City of Blades

11. A Just Death

She looks for Biswal in the fortress hospital, though the term feels out of place with what she sees: Fort Thinadeshi’s medical wings are dark, primitive, and dirty. Rickety cots and beds line the walls, almost all of them occupied.

As she walks through the hospital she’s faintly aware of the bloodstains on the front of her fatigues, none of them hers—she and Sigrud assisted the medical corps as much as they could—and from the deep ache all along her right side she knows she needs to see a medic now. But mostly she hasn’t the mind for it: the sight of these young men and women trapped in their beds brings back memories of her hellish recuperation in Bulikov. Her arm aches just to think of it. She pities them.

She stops a nurse and asks, “The general?”

He points to the back of the hospital, to the morgue. Mulaghesh walks to the morgue doors, hesitates, and pushes them open.

The room is larger than she expected. Tall cabinets line the walls, cold and blank. One of them is open, with a table on wheels half-rolled out of its dark, chilly depths.

Lalith Biswal stands in front of the table, looking down on the body on the table. The deceased soldier is short, her clothes dusty, her hands chalky and pale, the queer colors of the dead. The room is quite dim, but Mulaghesh can tell by the gleaming scar on the forehead that it was once Captain Kiran Nadar.

Biswal looks over his shoulder, nods to Mulaghesh, then turns back to Nadar. Mulaghesh pauses, wondering how to be respectful, then walks to stand beside him.

She was shot three times in the left side. She must have died quickly, as none of her clothes have been removed for operation. Her cheek bears a purple slash, the flesh around it dark. Mulaghesh guesses she fell, likely from her horse.

“They targeted her specifically,” says Biswal quietly. “She was riding at the front of the line. Standard shtani behavior, as of late. Kill the officers first.”

“What happened?”

“I did tell you we were under surveillance. Shtanis in the hills, watching our movements. They saw us preparing to send a battalion down to the city. When the…that horror began his assault on the city, the passages in and out of Voortyashtan were flooded with civilians escaping the slaughter. Under this cover over seventy insurgents took positions east along the main passage. They ambushed us, pinned us down, inflicting heavy casualties. They retreated when we mounted a counterattack.”

Mulaghesh bows her head, disgusted and furious. “We were trying to help them.”

“Yes. We were trying to help the city. But they do not see it in those terms.”

“It feels rude to ask, but…Sergeant Major Pandey…”

“He’s alive, miraculously enough. He was at the front with Nadar, and survived the first volley. He sought shelter in a checkpoint and ably defended a group of civilians that were fleeing the horror in the city. A group that included CTO Harkvaldsson.”

Once again, Signe and Pandey are thrown together. It’s all too coincidental for her tastes.

Biswal looks at her. “What in the hells happened in that city, Turyin? What in hells was that thing that attacked us?”

Mulaghesh decides that now’s the time to lay as many cards on the table as she can, to try to convince Biswal that something Divine is unfolding here in Voortyashtan. So she summarizes her conclusions about Zhurgut and the sentinels and the murders, aware as she speaks that she sounds more and more outlandish: magic swords, possessed bodies, secret mines, ancient ore. She doesn’t say anything about the City of Blades and Voortya, feeling it would be a step too far in the current circumstances.

Biswal is perfectly still as he listens. When she finishes he says, “Do you still believe the issues with the insurgents to be wholly separate from the murders and the interference with the mines—as well as the Divine horror that awoke in the harbor, I suppose?”

“I…suspect so. I don’t think the insurgents were behind any of this. Their concerns are earthly—they’re fighting over land. Whoever is behind this is far more concerned with the spiritual.”

Biswal looks down at Nadar and shakes his head. “Thirty-seven soldiers. The most we’ve ever lost since the Battle of Bulikov.” He shakes his head again, his neck cracking and popping. “The prime minister tells me to do one thing. Parliament signals that it wishes me to do something very different. And now you, Turyin, you now come here and tell me stories of the Divine, of plots and conspiracies taking place under our very noses.”

“Lalith…”

“You tell me that these are two very separate things, the insurgents and the Divine. You say this despite the mine collapse taking place just after the tribal leaders came to this city. You say this despite the appearance of that Divine horror coinciding perfectly with an orchestrated insurgent assault. You and the prime minister, Turyin, you have some gall.” He whirls on her. “What are you really here for, Turyin? You aren’t here on the touring shuffle, are you? Don’t lie to me, Turyin, I’ll know.”

Mulaghesh decides to tell the truth. Or some of it, at least. “I was sent here to find Choudhry.”

“Why keep that a secret?”

“They weren’t sure what had happened to her. They thought maybe—”

“That one of her own comrades had killed her, one of her fellow soldiers.” Biswal laughs bitterly. “The prime minister thinks so poorly of the soldiers in her service. She thinks us cutthroats and brigands.”

“She didn’t know what had happened. She thought it better to be careful tha—”

“Oh, of course she did, and I am so tired of being told to be careful!” snarls Biswal. “I am so tired of being told to draw back, stay firm, appease, and placate! And I am so tired of being told that this is not a war. Any fool with eyes in their head can see that these people will never cooperate, never be civilized! They treat us like enemies. And those who treat us as enemies should be treated the same in turn.”

“What are you saying, Biswal?” asks Mulaghesh.

Biswal draws himself up to his full height. “I am saying that, in light of recent events, I am reinterpreting my orders,” he says. “I will defend the harbor. I will placate the tribes. And I will do this by pursuing those who dared attack us, and destroying them and anyone who might give them shelter.”

Mulaghesh stares at him. “You’re planning an invasion of the damned highlands?”

“I am saying that Fort Thinadeshi, along with the other installations of Voortyashtan, will be conducting a full-scale counteroffensive against these aggressors.”

“Will you just ignore the fact that a damned saint appeared in the city outside your gates, and killed what is likely dozens if not hundreds of people?” says Mulaghesh, furious.

“Oh, I’ve flagged the Ministry,” says Biswal. “I’ve notified them. They’ll send their agents here, I’ve no doubt, and I will let them deal with that. That is their jurisdiction, just as mine is to pursue the insurgents to my full satisfaction. We each have our purposes, don’t we, Turyin?”

He walks to the door and places his hand on the handle. Before he can open it, Mulaghesh says, “It’s the wrong move, Lalith. They know the terrain, and they’ve likely had time to prepare. The casualties you’ll suffer will be terrible.”

He looks over his shoulder at her, his eyes glittering with disdain. “You doubt the effectiveness of my soldiers?”

“What I doubt, General Biswal, is that this will have the same effect as the March,” she says. “Times have changed.”

He looks at her for a moment longer. Then he says, “You’re a coward, Turyin. You fled the military because you couldn’t live up to the trials of true leadership. Instead, our gutless prime minister has turned you into a craven spy. Perhaps you’ve forgotten after the Battle of Bulikov, but this”—he gestures to Nadar’s body—“is what real combat looks like. Or perhaps you were too busy being commended for bravery to visit the frontlines.”

“You sound,” she says acidly, “a little jealous, General Biswal.”

He stares at her coldly. “Do what you need to in the city, Turyin. But if I see you in my fortress again, I’ll have you locked up.” Then he walks out and slams the door, leaving Mulaghesh alone in the morgue.

Mulaghesh limps down the road to Voortyashtan. She borrowed a crutch from the medics at the fortress, but it’s not easy to operate a crutch one-handed, even with Signe’s prosthetic—especially when your good arm is covered in bruises. She badly, badly needs to see a medic, yet as she approaches the checkpoint she sees a familiar figure standing in the road, smoking and apparently waiting for her.

“Ah, General,” says Signe. “I was told you’d passed through here recently….I’ve something you need to see.”

“A bed?” says Mulaghesh miserably. “And opiates?”

“I’m afraid not,” says Signe. “Rather, it’s something you’ve seen a lot of recently—a security breach.”

Thirty minutes later Mulaghesh slows as they approach the statue yard. It looks much the same to her eye—same high walls, same giant door, same canvas roof—except for two key differences. One is that the door is open, just slightly, something Mulaghesh is sure the guards would never allow. The other is the dead body lying in the mud before the door.

“That’s the door guard, isn’t it?” says Mulaghesh.

“Yes,” says Signe. “Ericksson was his name. Shot through the neck with a bolt.”

“So while we were dealing with Saint Zhurgut, someone made a beeline for the statue yard, shot the guard, took his keys, and opened the door?”

“It would appear so. We’re being carefully watched, I think.” She looks up and around them. “But as most of Voortyashtan is uphill from here, it would only take a good vantage point and someone with a high-powered telescope to track us.”

Mulaghesh hobbles toward the door. “I assume nothing’s stolen? They’d have to use a truck to get any of those damn things out.”

“Not as far as we can tell. Nor have any changed in any way—no secret doors opened, no missing trinkets. Again, as far as we can tell.”

“So…someone knows about your stolen statues,” says Mulaghesh. “That’s plenty bad as it is. If Biswal gets a whisper of that, he’ll come down on you like a monsoon. He’s already on the warpath. He’s going toaaaargh!”

“I’m sorry, he’s going to what?”

She grips her side, almost bending double. “Ahh, damn. Starting to get the idea I broke a rib last night…”

“Oh. So I’m getting the idea that I shouldn’t have brought you here first before going to a medic.”

“For someone who’s so smart,” growls Mulaghesh, “you’re also pretty damned stupid sometimes.”

“Now, now. Why don’t I take you to see Rada? That’s where I sent my father; he was pretty banged up too. She’ll do a much better job of patching you up than our people will.”

Mulaghesh sighs. “That’s a long way up. But I do need to get the gang together. Someone needs to know what Biswal’s about to do.”

“I’ll have someone drive us.” She pauses, suddenly awkward. “I suppose I must say…Well.” She grimaces, as if trying to remember how to speak a phrase from another language. “The thing I wish to say is…thank you.”

Mulaghesh looks at her cockeyed. “Come again?”

“Thank you for stopping the bloodshed, for saving the harbor last night. For putting down Saint Zhurgut—which I still frankly can’t believe you did. I know I’ve not been easy. None of this has been easy. But—thank you. Now. Let’s get you to Rada.”

Rada Smolisk’s home no longer has the feel of a medical office as much as it does a field hospital. Civilian men, women, and children are packed in in front of her door, almost all of them wounded or tending to the wounded. When they climb out of the SDC auto Mulaghesh shakes her head. “I can’t get treated here. I won’t take up Rada’s time, not when these people so desperately need it.” Then she pauses, noticing the many medics in SDC uniforms wading among the civilians. “Wait. What are so many SDC medics doing here?”

“Following orders,” says Signe.

“Huh?”

“I consulted with the other SDC senior officers, and we decided to dispatch nearly all of our medical staff to Voortyashtan.”

“Don’t you have your own injured to look after?”

Signe gives her a grim look. “Do you believe that in hand-to-hand combat, Zhurgut left people merely injured?”

“Ah. Ugh.”

“Yes. We have all experienced tragedies in the past day.” Signe walks to Rada’s side door and knocks three times. “Best to focus on the tragedies one can still fix.”

The door opens, and the bruised, scowling face of Lem, Signe’s security chief, peeks out at them. Then he nods and holds the door open. Mulaghesh and Signe step inside to be greeted by the glassy, terrified stares of the numerous taxidermied animals arranged on Rada’s walls.

“Well,” sniffs Signe, “she hasn’t changed her décor much.”

They find Rada in the operating room, performing a grisly procedure on a young Voortyashtani girl with a mangled knee. Sigrud and an SDC medic stand beside her, and though Sigrud is in his shirtsleeves and his arm is in a sling, he seems to be acting as a fairly competent assistant.

“Most of the debris has been removed,” Rada mutters—again, Mulaghesh notes, her stutter is gone. “And the wound is clean. I’ll close it up now. You’ll be turning cartwheels again before the end of the month.”

The girl blinks languidly. She’s obviously doped to the gills.

Rada sticks out a hand, and Sigrud—his big, rough fingers surprisingly gentle—hands her a needle and thread. As she takes it Rada glances at Mulaghesh and Signe by the door. “If you w-w-will b-be so k-kind as to wait.”

After about an hour Sigrud and Rada emerge from the operating room, their hands dripping wet and reeking of alcohol. “I d-do n-not normally pr-protest such things,” Rada grumbles, “but I d-do n-n-not relish the idea of p-preferential t-treatment.”

“Then we’ll make it double duty,” Mulaghesh says. “I just spoke with Biswal this morning. You all need to hear this.”

As Rada puts her through her paces—making her extend her arms, stretch her ribs, lift her shirt—Mulaghesh recounts her conversation with Biswal mere hours ago.

“He wants to invade the highlands?” asks Signe, horrified.

“I don’t think ‘invade’ is the right term,” says Mulaghesh. “I expect this will be a much faster, less permanent maneuver. Pursue, engage, eliminate, then retreat. At least, that’s what he thinks it will be.”

“It w-won’t be,” says Rada. “B-bend your h-hip this way, p-please.”

Mulaghesh groans as something in her backside insists it’s moved as far as it possibly can. “It’ll be messy, then?”

“ ‘Messy’ doesn’t begin to describe it,” says Signe. “The highland tribes are always prepared for combat. That’s practically all they do. He abandons his duties to go chasing after those who have wounded his pride.”

“Thirty-seven soldiers died,” says Mulaghesh. “Including the commander of Fort Thinadeshi. A lot more got wounded than his damned pride.”

“Fair enough,” says Signe. “But would you do the same as he intends, General?”

Mulaghesh hesitates. “No. He has no plan, no exit. He’s going to lead his kids out there, but how will they get out?”

“And with so many Saypuri forces allocated to pursuing the insurgents, who will be defending Voortyashtan?” asks Signe. “Who will rebuild? They obviously can’t help themselves.”

Sigrud, who has so far been sitting in silence in a moldy overstuffed chair in the corner of the room, rumbles to life. “I have been thinking about that. What if we did that?”

The three of them stare at him. “We?” says Signe. “We who?”

“We as in us,” he says. “SDC.”

There’s a pause.

“What are you saying?” says Signe. “You want us to rebuild a city?”

Sigrud shrugs. “We have lots of resources here. A bunch of workers, builders, construction teams. Surely it cannot be harder than building a harbor.”

“But…But we don’t have the funding for that! If we wanted to do that and keep the harbor on schedule, we’d have to apply for much more onerous loans!”

“Well, I was thinking about that, too,” says Sigrud, scratching his chin, “and I was thinking that I could just ask them to, ah, not make the loans more—what did you say—onerous.”

“What!” says Signe.

“Well…Am I the dauvkind or am I the dauvkind? Am I to put this stupid image of me to no good ends at all? If they want, I will put on as many stupid hats as they like if it gets us more workers and more resources.”

Signe stares at him, suspicious and mystified. “You really want to do that?”

Sigrud smiles slightly as he stuffs his pipe. “It’s as you said the other night,” he says, sitting back and readjusting his sling. “One big push.”

“How am I?” says Mulaghesh.

“N-not twenty years old anymore,” says Rada, rifling through a drawer of ointments and salves. “S-so I s-suggest you s-stop acting l-like it.”

“Circumstances dictated otherwise.”

Rada throws a few tubs of something whitish gray and foul-looking into a box for her. Mulaghesh can hear Sigrud and Signe standing outside, talking in low voices about Sigrud’s ostentatious plans. “Then I s-suggest y-you a-uhh-avoid those c-circumstances in the f-f-future.”

“When Biswal gets back, and finds SDC rebuilding a city under his jurisdiction—what will you do, Polis Governor?”

Hearing her own title evokes a sardonic smile. “I am n-not a true actor in th-this play,” she says. “Rather, I d-deal with the consequences of the actions. I will c-continue dealing with the w-wounded. More w-will be coming in. People t-trapped under rubble, tr-trapped in their homes…”

“Familiar.”

“To b-both of us, yes,” says Rada. She slumps her shoulders, sighs, and says, “Have y-you ever h-heard of Saint Petrenko?”

“Can’t say that I have.”

“V-Voortyashtani saint. He is interesting, t-to me at l-least. Pr-Probably the antithesis to Z-Zhurgut. Where Zhurgut was all attack and ag-aggression—as you no d-doubt w-witnessed—Petrenko was…passive.”

“A passive warrior?”

“Yes. He p-preached that to live l-life, one m-must accept that one was already d-d-dead. Every m-morning, one m-must arise and m-make peace with death, accept that it was c-coming.” Her words grow stronger as she speaks. “He said, ‘Time is a river, and we are but blades of grass floating upon its waves. To fear the end of the river is to fear being on it at all. And though we may look ahead, and see countless forks, when we look back we see only one way things ever could have gone. All is inevitable. To argue with fate is to argue with a river.’ ”

“Why do you bring this up?”

Rada shuts a cabinet with a harsh snap. “I had several deaths on my table last night, and this morning. I will have more today. Some will be children. This, like so many things, is inevitable. I woke up knowing this. And I accepted it. Just as I accept that war is coming here.”

“War?”

“Yes.” Rada stands and looks her in the eye, and her gaze is not half so fearful now. “I can smell it. I have smelled war before, General. Its smell is q-quite familiar to me. This is only the b-beginning. So what I will mostly be d-doing, General,” she says, opening the door, “is awaiting the inevitable. G-good day to you.”

Outside, Signe and Sigrud look out at the ravaged cityscape of Voortyashtan, ruby red in the glow of the sunset. Smoke spills out of countless crushed hovels. There is the distant crack of gunfire—looters, probably, Mulaghesh expects. Three of the giant, deformed statues have been sliced in two, one at the waist, one at the knees, then the final at the feet.

Yet despite this, there is a warmth to Signe and Sigrud’s discussion that Mulaghesh hasn’t ever seen before. They stand close together, shoulders almost touching, and whereas before Signe stood still and rigid around her father, now she’s animated, her movements excited, natural, and unself-conscious. She’s found a way to feel at home with him, thinks Mulaghesh.

Signe seems to remember Mulaghesh standing beside them, leaning on a crutch. “I can’t precisely say you look better, General, but…Are all your various organs in the right place?”

“More or less, though my hip got pretty scrambled. Rada says no fun and play for two weeks.” She struggles to light a cigarillo while still leaning on her crutch. “But she’s going to have to accept two days.”

“Two days? You’re only going to rest for two days?”

“Yes,” says Mulaghesh. “Because then you’re going to take me to the Tooth.”

Signe pales at the mention of it. “Even after Zhurgut…You’re still determined to chase Choudhry?”

“Someone out there has access to Voortyashtani swords,” says Mulaghesh, starting the long walk back to the SDC headquarters. “Just one of which can wreak devastation in minutes, if activated. They’re practically weapons of mass destruction, and someone has been perfecting them, testing them out on innocent, isolated families out in the country—likely, I assume, building up to bring on the Night of the Sea of Swords. And now they’ve got the process figured out.”

“How do they plan to do it, though?” asks Signe.

“I don’t know. But Choudhry thought she’d find something out on the Tooth. Maybe something that could tell her how this was all supposed to go down.” Mulaghesh rubs her eyes. “By the seas, I’m tired. I can’t remember the last time I slept. What time is it?”

Signe checks her watch. “Sixteen hundred.”

Mulaghesh laughs hollowly. “Almost evening again.”

Signe glances over her shoulder, then twitches slightly and grunts. “I think you have the right idea. I have one last piece of business to do, and then I am off to enjoy a giant feather mattress while I can. Good evening.” She turns and trots away.

Mulaghesh watches her go, frowning. “That was rather abru—”

“I will go too,” says Sigrud. “I need to get very drunk and lie down somewhere very dark.”

“Typical Dreyling curative?”

“Something like that.” He stands and lumbers away, limping down the steps.

Mulaghesh stands alone on the hillside, wondering what tomorrow will bring. But something troubles her.

Signe saw something, she thinks. Just now. Didn’t she? She saw something that made her want to leave.

She scans the streets of Voortyashtan with a keen eye. Eventually she notices the short, gray-coated figure standing in the shadow of a tumbled-down house, his peaked cap barely visible in the evening mist.

“Pandey,” says Mulaghesh quietly.

She sits perfectly still, waiting for him to move. When he does she follows, carefully.

Pandey heads north, climbing up out of the city and across the cliffs. Mulaghesh falls back when he enters the open country, moving from stone to stone and tree to tree, her hip screaming that she is a complete and utter idiot with every step.

Mulaghesh curses herself for not acting on this sooner. Signe accused me of being an industrial spy once, she thinks, and here she is with a spy of her own up at the fortress! She ducks down behind a boulder and watches Pandey hurry over the cliffs. Oh, Pandey, you stupid boy. What have you gotten yourself into?

They pass the ruined mines, the copse of trees where she found the tunnel, farther and farther north. She makes careful note of his boot print and begins to read its small, ridged scar in the landscape. It should be almost impossible to lose him now.

Yet she comes to the cliffs, and finds she has. She looks to the left and right, wondering if she could have missed him, or perhaps he dove off into the sea itself. Yet when she looks over the edge, she sees only a smattering of sharp, murderous rocks, and the gray gravelly shore.

She pauses. A small sculling shell rests on the shore with two oars nestled inside. As she leans out to look she sees a small stone staircase has been cunningly hidden in the folds of the cliffs, perhaps carved by someone decades ago.

Mulaghesh gets down on her elbows and knees and watches as Pandey finishes climbing down the narrow staircase and walks over to the sculling shell. He looks around, then looks up.

She moves back, waits, and then looks back out again.

Pandey is now stripping down to his undergarments, carefully folding his clothes and setting them on the gravel. Even though it’s evening and cooling off quick, he’s naked to the waist now, wearing only a pair of dark gray breeches. He shoves the sculling shell out onto the waves, wading in chest-deep, and then ably lifts himself up and into the shell. She sees his rowing prowess hasn’t diminished one jot, for he capably navigates his way through the jagged rocks and out to the sea, where another craft is ponderously making its way north to meet him.

Mulaghesh shields her eyes and squints at the craft. The boat is not half as sleek as Pandey’s, a fat washtub of a thing. She takes out her spyglass and places it to her eye, and is not surprised to see it is Signe laboring away at the two oars…though she is a little surprised to see that SDC’s chief technology officer has also stripped down quite a bit for this jaunt, though she still wears her scarf. Even if she’s holding a clandestine meeting with a spy, it’s…a bit much.

“What the hells?” mutters Mulaghesh.

When Pandey’s shell nears Signe he pops the oars out, slides them in, and hops into the open water. Mulaghesh feels cold just watching him. He loops a rope to the prow of his shell, frog-kicks over to Signe’s bathtub of a boat, and knots it to the stern, with her assistance. When he grabs onto the edge of the boat Signe leans out over him, and Mulaghesh frowns when she sees the huge, ecstatic grin bloom on the Dreyling girl’s face.

Pandey lifts himself out of the water, shoulders rippling and flexing, and places a kiss upon the smile.

Mulaghesh’s mouth drops open. “Oh. Oh.”

Pandey climbs in with Signe and rows to some hidden, rocky inlet along the coast. As the boats slowly leave Mulaghesh’s range of vision Signe undoes her ponytail, her bright gold hair rippling down in a shimmering curtain, and then she reaches down and starts to lift her shirt.

“Oh, shit,” says Mulaghesh. She lowers the spyglass, ashamed.

“Yes,” says a voice behind her.

Mulaghesh jumps so much she almost goes tumbling off the cliffs. She turns to see Sigrud about twenty feet down the cliff, sitting with his legs dangling over the edge and watching the waters with a strange look on his face, as if he is both puzzled and pleased by what he just saw.

“Damn it!” says Mulaghesh. “You nearly made me kill myself just then!”

Sigrud is silent.

“You were following her, weren’t you?” asks Mulaghesh.

“Yes,” he says. “And you were following yours.”

“Right. So your daughter…Uh, and Pandey…” Mulaghesh scratches the back of her head.

“They are lovers,” says Sigrud.

“Well, if they weren’t already it sure looks like they’re going to be.”

“No…The familiarity of their movements…They have done this before, many times.”

Mulaghesh holds up her hands. “Okay, please stop. Remember this is your daughter you’re talking about.”

“Why should this discomfort me, to see my daughter doing this?” He looks into the sunset. “Two young people who nearly died last night, embracing life. That was what I saw.”

“With a…With a damned sergeant major in the Saypuri Military? I thought Signe would be into, I don’t know, some astronomically wealthy banker or something. Or at least someone of her own race. A Saypuri courting a Dreyling…I can’t imagine how such a thing would work. He’d need to tie cans on his feet to dance with her.”

“You underestimate her.”

“Maybe. Either way, it’s dangerous.”

“Affairs of the heart often are.”

“Don’t get sentimental with me. There’s a lot that could go wrong here. If either of them is telling the other anything…”

Sigrud thinks about it. “I do not care.”

“You what?”

“I do not care about espionage, about decorum, about security. I worried my daughter had only work in her life, only success or miserable failure. To see her smile in such a manner makes my heart glad.”

“Well, goody for your fucking heart! Pandey was one of my soldiers. I can’t believe he’s…fraternizing with a foreign official in such a manner!”

“Didn’t you sleep with a member of the Bulikov police department?” asks Sigrud.

“That’s beside the point!” snarls Mulaghesh. “The stakes were different then!”

“Were they?” Sigrud scratches his chin. “They are young. Both of them leave soon for uncertain fates. I say let them be humans for as long as circumstances allow. Why is this breach of decorum your concern, when so much else is at risk?”

“And I thought I was getting old and soft. You sound like a cheap novel, Chancellor.” She sighs. “Come on. Help me get my broken ass back to HQ.”