by Claire North
“Our failure to determine Pontus’ identity at that time was a disappointment, of course. It contributed to my exposure and the death of my handler. It has led to many of your defeats during the war as Pontus continues to transmit vital intelligence to Georg. However that only made the search more urgent.
“Two questions remained: was there any way in which Pav could be Pontus, despite his apparent alibi, and, if not, how could someone else get the document from Pav’s system to Georg? Krima vaMiyani was aware of this mystery and pursued it, causing I have no doubt deep discomfort to any and all on Pav’s staff who might have had access to his inkstone and the more classified materials within Council premises. But she found nothing.”
Krima is stone, her long fingers poised to drum on the tabletop, without moving.
“This, of course, put the suspicion on Krima herself. How hard can it be to catch a spy? And if she were Pontus, she would have access to the intelligence that was being fed to Georg, as well as regular access to Pav. There was also her attempt to recruit me in Vien – presumably for Council purposes, but the crudeness of the approach also raised the question of whether this was a counter-intelligence move by Pontus against the inquisition, to sound out whether I was capable of turning traitor. No evidence emerged conclusively either way.
“It is an error for a spy to assume their opposite number is in any way like them. It is a presumption that only clouds investigation. But I had a lot of time in Bukarest to think about how I would go about being Pontus.
“First, consider Council security. Much like Georg, each of you has an inkstone and a fixed terminal secured with biometrics and a passcode. These things are not impossible to break into, of course, but doing so takes time and skill. Nothing electronic is permitted to leave or enter Council buildings unless it has been cleared in advance through a torturous bureaucratic process, which means if you are being hacked, it must happen on site. None of you are able to remove your inkstones, with classified material, from Council premises, and at night they are locked away in a secure charging port. Your networks are isolated from other servers, and your offices regularly inspected. Again, all this would point the finger of blame at Krima, as hers is the department responsible for counter-intelligence and thus the most likely source of any failure in the system; but, then again, insufficiency is not evidence of betrayal. So I ask myself: how would I beat the system?
“The first step is to use analogue technology, rather than attempt a hack. I used it in Vien myself to take photographs of documents using chemically developed microfilm, which I would leave in capsules at dead drops for Nadira to collect. The camera need be no bigger than the end of a spoon, and may be manufactured from mechanical moving parts, rather than electronic ones. I found capsules in Bukarest that resembled the photographic capsules I myself used to conduct my espionage. I also found the microdrone that Pontus uses to send their packages to Georg. They can fly by night and recharge in the morning – a perfectly discreet tool, so long as the weather’s not too bad.
“Both these items support the hypothesis that Pontus is using microfilm to smuggle intelligence out from Council buildings – film that would not be detected by your electronic or manual searches – and sending it in drones, rather than transmitted over any network, to Georg.
“We know that Pontus transmits highly classified intelligence, but how did they specifically access intelligence on Pav’s inkstone, when he himself was not in the building? Let us eliminate, for now, the notion that Pontus is somehow… shimmying through the window to access Pav’s office and rifle through his private things. And let us eliminate from our list of suspects those staff of Pav’s who may have had access to his files while he was on retreat, given that Krima has already investigated them. If Krima herself were Pontus, that same investigation would be a good opportunity to find a scapegoat, so we will cautiously accept its veracity for now. Yet the fact remains that someone must be accessing Pav’s inkstone – an item which is either secured and guarded when he leaves or which he carries with him at all times, full of classified material.”
“My inkstone never leaves my sight.” Pav’s voice rises sharply, bristling with something of the old pride. “From the moment I check into the building to the moment I leave, it is attached to me.”
I half-nod, raising a hand in placation. “Of course. I have seen your security. Nothing in, nothing out. And you are all experienced – none of you would just… leave classified material lying around. Yet there is a weakness. Something that makes Pav in particular vulnerable to attack. On Kirrk, I saw you praying to the dawn. Repentance, the gossips say – nothing quite as pious as the man who has repented of past sins. How do you pray?”
“I beg your pardon?” blurts Pav.
“When you pray. How do you pray?”
“That is a very personal question, especially coming from a priest.”
“Do you put your hands together, like this?” I raise my hands, palm to palm, touch the fingertips to my lips. “Do you listen to the sky above you, and feel the earth below?” I bow my head in thanks to the breath in my lungs and the ground beneath my feet. “Do you close your eyes?”
I close my eyes, and in my mind Lah whispers: We give thanks. We give thanks.
There you are, Lah. There you are.
I open my eyes again, look up to see the whole room staring at me, Pav’s eyes so wide they must have ached in his narrow face.
“Council and Temple have always been… close. Perhaps too much. In every Assembly and every Council building I have ever been to, there is a room set aside – a shrine – where people go to pray. There’s one here, in this building. I imagine, Pav, that when you come to work you pass through security, collect your inkstone, head to your office – but before you reach it you stop. You enter the shrine. You take off your shoes, put your bag down by the wall – not exactly out of reach, but not in your grasp either – kneel before the kakuy stone and close your eyes to pray. I imagine it is a comforting ritual. I imagine you arrive early to ensure you have enough time to catch those few minutes when the shrine is quiet, without singing or the ringing of bells. Just a few people around in the morning, hands clasped, eyes closed, like you. You may only be in there for a few minutes, but it is enough. For those brief moments, your inkstone is not in your hands. It is unwatched.”
For a moment, I think Pav is going to splutter, mock, deride the whole idea. His eyes flicker to his colleagues, but Krima is stone, Witt a bastion of folded arm and crossed leg, Jia leaning forward with that same automatic smile locked on her lips, curious and polite. “All right,” he exclaims at last. “So for maybe three minutes my inkstone is not in my actual hand. So what? It has never been stolen, and no one can unlock it without my code and fingerprint. Three minutes is not enough to hack a stone. What do you propose?”
“I agree – it would be impossible to hack your inkstone in that time, and you have never noticed its absence. But you do pray in the morning, yes? And in the evening too?”
“A few minutes. A brief ritual. What of it? My inkstone is neither accessed nor stolen.”
“The problem with theft is not the stealing of the object – it’s that someone almost immediately notices that it’s happened. Three minutes of prayer is not long enough to bypass your inkstone’s security and photograph classified documents. To do that, Pontus needs several hours at least. My theory is that Pontus steals your inkstone in the evening, as you are on your way out. When you stop to pray, or are in the bathroom or the last meeting of the day – a momentary lapse of attention, a few seconds for Pontus to slip a hand into your bag. That’s when they swipe your stone, knowing you aren’t going to check it again before securing it away under guard and key.”
“How precisely does Pontus do that? I do secure my inkstone, every night. Every night it is locked away, and every morning I recover it. You’re saying I have been robbed and not noticed?”
“That is precisely what I’m saying. Pontus doesn’t just steal – th
ey swap. They replace your inkstone, the real inkstone, with a copy that to all intents and purposes looks the same, which, if you turned it on, would show perhaps an unexpectedly low battery – ah, I see that’s happened to you before. You return this inkstone to its dock to charge, and in the morning collect it, and go to pray, and when you are praying, that is when Pontus completes the switch, returning your real inkstone to your bag while you sit in devotion. It is risky, of course. A rare, dangerous risk. Pontus has to stay late, three or four hours to hack the inkstone and leave it downloading its material overnight. They’ll have to photograph everything they steal, of course, since they can’t smuggle out any digital device containing your archives – that also slows down the process. But for the wealth of material, it’s entirely worth the risk. What makes it feasible is your piety. Your piety makes you predictable. It makes you weak. That is how Pontus steals from Pav Krillovko.”
Silence in the room. I half-expect a slow hand-clap from Krima, but none comes. In the end, it is Witt who speaks. “If we accept this… somewhat fanciful hypothesis… explain this: There are no electronics in and out which are not logged. So how has Pontus managed to smuggle in some… dummy inkstone, some unauthorised device to swap with Krillovko’s own?”
“That’s simple,” I reply. “Inkstones are modular, made for easy repair. Each component is small enough that you could hide it in a shoe or at the bottom of a purse. Sky and earth, you probably even have a technical department in this building that has boxes of the larger, more difficult parts you might need to assemble a stone. All you need to do is gather each component one at a time, over the course of a few months, maybe a year, and put them together. She builds it.”
There is a silence in which even dust in the air dares not ripple.
There is a silence where the forest grows; listen, and you can hear the leaves unfurl.
“The rest is simple,” I say, and it is not, and it is the hardest thing in the world. “Temple has every report I ever sent as Kadri Tarrad. These include the times and dates when I was given classified material by Georg – stolen documents sent to him by Pontus. We know the model of drone that is used by Pontus to send Georg information. We know it’s likely flight time from Budapesht to Vien. This is enough for you to begin to build a picture of when Pontus stole Pav’s inkstone. Prayer is private, but entry and exit times to the building are not. Pontus does not need to have a high security clearance – just high enough that she is regularly seen in the same place as Pav, at the back of meetings or popping into the shrine now and then for a moment of peace. The list of suspects writes itself. On the nights Pontus stole Pav’s inkstone, she would have had to stay late to work, those dangerous few hours in which she was hacking his device. Perhaps she couldn’t smuggle in the larger components with which to build an inkstone entirely, which means there will be maintenance records of her requesting them – a spare battery, perhaps, or a new screen cover – harmless repairs. Nothing to arouse suspicion, unless you’re looking. Line these up and you’re done. You have Pontus. It is over. The only question remaining is – what are you going to do with her?”
What does the mountain feel, when the seasons turn? Rain, sun, snow, wind, the slow indentation of the river down its back, the patter-patter-patter of a thousand creatures scuttling across its chest, the moon rises and sets, the shadows turn and turn and turn again, and only the mountain remains.
Do not make me a mountain, I pray. I think I would go mad.
Jia stands, and she is not looking at me. Forgive me stars, forgive me the water that we share, Jia is looking at the woman sat behind me.
She is looking at Yue.
So is Krima, and now Pav too. Only Witt hasn’t lifted his gaze from the table, but he’ll come round in time. With Jia on her feet, the rest of us rise, Yue last, and for a moment the old woman sways as if this little breath, this room of exhaling people, were a storm too great for her to bear.
Then she says: “Krima. Do you accept what this priest has to say?”
Krima is quiet a long, long time. Then: “Yes.”
“Pav?”
“I… it merits consideration. It is… but it merits… it would be worth considering more.”
Jia’s eyes have not left Yue’s face. “Is there something you would like to add, Taaq? Is there… a reason your friend has brought you here, today?”
Yue is silent. I cannot turn to see her face. Even the mountain would break.
“I think,” she says at last, “that I would like to negotiate.”
Chapter 62
There is a time after.
After everything.
They send me back to Temple.
I think I am escorted, but it is hard to say.
Yue does not look at me as she is led away.
Here, said Jaqcs, here. I find this a lovely spot to sit, beneath the cherry tree.
You can take one of the hot stones we keep by the stove and stick it under your robes, such a lovely sensation, when I was a novice I would put one behind my back and curl over it like a cat, chest to the sky, it was the most wonderful feeling.
Here.
Have some tea.
When the snow falls all around, but you are warm, there is something in the silence, in the way the light is different in winter, it is quite…
You probably are insane – your word, not mine – but you’ve got a few more weeks of good use in you before you crack completely.
Do you want to talk about it?
Maybe later.
Jia has asked that you stay in temple grounds, and I wanted to show you my favourite spot, my favourite…
You’ve really done your best.
I think you need to know that.
Everyone thinks you’ve done… very well.
Really made a difference.
I’ll…
… leave you to it.
… we’ve prepared a room…
… all spick and span…
Well.
Well.
I will see you at the ringing of the bell.
When the dinner bell rings I do not hear it, and a novice comes to bring me to the hall. My fingers and toes have gone blue. Jaqcs was right – it is a very nice cherry tree. There are early spring buds, tiny and crimson, on the ends of the matt-grey twigs.
There are prayers, which I mouth.
There are bowls of soup, steamed dumplings, roasted vegetables and thick yoghurt to take away the heat of some of the more liberally deployed smoked spices. Whoever has decided to claim the kitchen as their domain would not have been contested in their mastery. My room is slightly smaller than the attic where I slept on the floor in Bukarest, and clean. The walls are paper bricks lined with bamboo. There is a spider-silk woven tapestry on one side depicting kakuy representing patience, generosity, balance, compassion and so on. It is a bit of a metaphorical stretch, but then, as Lah would say – bums on seats. No point preaching the oneness of the universe, the inter-connectedness of all things and the harmony of being if no one turns up to hear the sermon. Nice bit of singing, biscuits straight from the oven. That joke you know, Ven – the one about the anemone – it’s so lame it’s almost funny again, yes?
Lah is decaying in a corner, smiling as the maggots wriggle from out their eyes. They’d hoped for crows – lovely creature, a crow, carrion are always so much smarter than your standard herbivore, count to seven, bring its friends, always know which Medj had a soft spot for feeding it leftovers – love a crow. Be eaten by a crow. Couldn’t ask for a better end. Not that they have anything against maggots. Whatever gets the job done.
The midnight bell rings, and will not ring again until dawn.
This is an hour to pray.
How hard can it be?
The kakuy don’t listen, there is no god who cares – gods are human things – but that’s never really been the point.
Pray for yourself.
Pray for something worthwhile.
&
nbsp; Pray for good things to happen.
Pray for it to be all right.
Pray for hope.
Pray for forgiveness.
Pray for yourself.
Be someone worth praying for.
Useless bastard, pray.
Empty little eggshell, pray.
Well.
Maybe tomorrow.
Chapter 63
Tomorrow came, and the day after, and the day after that, and on the fourth day they called me back.
Not to Council halls.
To a small house on the edge of the city, pressed behind strawbale walls, a garden of winter vines, security dressed in civilian clothes and the shutters locked on the low windows. They asked me to wait in the pantry, near the stove, brought me dark brown tea and a honey cake served with a petal on top. Krima came down first, saw my food and drink untouched, didn’t bother to sit, barked: “She says she’ll talk to you.”
I rose without a word, followed Krima up the creaking stairs to a door with a bolt across it, a woman guarding it with a set of keys. Waited for it to be unlocked. Followed Krima inside.
Yue sat on the rolled-up cylinder of her mattress, elbows on knees, head turned towards the thin light that drifted down from the single window. There was a stool opposite her, unoccupied, an empty plate by her side, and a clay cup and beaker of water. She wore clothes of thick winter grey and had no shoes. Her head didn’t turn from its contemplation of the light until the door clicked shut, and when she at last looked to see me there was a flicker of surprise.
“Ven. I wasn’t sure they’d bring you. I hope it wasn’t too far to come.”
I folded myself down onto the stool, adjusted it a little so I faced her, pulled my inquisitor robes a bit tighter around my neck for warmth, let my hands hang loose. Krima stood by the door, leant against it with arms folded, a weary bend in the curve of her spine. “Yue,” I said. “They are treating you well?”
“Oh yes, fine. It’s all pretty procedural.”
