“Why are you the one to help me, of all people? You’re not involved with anything at the fortress. And I’m surprised SDC can spare their CTO to help out on a clandestine military operation.”
“Oh, they can’t. Not really. Though we did just go through one of the more difficult crane sitings, so that does make it a little easier. Less burdens upon my back.”
“So why you?”
“I’m familiar with the country, the culture,” says Signe. “I was raised just outside of this polis, after all.”
“You were?”
“Yes,” says Signe. She kneads her napkin in between her finger and thumb. “I’m a Dreyling, certainly. But after the coup we couldn’t stay in the Dreyling Shores. There were plenty of people who wished to see me and my family dead. So we had to hide away somewhere. Voortyashtan was closest, and the least likely place for anyone to look.”
“What did you do when you got here?”
“Survive, mostly. And little more than that.” She smiles, and there’s a touch of bitterness to it. “So, after thirty years here, I know the culture. I know the people. I know the geography, and I know the history. And I have resources that you can’t get at the fortress without raising questions.”
“But you don’t actually want to help,” says Mulaghesh.
“Does anyone actually want to help in a clandestine investigation?”
“Saypur says, ‘Dance,’ you say, ‘How many turns?’ Is that it?”
“Hm…True enough,” Signe says acidly. “Your nation does have mine by the delicates, as one might say. But there is also the matter of your reputation.”
“My reputation? And what reputation is that?”
“General Mulaghesh,” she says, “you are, whether you like it or not, something of a celebrity. You’re not only associated with the prime minister of Saypur, you are also associated with the death of two Divinities. And you’re also associated with an unimaginable amount of destruction and devastation done to the city of Bulikov, damage that city still hasn’t fully recovered from—if it ever can.”
“I couldn’t have helped that!”
“Possibly. But, nevertheless, your reputation is such that your very presence in this city makes me wary. It also makes a lot of investors wary. Voortyashtan is an old friend of violence. The concern is that you, as innocuous as your cover story may be, could be a catalyst.”
“So what? They think I’m going to show up and blow up the city?”
“You forget that these people have cannons pointed at them day and night,” says Signe. “And although you might have developed a reputation as something of a cautious taskmaster in Bulikov, there are still many rumors surrounding what you did before your stint as governor.” Signe smiles so wide Mulaghesh can see her molars. “None of it’s confirmed, of course—but you and General Biswal have some kind of special connection to the capture of Bulikov during the Summer of Black Rivers, don’t you?”
Mulaghesh says nothing.
“Continentals fear you, General,” Signe says. “They fear Biswal, especially. And they fear those cannons. And now you’re all in the same place. I think their concerns are quite valid—don’t you? So it’s wise that someone has to keep an eye on you. It might as well be me.”
I do not envy Lalith Biswal. He made what was likely the most difficult choice of his career, if not the whole of the Summer, and I believe no matter what he chose he knew he and his soldiers would be punished for it—if they survived, which he surely thought unlikely.
Perhaps history will one day be a better judge of him than you or I shall be. For though the Yellow March was likely the very thing that turned the tide during the Summer of Black Rivers, such was its nature that we cannot ever acknowledge that it actually happened.
—LETTER FROM CHIEF OF ARMED FORCES GENERAL ADHI NOOR TO PRIME MINISTER ASHARA KOMAYD, 1722
Mulaghesh sits at the window of her spacious room, staring out. The view is gorgeous—Voortyashtan is like a wall of fireflies below her—but she cannot bring herself to enjoy it. Not after that conversation.
Just what in the hells have I gotten myself into?
She walks back to her bags, rummages about, and takes out something wrapped in an old scarf.
Mulaghesh is not an eager neophile, but she knows efficiency when she sees it, which is why, unlike many commanders her age, she took the time to train in firearms. Her favorite is this particularly vicious little piece of technology: a short, thick, snubby little contraption called a “carousel,” which earned its name because of its cyclic design of five little barrels each containing one shot, rotating to the next with each squeeze of the trigger. The carousel is much easier for a person with one hand to load and unload than most other weapon systems, as you just need to pop off the empty barrel cylinder and pop on a full set. She hasn’t used it on a live target yet, and frankly hopes she never has to, but she places it on her nightstand, just in case.
She lies down on the bed. Tomorrow, she’s decided, she’ll go to the last place Choudhry was seen: Fort Thinadeshi.
She shuts her eyes and tries to listen to the waves outside.
Don’t forget where you are. Don’t forget where you are.
***
Mulaghesh wakes at 0500, grabs a portfolio for notes, commandeers one of the few telephones in the SDC headquarters, and phones Fort Thinadeshi. The tinny voice of an on-call sergeant answers, surprised: they expected her, but not this soon. She’s in luck, though, as General Biswal is present at the fortress, having returned from a tour of other installations in the region, and can indeed make time on his calendar for her. “Provided the car can make it down to you in time, General,” adds the sergeant.
“Why wouldn’t it?”
“Well, there’s really only one road down to the city from the fortress, and it’s a little…variable in quality. It’s the only road in the city that will tolerate an automobile, but even then it’s a stretch.”
“So don’t bring any cups brimming with hot tea, is that what you’re saying?”
“That’s about the cut of it.”
“Great.”
When the auto arrives it’s hard to believe there’s a functional vehicle underneath all the mud and moss and sprays of gravel, which stick to the sides like barnacles on a ship. She’s happy she wore her fatigues rather than her dress uniform. “Holy hells,” she says when the driver hops out. “I damned well hope the wheels stay on.”
Then she looks at the driver and does a double take. He’s a young man, short but fit with a well-trimmed beard. He would be considered quite handsome were it not for his rather weak chin. But there’s something familiar in his face, especially in the way he’s grinning at her.
He gives a sharp salute. “Morning, General. Ready for the trip up?”
“I know you,” she says, stepping closer. Then in a flash, she has it. “Damn. Sergeant Major Pandey, isn’t it? From Bulikov. Is that you?”