City of Stairs (The Divine Cities, #1)(38)

Vohannes pulls himself up into a regal pose. “I am doing what I must to help my people.”

“Oh, goodness, Vo,” she sighs. “Please dispense with your rhetoric. I’ve heard enough speeches.”

“It’s not rhetoric. And it’s not a speech, Shara! I have tried to involve Saypur and her trading partners before, but Saypur does not lend us its favor—it wants to keep things the way they are, with Saypur completely in control of everything. It doesn’t want to see wealth in Bulikov any more than it wants us chanting the rites of the Divinities. If I must nakedly prostitute myself to bring aid to my city, to my country, I will gladly do so.”

He hasn’t changed any at all, really, she thinks, torn between amusement and shock. He’s still the noble idealist, in his own perverse way . …

“Vo, listen,” says Shara. “I have worked with people who did the same thing you’re doing now. If I have seen one of them, I’ve seen a hundred. And most of them now feed worms, or fish, or birds, or the very deep roots of trees.”

“So. You worry for my safety.”

“Yes! Of course I do! This is not a game I wish to see you in!”

“Your game, you mean,” he says.

“Yes! I’m mostly confused why you aren’t happy where you are!”

“And where am I?

“Well, it seems to me you’ve got vast wealth, a promising political future, and an adoring mistress!”

“Fiancée, actually,” he says, with a touch of indifference.

Something inside Shara splits open. Ice floods into her belly.

“Ah,” she says.

I shouldn’t care this much, she thinks. I am a professional, damn it all. What a stupid, stupid thing to feel. …

“Yes. Wasn’t wearing her ring today. Got a rock on it like a whisky tumbler.” He holds up a massive imaginary stone. “She says it’s conventional. Gaudy. Which it is, but. We haven’t set a date yet. Neither of us are the planning type.” He looks down at his hands. “Sorry. Probably not a fun thing to, ah”—he coughs—“to talk about.”

“I always knew you’d go on to do great things, Vo,” she says, “but to be honest I would have never pegged you as the marrying type. I mean …”

The silence stretches on.

Finally, he nods. “Yes,” he says delicately. “But. Certain practices, while acceptable abroad, are not … quite so tolerated here. Once a Kolkashtani, always a Kolkashtani …” He sighs and begins to rub his hip. “I need your help, Shara. Bulikov is a ruin of a city, yes, but it could be great. Saypur holds all the purse strings in the world—and I only need them loosened a fraction. Ask me something, ask me for anything, and I’ll do it.”

Never has the reality of my job, she thinks, seemed so unreal and so preposterous.

But before she can answer, the screams start echoing up from the floors below.

“What is that?” says Vohannes, but Shara is already at the window. She is just able to make out the form of two bodies resting in the shadow below the manor walls.

“Hm,” says Shara.

*

They kick the doors in and burst into the room in unison. It’s perfect, really: a beautiful, deadly choreography, gray cloth rippling as they descend on the decadent partygoers. Cheyschek’s mask is slipping a little—the left corner of his eye is now blind—but besides this he feels glorious, resplendent, chosen.

See these traitors and sinners quail and shriek. See them run. Look upon me, and fear me.

One of his compatriots kicks over the bar. Bottles shatter; fumes of alcohol flood the hall. Cheyschek and his brothers in arms scream at the people to get down, down, get down on the ground. Cheyschek points the bolt-shot at the one man who looks like he has some spine and howls in the man’s face and throws him to the floor.

To be a tool of the Divine, thinks Cheyschek, is thrilling and righteous.

A woman shrieks again. Cheyschek screams at her to shut up.

It is over fast, and easy. Which is expected, from this soft, cultured sort. The polis governor, as expected, is here, though they have strict orders not to touch her. But why, why? he thinks. Why forgive the one person who’s approved so many unjust punishments?

When the hostages are cowed, Cheyschek’s leader (none of them know each other’s name—they need no names, for they are all one) paces among the partygoers, grabbing them by the hair to pull up their heads and view their faces.

After some seconds, he says, “Not here.”

“Are you sure?” Cheyschek asks.

“I know who I am looking for.” He looks among the crowd of hostages, picks one elderly woman, and lowers his bolt-shot until the bolt point hovers just before her left eye. “Where?”

She begins to weep.

“Where?”

“I don’t know what you mean!”

“Someone special is missing from here, yes?” he asks sardonically. “And where could that person be?”

The old woman, ashamed, points at the stairs.

“You wouldn’t be lying to me?” he says.

“No!” she cries. “Votrov and the woman, they went upstairs!”

“The woman?” He pauses. “So he’s not alone? You’re sure?”