“How many tribal meetings have you had since the explosives were stolen?”
Biswal frowns as he considers it. “A dozen, maybe. More.”
“So they’ve had a dozen opportunities to pull this off, and only just managed it now?”
“There’s a lot of speculation here, ma’am,” says Nadar. “If I may say so. The explosives might have been passed throughout the tribes until the right person got ahold of it. Or perhaps they needed the right timing device, or the right access. Or the explosives were only recently stolen from the fortress. There are many reasons why they could have waited so long.”
“Are there any reasons why they’d target the mines?” says Mulaghesh. “And not the fortress, or the Galleries, or the harbor? Or any of their enemy tribes?”
“We can’t discuss this in front of CTO Harkvaldsson or Governor Smolisk,” says Biswal. “The nature and value of the mines is classified.”
“So you’re telling me that it was valuable enough,” Signe says languidly, “that the insurgents might know it’d hurt you if they blew it up?”
Biswal glares at her.
“If you’re not convinced the insurgents did this, General,” says Nadar, “do you have any alternate theories?”
Mulaghesh hesitates. She still has no desire to tell them about her vision. “I’m just saying we might need to keep an open mind he—”
The door bursts open and Sergeant Major Pandey sprints in. Without a word of apology he trots up to Biswal and hands him a note. Biswal, frowning, takes it, opens it, and begins to read. In the time it takes him to do so, two more runners sprint in—one Voortyashtani, one Dreyling—and each hand off messages to Rada and Signe, respectively.
Some big news just came down the pipeline, thinks Mulaghesh.
The room is almost completely still as the messages are opened and read. Pandey glances at Signe, who looks back as she opens her envelope. There’s a queer moment of connection between the two: Signe’s brow arches, as if asking a question, and Pandey gives the tiniest shake of his head, as if saying, Not now.
Mulaghesh frowns. What the hells was that?
“What’s this?” says Biswal. “This doesn’t make sense. Harkvaldsson is already here. She’s sitting right there, for the seas’ sakes.” He nods at Signe.
Pandey coughs a little, leans down, and mutters, “If you’ll read the preceding part of the message, sir, it does not concern CTO Harkvaldsson….”
Biswal angrily adjusts his tiny spectacles. “Well, then who the hell is supposed to be showing up on our doorstep?”
Rada is reading her own message. “W-Wait,” she says, horrified. “Ch-Chancellor je Harkvaldsson is g-going to be here? Tomorrow night?”
“Who?” demands Biswal, furious.
Signe’s voice is like an arctic wind: “My father.”
Everyone turns to look at her. She’s opened her own letter and is reading it with furious eyes, fingers clutching the paper as if imagining a throat. “My father is coming.”
There’s a pause.
“Oh, shit,” says Mulaghesh. “Sigrud?”
***
Pandemonium ensues. To Mulaghesh’s confusion—and terrific amusement—they keep referring to “Chancellor je Harkvaldsson” as a high-level diplomatic personage. The message, Mulaghesh understands, suggests that Sigrud is pulling into Voortyashtan within a matter of hours because his ship took some damage pursuing Dreyling pirates, and is in need of repairs. This is slightly plausible—a damaged ship would be desperate to dock anywhere, including Voortyashtan. But no one seems to believe it. Everyone assumes Sigrud’s arrival has something to do with the harbor’s construction schedule or the collapse of the thinadeskite mines.
What a minefield this little polis is, Mulaghesh thinks. So many sensitive subjects.
It’s hard not to laugh: she knew Sigrud took some political office up in the brand-new United Dreyling States, but she hadn’t expected him to be walking around with a word like “Chancellor” swinging in front of his name. She tries to imagine him sitting in some bureaucratic office, reading reports. As she has, in her time, seen Sigrud je Harkvaldsson nude, covered in blood, and, on one occasion, both, the idea is downright hilarious.
She watches Signe and Pandey as the discussion mounts. There’s something off about them. They don’t quite look at each other, but look toward each other. They have the air of two people trying very hard not to acknowledge one another.
Something’s up, she thinks. And I don’t like it. She thinks back to what Biswal just said: Signe hasn’t let anyone from Fort Thinadeshi tour the harbor works in months. Maybe it’s because their schedule’s too tight, sure…Or maybe it’s because Signe doesn’t want anyone sniffing around her “test assembly yard,” or whatever it really is.
Biswal brings the meeting to a close. Mulaghesh waits for him outside while everyone finishes up and files out. Pandey is one of the first ones out, and he joins her, waiting for Nadar.
Mulaghesh looks at him side-eyed. It’s difficult to tell—Pandey’s beard is rather prodigious—but his cheeks look a little pink. “You all right, Sergeant Major?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am?” he says, startled.
“You seem somewhat…bothered. Are you ill?”
“No, General. I’m weary, as we all are, but I’m perfectly fit and able.”
Mulaghesh smiles cheerlessly. “How pleasant to hear.”
The door opens again, and she watches closely when Signe charges out. She and Pandey exchange a glance, and Mulaghesh can read the message clearly on her face: You will not believe this bullshit when I tell you.
Signe stomps down the hall, her scarf flying like a flag. CTO Harkvaldsson has entirely too many secrets, Mulaghesh thinks. I may have to remedy that, and soon.
Next comes Nadar, whom Pandey anxiously follows down the corridor. Then Biswal, slow and grumbling, hauls himself out of the cluttered meeting room. He gives a surly glance to Mulaghesh, as if she’s orchestrated this new complication. “This Harkvaldsson fellow…The new Harkvaldsson, I mean. You knew him, yes?”
“I did. I was stuck in the hospital with him for a couple of weeks after this.” She holds up her false hand.
“What’s he like?”
She considers it. “Have you ever heard the term ‘hard operator,’ General?”
“Yes. Referring to troops who specialize in busting heads.”
“Well…when I knew him”—she stares off into space—“Sigrud was about the hardest operator you could hope to find.”
“Is he going to be trouble?”
“Maybe, maybe not. He’s a government official now, and he’s got family.”
“There’s a but in there, somewhere.”
“But, back in the day, he tended to attract trouble like a candle flame does moths.”
Biswal sighs. “Fantastic. Will you be there with us when we receive him tomorrow night?”
“I’m afraid I can’t,” says Mulaghesh. “I’ve got an appointment then that I can’t miss, after all the madness tonight.” She holds up her false hand again. “Adjustments.”
“Oh. I see. Well, I’d be keen to get your reading on the situation when you get a chance.”