“Then how shall the wrongdoers and murderers in this room with me know guilt?” shouts the man. “Shall the names of my brothers and sisters and children who have died wrongly be forgotten, and perish into ash?”
More boos and catcalls. Mulaghesh thins her eyes as she watches the tribal leaders. They are all skinny, haggard things, dressed in robes and furs, their necks brightly tattooed and covered with curious patterns. Some are women, she sees, which surprises her: Bulikov strictly forbade women from doing anything more than firing out children as quickly and efficiently as possible.
But then, she thinks, Voortya probably wouldn’t have tolerated that bullshit.
“The persistence of the names of anyone,” says Biswal wearily, “dead or alive, is no longer part of the charge of the assembly. That was decided three meetings ago. Now may we please move on to the primary item on our agenda?” He raises a piece of paper for the assembly to see. “The murders at the town of Poshok, which Fort Thinadeshi is asking for any assistance on.”
“Murders committed by the Ternopyn clan!” shouts a woman at the back. “Butchers and thieves and liars!”
The Galleries fill up with bellowed accusations. Mulaghesh rolls her eyes. “Oh, for the love of…”
While Biswal deals with the commotion, Mulaghesh focuses on the unusual figure to his left: a small, mousy Continental woman of about thirty, with big dark eyes and a timid mouth, wearing clothes that look about three sizes too large for her. She sits hunched in a manner that suggests she wishes to fold up and disappear into the back of the chair. She scribbles madly on a large pad of paper as they talk, her fingers and wrists black with ink.
Biswal raises a hand in response to someone’s question. “I believe we might need to check with Governor Smolisk on this issue. Rada, would you happen to have last month’s minutes on hand?”
So that’s the Continental governor, thinks Mulaghesh. She watches as Rada digs frantically through a sack behind her chair, produces a sheaf of papers, flips through them, and reads aloud, “Th-The representative in que-qu-question s-s-said at the t-t-time, and I qu-quote…” She takes a deep breath, and reads, “?‘M-may all the sons and d-daughters of the Hadyarod clan be g-g-gutted as rabbits and d-die upon the f-flames.’?”
One of the tribal leaders crosses his arms triumphantly, as if his point has just been proven beyond a measure of a doubt.
“Thank you, Rada,” says Biswal. “Though this threat, Mr. Sokola, was indeed uttered at the last assembly, the victims at Poshok were not gutted, nor burned, nor were they members of your clan, the Hadyarod clan—as you surely know. And if I recall, that exact curse has been used at nearly every assembly of the tribal leaders, sometimes more than once per meeting. At the moment, I am not convinced that it is an indication of guilt, and I would prefer if we adhere to ways you all can cooperate with our investigation, or volunteer more pertinent informa—”
Biswal’s next words are drowned out by shouting. He sighs and looks to Rada, who shrugs in return and attempts to write down some of the more prominent shouts.
“This is a bit more energetic than most meetings,” says a voice.
Mulaghesh, who’s been slouching deep in her seat, looks up to see Signe standing above her. She’s wearing her usual scarf, but has opted for a leather jacket today rather than the sealskin, though it too bears the SDC insignia. “Oh?”
“Yes. Even Brursk there is getting into it.” She points at an obese man in a blue leather jerkin who is making a fist and screaming across the aisle at someone. “He’s usually as placid as a cow.”
“This doesn’t seem like very placid company.” She looks through their ranks again, trying to spy anything suspicious; but, in her opinion, the whole lot of them look like mad bombers. She can’t imagine what Biswal wanted her to do here. “Do you come to these things often?”
“I try to. Don’t let their tattoos and their crude threats fool you, General—some of these people are quite clever, and smell change in the wind. The more powerful leaders imagine the harbor and all of its profits to be a pie, and themselves the only ones authorized to do the cutting. Hence why I’m here.”
Something slowly clicks in Mulaghesh’s head. “Is that why the SDC headquarters is so permanent looking?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You keep claiming that the harbor will be done within two years. Why would you want to build something so permanent—unless you wanted to be here for a long, long while?”
“And what would you imagine us doing?”
“Taking your slice of the pie, of course,” says Mulaghesh. “The harbor’s a one-time deal. But if you’re the shipping company on the Solda—by the seas, you’d make billions of drekels every year.”
Signe smiles serenely. “Hm. You’re no fool, General, I’ll give you that. Though some of these damn tribes intend to milk us for all we’re worth, threatening to give away portions of the shipping rights to other companies….But they forget who it is who’ll control the mouth of the Solda itself.”
“I do wonder, CTO Harkvaldsson,” says Mulaghesh, “if it’s possible for you to even piss without some amount of skullduggery and plotting.”
“Well, I also take it upon myself to be an ambassador for the harbor.” She leans forward, listening. “Speaking of which…”
“…murders were committed by no clansman!” a thin woman is shouting below. “Nor committed by any human hand! No Voortyashtani that we know did such a thing, this I assure you! This is a curse, a Divine retribution for the sacrilege being committed to our ancient ancestral home!”
“I assume, Mrs. Balakilya,” says Biswal, “that you are referring to the harbor.”
“The Dreylings and their great machines grind up the bones of our very culture!” cries the woman. “They awaken many things that lie sleeping! The Divine will not tolerate this insult, and we shall all pay the price!”
Biswal nods. “Thank you for your opinion on the matter, Mrs. Balakilya. But I do believe CTO Harkvaldsson is present in the balcony, so perhaps she’d like to comment.”
All heads turn to Mulaghesh and Signe. Mulaghesh is used to being the focus of the ire of a crowd, but so many furious eyes make even her cringe a little. Yet one group of tribal leaders in the back—their necks dyed a soft yellow—stands and strikes a reverential pose, as if saluting them.
Or perhaps specifically saluting Signe, who stands at the railing and says in a loud, clear voice, “As I have testified to and even personally shown some of the assembly members, what the Southern Dreyling Company is hauling up from the floor of the Solda Bay is nothing more than rotting stone. We researched our undertaking carefully and concluded that no surviving architecture is present in the bay. What we drag up is sand and silt and rubble, and nothing more. If we were to find any artifact or item of cultural import, we would notify the assembly immediately.”
“These are lies!” cries the thin woman—Balakilya—but again, the assembly dissolves into shouts.
“I assure you,” says Signe calmly, “they are not.”