City of Stairs (The Divine Cities, #1)(72)

“I’ve taken a glance at the pages, and I admit that I haven’t seen that, unfortunately. Though there is some oddness that stands out.”

“Like what?”

“Like the loomworks.”

“Like … Wait, the what?”

“Loomworks,” says Vohannes again. “Wiclov has bought, outright bought, three loomworks around the city. You know, the big weaving factories they use to make rugs?”

“I understand the general idea. …”

“Yes. He’s bought them. Not cheap, either—and he hasn’t changed the names.”

“So you think he doesn’t want anyone to know,” says Shara.

“Yes. But there must be something else in all his history. I just can’t see it. But then, I don’t have a massive intelligence agency behind me.”

She considers it. “Did he buy these loomworks after the month of Tuva?”

“Ah … Well, I can’t recall off the top of my head with complete accuracy, but I suppose so.”

Interesting, she thinks. “How good is your source?”

“Quite good.”

“Yes, but how good?”

Vohannes hesitates. “I know him very personally,” he says slowly. “That should be enough for you.”

Shara almost asks further, but then she understands. She coughs uncomfortably and says, “I see.” She watches him take another sip of wine. He is sweating, and pale; suddenly he seems wrinkled and soft, as delicate as finely made linen. “Listen, Vo. I … I am going to do something I don’t often do for willing sources.”

“What’s what?”

“I am going to give you the chance to reconsider.”

“You what?”

“I am going to give you the opportunity to rethink what you’re doing here,” says Shara. “Because if you offer me those papers again, I will use them. It would be unprofessional of me not to. And when someone asks where I got them from—and they will ask—then I will have to tell them. I can’t predict what will happen, but once this is all played out, there is a chance that, in the future, in some very public, very accessible forum in Saypur, someone will testify that Vohannes Votrov, City Father of Bulikov, provided valuable material to the government of Saypur with the full understanding that another City Father would be damned by it. And a thing like that … It has repercussions.”

Vohannes watches a candle flame slowly waltz on its taper.

“I’ve seen it before,” says Shara. “I’ve lost sources before this way before. I use people, Vo. That’s what I do now. It is not pretty. It has many consequences. And … And if you offer me this material again, I will take it, because I’d have to. But I want you to really think about what could happen to you if you hand over that suitcase.”

Vohannes fixes his bright blue eyes on her. They must still be, she imagines, the same blue as when he was an infant.

“Come work for me,” he says suddenly.

“What?”

“You seem unhappy where you are.” He stabs a snail and blows on it. Droplets of butter rain on the tablecloth. “Come work for me. It’d be a change of pace. We’re not the old guard. None of my companies are. We’re doing big new things. And also I can pay you perfectly despicable amounts of money.”

Shara stares at him, disbelieving, and laughs. “You’re not serious.”

“I am gravely serious. Serious as death itself.”

“I am … I am not going to work for you, Vo.”

“Then hells, take over.” He glugs wine, eats another snail. “It’s all just a headache for me. Run my businesses. Direct my money. I’ll just sit around, getting elected and, I don’t know, sitting on parade floats or some such.”

Shara puts her face in her hands, laughing.

“What are you laughing about?” He gallantly tries to keep sounding serious, but his smile betrays him. “What. I’m serious here. Come be with me.” The smile fades. “Come live with me.”

Shara stops laughing. She winces, groans. “Oh, Vo. Why.”

“Why what?”

“Why did you have to say that?”

“I meant … Oh, come now, I meant live in Bulikov.”

“It didn’t sound like it. And … And that’s exactly what you asked me when you graduated.”

Vohannes, sheepish, looks at the Saypuri guards. “Could you, ah, gentlemen please excuse us for a moment?”

The guards shrug and take up stations outside the backroom door.

“That … Shara, that obviously is not what I meant,” says Vohannes. He laughs desperately.

“Is this why you invited me here? For fine dining and propositions?”

“This is not fine dining. I can only taste tobacco, for the gods’ sakes. …”

Silence. A throaty laugh from the next room contorts into emphysematous coughing.

“Bringing me back won’t make us happy,” says Shara.

Vohannes, stung, sits back in his chair and stares into his glass.

“I’m not who I was,” she says, “and you aren’t who you were.”

“Why must everything be so awkward,” he says, sulky.