“I retired, damn it. I resigned. I said I was done, that I’d done what I needed to do, thanks, leave me alone. Can’t I just be left alone? Mm? Is that so much to ask?”
“Well, the prime minister did suggest,” says Pitry slowly, “that this might be just the thing you need.”
“I need? What the hells does Shara know about what I need? What could I possibly need?”
Again, she waves her hand at her cottage, and again, Pitry looks at the reeking, filthy home, with carpets tacked up against the windows and one kitchen cabinet door askew, and the counters littered with wine bottles and fish bones and tangled, dirty clothes. Finally he looks at Mulaghesh herself, and thinks only one thing:
General Turyin Mulaghesh looks like shit. She’s obviously still in tremendous shape for a woman her age, but it’s been a long while since she bathed, there are rings under her eyes, and the clothes she’s been wearing are in desperate need of a wash. This is a far cry from the officer he once knew, the woman whose uniform was so starched you could almost carve wood with the cuffs, the woman whose glance was so bright and piercing you almost wanted to check yourself for bruises after she looked at you.
Pitry has seen someone in such a state before: when a friend of his went through a rough divorce. But he can’t imagine what Mulaghesh divorced herself from, except, of course, the Saypuri Military.
But though this explains some of what he’s witnessing, Mulaghesh’s complete and utter fall from grace is still confusing to him: because no one—not the press, not the military council, not Parliament itself—has any idea why Mulaghesh resigned in the first place. Almost a year ago now she telegraphed the Continental Herald fifteen words: “I, General Turyin Mulaghesh, resign from my position on the Saypuri Military Council, effective immediately.” And in one instant, her retirement papers were submitted, and she was gone. As with so many of Mulaghesh’s actions, what she did is inconceivable to any ambitious, motivated Saypuri: how could someone just walk away from the position of vice-chairman of the Saypuri Military Council? The vice-chairman almost always becomes chief of armed forces, the second most powerful person in the world after the prime minister. People pored through her interactions in the weeks before her resignation, but no one could find any hint of what could have pushed her over the edge.
“So this is what Shara’s become?” Mulaghesh says. “She’s a blackmailer? She’s blackmailing me into doing this?”
“Not at all. You have the option of just doing the touring shuffle and not engaging in the operation. Or, you could forgo the shuffle and accept a colonel’s pay.”
“So what’s the operation?”
“I am told we are unable to reveal that until you have fully signed on.”
Mulaghesh laughs lowly. “So I can’t figure out what I’m buying until I’ve bought it. Great. Why in hells would I want to do this?”
“Well…I think she hoped that her personal ask might suffice….”
Mulaghesh gives him a flat, stony stare.
“But in the eventuality that it did not, she did ask me to give you this.” He reaches into his satchel and holds out an envelope.
Mulaghesh glances at it. “What’s that?”
“I’ve no idea. The prime minister wrote and sealed this herself.”
Mulaghesh takes it, opens it, and reads the letter. Pitry can see pen strokes through the paper. Though he can’t read the writing, it looks to be no more than three words.
Mulaghesh stares at this letter with large, hollow eyes, and her hand begins to shake. She crumples up the letter and stares into space.
“Damn it,” she says softly. “How in the hells did she know.”
Pitry watches her. A fly lands on her shoulder, a second on her neck. She doesn’t notice.
“You wouldn’t have sent that if you hadn’t meant it, would you,” she murmurs. She sighs and shakes her head. “Damn.”
“I take it,” Pitry says, “that you are considering the operation?”
Mulaghesh glares at him.
“Just asking,” he says.
“Well. What can you tell me about this operation?”
“Very little. I know it is on the Continent. I do know that it concerns a subject lots of people are paying attention to, including some very powerful people in Ghaladesh, some of whom are not wholly benign toward the prime minister’s agendas.”
“Hence the cover story you’re giving me. I remember when we used to do this stuff to dupe other nations, not our own. Sign of the times, I suppose.”
“Things do continue to worsen in Ghaladesh,” Pitry admits. “The press likes to describe Shara as ‘embattled.’ We’re still suffering from the last round of elections. Her efforts to reconstruct the Continent continue to be enormously unpopular in Saypur.”
“Imagine that,” Mulaghesh says. “I still remember the parties when she got elected. They all thought we were about to start our Golden Age.”
“The voting public remains quite fickle. And for some, it’s easy to forget that the Battle of Bulikov took place only five years ago.”
Mulaghesh pulls her prosthetic arm in closer, as if it pains her. Pitry feels like the temperature in the room has just dropped ten degrees. Suddenly she looks a great deal more like the commander Pitry saw that day, when the god spoke from the sky and the buildings burned and Mulaghesh bellowed at her soldiers to man the fortifications.
“I haven’t forgotten,” she says coldly.
Pitry coughs. “Ah, no. I don’t suppose you would have.”
Mulaghesh stares off into space for a few seconds more, lost in thought. “All right,” she says, her voice unnervingly calm. “I’ll do it.”
“You will?”
“Sure. Why not.” She places the balled-up note on the kitchen counter and smiles at him. His skin crawls: it is the not-quite-sane smile he’s seen before on the faces of soldiers who have seen a lot of combat. “What’s the worst that can happen?”
“I…I’m sure the prime minister will be delighted,” says Pitry.
“So what is the operation?”
“Well, like I said, you won’t know until you’ve fully signed on….”
“I just said yes, damn it all.”
“And you won’t be considered fully signed on until you’re on the boat.”
Mulaghesh shuts her eyes. “Oh, for the love of…”
Pitry slides one file out of the satchel and hands it to her. “Here are your instructions for your transportation. Please make note of the date and time. I believe I will be rejoining you for at least part of your trip, so I expect I will see you again in three weeks.”
“Hurrah.” Mulaghesh takes the file. Her shoulders slump a little. “If wisdom comes with age, why do I keep making so many bad decisions, Pitry?”
“I…don’t think I feel qualified to answer that question.”
“Well. At least you’re honest.”
“Might I ask for a favor, ma’am? I need to return to Ghaladesh for some final preparations, but, considering today’s events, I…” He glances at her various armaments.
“Would like something to defend yourself with on the road back to port?”
“I mistakenly assumed Javrat would be civilized.”