City of Stairs (The Divine Cities, #1)(70)
States are not, in my opinion, composed of structures supporting privilege. Rather, they are composed of structures denying it—in other words, deciding who is not invited to the table.
Regrettably, people often allow prejudice, grudges, and superstitions to dictate the denial of these privileges—when really it’s much more efficient for it all to be a rather cold-blooded affair.
—Minister of Foreign Affairs Vinya Komayd,
letter to the prime minister, 1688
Another wintry morning. As Shara opens the embassy front door, the courtyard guard, up to his nose in furs, turns and says, “He’s at the front gate. We didn’t let him in, because …”
“I understand,” says Shara. She crosses the embassy courtyard. The trees bow with what looks like layers of black glass; the embassy’s numerous corrosions and cracks are filled with pearly white, as if given fresh spackling overnight. The mug of coffee in her hand leaves a river of steam behind like a ship leaves bubbles in its wake. She reflects that it feels so much different in the day, clean and cold and glittering, than it did the night before, when Wiclov bayed through the bars like a guard dog.
The gates rattle open. The boy stands in the embassy drive, holding a silver plate aloft. He is dressed in what she recognizes as manservant clothing, but it seems he has walked some way: his upper lip is frosted with icy snot. If he were not shivering so fiercely, the expression he makes at her could almost be a smile. “Ambassador Thivani?”
“Who are you?” she asks.
“I … have a m-message for you.” He holds the silver plate out to her. In its center is a small white card.
Shara fumbles at it with her cold hands and squints to read.
HIS EMINENCE VOHANNES VOTROV
CITY FATHER OF THE 14th, 15th, and 16th WARDS OF THE POLIS OF BULIKOV
INVITES YOU TO A SPLENDID EVENING
TO BE HELD AT 7:30 PM TONIGHT
AT THE GHOSHTOK-SOLDA DINNER CLUB
SHOULD BE A LOT OF FUN
Shara crushes the card. “Thank you,” she says, and tosses it away. Of all the luck, she thinks. The one thing to break is the one thing I told Vinya I wouldn’t look at.
“Pardon, miss,” says the boy. “I hate to interrupt, but … c-can I go?”
Shara glowers at him for a moment, then shoves the cup of coffee into his hand. “Here. This’ll do you more good than it will me.”
The boy trudges away. Shara turns and swiftly paces back to the embassy front door.
A child begins crying in the street beyond the embassy. A snowball fight has taken a bad turn: one salvo contained an excessive quotient of ice, and the sidewalks fill up with pointed fingers and the persistent cries of Not fair, not fair!
*
Upon the opening of the door, the interior of the Ghoshtok-Solda Dinner Club appears to be a solid wall of smoke. Shara is perplexed by this sight, but the attendants do not seem to notice: they gesture as if this dense block of fog is a perfectly welcoming sight. The outside wind comes sweeping through, turning the smoke to swirling striae and slashing it thin, and Shara can just barely see the wink of candlelight, the sheen of greasy forks, and faces of men laughing.
Then the overwhelming reek of tobacco hits her, and she is almost blown backward.
As she enters, her eyes begin to adjust. The smoke is not quite so thick as she initially imagined, yet the ceiling remains all but invisible: chandeliers and lamps seem to be suspended from the heavens. The desk attendant looks at her—surprised, slightly outraged—and requests a name, as if he could not expect a Saypuri to provide anything more. “Votrov,” says Shara. The man nods stiffly—I should have known—and extends a sweeping arm.
Shara is led through a labyrinth of booths and private rooms and bars, each stuffed with men in suits and robes, all gleaming gray teeth and gleaming bald heads and gleaming black boots. Cigar ashes dance in the fug like red-orange fireflies. It’s as if the whole place is smeared over with oil and smoke, and she can feel the smoke snuffling bemusedly at the hem of her skirt, wondering, What is this? What alien creature has infiltrated this place? What could this be?
Some tables go silent as she passes. Bald heads poke out of booths and watch her. I am, of course, a double offense, she thinks as she maintains her composure. A woman, and a Saypuri …
A twitch of a velvet curtain, and a grand backroom is revealed. At the head of a table the size of a river barge sits Vohannes, half-hidden behind a tent of newspaper and slouched in a cushioned chair with his light brown (but muddy) boots propped up on the table. Behind him, in very comfortable-looking chairs, sit his Saypuri bodyguards; one looks up, and waves and shrugs apologetically: This wasn’t our idea. Vohannes’s tent of newspaper deflates slightly; Shara spots a bright blue eye peeking over the top; then the tent collapses.
Vohannes springs up as quickly as his hip allows, and bows. “Miss Thivani!”
He would make an excellent dance hall emcee. “It’s been less than two days,” she says. “There’s hardly need for such ceremony.”
“Oh, but there’s plenty of need for ceremony! Especially when one is meeting … how does the saying go? The enemy of my enemy is my …”
“What are you talking about, Vo? Do you have what I asked you to get?”
“Oh, I have it. And what a joy it was to get. But first …” Vohannes claps twice. His gloves—white, velvet—bear smudges from the newsprint. “Oh, sir—if you could, please fetch us two bottles of white plum wine, and a tray of snails.”