my aunt,” says Pitry. “She moved here after an accident in Ghaladesh, and I am here to give her the dispensation from the settlement, which took some time.”
One of the owner’s friends—a young man with a formidable unibrow—casts his eye over Pitry’s satchel. “You’re here carrying money?”
“Ah, well, no,” says Pitry, trying wildly to think up more of his improvised cover story. Of all the things Shara taught me, he wonders, why did she never teach me to lie? “Only the checking account and instructions for the dispensation.”
“So a way to get money,” says the other friend, whose mouth is lost in an abundance of ill-kept beard.
“Anyway, my aunt,” says Pitry, “is about so high”—he holds out a hand—“about fifty or so, and is very…how shall I put this…solid.”
“Fat?” suggests the owner.
“No, no! No, no, no, not really. She is”—he curls his arm, suggesting a formidable bicep that is, in his case, absent—“solid. She, ah, is also one-handed.”
All three of them say, “Aaah,” and glance at one another, as if to say—Ugh. Her.
“I take it you are familiar with her,” says Pitry.
The mood among the three men blackens so much that the air almost grows opaque.
“I understand she might have purchased property around here,” Pitry says.
“She bought the beach cottage on the other side of the hill,” says the owner.
“Oh, how lovely,” says Pitry.
“And now she won’t let us hunt on her property anymore,” says the bearded man.
“Oh, how sad,” says Pitry.
“She won’t let us look for seagull eggs on the cliffs there anymore. She won’t let us shoot the wild pigs. She acts as if she owns the place.”
“But it sounds, a bit, like she does,” Pitry says. “If she bought it and everything, I mean.”
“That’s beside the point,” says the man with the beard. “It was my uncle Ramesh’s before it was ever hers.”
“Well, I…I will have to have a talk with her about that,” Pitry says. “I’ll do that now, I think. Right now. I believe you said she was on the other side of the hill, ah, that way…?” He points in a westerly direction. The men do not nod, but he feels a flicker in their surliness that makes him think he’s right.
“Thank you,” says Pitry. “Thank you again.” He shuffles backward, smiling nervously. The men keep glaring at him, though he notices the unibrow is staring at his satchel. “Th-Thank you,” he mutters as he slips out the door.
***
Pitry regrets not defining the phrase “other side of the hill” more precisely. As he marches along the wandering paths, it increasingly feels like this hill keeps producing other sides out of nowhere for him, none of which bear any sign of civilization.
At last he hears the dull roar of the ocean, and he spies a small, crumbling white cottage nestled up against the rocks along the beach. “Finally,” he sighs, and he trots off toward it.
The forest pushes him down, down, until he’s wandering a narrow thread of path with the forest brooding over his left shoulder and a rambling, intimidating drop-off on his right. He wanders along this stretch of road for a few yards before he hears something over the waves: a rustling in the forest.
The man with the unibrow from the tavern steps out of the forest and onto the path, about twenty yards in front of him. He’s holding a pitchfork, which he keeps pointed directly at Pitry.
“Oh, ah…Hello again,” says Pitry.
More rustling behind him. Pitry turns and sees the man with the beard has stepped out of the forest and onto the path about twenty yards behind him, brandishing an axe.
“Oh…well,” says Pitry. He glances down the ravine on his right, which ends in what looks like a very angry patch of sea. “Well. Here we all are again. Um.”
“The money,” says the unibrow.
“The what?”
“The money!” barks the unibrow. “Give us the money!”
“Right.” Pitry nods, pulls out his wallet, and takes out about seventy drekels. “Right. I know how this goes. H-Here you go.” He holds out the handful of money.
“No!” says the unibrow.
“No?”
“No! Give us the real money!”
“The bag,” says the bearded man. “The bag!”
“Give us the bag!”
“Give us the bag of money!” shouts the bearded man.
Pitry looks back and forth between the two of them, feeling as if he’s in an echo chamber. “B-b-but it doesn’t have any money,” he says, smiling madly. “Look! Look!” He fumbles to open it and shows them it is full of files.
“But you know how to get it,” says the unibrow.
“I do?”
“You have a bank account,” says the unibrow. “You have an account number. That account is full of money.”
“Full of it!” shouts the bearded man.
Pitry now deeply regrets the flimsy cover story he made up on the spot. “Well…You…I don’t…I don’t…”