It smells and sounds, in other words, like civilization, in all its filthy, raucous splendor. It’s been twenty-three days since she shipped out of Voortyashtan to finally stop here on the last leg of her journey back to Ghaladesh. The Ahanashtani docks are no one’s idea of a peaceful respite, so she’s not sure why she feels so at ease here. But she remembers something Sigrud said to her years ago, in the hospital in Bulikov: Many people despise ports. They think them filthy, dangerous. And perhaps they are. But sea ports are the staging places of better things.
She looks at her bedside table, where a gleaming metal hand sits, its fingers extended in a curious position, as if waving farewell. Some mechanism inside was damaged by Pandey’s blade, and she can’t get some of the knuckles to work right. But she doesn’t care. She takes it off her nightstand, affixes it to her left arm, which is still bandaged from her duel with Pandey, and with five simple clicks the prosthetic falls into place.
Not completely broken. Still good. Better than what she had before, certainly.
She packs up, tosses her duffel bag over her shoulder, and heads out to port, scanning her papers for her next ship. As she approaches the dock she looks up and does a double take.
“Ah, shit,” she says. “Of all the shitting luck…”
The blinding white hull of the luxury ship Kaypee stands a few hundred feet before her. She’s not looking forward to spending the next three days with a bunch of families and infants and lovers. She’s glad she’s not wearing her uniform, as that would attract a lot of unwanted attention.
But as she approaches the ship she sees that, though the other passengers are indeed very young, they aren’t who she expected.
About thirty young privates, all in fatigues, stand on the dock with their bags in piles around their feet, waiting nervously for permission to board. She glances at their uniforms and sees they’re from the 7th Infantry, which last she heard was stationed somewhere inland—Bulikov or Jukoshtan, she can’t remember which. Probably being sent back to Ghaladesh to prep for new deployment, new assignments. They have a brittle sort of nervousness to them, and Mulaghesh guesses that her nation must be making some bold military moves if they’re willing to pull these troops out and buy up the Kaypee for it. But they would have to be bold, considering what happened. Saypur must posture, and prove it’s not vulnerable.
She’s not surprised no one told her. Her country likely has no idea what to do with her right now.
She gets in line behind the young soldiers and drops her duffel bag. It makes the boards quake, causing a few of the soldiers to glance back at her, watching as she lights a cigarillo. One of them takes in her bruises, bandages, scars, her prosthetic left hand. He gives a nod to her, a gesture between equals. But of course it would be. If she were senior rank, she’d be in uniform. She nods back.
She looks closer at their uniforms. “Seventh Infantry, huh?” she says.
The soldiers look back. “That’s right,” says one, a young woman.
“Last I heard you were in…Jukoshtan, right?”
“Right.”
“That’s an exciting assignment.”
She smirks. “Not hardly.”
“Yes, a great station to work on your Batlan game, they told me. Any of you serve under Major Avshram?”
“Uh. Yes, actually. I did,” says the young woman.
“He still got that fucking mustache?”
The soldiers grin. “That he does,” says the young woman. “Despite any sense of common decency.” She looks her over. “You in the service?”
“Used to be. Might be still. Won’t know until we get home.”
They nod sympathetically. To be a soldier is to no longer own your life.
“Where were you stationed?” asks the young woman.
“Well, technically,” says Mulaghesh, “I was on vacation.”
She laughs in disbelief. “That must’ve been some vacation.”
“You’re telling me.”
They chat and joke and share cigarettes as they wait to board. One bold young private tries one of Mulaghesh’s cigarillos, one of the foul things she purchased at the docks. He turns a dull green a few puffs in, inciting peals of laughter and raucous ridicule. Mulaghesh smiles, watching them, drinking in their adolescence, their optimism, their naiveté, their mannered cynicisms. She knows such youth is far behind her, but she has always felt that to foster it, protect it, and watch it grow is still a fine thing. Perhaps one of the finest things.
She thinks about what could have happened to these children if she hadn’t picked up the sword, if she hadn’t listened to it speak, and then spoke to the sentinels in turn. She wonders what would have happened if she’d figured it all out earlier, if she’d listened and watched Rada a little closer. A contained disaster, she thinks, is still a disaster. Hundreds of people died deaths that could have been avoided. And Nadar, and Biswal, and Pandey and Signe…
She watches light bounce off the waves and dance along the hull of the ship. Gone, she thinks. All gone. And yet again, I survive.
Her arm aches. Less than it used to. But it’s still there. Maybe it’ll always be there.
The young soldier who tried her cigarillo is now trying to feed it to a seagull, much to the amusement of his comrades. Mulaghesh smiles. I don’t know if I’m ever going to wear a uniform again, she thinks, watching the soldiers, but I will still fight for you.
The line starts moving. They throw their bags over their shoulders, lean forward, and start up to the plank to the Kaypee.
The young soldier looks back at her, and says, “Well. No matter what’s waiting for you in Ghaladesh, I hope you find some rest, and peace.”
“Peace?” says Mulaghesh, a touch surprised. “Well, maybe. Maybe.”
They climb aboard and ready themselves for the short journey home.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to Brent Weeks, who read City of Stairs and gave me some very foresighted advice about the state of Sigrud’s health.
Thanks to my editor, Julian Pavia, for helping me cut one whole book out of the middle of this one, much to the improvement of everything.
Thanks to Deanna Hoak and Justin Landon, whose observations about these books have fueled ideas for future ones. Innovation sometimes arises from the simplest mistakes.
Much thanks to Myke Cole, for taking time out of his busy schedule to educate me on all things military for this novel. I now know the difference between a clandestine and a covert operation.
Many thanks to Ashlee and Jackson, who continue to tolerate me for reasons unknown.
And many, many thanks to those who read City of Stairs, without whose support this book would surely not exist.
PRAISE FOR ROBERT JACKSON BENNETT’S
CITY OF STAIRS
“A memorably surreal urbanscape…readers seeking a truly refreshing fantasy milieu should travel to Bulikov, and welcome its conquest.”
—New York Times Book Review
“Entertaining yet thought-provoking…Entrancing characters, exciting descriptions and piercingly clear action keep the story moving swiftly and surely to a satisfying conclusion.”
—Seattle Times
“A delightful urban fantasy that travels through a city full of Escher-like staircases and alternate realities.”
—Washington Post
“[An] incredible journey through a wondrously weird and surprising world…I found myself both delighted and fascinated as every layer was slowly unpacked.”
—Tor.com
“Suddenly, the pages are whipping by, 50 at a clip as mysteries are uncovered, miracles happen and assassins begin scaling the walls….Bennett is plainly a writer in love with the world he has built—and with good cause.”
—NPR.org
“Smart and sardonic, with wry echoes from classic tales mixed up in an inv
entive, winning narrative. [Bennett is] a master of the genre.”
—Kirkus
“An excellent spy story wrapped in a vivid imaginary world.”
—Library Journal (starred)
PRAISE FOR
CITY OF BLADES
“Does everything a really good sequel should…if anything, it’s a better book than its predecessor. I was worried that by interrupting a run of superlative standalone stories to finesse a follow-up, Robert Jackson Bennett risked repeating himself. Being wrong has never felt so right.”
—Tor.com
“Does [City of Blades] live up to the Locus, World Fantasy, British Fantasy and GoodReads Choice Award nominated City of Stairs? Allow me to answer with an emphatic yes….Robert Jackson Bennett is one of the most talented authors writing in SFF today and this is his finest work to date.”
—Fantasy Faction
“City of Stairs worked, primarily, for one big reason: The world Bennett had created was just awesome. [City of Blades] feels no less rich, no less realized….Read this first and then, if you fall just as hard for the world as I have, go back and read Stairs to get your fill of all the strangeness and wonderment.”
—NPR.org
“Just as powerful as the first, and even stronger in significant ways…among the best novels of 2016.”
—SF Signal
“Hooked me from the first chapter and kept me reading at a frantic pace. I can honestly say I enjoyed it even more than the first.”
—The Speculative Herald
“Not only recaptures the flame of the first book, but also maybe burns a little brighter…I sincerely hope this will be a landmark trilogy that, like the deathblow to a Divinity, will have a rippling effect on the epic fantasy genre for years to come.”
—SFF World
“Astonishingly good…a deep, powerful novel that’s worth reading and rereading.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred)
“Building beautifully upon the richly detailed world introduced in the first book of the series, Bennett serves a stew of fantasy and adventure with a healthy dose of humor and a ladle full of violence.”
—Library Journal (starred)
“Richly detailed and expertly plotted. A grand entertainment.”
—Kirkus
“Like the very best speculative fiction, City of Blades immerses readers in a made-up world, only to force us to take a harder look at the real one.”
—Booklist
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter 1: Fallen Trees
Chapter 2: Bringing Battle
Chapter 3: Such Filthy Work
Chapter 4: Don’t You Know There’s a War Going On
Chapter 5: All I Had Left
Chapter 6: Older Grounds
Chapter 7: A Social Acquaintance
Chapter 8: Target Practice
Chapter 9: Too Much Night, Not Enough Moon
Chapter 10: A Road in the Air
Chapter 11: Dreamscapes
Chapter 12: Ambassador
Chapter 13: The Man Without Hope
Chapter 14: The Twilight of the Divine
Chapter 15: One Big Push
Chapter 16: Close Your Eyes, I’ll Be Here in the Morning
Acknowledgments
To Harvey:
Hello, baby. Welcome to Earth. This place is pretty swell, and I recommend you stick around for a while. You never know, it might even get better. Maybe. We’re trying, at least. We’re trying.
All political careers end in failure.
Some careers are long, some are short. Some politicians fail gracefully, and peacefully—others, less so.
But beloved or hated, powerful or weak, right or wrong, effective or irrelevant—eventually, eventually, all political careers end in failure.
—MINISTER OF FOREIGN AFFAIRS VINYA KOMAYD, LETTER TO PRIME MINISTER ANTA DOONIJESH, 1711
The young man is first disdainful, then grudgingly polite as Rahul Khadse approaches and asks him for a cigarette. It’s clear that this is the young man’s break, his chance to relax away from his duties, alone in the alley behind the hotel, and he’s irritated to have his moment violated. It’s also clear that the young man’s duties must be something serious: one just has to glance at his dark, close-cut coat, his black boots, his sun-darkened skin, and his black headcloth to see he must be military, or police, or some enforcement arm of some authority. Perhaps a Saypuri authority, or perhaps Continental—but someone paid to watch and watch carefully, surely.
Yet the young man does not watch Rahul Khadse with much care, only polite contempt. And, indeed, why would he care about Khadse? Why would he care about this old man, with his smudged spectacles, his tattered briefcase, and his headcloth so musty and poorly arranged?
“All right,” says the young man, giving in. “Why not.”
Khadse bows a little. “Thank you, sir. Thank you.” He bows again, lower, as the young man complies with his request, reaching into his coat to fetch his tin of cigarettes.
The young man does not notice Khadse glancing into his coat, glimpsing the butt of the pistol holstered there. The young man doesn’t notice Khadse gently setting down his briefcase, or his right hand reaching back to his waist as he bows, slipping out the knife. Nor does he notice how Khadse steps very slightly forward as he accepts the cigarette.
He doesn’t notice, because he’s young. And the young are always oh so foolish.
The young man’s eyes spring wide as the knife smoothly enters the space between his fifth and sixth ribs on his left side, spearing his lung, tickling the membrane around his heart. Khadse dives forward as he stabs him, placing his left hand on the young man’s open mouth and shoving his head foreward, the back of the young man’s skull cracking against the brick wall of the alley with a dull thud.
The young man tries to struggle, and though he’s strong, this is a dance Rahul Khadse knows all too well. He steps to the right of the young man, hand still on the handle of the knife, his body turned away. Then he slides the knife out of the young man’s chest and steps away, neatly avoiding the spurt of blood as his victim collapses against the alley wall.
Khadse glances down the alley as the young man gags. It’s a rainy day here in Ahanashtan, foggy and dreary as it often is this time of year, and very few are out and about. No one notices this fusty old man in the alley behind the Golden Hotel, peering over his spectacles at the streets beyond.
The young man chokes. Coughs. Khadse sets down his knife, straddles him, grabs him by the face, and slams his head against the wall again and again, and again and again and again.
One must be sure of such things.
When the young man is still, Khadse pulls on a pair of brown gloves and carefully searches his pockets. Khadse tosses away the pistol after unloading it—he has, of course, brought his own—and rummages about until he finds what he needs: a hotel key, to Room 408.
It’s quite bloody. He has to wipe it off in the alley, along with his knife. But it will do just fine.
He pockets the key.
That was easy, thinks Khadse.
Yet now comes the tricky part. Or what his employer said would be the tricky part. Frankly, Khadse has a lot of trouble figuring out which orders from his employer he should worry about and which ones he should ignore. This is because Rahul Khadse’s current employer is, in his own estimation, absolutely, positively, stark fucking raving mad.
But then, he would have to be. Only a mad person would ever send a contractor like Khadse after one of the most controversial political figures of the modern era, a woman so esteemed and so notorious and so influential that everyone seems
to be waiting on history to get around to judging her so they can figure out how to feel about her tenure as prime minister.
A person made of the stuff of legends. Both because she seemed to come from legends, and because it is public record that she, personally, has killed a few legends in her day.
Perhaps Khadse was mad to take the job. Or perhaps he wanted to see if he could do it. But either way, he means it to be done.
Rahul Khadse walks down the alley, glances around the Ahanashtani street, and then turns right and climbs the stairs of Ashara Komayd’s hotel.
* * *
—
The Golden Hotel remains one of the most lauded and celebrated places in Ahanashtan, a relic of an era when the nation of Saypur was free to intervene in Continental affairs as it wished, throwing up buildings and blockades and embargoes on a whim. Walking through the doors is like walking into the past, a place where all the imperial grandeur of the Saypur that Khadse used to know has been impeccably maintained, like a stuffed bird in a wildlife exhibit.
Khadse stops in the lobby, appearing to adjust his glasses. Marble floors and bronze fixtures and palms. He counts the bodies: the doorman, the host of the restaurant, the maid at the far corner, three girls at the counter. No guards. None like the one he just killed in the alley out back, at least. Khadse’s an old hand at this, and he and his team did their homework: he knows the guards’ schedules, their number, their stations. His team has been watching this place for weeks, arranging every step of this delicate ordeal. But now the final deed is Khadse’s alone.
He mounts the stairs, his dark coat dripping with moisture. It’s all going very smoothly so far. He tries not to think about his employer, the man’s mad messages, and his money. Usually Khadse would delight in thinking about the money on a job, but not this time.
The Divine Cities Trilogy: City of Stairs, City of Blades, and City of Miracles, With an Excerpt From Foundryside Page 101
