In contrast, the Continent—plague-ridden, starving—sank into its own helplessness. In the absence of any single ruling force, the polises succumbed to internal conflict. Bandit kings sprang up like mushrooms. During their withdrawal, some Saypuri soldiers recorded rumors of cannibalism, torture, slavery, mass rape. The people that were once the blessed luminaries of the world had, almost overnight, descended into monstrous, barbaric savagery.
It must have seemed to the newly founded Saypuri Parliament an easy if not satisfying decision: Saypur, for so long the subservient nation, would intervene in the Continent’s affairs and bring order. They would reinvade, this time under a banner of peace, and reconstruct.
But I am not sure if they truly understood the memory of the Continent—which, despite the Blink, despite the Plague Years, despite the bandit kings—remains to this day quite long, and bitter.
They remember what they were, and they know what they have lost.
—“THE SUDDEN HEGEMONY,”
DR. EFREM PANGYUI
DANGEROUSLY HONEST
Hazy morning light trickles across the rooftops. Shara squints as she tries to discern exactly where the walls of Bulikov start and stop, but she can see only the early-morning sky—or perhaps she only imagines the diamond-flecks of stars glittering above the dawning sun. It’s not really the sun, she thinks. I’m not seeing the sky. It’s just the picture of the sun and the sky, produced by the walls. Or, at least, I think it is.… The Bulikov pigeons can tell no difference: they emerge from their roosts, fluff their feathers, and descend to the city streets in wheeling clouds.
Shara is not afraid. She tells herself this repeatedly, in the calm, cool voice of a doctor.
I have never thought of knowledge as a burden, thinks Shara, but how heavy this weighs on me.…
But inside her a small, quiet voice reminds her that this isn’t completely surprising. Shara spent enough time buried in the restricted information at the Ministry to understand that the history taught in Saypuri schools is just one variation on a story—one with many, many holes. But just because the nightmare you expected comes true, she tells herself, it doesn’t make it any less terrifying.
More and more, she worries about what could be in the Warehouse. And, more and more, she worries that someone other than Efrem could have gotten access to it. That should be impossible; but having just had what should be a dead Divinity directly address her, she knows the impossible cannot really be ruled out.
She picks up the morning paper on her desk and reads the account of the deaths last night for the hundredth time, paying close attention to two paragraphs in particular:
Vohannes Votrov expressed grief for his slain staff members and regret that the attack happened, but said he was not surprised: “With the current discourse we’re seeing in the city, I am not shocked at all that some citizens felt violence was the only answer. They are told day in and day out that [New Bulikov’s] vision for the city is one of destruction and death, that we are liars and deceivers. I have no doubt that such men felt they were acting out of a moral principle—and this I regret perhaps most of all.”
City Father Ernst Wiclov, a frequent opponent to Votrov and New Bulikov, was quick to condemn these accusations. “The very idea that someone would capitalize on such a tragedy for political gain is abhorrent,” he said in an interview mere hours after the attack. “This is a time for mourning and reflection, not self-righteous posturing.” Mr. Vohannes was not available for response.
There’s a knock at the door and Mulaghesh sticks her head in. “I didn’t want to open up shop for anyone, but I thought I’d make an exception for this—your boy is here.”
“My what?”
Mulaghesh pushes the door open the rest of the way to reveal Vohannes standing in the hallway, looking quite awkward despite his elegant gray suit and thick white fur coat.
“Ah,” says Shara. “Come in.”
Vohannes limps in. “I must say, I am happy to see you in one piece.… Two attempts on your life in one day! I thought you were important, Shara, but not …” He rubs his hip. “Not that important.”
Shara rolls her eyes. “I see your charm has not been dulled by all the excitement. Please sit down, Vo. I have some rather bad news for you.”
As he does, Shara finds she only hates herself a little for finding this all a fortunate coincidence: she needs Vohannes to be frightened in order to do what she needs him to.
“Bad news?” asks Vo. “Beyond all the damage and … and stains done to my home?”
“We are happy to compensate you for that,” says Shara. “Those damages were done, after all, by a Ministry employee.”
“That man works for the Ministry? For you? But he’s a Dreyling, isn’t he? Haven’t they all become savages and pirates since their little kingdom collapsed?”
“Maybe so,” says Shara, “but he saved your life.”
Vohannes pauses while taking out a cigarette. “Well, I don’t think … Wait, what? My life?”
“Yes,” says Shara. “Because those men were not there for me. They were there for you, Vo.”
He stares at her. The cigarette hovers an inch from Vohannes’s open mouth.
“That would be the bad news I just mentioned,” she says gently. “He … He what?”
Shara summarizes what she learned from her interrogation of the surviving attacker. “I can say, though, that you are quite lucky to be sitting in front of me,” she says mildly. “I am probably the only person on the Continent right now who can help you.”
“Help me what?”
“Help you stay alive. Did you see how those men were dressed?”
His face grows slightly bitter. “Kolkashtani robes …”
“Yes. Those haven’t been seen on the Continent for decades. They were devotees of the Divinity Kolkan. This is not a matter of politics, I think, Vo—I think it is a matter of faith. These men are willing to die for what they believe. And they need something from you. And if they’re willing to die, they’re definitely willing to try again.”
“Try again to get … what?”
“The attacker I questioned was not in a … state where he could provide much detail, but he said they specifically needed your metal. Do you know what that means?”
Vohannes stares into space for nearly a minute before he’s capable of processing her question. “My metal?”
“Yes. I don’t believe he meant anything precious—gold, silver, or anything like that. But as you said, you’re playing into the resources game … so I wondered.”
“Well … I told you my biggest project is saltpeter … which isn’t a metal, you know.”
“I am familiar with the nature of metals,” she says. “We did go to school together, you know.”
“Right, right … The only other thing I could think of”—Vohannes scratches an eyebrow, smooths it down—“would probably be the steelworks. But that’s incredibly new.”
“Steel?”
“Yes. No one else on the Continent can produce steel—mostly because no one can afford the process.”
“But you can?”
“Yes, to a limited degree. It takes a specialized kind of furnace, which is expensive to build and maintain. It’s a bit of a test project, and one I’m not very much interested in because it’s so damn expensive. And because Bulikov isn’t building anything big or grand enough to require steel.”
“But you are producing steel?”
“Yes. I’ve no idea why some reactionary Restorationist would want it, though.”
“He suggested it was for ships that would sail through the air.”
“He said it was for what?”
Shara shrugs. “It’s what he said.”
“So this man is insane. Barking mad, surely. I admit, it’s a bit of a relief to hear it.…”
“He was in an induced state, let’s say. But we can’t question him anymore, I’m afraid. The man has died.”
“How?”
Shara is silent. Sh
e briefly remembers the sight of the boy’s face, flames filling his mouth as he tried to scream.…“I can’t say at the moment,” she says. “But it was unpleasant. All of this is unpleasant to me, Vo. And I don’t like that you’re at the middle of it. You’re a lightning rod, it seems.” She gently touches the newspaper before her. “And I do not want you to make it worse.”
Vohannes studies her. “Oh … Oh, Shara. I hope you are not about to suggest what I think you are about to suggest.”
“I will go ahead and assume you’ve had visitors from all your supporters and allies,” says Shara, “and I will assume they have all told you, in varying terms, how you have just been handed some very valuable political capital. Being attacked, and surviving that attack, puts a powerful weapon in your hand. I will also assume that both you, and they, think it politically expedient to get on as much newspaper sheet as possible.”
“I was attacked,” he says. “Am I not allowed to decry my attackers?”
“Not when I am trying to catch them, no,” says Shara. “I want you to stay out of the papers, Vo, and I do not want you to inflame the situation any more than it is.”
A short laugh. “Really.”
“Really. This particular job is proving difficult. But you can make it easier.”
“Your job is difficult? Oh, so you just step into my city and all the sudden it’s your arena? You’re the person dictating how everything should happen in Bulikov? Gods … Were I a less-enlightened person, Shara, I’d say such behavior was typical of a …”
Shara cocks an eyebrow.
Vohannes coughs. “Listen, Shara. I have spent my life building my career. I have thrown away fortunes doing it. And I have battered and battered on the invisible walls surrounding this Continent, trying to bring in aid, wealth, support, education. And now, just when it looks like I might be getting somewhere, just when it looks like I might unify the support of Bulikov … you want me to stop? When the City Father elections are next month?”
“This is bigger than votes.”
“It’s not about votes. It’s about the city, the Continent!”
“So is what I’m doing.”
“People depend on me!”
“People depend on me, too,” says Shara. “They just don’t know it.”
“Oh, you can justify almost anything by saying that.”
“I am not your enemy,” she says. “I am your ally. I have been honest with you, Vo—dangerously honest. Now you must trust me. I want you to withdraw from the public eye, just for a little bit. If your movement is as successful as you claimed, stepping away can’t be that damaging.”
This appeal to his vanity appears to appease him some. “How long?”
“Hopefully not long at all. The sooner I can get this done, the sooner you can return to your work, without your guards.”
“I … Wait, what guards?”
Shara stirs her tea. “Bodyguards. The Saypuri detail I’m going to assign to you.”
Vohannes stares at her and laughs. “You … You can’t put me under guard. That’s ridiculous!”
“I can. You’ll still be perfectly free to do as you like, to an extent. They’ll just be watching over you.”
“Do you know how terrible this will look? Me going about town with a bunch of armed Saypuris in tow?”
“I thought we just discussed that you shouldn’t be going about town at all,” says Shara. “You will be a moderately private citizen, for a period of time, and a safe one, if I have my way. But you can shorten that period of time … if you do something for me.”
“Oh my goodness …” Vohannes rubs his eyes. “Something you need doing? Is this how the Ministry always manages to get what it wants?”
“Sixteen people are dead, Vo. Including some of your household staff. I’m taking this seriously. And so should you.”
“I am taking this seriously. You’re the one telling me to do nothing!”
“Not nothing. There’s something being stored in a safety deposit box at a bank. I’m not sure what it is, but I know I need it.”
“And you want me to get it?”
She nods.
“How do you expect me to do that? Am I to don all black and infiltrate this place in the middle of the night? I would have thought you’d have people for this.”
“I expected you’d come up with an easier way than that. Primarily because you own the bank.”
Vohannes blinks. “I … I do?”
“Yes.” Shara hands him a copy of Pangyui’s decoded message.
He examines it. “Are you sure I own it? Its name doesn’t ring a bell.…”
“It must be so nice,” says Shara, “to be so wealthy one is uncertain of which institutions one does and does not own. But yes. I have confirmed that you personally own this bank. If you could find some manner or excuse to retrieve the contents of that box, and deliver it to me, then it may help us figure this all out. Which means I would no longer have to have you under guard, and you could return to business as normal.”
Vohannes grumbles something about a violation of his rights, then folds up the address and angrily stuffs it in his pocket. He stands up and says, “If you’re my ally, I expect you to act like it.”
“And what does that mean?”
“You said yourself, we want the same thing: a peaceful, prosperous Bulikov. Don’t we?”
Shara instantly regrets this—for she knows the Ministry of Foreign Affairs desires no such thing.
“Work with me,” he says. “Help me.”
“Is this about how you want to start making munitions?”
“I am talking about increased Saypuri engagement with Bulikov,” he says. “Real engagement. Real aid. Not this subterfuge. Right now, we are given but a trickle of water, when we need a flood to wash all this stagnancy away. Flex your muscles, Shara. Give me genuine political support.”
“We can’t possibly voice support for a local politician. Maybe one day, but not right now. The circumstances—”
“The circumstances will never be right,” says Vohannes, “because this will always be hard.”
“Vo …”
“Shara, my city and my country are desperately, desperately poor, and I genuinely think they are on a path that can only end in violence. I am offering you an opportunity to try and help us, and put us on a different path.”
“I cannot accept it,” says Shara. “Not now, Vo. I’m sorry. Maybe one day soon.”
“No. You don’t believe that. You’re not an agent of change, Shara. You don’t make the world better—you work to keep things how they are. The Restorationists look to the past, Saypur wishes to maintain the present, but no one considers the future.”
“I am sorry,” she says. “But I cannot help you.”
“No, you aren’t sorry. You are a representative of your country. And countries do not feel sorrow.” He turns and limps away.
* * *
Shara stands in front of the window again. Dawn is now in full riot across the roofs of Bulikov, giving a golden streak to all the wandering columns of chimney smoke. She takes a deep sip of tea. An import, she thinks. Maybe made in Ghaladesh. She wonders, briefly, if she is not addicted to the tea’s caffeine so much as the taste and scent of home, so far away.
She opens the window—wincing at the blast of cold air—shuts the shutters outside, then shuts the window.
She licks her finger, hesitates, and begins to write on the glass.
Why do I always do this, she thinks, when I’m at my most vulnerable?
Slowly, the shadows shift. The air gains a curious new current. Somewhere in the room, in some invisible manner, a door opens to somewhere else. And there in the glass, she sees …
An empty office.
Shara sits to wait.
Twenty minutes later Vinya Komayd arrives, holding many papers and clad in what she personally refers to as her “battle armor”: a bright red, highly expensive dress that is both attractive and tremendously imposing. It has always possessed
the odd property of making Vinya the undeniable center of any room. When Vinya spotted the dress in a store, she purchased five of them, then arranged it so the entire line was permanently removed from shelves. I could never trust such a dress to anyone else, she remarked when she told Shara. It’s much too dangerous.
“Important meeting?” asks Shara.
Auntie Vinya looks up and frowns. “No,” she says, slightly irritated. “But important people were there. Why are you calling on the emergency line? If you’ve found something, send it through the normal channels.”
“We have sixteen dead,” says Shara. “Continentals. They were killed in an attack on a Bulikovian political figure—a City Father. Who survived.”
Vinya pauses. She looks at the piece of paper in her hand—work that obviously needs to get done, and soon—and sighs and lays it aside. She walks over to sit before the pane of glass and asks, “How?”
“They opted to attack during a social occasion. At which I was present.”
Vinya rolls her eyes. “Ah. You and … what’s his name …”
“Sigrud.”
“Yes. How many dead?”
“Sixteen.”
“So he’s clocking in his normal rate, then. By all the damned seas, Shara, I’ve … I’ve no idea why you keep such a man on! We have trouble with the Dreylings every day! They’re pirates, my dear!”
“They weren’t always. Not while their king was still alive.”
“Ah, yes, their dead king they do so love to sing about … Him and their little lost prince, who’ll one day sail back to them. I expect they also sing all day while burning half the northern Continental coastline! I mean, you must admit, my dear, these people are savages!”
“I think he’s proved his worth, last night and many other nights.”
“Intelligence work is meant to avoid bloodshed, not generate it by the quart!”
City of Stairs Page 16
