She looks closer at their uniforms. “Seventh Infantry, huh?” she says.
The soldiers look back. “That’s right,” says one, a young woman.
“Last I heard you were in…Jukoshtan, right?”
“Right.”
“That’s an exciting assignment.”
She smirks. “Not hardly.”
“Yes, a great station to work on your Batlan game, they told me. Any of you serve under Major Avshram?”
“Uh. Yes, actually. I did,” says the young woman.
“He still got that fucking mustache?”
The soldiers grin. “That he does,” says the young woman. “Despite any sense of common decency.” She looks her over. “You in the service?”
“Used to be. Might be still. Won’t know until we get home.”
They nod sympathetically. To be a soldier is to no longer own your life.
“Where were you stationed?” asks the young woman.
“Well, technically,” says Mulaghesh, “I was on vacation.”
She laughs in disbelief. “That must’ve been some vacation.”
“You’re telling me.”
They chat and joke and share cigarettes as they wait to board. One bold young private tries one of Mulaghesh’s cigarillos, one of the foul things she purchased at the docks. He turns a dull green a few puffs in, inciting peals of laughter and raucous ridicule. Mulaghesh smiles, watching them, drinking in their adolescence, their optimism, their naiveté, their mannered cynicisms. She knows such youth is far behind her, but she has always felt that to foster it, protect it, and watch it grow is still a fine thing. Perhaps one of the finest things.
She thinks about what could have happened to these children if she hadn’t picked up the sword, if she hadn’t listened to it speak, and then spoke to the sentinels in turn. She wonders what would have happened if she’d figured it all out earlier, if she’d listened and watched Rada a little closer. A contained disaster, she thinks, is still a disaster. Hundreds of people died deaths that could have been avoided. And Nadar, and Biswal, and Pandey and Signe…
She watches light bounce off the waves and dance along the hull of the ship. Gone, she thinks. All gone. And yet again, I survive.
Her arm aches. Less than it used to. But it’s still there. Maybe it’ll always be there.
The young soldier who tried her cigarillo is now trying to feed it to a seagull, much to the amusement of his comrades. Mulaghesh smiles. I don’t know if I’m ever going to wear a uniform again, she thinks, watching the soldiers, but I will still fight for you.
The line starts moving. They throw their bags over their shoulders, lean forward, and start up to the plank to the Kaypee.
The young soldier looks back at her, and says, “Well. No matter what’s waiting for you in Ghaladesh, I hope you find some rest, and peace.”
“Peace?” says Mulaghesh, a touch surprised. “Well, maybe. Maybe.”
They climb aboard and ready themselves for the short journey home.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to Brent Weeks, who read City of Stairs and gave me some very foresighted advice about the state of Sigrud’s health.
Thanks to my editor, Julian Pavia, for helping me cut one whole book out of the middle of this one, much to the improvement of everything.
Thanks to Deanna Hoak and Justin Landon, whose observations about these books have fueled ideas for future ones. Innovation sometimes arises from the simplest mistakes.
Much thanks to Myke Cole, for taking time out of his busy schedule to educate me on all things military for this novel. I now know the difference between a clandestine and a covert operation.
Many thanks to Ashlee and Jackson, who continue to tolerate me for reasons unknown.
And many, many thanks to those who read City of Stairs, without whose support this book would surely not exist.