Even today, after we have attempted so much research and recovered so many artifacts, we still have no visual concept of what they looked like. All the sculptures, paintings, murals, bas-reliefs, and carvings render the figures either indistinct or incoherently. For in one depiction Kolkan appears as a smooth stone beneath a tree; and in another, a dark mountain against the bright sun; and in yet another, a man made of clay seated on a mountain. And these inconsistent portrayals are still a great improvement over others, which render their subjects as a vague pattern or color hanging in the air, no more than the stroke of a brush: for example, if we are to take the Continent’s ancient art at its word, the Divinity Jukov mostly appeared as a storm of starlings.
As in so many of these studies, it is difficult to conclude anything from such disparate scraps. One must wonder if the subjects of these works of art actually chose to present themselves this way. Or, perhaps, the subjects were experienced in a manner that was impossible to translate in conventional art.
Perhaps no one on the Continent ever quite knew what they were seeing. And now that the Divinities are gone, we might never know.
Time renders all people and all things silent. And gods, it seems, are no exception.
—“THE NATURE OF CONTINENTAL ART,”
DR. EFREM PANGYUI
WE MUST CIVILIZE THEM
She watches.
She watches the crumbling arches, the leaning, bulky vaults, the tattered spires and the winding streets. She watches the faded tracery on the building facades, the patchwork of tiles on the sagging domes, the soot-stained lunettes, and the warped, cracked windows. She watches the people—short, rag-wrapped, malnourished—stumbling through oblong portals and porticoes, beggars in a city of spectral wonders. She sees everything she expected to see, yet all these dreary ruins set her mind alight, wondering what they could have been like seventy, eighty, ninety years ago.
Bulikov. City of Walls. Most Holy Mount. Seat of the World. The City of Stairs.
She’d never figured that last one out. Walls and mounts and seats of the world—that’s something to brag about. But stairs? Why stairs?
Yet now Ashara—or just Shara, usually—finally sees. The stairs lead everywhere, nowhere: there are huge mountains of stairs, suddenly rising out of the curb to slash up the hillsides; then there will be sets of uneven stairs that wind down the slope like trickling creeks; and sometimes the stairs materialize before you like falls on whitewater rapids, and you see a huge vista crack open mere yards ahead.…
The name must be a new one. This could have only happened after the War. When everything … broke.
So this is what the Blink looks like, she thinks. Or, rather, this is what it did.…
She wonders where the stairs went before the War. Not to where they go now, that’s for sure. She struggles with the reality of where she is, of how she came here, of how this could possibly really be happening.…
Bulikov. The Divine City.
She stares out the car window. Once the greatest city in the world, yet now one of the most ravaged places known to man. Yet still the population clings to it: it remains the third or fourth most populated city in the world, though once it was much, much larger. Why do they stay here? What keeps these people in this half-city, vivisected and shadowy and cold?
“Do your eyes hurt?” asks Pitry.
“Pardon?” says Shara.
“Your eyes. Mine would swim sometimes, when I first came here. When you look at the city, in certain places, things aren’t quite … right. They make you sick. It used to happen a lot more, I’m told, and it happens less and less these days.”
“What is it like, Pitry?” asks Shara, though she knows the answer: she has read and heard about this phenomenon for years.
“It’s like … I don’t know. Like looking into glass.”
“Glass?”
“Well, no, not glass. Like a window. But the window looks out on a place that isn’t there anymore. It’s hard to explain. You’ll know it when you see it.”
The historian in her fights with her operative’s instincts: Look at the arched door ways, the street names, the ripples and dents in the city walls! says one. Look at the people, watch where they walk, see how they look over their shoulders, says the other. There are only a few people on the streets: it is, after all, well past midnight. The buildings all seem very small to her: when the car crests a hill, she looks out and sees fields of low, flat structures, all the way across to the other side of the city walls. She is not used to such a barren skyline.
They did have greater things, she reminds herself, before the War. But the curious emptiness of the skyline makes her wonder, Could so much have suddenly vanished, in a matter of minutes?
“You probably know this,” says Pitry. “But it’s good to have a car in the neighborhoods around the embassy. It’s not quite in … a reputable part of town. When we established the embassy, they say, a lot of the good sorts moved out. Didn’t want to be near the shallies.”
“Ah, yes,” says Shara. “I’d forgotten they call us that here.” Shally, she remembers, inspired by the quantity of shallots Saypuris use in their food. Which is incorrect, as any sensible Saypuri prefers garlic.
She glances at Sigrud. He stares straight ahead—maybe. It is always difficult to tell what Sigrud is paying attention to. He sits so still, and seems so blithely indifferent to all around him, that you almost treat him like a statue. Either way, he seems neither impressed nor interested in the city: it is simply another event, neither threatening violence nor requiring it, and thus not worth attention.
She tries to save her thoughts for what is sure to be a difficult and tricky next few hours. And she tries to avoid the one thought that has been eating into her since yesterday, when the telegraph in Ahanashtan unspooled into her hands. But she cannot.
Oh, poor Efrem. How could this happen to you?
* * *
CD Troonyi’s office is a perfect re-creation of a stately office in Saypur, albeit a gaudy one: the dark wooden blinds, the red floral carpet, the soft blue walls, the copper lamps with beaded chimneys above the desk. An elephant’s ear fern, indigenous to Saypur, blooms off of one wall, its fragile, undulating leaves unfurling from its base of moss in a green-gray wave; below it, a small pot of water bubbles on a tiny candle; a trickle of steam rises up, allowing the fern the humidity it needs to survive. None of this is at all, Shara notes, a melding of cultures, a show of learning and communication and postregionalism unity, as all the ministerial committees claim back in Saypur.
But the décor does not even come close to the level of transgression of what hangs on the wall behind the desk chair.
Shara stares at it, incensed and morbidly fascinated. How could he be such a fool?
Troonyi bursts into his office with a face so theatrically grave it’s like he’s died rather than Efrem. “Cultural Ambassador Thivani,” he says. He plants his left heel forward, hitches up his right shoulder, and assumes the courtliest of courtly bows. “It is an honor to have you here, even if it is under such sad circumstances.”
Immediately Shara wonders which preparatory school he attended in Saypur. She read his file before she came, of course, and it reinforced her conviction that the chaff of powerful families is all too often dumped into Saypur’s embassies across the world. And he thinks me to be from exactly such a family, she reminds herself, hence the show. “It is an honor to be here.”
“And for us, we …” Troonyi looks up and sees Sigrud slouched in a chair in the corner, idly stuffing his pipe. “Ehm. Wh-who is that?”
“That is Sigrud,” says Shara. “My secretary.”
“Must you have him here?”
“Sigrud assists me on all matters, confidential or otherwise.”
Troonyi peers at him. “Is he deaf, or dumb?”
Sigrud’s one eye flicks up for a moment before returning to his pipe.
“Neither,” says Shara.
“Well,” says Troonyi. He mops his
brow with a handkerchief and recovers. “Well, it is a testament to the good professor’s memory,” he says as he sits behind his desk, “that Minister Komayd sent someone so quickly to oversee the care of his remains. Have you traveled all night?”
Shara nods.
“My goodness gracious. How horrible. Tea!” he shouts suddenly, for no apparent reason. “Tea!” He grabs a bell on his desk and begins violently shaking it, then repeatedly slams it on the desk when it does not get the response he desires. A girl no more than fifteen swivels into the room, bearing a battleship of a tea tray. “What took you so long?” he snaps. “I have a guest.” The girl averts her eyes and pours. Troonyi turns back to Shara as if they are alone: “I understand you were nearby in Ahanashtan? An awful polis, or so I think it. The seagulls, they are trained thieves, and the people have learned from the seagulls.” With a twitch of two fingers, he waves the girl away, who bows low before exiting. “We must civilize them, however—the people, I mean, not the birds.” He laughs. “Would you care for a cup? It’s our best sirlang.…”
Shara shakes her head with the slightest of smiles. In truth Shara, a thorough caffeine addict, is in desperate need of a cup, but she’ll be damned if she takes one thing from CD Troonyi.
“Suit yourself. But Bulikov, as I’m sure you’ve heard, is quite different. It has structures that remain in place, inflexible to our influence. And I don’t just mean the walls. Why, just three months ago the polis governor had to stop them from hanging a woman for taking up with another man—I am sorry to discuss such a thing before a young woman, but—for taking up with another man after her husband died. And the man had died years ago! The City Fathers would not listen to me, of course, but Mulaghesh …” He trails off. “How odd it is that the city most decimated by the past is the also the city most dead-set against reform, don’t you think?”
Shara smiles and nods. “I agree entirely.” She tries very hard to avoid looking at the painting hanging over his shoulder. “So you do possess Dr. Pangyui’s remains?”
“What? Oh, yes,” he says around a mouthful of biscuit. “I apologize—yes, yes, we do have the body. Terrible thing. Tragedy.”
“Might I examine it before its transport?”
“You wish to see his remains? They are not … I am so sorry, but the man is not in a presentable state.”
“I am aware of how he died.”
“Are you? He died violently. Violently. It is abominable, my girl.”
My girl, thinks Shara. “That has been communicated to me. But I must still ask to see them.”
“Are you so sure?”
“I am.”
“Well … Hm.” He smears on his nicest smile. “Let me give you a bit of advice, my girl. I once was in your shoes—a young CA, patriotic, going through the motions, all the dog-and-pony shows. You know, anything to make a bit of a name for myself. But, trust me, you can send all the messages you want, but there’s no one on the other line. No one’s listening. The Ministry simply doesn’t pay attention to cultural ambassadors. It’s like hazing, my dear—you do your time until you can get out. But don’t work up a sweat. Enjoy yourself. I’m sure they’ll send someone serious on to handle it soon enough.”
Shara is not angry: her irritation has long since ebbed away into bemusement. As she thinks of a way to answer him, her eye wanders back up to the painting on the wall.
Troonyi catches her looking. “Ah. I see you’re taken with my beauty.” He gestures to the painting. “The Night of the Red Sands, by Rishna. One of the great patriotic works. It’s not an original, I’m sad to say, but a very old copy of the original. But it’s close enough.”
Even though Shara has seen it many times before—it’s quite popular in schools and city halls in Saypur—it still strikes her as a curious, disturbing painting. It depicts a battle taking place in a vast, sandy desert at night: on the closest wave of dunes stands a small, threadbare army of Saypuris, staring across the desert at an immense opposing force of armored swordsmen. The armor they wear is huge and thick and gleaming, protecting every inch of their bodies; their helmets depict the glinting visages of shrieking demons; their swords are utterly immense, nearly six feet in length, and flicker with a cold fire. The painting makes it plain that these terrifying men of steel and blade will cleave the poor, ragged Saypuris in two. Yet the swordsmen are standing in a state of some shock: they stare at one Saypuri, who stands on the top of one tall dune at the back of his army, brave and resplendent in a fluttering coat—the general of this tattered force, surely. He is manipulating a strange weapon: a long, thin cannon, delicate as a dragonfly, which is firing a flaming wad up over his army, over the heads of the opposing force, where it strikes …
Something. Perhaps a person: a huge person, rendered in shadow. It is difficult to see, or perhaps the painter was not quite sure what this figure looked like.
Shara stares at the Saypuri general. She knows that the painting is historically inaccurate: the Kaj was actually stationed at the front of his army during the Night of the Red Sands, and did not personally fire the fatal shot, nor was he near the weaponry at all. Some historians, she recalls, claim this was due to his bravery as a leader; others contend that the Kaj, who after all had never used his experimental weaponry on this scale and had no idea if it would be a success or a disaster, chose to be far away if it proved to be the latter. But regardless of where he stood, that fatal shot was the exact moment when everything started.
Enough politeness.
“Do you meet with the City Fathers of Bulikov in this office, Ambassador?” asks Shara.
“Hm? Oh, yes. Of course.”
“And have they never … commented upon that painting?”
“Not that I can recall. They are sometimes struck quiet at the sight of it. A magnificent work, if I do say so myself.”
She smiles. “Chief Diplomat Troonyi, you are aware of what the professor’s purpose was in this city?”
“Mm? Of course I am. It kicked up quite a fuss. Digging through all their old museums, looking at all their old writings.… I got a lot of letters about it. I have some of them here.” He shoves around some papers in a drawer.
“And you are aware that it was Minister of Foreign Affairs Vinya Komayd who approved his mission?”
“Yes?”
“So you must be aware that the jurisdiction of his death falls under neither the embassy, nor the polis governor, nor the regional governor, but the Ministry of Foreign Affairs itself?”
Troonyi’s birdshit-colored eyes dance as he thinks through the tiers. “I believe … that makes sense.…”
“Then perhaps what you do not know,” says Shara, “is that I am given the title of cultural ambassador mostly as a formality.”
His mustache twitches. His eyes flick to Sigrud as if to confirm this, but Sigrud simply sits with his fingers threaded together in his lap. “A formality?”
“Yes. Because while I do think you believe my appearance in Bulikov to also be a formality, you should be aware that I am here for other reasons.” She reaches into her satchel, produces a small leather shield, and slides it across the table for him to see the small, dry, neat insignia of Saypur in its center, and, written just below it, the small words: MINISTRY OF FOREIGN AFFAIRS.
It takes a while for this to fall into place within Troonyi’s head. He manages a, “Wha … Hm.”
“So yes,” says Shara. “You are no longer the most senior official at this embassy.” She reaches forward, grabs the bell on his desk, and rings it. The tea girl enters, and is a little confused when Shara addresses her: “Please fetch the maintenance staff to take down that painting.”
Troonyi practically begins to froth. “What! What do you mean by—?”
“What I mean to do,” says Shara, “is to make this office look like a responsible representative of Saypur works here. And a good way to start is to take down that painting, which romanticizes the exact moment when this Continent’s history started to take a very, very bloody tu
rn.”
“I say! It is a great moment for our people, Miss—”
“Yes, for our people. Not for theirs. I will hazard a guess, Mr. Troonyi, and say that the reason the City Fathers of Bulikov do not listen to you and do not respect you, and the reason your career has not been upwardly mobile for the past five years, is that you are willing to hang a painting on your office wall that must insult and incense the very people you were sent here to work with! Sigrud!” The giant man stands. “Since the maintenance staff responds so slowly to voices other than CD Troonyi’s, please remove that painting and break it over your knee. And Troonyi—please sit down. We need to discuss the conditions of your retirement.”
* * *
Afterward, when Troonyi is bustled away and gone, Shara returns to the desk, pours herself a generous cup of tea, and downs it. She is happy to see the painting gone, unpatriotic as these feelings may be: more and more in her service for the Ministry, such displays of jingoism put a bad taste in her mouth.
She looks over to Sigrud, who sits in the corner with his feet up on the desk, holding a scrap of the now-demolished canvas. “Well?” she says. “Too much?”
He looks up at her: What do you think?
“Good,” says Shara. “I’m pleased to hear it. It was quite enjoyable, I admit.”
Sigrud clears his throat, and says in a voice made of smoke and mud, and an accent thicker than roofing tar, “Who is Shara Thivani?”
“A mildly unimportant CA stationed in Jukoshtan about six years ago. She died in a boating accident, but she was rather surreally good at filing paperwork—everyone had records of her, and what she’d done. When it came time for her clearance to expire, and to purge her from the rolls, I opted to suspend her, and held on to her myself.”
“Because you share the same first name?”
“Perhaps. But we have other similarities—do I not look the part of a drab, unimpressive little bureaucrat?”
Sigrud smirks. “No one will believe you are just a CA, though. Not after firing Troonyi.”
City of Stairs Page 3
