City of Stairs (The Divine Cities, #1)(20)

Mulaghesh laughs. “Ahanashtan? You think I want more responsibility? By the seas, no. What I want, Ambassador, is to get stationed in Javrat.”

“Javrat?” says Shara, surprised.

“Yes. Way out in the South Seas. I want to go someplace with palm trees. Sun. With beaches. Someplace with good wine, and men whose skin doesn’t look like beef fat. I want to get far away from the Continent, Ambassador. I don’t want anything to do with this anymore.”

Shara is a bit taken aback by this. The polis of Ahanashtan contains the only functioning international port on the Continent, and as trade has become more and more naval since the War, that makes Ahanashtan one of the few Continental polises with any wealth. In addition, since Saypur’s military strength lies almost exclusively in its ships, Ahanashtan is also the city with the closest connection to Saypur, making its polis governor one of the more powerful figures in the world. Presumably every Saypuri official on the Continent would love to get the job … but requesting the tiny island of Javrat would mean Mulaghesh wants essentially to step out of the political game altogether, and Shara has never really met any Saypuri whose ambition didn’t keep them in the game in perpetuity.

“So do you think,” says Mulaghesh, “that that’s possible?”

“It’s … possible, certainly,” says Shara. “But I expect the Ministry will be a little confused.”

“I don’t want a promotion,” says Mulaghesh. “I’ve got, what, two decades left of my life? Less? I want to take my bones someplace warm, Ambassador. And all this gamesmanship … I find it sickening nowadays.”

“I will most certainly see what I can do to get that arranged.”

Mulaghesh smiles a grin that would not look out of place on a shark. “Excellent. Then let’s get started.”

*

“I’ll tell you that this New Bulikov movement in the city has stirred up a big bucket of shit,” says Mulaghesh. “It’s been brewing for a while. People see there’s money to be made in modernization—in cooperation with Saypur, in other words—and they mean to make it. The rich folk in Bulikov, they don’t want to cooperate at all, and they make enough noise that the poor ones listen.”

“What would this have to do with Dr. Pangyui?”

“Well, the big argument in the anti–New Bulikov movements is that they’re ‘straying from the path.’ ” To this statement Mulaghesh applies an eyeroll, a sneer, a contemptuous hand wave—the works. “This is not as things were; thus this is not how things should be. The most extreme of them call themselves, rather boldly, the Restorationists. Self-appointed keepers of Bulikov’s national identity, cultural identity … You know the kind of *s I’m talking about. So when Pangyui showed up, dissecting the Continent’s history, culture, well, it gave them a pretty big target to talk about.”

“Ah,” says Shara.

“Yeah. The Restorationists were losing the debate, because, shit, no one’s going to vote against prosperity. So if you’re losing the debate, you change the conversation.”

“He was a good distraction, in other words.”

“Right. Point at this filthy Saypuri, showing up with the blessing of this foreign power they’re supposed to get in bed with, and scream and howl and bitch and whine about this horrific sacrilege. I don’t think they actually cared much about Pangyui and his ‘mission of cultural understanding’—well, maybe some did—they just used him as a political chip. And now they’ve all denied having had anything to do with the murder, and their official position is that this was just honest political debate. You know, basic, good ol’-fashioned, disgusting, slanderous political debate. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

Shara finds none of this surprising. The political instinct might wear different clothes in different nations, but underneath the pomp and ceremony it’s the same ugliness. “But does this have any bearing on Dr. Pangyui’s murder?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Could it have stirred some nut into beating the professor to death? Could have. Does that mean the political factions in Bulikov are responsible? Maybe. Can we do anything about that? Probably not.”

“But what if the powers in Bulikov,” says Shara, “are complicit?”

Mulaghesh stops chewing her cigarillo. “And what would you mean by that?”

“We’ve inspected the professor’s offices. They were ransacked. I suspect this could not have happened without someone in the Bulikov police knowing. Much of his material has been shredded, destroyed. Someone was looking for something.”

“What?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then why come to me about it?”

“Well … It may depend on exactly what he was researching.” Shara reaches into her coat and takes out the entry permission stubs, puts them on Mulaghesh’s desk, and slides them over.

Mulaghesh’s face drops. She takes the cigarillo out, sits frozen with it in one hand, then lays it on the table. “Ah, shit.”

“What would this be, Governor?” asks Shara.

Mulaghesh grunts, frustrated.

“What are those, Governor?”

“Visitor badges,” says Mulaghesh reluctantly. “You clip them to your shirtfront, so we can see you have access. They expire every week, because, well, the access is so restricted. I guess he must have taken the expired ones home—though he had strict orders to destroy them. This is what you get for giving this sort of work to civilians.”