The Divine Cities Trilogy: City of Stairs, City of Blades, and City of Miracles, With an Excerpt From Foundryside

by Robert Jackson Bennett

  “Oh, by the seas,” he whimpers. “There’s more of them! And they’re closer!”

  The seas west of the fortress, which are often so dark, are now lit up with a queer blue-white luminescence, giving their slow, undulating waves a creamy, green color. This curious effect extends for miles, as if the waters have been invaded by some strange breed of algae.

  But the source of the glow is obvious: it comes from the thousands of spectral ships sailing toward them.

  They are the most bizarre and terrifying things Captain Sakthi has ever seen, splintery creations of bone and horn and metal, long and thin and positively lethal-looking, as if someone could teach a knife to float. Their sails are huge and billowing, not at all ragged but smooth and silvery. And Sakthi can see someone is rowing their countless oars, hauling at the ocean and driving the ships forward with furious speed.

  He takes out a spyglass and squints through it. He can’t quite make out who is rowing, but…but he thinks he can see shadowy, monstrous figures that couldn’t possibly be human….

  “By the seas…” He takes the spyglass away. “By the seas! What are you waiting for?” he cries to the technicians. “Why haven’t they fired yet?”

  “We haven’t gotten the order yet, Captain,” says one of the technicians sitting at a radio. “General Biswal sa—”

  “General Biswal is absent!” says Sakthi. “Radio the damn positions to the artillery and tell them to fire already!”

  The technicians look at one another, crouched in their piles and piles of bronzed equipment. To do as Sakthi is asking is the most severe of violations.

  Sakthi grimaces, pulls out his sidearm, and points it at them. “Tell them anything afterwards! Tell them I’m culpable! Tell them to hang me! Tell them to put it on my fucking fitness report! Just fire already, fire, fire!”

  The technicians grab a radio, turn it on, mutter in a jumble of coordinates, and then finish with, “Fire away.”

  There’s a pause.

  Then the first cannon fires.

  The boom of the cannon is so loud it feels like it will shake Sakthi’s bones to the point of dissolution. The coastal batteries light up with the flare as if a spotlight has shone down on them, and three of the technicians put binoculars to their eyes. Sakthi holsters his weapon, fumbles for his own spyglass, and puts it to his eye just in time to see a column of water erupt up from the ocean.

  One of the technicians says, “Miss.”

  The cannons fire again and again, targeting the foremost ship. It feels like it takes an agonizingly long time between each blast. Then finally the Voortyashtani ship erupts in a burst of dark smoke, and it begins to drift on the ocean, a flaming, smoking, directionless hulk that now threatens to crash into the other ships.

  The technicians cheer, and Sakthi takes away his spyglass to join them. But as he does he sees things in perspective: the smoking, flaming ship is but a fraction of the flotilla, a tiny candle burning in a sea of glittering, soft light.

  We’ll have to do that a thousand more times for it to make a difference, he thinks, his stomach sinking. We’re fucked, aren’t we? We’re so desperately fucked.

  * * *

  —

  Mulaghesh and Sigrud are sprinting across the fortress courtyard when the first cannon goes off. It’s incredibly, deafeningly loud, and though the courtyard is full of soldiers preparing for combat it’s immediately clear that they’ve never heard the coastal cannons in use, nor did they ever expect to. They’re unnerved, ragged and exhausted from the highlands excursion, and totally unprepared for what might happen.

  I have to stop this, thinks Mulaghesh. Or else those sentinels will cut through these kids like a hot knife through butter.

  “They likely took down my rope ladder,” says Sigrud. “So I am not sure how to get out. All gates will surely be watched.”

  “All but one on the northern side,” says Mulaghesh.

  “There’s a gate on the northern side of the fortress?”

  “The loading dock for the thinadeskite mines,” says Mulaghesh. “I can almost guarantee no one’s bothered to put a body on that exit.”

  She’s right: in all of the confusion and chaos, there are no guards stationed at the loading dock, though it is still penned in with a canyon of tall, forbidding wire fences held up with tall wooden posts.

  “No wire cutters this time,” says Mulaghesh. “Shit!”

  Sigrud grunts, takes off his coat, and wraps his hands in it. Then he walks to one of the posts, grabs three strands of the barbed wire, and heaves.

  With the plunk sounds of snapping harp strings, the bolts holding the wire to the post pop out. He stomps on the handful of wires with a boot, then grabs another handful of wires, heaves it up, and opens a narrow hole in the fence. Mulaghesh dives through and Sigrud follows, though his hands are now bleeding and the wires manage to score him over his shoulders and back.

  They run north and west along the walls of Fort Thinadeshi. These walls are dark and unmanned, as nearly all the fort’s focus is on the west and the south. Yet such is the power of the cannons that each time those on the western walls go off, even here on the opposite side of the fortress, it’s like a miniature sun has risen, the pale, burning light rippling across the harsh cliffs.

  Mulaghesh can’t yet see what they’re firing at. She’s not close enough yet. But she knows. She saw them, after all, in the City of Blades.

  Then a voice shouts from the walls: “You!”

  Mulaghesh looks up and sees the furious face of Sergeant Major Pandey looking down on her. She’s not sure why he looks so angry, but she doesn’t want to wait to find out. “Damn,” she says. “Run.”

  They move, sprinting over the cliffs with the boom and flare of the cannons just to the left over their shoulders. The western horizon is lit with a queer, unearthly light, and as they near the cliffs she can see the tips of something glowing out on the waters.

  She grips the sword of Voortya in her hand. It’s sticky with Biswal’s blood, but it’s still dead, still dormant. She has no idea what to do with it, or even if there is anything to do with it—it might simply be too late.

  There’s a crash from far behind them. She glances back and sees someone has driven one of the fortress autos through the wire fence and is speeding over the rocks at them in pursuit. The driver must not care for their own well-being or the auto’s, as they push the vehicle into terrain most drivers would never attempt. She can hear the tires crunching, the creak of the suspensions, a crack as its bumper dips and smashes into one of the stones. It’s obvious that, whoever it is, they’re pursuing Mulaghesh and Sigrud and will overtake them soon.

  Mulaghesh points ahead at a small gully. “There!” she cries.

  She can see the auto’s headlights now out of the corner of her eye. Another crunch as it plows over a stone…

  She and Sigrud dive into the gully, their elbows banging and scraping on the rocks. The car’s engine roars once more and it surges over them.

  There’s an enormous pop as the auto hits the gully, dipping forward enough for its wheels to catch the lip just at the wrong angle. Mulaghesh suspects that the axle has snapped upon impact. More concerning, though, is the spray of rocks and rubble from the impact. She can feel small, stinging stones dappling her body, and nearby Sigrud cries out in real pain.

  The auto rumbles and rattles a few feet forward past the gully, awkwardly limping into the brush before coming to a grinding halt. Mulaghesh sits up, pulls out her pistol, and takes stock of herself: she’s got a few cuts and bruises, but nothing serious. Sigrud, however, has taken a sizeable stone to the left forearm and is cradling his hand in his lap, cursing prolifically. She can tell the second she sees it that his arm is broken.

  She brings herself up into a kneel and draws a bead on the auto’s passenger door. Someone inside fumbles with the handle, then shoves it open and cra
wls out. There’s another blast from the coastal cannons, washing the cliffs with pale light, and she watches as a battered, furious Sergeant Major Pandey, his eyes red and his cheeks wet with tears, crawls out to stand on the cliffs.

  He draws his sword and advances on her. “You!” he cries. “You!”

  “Pandey?” Mulaghesh lowers the pistol. “What the hells are you doing?”

  “You’re the reason she died!” he screams at her. “You’re the one who killed her!”

  “What are you talking ab—”

  Before she can finish speaking Pandey dives at her, thrusting his sword out in a quick, deadly jab. Mulaghesh rolls away, feeling the stones reverberate as the blade scours over them. She holsters her weapon, stands, and backs away, hands up to show she’s no threat. “Pandey! Pandey, what do you think I did?”

  “I saw her!” he screams at her. “I saw her on the table! I saw her down there in the dark!” As he screams her nostrils catch the sour tang of alcohol on his breath, and she realizes he’s likely drunk. But if so it hasn’t dampened his sword work any, for he sweeps his blade at her in a lightning-quick strike that nearly guts her.

  Mulaghesh dives away again, but she’s forced to use her false hand to help her land, so she falls badly. She can hear him coming at her, his footfalls light and quick, and she draws the sword she took from the guard just in time for its blade to meet his with a ringing snap.

  “I didn’t kill Signe,” says Mulaghesh furiously. “I didn’t pull the trigger! I wasn’t even there!”

  “You’re a liar!” He disengages, sweeps around, lunging at her exposed breast with a quick thrust. She bats his blade away, rolls backward, and stands, finally assuming a defensive stance.

  “You got her mixed up in your conspiracy and then you killed her!” he screams.

  “Pandey, damn you, there are more important things happening right now!”

  “More important? More important?” He rushes at her, a furious blitz of brutally clever attacks that she only barely manages to defend. “She was the only important thing I ever had!”

  Again he lunges at her, piling riposte upon riposte as she just barely manages to parry. She knew Pandey was brilliant with a blade, but she never sparred with him when she was stationed in Bulikov. As her forearm and tricep begin to ache, she begins to doubt if she could have managed to take Pandey even in her prime: he fights with liquid grace, his sword seeming to dance weightlessly through the air. Yet he also fights with the fury of the bereaved: as she sees more and more gaps in his defenses, she becomes aware that Pandey is focused wholly on attack, indifferent as to whether or not she can land a blow, indifferent to his own life. She ignores her instincts and refuses to strike. I’ve killed enough, she thinks desperately. I’ve harmed enough. I won’t do it to you, Pandey, I just won’t.

  She’s saved only by the uneven ground, which she uses to her advantage, scrambling over the rocks as Pandey flies at her with the speed and poise of a much, much younger person.

  “Do you even know what that’s like?” he cries. “Have you ever had anything in your damnable life besides the service?”

  Over Pandey’s shoulder she glimpses Sigrud hauling himself out of the gully and limping at them, clutching his broken arm. “Don’t, Sigrud!” she shouts. “He’ll kill you! I mean it, he wi—”

  He forces her into a bind, his blade striking hers with such force that it shakes her all the way up into her shoulder. Again she falls back, and again he pursues.

  The cannons boom and shriek, illuminating Pandey from behind with a hellish glow. Behind her the glowing vessels from the City of Blades are less than a quarter mile from the shore, and closing fast. Sometimes the shells strike home and one of the ships explodes, a great fireball laced with black smoke unfurling into the sky, battering them even here with a blast of broiling heat. Yet still Pandey leads his assault, beating down her defenses with seemingly inexhaustible stamina.

  She missteps over a slick stone. Pandey jabs at her and her left arm lights up with pain. She can’t take the time to see, but she can tell from how much weaker her arm suddenly feels that he’s likely slashed open her tricep. Too slow, she thinks. Just too damned slow…

  “Pandey, stop!” she shouts. “I didn’t mean for this to happen, none of it! Bu—”

  “But it happened!” he screams, his face still wet with tears. He slashes forward and she just barely manages to stop his blade.

  “I don’t want to hurt you, Pandey!”

  “Hurt me?” he cries. “Hurt me?” He slashes down, and she reacts just in time to deflect his blade. “Am I not hurt!” he roars. “Am I not wounded!”

  He thrusts forward again, and she bats the point of his sword away. But it’s getting harder and harder each time.

  She thinks rapidly. She’s seen enough of his technique that she knows what to expect now: another thrust, turning into her and pushing forward and down with his right shoulder. She has an idea, though it’s a dangerous one: if she’s even slightly wrong about this odds are she’ll take his sword right in the gut. But if it works there’s a chance she can disable his right arm, putting him out of the fight.

  “I loved her more than anything in this world!” he says, still weeping. “I loved her!”

  “I know,” she says.

  “You don’t!” he snarls. “You don’t!”

  He attacks, and he does it exactly as she expected: a powerful, deadly thrust down toward her belly.

  She uses her own blade to force his sword down to where she’s just placed her metal false hand. The point of his sword sinks an inch or two into the hinge at her false hand’s wrist, but goes no farther—Signe’s metalwork holds fast.

  At the same time, Mulaghesh thrusts her own sword up, aiming for Pandey’s armpit….

  But then Pandey screams in rage, raises himself up, and tries in futility to force his blade down through her hand; yet as he does he lifts himself up and onto the point of her sword.

  The blade smoothly enters his rib cage and sinks a half a foot into his chest, up toward his heart.

  Pandey freezes with a choke.

  Mulaghesh blinks, staring at what she’s done.

  “No,” she whispers.

  He coughs faintly. He tugs his sword free of her false hand and steps back, her blade sliding out of him.

  Blood spatters onto the stones. His sword clatters to the ground.

  “P-Pandey?” says Mulaghesh.

  He looks down at himself. Another cannon fires behind them and his features glow with bright white light. All the rage and fury is gone from his face, and instead he looks confused and shocked but also strangely disappointed, as if he’d thought the whole time that this might happen but never quite believed it. He looks at his hand, which is coated in blood as if he’d dipped his fingers in a bucket of it. Then he looks at his side and sees the waterfall of red dribbling out from between his ribs to tumble down his waist to his boots.

  His legs go out from under him and he falls to the ground.

  “Pandey!” she screams. She throws her sword away and kneels beside him.

  Blood is pouring out of his right side. He coughs, and she knows she’s badly punctured a lung. He coughs again, more violently, and blood sprays from his mouth and dribbles down his chin.

  He’s drowning in his own blood. She knows he is, but she has no idea what to do.

  “Pandey, no,” she says. “No! Keep breathing, Pandey, keep breathing!”

  He tries to speak then: he snorts strangely, trying to draw air into himself to form the words, but he only coughs more. Then he mouths six words to her, his eyes shameful and desperate and terrified: I messed up, ma’am. I’m sorry.

  Mulaghesh realizes she’s weeping. “Dammit, Pandey. Oh, damn it, I…I didn’t mean to, I didn’t.”

  He coughs again. The lower half of his face is slick with blood now, and
there’s a shallow pool of it on his side. He tries to speak again, but the effort is agonizing.

  She places her hand on his cheek and says, “No. No, don’t talk. Don’t. You don’t need to. It’ll make it worse.”

  His eyes are red and watery. He stares at her, afraid, his handsome, boyish face marred by the spray of blood from his mouth. She smooths down his hair and whispers, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. We owed you so much more than you were given. I’m so sorry.”

  He seems to lie back a little, to stop struggling to force his lungs clear. He steels himself and shuts his eyes as if preparing for some horrible blow. But then he relaxes, his brow growing smooth, his eyes calm, and Sergeant Major Pandey slowly gains the look of someone who’s just fallen into slightly uncomfortable sleep.

  The cannons rage behind her. Just ahead, the ships threaten to land. She can see their decks brimming with Voortyashtani sentinels, ancient warriors eager to leap into the fray.

  But she has no attention for any of it. She feels the scream begin to build in her.

  Again, a child of her nation she was responsible for. Again, someone who once trusted her with all of their heart. Again, blood on her blade and a body cooling underneath foreign skies.

  Again, again, again.

  The world is afire. The night is filled with the screams of soldiers and civilians, scrambling and scrabbling in the face of incomprehensible war.

  She can see Sigrud watching her, bent double, uncertain what to do.

  She wishes to scream to him. Perhaps not just to him, but to the fortress, to the ships, to the terrified people at the base of these cliffs, to the night skies and the pale face of the moon turned a muddy brown behind a veil of smoke.

  But then there’s a voice—a voice in her head that is not her own.

  The voice whispers to her, very definitely asking her a question, soft and quiet yet filling the whole of her mind:

  Are you a part of me? Am I a part of you?