City of Stairs (The Divine Cities, #1)(13)
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.