City of Stairs (The Divine Cities, #1)(154)

She smiles. “How has this affected any plans for your future?”

“Why do you ask?”

“The reason I ask is that, if my plans go accordingly, I will no longer be a ground-level operative. I will return to Ghaladesh and take up a desk job. And I will no longer need your services.”

“Am I to be abandoned? You leave me here to rot, in this bed?”

“No. This desk job in particular will be very, very important. There is no title for it yet—if all this works out, I shall probably have to make one for it. But I will need all the overseas support I can get. I believe I will have a strong ally in Bulikov, but I will need more.”

“More being …”

“If, say, the North Seas are suddenly tamed …”

Sigrud’s look of confusion contorts to one of considerable alarm. “No.”

“If, say, a personage most Dreylings thought to be dead suddenly returned …”

“No!”

“If the legitimacy of the coup that killed King Harkvald was utterly undermined, and the rampant piracy were to end …”

Sigrud drums his fingers on his arms and fumes in silence.

Something drains out of one of his tubes with a quiet ploink.

“You won’t even consider it?” asks Shara.

“Even when my father was alive,” says Sigrud, “I did not relish the idea of … governing.”

“Well, I’m not asking you to. I have never really approved of monarchies, anyway. What I am asking,” says Shara, sternly and slowly, “is that if you, Dauvkind, lost prince of the Dreyling shores …”

Sigrud rolls his eye.

“… were to return to the pirate states of the Dreyling Republics, and had the full and total support of Saypur …” She can tell that Sigrud is now listening. “… could that not begin some kind of reform? Would that not offer some promise for the Dreyling people?”

Sigrud is silent for a long time. “I know”—he digs deep in the bandages on his arm and scratches—“that you would never ask me such a thing in jest.”

“I’m not. It may never even happen. I am returning to Saypur, but … there is a chance I might not survive.”

“Then you will need me with you, of course!”

“No,” says Shara. “I won’t. Partially because I am confident I will succeed. But I also wish for your life to be your own, Sigrud. I want you to wait here, and get healthy, no matter what happens. And if nothing at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs changes, then you should know that I am dead.”

“Shara—”

“And if that is the case”—she takes out a small slip of paper and places it in his hand—“then here is the village where your wife and daughters are hidden.”

Sigrud blinks, astonished.

“If I am dead, I want you to go home to them, Sigrud,” says Shara. “You said the father and the husband they knew was dead, that the fire of life in you had gone out. But I think that is a foolish and vain thing to think. I think that you, Sigrud je Harkvaldsson, are afraid. You are afraid that your children have grown, that your family will not know you, or want you.”

“Shara …”

“If there was anything I’ve wanted throughout my life, Sigrud, it was to know my parents. It was to know the people I wished so hard to live up to. I will not ever have that chance, but your children might. And I think they will be overjoyed with who comes home.”

Sigrud stares at the slip of paper in his hands. “I was not at all prepared,” he grumbles, “for such an assault.”

“I have never really had to persuade you before,” says Shara. “Now you know why I’m good at what I do.”

“This nonsense with the Dauvkind … ,” says Sigrud. “It is all just a children’s tale! They believe the son of King Harkvald to be a, a fairy prince! They say he will come riding out of the sea on a wave, playing the flute. A flute! Can you imagine? They will not expect … expect me.”

“After all the battles you’ve fought, this one gives you pause?”

“Killing is one thing,” says Sigrud. “Politics is another.”

Shara pats his hand. “I will make sure you have someone to help you. And it will not all be politics. Many of the pirate kings, I expect, will be quite reluctant to leave. Despite what you may fear, Sigrud, I expect your exploits are far from over.” She checks her watch. “I’m late. My train leaves in an hour, and I must prepare for my final interview.”

“Who else must you browbeat into doing your bidding?”

“Oh, this won’t be browbeating,” says Shara grimly as she stands. “This will just be simple threats.”

Sigrud carefully stows away the slip of paper. “Will I see you again soon?”

“Probably.” She smiles, takes his hand, and kisses one scarred knuckle. “If we do a good job, we may meet as equals on the world stage.”

“No matter what happens, to either of us,” says Sigrud, “you have always been a very good friend to me, Shara Komayd. I have known very few good people. But I think that you are one of them.”

“Even if sometimes I almost got you killed?”

“Being killed … Pah.” His one eye glitters in the gaslight. “What is that to good friends?”