“Great,” says Mulaghesh.
Shara then summarizes some communication channels Mulaghesh can use to report back, codexes and tradecraft methods that will be provided to her. “However, this is only to be done in extreme situations,” says Shara’s voice. “Due to recent…political pressures, if the nature of this operation were to come to light, it could turn out very badly. As such, I will have to be much more hands-off with you than either of us would likely prefer. But I have every confidence in you to navigate any obstacles.”
“Ah, shit.”
“I want to thank you for accepting this operation, Turyin,” says Shara. “I can think of no one else I’d rather have in Voortyashtan. And I want to thank you for returning to me, even if it’s for this one operation. I will not claim that I completely understand why you resigned, but sometimes I think I do.”
You obviously do, thinks Mulaghesh, otherwise you would not have sent that letter.
“Thank you again for your support, and your friendship, Turyin Mulaghesh. Your country honors you for the service you have given it—service in the past, present, and future. Good luck.”
A hiss, a click, and the voice fades away.
***
The door to the Tohmay reception room cracks open. Pitry, who has been staring over the balcony at the moonlit sea with his hands behind his back, glances back and does a double take as Mulaghesh emerges carrying a crystal tumbler full of what looks like very expensive liquor. “Wh-Where did you get that?”
“Helped myself to the bar.”
“But…But we’ll have to pay for tha—”
“Did you know?”
“Did I know what?”
“That Shara was sending me off to damned Voortyashtan?”
Pitry hesitates. “Well, I…I was somewhat aware you wou—”
“Fucking hells,” says Mulaghesh. She quaffs the liquor, then winds up and hurls the tumbler over the edge of the balcony. Pitry watches as what must be a forty-or fifty-drekel glass disappears into the ocean with a plook! “Of all the places in the world to send me sniffing up the Divine! As if I’d ever want to. Haven’t I seen enough of all of that? When am I allowed to rest?”
“But you’ll be among familiar company, won’t you? General Biswal will be there; he’s an old comrade. Which is not to say that your heroic days are necessarily behind you, of course….”
Mulaghesh’s face goes blank, losing all of its cynical swagger, and she stares out at the sea. Though Mulaghesh has not seemed pleased with this mission so far, this is the first time Pitry’s seen her genuinely afraid.
“He wasn’t my comrade, Pitry,” she says. “He was my commanding officer. I thought he was dead, frankly. I hadn’t heard wind of him for years. How did he get appointed to regional governor of Voortyashtan?”
“Because the last one was assassinated,” says Pitry, “and no one else would take the job.”
“Ah.”
“They thought he was the right man for the position, though. I understand General Biswal has a…a history of making do in contested territories.”
“That’s one way of putting it,” Mulaghesh says.
Pitry glances at her. “What was it like?”
“What, the Summer of Black Rivers?”
“Yes.”
There’s a long pause.
“Do you remember much of the Battle of Bulikov, Pitry?” she asks softly.
“I…I do.”
“Do you ever want to see something like that again?”
“It is, perhaps, cowardly of me to say so, but…No. No, I do not.”
“Smart choice. Well. I will put it this way: what Biswal and I did to the Continent during the Summer of Black Rivers makes the Battle of Bulikov look like spilled milk.”
Pitry is quiet. Mulaghesh stares out at the sea, running the index finger of her right hand up and down the knuckle of her wooden left thumb.
“Get out of here, Pitry,” says Mulaghesh. “I want to be alone right now.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, and steps back through the door.
Saypur proudly claims that because it was a colony with no Divine assistance, it was forced to think for itself. We claim that because we were forced to innovate or die, we had no choice but to innovate.
This is somewhat true. But it is the notes of Vallaicha Thinadeshi that allow us keen insight into Saypur’s sudden technological advances—many of which originate with the forgotten Continental saint Torya.
From a smattering of mentions in Bulikov’s records of executions we can confirm Torya was a Taalvashtani saint who spent most of his life in Saypur, being sent there in 1455. As followers of the builder Divinity Taalhavras, Taalvashtanis were architects, engineers, designers, and machinists—people who tinkered with the rude materials of mortal life as well as the Divine miracles that supported so much of it.
Torya grew so bored with his work on his Saypuri estate that he often pestered his servants to feed him distractions, treating them as puzzles and problems. Some of his creations involved wheeled shoes that allowed his servants to race up and down his lengthy hallways, as well as a stove that used convection to cook bread twice as fast.
As far as we can tell, he did this solely as a cure for his boredom—not out of any charity.
It was his Saypuri valet who realized the opportunity Torya presented. Over a series of months the valet fed him a variety of large-scale problems for him to solve, and Torya became so involved in his work that in 1457 he felt obliged to create a series of rules for the mortal world: laws of mathematics and physics that applied to reality without any Divine intervention, as well as some innovations that could easily exploit these rules. As Torya had access to countless Divine devices with spectacular properties, he was able to establish these rules both quickly and accurately.
This soon proved revolutionary. The valet secreted out copies of Torya’s writings and had them sent all over the country. Within a decade Saypuris were farming with irrigation, building structures faster and better than ever before. But it was the creation of a small steam-powered loom in 1474 that brought unwelcome attention, for the Saypuri who created it lived in a Voortyashtani colony—and Voortyashtanis understood the nature of power and knowledge far more than the Taalvashtanis did.