“Of what?” says Mulaghesh.
“Of fat,” says Sigrud. “Animal fat. Whale if you have it—beef or pork if you do not.”
Mulaghesh looks to Shara, who shrugs: I have no idea, either.
Sigrud strokes his beard. “And I will need you to get a good fire going, for when I finish. Because to do this, I will likely have to be nude.”
* * *
“Flaxseed,” says Shara, and drops it into the cauldron of warm beef fat. “Willowgrass. Twine of six knots. And cedar pitch.” She looks back at the wheelbarrow of ingredients brought to her from the embassy. Screams echo up the river—again. She ignores them. “Salt and silver … that might be harder.” She slips a tiny silver dessert spoon into a bag of rock salt and shakes it up. “But this, I hope, should do …” She dumps it into the cauldron as well.
Pitry watches her, torn between fascination and disbelief. “You really think this will do something?”
“I hope so,” says Shara. She takes a fistful of arrowroot and drops it in. “The Divine familiars each had aversions to very specific elements.… We’re not sure, as always, if this was intended by the Divinities—maybe as a way to give their mortal followers some method of defense against the Divinities’ own creations, just in case—or if it was purely by accident, something each Divinity, maybe by nature, could never prepare for. Either way, the Divine creatures were strongly repelled by these elements: they caused asphyxiation, burning rashes, paralysis, even death.…”
“Like an allergy?” asks Pitry.
Shara pauses, realizing Pitry has just said something Saypuri historians have been struggling to articulate for years. “Yes. Exactly that.”
“And Urav is allergic to … to all of this?”
“I have no idea. These are some elements that often repelled Divine creatures. I am hoping,” she says as she drops in some wormwood, “that one or two of these will have some effect. A broad spectrum of elements, you could say.”
Sigrud and Nesrhev’s officers are almost finished: they’ve successfully looped the thick towing rope around the bridge itself and fastened it securely. Shara can see the seaman in Sigrud coming out now: he ties knots in seconds, heaves coils of the dense rope around his shoulders, scales the bridge like he has hooks on his toes. He dumps the three lengths of sailing rope over the bridge—they land with a thud on the ice. He lets the remaining length of towing rope drop to the ice as well, nearly a hundred or so feet. Urav, so far, has remained ignorant of their efforts, choosing to harry the docks a mile or so downriver, seeking anyone who’s chosen to ignore the evacuation order.
Sigrud walks over to where the weaponry is wrapped in waxed canvas. He picks up one fishing spear, which has a barbed tip as thick as Shara’s arm; at its back is an iron loop, meant for some incredibly thick line. What sort offish, Shara thinks, could that possibly be intended for? Sigrud tests its flex, nods in satisfaction, and kneels and runs his finger along the halberd’s blade. “Good steel,” he says. “Good workmanship.”
“And you don’t doubt,” asks Shara, “the wisdom of your course?”
“We have done such things before,” says Sigrud. “What makes this so different?”
“This is not like the mhovost.”
“That,” says Sigrud contemptuously, “was not even a challenge.”
“Well. It is not like the dornova in Ahanashtan, either,” says Shara. “This is not some … some common imp or wretch for you to brutally execute!”
“Next you will say it is not like that dragon.”
“That was a small dragon,” says Shara. She holds her hands about three feet apart. “And besides, I was the one who finally killed that one.”
“After I did all the work,” says Sigrud with a sniff.
“You aren’t taking this seriously. As entertaining as our exploits may be, that”—she points a finger at the river—“is the closest thing to a walking, talking Divinity the world has seen in decades!”
He shrugs. “As I told you,” he says, “it is a thing of the water. Things of the water, they are all alike, deep down. No matter who made them or where they came from.”
“But are you so terribly sure of yourself that you’re really willing to try this alone?”
“The more you are at sea,” Sigrud explains, “the more you learn. And the more you learn, the more help and assistance is a troublesome bother.” He takes off his coat, shirt, and breeches, revealing some very tight and ancient long underwear. He is covered in rippling muscle, huge in the shoulders and back and neck, yet rather than appearing bulky there is something lean and lupine about Sigrud: he is like an animal that burns far more energy fighting for its food than it gains in consuming it. “Dealing death, after all, is a solitary affair.”
“Sometimes I … I swear, sometimes I tire so much of your posturing!” Shara says.
Sigrud looks up, confused and a little alarmed.
“You may think your laconic ridiculousness is a virtue, but it is not for me—not for anyone who values your life, even if you don’t.” She looks at him, genuinely afraid. “I am not asking you to do this. Do you know that? I would never ask you to do this.”
“I know that,” he says.
“Then why?”
He considers it.
“Why?” she asks again.
“Because it is all I know,” he says with a shrug. “And I am good at it. I could save lives tonight. And the only life risked would be my own.”
Shara is silent.
“Do I have your blessing, Shara Komayd?”
“I am not in the business of giving blessings,” she says. “But I accept what it is that you do. Even if I don’t like it.”
He nods, says, “Good,” and peels off his undershirt. Shara has seen him shirtless—and more—in their time together, but she is always shocked by the variety of horrific scars curling across his arms and back: she can see brands, whips, slashes, stabs … yet she knows the greatest damage he has ever sustained lies hidden behind the glove on his right hand.
He begins stripping off the rest of the long underwear. “I don’t think,” says Shara, “that it will be necessary for you to take off all of your clothi—”
“Bah,” says Sigrud, and drops his drawers, utterly unself-conscious.
Shara sighs. Nesrhev and his officers—all dour, stolid Bulikovians—stare at this frank display of nudity. Mulaghesh grins like a shark. “There are times,” she says, “that I kind of like my job.”
Sigrud is now totally nude except for his boots, the sheath for his knife (which is now strapped around his right thigh), the glove he wears on his right hand, and the gold bracelet on his left. He reaches into the cauldron of fat and scoops up a handful. He cocks an eyebrow at the arrowroot and the other substances floating in it—“Insurance,” explains Shara—and he shrugs and begins to slather it on his shoulders, chest, arms, and thighs. “Uh, let me know if you need help with that,” mutters Mulaghesh. Shara shoots her a scolding glare; Mulaghesh grins again, unrepentant.
Sigrud saves his face and hair for last; with this final touch, he resembles something primeval—a filthy, savage creature humanity left behind long ago. “I think,” he says, “I am ready.” He looks to Nesrhev. “Try to keep the thing toward the bridge, if it comes to it.”
“I don’t know how much we can do,” says Nesrhev. “But we’ll try.”
“Do only that,” says Sigrud. “I want it focused on me. On me, do you hear?” Nesrhev nods. “Good.” Sigrud looks up and down the length of the bridge, as if not quite convinced it will hold. Then he heaves up the armful of weaponry and starts down the bridge toward the shore.
Mulaghesh hands out a lantern, which he takes. “Good luck, soldier,” she says. Sigrud nods absently, as if being greeted by familiar passersby on a contemplative walk.
He stops next to Shara, removes the gold bracelet from his left hand, and hands it to her.
“I’ll keep it safe,” she says.
“I know. If I do die tonight �
�,” he says. He hesitates, staring out at the icy expanse of the Solda. “My family … Will you …?”
“I will always make sure your family is taken care of,” says Shara. “You know that.”
“But will you tell them … about me? About who I was?”
“Only if it’s safe to do so.”
He nods, says “Thank you,” and starts off down the bridge.
Shara says, “Listen, Sigrud—if it comes to that, it is likely Urav will not kill you.”
He looks back. “Eh?”
“It’s likely the people it’s taken tonight aren’t even dead. They may be worse than dead, actually—according to the Kolkashtava, in Urav’s belly, you are alive, but you are punished, filled with pain, shame, regret.… Under its gaze, no one holds hope.”
“How does it gaze at you,” asks Sigrud, “in its own belly?”
“It’s miraculous by nature. Inside of Urav, I think, is a special kind of hell. And the only thing that saves anyone is the blessing of Kolkan—”
“Which you can give me?”
“—which no one has received since he vanished, nearly three hundred years ago.”
“So what are you saying?”
“I am saying that, if it looks like Urav will devour you”—she looks down at where he has strapped his knife—“then it might be wise to take matters into your own hands.”
He nods slowly. Then, again, he says, “Thank you,” and adds, “It would probably be wise for you to get off the bridge, by the way.”
“Why?”
“One never knows,” says Sigrud, “how a good fight will go.”
* * *
Sigrud’s boots make hollow thumps as he walks across the ice. He can tell right away that the ice is slightly less than two feet thick. A good ice, he thinks, for sleighs and horses.
He walks on over the frozen river. The wind bites and snaps at his ears. His arms and legs are bejeweled from millions of ice flecks trapped in the fat on his body: soon he is a glimmering ice-man, trudging across a vast gray-blue field.
He recalls an occasion like this: riding over the ice, the sleigh scraping behind him; the thud of the horse’s hooves; glancing behind and seeing Hild and his daughters buried in a pile of furs in the sled, giggling and laughing.…
I do not wish to think of these things.
Sigrud blinks and focuses on the ropes dangling from the bridge ahead. The lights of Bulikov seem very far away now, as if this massive metropolis is but a small, seaside town on a very distant shore.
How many times did he see such a sight in his sailing days? Dozens? Hundreds? He remembers the enormous cliffs of the Dreyling lands and the glimmer of lights among the tiny huts spread among the shore. Waking to the reel and cry of cliff birds circling the peaks.
I do not wish to think of these things, he says to himself again. But the memories arise painfully, like a thorn working its way free from flesh.
The chuckle of water. The sunless days. The bonfires on the rime-crusted beaches.
He remembers the last time he sailed. A young man he was, returning home, eager to see his family. But when they docked on Dreyling shores, he and the crew found the villages in absolute upheaval:
The king. They have killed the king, and all his sons. They are burning the houses. They are burning the city. What are we to do?
How shocked he was to hear this.… He did not understand then, could not understand how this could happen. And no matter how many times he asked—All his sons? All? Are you sure?—the answer was the same: The Harkvald dynasty is no more. All the kings are dead, gone, and we are lost.
The ice crackles underneath Sigrud’s feet. The world is a coward, he thinks. It does not change before your face; it waits until your back is turned, and pounces.…
Sigrud walks on over the Solda. The fat on his limbs is calcified now; he is milky white, crackling, a chandler’s golem. He keeps walking to where the towing rope dangles from the center of the bridge. While he was on it, the Solda Bridge seemed quite narrow, less than forty feet wide. Underneath, it’s a massive black bone arcing across the sky.
He tells himself it will hold. If he does this right, it will hold.
He hears lapping water. He looks to the right, under the shadow of the bridge, and sees a geometrically perfect circle in the ice. A dense layer of wooden flotsam bobs up and down, trapped in the hole. A shanty, probably—and its occupants long gone.
Finally he arrives at the dangling rope. He loops the end of the thick towing rope, then uses the sailing rope to tie it fast, holding the loop. The knot is familiar: his hands move and loop and thread the rope without his even thinking about it.
As he ties the knot, he remembers.
He remembers how he raced to his home after hearing the news of the coup. He remembers finding it blackened and deserted; his farmland scarred, salted.
He remembers unearthing the fragile white bones lost in the moist ashes of his ruined, burned-out bedroom. He remembers digging the graves in the courtyard. The jumble of charred bones, random, incomplete, a tangled human jigsaw.
He could not recognize his wife and daughters in them. But he separated the bones as best he could, buried them, and wept.
Enough. Stop.
Sigrud ties the remaining lengths of sailing rope to the loop, then ties their other ends to the fishing spears. He stabs the fishing spears down in the ice in a line, each fifty feet apart.
Sigrud sets the lantern down before the center spear and uses the point of the halberd’s blade to carve four deep, long lines in the ice, each converging on one point, just before the lantern: when he finishes, it looks like a giant star in the ice. Then he sits on the point, bare buttocks on the ice, halberd across his knees, and waits.
A duck honks disconsolately.
A spatter of screams from the east bank. The blasting wind.
Though he wishes to focus, the memories are merciless.
He remembers when he heard that a new nation had been formed, called the “Dreyling Republics,” but both that name and the title of “nation” were laughable: they were mere pirate states, sick with corruption and avarice.
Sigrud, grieving, raging, chose to fight, like many did. And, like many, he failed, and was thrown in Slondheim, the cliff-prison, a fate worse than death, they said.
And they spoke truth. He was not sure how many years he spent in solitary confinement, living off of gruel, ranting in the dark. Part of this was his own doing, of course: whenever they let him out, he tried to kill anyone who came close to him, and he often succeeded. Eventually they decided he would get no more chances: Sigrud was to live in the dark until he died.
But then one day the slot in his cell door opened, and he saw a face unlike any he’d seen before: a woman’s face, brown-skinned and long-nosed, with dark eyes and dark lips, and she had glass on her face—two little pieces of glass before each eye. Yet all his puzzlement vanished when the face said, “Your wife and children are alive, and safe. I have located them. I will be back tomorrow, if you wish to speak to me.”
The slot slammed shut. Her footsteps faded away.
This was how Sigrud first met Shara Komayd.
How many years has he spent with her now? Ten? Eleven? It does not matter, he finds. These new years have no meaning to him.
Sigrud blinks his eye; the lid sticks from the fat.
He thinks of the children he never knew, now grown, and the young woman who was once his wife. He wonders if she has a new husband, and his children a new father.
He looks down at his scarred, gleaming hands. He does not recognize them anymore.
On the horizon, a soft yellow light blinks below the ice.
Sigrud rubs fat from the palms of his hands, tests the grip on his halberd.
This is as it should be, he thinks. The cold, the dark, and the waiting death.
He waits.
* * *
The yellow light swims closer, closer, its movements smooth and graceful. Sigrud hears something
tapping the ice, like a blind man with his cane. It listens, he thinks, to the reverberations, to see what lies atop it.
The ice creaks below him. The yellow glow is now twenty feet away; the light itself is nearly a foot wide. Like the eye of a giant squid, he thinks, and remembers, long ago, how he ate one that had been stewed in fish stock. And that one was quite a fighter.…
He cannot see through the ice, but he hears something popping fifteen, maybe ten feet away. He looks and sees a circle is being carved around him, and he also sees he estimated the thing’s breadth well: the edges of the circle all cross the four lines he carved in the ice; it begins to look like he is sitting in the middle of a big white pie with eight slices.
He slowly stands. The ice complains under his feet, weakened by so many carvings. He plucks up the fishing spear and stands in the center of the circle.
Something dark swirls underneath him. The yellow light is almost under his feet.
I wonder, thinks Sigrud, if I will find out how you taste.…
He readies the spear in his right hand. He takes a breath.
Then, well before the thing under the ice is done carving the circle, he raises the halberd in his left hand and swings the massive blade down.
The weakened ice breaks apart underneath him immediately, and he plummets through into the icy water.
Urav—as Shara called it—darts back, surprised by this intrusion. Sigrud is tiny before its huge, swarming bulk, a swallow flying against a black thundercloud.
Sigrud sees a mass of waving arms, a huge, black-veined bright eye, and below that a mouth six feet wide … but it is not yet open.
He whips the fishing spear forward. The barbed blade sinks deep into Urav’s black flesh, mere inches beside its huge eye.
Urav’s mouth snaps open, but in pain rather than attack. Its eye rolls to focus on Sigrud, who swings the halberd forward and cracks the creature in the mouth. Glittering teeth go spinning through the water like fireworks.
Urav writhes in pain and rage. Its tentacles snap out, grip Sigrud’s legs, but the thick layer of fat makes it impossible to find a grip … and more so, the tentacles withdraw suddenly as if the fat itself burns them: Sigrud can see the black skin bubbling where they touched him.
City of Stairs Page 30
