City of Stairs (The Divine Cities, #1)(98)

“Perhaps. But. If so …” Again, Sigrud shrugs. “Then I would die.”

Nesrhev and the other officers stare at him in disbelief.

Shara clears her throat. “Before we continue down this line of thinking,” she says, “I’d first like to ask if Captain Nesrhev would approve.”

“Why the hells would you care about that?” asks Nesrhev. “It’s up to you if your man wants to get himself killed.”

“Well, despite all the Regulations, that thing under the ice is considered holy by most of the Continent,” says Shara. “It is, after all, a creature of stories and myths valued by your culture. It’s part of your heritage. If you wish us to kill it—to kill what is, in effect, a living legend—we would want to have your express permission to do so.”

Nesrhev’s face sours. “You,” he says, “are trying to cover your ass.”

“Perhaps. But Urav is an integral part to some of your treasured myths. We are not Continentals. To some Continentals, if we are successful in killing Urav, it would be tantamount to destroying a historic work of art.”

“In this case, though,” says Mulaghesh, “it’s a work of art that’s running around murdering people.”

Shara nods. “Quite.”

Nesrhev grimaces. As he wrestles with his position, three policemen come staggering up, panting: one of them is Viktor, the officer sent to warn Mikhail and Ornost; the other two are presumably those same two men. One of them is clutching his right arm, which is slick with blood.

“Mikhail’s hurt,” says Viktor. “It got his arm, and it … it took some fingers.”

Nesrhev pauses. He looks out at the soft light under the ice. Then: “Both of you, get back to the station and to the infirmary.” He looks to Sigrud: “What do you need?”

Sigrud looks back out at the river. “I will need,” he says thoughtfully, “two hundred feet of towing rope, three lengths of sailing rope a hundred feet in length, a lantern, two halberds, three strong fishing spears, and several gallons of fat.”

“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 of fish, 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 iron,” 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?”