“Hjörvar is one of the most accomplished seamen I know of,” says Signe, nettled.
“The reason we all thought Hjörvar was so slow,” says Sigrud, “is we assumed he kept masturbating in the cockpit instead of sleeping. He was known for that.”
“Anyway,” says Signe, “she is a good vessel, and she’ll take us where we need to go.”
Mulaghesh looks at Sigrud. “Is it a good vessel?”
He holds up a hand and wobbles it back and forth. “It will do.”
Signe scoffs as she carries more supplies on board. Mulaghesh eyes the crate as Signe walks past. “Four riflings, ammunition…and grenades? Why grenades?”
“You’ve not been to the Tooth, General,” Signe says over her shoulder. “I have. And if you think something Divine is awakening in Voortyashtan…I would prefer we be careful.” She slips through the hatch.
Sigrud and Mulaghesh stand on the dock, both slightly bent from their injuries. He says, “Take care of her.”
“I think she’s going to be taking care of me. I don’t know a damn thing about sailing.”
“She may know sailing. But she does not know combat. And she is going to a place that I think could be quite dangerous. We do not even know if Choudhry came back from this Tooth. We do not know what awaits.”
“I’ll try.”
Signe emerges from belowdecks. “We’ve got more shipments coming in shortly. If we want to depart, now’s the time.”
“Ah, hells,” says Mulaghesh. “Here we go….” She steps on board, her hip still complaining.
Signe shoves a second life jacket in her arms. “Wear this. And keep out of the way.”
“Fine, fine,” says Mulaghesh. She sits down before the hatch and slips the jacket on.
Signe turns to face her father, and for a moment Mulaghesh sees how their relationship could have been, had the world been different: Sigrud, tall, proud, stern, standing upon the dock with his arms crossed and the haze of early sunrise behind him; and before him his daughter, young and fierce, confidently balanced on the balls of her feet as the craft bobs up and down. They exchange some wordless moment that is inscrutable to Mulaghesh: perhaps each recognizes the competence of the other, and signals their pride; but then each acknowledges that there is work to do, and they must return to it.
“Safe sailing,” says Sigrud.
“Safe work,” says Signe.
And with that Sigrud bends low, unties the hitch, and throws the line aboard. Signe catches it one-handed, stows it aboard, then walks to the stern and starts the little diesel engine with a single jerk. Then, the engine sputtering and smoking, she guides the little yacht out to the open sea.
She does not look back once at her father. When Mulaghesh looks to shore, Sigrud, too, is walking away without a glance back.
* * *
—
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. Th
e 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.”
“So what’s the move, Skipper? Are we just going to, I don’t know, drift and wait until tomorrow’s daylight?”
Signe shakes her head. “We can’t just drift. It’s part of a chain of islands….It’s too dangerous. But there is a primitive dock on the Tooth.” She grimaces and exits through the hatch. “Hold on.”
Mulaghesh sits beside Signe and watches as the islands approach, tiny pinpricks that grow and grow…
And grow.
And grow…
Her eyes widen. “By the seas…”
They are not just simple islands—not the rocky beaches she imagined, perhaps scattered with a few withered trees. Rather, these are huge, towering columns of gray rock, stacks and stacks of it, tottering and leaning like fronds of river grass nudged about by the wind. And on their sides…
Mulaghesh grabs the spyglass. “Are those faces?”
“Yes,” says Signe grimly. “Carvings of Saint Zhurgut, Saint Petrenko, Saint Chovanec, Saint Tok…Heroes and warriors with a hundred deaths to their name each.” She slightly adjusts the tiller, pointing the bow so that it threads them through the towering islands. “They are called the Teeth of the World. From the poem, you see. And at the very end is the Tooth. What name it originally had is forgotten, or so I am told. But it was the most important of them.”
Mulaghesh sits in awed silence as Signe pilots them through the forest of massive columns, their surfaces carved with faces and visages and bas-reliefs, many of them terrifying: images of soldiers, battle, churning tapestries of conquest, of raised blades and torrents of spears, skies black with arrows, horizons blocked out with endless banners, and tangled, twisted piles of the defeated dead.
The islands seem to have once had a purpose beyond decoration, too: a few have windows, or doorways, or stairways running up the sides, as if these were not rock formations but rather towers. Perhaps their interiors are as honeycombed and chamber-filled as the walls of Fort Thinadeshi, dark and cramped and secretive. She wonders what could have gone on in these towers. The thought sets her skin crawling.
Many of the columns are lined with torch sconces, and she imagines how the Teeth of the World must have looked a hundred years ago, covered with glimmering dots of firelight and the windows filled with faces, looking down on them as they sailed by.
“How is this still here?” says Mulaghesh.
“I don’t know,” says Signe. “Perhaps it doesn’t persist with any Divine aid. Perhaps they used Divine abilities to make them, but the rocks and the carvings themselves—they’re but simple matter. I can’t tell you, General.” Then, darkly, “That’s the Tooth.”
Mulaghesh looks ahead and sees a wide peak emerging from amidst the towering columns. It’s not at all like the other islands, which are more or less purely vertical: the Tooth is more akin to a small floating mountain, covered with tall, twisted trees and—though it’s hard to see in the dimming light—countless arches of some kind. Its summit is concealed by the tall, warped trees.
She’s suddenly aware of Signe breathing hard as they approach the Tooth—not out of exertion, but terror. “Are you going to be okay?”
“Yes,” she says defiantly. Then she lowers the sails and starts the little diesel engine, piloting the boat toward the island’s south side. She flicks a switch in the cockpit, and the yacht’s tiny spotlight stabs out into the growing gloom, its beam bobbing up and down the distant shore.
Mulaghesh spies the dock, though it’s not like any dock she’s ever seen before. It looks like a massive rib cage made of antlers and horns blooming off the shore of the island, leaving a tiny gap just below what would be its sternum. Beyond the “ribs” she can see distant stone walls, cold and pale. It takes Mulaghesh a moment to realize Signe is aiming the boat toward the gap below the sternum, and she wonders if the yacht will be able to make it through. Then she realizes that the rib cage is much, much larger than she realized, and the boat slips through easily.
She stares up at the carven ribs as they pass underneath them. “Death worship,” she says. “What a morbid civilization this was.”
“I decided it was a memorial when I came here last,” Signe says quietly. “Maybe that’s what all of the Teeth of the World are. They are unusually bedecked in the images of death, after all.”
They approach the stone dock, its steps stained dark from decades of mold.
“The City of Blades is worse,” says Mulaghesh.
Signe expertly steers the boat up to the dock and moors it to an ancient iron ring beside the steps. Then the two women arm themselves, a process Mulaghesh has more guidance for: “Put your ammunition on the left side of your belt. No, your other left. You’re right-handed; that’s easier for you to reach.”
“I did receive training on this, you know.”
“Well, then they did a shit job of it.”
Mulaghesh readies herself, then steps onto the dock. She looks back at Signe, and perhaps it’s the light, but the Dreyling woman suddenly looks quite pale.
“What?” says Mulaghesh.
“I…I was fourteen when I came here last,” Signe says.
Mulaghesh just waits and watches.
“I’d hoped it’d all fallen into the seas, frankly. To come here now…it feels as if I’m stepping into a memory.”
“You haven’t stepped into it yet.”
Signe nods, then hops up onto the dock with Mulaghesh.
“Now to the ruin at the top?” says Mulaghesh.
“Yes. The dome of shields and knives. It feels like it was something out of a dream…but that’s what I remember of it.”
The stone path winds around and around the Tooth like a corkscrew, and each step is old and well-worn. Countless people must have been here during its life, Mulaghesh thinks—processions
of warriors and dignitaries and kings and priests, all threading their way up the hill. About every twenty feet is an arch that stretches over the steps, and carved into each arch are images Mulaghesh doesn’t quite understand: a woman, presumably Voortya, firing an arrow into a tidal wave; a sword dicing a mountain as one would an onion; a man disemboweling himself upon a tall, flat rock before the setting sun; a woman hurling a spear at the moon, and showering in the black blood that spills forth.
The bent trees quiver and shake in the steady breeze, making the slopes shift and shudder just as much as the seas below. It’s an eerie place, Mulaghesh finds.
“It’s all the same as I remember,” says Signe quietly.
“The Voortyashtanis brought you here before?”
“Yes. A rite of passage. Twenty children, none older than fourteen. They brought us here and dropped us off with a pitifully small amount of provisions: a few loaves of bread, a few potatoes, some dried fruit. Barely enough for us to last. And then they…And then they left us here. Without a word. Without telling us if they’d ever come back. Alone in this miserable place.
“I’m not sure why I came,” Signe continues. “My mother didn’t want me to. They did not force us to come. I suppose I just wanted to prove myself to them, just like the rest of the children. To show I wasn’t just some princess.”
Mulaghesh stays silent as Signe talks. Every few steps she sees something odd in the dirt at the edges of the stone staircase: the imprint of a shoe with an intricate tread. A sort of shoe you would see in the modern world, not at all something you’d expect to find in ancient Voortyashtan. The imprint is deep in the mud, deep enough that the rains must not have completely washed it away.
“At first we tried to share,” Signe says. “But one of us—the son of some relative of a chieftain—he was bigger than the rest of us, more developed. Stronger. Crueler. He beat one of the other kids terribly badly, in front of everyone, to show us what he could do, I suppose. And he set himself up as the petty king of our little island, monopolizing our food and water, forcing us to do things to survive. Humiliate ourselves. Fight among ourselves, all for his amusement and that of his cronies.”
The Divine Cities Trilogy: City of Stairs, City of Blades, and City of Miracles, With an Excerpt From Foundryside Page 83
