“Hells, I don’t know. Then he just…burst into flames. I didn’t see him activate anything, push any button, light any match. He didn’t even seem to move. Whatever he used, I want to know what it was. They might use more of them.”
“And…And did you hear a voice in the room?”
“A what?”
“A voice? While we stared at one another?”
Mulaghesh takes her eyes off the street to look Shara over. “You’re in shock. You need to lie back and rest. Let me take over today. This is what I do. This is what I know. Okay?”
He spoke to me from the heart of the world.
No—he was the heart of the world.
“You don’t need,” says Shara softly, “to order your men about so.”
“Shara, just lie back—”
“No,” says Shara. “Listen. That was not a planned, coordinated attack. And it was most certainly not an assassination attempt.”
“Then what was it?”
Shara debates not telling her. Some secrets, she tells herself, can’t be borne alone.
She sits up and says to Pitry, “Pardon, Pitry, but could you pull over briefly? And when you do, could you roll up the partition back here?”
“What?” says Mulaghesh. “Why?”
“Because I’m afraid your soldiers will have to join Pitry in the front seat,” she says. “This conversation will have to be private, you see.”
* * *
—
The broken buildings are like savage landscapes as they speed by, gray glaciers creeping down a mountain. A pale face appears at a window; a young girl heaves out a prodigious amount of what can only be human waste. The passersby stop only briefly: not an unusual occurrence for them.
“I have read more about the history of the Continent than nearly anyone else alive in the world,” Shara says. “Before me, the only person who knew more was Efrem Pangyui. He’s now passed, of course. Which means it is only me.”
“What’s your point?” asks Mulaghesh.
“I have read of instances of spontaneous combustion on the Continent. It hasn’t happened in decades, but once, long ago, it happened occasionally. The cause of these episodes of spontaneous combustion was widely known here, back then: they were the result of Divine possession.”
“Of what?” asks Mulaghesh.
“Divine possession. A Divine being could project his or her intelligence into a mortal agent to commune with them directly—almost using them as a puppet, essentially. This was quite common among some of the lesser Divine beings—sprites, spirits, familiars, and so on.”
“All of which the Kaj killed in the Great Purge,” says Mulaghesh. “Right?”
“Presumably. But the primary Divinities could not possess a mortal agent to the same degree. Their very beings were too large, too powerful, too intense. The mortal body could not bear it. Sort of like spiritual friction, I suppose, resulting in combustion.”
Mulaghesh is silent for a long, long time. “And…you’re saying you think this is what happened.”
“I’m positive of it.”
“How so?”
“Because”—she takes a breath—“whatever possessed that boy spoke to me. To you, outside the cell, it looked like we were simply standing still. But to me, something…took me somewhere. I was there for some time. It pulled me in. It wanted to see me. And it wanted me to let it out of…wherever it was.”
“It spoke to you?”
“Yes.”
Mulaghesh swallows. “Are you…quite sure of this?”
“Yes.”
“This wasn’t a side effect of the drug you used on that boy? Maybe you absorbed it through your skin?”
“I’m sure the drug contributed, but not in the way you mean. Like I said, a philosopher’s stone was often used to commune with the Divinities. Records indicate it acted like lubrication, in a way. I believe I might have unintentionally opened that boy up for…whatever it was, to possess him.”
“Whatever it was,” echoes Mulaghesh.
“Yes.”
“But it’s…It’s not a ‘whatever it was.’ Because you sound like you know what it was.”
“Yes.”
“Because if what you’re saying is correct, then the only thing that…made people combust was…”
“Yes. A primary Divinity.”
“And…if you’re saying that was what you saw, what took control of that boy, then that would mean…”
“Yes,” says Shara. “It would mean at least one of the gods has survived.”
Winning the War is most certainly the single greatest shift in Saypur’s history. However, both the Kaj and the War often overshadow the handful of years directly after the downfall of the Continent—which were just as crucial for Saypur as the death of the Divinities. But this period is almost completely forgotten.
This is likely because the events following the War are so unpleasant to remember.
After the Kaj had killed the last Divinity, it became evident that the Divinities had been protecting the Continent—and Saypur, to a certain extent—not only from outside attackers, but also from a number of viruses and diseases. And for the twenty years after the death of Jukov, the last Divinity, horrific plague and rampant outbreak became as seasonally predictable as rain and snow.
The estimated worldwide loss during the official Plague Years is innumerable. The Continent, being so dependent on the Divinities, was especially vulnerable: immediately after the Blink, nearly one-third of all its population died of various ailments. Saypuri soldiers—who were just as vulnerable, being on the Continent—wrote letters home describing streets stuffed with rotting corpses, rivers of the dead piled twice as high as any man, endless trains of litters bearing bodies to pyres outside each polis. Every polis suffered an explosion of insects, rats, cats, wolves—nearly any pest one can imagine. Everywhere one went in the Continent, one was met with the overpowering scent of rotting flesh.
Saypur, however, being a colony that only peripherally benefited from miraculous intervention, had better knowledge of nonmiraculous sanitation. They quarantined the infected, and when soldiers arrived home, they promptly quarantined them as well—a decision that caused much outrage in Saypur at the time. Overall, though the Plague Years were far from easy, Saypur lost less than ten thousand lives to the sudden, massive influx of disease.
It is this self-sufficiency that also came to Saypur’s aid in terms of technology. For the 867 years of its subservience, Saypur was forced to provide resources to the Continent chiefly by its own means—without Divine support. (Exactly why the Divinities needed Saypur to produce resources at all, rather than simply producing them with any number of miracles, is a favorite, and often rather infamous, question among Saypuri historians.) Having been forced to generate such technological innovation under threat, and now suddenly finding itself sitting upon a wealth of resources that could now be called its own, Saypur underwent a phenomenal technological transformation overnight. Vallaicha Thinadeshi herself, who is generally acknowledged to be the greatest of the iconic engineers of this period before her disappearance in Voortyashtan, said that for two decades “you could toss a stone out any window in Ghaladesh and strike four geniuses on the way down.” (It is perhaps noteworthy that the Kaj himself was an amateur scientist, performing many experiments on his estate.)
In contrast, the Continent—plague-ridden, starving—sank into its own helplessness. In the absence of any single ruling force, the polises succumbed to internal conflict. Bandit kings sprang up like mushrooms. During their withdrawal, some Saypuri soldiers recorded rumors of cannibalism, torture, slavery, mass rape. The people that were once the blessed luminaries of the world had, almost overnight, descended into monstrous, barbaric savagery.
It must have seemed to the newly founded Saypuri Parliament an easy if not satisfying decis
ion: Saypur, for so long the subservient nation, would intervene in the Continent’s affairs and bring order. They would reinvade, this time under a banner of peace, and reconstruct.
But I am not sure if they truly understood the memory of the Continent—which, despite the Blink, despite the Plague Years, despite the bandit kings—remains to this day quite long, and bitter.
They remember what they were, and they know what they have lost.
—“THE SUDDEN HEGEMONY,”
DR. EFREM PANGYUI
DANGEROUSLY HONEST
Hazy morning light trickles across the rooftops. Shara squints as she tries to discern exactly where the walls of Bulikov start and stop, but she can see only the early-morning sky—or perhaps she only imagines the diamond-flecks of stars glittering above the dawning sun. It’s not really the sun, she thinks. I’m not seeing the sky. It’s just the picture of the sun and the sky, produced by the walls. Or, at least, I think it is….The Bulikov pigeons can tell no difference: they emerge from their roosts, fluff their feathers, and descend to the city streets in wheeling clouds.
Shara is not afraid. She tells herself this repeatedly, in the calm, cool voice of a doctor.
I have never thought of knowledge as a burden, thinks Shara, but how heavy this weighs on me….
But inside her a small, quiet voice reminds her that this isn’t completely surprising. Shara spent enough time buried in the restricted information at the Ministry to understand that the history taught in Saypuri schools is just one variation on a story—one with many, many holes. But just because the nightmare you expected comes true, she tells herself, it doesn’t make it any less terrifying.
More and more, she worries about what could be in the Warehouse. And, more and more, she worries that someone other than Efrem could have gotten access to it. That should be impossible; but having just had what should be a dead Divinity directly address her, she knows the impossible cannot really be ruled out.
She picks up the morning paper on her desk and reads the account of the deaths last night for the hundredth time, paying close attention to two paragraphs in particular:
Vohannes Votrov expressed grief for his slain staff members and regret that the attack happened, but said he was not surprised: “With the current discourse we’re seeing in the city, I am not shocked at all that some citizens felt violence was the only answer. They are told day in and day out that [New Bulikov’s] vision for the city is one of destruction and death, that we are liars and deceivers. I have no doubt that such men felt they were acting out of a moral principle—and this I regret perhaps most of all.”
City Father Ernst Wiclov, a frequent opponent to Votrov and New Bulikov, was quick to condemn these accusations. “The very idea that someone would capitalize on such a tragedy for political gain is abhorrent,” he said in an interview mere hours after the attack. “This is a time for mourning and reflection, not self-righteous posturing.” Mr. Vohannes was not available for response.
There’s a knock at the door and Mulaghesh sticks her head in. “I didn’t want to open up shop for anyone, but I thought I’d make an exception for this—your boy is here.”
“My what?”
Mulaghesh pushes the door open the rest of the way to reveal Vohannes standing in the hallway, looking quite awkward despite his elegant gray suit and thick white fur coat.
“Ah,” says Shara. “Come in.”
Vohannes limps in. “I must say, I am happy to see you in one piece….Two attempts on your life in one day! I thought you were important, Shara, but not…” He rubs his hip. “Not that important.”
Shara rolls her eyes. “I see your charm has not been dulled by all the excitement. Please sit down, Vo. I have some rather bad news for you.”
As he does, Shara finds she only hates herself a little for finding this all a fortunate coincidence: she needs Vohannes to be frightened in order to do what she needs him to.
“Bad news?” asks Vo. “Beyond all the damage and…and stains done to my home?”
“We are happy to compensate you for that,” says Shara. “Those damages were done, after all, by a Ministry employee.”
“That man works for the Ministry? For you? But he’s a Dreyling, isn’t he? Haven’t they all become savages and pirates since their little kingdom collapsed?”
“Maybe so,” says Shara, “but he saved your life.”
Vohannes pauses while taking out a cigarette. “Well, I don’t think…Wait, what? My life?”
“Yes,” says Shara. “Because those men were not there for me. They were there for you, Vo.”
He stares at her. The cigarette hovers an inch from Vohannes’s open mouth.
“That would be the bad news I just mentioned,” she says gently. “He…He what?”
Shara summarizes what she learned from her interrogation of the surviving attacker. “I can say, though, that you are quite lucky to be sitting in front of me,” she says mildly. “I am probably the only person on the Continent right now who can help you.”
“Help me what?”
“Help you stay alive. Did you see how those men were dressed?”
His face grows slightly bitter. “Kolkashtani robes…”
“Yes. Those haven’t been seen on the Continent for decades. They were devotees of the Divinity Kolkan. This is not a matter of politics, I think, Vo—I think it is a matter of faith. These men are willing to die for what they believe. And they need something from you. And if they’re willing to die, they’re definitely willing to try again.”
“Try again to get…what?”
“The attacker I questioned was not in a…state where he could provide much detail, but he said they specifically needed your metal. Do you know what that means?”
Vohannes stares into space for nearly a minute before he’s capable of processing her question. “My metal?”
“Yes. I don’t believe he meant anything precious—gold, silver, or anything like that. But as you said, you’re playing into the resources game…so I wondered.”
“Well…I told you my biggest project is saltpeter…which isn’t a metal, you know.”
“I am familiar with the nature of metals,” she says. “We did go to school together, you know.”
“Right, right…The only other thing I could think of”—Vohannes scratches an eyebrow, smooths it down—“would probably be the steelworks. But that’s incredibly new.”
“Steel?”
“Yes. No one else on the Continent can produce steel—mostly because no one can afford the process.”
“But you can?”
“Yes, to a limited degree. It takes a specialized kind of furnace, which is expensive to build and maintain. It’s a bit of a test project, and one I’m not very much interested in because it’s so damn expensive. And because Bulikov isn’t building anything big or grand enough to require steel.”
“But you are producing steel?”
“Yes. I’ve no idea why some reactionary Restorationist would want it, though.”
“He suggested it was for ships that would sail through the air.”
“He said it was for what?”
Shara shrugs. “It’s what he said.”
“So this man is insane. Barking mad, surely. I admit, it’s a bit of a relief to hear it….”
“He was in an induced state, let’s say. But we can’t question him anymore, I’m afraid. The man has died.”
“How?”
Shara is silent. She briefly remembers the sight of the boy’s face, flames filling his mouth as he tried to scream….“I can’t say at the moment,” she says. “But it was unpleasant. All of this is unpleasant to me, Vo. And I don’t like that you’re at the middle of it. You’re a lightning rod, it seems.” She gently touches the newspaper before her. “And I do not want you to make it worse.”
Vohannes st
udies her. “Oh…Oh, Shara. I hope you are not about to suggest what I think you are about to suggest.”
“I will go ahead and assume you’ve had visitors from all your supporters and allies,” says Shara, “and I will assume they have all told you, in varying terms, how you have just been handed some very valuable political capital. Being attacked, and surviving that attack, puts a powerful weapon in your hand. I will also assume that both you, and they, think it politically expedient to get on as much newspaper sheet as possible.”
“I was attacked,” he says. “Am I not allowed to decry my attackers?”
“Not when I am trying to catch them, no,” says Shara. “I want you to stay out of the papers, Vo, and I do not want you to inflame the situation any more than it is.”
A short laugh. “Really.”
“Really. This particular job is proving difficult. But you can make it easier.”
“Your job is difficult? Oh, so you just step into my city and all the sudden it’s your arena? You’re the person dictating how everything should happen in Bulikov? Gods…Were I a less-enlightened person, Shara, I’d say such behavior was typical of a…”
Shara cocks an eyebrow.
Vohannes coughs. “Listen, Shara. I have spent my life building my career. I have thrown away fortunes doing it. And I have battered and battered on the invisible walls surrounding this Continent, trying to bring in aid, wealth, support, education. And now, just when it looks like I might be getting somewhere, just when it looks like I might unify the support of Bulikov…you want me to stop? When the City Father elections are next month?”
“This is bigger than votes.”
“It’s not about votes. It’s about the city, the Continent!”
“So is what I’m doing.”
“People depend on me!”
“People depend on me, too,” says Shara. “They just don’t know it.”
“Oh, you can justify almost anything by saying that.”
“I am not your enemy,” she says. “I am your ally. I have been honest with you, Vo—dangerously honest. Now you must trust me. I want you to withdraw from the public eye, just for a little bit. If your movement is as successful as you claimed, stepping away can’t be that damaging.”
The Divine Cities Trilogy: City of Stairs, City of Blades, and City of Miracles, With an Excerpt From Foundryside Page 16