But Gozha also said the man she saw was huge and fearsome, the sort of person one would notice, uncommon in Voortyashtan. People like this don’t exist anymore. No one gets this big naturally, not without the aid of the Divine.
She thinks about the mutilation of the corpses at the farmhouse, performed in the exact same manner that sentinels did over eighty years ago to Saypuri slaves.
Are you honestly considering, Mulaghesh says to herself, that a real, live Voortyashtani sentinel committed these atrocities? How could one have possibly survived?
Mulaghesh jumps as a loud clank echoes across the statues. Bright white light comes spilling in from everywhere. She looks around and sees a handful of electric bulbs fluttering to life along the walls. “What the…?”
There’s the groan of metal far back behind her. She turns and sees the giant iron door slowly start to swing open.
“Fuck,” she mutters. She finds cover behind the sculpture of Saint Zhurgut, shrinks down behind its plinth, and waits, listening.
She can hear voices, footsteps. Two sets, she thinks, squelching in the mud.
She hears Signe’s voice saying, “…unsure what the material makeup is. It is not conventional stone. Whatever it is, it’s clearly different from the statues that line the shore of the Solda. We’re presuming for now that the two types of statues had two very different purposes, one utilitarian, one decoration. The ones on the shore of the Solda were decoration, and thus were made of ordinary stone, which hasn’t held up well to the change in climate. These are much…Well. More durable. Much more dense. Our dredgers didn’t even make a dent in them. We can’t even chip off a piece for sample. They must have used some kind of craftsmanship that we’ve never experienced before. We assume it must not have been Divine, because if it was then these should have all turned to dust when Voortya died. It seems the Voortyashtanis of old had many secrets, even beyond those of their Divinity.”
Mulaghesh pokes her head around the statue of Zhurgut. She sees Signe talking to a richly dressed Dreyling, a man in dark red robes wearing a ceremonial fur hat with lots of gold embroidering. Signe looks very pale, very still, and very awkward, which is unusual, as her ample charisma has always filled any room.
Mulaghesh can’t imagine why this man upsets her, in his white fur gloves and white fur boots and white fur belt. He’s an absolute fop, if Mulaghesh must say so; but it isn’t until he turns to scratch his cheek that she sees the bright gold eye patch covering up one eye.
Oh, by the seas, she thinks. It’s Sigrud.
She keeps watching, dumbfounded, staring at his rich, ridiculous clothing, the rings on his fingers, the chain dangling from his neck.
Holy hells, she thinks, he looks like a fucking parade float!
***
It takes all of her effort not to burst out laughing. She could never have imagined Shara Komayd’s most trusted assassin dressed in such a manner in her life.
Then he speaks, and his voice is the same, tremendously low and scratchy, as if it’s been marinating in dark ale. “And what,” he says slowly, “were they used for?”
“What?” says Signe, irritated. “The statues?”
“Yes,” he says. “You said they were utilitarian. What was their use?”
“We have no idea. No idea what they did, or if they’re doing anything now.” The answer is curt, impatient, even downright rude. Signe seems to realize this, for she continues: “We’ve noticed a name carved on each of the statues, sometimes in an unobtrusive place. Some of us believe that these are memorials, of a sort—works of art commissioned in honor of the departed. Some are different—we found some that were small chambers, resembling little tombs. You can see one there, a modest little box of a structure—but they contain nothing that appears to have supported a body. Only…weaponry.”
“Weaponry?”
“Well, one weapon apiece. There is a plinth inside each little tomb that seems designed to hold a sword. But we’ve found no swords. Perhaps they too vanished in the Blink, or were washed out to sea when old Voortyashtan fell apart.”
Sigrud stares around at the statues, quiet. Perhaps provoked by his silence, Signe goes on: “We have used our contact at the fortress to procure a list of Divine tests. Methods that can be used to determine the Divine nature of any…phenomenon, or object, or whatever. All the statues tested as negative. That should suffice, shouldn’t it?”
He is silent.
“Shouldn’t it?” she says again, angrier.
“I heard,” he says quietly, “that someone once shot at you.”
“What?”
“Someone shot at you. Clipped your hair. Is this true?”
“Oh. That. Yes, that happened some time ago. We’ve taken extra security measures since.”
“And the bombing? The explosives? You considered this a threat as well?” He looks at her, his one eye shining strangely.
“Yes,” says Signe, her words harsh and clipped. “But such fears proved unfounded. So. Back to the issue at hand. Our security here has thus far been airtight. If it wasn’t, the tribal leaders would be all over us to force us to hand the statues over. As it is, my current intent is to use these statues as collateral to force the tribal leaders to give us shipping rights on the harbor. Otherwise we will report their existence to the Ministry, and, this being Voortyashtan, I have no doubt the Ministry would wish to confiscate and review them. Extensively. They’d stay in Saypuri hands indefinitely.”
Silence.
“Do you think our current strategy is wise?” she asks. “Or do you wish to…correct it for me?”
Sigrud is quiet for a long, long time.
“Well?” says Signe.
Finally he shrugs. “I trust what you are doing.”
She stares at him, surprised and suspicious. “You…do? You…You think this is a good idea?”
“I did not say that. If it were me I’d throw all this shit back in the ocean. I hate everything Divine, dead or not. But it is not me. It is you. And if you think this is a good idea, then I will let you do as you see fit.”
Signe is so taken aback by this that she’s lost for words. Then: “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why are you willing to let me do this, if you think it’s a bad idea?”
“Because…” He gives a great sigh. “I think you are good at this.”
“You don’t seem too happy about it.”
Sigrud is quiet yet again.
“I get quite sick of your silences,” says Signe. “They aren’t nearly as clever as you think they are.”
“I am not being clever. I just do not know what to say.” He pauses. “I want to ask…How…How many times has someone tried to kill you here?”
“Why?”
“Because I wish to know.”
“I don’t think that matters.”
“I do.”
She snorts, contemptuous.
“More than once, then. Do you think this is worth it?” he asks. “Is it acceptable, to risk your life to build this? If you died here, on the shores of this country, below these cranes, would you feel you spent your life well?”
Signe crosses her arms and looks away. “This is an abrupt change in your disposition.”