“What are you talking about?”
“You’ve seen the people here,” says Biswal. “You don’t think they’d fight us eventually? They fight us now, with sticks and rocks. Imagine if they ever progress. We haven’t fought a real war in forty years, Turyin, and the last one, the one you and I fought and bled in, our country tries to forget. To discuss the reality of our global position is considered impolite. Sooner or later, Saypur will have to awaken to reality. We will have to fight again. It can no longer allow other states to simply do as they wish. It can no longer be passive, and it certainly can no longer be giving.” He bows his head. “And if I must be the one to wake Saypur from its slumber, then so be it.”
Mulaghesh stares at him in horror. “You want to…to use the Night of the Sea of Swords to start a world war?”
“There already is a world war, Turyin,” says Biswal. “But now it’s a quiet one. The Continent is growing more powerful. It struggles against us. It’s poor now, but it won’t always be that way. We can either act now or pay the price later. I prefer the former option.”
“But…But…This is barking fucking madness!”
“It’s the truth,” he says calmly. “To be a power is to make constant war upon one’s neighbors. We must accept that truth or fail. And tonight will force our nation to make the decision.”
“This is madness!” says Mulaghesh, furious. “And more so, it’s stupid! This will be a fucking slaughter, Lalith, and we’ll be the ones getting slaughtered! They outnumber us a thousand to one, and each of their soldiers is worth a hundred of ours!”
“You doubt us,” says Biswal, with infuriating serenity. “Of course you would. You’ve been living in the shadow of Komayd, and she’s never had much love for the armed services. We have advanced weaponry here, Turyin, and tremendous destructive powers. We have advanced notice. The Voortyashtani army will be drawn to here, where their swords lie, and we will annihilate them. I’ve already ordered the coastal batteries to prepare. And then after this battle Saypuri attitudes concerning this ruined land will change.”
“You’re a damned fool!” says Mulaghesh. “You’re putting the lives of every one of your soldiers in incredible risk due to your own shitting vanity! This isn’t about nation-states, or war, or the balance of power, this is about you!”
Biswal’s huge, gnarled hands grasp the bars of Mulaghesh’s jail cell, but he says nothing.
“You just want your time in the spotlight,” says Mulaghesh. “You’ve never forgiven Saypur for refusing to admit that the Yellow March even happened. You’ve never forgiven me for being lauded as a damned hero of the Battle of Bulikov. You think yourself a hero, but your superiors act as if you were a monster. And you are, Lalith.” Then, quieter, “We are. We both are, for what we did.”
“For what we did?” hisses Biswal. He grips the bars so hard they rattle. “For what we did? Winning the war? Is that such a terrible thing? Saving Saypuri lives, ending conflict? Are we fiends for making this possible? Is it at all right that they should forget us, forget what we did?”
Mulaghesh stands up and shouts into his face, “We razed towns! Destroyed families! We not only killed civilians, but children, as they slept!”
“Because our nation asked it of us! They asked it of us and then they forgot. They forgot those of us who’d thrown our lives away for them! They should have been grateful, but they just forgot!”
“Oh, enough!” says Mulaghesh. “Enough of this! May the seas damn you, Lalith Biswal! May fate damn you a thousand times over for not learning what I’ve learned! We are servants. We serve. We serve as humanely as we can, and we ask nothing of our country. That is what we agree to when we put on the uniform. And all of your posturing and your dreams of conquest don’t belong in this civilized world.”
Biswal stares at her, white with rage. “I was going to ask you to join me,” he says softly. “To help us defend against this attack. Will you refuse me, and abandon your fellow soldiers?”
“I will refuse your foolish war, yes,” says Mulaghesh. “I don’t serve you. I serve my country. Kill me if you wish, just as I did Bansa and Sankhar. Dying nobly is preferable to living savagely.”
He steps back from her cell, breathing hard. He whispers, “You aren’t worth the bullet.” Then he turns around, hands in fists at his sides, and walks away.
***
Sigrud stands in the doorway of the darkened room in the fortress. He stares at the high metal table on the far end, and the figure lying upon it. It was easy to infiltrate—the fortress is in complete turmoil due to some announcement Biswal made—yet now that he’s here he finds he can’t go any farther.
He needs to move—he knows he will move—but he can’t just yet. He can’t bring himself to take a step.
The smell of blood and cigarettes is overpowering. His limbs feel faint; his heart is a hum. Sigrud je Harkvaldsson has never felt he wanted many things in his life, not with the fervent desire that some people wish for things, but right now, more than anything, he wishes to disbelieve reality, to defy what lies before him with such ferocity that the world itself is forced to obey, sending this sight scurrying back into its hole like some creeping vermin.
But he cannot. So he is left alone with the dark, empty room, the smell of cigarettes, and the young woman lying on the table.
He walks across the room to her.
He remembers when he first saw her. He was young, too young to be a father. A child, really, and his wife Hild the same. He crept into the dark bedroom, feeling he was infringing upon matters forbidden to him, for up until then only women had entered this room, an endless chain of old women and young serving girls and, of course, Hild’s mother, who helped her through her labor. So to open the door to the bedroom was like peeking through to some holy temple, barred to filthy commoners such as he. But instead of any rituals or sacred ceremonies there was just Hild lying in the big bed, wan and sweaty but smiling, and her mother sitting on the side of the bed, and the basket on the table beside them. Hild said, “Come in,” her voice creaky and cracked from exhaustion. “Come in and look at her.” And Sigrud did so. And though he had fought for his father and sailed across many dangerous seas, he suddenly felt deeply confused and afraid, perhaps sensing, unconsciously, that his world was about to change.
And that was exactly what happened as he came to stand over the basket and the tiny pink person swaddled at its bottom, her face crinkled in displeasure, as if her birth had been an intolerable inconvenience to her. And he remembers now, as he crosses the dark room in the fortress, how he reached down to her, his hands suddenly so big and rough and unwieldy as he stroked one soft, pink cheek with his knuckle and said her name.