City of Stairs (The Divine Cities, #1)(36)

“I’ll take that as a yes. I won’t let you pull your polite little mouse role with me, Shara. The edges on the girl I knew could never be sanded down.”

“Perhaps you didn’t know me as well as you thought,” says Shara. “Do you wonder if your parents would approve of the house, as well as your little party?”

He grins broadly at her. “I expect they’d approve of them just as much as they’d approve of me having a discussion with a Saypuri intelligence officer.”

Someone downstairs crows laughter. There is the tinkle of broken glass, and a sympathetic Awww from the crowd.

Shara thinks, And so we come to it.

“I am happy to see you’re not surprised,” says Vohannes. “You didn’t seem to be hiding it, anyway. There is no way that Ashara Komayd, top of her class at Fadhuri, niece of the minister of foreign affairs, great-granddaughter of the damnable Kaj, could rise only to the lowly position of cultural ambassador.”

She smiles mirthlessly at his flattery.

“And though ‘Ashara’ is a name as common as water,” he says, “ ‘Komayd,’ well … You’d have to get rid of that right quick. Hence the ‘Thivani.’ ”

“I could have married,” says Shara, “and taken my husband’s name.”

“You are not married,” says Vohannes dismissively. He tosses the rest of his drink out the window. “I know married women. There are signals and signs, none of which you possess. Aren’t you worried someone will recognize you?”

“Who?” says Shara. “No one from Fadhuri is on the Continent besides you and me. All the politicos my family ran with are back in Ghaladesh. There’s just Continentals and the military over here, and none of them know my face.”

“And if someone went hunting for Ashara Komayd?”

“Then they’d discover records indicating she retired from the public eye to teach at a small school in Tohmay, in the south of Saypur—a school that I think closed down about four years ago.”

“Clever. So. The only possible reason someone of your level, whatever it is, would come to be in Bulikov now … Well, it’d have to be Pangyui, wouldn’t it? But I’ve no idea why you’ve come to me. I avoided the man like the plague. Too many political consequences.”

Shara says, “The Restorationists.”

Vohannes nods slowly. “Ah. I see … How very political of you. Who better to tell you about them than one of the people they hate most in the world?” Vohannes considers it. “Let us discuss this somewhere else,” he says. “Somewhere with less of an echo.”

*

Morotka, the Votrov valet, stamps his feet in the cold. It is remarkably stupid that he’s out here. The party started, what, one hour ago? Less? Yet as house valet, it’s Morotka’s duty to hold the door for all guests, call the cars up, and get them settled. And so many of these foolish people enjoy dropping in, being seen, making an appearance, whatever you’d like to call it, so they leave quite quickly. Mr. Votrov is canny enough to know that these people, regretfully, are usually more important than most, and require unusual glad-handing. But could they not make their appearance just long enough to allow Morotka a swig of plum wine, a pinch of snuff, and a few seconds with his feet by the fire? No, no, of course not, so he stamps his feet in the cold and wonders if kitchen duty would better serve him. He doesn’t mind carrots and potatoes. He could live with that.

There is a clunking to the west, like a can rolling along the street. Curious, he peers out. He sees one guard on the west manor wall—but shouldn’t there be two? Mr. Votrov prefers that his guests do not see the ugly necessities his rather radical positions require, but usually once the reception begins, it’s security as normal.

Morotka grunts. Perhaps the fool is wise enough, he thinks, to shirk outdoors duty when he can. Yet then he squints. Is there something on the wall? Something moving, very slowly, toward the remaining guard?

Headlights flare at the end of the drive. A car coughs to life and trundles toward the house.

“Oh, no,” says Morotka. He steps out and waves his arm. “No, no, no. What are you doing?”

The car continues toward him. As it wheels around the drive, Morotka shouts, “You come when you’re called, all right? I haven’t flagged you yet. I don’t care what your master says, you come when you’re called.”

As the car pulls up before him, Morotka sees movement on the manor wall out of the corner of his eye: a dark figure peeps up, points something at the remaining guard. There is a click, and the guard goes stiff and tumbles backward, his tin hat bouncing off the wall to clatter and clunk to the street below.

There is the glimmer of a bolt-point in the window of the car. A voice says, “But we have been called.”

Then a harsh click, and the car seems to fall away.

*

Sigrud stares into the fire, lost in his memories.

The blood in the water, the halberd in his hands. The monstrous shadow in the sea, thrashing, moaning, spouting gore. How he thought those days hellish, but he’d not known hells yet.

The leather of his gloved hand squeaks as he clenches his fist.

“Are you all right?” asks his companion. The woman examines him. “Would you need another glass of wine?” She gestures to a footman.