The Divine Cities Trilogy: City of Stairs, City of Blades, and City of Miracles, With an Excerpt From Foundryside

by Robert Jackson Bennett

  Shara is faint. She nearly falls out of her chair.

  A worldview is a series of assumptions, of perceived certainties, a way things must be because they have always been that way, and they cannot be otherwise: any other way, any other world, is completely inconceivable to that worldview.

  Shara has always felt that certain worldviews are more flexible than others: some are myopic and strict, while others are quite broad, with permeable borders and edges, ideas and events floating through without any resistance….And for so long, Shara thought she possessed the latter.

  Yet now…Now it feels like all the assumptions and certainties that made up her world are dissolving under her feet, and she will plummet down, down, down….

  What a brittle, tiny thing the world is.

  All the mysteries and murders and intrigue of the past days shrink until they are meaningless to her.

  It’s a lie. All of it is a lie. Everything we’ve ever learned is a lie.

  She ties up the paper with new string, replaces the papers in the white suitcase, and shuts the case.

  I sing and caper

  Dance and twirl

  And many a merry pattern I weave

  But cross me not, children

  For there is no burning coal in all the fires of Bulikov

  No raging storm in all the South Seas

  No element on this earth or in this world

  That could match my fury.

  My name is Jukov

  And I do not forget.

  —THE JUKOSHTAVA, BOOK SIX

  THE DIVINE CITY

  The days tumble by.

  Appointments, appointments. Shara is no longer a person: she is a personage, the physical representation of an office. Yet ironically, being such a thing renders her powerless. She is shuffled from meeting room to meeting room, listening to the pleas of Bulikov, the pleas of the Continent, the pleas of taxpayers, merchants, the wealthy, the impoverished….She lives on a diet of agendas, each stuffed in her hand as she walks through the door, and a parade of bland and vapid names: “Today is the Legislative Co-Action Association of the Kivrey Quarters” someone tells her, or, “Now is the Cultural Charities of Promise Committee” or, “After this is the Urban Planning and Redistricting Task Force of Central Bulikov.”

  There is no crueler hells than committee work, she decides, and Vinya must have taken great pleasure in knowing this. Shara now sits on committees that decide who shall be nominated to be committee chairs for other committees; then, after these meetings, she sits on committee meetings to formulate agendas for future meetings; and after these, she attends committee meetings deciding who shall be appointed to appoint appointments to committees.

  Shara smiles through these, which she thinks is quite the feat: for inside she is filled with boiling, thrashing, groaning secrets. She feels at times as if the city is filled with ticking bombs that could go off at any moment, and only she is aware of them, yet she cannot open her mouth to warn anyone. Every morning she awakes in a sweat and dashes to check the papers, sure to discover some lethal plot unfolding only blocks away.

  But the world is quiet, and still. Saypuri cranes reconstruct the Solda Bridge, segment by segment. Vohannes has not contacted her since their clumsy night together, and Shara has not yet decided if this is damning evidence or not—even if she didn’t suspect he was the one who blew her cover, she still isn’t sure she’d be able to look him in the eye. Ernst Wiclov’s leave of absence grows longer and longer. Mulaghesh has, after receiving some biting telegrams from the regional governor’s office, reluctantly returned to her regular duties. Shara does not have to look hard to see Auntie Vinya’s hand in that.

  But in Shara’s head, the pages of Pangyui’s journal flit in and out of her thoughts, and she must force a smile on her face as she listens to the worries of Bulikov and the Continent, thinking all the while: These are lies. This is all a lie. Everything these people believe, everything Saypur believes, is built upon lies. And I am the only person alive in this world who knows it.

  And, most frustrating of all, she is still no closer to solving Pangyui’s murder than before. After all the transgressions and betrayals and horrific discoveries, the very thing that brought her to Bulikov in the first place continues to elude her.

  Press on, press on—sit on your leads until they crack….

  She has not seen Sigrud for more than a week. But this is actually good—she has assigned him to watch all of Wiclov’s loomworks. The man himself might have disappeared, but he can’t take whole factories with him, and the loomworks form one leg of the Restorationists’ trifecta—the other two legs being the steel, and whatever was stolen from the Warehouse. And Vinya might have warned Shara against attempting any sort of covert work, but standing in a street and watching a building isn’t inherently covert, is it?

  So for now, she watches, and she waits.

  Specifically, she waits for nightfall. Because tonight she can actually get some real work done.

  * * *

  —

  Sigrud looks up from where he kneels in the alley. It’s so dark out it’s hard to see which of his eyes is missing. “You’re late,” he says.

  “Shut up,” snaps Shara as she jogs up. “I’ve been trying to escape all evening. These meetings, they’re like thieves—they follow you around, wait until you’re not looking, then pounce.” She stops and leans against the wall, breathing hard. Just beyond Sigrud, on the floor of the alley, is a single line of chalk—the same chalk line Shara herself drew weeks ago, when she first tried to deduce exactly how someone could vanish in the middle of a city. “Did you bring them?”

  Sigrud holds up a canvas bag. It tinkles slightly. “Wasn’t cheap.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t expect old money to be cheap. Let’s take a look.”

  She sits on the alley floor and sifts through the bag, which contains about six pounds of coins, all of many different types and denominations. They all have two things in common, however: they are all very old, and they are all Continental.

  “It looks like we have all the polises covered,” mutters Shara. “Taalvashtan, Voortyashtan, Kolkashtan, Ahanashtan, Ol…Wait. Olvoshtan?”

  Sigrud shrugs.

  “This is a priceless artifact!”

  “You asked me to be thorough. Just don’t ask how I managed to be so thorough.”

  Shara studies the coins. “Right…So. Many different markings, many different meanings…The question is—which of the meanings has meaning?”

  Sigrud stares at her blankly. “What?”

  “Never mind,” says Shara. “There’s only one way to find out.” She turns and flings the coins down the alley, past the chalk line. They go ringing on the concrete, clattering and bouncing and rolling away to lie among the refuse.

  Sigrud and Shara wait for them to settle, then pace down the alley to examine them. “Silver, silver,” mutters Sigrud. “Silver…Ah. Here. Lead.” Shara extends a hand. He places the coin in her palm, and they continue looking. “Silver, silver, silver…Silver…Lead. And silver…Two leads…”

  Shara and Sigrud meet in this alley two nights out of every week. Shara would like to manage three, but her schedule won’t allow it—there are so many evening events, receptions and dinners and the like, that demand the presence of Bulikov’s chief diplomat. But it is this alley, and its invisible door, that occupies every moment of Shara’s waking life.

  Does this alley function by calendar? By time? By the phase of the moon? Must it be approached by a certain angle? Sigrud has seen people both run and fall through these invisible doors, so the latter is unlikely. Does someone need to be on the other side of the door, to allow them through? Does it only work on men, not women? No, of course not, don’t be absurd….

  Trial and error, trial and error. Boil down all the possibilities until only one remains.


  After picking up lead coins for nearly ten minutes, Shara has a brimming handful. She sits back to study them, one by one.

  “Well?” says Sigrud.

  Shara continues counting under her breath.

  “Well?”

  “Yes! Yes. It’s as I thought—all of the lead ones are either Jukoshtani, Kolkashtani, or Olvoshtani. The others remain silver.”

  Sigrud lights his pipe. The scarred brick walls glint with orange, and his one eye glows. “So?”

  “So, whatever is happening in this alley, it happens to specific items with specific markings. A reaction—like a chemical. It waits for the right thing. It’s not looking for an incantation, or some gesture, it’s looking for…I don’t know. For things to look right.”

  “Like a guard,” says Sigrud.

  “Like what?”

  “Like a guard, watching the gate of a fortress. Do you have your badge? Are your colors right? Do you carry the right flag? If not, you don’t get through.”

  “Yes, I suppose, it could be like a unif—” Shara stops. She slowly sits back to stare down the alley.

  “What?” says Sigrud.

  “A uniform…Sigrud—what’s the last thing to have disappeared down this alley?” she asks softly.

  “The man who drove the car.”

  “Yes. But think of this alley like the gate of a fortress, and there is something invisible here, acting as a guard like you said….”

  “…checking his uniform,” says Sigrud. “So you are saying…”

  “I am asking,” she looks up at him, her glasses glinting in the moonlight, “how easy would it be for you to get ahold of the Kolkashtani wraps that were worn by the men you killed?”

  Sigrud sighs. “Oh, boy.”

  * * *

  —

  Another cold night, another sky smoked with thin clouds, another moon weak and formless like a coffee stain. Shara stands as Sigrud comes pacing down the sidewalk to her, a heavy satchel swinging from his shoulder. “Now you’re late. What took you so long? Was it so hard to get the wraps?”

  “The wraps,” he says slowly, “were not the problem. But I have them.” He reaches inside his satchel and hands one to Shara.

  It is a hard, lumpy, dense ball of gray wool. The fabric is so tightly knit, it’s almost like sealskin. But of course it would be, thinks Shara.

  Kolkashtanis wouldn’t want to entertain even the chance of having something show through. “Excellent…Excellent!” she says. “Do I want to know how you got this?”

  He shrugs. “I took some police officers whoring. Frequently the easiest solution is best, I find. They like me, after Urav.”

  Shara feels the edges of the fabric, her small fingers parsing through the threads. “Come on, come on….There has to b—Wait.” The fabric around the neck is stiff and scratchy, like it has dried paint on it, or…“Wait, is this…? Is this blood?”

  “You think I had time to wash them?”

  Shara sighs. “Well. Anything for the job, I suppose. Now…Hm. Yes. Here.” She feels something hard in the collar of the wrap, turns the collar inside out, and pulls apart the wool strands. It’s a small copper necklace engraved with the symbol of Kolkan. She feels the rest of the clothing and finds lumps in the wrists, the ankles, the waist…all of them trinkets and jewelry bearing Kolkan’s scale.

  She laughs. “Yes,” she says. “Finally! It’s what I expected! They’re not coins, per se, but they definitely have similar sigils and markings. This is a breakthrough! It was so obvious! I don’t know why I didn’t…” She looks up at Sigrud, grinning, but she sees he’s dolefully watching her. “What’s wrong?”

  “I am wondering…how to tell you something,” he says.

  “How to tell me something? Plainly and quickly, I would hope.” He rubs his chin. “Well. The loomworks…the ones you have had me watching…”

  “Yes?”

  “For a long while, it has been business as usual. Just…Wool. Thread. Workers. Rugs. Boring.”

  “Yes, and?”

  “But today, and yesterday, at two of the loomworks…I saw someone. The same person at both places. Visiting.”

  Shara slowly lowers the wrap. “Who?”

  Sigrud rubs his chin a little harder. “Votrov.”

  “What?”

  “I know.”

  Shara stares at him. “Vohannes Votrov is visiting these loomworks?”

  He nods, wincing. “Yes.”

  “But…why would he do that?”

  “I have no idea. But I saw him. Vohannes Votrov himself. It was a very…secretive visit. He was trying to sneak in the back way. But I caught him. I thought, ‘Maybe he wants to buy these loomworks,’ you know, maybe to rub salt in Wiclov’s wounds, but no, I checked—all are owned by Wiclov, and so far there is no record of anyone trying to change that. That is why I was late.”

  “You’re…You’re sure.”

  “I’m sure. Vohannes Votrov. As plain as day. He did not look well, though. He looked quite sickly. And not at all happy. He looked, I thought, like a dying man. He wasn’t even dressed the same. He was dressed like a sad little monk.”

  This confuses Shara so much that she stops thinking about the alley entirely. “Are you suggesting that Vohannes Votrov is acting like he’s complicit with the Restorationists?”

  Sigrud raises his hands as if defending himself. “I am telling you what I saw. He snuck into a factory owned by Wiclov, did business, then moved on to the next factory. The people there seemed to recognize him. Were I to guess, those were far from his first visits.”

  “Then why…Why would he tell us about the loomworks, and make us suspicious of them, if he’s doing…whatever it is he’s doing there himself?”

  Sigrud shrugged. “He looked sick. I think he is a sick man, frankly.”

  And with those words, he cuts straight to the heart of a suspicion Shara has harbored for a while: that Vohannes Votrov is not himself. His actions are too inexplicable. Why would he leak her identity? Why would he, having now gotten exactly what he wanted out of the Saypuri government, not talk to her, now the figurehead of Saypur’s presence in Bulikov? Why would he, a man whose whole life was marred and damaged by his Kolkashtani upbringing, mutter lines from the Kolkashtava in the drunken depths of sleep?

  The only answer is that Vohannes, a man already divided, is even more divided than she imagined. Perhaps divided enough that he is unwell, that he does not truly know what he is doing.

  “There’s nothing we can do about that here,” says Shara finally. “We…We have to soldier on.”

  “Fine,” says Sigrud. “Then what were you saying?”

  Shara tries to refocus. “These wraps: they’re seeded with tiny charms. Little medallions and bracelets and pieces of metal bearing the mark of Kolkan—just like the coins were, in a way. So these wraps, whenever they encounter that space in the alley, will evoke a reaction of some kind, just like the coins.”

  “Meaning…”

  “Meaning…” Shara wads up the wrap until it’s a tight ball, turns, and throws it toward the chalked line in the alley.

  Yet it never crosses.

  Sigrud blinks.

  The ball of gray cloth is gone.

  “Good,” says Shara. “To be completely honest, I was not entirely sure that would work.”

  “What…?”

  “I do feel a bit bad, I suppose—I hope you have more than one or two of those….”

  “What just…? What just happened?”

  “I think I was right,” says Shara. “This alley is damaged by the Blink in a very deep way. Not just the alley. Reality.” She brushes off her hands and turns to face the chalk line. “That is the first spot of reality static witnessed since the end of the Great War.”

  * * *

  —

  “After the
War, after the Divinities were killed, it took a long time for reality to figure out what it was supposed to be,” says Shara. “In one city, one tenet was absolutely and completely true; then, in another, the opposite. When the Divinities were killed, these two areas had to reconcile with one another and decide what their true state was. While that was getting resolved, you had—”

  “Static,” says Sigrud.

  “Exactly. Places where the rules were suspended. A deep marring to the fundamental nature of reality, caused by the Blink.”

  “How could reality still be broken here and no one ever noticed?”

  “I think part of it”—Shara waves at the street—“is that it blends in so well.” The area is like much of Bulikov: twisted, warped, pockmarked; buildings trapped inside of buildings; streets ending in tangles of stairs. “As anyone can plainly see, Bulikov has never really recovered from the Blink.”

  “And on the other side of that”—he points at the invisible spot in space, wondering what to call it—“that static, is another reality?”

  “I believe so,” says Shara. “Specifically, it’s a reality that pays attention to what sort of Divinity you worship, whose markings and sigils and signs you bear.”

  “I suppose it’s true, then—the clothes make the man….”

  “How many more wraps do you have?”

  He looks in his satchel. “Three.”

  “Then please give me your smallest one, if you can. We’re going over.”

  Shara and Sigrud each pull on a set of clothes: for Shara, the clothes are absurdly large, and for Sigrud, absurdly small. “I really do wish you’d washed these,” says Shara. “This one is still stiff on the inside.”

  “You’re sure this will work?” asks Sigrud.

  “Yes. Because once, you almost went there.”

  Sigrud frowns. “I did?”

  “Yes. When you saw the first disappearance, the man jumping down into the alley, you said you glimpsed, just for a moment, tall, thin buildings of white and gold….And I believe the only reason you did see that”—she points at his right hand in its gray glove—“is because of that.”