City of Stairs (22 page)

“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

S
hara stands in the courtyard, watching the small crowd depart. Mulaghesh and Sigrud 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.

“What?” says Mulaghesh. “What the hell?”

Sigrud grumbles for a moment but reluctantly explains, “She always cooks when she is really angry.”

Shara stops and points at Sigrud without looking. “Are you still in touch with your contractors?”

“Of course,” says Sigrud.

“Have them follow Torskeny and Wiclov. And report back to us hourly.”

“Do you not wish for me to do it?” asks Sigrud.

“I need you with me,” says Shara. She marches down the embassy halls. “We’re going to sort some things out.”

“What kind of things?” asks Mulaghesh.

“Dead things,” says Shara. “Or things that should
be
dead.”

* * *

What a pleasant thing it would be to be a knife, always eager to take the path of least resistance, always drawn to the weak points, falling though tendons and skin and rinds like a blade of grass swept downstream. The knife slips and slides, skids and curls, leaving piles of tiny scrolls of orange peels, lemon peels, melon rinds, like a mound of curling ticker tape. It saws slowly against flesh, parting vein and muscle, tendon and gristle, breaking the goat cutlet down until it no longer resembles any part of any living creature.

All you need is one good knife, and one good skillet,
thinks Shara.
With these simple tools one can create anything.

Shara lights a match, hunts for the gas jet. Flames bloom along the oven, caressing the skillet. She douses the skillet with oil, then grabs an onion.

“There were six of them, originally,” says Shara quietly. Her face flickers with the light of the gas flames. “Or at least six that made themselves known. Olvos, the light-bearer. Kolkan, the judge. Voortya, the warrior. Ahanas, the seed-sower. Jukov, the trickster, the starling shepherd. And Taalhavras, the builder.”

Mulaghesh clenches her right fist; her knuckles emit a chorus of cracks. “I know all this. Everyone knows this.”

“You know
part
of it,” says Shara. She stands before the ovens in the spacious embassy kitchens, which once catered to numerous social events before Troonyi oversaw the embassy’s decline. Mulaghesh and Sigrud sit at the servants’ table producing a small cloud of smoke, Mulaghesh with her cigarillo, Sigrud with his pipe; Pitry runs back and forth from the pantry, bringing more vegetables, spices, salted meats. “There’s a lot of it that is not taught. The Worldly Regulations might demand silence from the Continent on this subject, but there are just as many strictures about it in Saypur. Historians are permitted to publish some discoveries; others are filed away to be forgotten. Especially when it comes to the Ancients, the Most Heavenly, the Divine. All six of them sprang to life on the Continent—how long ago, no one is quite sure—all six of them built their domains here, and all six of them fought like cats and dogs for what we estimate to be over five hundred years.”

“I didn’t know they fought,” says Mulaghesh. “I thought they were allies.”

Shara’s knife makes a seam on the onion’s skin; she plucks at it, peels it back, and tosses the glossy outer layer away. “They were, eventually. But at first they fought like mad, for territory, followers, anything. But sometime in the early 700s they chose to stop fighting, and unite. Shortly after, they chose to expand.
Rapidly
expand. This would be the beginning of the Continental Golden Age, and the beginning of Saypur’s slavery to the Continent. Of which we know much, of course, though we would prefer otherwise.” She pulls out a cutting board, tests its flex, and slaps it on the counter. “But imagine the Continent like a pie—for it is roughly circular—with six pieces cut. And there, at the center, the spoke of the wheel …”

“Bulikov,” says Sigrud. The word is a wad of smoke from his lips.

“Yes,” says Shara. She splits the onion, slaps one half down on the cutting board, and grips it hard enough that its tiny veins bleed white. The knife makes a staccato clattering; there is a wave of white blocks, and the onion appears to disintegrate. “The Seat of the World. No one’s city, and everyone’s city, established when they chose to unite. After all, each Divinity had their own city. Kolkashtan for Kolkan, Taalvashtan for Taalhavras, Ahanashtan for Ahanas, Jukoshtan for Jukov, and Voortyashtan for Voortya. So Bulikov was meant to belong to everyone.”

“But you only listed five,” says Pitry from behind a small mountain of celery.

“That’s true. Olvos did have a city, once. But she abandoned the Continent just after the Divinities opted to unite. And when she left, her followers deserted her city. They left it to be claimed, one historian recorded, by ash and dust. No one even knows where it was.”

“Why did she leave?” asks Mulaghesh.

“No one quite knows. Maybe she just wasn’t a sociable Divinity. Maybe she disagreed with something. Maybe she did not wish to take part in the Great Expansion, when the Continent would conquer almost all the known world. Whatever the reason, she has faded from history: the last time anyone saw or spoke to Olvos was in 775.”

“Wait, wait,” says Mulaghesh. “So everyone’s known for all these years that one of the Divinities might still exist? I thought the Kaj killed
all
of them!”

“Yes, but which ones have you been
told
he killed, specifically? In specific instances?” Shara counts off on her fingers: “Voortya he killed in Saypur, in the Night of the Red Sands. Taalhavras and Ahanas he killed when his army first landed on the Continent’s shore. And Jukov he killed in Bulikov just after capturing it. When, exactly, have you been told the definitive account of the assassination of Olvos? Or Kolkan, for that matter.”

“But … But everyone agrees history grew murky after the Kaj invaded,” says Mulaghesh. “No one’s entirely sure
what
happened. He could have killed Olvos or, or Kolkan then, right?”

“Somewhat true. We only know what the scraps of history tell us. We know the Kaj used his weapon on the Divinities—whatever it was—and they vanished. But that does not necessarily mean they are gone from the present altogether. Some miracles still work. The Divine have not completely left the Continent, despite our efforts and wishes. Our texts are even inaccurate about how the Kaj killed the ones we
know
he killed—Jukov, for example, he killed
three years
after capturing Bulikov, something that is never mentioned in conventional texts.”

“I didn’t know that,” says Pitry. “I thought Jukov was executed in the Great Purge. That’s what they taught us in school.”

“That is because Jukov’s evasion is not a popular subject,” says Shara. “It makes the Kaj look weak. Jukov didn’t attack or confront the Kaj’s forces—he only hid from them. Yet the Kaj moved on, or perhaps he knew that sometimes you must defeat your enemy’s spirit before you can defeat their body. Which was why he started the Purge.”

Shara crushes garlic with her knife, dices it, and tosses it in with the onions. “The Great Purge was not the righteous act that’s often depicted in Saypuri history books. The Kaj did not use his weaponry to bloodlessly eliminate all the Divine creatures of the Continent at once. Nor did he drive them back into heaven, or into the seas.”

“Then what?” says Pitry.

“They were dragged from their homes, into the streets,” says Shara. She turns the knife over in her hands. The handle is slick and oily. “They were corralled and driven like animals, and slaughtered much in the same way. Unlike their creators, minor Divine creatures may be killed via conventional means.” Sigrud grins nastily, relishing some vicious, treasured memory. “Bulikov, for example, is host to several mass graves,” continues Shara. “Who knows what sort of bones we would find if we dug them up? The delicate wings of a
gityr,
Ahanas’s winged ponies? The finger bones of a
hovtarik
, the twenty-fingered harpist from the courts of Taalhavras? The marred bones of a
mhovost,
the knuckle-men, Jukov’s pet horror? Presuming, of course, that the Kaj and his army did not destroy them beyond recognition … which, quite frankly, I think is probably the case. Perhaps they felt justified. Had not every Saypuri lived their lives under the boot heel of these creatures? Were they not dangerous monsters? But one soldier wrote of screams of pain coming from the fires, and how some of these creatures had the appearance and demeanor of children, and begged for mercy. Of which they received none.”

Mulaghesh is silent; her cigarillo’s smoke has dwindled to a slow bleed. Sigrud runs his finger along the blade of his black knife.

Shara checks the rice, which has been soaking in chicken broth, and the sauce, which is dark and creamy. This she sniffs, and adds a touch of garlic. “When the Purge came to an end, Jukov finally emerged. He had been hiding, it is said, in a pane of glass in a window—exactly what this means, I can’t say. Again, I only know what history tells us. Jukov sent word to the Kaj directly, asking him to meet. Alone. To the surprise of his lieutenants, the Kaj agreed. But perhaps the Kaj had some foresight, for when he met the last Divinity, it is recorded he saw that Jukov was no threat: the Divinity was weeping uncontrollably, distraught over the death and mayhem that had been wreaked upon the Continent.”

“He should have come to Saypur, then,” says Mulaghesh bitterly. “Then he would have been prepared for such misery.”

“Probably true. The two of them met in an abandoned temple. A ruin, really, though the reports of the Kaj’s lieutenants are unclear as to exactly where this temple is, or was. They were there for most of one night. What the two of them said there, no one knows. When he did not return, the Kaj’s lieutenants feared the worst. But then the Kaj emerged, having personally slain Jukov—yet the Kaj was weeping. Over what, he would not say. But he confirmed that Jukov was dead.” Shara wipes off the knife. “The Kaj became moody and silent after this last, final victory, and took to wine. He died of an infection less than four months later—one of the first deaths of the Plague Years, most likely.”