“You don’t know Ministry operatives, Captain.”
“And, to be fair, you didn’t know Choudhry, General,” says Nadar. “Whereas I did.”
“What do you mean?”
Nadar hesitates.
“Permission to speak freely, General.”
“Granted.”
“Choudhry was, like many out of Ghaladesh, a somewhat ineffectual officer.”
“Ineffectual.”
“Yes, General. Lots of titles, ma’am, lots of certifications, certainly. But no on-the-ground experience in a combat zone. Experience that we here in Voortyashtan have in excess, General.” She meets Mulaghesh’s eyes very briefly before looking away. “Experience not known in Ghaladesh.”
Mulaghesh steps closer. “You wouldn’t be doubting my combat experience, would you, Captain?” she asks sharply.
“No, ma’am.”
“Do you disagree that what we see on these walls are the markings of a madwoman?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Do you disagree that the timeline for these murders and the theft of the explosives overlaps with Choudhry’s presence here, and disappearance?”
Nadar’s face twitches. “No, ma’am. But—”
“But what?”
“But…I’ve been at Fort Thinadeshi for six years now, before the Battle of Bulikov, General. And though Bulikov alerted us to threats of the Divine, here in Voortyashtan we’ve only ever seen one threat. The one that’s just beyond our walls.”
“You need to remain mindful of threats beyond the insurgents and the tribes, Captain,” says Mulaghesh. “Otherwise you blind yourself.”
“I have seen our soldiers killed in the wilderness, ma’am,” says Nadar softly. “I’ve held them in my arms as they died. I’ve seen the trains sent back to Ahanashtan, loaded up with coffins. I’ve seen these things time and time again, General. With all due respect, I personally do not believe myself to be blind at all.”
***
Nadar leaves Mulaghesh alone while she conducts her inspection. Mulaghesh furiously rubs her arm, so angry that it’s difficult to focus. Well, at least I know where Nadar stands. Leaving only Lalith as an option.
She shakes herself and begins to scan the walls of the room, her eyes tracing over the black scrawls and splashes of paint.
Look for things so simple, Sigrud told her, that they seem to have no meaning in themselves.
She asked, What in the hells does that mean?
It will not be a curious picture, or a carving in the wall that seems to communicate something, he said. No riddles or codes, in other words. It will be an ordinary thing that simply does not belong. A stripe of chalk or paint that looks like a painter’s error. Something stuck in the walls, like a staple or a pin, or a nick in the walls like someone banged them while moving furniture. Or a slash in a carpet that looks like someone damaged it.
She looks over the images on the walls, trying not to be disturbed by them. Thousands of swords, stuck in the earth. An arrow piercing the heart of a wave. A face she now knows to be the cold, regal visage of Voortya herself gives her pause—Choudhry did an impressively good job of capturing the Divinity’s likeness.
Perhaps she painted over it, thinks Mulaghesh. Whatever it was. Perhaps her signal’s no longer here at all.
Her eye falls on the window in the far wall. It’s long and thin, the barest slit of glass. Mulaghesh recognizes the intent of the design immediately, built to allow in light and air and nothing else.
Yet in the corner of the window frame, almost tucked out of view, is a tiny white dot.
She steps closer. It’s a thumbtack, she sees, pushed deep into the wall.
Mulaghesh feels the window, testing the frame for any weaknesses or hollows. She finds none, but it does have a clasp that allows you to open it. With a squeak, she jimmies the window open, wincing at the blast of cold air, and feels the outside of the window.
There’s something there, just barely: a piece of string, dangling down. She grabs it and begins to pull it in. It’s long, nearly four feet.
Of course, thinks Mulaghesh. If you’re paranoid about room searches, put whatever it is you want to hide outside your room….
But when she finishes pulling the string all the way in, she’s disappointed: at its end is nothing but a small hook, like a clasp from a woman’s necklace. Something hung here once, clearly, but it’s gone now: maybe she moved it, or maybe it fell.
Tied to the string just above the hook, however, is another white thumbtack.
She remembers what Sigrud said: Ministry officers are trained to leave behind caches. Dead drops. If they disappear or get killed, they want to tell whoever comes next what they were doing.
Mulaghesh asked, So she wouldn’t have hidden anything away in the mines or something crazy like that?
Not if she was following SOP. She will have hidden something in a place accessible to you. And she will tell you what to look for.
Mulaghesh holds the white thumbtack up to the light and begins to understand the message: I moved it. To find it, look for this.
“So search all of Fort Thinadeshi,” says Mulaghesh. “For one white thumbtack.” She bows her head. “Fuck.”
***
Mulaghesh wanders the innards of Fort Thinadeshi. She can’t help but fight the feeling that she’s stepped back in time. The walls are bulky, thick constructions, an architectural design that was abandoned long ago, as it was forced to create alternatingly huge or tiny rooms. She’s never sure what she’ll find on the other side of any given door: perhaps some dusky, yawning chasm of a room, or a tiny hallway full of cramped offices, like a honeycomb carved in stone. The hallways swim with shadows, for much of Fort Thinadeshi still lacks gas or electric lighting and is forced to use candles and literal torches. All around her are thuds, slams, laughs, and shouts, echoing through the misshapen chambers riddling this vast, crumbling relic.
It’s hardly any different from the ruins in the wilderness, thinks Mulaghesh. It suddenly seems unusual that Choudhry was the only one who went mad here.
But more troubling than the atmosphere of the fortress is the amount of firearms and ammunition she sees in motion. The soldiers here are preparing for something. She doesn’t want to think the word “mobilization” and all that it implies, but she can’t help it.
What is Biswal planning to do in Voortyashtan?
What she hates most, perhaps, is the feeling of distance. She is not truly stationed or in command here, no, and it’s true that no one bothers her or even looks twice as she wanders the winding hallways; but with every step Mulaghesh feels like a thief or a liar, sneaking through the shadows and silently watching these boys and girls, most of them hardly more than children.
I am one of you, she wishes to say to them. I am a soldier just as you. All that has happened to me has not made me any different from you. But beyond a few salutes, she exchanges little with the rank and file.