“I do outrank you, remember.” He smiles sardonically and taps the bars on his collar. Biswal is a third-class general of the Saypuri Military, whereas Mulaghesh is fourth-class, the lowest class one could possibly occupy while still possessing the rank of general. Mulaghesh is well aware that the only reason she has the rank at all is that Shara wanted her on the military council, which is forbidden to anyone below the rank of general. But then, nepotism is so rampant in Ghaladesh currently that there are more generals and colonels in service than there are captains and lieutenants.
“True,” she says. She sips at her wine. It tastes like vinegar to her tongue. “I also know I don’t want to be in your seat, so you can keep outranking me all you want.”
He sighs. “You can say that again. When I brought up security breaches earlier, materials and resources mysteriously leaving the fortress…This wasn’t the first time.”
“I kind of got that impression.”
“A year and a half ago a supply train traveling from Fort Hadj to Fort Lok was hit by highland insurgents. They dragged a bunch of logs up onto the track so the train had no choice but to stop. And this particular train was carrying a great deal of weapons, ammunition—and explosives.”
“Shit.”
“Yes. My predecessor waged a vigorous campaign in response and managed to recover most of the weapons and ammunition, and all of the explosives—or so he thought. This would be, as a note, the very campaign that he wound up dying in. But last month we did an inventory check, and we found fifteen pounds of the explosives we recovered aren’t actually explosives at all. They’re sand and clay. Mock-ups.”
“Shit.”
“Yes. We don’t know when the switch took place, unfortunately. Maybe when the insurgents first took possession of it. But now that you’ve found what you’ve found, maybe someone switched it here, at the fortress.”
“You think that if someone helped secret thinadeskite out,” says Mulaghesh, “they might have done the same for your explosives.”
He nods, his steely gray eyes shining bright. “That’s correct. And I worry enough about what happens outside these walls and wire. To have a rat amidst us…”
“So where do I come in? I don’t want to horn in on Nadar’s command here any more than I already have.”
“I don’t want you to, either,” says Biswal. “Nadar is an exceptional officer in a difficult situation. No, I want you to talk to the CTO of SDC for me.”
“Ah,” says Mulaghesh. “Harkvaldsson. You’re worried about the harbor.”
“I am. Fifteen pounds of explosives in insurgent hands…That has me looking around, wondering exactly what’s vulnerable. And there’s a lot vulnerable down at the harbor. It wouldn’t be the first time they tried. A sharpshooter once took a shot at our ambitious, young CTO a few months ago. He missed and the SDC guards mowed him down pretty quick—but still.”
“Why not talk to her yourself?”
“We don’t have the…” He grumbles and stares out the window. “Well. The easiest relationship. She asks for a lot. I say no a lot. It’s a dance we do every time we meet. But I want her to respond to this threat adequately. It might help if the warning comes from someone else.”
“I hardly deal with her any better,” says Mulaghesh. “But I need to talk to her anyway. I’ll take care of it.”
“There’s also the tribal leader meeting in five days,” says Biswal. “They’ll know all about the murders at Poshok by now. I want you to be there.”
“What, to testify?”
“We don’t have anything to testify on yet. No, I just want another set of eyes. You dealt with people like this in Bulikov. See if you spot anything squirrelly. Odds are someone in that room will be the person responsible for stealing those explosives—and possibly the thinadeskite, too.”
“I’m not a mind reader, Lalith.”
“But you’re better than nothing. And nothing is what we have now.” He stares glumly into his wineglass, then drains it. “Harkvaldsson sent us new forecasts. Three months until the harbor and rivers are dredged. Then two years until the harbor itself is a functioning port. She says the dredging is the hard part—they’ve been at it for years already. And from an engineering standpoint, that might be true. But I’m concerned about what comes after.”
“After?”
“What’s it going to cost to keep the peace? And how long are we going to be here?” He looks at her balefully. “Not all of us are lauded heroes such as you, Turyin. We don’t get to hop from place to place. Some might be sailing out of that port soon. But I won’t. I expect me and the rest of the troops here will be in Voortyashtan for a long, long time.”
I was told she spoke, once, in younger days. I was told the other Divinities could see her face, her eyes, her smile, and she would talk to them, sometimes as a friend.
But no more. When I saw her there was only her queer, cold faceplate—how I hated its placid expression, a mockery of a face—and the never-ending silence of her eyeless gaze.
Empress of Graves, Queen of Grief, She Who Clove the Earth in Twain.
I hoped to never hear Voortya speak.
—MEMOIRS OF SAINT KIVREY, PRIEST AND 78TH WIFE-HUSBAND OF JUKOV, C. 982
Mulaghesh is in a cheerless mood when she walks into the SDC board club. She’s done nothing here but find more questions, each one more troubling than the last. And while at first she worried over how Sumitra Choudhry could have known about the murders before they happened, now she keeps thinking about what Gozha said at the charcoal maker’s shack….
A short woman, thinks Mulaghesh. Every inch of skin concealed.
Choudhry came here eight months ago. The murders at Ghevalyev took place seven months ago. Then Choudhry disappeared two months later. The timing’s right—Choudhry was in the region—though does anyone have any proof that Choudhry’s not in Voortyashtan now, hiding out?
Let’s not jump to conclusions, she thinks, shoving the door open. Even if they seem so easy to get to.
She sits, and the Dreyling boy with the wispy mustache slinks out of the secret door in the wall and places a platter before her: fried biscuits, a variety of smoked or pickled fish, and some sort of dark green concoction that Mulaghesh isn’t familiar with and doesn’t wish to be.
She checks the clock on the wall. Just past 1900. Yet there’s no Signe in sight.
She pulls out her portfolio and idly flips through the files she found in Choudhry’s room. She stares at the painting of Vallaicha Thinadeshi, wondering what grave she lies in in this country.
“Why are you reading about Thinadeshi?” asks a voice over her shoulder.
“Huh?” She looks up to find Signe standing over her, clipboard nestled under her arm, a gray scarf piled around her neck, and a tiny porcelain thimble of ink-black coffee in her hand. “Oh, ah…Well. Choudhry was reading about her.”
“Choudhry might have wanted a broad view of the region,” says Signe, sitting, “but I didn’t realize she wanted a view that broad. Thinadeshi disappeared here, what, fifty years ago?”
“Sixty some-odd, yeah.”
“Well, that I could’ve chatted to her about. She was a childhood hero of mine, you know. The great engineer. And we had something in common, of course….”
“And what was that?”
“Why, we both had a fucking miserable time here in Voortyashtan, didn’t we?” She smiles briefly, then checks her watch, a complicated, sleek contraption. “We have a little over fifty minutes. What is it you’d like to discuss with me, General?”
“Well, now I have something new to talk with you about. Something…delicate.”