City of Stairs (The Divine Cities, #1)(53)



“I … Wait, what guards?”

Shara stirs her tea. “Bodyguards. The Saypuri detail I’m going to assign to you.”

Vohannes stares at her and laughs. “You … You can’t put me under guard. That’s ridiculous!”

“I can. You’ll still be perfectly free to do as you like, to an extent. They’ll just be watching over you.”

“Do you know how terrible this will look? Me going about town with a bunch of armed Saypuris in tow?”

“I thought we just discussed that you shouldn’t be going about town at all,” says Shara. “You will be a moderately private citizen, for a period of time, and a safe one, if I have my way. But you can shorten that period of time … if you do something for me.”

“Oh my goodness …” Vohannes rubs his eyes. “Something you need doing? Is this how the Ministry always manages to get what it wants?”

“Sixteen people are dead, Vo. Including some of your household staff. I’m taking this seriously. And so should you.”

“I am taking this seriously. You’re the one telling me to do nothing!”

“Not nothing. There’s something being stored in a safety deposit box at a bank. I’m not sure what it is, but I know I need it.”

“And you want me to get it?”

She nods.

“How do you expect me to do that? Am I to don all black and infiltrate this place in the middle of the night? I would have thought you’d have people for this.”

“I expected you’d come up with an easier way than that. Primarily because you own the bank.”

Vohannes blinks. “I … I do?”

“Yes.” Shara hands him a copy of Pangyui’s decoded message.

He examines it. “Are you sure I own it? Its name doesn’t ring a bell. …”

“It must be so nice,” says Shara, “to be so wealthy one is uncertain of which institutions one does and does not own. But yes. I have confirmed that you personally own this bank. If you could find some manner or excuse to retrieve the contents of that box, and deliver it to me, then it may help us figure this all out. Which means I would no longer have to have you under guard, and you could return to business as normal.”

Vohannes grumbles something about a violation of his rights, then folds up the address and angrily stuffs it in his pocket. He stands up and says, “If you’re my ally, I expect you to act like it.”

“And what does that mean?”

“You said yourself, we want the same thing: a peaceful, prosperous Bulikov. Don’t we?”

Shara instantly regrets this—for she knows the Ministry of Foreign Affairs desires no such thing.

“Work with me,” he says. “Help me.”

“Is this about how you want to start making munitions?”

“I am talking about increased Saypuri engagement with Bulikov,” he says. “Real engagement. Real aid. Not this subterfuge. Right now, we are given but a trickle of water, when we need a flood to wash all this stagnancy away. Flex your muscles, Shara. Give me genuine political support.”

“We can’t possibly voice support for a local politician. Maybe one day, but not right now. The circumstances—”

“The circumstances will never be right,” says Vohannes, “because this will always be hard.”

“Vo …”

“Shara, my city and my country are desperately, desperately poor, and I genuinely think they are on a path that can only end in violence. I am offering you an opportunity to try and help us, and put us on a different path.”

“I cannot accept it,” says Shara. “Not now, Vo. I’m sorry. Maybe one day soon.”

“No. You don’t believe that. You’re not an agent of change, Shara. You don’t make the world better—you work to keep things how they are. The Restorationists look to the past, Saypur wishes to maintain the present, but no one considers the future.”

“I am sorry,” she says. “But I cannot help you.”

“No, you aren’t sorry. You are a representative of your country. And countries do not feel sorrow.” He turns and limps away.

*

Shara stands in front of the window again. Dawn is now in full riot across the roofs of Bulikov, giving a golden streak to all the wandering columns of chimney smoke. She takes a deep sip of tea. An import, she thinks. Maybe made in Ghaladesh. She wonders, briefly, if she is not addicted to the tea’s caffeine so much as the taste and scent of home, so far away.

She opens the window—wincing at the blast of cold air—shuts the shutters outside, then shuts the window.

She licks her finger, hesitates, and begins to write on the glass.

Why do I always do this, she thinks, when I’m at my most vulnerable?

Slowly, the shadows shift. The air gains a curious new current. Somewhere in the room, in some invisible manner, a door opens to somewhere else. And there in the glass, she sees …

An empty office.

Shara sits to wait.

Twenty minutes later, Vinya Komayd arrives, holding many papers and clad in what she personally refers to as her “battle armor”: a bright red, highly expensive dress that is both attractive and tremendously imposing. It has always possessed the odd property of making Vinya the undeniable center of any room. When Vinya spotted the dress in a store, she purchased five of them, then arranged it so the entire line was permanently removed from shelves. I could never trust such a dress to anyone else, she remarked when she told Shara. It’s much too dangerous.

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