City of Stairs (The Divine Cities, #1)(99)

“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. Dealing death, after all, is a solitary affair.” 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. “And I have always been so much better at dealing it alone.”

“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?”