“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.
Shara opts to state the obvious: “So, because I have seen so much that we cannot admit exists,” she says, “I cannot come home.”
“And because of who you are, if you were to come home, you would be questioned extensively. And since you know so much no one else should ever know…”
Shara closes her eyes.
“Give me time, my love,” says Vinya. “I am doing what I can. The powers that be listen to me more than ever before. Soon they can’t help but be persuaded.”
“The problem is,” Shara says quietly, “we operatives fight to protect our home…but we must return home occasionally, to remember the home we fight for.”
Vinya scoffs. “Don’t be so softhearted! You are a Komayd, my child. You are your parents’ child, and my child—you are a patriot. Saypur runs in your blood.”
I have seen dozens of people die, Shara wishes to say, and signed the death warrants of many. I am nothing like my parents. Not anymore.
Vinya smiles, eyes glittering. “Please stay safe, my love. History weighs a little heavier in Bulikov. Were I you, I’d step carefully—especially since you’re a direct descendant of the man who brought the whole Continent crashing down.” Then she reaches out with two fingers, wipes the glass, and is gone.
It is the duty of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs to regulate that which could not possibly be regulated.
However, just because something is impossible does not mean that the people of Saypur should not expect it to be done: after all, before the War, didn’t impossible things happen on the Continent every hour of every day?
Is that not why Saypur, and indeed, the rest of the world, sleeps so poorly every night?
—PRIME MINISTER ANTA DOONIJESH,
LETTER TO MINISTER VINYA KOMAYD, 1712
UNMENTIONABLES
Bulikov University is a sprawling, many-chambered structure, a dense network of stone and atriums and passageways hidden behind towering walls on the west side of Bulikov. The university’s stonework is stained with rain and dark blooms of mold; its floors and sidewalks are worn smooth, as if trodden on for many years; and its fat, swollen chimneys, which resemble wasp nests more than any functional architectural feature, are of a make not used in several centuries at least.
But, Shara notes as she enters, the university plumbing is nothing short of immaculate. As with most buildings, only pieces of it can be seen: connections to water mains, sprinklers in the ceiling, along with the usual taps and sinks. But what she sees is fairly advanced.
She tries not to smile. Because Shara knows that despite the university’s ancient appearance, the structure itself is little more than twenty years old.
“Which wing are we in now?” she asks.
“The Linguistics wing,” says Nidayin. “And they prefer to call them ‘chambers.’ ”
Shara blinks slowly at such a prompt correction. Nidayin, she finds, is not an unusual embassy officer, in that he is snotty, dismissive, and self-important. However, he is also the embassy’s public affairs representative, which means he is the person who formally gets ambassadors and diplomats into important places—like the university.
“Very long chambers,” says Pitry, looking around. “It’s a hallway, really.”
“The term ‘chambers,’ ” says Nidayin severely, “has a very symbolic meaning.”
“Which is what?”
Nidayin, who evidently has not expected to be quizzed in such a manner, says, “I am sure it has no bearing on the investigation. It doesn’t matter.”
Their footsteps echo on the stone. The university is empty after the death of Dr. Pangyui. Perhaps it is the way the blue light of the lamps (the gas lamps, Shara notes) plays on the stone walls, but she cannot help but feel this is a profoundly organic structure, as if they are within some insect’s hive, or the belly of some titanic creature. But that, she thinks, is probably exactly what the architects intended.
She wonders what Efrem thought of this place. She has already seen his rooms at the embassy, and, as expected, found them completely barren, shorn of any detail at all: Efrem was a man who lived for work, especially this kind of work, in this historied place. She has no doubt that stuffed in some drawer in his office in the university are hundreds of charcoal sketches of the university cornices, gates, and, almost certainly, dozens and dozens of doorknobs, for Efrem was always fascinated by what people did with their hands: It is how people interact with the world, he told her once. The soul might be within the eyes, but the subconscious, the matter of their behavior, that is in the hands. Watch a man’s hands, and you watch his heart. And perhaps he was right, for Efrem was always touching things when he encountered some new discovery: he stroked tabletops, tapped on walls, kneaded up earth, caressed ripe fruit….For Efrem Pangyui, there was never enough of the world to experience.
“Well, now I’m curious,” says Pitry.
“It doesn’t matter,” says Nidayin again.
“You don’t know,” says Pitry.
“I do know,” says Nidayin. “I merely do not have the appropriate resources in front of me. I would not wish to give incorrect information.”
“What rot,” says Pitry.
Sigrud sighs softly, which for him constitutes an exasperated outburst.
Shara clears her throat. “The university has six chambers,” she says, “because the Continentals conceived of the world as a heart with six chambers, each chamber housing one of the original Divinities. The flow between each of the Divinities formed the flow of time, of fate, of all events: the very blood of the world. The university was conceived as a microcosm of this relationship. To come here was to learn everything of everything, or so they wished to suggest.”
“Really?” says Pitry.
“Yes,” says Shara. “But this is not the original university. The original was lost during the War.”
“After the Blink, you mean,” says Nidayin. “It vanished with most of Bulikov. Right?”
Shara ignores him. “The university has been rebuilt based on sketches and art made before the War. Bulikov was very insistent it be re-created exactly as it was: they tore down a great deal of the surviving ancient architecture so the university could be rebuilt with genuine ancient stone. They wanted it to be authentic—or at least,” she says, gently touching a gas lamp, “as authentic as one could make it while still allowing certain modern conveniences.”
“How do you know all that?” asks Pitry.
Shara adjusts her glasses. “What sort of classes do they teach here?”
“Erm, these days, mostly economics,” says Nidayin. “Commerce. Basic job training, as well. Chiefly because the polis has made a concerted effort to become a financial player in the world. Part of the New Bulikov movement, which has had a bit of backlash lately since some people are interpreting it as modernization. Which it is, really. There’re sporadic protests around the university campus, most of the time. Either about New Bulikov, or, well…”
“About Dr. Pangyui,” says Shara.
“Yes.”
“I suppose,” says Pitry as he absently examines the doors, “that they can’t teach history.”
“Not much, no,” says Nidayin. “What history they teach is strictly regulated, due to the WR. The Regulations sort of cripple everything they do here. And they have trouble teaching science and basic physics, since for so long things here didn’t function by basic physics. And in some places, they still don’t.”
Of course, thinks Shara. How do you teach people science when the local sunrise refutes science every morning?
Sigrud stops. He sniffs twice, then looks toward one door on the right. Like most of the doors at the university, it is thick wood with a thick glass window in the center. Otherwise, it is bereft of markings.
“Is that Dr. Pangyui’s office?” asks Shara.
“Yes,” says Nidayin. “How did he—?”
“And has anyone besides the police been inside?”
“I don’t believe so.”
Still, Shara grimaces. The police, she knows, will be bad enough. “Nidayin, Pitry—I would like it if you would check all the offices and rooms in this chamber of the university. We need to know which other university staff might have been nearby, as well as the nature of their relationship to Dr. Pangyui.”
“Are you sure we should be taking up such an investigation?” asks Nidayin.
Shara gives him a look that is not quite cold: perhaps the cooler side of lukewarm.
“I mean, not to speak out of turn, but…you are only the interim CD,” he says.
“Yes,” says Shara. “I am.” She produces a small pink telegram slip and hands it to Nidayin. “And I am following orders from the polis governor, as you will see.”
Nidayin opens up the telegram, and reads:
C-AMB THIVANI PRELIM INVEST POLIS FORCES ASSIST STOP GHS512
“Oh,” says Nidayin.
“Strictly the preliminary investigation,” says Shara. “But we must take advantage of evidence while it is still fresh, or so I am told. Would I be wrong?”
“No,” says Nidayin. “No, you would not.”
He and Pitry begin their rounds, checking the adjacent offices. Within twenty feet they begin bickering again. That should keep them busy for a while, she thinks.
She tucks the telegram inside her coat. She knows she’ll probably need it again.
Naturally, Polis Governor Mulaghesh sent no such telegram, but it’s useful to have friends in every Comm Department, no matter what you’re up to.
“Now,” says Shara. “Let’s see what’s left.”
* * *
—
The office of Dr. Efrem Pangyui is a knee-high sea of torn paper, with his desk resembling a barge lost on its yellowed waves. Shara turns on the gas lamps and surveys the damage: she sees countless tacks on the corkboard on the walls, with scraps of paper still tacked up. “The police must have torn them all down,” she says quietly. “My word.”
The Divine Cities Trilogy: City of Stairs, City of Blades, and City of Miracles, With an Excerpt From Foundryside Page 5