For two days and two nights they sail southwest, and most of what Mulaghesh does is stay out of Signe’s way. That, and vomit.
She once mocked Shara for her weak stomach, but now that she’s on such a small craft on the open seas she regrets it: every bend of every wave is magnified a thousand times on this tiny vessel, and time and time again she feels sure the yacht will capsize, its mainsail plummeting into the dark waters of the North Seas, dragging her and Signe both down to a dark and watery grave.
This never happens, of course. Signe is far too skilled of a sailor. She’s a flurry of activity for nearly all of their voyage, scurrying over the bow and the hatch to adjust the tiller or the boom bail, checking the traveler rig or the becket block, or any other piece of nautical anatomy that sounds wholly made up to Mulaghesh. Signe pauses only to mention, “Watch the boom,” as the mainsail comes hurtling at her head, or perhaps, “Throw me that there.”
As the first night falls Signe says, “We’re in a good spot now. And were I a serious sailor, I’d have trained to sleep in twenty-minute shifts, waking up to see the seas ahead. But as I’m not, we’ll have to take shifts.”
“So what do I do?”
“Sit in the cockpit and shout if you see a damn thing, of course.”
“And what does a damn thing look like?”
“It looks like a big damned rock, General,” says Signe. “Or a big damned boat, if we stray into the shipping lanes—which we shouldn’t, if I’ve set the right course. But you never know.”
The first night is terrifying to Mulaghesh, alone in the dark with the sails fluttering gently and the moon shining down on her. The world hasn’t ever felt so empty to her before. She supposes she should be glad the weather is clear, but all she can think of is the sight of Voortya’s face bursting up through the reflection of the moon on the waves, and rising, rising, water pouring off her vast metal body….
There’s the soft click of the hatch opening. Signe silently walks across to sit beside her in the cockpit. For a moment or two, they say nothing.
“You ought to get some sleep, Skipper,” says Mulaghesh. “I can’t have you passing out on me at the tiller.”
“I won’t. Just…the purpose of our voyage weighs on me.”
“Me, too. Do you know anything about what’s over there? In the City of Blades itself?”
“Folklore,” says Signe. “And rumors. I’ve heard stories of Voortyashtanis contacting and, yes, passing over into the City of Blades. These instances were always highly controversial, and only done in extreme situations, when departed elders needed to be closely consulted.”
“Did those who came back say what was on the other side?”
“There’s supposedly a gatekeeper, of some sorts,” says Signe. “Some entity or…or something over there that only allows certain people in. When someone who wasn’t suitable arrived in the City of Blades, they were expelled.”
“Who’s considered suitable?”
“A great warrior. Someone who’s shed the blood of many.”
“That probably won’t be a problem, then,” says Mulaghesh grimly. “But if I’m wrong?”
“Depending on their stature or demeanor, frequently the expulsion was…lethal.”
“But not always?”
Signe shakes her head. “There were ways beyond this ritual to visit the City of Blades. If we had a Voortyashtani sentinel’s blade, for example, and if we were trained in the meditative arts of the sentinels, we could hold their sword and project our consciousness there.”
“Project your…What? I thought picking up a sentinel’s sword got you possessed,” says Mulaghesh. “That’s what happened to that poor guy at the harbor.”
“It’s a two-way street, in a way,” says Signe. “You could use their sword like a telephone, I suppose, directly communing and conversing with them in the City of Blades. It’s just that when Oskarsson picked up the blade, well, for one thing, he wasn’t skilled in the meditative arts—but more so, Zhurgut clearly had intentions other than education. Either way, back in the ancient days, this gatekeeper was also responsible for blocking or expelling these pilgrims, preventing the unworthy from projecting themselves into the City of Blades.”
“So if I can get past this gatekeeper,” says Mulaghesh, “then what’s after that?” She remembers her brief vision of the City of Blades, and the strange white citadel beyond. “A castle? A tower? The home of Voortya herself?”
“I don’t know, General,” says Signe. “You know more than I do. You’ve been there before.”
“Great,” says Mulaghesh.
Signe looks east, at the ragged gray coast of Voortyashtan. The cliffs look like the folds of a dark, crinkled tablecloth glowing silver in the moonlight. “I forget it can be beautiful, sometimes.”
Mulaghesh grunts.
“Vallaicha Thinadeshi’s son is buried out there, in that region there. Did you know that?”
“Huh?” says Mulaghesh. It takes her a moment to remember her history. “Oh, right. The baby.”
“I believe he was four years old when the plague took him. But yes.”
“It was mad for her to try and take her family with her.”
“Times were different then, and I don’t believe she intended to get pregnant out here. But you’re right. Ambition and responsibilities…Not very good bedmates.”
Mulaghesh looks side-eyed at Signe. She’s never seen her look so mournful and contemplative. “What do you see out there?”
“Besides the rocks? It’s complicated.”
“Try me.”
“Fair enough.” She points. “I see an excellent site for a hydroelectric dam. Numerous ones, actually. Megamundes’, gigamundes’ worth of power generation. I see fruitful sites for refineries, plants, berths for industries of all types and kinds. Water’s the lifeblood of industry, specifically fresh water—which Voortyashtan is rich in. Once we crack the river open…Oh, what a spark that will be, what a country this will make.”
“Sometimes I can’t tell if you hate this place or love it.”
“I love its potential. I hate its past. And I don’t like what it is.” She hugs her knees close to her chest. “The way you feel about the place you grew up in is a lot like how you feel about your family.”
“How’s that?”
She thinks about it for a long time. “Like isn’t the same thing as love.”
***
Mulaghesh is dozing in the cabin on the second afternoon, lulled to sleep by the rock and roll of the waves, when she hears Signe groan from the cockpit, a sound of deep dismay.
“What?” says Mulaghesh, sitting up. “What is it?”
“We’re nearly there.”
“Oh. So that’s good, yes?” Mulaghesh stands and joins her in the cockpit.
Signe’s eye is pressed to her spyglass, which is fixed on some insignificant bump on the distant horizon. “Yes. No. I wanted to come up on it during the day. And we won’t get there for several hours yet.” She lowers the spyglass. “Not at night…It’s a different place at night. Or it seems that way.”