City of Blades (The Divine Cities)

By Robert Jackson Bennett

A successful go back to the realm of City of Stairs.
 
A iteration in the past, the town of Voortyashtan was once the stronghold of the god of conflict and demise, the birthplace of fearsome supernatural sentinels who killed and subjugated hundreds of thousands.
 
Now, the city’s god is lifeless. town itself lies in ruins. And to its new army occupiers, the once-powerful capital is a desolate tract of sectarian violence and bloody uprisings.
 
So it makes ideal feel that normal Turyin Mulaghesh— foul-mouthed hero of the conflict of Bulikov, rumored warfare felony, best friend of an embattled top Minister—has been exiled there to count number down the times until eventually she will draw her pension and be forgotten.  
 
at the least, it makes the right cover story.
 
in truth that the overall has been pressed into carrier one final time, dispatched to enquire a discovery with the aptitude to alter the world--or break it.
 
the difficulty is this previous soldier is not definite she's nonetheless received what it takes to be the hero.

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Odds are a person in that room stands out as the individual answerable for stealing these explosives—and probably the thinadeskite, too. ” “I’m now not a brain reader, Lalith. ” “But you’re higher than not anything. And not anything is what we have. ” He stares glumly into his wineglass, then drains it. “Harkvaldsson despatched us new forecasts. 3 months till the harbor and rivers are dredged. Then years until eventually the harbor itself is a functioning port. She says the dredging is the not easy part—they’ve been at it for years already. And from an engineering perspective, that may be real. yet I’m eager about what comes after. ” “After? ” “What’s it going to price to maintain the peace? and the way lengthy are we going to be the following? ” He appears at her balefully. “Not we all are lauded heroes like you, Turyin. We don’t get to hop from position to put. a few can be crusing out of that port quickly. yet I won’t. I anticipate me and the remainder of the troops the following could be in Voortyashtan for an extended, very long time. ” i used to be informed she spoke, as soon as, in more youthful days. i used to be informed the opposite Divinities may see her face, her eyes, her smile, and she or he could consult them, occasionally as a pal. yet not more. whilst I observed her there has been basically her queer, chilly faceplate—how I hated its placid expression, a mockery of a face—and the unending silence of her eyeless gaze. Empress of Graves, Queen of Grief, She Who Clove the Earth in Twain. I was hoping to by no means pay attention Voortya converse. —MEMOIRS OF SAINT KIVREY, PRIEST AND 78TH WIFE-HUSBAND OF JUKOV, C. 982 Mulaghesh is in a cheerless temper whilst she walks into the SDC board membership. She’s performed not anything the following yet locate extra questions, each extra troubling than the final. And whereas before everything she frightened over how Sumitra Choudhry may have recognized in regards to the murders ahead of they occurred, now she retains considering what Gozha acknowledged on the charcoal maker’s shack…. a brief lady, thinks Mulaghesh. each inch of dermis hid. Choudhry got here right here 8 months in the past. The murders at Ghevalyev happened seven months in the past. Then Choudhry disappeared months later. The timing’s right—Choudhry was once within the region—though does an individual have any evidence that Choudhry’s no longer in Voortyashtan now, hiding out? Let’s now not bounce to conclusions, she thinks, shoving the door open. no matter if they appear really easy to get to. She sits, and the Dreyling boy with the wispy mustache slinks out of the key door within the wall and areas a platter earlier than her: fried biscuits, quite a few smoked or pickled fish, and a few kind of darkish eco-friendly concoction that Mulaghesh isn’t conversant in and doesn’t desire to be. She assessments the clock at the wall. simply prior 1900. but there’s no Signe in sight. She pulls out her portfolio and idly flips in the course of the records she present in Choudhry’s room. She stares on the portray of Vallaicha Thinadeshi, puzzling over what grave she lies in during this nation. “Why are you studying approximately Thinadeshi? ” asks a voice over her shoulder. “Huh? ” She appears as much as locate Signe status over her, clipboard nestled below her arm, a grey shawl piled round her neck, and a tiny porcelain thimble of ink-black espresso in her hand.

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