City of Stairs (47 page)

“I loved you, Shara. I did. I was very bad at it, but I loved you in my own confused, mixed-up way. I still do.

“I don’t know if you made the world, Father Kolkan. And I don’t know if you made my people or if they made themselves. But if it was
your
words they taught me as a child, and if it’s
your
words that encourage this vile self-disgust, this ridiculous self-flagellation, this incredibly damaging idea that to be human and to love and to risk making mistakes is
wrong
, then … Well. I guess
fuck you
, Father Kolkan.”

A long, long, long silence.

Then Kolkan’s voice, trembling with rage:
“YOU ARE UNWORTHY.”

The Seat of the World lights up with screams.

Shara struggles against her paralysis, wishing to rise up and run to Vo’s side, but she cannot: whatever miracle Kolkan has used holds her down.

She wants to scream with Vohannes, even as his screams intensify—shrieks of unbearable, inconceivable pain, louder and louder—as Kolkan applies unspeakable tortures to him.

Then the miracle breaks, and she is free.

Shara sits up and looks: Kolkan stands before Vohannes, one long, rag-wrapped finger pressed against Vohannes’s forehead; Vohannes trembles, his flesh quaking as if the Divinity is pouring endless agony and pain into him, and has completely forgotten about her.

Go to him!
a part of her thinks.

Another part says,
He baited Kolkan into doing this in order to free you. Kolkan’s so angry you’ve slipped his mind, for now—so what will you do with this chance?

Weeping, she rips her hands out of the loose ropes, shuts her eyes, remembers the lines from the
Jukoshtava
, and draws a door in the air.

There is the sound of a whip crack. She steps forward into the Cupboard and her body vanishes from her sight.

Kolkan looks up. Vohannes drops to the floor, pale as snow, and does not move.

Shara shuts her eyes and doesn’t dare to breathe: Parnesi’s Cupboard does not conceal sound.

Kolkan shuffles forward, his head sweeping the Seat of the World. Shara feels an immense pressure exerting itself on her, as if she is sinking deeper and deeper into the ocean.
He’s looking for me, feeling for me. …

“THE CUPBOARD,”
says Kolkan’s voice.
“I REMEMBER THIS.”

Shara feels sick with terror. Kolkan is less than four feet away from her now, and she is awed by his size, his filth, the stench of decay leaking from underneath his many cloaks.

“I COULD CAVE IN THIS TEMPLE,”
he says,
“AND CRUSH YOU. IF YOU ARE STILL HERE.”

He looks up, into the ceiling of the Seat of the World.

“BUT I HAVE BIGGER THINGS TO DO.”

Then, abruptly, Kolkan is gone, as if he had never been here.

Shara still doesn’t breathe. She stares about the Seat of the World, wondering if the Divinity could be lurking in some dark corner.

A voice comes booming down out of the skies:
“THIS CITY HAS GROWN UNWORTHY.”

“Oh, no,” says Shara. She looks at Vohannes, wishing to go to him.
Prioritize,
snaps the operative’s voice in her head.
Grief is for later
.

She whispers, “I’m sorry, Vo.” And she stands and sprints out of the temple.

* * *

All across Bulikov, in the fish markets and the alleys, by the Solda and in the teashops, the citizens stare at the enormous white cathedral that has suddenly appeared in their city, and jump as the voice of Kolkan echoes through the streets.

“YOU HAVE BROKEN COUNTLESS LAWS,”
says the voice.

Children at play stop where they are and turn toward the giant white temple in the center of their city.

“YOU HAVE LAIN WITH ONE ANOTHER IN JOY.”

A street sweeper, still holding his broom, slowly turns to look up into the sky.

“YOU HAVE BUILT FLOORS OF WHITE STONE.”

The elderly men at the Ghoshtok-Solda Dinner Club stare at one another, then at the bottles of wine and whisky.

“YOU HAVE EATEN BRIGHT FRUITS,”
says the voice,
“AND ALLOWED THEIR SEEDS TO ROT IN DITCHES.”

In a barbershop beside the Solda, the barber, stunned, has removed most of an old man’s mustache; the old man, just as stunned, has yet to realize.

“AND YOU HAVE WALKED IN THE DAY,”
says the voice,
“WITH YOUR FLESH EXPOSED. YOU LIVE WITH FLESH OF OTHER FLESH. YOU HAVE LOOKED UPON THE SECRETS OF YOUR FLESH, AND KNOWN THEM, AND FOR THIS I WEEP FOR YOU.”

In the House of Seven Sisters infirmary, Captain Nesrhev, still bound up in many bandages, sets his pipe aside and calls to the nurses: “What the
fuck
is going on?”

“YOU HAVE FORGOTTEN THE WAY YOU SHOULD BE,”
says the voice.

A pause.

“I WILL RESTORE YOU.”

Ochre sunlight washes over Bulikov. The citizens shield their eyes, look away from windows. …

And when they look back they see the view has changed: it is as if all the city blocks have been rearranged, shoved out of the way to make room for …

An old woman at the corner of Saint Ghoshtok and Saint Gyieli falls to her knees in awe and says, “By the gods … By the gods.”

… splendid, beautiful white skyscrapers, lined and tipped with gold. They look like giant white herons wading among the low, gray swamp of modern Bulikov.

“YOU HAVE FORGOTTEN ALL I TAUGHT YOU,”
says the voice.
“I HAVE RETURNED TO REMIND YOU. YOU WILL BE SCOURGED OF SIN. YOU WILL BE PURIFIED OF TEMPTATION.”

A wind stirs along Saint Vasily Lane. As if in a dream, dozens of pedestrians suddenly walk to the center of the street, stand together shoulder to shoulder, and face the north. They are mothers, fathers, sons, and daughters; none respond to plaintive cries from friends and family asking what’s wrong.

The wind increases. Citizens of Bulikov are forced to raise their hands and turn their faces away. There is a clinking and clanking, as if the wind has somehow blown thousands of metal plates down the street. When the people lower their hands and look back, they are shocked by what they see:

In place of the pedestrians, five hundred armored soldiers now stand in the streets. The armor they wear is huge and thick and gleaming, protecting every inch of their bodies: it is so thick they might not even be soldiers, but animated suits of armor. Their helmets depict the glinting visages of shrieking demons; their swords are immense, nearly six feet in length, and flicker with a cold fire.

Only Shara Komayd, who glances at the soldiers as she sprints to the embassy, recognizes them from somewhere: had she not asked Sigrud to tear that painting off of CD Troonyi’s wall mere weeks ago?

Kolkan’s voice says,
“YOU WILL KNOW PAIN, AND THROUGH IT YOU WILL KNOW RIGHTEOUSNESS.”

The soldiers turn to the people on the sidewalk and raise their swords.

* * *

Mulaghesh sees Shara running toward the fortifications and bellows to her, “What in hells is that voice talking about?”

“It’s Kolkan!” Shara says, panting.

“The
god
?”

“Yes! He’s talking about his edicts!”

“White stone floors? Eating bright
fruits
?”

Soldiers help Shara scramble over the fortifications. “Those are his edicts, yes!”

“And where the hells did these white buildings come from?”

“It’s Old Bulikov,” says Shara. “Parts of Bulikov as it
was
. He must have pulled it all back in and tossed the buildings in with the normal Bulikov!”

“I have …” Mulaghesh searches for words. “I have
no fucking idea
what you are talking about! Forget all that—what’s he going to do now? What do
we
do now?”

The sound of tinny screams echoes through the streets. Mulaghesh shades her eyes to look. “There are people running toward us,” she says. “What’s going on?”

“Have you ever seen the painting
The Night of the Red Sands
? By Rishna?”

“Yeah?”

“Remember the Continental army the Kaj faces in that painting?”

“Yeah, I—” Mulaghesh lowers her hand from her eyes, and turns to stare at Shara in horror.

“Yes,” says Shara. “It seems Rishna was quite accurate in her depiction.”

“How … ? How many?”

“Hundreds,” says Shara. “And Kolkan can make more if he chooses. He
is
a Divinity, after all. But I may have a weapon he doesn’t know about.”

Shara races upstairs to her office with Mulaghesh. She opens a drawer in her desk and takes out the piece of black lead she had reworked into the point of a bolt. “This,” she says softly.

“What’s that supposed to be?”

“It’s the metal the Kaj used to kill the Divinities,” says Shara. “It’s immune to any Divine influence. He fired this very shot through the skull of Jukov, executing him. All we have to do is lure Kolkan out, and then someone, maybe, can use it to take a shot at him, just like during the Great War.”

“Okay. … Assuming everything you’re saying is true,” says Mulaghesh, “during the Great War, wouldn’t the Kaj have had hundreds or thousands of those little shots?”

“Well … Yes.”

“And you’ve only got the
one
?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. And how do we lure him out?”

“Well …”

“And what if that shot
misses
?”

“Well, we’d … we’d have to go and get it, I suppose.”

Mulaghesh gapes at Shara with an expression equal parts disbelief and exasperation.

“I didn’t have time to plan this out!” says Shara.

“I couldn’t tell!”

“I had no idea this’d be happening
now
!”

“Well, it is! And I must admit, Chief Diplomat, I do not have much faith that that plan will work!”

The floor rumbles. Soldiers begin shouting outside. Shara and Mulaghesh reach the window just in time to see a four-story building ten blocks down collapsing as if it’s been demolished. Glimmering steel shapes come marching out of the dust and debris, holding their giant swords straight up.

“They’re strong enough to destroy
buildings
?” says Shara aloud in disbelief.

“And what is your plan,” asks Mulaghesh, “for dealing with those?”

She adjusts her glasses. “How much weaponry do you have?”

“We have the typical bolt-shots, plus five repeat-shot small cannons.” She makes a small “O” with her forefinger and thumb. “You crank them and they fire rounds about this big twice every second.”

“No other large cannonry?”

She shakes her head. “None. The treaties outlawed mobile heavy cannonry on the Continent.”

“And do you think those rounds could pierce the armor of those … things?”

“Well, it’s Divine armor, right?”

“But perhaps Kolkan,” Shara wonders aloud, “does not yet know about gunpowder.”

“I’m not really willing to take that chance. My suggestion would be to retreat. … But those things appear to move very fast.”

“And even if we did retreat, that’d still leave the flying warships,” says Shara.

Mulaghesh stares at her, incredulous. “
What
flying warships?”

“No time to explain now. Do we have a working telegraph?”

Mulaghesh shakes her head. “Line went dead just minutes ago.
Everything
electrical has stopped working, actually.”

“It must be Kolkan’s influence. But I don’t think we can retreat, and I don’t think we can stay, and we can’t signal ahead to Ghaladesh. …” Shara rubs her temples.
I always wondered if I’d die for my country,
she thinks,
but I never thought it’d be like this.

She glances back at her open drawer, wishing—stupidly—that she might find a second plug of black lead to use.

She sees a small leather bag sitting in her drawer, inside of which, she knows, are a dozen or so little white pills.

“Hm,” says Shara. She picks up the bag and peers into it.

“If you’re starting to think of something,” says Mulaghesh, “I advise you think fast.”

She picks out a pill and holds it up. “Philosopher’s stones.”

“The drug you used on the kid in the prison?”

“Yes. They help one commune with the Divine, but they also … They also amplify the effects of many miracles.”

“So?”

This is suicide,
thinks Shara.

“So?” says Mulaghesh again.

To not do it is also suicide.

She reluctantly says, “
I
know a lot of miracles.”

* * *

“All right!” shouts Mulaghesh. “Listen up!” Another building collapses several blocks away; the Saypuri soldiers glance at one another uneasily, but Mulaghesh continues: “Ever since you were kiddos you all wanted to be the Kaj, didn’t you? You wanted to fight those wars, to win those victories, to feel that glory? Well, I will remind you, boys and girls, of a history lesson. …” Something explodes beside the Solda; a fireball twenty feet across rises into the air between two tall white skyscrapers. “Do you remember how the Night of the Red Sands got its name? It’s because when the Kaj brought his scrawny army of about a hundred freed slaves to the desert of Hadesh, they wound up facing not
only
the Divinity Voortya, but also
five thousand
armored Continental warriors. Warriors a hells of a lot like
those
.” She points down the street, where silver shapes hack and slash at crowds and wagons and cars and buildings—anything. “They were outnumbered ten to one, on flat terrain, with absolutely
no
strategic advantage! Any decent strategist would have decided they were done for! Hells,
I
would have decided they were done for! But they weren’t, because the Kaj brought up a cannon, loaded it with a special shot, and fired it
directly through Voortya’s damned face!
” She taps the center of her forehead. “And the second Voortya died, all the armor those Continentals were wearing—which was so thick, so heavy, so impenetrable, and so miraculously
light
—suddenly became as heavy as it would normally be. And the army
collapsed
underneath it. These terrifying soldiers, without their Divinity, were helpless, trapped beneath hundreds and hundreds of pounds of iron and steel! And the Kaj’s army, a bunch of untrained slaves and farmers who had lived their whole lives being punished and abused by those soldiers, waded among them and used knives, and rocks, and fucking
gardening tools
to finish them off!” One of the cranes working on the New Solda Bridge tips back and forth like a metronome, then topples into the icy water. Flocks of brown starlings wheel above the city, shrieking and cheeping. “They slaughtered five thousand men in one night! They slaughtered them as a winemaker prunes grapes from the vine! The blood was so deep it went up to their ankles! And
that
, boys and girls, is why they call it the Night of the Red Sands!”