“Three.”
“What did they look like?”
Irina describes them, and Shara takes notes. Her descriptions for the first two—short, dark-eyed, dark-haired, excessively bearded—could describe nearly any man in Bulikov. But the last one is different: “He was tall,” she says. “And pale. And terribly starved. It was like he ate only broth, the poor thing. He could have been quite handsome, if he took care of himself. He spoke the least. He only watched me, really. Nothing I said seemed to surprise him. They knew I worked at the university—how, I don’t know. But they asked me to serve them, to serve Bulikov. Just like the old ways. And I did.” Irina coughs again. “I was to spy on him, the professor. I was to pilfer his pages, open his drawers, look among his folders.”
“For what?”
Irina colors, but does not answer.
“What were you looking for, Irina?”
“I was not going to look for anything.”
“Then how were you to know if you’d found something?”
Irina turns an even brighter red. “I would just … I would just have to guess.”
“Why?”
“Because, the words …” She is on the verge of tears again. “I look at them on the page, and they don’t make sense to me.”
“What do you mean?”
“I was never taught such a thing, you see? We had no school here, in Bulikov, when I grew up. And when they brought schooling to us, I was too old, and I could never figure it out.… I could only pretend. I would hold a book, and pretend to look at it, and …” She purses her mouth; Shara gets the strong impression of a humiliated child. “I tried.” She reaches into her pocket, and pulls out a crumpled-up piece of what looks like anti-Saypuri propaganda. “I tried to learn. I wanted to learn to be righteous. I wanted to know. But I could only ever pretend.…”
Shara is not surprised: much of the Continent is still illiterate. “So what did you do, when they asked you to spy on him?”
“I told them I would. I did not want to let them down. And I … I hated him. I hated the professor, always so giddy to be reading our histories, when we, when I …” She trails off. Then: “What I chose to bring to them was a list.”
“A list of what?”
“I do not know. The professor worked out of this list all the time, so I knew it had to be important. But to me, it was just a list, with lots of information. Many squares, going all across the page, up and down, side to side, with letters and numbers in them. I did this over a period of weeks. I could not take it out—he would know if I did, and he only had pieces of this list at a time—so I would sneak out one page, maybe two or three or four, and take it to the broom closet and copy it, sketching it. The first time was hard, but after that I could do it in minutes. Even if I didn’t know how to read, I knew how to copy,” she says with a slight sniff of vanity. “Then I would bring them the copies.”
“How many copies of pages did you bring them?”
“Dozens. Maybe more than a hundred, over the course of many weeks. I was quite good at it,” she says, pleased with herself. “And they were so pleased when I first brought it to them. They were overjoyed. They wept. I felt … I felt …” She trails off, unable to finish the thought.
“Why did you stop?”
“They asked me to. Not at first—after the first time, when I brought them copies, they were less and less pleased. ‘Oh, this is good, but it is not what we were looking for, not what we need at all.’ As if it was all my fault! But then, one day, the tall pale one, he saw something on the list, and he did not smile, exactly, but his eyes, they crinkled, and he nodded. And the men laughed and said, ‘Good! Good, good, very good.’ As if they’d found what they needed. And they never asked me to get anything else again.”
Shara feels an immense dread welling up in her. “What day was this?”
“Day? I am not sure.…”
“Month, then.”
“It was still warm then. It must have been late fall. The month of Tuva, I think.”
“Is there anything else you can tell me about this list?”
“I do not know anything more than what I said.”
“You copied it. You copied hundreds of pages of it. What was on them?”
Irina thinks. “Well. There were page numbers.”
“Besides those.”
“Besides those, there was … There was a stamp in the corner. No, not a stamp—a sign of some kind, in the corner of every page. Like a … a bird atop a wall.”
Shara is quiet. Then: “Did it have a crest on its head? And did it have its wings outstretched?” She holds out her arms to show her.
“Yes. I had never seen a bird quite like it.”
That’s because it lives only in Saypur, thinks Shara, who knows this insignia well. There could be only one list bearing the stamp of the polis governor’s office that would excite the Restorationists so much: So not only have our enemies known about the Unmentionable Warehouse for months, she thinks, but they also know its contents, something even I am not allowed access to.… She deeply regrets her promise to her aunt now: perhaps Pangyui’s dead drop contains some hint of what the Restorationists were looking for.
“What does it all mean?” asks Irina.
“I’m not sure yet,” says Shara.
“I thought I hated the professor,” says Irina. “But when I was told he was dead, I realized I never really did. I wanted to hate him. But I hated things far larger than him. I hated feeling so … humiliated.” She looks at Shara, her eyes wet with fresh tears. “What will you do with me? Will you kill me?”
“No, Irina. I am not in the business of hurting innocents.”
“But I am not innocent. I got him killed.”
“You cannot know that. As you said, you hated things far larger than you—and I think things far larger than you, or me, or even the professor are in play here.”
Irina looks hopeful, relieved. “Do you think so?”
Shara tries not to let her face hint at her dread. “I know so.”
Then both women look up as shouts echo up from the street outside: “Let me through! Let me through!”
“What is that?” says Irina.
Shara leans over and pulls a drape aside with a finger. There is a small crowd gathered before the embassy gates: Shara can see the glimmer of a golden sash, suggesting a City Father, and numerous official-looking men in off-white robes. And before them, on the inner side of the gates, is Mulaghesh, arms crossed, feet fixed in a martial pose, emanating contempt like a fire makes smoke.
Shara smiles at Irina. “Excuse me.”
* * *
Shara can hear the bellowing before she even exits the front doors. “This is a political and ethical travesty, do you hear me!” shouts a man. “A crime that verges on a declaration of war! Grabbing a woman from her home? An old maid, who’s spent her life serving one of Bulikov’s most beloved and revered institutions? Governor, I insist you step aside and release her immediately! If you do not, I will do everything in my power to guarantee this becomes an international incident! Am I clear?”
Mulaghesh mutters something back, but it is too quiet to hear.
“Attack? Attack?” the man’s voice answers. “The only attack we should be concerned with is the attack on the rights and privileges of the citizens of Bulikov!”
Shara crosses the courtyard. She can see Sigrud lurking in the shadows, leaning up against the embassy wall. The City Father outside grips the gate as prisoners do their cell bars. He is tall, for a Continental, and his face is brown and bright red. Shara imagines a potato that has been glazed and fired in a kiln. Half of his face, however, is concealed behind a thick, woolen beard that climbs almost up to his eyes.
Shara recognizes him. The photo in the paper, she thinks, does not do the real Ernst Wiclov justice.…
Behind him stand at least twelve bearded men in the plain, off-white robes of Bulikovian advocates. Each of them observes Mulaghesh with small, unimpressed eyes, and in t
heir right hands they carry leather valises like most men would swords.
Now we must deal with lawyers, too, thinks Shara. If I were to die now, I’d count myself lucky.
“As this embassy is technically Saypuri soil—” says Mulaghesh.
Wiclov laughs. “Oh, I am sure you would be giddy to see all the world called Saypuri soil!”
“As this embassy is part of Saypur,” says Mulaghesh, through gritted teeth, “we have no obligation to inform you of who is or who is not on our property.”
“But you do not have to! For my own friends and colleagues personally observed the woman being taken here!”
Shara glances at Sigrud, whose brow is furrowed in concern: normally he can spot nearly any tail, so if anyone escaped his watch, then they must be talented indeed.
Wiclov continues: “I tell you, Governor Mulaghesh”—he intentionally butchers the pronunciation of her name—“if a child of Bulikov is harmed or threatened by your familiars in any way, then the streets will ring with calls to tear down your embassy, and your quarters, and to cast you out as we should have done years ago!”
“You can cut the rhetoric, Wiclov,” says Mulaghesh. “There’s no crowd. There’s just you, me, and an empty courtyard.”
“But there will be a crowd if you do not release that woman! I guarantee that there will be riots if that poor woman is not released!”
“Released? Anyone who’s here is here voluntarily.”
“Voluntarily! After being visited by that?” Wiclov points a finger at Sigrud, who scratches his nose, bored. “This is intimidation! Threats! How is that any different than capturing her?”
Shara clears her throat and says, “You are mistaken, sir. Mrs. Torskeny has been having coffee upstairs with me. I can personally testify to that.”
He shifts his scornful gaze to her. “And who are you? Oh, are you the replacement for that vile oaf Troonyi? If so, then I no more accept your authority in this matter than I would a drunken simpleton!”
Shara blinks slowly. It has been a while since she’s been spoken to like that. She asks, “You would be Ernst Wiclov, I take it?”
He nods savagely. “I know my name must be on one of your lists somewhere. ‘Enemy of Saypur,’ I am sure, and I am proud to wear the target you lay upon my chest!”
“Quite the opposite, sir,” says Shara. “I only read about you in the paper last night.”
Mulaghesh covers her mouth to prevent a laugh. Wiclov colors. “Insolence is one of the few things your kind actually excels in,” he says. “Little miss, neither you nor your governor can lie your way out of this. There are no diplomatic tricks to play. The facts are plain: you are holding a citizen of Bulikov hostage, almost certainly as an act of petty revenge for the scuffle last night!”
“Scuffle?” says Mulaghesh. “Sixteen people are dead. Violently dead. I was there. I saw the bodies. Did you?”
“I do not need any further confirmation,” he says, “of your people’s barbarism.”
“First a scuffle, now barbarism,” says Mulaghesh.
“The matter is moot,” says Wiclov. “Do you have a woman named Irina Torskeny on your property? If you persist in lying, and claiming that you do not, then I and my colleagues shall make the case at the highest level that your actions are in violation of multiple international treaties! I shall personally see to it that you are banned from our lands, never to return again! Does that make sense to you?”
Shara grimaces. She is not, of course, intimidated by such ridiculous bluster: but Wiclov appears quite talented at attracting undue attention, and that is not something she needs right now. Ever since her visions in the jail cell, Shara has felt like she is sitting on a drum of volatile explosives and people keep trying to kick the drum over.
“Ah!” shouts Wiclov suddenly. “There she is! There she is!” Everyone turns around. Shara’s heart drops when she sees Irina Torskeny peeping out from the embassy front doors.
“Do you see!” shouts Wiclov. “Do you see her? She is being held captive! I told you so! That’s her, is it not?”
Shara marches over to Irina, who is staring at Wiclov with wide, awed eyes. “Irina, you should not be downstairs,” says Shara. “It isn’t safe.”
“I heard my name,” she says softly. “Is that a City Father? Is it City Father Wiclov?”
“Do you know him, or any of these men?” asks Shara quietly.
Irina shakes her head. “Are they asking for me?”
“Irina!” shouts Wiclov. “Do not listen to her! Come over to me, Irina! Do not listen!”
“I believe someone was watching your apartment,” says Shara. “They were tracking you, keeping tabs on you, even after you did work for them.”
“Irina! Walk to us! Ignore her!”
“I would advise you do not go with them, Irina. I do not know why they are here for you, but I can’t think it’s honest.”
Irina stares across the courtyard. Wiclov rattles the bars on the gates. Mulaghesh snaps at him to stop it, but Wiclov shouts, “They mean you harm, Irina! They mean to do you and Bulikov ill! Do not listen to that silly woman!”
“Irina … I would not advise it,” says Shara. “The men behind these actions are terribly dangerous. You know that.”
“But a City Father would never—”
“I can hear you!” says Wiclov—an obvious lie. “I can hear you talking to her, telling her to give up her rights as a child of Bulikov! Do not listen to her, Irina Torskeny!”
“Irina,” says Shara. “Think.”
But Wiclov continues: “She is not of your race, of your people! And she is not sacred, like you and I, and all your brothers and sisters. Saying such a thing violates their laws, but you know in your heart it is true!”
Irina looks up at Shara, and Shara can tell she’s made up her mind. “I’m … I’m sorry,” she whispers, and she crosses the courtyard.
Wiclov rattles the bars again, bellowing for Mulaghesh to open the gates. Mulaghesh looks to Shara. Shara tries to think of something, anything, but nothing comes. Mulaghesh nods stiffly, face bitter, and machinery begins clanking and wheels start spinning, and slowly the gates draw back.
To stretch your years across the waves
To bend your soul across the cliffs
To wash your hands in blood and salt
To close your eyes to the chorus of wood
We are a blade in the wind
An ember among the snow
A shadow under the waves
And we remember
We remember the sea-days, the river of gold
Days of happy conquest, treasure unending
They called us barbarians
But we knew we lived in peace
For violence we know all too well
Violence, our unwelcome friend
How long we lived in its shadow
Until the kings pulled us from its depths
From the window a dart of steel
From the torch a guttering flame
To creep up rafters, crawl across thatch
A cry in the dark, unanswered
We lost him, we lost his family
Our family, for we have lost our king
We could not even mourn his passing
They spirited Harkvald’s body away
Fed it to the waves, to the creatures of the sea
Fed it to the harvest from which we fed our children
Red days these are now, dark days
Days of piracy and lawlessness
Days of warfare never ending
Days of empty shores, and full graves
We remember him. We remember his family
We remember his lost son
We remember the Dauvkind
And we know one day
He will return
And save us from ourselves
—ANONYMOUS DREYLING SONG, 1700
WHAT HISTORY TELLS US
Shara stands in the courtyard, watching the small crowd depart. Mulaghesh and Sig
rud slowly cross over to her. “Well,” says Mulaghesh, “that … didn’t go well.”
Shara agrees—in fact, the past thirty-six hours have not gone well at all. In her opinion, they have been nothing short of disastrous.
She reviews the situation: the Restorationists know about the Unmentionable Warehouse. Worse, it sounds very likely that they’ve learned of something in the Warehouse that would be quite terribly useful. The question is, thinks Shara, have they somehow gotten inside the Warehouse yet? And if they have, have they started using whatever it is they found? Is that why I contacted that Divinity?
And stranger still: Why kill Pangyui after they’ve gotten what they wanted from him? Especially if it brings “bad people” to Bulikov.
Shara rubs her eyes. A tiny growl of frustration squeaks out of her throat.
Pitry coughs from the doorway. “Are … Are you okay?”
“No,” says Shara softly. “No, I am not.”
“Is there anything I can get you?”
Shara’s index and thumb find the webbing of her opposite hand, and she pinches, hard. The dull pain fails to break through the ice currently cracking about in her mind.
Only one thing to do, then.
“I need,” she says, “a knife.”
“What?” says Pitry.
“Yes, a knife. A very sharp one.”
“Uhh,” he says, alarmed.
“And an iron skillet.”
Mulaghesh cocks her head. “What?”
“And two fresh onions, parsley, salt, pepper, paprika, and about three pounds of goat, I think.”
Sigrud groans and covers his face. Shara ignores him and walks back into the embassy. “Come on,” she says, and waves to them.
City of Stairs Page 19
