“Clever. So. The only possible reason someone of your level, whatever it is, would come to be in Bulikov now…Well, it’d have to be Pangyui, wouldn’t it? But I’ve no idea why you’ve come to me. I avoided the man like the plague. Too many political consequences.”
Shara says, “The Restorationists.”
Vohannes nods slowly. “Ah. I see…How very political of you. Who better to tell you about them than one of the people they hate most in the world?” Vohannes considers it. “Let us discuss this somewhere else,” he says. “Somewhere with less of an echo.”
* * *
—
Morotka, the Votrov valet, stamps his feet in the cold. It is remarkably stupid that he’s out here. The party started, what, one hour ago? Less? Yet as house valet, it’s Morotka’s duty to hold the door for all guests, call the cars up, and get them settled. And so many of these foolish people enjoy dropping in, being seen, making an appearance, whatever you’d like to call it, so they leave quite quickly. Mr. Votrov is canny enough to know that these people, regretfully, are usually more important than most, and require unusual glad-handing. But could they not make their appearance just long enough to allow Morotka a swig of plum wine, a pinch of snuff, and a few seconds with his feet by the fire? No, no, of course not, so he stamps his feet in the cold and wonders if kitchen duty would better serve him. He doesn’t mind carrots and potatoes. He could live with that.
There is a clunking to the west, like a can rolling along the street. Curious, he peers out. He sees one guard on the west manor wall—but shouldn’t there be two? Mr. Votrov prefers that his guests do not see the ugly necessities his rather radical positions require, but usually once the reception begins, it’s security as normal.
Morotka grunts. Perhaps the fool is wise enough, he thinks, to shirk outdoors duty when he can. Yet then he squints. Is there something on the wall? Something moving very slowly toward the remaining guard?
Headlights flare at the end of the drive. A car coughs to life and trundles toward the house.
“Oh, no,” says Morotka. He steps out and waves his arm. “No, no, no. What are you doing?”
The car continues toward him. As it wheels around the drive, Morotka shouts, “You come when you’re called, all right? I haven’t flagged you yet. I don’t care what your master says, you come when you’re called.”
As the car pulls up before him, Morotka sees movement on the manor wall out of the corner of his eye: a dark figure peeps up, points something at the remaining guard. There is a click, and the guard goes stiff and tumbles backward, his tin hat bouncing off the wall to clatter and clunk to the street below.
There is the glimmer of a bolt-point in the window of the car. A voice says, “But we have been called.”
Then a harsh click, and the car seems to fall away.
* * *
—
Sigrud stares into the fire, lost in his memories.
The blood in the water, the halberd in his hands. The monstrous shadow in the sea, thrashing, moaning, spouting gore. How he thought those days hellish, but he’d not known hell yet.
The leather of his gloved hand squeaks as he clenches his fist.
“Are you all right?” asks his companion. The woman examines him. “Would you need another glass of wine?” She gestures to a footman.
Yet then Sigrud hears it, terribly faintly, but there: a very soft click, out at the front of the house. And he knows that sound very well.
At last. A distraction.
“Here,” says the woman. She turns back around with another goblet. “Here you g—”
But she can only stare at the empty seat beside her.
* * *
—
“The enemy of old Bulikov,” says Vohannes, “is not Saypur, and it is not me, or the New Bulikov movement. It’s time.” They sit on a bed in one of the guest rooms. It is, like most of this floor, decorated in deep, warm reds and gold gilt. The estate grounds end just outside the window, and the walls gently curve around the house below. “There’s a tremendous age gap in Bulikov, you see: after the Great War and the Blink, it took so long for life to return to normal. So there’s a dying portion of the population that still remembers the old ways, and devoutly clings to them, and there’s a growing new portion of the population that never knew anything about them, and doesn’t care. They just know they’re poor, and they don’t have to be.”
“The New Bulikov movement,” says Shara.
Vohannes waves a hand at her. “That’s just a name. What we’re seeing is much bigger than politics. It’s a generational shift, and I am definitely not its creator: I’m just riding the wave.”
“And the Restorationists hate you for it.”
“Like I said, they’re fighting history. And everyone loses that fight.”
“Have they threatened you in any way, Vo?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Then why the guards out front?”
He pulls a face. “Hmph. I prefer to be discreet about that….But trust you to see. They have never threatened me directly, no. But there’s lots of political talk that teeters toward the violent side. The biggest offender being Ernst Wiclov, who is, more or less, the biggest player in the Restoration game. Another City Father. Rather dogmatic fellow. Throws a lot of money around. I suppose you could say he’s my political opponent. I never engage him—I don’t really need to—but he depicts me less as a political opponent, and more like a demon shat straight out of hell.”
“He sounds like a very wise man.”
“Don’t try to be cute. You’re terribly bad at it.”
“And this Wiclov,” says Shara, “would he…?”
“Would he have been one of the biggest agitators behind the protests against Pangyui?” Vohannes smiles savagely, a surprisingly ugly expression. “Oh, yes. I’ve no doubt he’s neck-deep in all this, and I’d not weep to see you sic your dogs on him. The man is a reeking bag of goat shit with a beard.”
“There are two other City Fathers aligned with the New Bulikov movement,” she says, “but none attract near as much hate as you.”
“Ah, well,” says Vohannes, “I’ve become a bit of an iconic figure. I have always had a taste for fashion and architecture, you know that….And part of it is that it’s fun to rile them up. I indulge in a bit of decadence right in the open, and offend their fusty old values of modesty and repression, and they let loose a string of hateful screeds that wins me however many new voters.” A dainty puff of his cigarette. “It’s win-win, from my perspective. They also mistrust my background, though….Considering my education, they believe me half-Saypuri.” Then a guilty look: “But I do have…a few projects of my own that may cause friction.”
“Such as?”
“Well…Saypur is the largest buyer of weapons in the world, of course. But all those soldiers are stuck using bolt-shots rather than rifles, just mechanized bows and arrows. The issue, as you may know, is one of saltpeter: Saypur and her supporting nations have almost none of it, and you can’t make gunpowder without it. The Continent, however, has saltpeter aplenty….”
“So you want to make munitions for Saypur?” she asks, astonished. What she does not say is: How have I not heard about this?
He shrugs. “My family made bricks. Mining isn’t that much different.”
“But, Vo, that’s…Are you an idiot?”
“An idiot?”
“Yes! That’s far, far more dangerous than any political shenanigans you’ve got planned! Collaborating with Saypur in basic trade is controversial enough, but making weapons…I’m surprised no one in Bulikov has murdered you yet!”
“Yes, well, it’s not publicly announced yet….The nation of Saypur moves slowly on deals like this, it seems.”
“So you genuinely wish to become a war profiteer?”
“What I wish,” say
s Vohannes forcefully, “is to bring industry and prosperity to Bulikov. Saypur’s industry is war. It’s the largest industry in the world. Bulikov is terribly poor—we hardly have a decent port besides Ahanashtan, whereas Ghaladesh’s shipyards belch out another dreadnought every other month—but we have a resource of use to that great and terrible industry. I can’t change the damned geopolitical circumstances, Shara. I just deal with them.”
Shara laughs in disbelief. “My, my…I’ve dealt with many petty bandit kings and warlords before, but never would I have thought to count Vohannes Votrov among them.”
Vohannes pulls himself up into a regal pose. “I am doing what I must to help my people.”
“Oh, goodness, Vo,” she sighs. “Please dispense with your rhetoric. I’ve heard enough speeches.”
“It’s not rhetoric. And it’s not a speech, Shara! I have tried to involve Saypur and her trading partners before, but Saypur does not lend us its favor—it wants to keep things the way they are, with Saypur completely in control of everything. It doesn’t want to see wealth in Bulikov any more than it wants us chanting the rites of the Divinities. If I must nakedly prostitute myself to bring aid to my city, to my country, I will gladly do so.”
He hasn’t changed any at all, really, she thinks, torn between amusement and shock. He’s still the noble idealist, in his own perverse way….
“Vo, listen,” says Shara. “I have worked with people who did the same thing you’re doing now. If I have seen one of them, I’ve seen a hundred. And most of them now feed worms, or fish, or birds, or the very deep roots of trees.”
“So. You worry for my safety.”
“Yes! Of course I do! This is not a game I wish to see you in!”
“Your game, you mean,” he says.
“Yes! I’m mostly confused why you aren’t happy where you are!”
“And where am I?”
“Well, it seems to me you’ve got vast wealth, a promising political future, and an adoring mistress!”
“Fiancée, actually,” he says, with a touch of indifference.
Something inside Shara splits open. Ice floods into her belly.
“Ah,” she says.
I shouldn’t care this much, she thinks. I am a professional, damn it all. What a stupid, stupid thing to feel….
“Yes. Wasn’t wearing her ring today. Got a rock on it like a whiskey tumbler.” He holds up a massive imaginary stone. “She says it’s conventional. Gaudy. Which it is, but. We haven’t set a date yet. Neither of us are the planning type.” He looks down at his hands. “Sorry. Probably not a fun thing to, ah”—he coughs—“to talk about.”
“I always knew you’d go on to do great things, Vo,” she says, “but to be honest I would have never pegged you as the marrying type. I mean…”
The silence stretches on.
Finally, he nods. “Yes,” he says delicately. “But. Certain practices, while acceptable abroad, are not…quite so tolerated here. Once a Kolkashtani, always a Kolkashtani…” He sighs and begins to rub his hip. “I need your help, Shara. Bulikov is a ruin of a city, yes, but it could be great. Saypur holds all the purse strings in the world—and I only need them loosened a fraction. Ask me something, ask me for anything, and I’ll do it.”
Never has the reality of my job, she thinks, seemed so unreal and so preposterous.
But before she can answer, the screams start echoing up from the floors below.
“What is that?” says Vohannes, but Shara is already at the window. She is just able to make out the form of two bodies resting in the shadow below the manor walls.
“Hm,” says Shara.
* * *
—
They kick the doors in and burst into the room in unison. It’s perfect, really: a beautiful, deadly choreography, gray cloth rippling as they descend on the decadent partygoers. Cheyschek’s mask is slipping a little—the left corner of his eye is now blind—but besides this he feels glorious, resplendent, chosen.
See these traitors and sinners quail and shriek. See them run. Look upon me, and fear me.
One of his compatriots kicks over the bar. Bottles shatter; fumes of alcohol flood the hall. Cheyschek and his brothers in arms scream at the people to get down, down, get down on the ground. Cheyschek points the bolt-shot at the one man who looks like he has some spine and howls in the man’s face and throws him to the floor.
To be a tool of the Divine, thinks Cheyschek, is thrilling and righteous.
A woman shrieks. Cheyschek screams at her to shut up.
It is over fast and easy. Which is expected from this soft, cultured sort. The polis governor, as expected, is here, though they have strict orders not to touch her. But why, why? he thinks. Why forgive the one person who’s approved so many unjust punishments?
When the hostages are cowed, Cheyschek’s leader (none of them know each other’s name—they need no names, for they are all one) paces among the partygoers, grabbing them by the hair to pull up their heads and view their faces.
After some seconds, he says, “Not here.”
“Are you sure?” Cheyschek asks.
“I know who I am looking for.” He looks among the crowd of hostages, picks one elderly woman, and lowers his bolt-shot until the bolt point hovers just before her left eye. “Where?”
She begins to weep.
“Where?”
“I don’t know what you mean!”
“Someone special is missing from here, yes?” he asks sardonically. “And where could that person be?”
The old woman, ashamed, points at the stairs.
“You wouldn’t be lying to me?” he says.
“No!” she cries. “Votrov and the woman, they went upstairs!”
“The woman?” He pauses. “So he’s not alone? You’re sure?”
“Yes. And…” She looks around.
“What? What is it?”
“The one in the red coat…I don’t see him anymore.”
“Who?” When she does not answer, he grabs a fistful of her hair and shakes her head. “Who do you mean?” he bellows.
She begins sobbing now, pushed beyond answering.
Their leader lets her go. He points at three of them, says, “Stay here. Watch them. Kill anyone who moves.” Then he points to Cheyschek and the other four. “The rest of you, upstairs with me.”
They mount the stairs silently, rushing up like wolves through mountain forests. Cheyschek is trembling with joy, excitement, rage. Such a righteous thing, to bring pain shrieking down on them out of the cold night, on the traitors and sinners and the filthy ignorant. He had expected to find them, perhaps, in the throes of some pornographic rite, their blood polluted by foreign liquors, the air stinking with incense as they shamed themselves willingly. Cheyschek has heard, for example, of places near Qivos where—with the full allowance of Saypur, of course—women walk the streets in dresses cut so short so that you can see their…their…
He colors just to think of it.
To imagine such a thing is sinful. It must be excised from the mind and the spirit.
Their leader raises a gloved hand when they hit the second floor. They stop. He swings his masked face around, peering through the tiny black eyeholes. Then he signals to them, pointing, and Cheyschek and two others fan out to search the floor while their leader and the others go upstairs.
Cheyschek sweeps the hallways, checks the rooms, but finds nothing. For such a large house, Votrov keeps it terribly empty. Another damning indication of the man’s excesses, thinks Cheyschek. He even misuses his country’s stone!
He comes to a corner, knocks twice on the wall. He listens, and hears a second knock-knock, then a third from farther in the house. He nods, satisfied that his compatriots are close, and keeps patrolling.
He looks out the windows. Nothing. Looks in the rooms. Nothing but empty beds. P
erhaps Votrov keeps his lovers here, one in each room, Cheyschek thinks, feeling scandalized and unclean.
Focus. Check in again. He knocks once more. He hears one knock-knock from somewhere else in the house, and then…
Nothing.
He pauses. Listens. Knocks again. Once more, there’s a second echoing knock, but no third.
Perhaps he is too far away to hear me. But Cheyschek knows his instructions, and he begins to backtrack, following the halls back to the stairs.
Once he reaches the stairs, he knocks twice on the walls again, and listens.
This time, nothing—no second or third knock.
He fights the growing panic in his chest and knocks again.
Nothing. He stares around, wondering what could be going on, and it is then that he sees:
There is someone sitting in the darkened second-floor foyer, sprawled back in a white overstuffed chair.
Cheyschek raises his bolt-shot. The person does not move. They do not seem to have noticed him. Cheyschek retreats to the wall, paces along the edge of the shadows with the sight of the bolt-shot on the person at all times…
Yet when he nears, he sees they are dressed in gray cloth, and there is a gray mask in their lap.
Cheyschek lowers the bolt-shot.
It is one of his comrades. Yet the man’s mask is removed, and they were ordered to never remove their masks.
Cheyschek takes two more steps forward, and stops. There is a stripe of red and purple flesh running across the man’s exposed neck, and he stares up at the ceiling with what can only be the eyes of the dead.
Cheyschek feels sick. He looks around for help, wishing to knock, to call for someone, but there is someone or something in the halls with them, and he does not want to give away his location.
This can’t be happening. They were all supposed to be socialites, artists….
Then he freezes.
Is there a gagging sound coming from the northern hallway?
He readies his bolt-shot. His pulse pounds upon his ears. He stalks forward, rounds the corner, and sees…
The Divine Cities Trilogy: City of Stairs, City of Blades, and City of Miracles, With an Excerpt From Foundryside Page 12
