City of Stairs (The Divine Cities, #1)(63)

He shifts his scornful gaze to her. “And who are you? Oh, are you the replacement for that vile oaf Troonyi? If so, then I no more accept your authority in this matter than I would a drunken simpleton!”

Shara blinks slowly. It has been a while since she’s been spoken to like that. She asks, “You would be Ernst Wiclov, I take it?”

He nods savagely. “I know my name must be on one of your lists somewhere. ‘Enemy of Saypur,’ I am sure, and I am proud to wear the target you lay upon my chest!”

“Quite the opposite, sir,” says Shara. “I only read about you in the paper last night.”

Mulaghesh covers her mouth to prevent a laugh. Wiclov colors. “Insolence is one of the few things your kind actually excels in,” he says. “Little miss, neither you nor your governor can lie your way out of this. There are no diplomatic tricks to play. The facts are plain: you are holding a citizen of Bulikov hostage, almost certainly as an act of petty revenge for the scuffle last night!”

“Scuffle?” says Mulaghesh. “Sixteen people are dead. Violently dead. I was there. I saw the bodies. Did you?”

“I do not need any further confirmation,” he says, “of your people’s barbarism.”

“First a scuffle, now barbarism,” says Mulaghesh.

“The matter is moot,” says Wiclov. “Do you have a woman named Irina Torskeny on your property? If you persist in lying, and claiming that you do not, then I and my colleagues shall make the case at the highest level that your actions are in violation of multiple international treaties! I shall personally see to it that you are banned from our lands, never to return again! Does that make sense to you?”

Shara grimaces. She is not, of course, intimidated by such ridiculous bluster: but Wiclov appears quite talented at attracting undue attention, and that is not something she needs right now. Ever since her visions in the jail cell, Shara has felt like she is sitting on a drum of volatile explosives and people keep trying to kick the drum over.

“Ah!” shouts Wiclov suddenly. “There she is! There she is!”

Everyone turns around. Shara’s heart drops when she sees Irina Torskeny peeping out from the embassy front doors.

“Do you see!” shouts Wiclov. “Do you see her? She is being held captive! I told you so! That’s her, is it not?”

Shara marches over to Irina, who is staring at Wiclov with wide, awed eyes. “Irina, you should not be downstairs,” says Shara. “It isn’t safe.”

“I heard my name,” she says softly. “Is that a City Father? Is it City Father Wiclov?”

“Do you know him, or any of these men?” asks Shara quietly.

Irina shakes her head. “Are they asking for me?”

“Irina!” shouts Wiclov. “Do not listen to her! Come over to me, Irina! Do not listen!”

“I believe someone was watching your apartment,” says Shara. “They were tracking you, keeping tabs on you, even after you did work for them.”

“Irina! Walk to us! Ignore her!”

“I would advise you do not go with them, Irina. I do not know why they are here for you, but I can’t think it’s honest.”

Irina stares across the courtyard. Wiclov rattles the bars on the gates. Mulaghesh snaps at him to stop it, but Wiclov shouts, “They mean you harm, Irina! They mean to do you and Bulikov ill! Do not listen to that silly woman!”

“Irina … I would not advise it,” says Shara. “The men behind these actions are terribly dangerous. You know that.”

“But a City Father would never—”

“I can hear you!” says Wiclov—an obvious lie. “I can hear you talking to her, telling her to give up her rights as a child of Bulikov! Do not listen to her, Irina Torskeny!”

“Irina,” says Shara. “Think.”

But Wiclov continues: “She is not of your race, of your people! And she is not sacred, like you and I, and all your brothers and sisters. Saying such a thing violates their laws, but you know in your heart it is true!”

Irina looks up at Shara, and Shara can tell she’s made up her mind. “I’m … I’m sorry,” she whispers, and she crosses the courtyard.

Wiclov rattles the bars again, bellowing for Mulaghesh to open the gates. Mulaghesh looks to Shara. Shara tries to think of something, anything, but nothing comes. Mulaghesh nods stiffly, face bitter, and machinery begins clanking and wheels start spinning, and slowly the gates draw back.





To stretch your years across the waves

To bend your soul across the cliffs

To wash your hands in blood and salt

To close your eyes to the chorus of wood

We are a blade in the wind

An ember among the snow

A shadow under the waves

And we remember

We remember the sea-days, the river of gold

Days of happy conquest, treasure unending

They called us barbarians

But we knew we lived in peace

For violence we know all too well

Violence, our unwelcome friend

How long we lived in its shadow

Until the kings pulled us from its depths

From the window a dart of steel

From the torch a guttering flame

To creep up rafters, crawl across thatch