City of Stairs (The Divine Cities, #1)(8)
The historian in her fights with her operative’s instincts: Look at the arched doorways, the street names, the ripples and dents in the city walls! says one. Look at the people, watch where they walk, see how they look over their shoulders, says the other. There are only a few people on the streets: it is, after all, well past midnight. But those she sees are like most of the Continental sort: stocky, with heavy limbs and heavy features. The buildings all seem very small to her: when the car crests a hill, she looks out and sees fields of low, flat structures, all the way across to the other side of the city walls. She is not used to such a barren skyline.
They did have greater things, she reminds herself, before the War. But the curious emptiness of the skyline makes her wonder, Could so much have suddenly vanished, in a matter of minutes?
“You probably know this,” says Pitry. “But it’s good to have a car in the neighborhoods around the embassy. It’s not quite in … a reputable part of town. When we established the embassy, they say, a lot of the good sorts moved out. Didn’t want to be near the shallies.”
“Ah, yes,” says Shara. “I’d forgotten they call us that here.” Shally, she remembers, inspired by the quantity of shallots Saypuris use in their food. Which is incorrect, as any sensible Saypuri prefers garlic.
She glances at Sigrud. He stares straight ahead—maybe. It is always difficult to tell what Sigrud is paying attention to. He sits so still, and seems so blithely indifferent to all around him, that you almost treat him like a statue. Either way, he seems neither impressed nor interested in the city: it is simply another event, neither threatening violence nor requiring it, and thus not worth attention.
She tries to save her thoughts for what is sure to be a difficult and tricky next few hours. And she tries to avoid the one thought that has been eating into her since yesterday, when the telegraph in Ahanashtan unspooled into her hands. But she cannot.
Oh, poor Efrem. How could this happen to you?
*
CD Troonyi’s office is a perfect re-creation of a stately office in Saypur, albeit a gaudy one: the dark wooden blinds, the red floral carpet, the soft blue walls, the copper lamps with beaded chimneys above the desk. An elephant’s ear fern, indigenous to Saypur, blooms off of one wall, its fragile, undulating leaves unfurling from its base of moss in a green-gray wave; below it, a small pot of water bubbles on a tiny candle; a trickle of steam rises up, allowing the fern the humidity it needs to survive. None of this is at all, Shara notes, a melding of cultures, a show of learning and communication and postregionalism unity, as all the ministerial committees claim back in Saypur.
But the décor does not even come close to the level of transgression of what hangs on the wall behind the desk chair.
Shara stares at it, incensed and morbidly fascinated. How could he be such a fool?
Troonyi bursts into his office with a face so theatrically grave it’s like he’s died rather than Efrem. “Cultural Ambassador Thivani,” he says. He plants his left heel forward, hitches up his right shoulder, and assumes the courtliest of courtly bows. “It is an honor to have you here, even if it is under such sad circumstances.”
Immediately Shara wonders which preparatory school he attended in Saypur. She read his file before she came, of course, and it reinforced her conviction that the chaff of powerful families is all too often dumped into Saypur’s embassies across the world. And he thinks me to be from exactly such a family, she reminds herself, hence the show. “It is an honor to be here.”
“And for us, we …” Troonyi looks up and sees Sigrud slouched in a chair in the corner, idly stuffing his pipe. “Ehm. Wh-who is that?”
“That is Sigrud,” says Shara. “My secretary.”
“Must you have him here?”
“Sigrud assists me on all matters, confidential or otherwise.”
Troonyi peers at him. “Is he deaf, or dumb?”
Sigrud’s one eye flicks up for a moment before returning to his pipe.
“Neither,” says Shara.
“Well,” says Troonyi. He mops his brow with a handkerchief and recovers. “Well, it is a testament to the good professor’s memory,” he says as he sits behind his desk, “that Minister Komayd sent someone so quickly to oversee the care of his remains. Have you traveled all night?”
Shara nods.
“My goodness gracious. How horrible. Tea!” he shouts suddenly, for no apparent reason. “Tea!” He grabs a bell on his desk and begins violently shaking it, then repeatedly slams it on the desk when it does not get the response he desires. A girl no more than fifteen swivels into the room, bearing a battleship of a tea tray. “What took you so long?” he snaps. “I have a guest.” The girl averts her eyes and pours. Troonyi turns back to Shara as if they are alone: “I understand you were nearby in Ahanashtan? An awful polis, or so I think it. The seagulls, they are trained thieves, and the people have learned from the seagulls.” With a twitch of two fingers, he waves the girl away, who bows low before exiting. “We must civilize them, however—the people, I mean, not the birds.” He laughs. “Would you care for a cup? It’s our best sirlang. …”
Shara shakes her head with the slightest of smiles. In truth Shara, a thorough caffeine addict, is in desperate need of a cup, but she’ll be damned if she takes one thing from CD Troonyi.