City of Stairs (5 page)

She sent him off, wondering whether they’d ever meet again. And just yesterday she caught a telegram floating across her desk reporting he’d been found dead—no, not just dead,
murdered
. That was shock enough for Shara, but now to find secret messages sewed into his clothing, tradecraft
she
certainly didn’t teach him …

I suddenly doubt,
she thinks,
if his mission was truly one of historical understanding after all.

She rubs her eyes. Her back is stiff from the train ride. But she looks at the time, and thinks.

Nearly eight in the morning in Saypur.

Shara does not wish to do this—she is too tired, too weak—but if she doesn’t do it now, she’ll pay for it later. So many simple oversights, like failing to communicate a jaunt to Bulikov, can be mistaken for treachery.

She opens the door to her new office and confirms there is no one outside. She shuts the door, locks it. She goes to the window and closes the shutters on the outside (which is a relief—she is tired of feeling the sun but never exactly
seeing
it through the walls). Then she slides the window shut.

She sniffs, wriggles her fingers. Then she licks the tip of her index and begins writing on the top pane of glass in the window.

Shara often does illegal things in her trade. But it’s one thing to violate a country’s law when you’re actively working against that country, and it’s another to do what Shara is doing right now, which is so horrendously dreaded in Saypur and so fervently outlawed and regulated and monitored on the Continent, the birthplace of this particular act.

Because right now, in CD Troonyi’s office, Shara is about to perform a miracle.

As always, the change is quite imperceptible: there is a shift in the air, a coolness on the skin, as if someone has cracked a door somewhere; as she writes, the tip of her finger begins to feel that the glass’s surface is softer and softer, until it is like she is writing on water.

The glass changes: it mists over, frost creeping across the pane; then the frost recedes, but the window no longer shows the shutter on the outside, as it should. Instead, it is like there’s a hole in a wall, and on the other side is an office with a big teak desk, at which is a tall, handsome woman reading a thick file.

How odd it feels,
thinks Shara,
to literally change the world. …

Shara likes to think she is above such sentiments, though it does irk her that Saypur’s considerable technological advances still have yet to catch up to most of the Divine tricks. The Divinity Olvos originally created this little miracle hundreds or perhaps thousands of years ago, specifically so she could look into one frozen lake and see and communicate out of a different frozen lake of her choosing miles away. Shara has never been quite sure why the miracle works on glass: the generally accepted theory is that the original Continental term for “glass” was very similar to “ice,” so the miracle unintentionally overlaps—though the Divine were fond of using glass for many strange purposes, storing items and even people within a hair’s breadth of glass like a sunbeam caught in a crystal.

The woman in the glass looks up. The perspective is a little peculiar: it is like peering through a porthole. But what is really on the other side of the glass, Shara knows, is the shutter on the embassy window, and after that a one-hundred-foot drop. It is all a play of images and sound: somewhere in Ghaladesh, across the South Seas in Saypur, a single pane of glass in this woman’s office is showing Shara herself, staring out from Troonyi’s rooms.

The woman appears quite startled, and her mouth moves. A voice accompanies the movement of her lips, yet it is soft and tinny like it is echoing up a drainpipe: “Oh! Oh.”

“You look like you expected someone else,” says Shara.

“No. I wondered if you’d call, but I didn’t expect the
emergency
line.” Despite the distortion, her voice is quite low and husky, the voice of a chain-smoker.

“You’d prefer I didn’t use the emergency line?”

“You so rarely use the tools I give you,” says the woman, and she stands and walks over, “for the purposes for which they are intended.”

“It is true that this is not …
quite
an emergency,” says Shara. “I wanted to let you know that I have … I have picked up an operation in Bulikov.”

The woman in the glass smiles. Despite her mature age, she is quite striking: her coal-black hair falls in thick locks about her shoulders, the front forelock shot through with a streak of gray, and though she is at an age when most women begin to abandon any attempt at a fetching figure, she still retains nearly every curve, many more than Shara could ever aspire to. But Auntie Vinya’s allure, Shara feels, has always gone beyond her beauty: it is something in her eyes, which are both wide and widely set, and deep brown. It is like Auntie Vinya is always half remembering a long life most people would have killed to lead.

“Not an operation,” says Vinya. “An outright diplomatic mission.”

Shara sighs inwardly. “What tipped you off?”

“The Thivani identity,” says Vinya. “You’ve been sitting on it for years. I tend to notice things like that. When someone, how shall I say, walks by the buffet and tucks a biscuit or two in their sleeve. Then suddenly the name gets activated the very night we hear about poor Efrem. … There’s only one thing you could be doing, couldn’t you?”

This was a mistake,
thinks Shara.
I should not have done this when I’m so tired.

“Shara, what
are
you doing?” says Vinya gently. “You know I never would have approved this.”

“Why not? I was the closest agent, and the most qualified.”

“You are
not
the most qualified, because you were personally connected to Efrem. You are better used elsewhere. And you should have sent in a request first.”

“You might wish to check your mail,” says Shara.

A shadow of irritation crosses Vinya’s face. She walks to the mail slot in her door, flips through the waiting bundle, and takes out a small slip of paper. “Four hours ago,” she says. “Very timely.”

“Quite. So,” says Shara, “I’ve made all the official overtures. I have violated no rules. I am the highest-ranking agent. And I am an expert in this field. No one knows more about Bulikov’s history than me.”

“Oh yes,” says Vinya. She walks back to look into the glass. “You are our most experienced agent in Continental history. I doubt if anyone in the world knows more about their dead gods than you, now that Efrem’s gone.”

Shara looks away.

“I’m … sorry,” says Vinya. “That was insensitive of me. You must understand. … It’s often a little hard for me to keep a common compassion, even in this case.”

“I know,” says Shara. It has been a little over seven years since Auntie Vinya assumed the role of Minister of Foreign Affairs. She was always the powerhouse of the Ministry, the officer whom all the decisions wound up going through one way or another; eventually it just became a matter of making it formal. In the time since her elevation, the boundaries of the Ministry have both grown, and grown permeable: it spills over into commerce, into industry, into political parties and environmental management. And now whenever Shara gets close to Saypur—which is very rare—she hears whispers that Vinya Komayd, matriarch of the eminent Komayd family and one of the most high muck-a-mucks in Ghaladesh, is eyeing the next highest seat, that of prime minister. It is an idea that both unnerves and thrills Shara: perhaps if her aunt occupied the highest office in Saypur, in the
world
, she could finally come home. … But what sort of home would she return to?

“If it had not been you who trained Efrem,” says Vinya, “if you had not been the one to volunteer to put him through his paces, to spend so much time with him … you know I’d use you in a second, my love. But case officers are never allowed to react to the death of one of their operatives; you know that.”

“I was not his case operative. I only trained him.”

“True, but you have to admit, you do have a history of reckless conviction, especially with personal matters.”

Shara sighs. “I honestly can’t even believe we’re still talking about
that
.”

“
I
am, even if you’re not here to listen to it. It gets brought up in all the political circles whenever I try for funding.”

“It was seventeen years ago!”

“Sixteen, actually. I know. Voters might have short memories. Politicians do not.”

“Have I ever in my history abroad caused even a whisper of a scandal? You know me, Auntie. I am quite good at what I do.”

“I will not deny that you’ve been a blessing to my work, darling, no.” Then Vinya sighs, and thinks.

Shara keeps her face still and closed as she rapidly reviews the last five minutes. This conversation has not gone at all as she anticipated: she expected a harsh rebuke from her aunt, because it certainly seems to Shara that she has stumbled across some deeper, much more dangerous operation, one in which Pangyui was apparently involved. But so far Auntie Vinya has reacted as if Pangyui was just a simple historian on a diplomatic mission. …
Which means she either doesn’t know,
thinks Shara,
or she doesn’t want me to know that she knows.

So Shara waits. If you wait and watch, she’s found, things so often reveal themselves, despite your adversary’s best efforts. And though Vinya may be her aunt, there never was a relationship between a commander and their operative that wasn’t somewhat adversarial.

“Well then,” says Vinya. “I suppose you ought to brief me. What’s the situation there?”

Interesting,
thinks Shara. “Poor. Mutinous. It would be an understatement to say CD Troonyi did not maintain the embassy to the best of his abilities.”

“Troonyi … My God, I’d forgotten they’d stuck him there. Are there any young girls about?”

Shara thinks of the tea girl. “One.”

“Was she pregnant?”

“Not that I could see.”

“Well. Thank the seas for small gifts.”

“What about Mulaghesh, the polis governor? She’s been very … hands-off with Bulikov. Still a keeper to the policies, in essence.”

“Can I rely on her?”

“Probably. She’s old military, fought in the rebellions. The brass is in her bones. You always do quite well with her sort. Now—what about the professor?”

“I’m collecting information as we speak,” says Shara—glib, trite, serviceable.

“And once you know who killed him, and why, what will you do?” asks Vinya.

“Take stock of the situation and see what threat it poses to Saypur.”

“So vengeance doesn’t cross your mind?”

“One has no room for vengeance,” says Shara, “when the eyes of the world are watching. We must be judicious, and bloodless. I am to be, as always, a simple tool in the hands of my nation.”

“Enough with the rhetoric,” says Vinya. “I’ve no idea who it actually works on anymore.” She looks away to think. “I’ll tell you what, Shara. I will be generous with you. I’ll give you a deadline on this—one week.”

Shara stares at her, incensed. “One week!”

“Yes. One week to see if there’s something of importance to Saypur. The entire populace of Bulikov wished the poor man dead, darling! It could have been a
janitor
, for all you know. I will give you one week to show me there is some larger reason justifying your presence there, and then, if not, I’m pulling you out and I’ll have someone else oversee the proceedings. This is not a good use of you, dear—there are much more important tasks the Ministry needs you to oversee.”

“One week …” Shara momentarily debates telling Vinya about the message, then decides the potential bad consequences heartily outweigh the good.

“Oh, is this the girl who just told me she was the highest-ranking agent nearby? You made it sound like it’d only take a puff from your lips, and the house of cards would tumble.” Vinya waggles her fingers, imitating the snowfall spin of falling cards. “If you are so well prepared, my darling, surely it’ll take mere
hours
.”

Shara adjusts her glasses, frustrated. “Fine.”

“Good. Keep me informed. And I would appreciate it if you would keep your man from murdering anyone for at least a few days.”

“I can’t promise that.”

“I know. But I thought I’d ask.”

“And if I defuse this situation in one week,” says Shara, “if I do actually work the impossible this time, is there any chance that—”

“That what?”

“That I could be transferred.”

“Transferred?”

“Yes. Back to Ghaladesh.” Then, when Vinya stares blankly at her: “We talked about this. Last time.”

“Ah. Ah, yes,” says Vinya. “That’s right, we did, didn’t we. …”

You know that,
Shara thinks.
And we talked about it the time before that, and the time before that, and the time before that. …

“I must confess,” says Vinya, “you are the only operative I know of who genuinely wants a desk job back at the home office. I thought you would love the Continent, it’s all you ever studied in training.”

“I have been abroad,” says Shara softly, “for sixteen years.”

“Shara …” Vinya smiles uncomfortably. “You know you are my foremost Continental operative. No one knows more about the Divine than you … and more so, almost no one in Ghaladesh knows that traces of the Divine still exist on the Continent, to some degree.”

How many times,
Shara thinks,
I have heard this speech.

“It’s the policy of the Ministry to never disclose the continued existence of the Divine, however slight. Saypuris prefer to believe all that is history—dead, and gone. They cannot know that some miracles still work on the Continent … and they
certainly
cannot know that some Divine creatures still exist, though you and your man are very good at cleaning those up.”

Shara is silent as she reflects that her aunt has no idea what such a thing means.

“So long as the Divinities themselves remain gone—and we are
so
happy that that is the continued situation—we have no reason to tell people what they don’t wish to know,” Vinya says.