“Yeah,” says Mulaghesh. “You heard. I’m betting you heard a lot. Why don’t we have a civil conversation about this?”
Signe considers her options. Then she takes out her silver box filled with her tiny black cigarettes. She lights a match with a thumbnail—a trick Mulaghesh feels like she’s been sitting on for a while—takes a long drag, and exhales, a seemingly endless river of smoke flowing from somewhere deep inside of her. “All right. I will be direct. You…You think Sumitra Choudhry—poor little mad Sumitra Choudhry—has somehow traveled to Voortya’s City of Blades?”
“She seems to say that’s what she was intending to do,” says Mulaghesh.
“And I assume that what is—or was—being mined up by the fortress was this…thinadeskite you mentioned?”
Mulaghesh grimaces. So much for state secrets. “Yes.”
“And both you and Choudhry believe this material has some kind of connection to the Voortyashtani afterlife?”
“Jury’s still out on that one.”
“At the very least,” says Signe, “you think it is connected to Voortya…whom you said you saw. That you…you saw.” Mulaghesh feels Signe’s bright, hard gaze poring over her, studying her every feature, and she is suddenly aware of how intensely, furiously bright this young woman is. “Do you really believe that?”
“I don’t know what I believe. But I know what I saw.”
Mulaghesh doesn’t like the condescending, dismissive smile creeping into Signe’s face. “You’re mad,” says Signe. “The two of you, if he believes it. The three of you, if Choudhry did too. I’m glad I heard what I did, because now I know I’m dealing with absolute loonies, rather than merely suspecting it!”
“I’ve been there,” says Mulaghesh quietly. “I’ve seen it. Remember when I almost fainted before the statue of Voortya in your yard? It took me there. It showed me something. Sumitra Choudhry had been at that spot before me, performed some rite, and I walked right into its aftereffects.”
“But even the Voortyashtanis believe the afterlife’s gone!” says Signe. “Everyone accepts that now, when you die, you just rot in the damned ground! If these people don’t believe it, why should you?”
“They haven’t seen gods before,” says Mulaghesh fiercely. “And I have. I almost died facing them. You are young and clever and brash. But I have seen so, so much more of life than you have, child. I have been so close to the Divine before, I could smell it. And I smell it again, right now.”
Signe grows sober at this. She looks back and forth between Mulaghesh and Sigrud, who is still facing away. “Do…Do you really believe what you’re saying?”
“I do,” says Mulaghesh. She sits back and watches Signe coldly. “And I also believe that if the Voortyashtani afterlife is possible, the Night of the Sea of Swords is possible as well. I also believe that that makes investing in this harbor a damn stupid idea, isn’t it? And you know there are forces in Saypur just itching to rebuke the prime minister, cut her pet project loose, and walk away from it, leaving it to die. I believe they’re looking for any excuse to scrap it. And I believe I could tell them the CTO of SDC was hiding Voortyashtani artifacts in order to blackmail the locals. I could tell them anything because frankly, Signe, they’re just waiting for an excuse. If one of Shara’s own trusted deputies says it’s over, then it’s over.”
Signe stares at her in horror. “You…You wouldn’t.”
“I wouldn’t? I just told you what I saw, what I believe. This is my greatest nightmare come to life, Signe Harkvaldsson. Do not trifle with me as I try to amend the situation.”
“What is it you want?” asks Signe, panicked. “To scare me into silence? What would I gain from telling anyone what you believe?”
“I don’t want to scare you. I want you to help, damn it.” She grabs the decoded message and shoves it into Signe’s hands. “You’re Voortyashtani. You were raised here. Look at this and tell me if you see one damn thing that sounds familiar, that means anything. Anything.”
Signe stares at Mulaghesh, confused, then turns to the message. “I have never been told to read something so mad with quite so much pressure. It’s absolut—”
She trails off. Then all the color slowly leaves her face.
“What?” says Mulaghesh.
“Oh, no,” Signe says quietly. “Oh, oh, please no.”
Sigrud turns around, now concerned. “Signe? What is wrong?”
Signe sits frozen for nearly half a minute, then shuts her eyes. “I hoped it wasn’t there. I hoped it’d just disappeared somehow, swallowed by the seas.”
“What are you talking about?” says Mulaghesh.
She says softly, “The Isle of Memory.”
“It’s real?” says Mulaghesh. “This island is real?”
“Of course it’s real,” says Signe. She sounds terribly sad and weary. “I know it is. I’ve been there before.”
“Can you take me there?”
Signe bows her head, and it’s shocking to see someone who is usually the picture of confidence crumple so thoroughly. Then, very quietly, she says, “Yes.”
***
The aluminum roof of the SDC guard booth plinks and plonks with countless fat raindrops, which sound more like a rain of marbles. Lennart Bj?rck, cursing, maneuvers all his pots and pans so they catch each tiny waterfall. This small armada of crockery is his constant and unwelcome partner during his guard shifts, for though he tries to patch the roof after each torrential downpour, there’s always something he missed.
He does a double take as he dumps one of the larger pots out of the booth window. Someone is walking down the road to them, slipping and sliding in the muck. It seems to be a woman, from their size and the tendrils of wet hair peeking out of their heavy cloak, but he can’t see much else about them. Not that he would expect to in this weather. You want as much between you and the atmosphere in Voortyashtan as you can manage.
He squints. The woman is carrying something very curious: a very large pine box, about four or five feet long. It’s also quite flat, not more than three or four inches thick.
He puts his rifling close, leaning it against the wall. Then he stands at the window and waits for her. She struggles up and maneuvers the pine box around so she can speak to him. It looks like the box is immensely heavy. “Delivery for General Mulaghesh from the fortress!”
“General Mulaghesh?” he says. “The Saypuri?” He looks closer at her. Her face is bound up in a scarf, and he can’t make much out about her. “Who is it from?”
“Captain Nadar.”
“Oh. Well then. Here, hand it here.”
She hesitates. “I’m told it’s a very sensitive item.”
“I can’t allow any items to enter the harbor works without a proper inspection first, miss. We’re at a high security alert.”
She hesitates some more, then reluctantly hefts up the pine box. “It is a very old item, they told me. Not to be touched. Especially with the naked skin. Oils, you see.”