City of Stairs (The Divine Cities, #1)(46)

“Then what?”

“Well.” She stares off into the corner of his cell in thought. “I think I’m going to have to dose him.”

Sigrud grows much more awake. He looks at her, disbelieving. Then he smiles. “Well, then. At least you will have entertainment.”

*

Shara stands at the cell door, watching the captured boy through the viewing slot. She checks her watch—forty minutes. The boy shakes his head as if shaking off a chill, then takes his cup of water and sips it. Seven sips so far, thinks Shara. If only he were utterly parched. …

The boy slowly droops forward more and more, as if deflating. She checks her watch again: it’s not going unusually slowly, but she wouldn’t mind if it were quicker.

“This couldn’t possibly be all that riveting,” says Mulaghesh, joining her.

“It isn’t,” says Shara.

“Mm. I’d heard our survivor wasn’t talking.”

“No. He’s a fanatic—unfortunate, but expected. I don’t think he’s the sort who’s afraid of death. He’s more worried about what happens after.”

The boy in the cell raises his head to stare into the wall. His face is awed, horrified, fascinated. He starts to tremble a little.

“What’s wrong with him?” says Mulaghesh. “Is he mad?”

“No, no. Well, maybe, considering what he did. But that’s not what this is.”

“Then what it is it?”

“It’s an … unorthodox method I picked up in Qivos. It’s useful when you’re crunched for time, though I’d prefer it if we had even more for this … Four, five hours at least. But it’s cheap. And it’s easy. You just need a dark room, some sound effects … and a philosopher’s stone.”

“A what?”

“Don’t pretend to be such an innocent lily, Governor,” says Shara. “It doesn’t suit you.”

“You drugged him?”

“Yes. It’s a powerful hallucinogenic, and it’s actually common here, though it’s not used for recreational purposes, really. Which is understandable, as it has some history on the Continent.”

Mulaghesh is still too aghast for words.

“There are dozens of stories of people using it to communicate more closely with the Divine,” Shara continues absently. “Breaking down barriers, merging with the infinite, that kind of thing. It even amplified the performance of certain miracles: acolytes of the Divine used to ingest it before performing astounding miraculous feats. Powerful substance—but still just a drug.”

“You just walk around with that kind of thing?”

“I had Pitry run and get it from the embassy. What I usually like to do is make them feel like they’re at home, suffering a fever, with their family members nearby, or at least people claiming to be their family members, and most of the time they get so agitated they wind up telling us everything. I’m not sure if that’ll be the case here, however, as the jail cell may induce a delirium of a much more …”

The boy gasps, looks at his arm, then up at the ceiling. Then he grabs the sides of his head and sobs a little.

“… nightmarish sort.”

“Isn’t this torture?”

“No,” says Shara quietly. “I’ve seen torture. This is nowhere close. And besides, this gets somewhat accurate answers. Torture usually gets you whatever you want to hear. And people are usually much more forgiving of this method. Mostly because they’re never quite sure any of it really happened.”

“I am so happy I chose to remain a soldier,” says Mulaghesh, “and never went into your line of work. This puts a bad taste in my mouth.”

“The taste would be much worse if we did not get the information, which often saves lives.”

“And this means we shed our morals at the door?”

“ ‘Nations have no morals,’ ” says Shara, quoting her aunt from memory. “Only interests.”

“Probably true. But I’m still surprised you’d do something like this.”

“Why?”

“Well … I wasn’t in Ghaladesh during the National Party scandal. But no one needed to be, to hear all about it. Everyone talked about it. The man everyone assumed would be prime minister going down in utter flames … Not to mention the party treasurer attempting suicide—nothing more ignoble than a failed noble exit. But most of all, I remember hearing about this girl who caused it all, who rocked the boat so much.”

Shara blinks slowly. Down the hall, a conversation between three policemen grows into outraged bickering.

“Not really her fault, they said,” Mulaghesh says. “Just passionate, and very young. Twenty at most, they said. She didn’t know that there were just some corruptions you don’t try and drive out, some rocks you don’t turn over.”

A furious secretary stomps out of her office and shushes the three policemen, who cast ugly looks at one another before separating.

“She let her heart guide her,” says Mulaghesh, “rather than her head. And mistakes were made.”

Shara stares into the room at the twitching boy, who now seems torn between laughing and crying.

“I always imagined,” says Mulaghesh, “that that girl just happened to be a good sort in a rotten line of work. That’s all.”