City of Stairs (The Divine Cities, #1)(83)

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Sigrud gives her a skeptical look.

“It’s a creature of skin and bone,” says Shara. “But not its own skin and bone. Somewhere in it, I fear, is the repurposed remains of Mrs. Torskeny.”

The mhovost prods its belly with its many-jointed fingers, as if probing for her.

A joker. But it would be, of course, considering who made it.

“How are you alive?” asks Shara. “Shouldn’t you have perished when Jukov died?”

It stops. Stares at her, eyelessly. Then it walks backward, forward, backward, forward, as if it’s testing the edges of the salt ring.

“What is it doing?” asks Sigrud.

“It’s mad,” says Shara. “One of the creatures made by Jukov in his darker moods—a knuckle-man, a voice under the cloth. It’s meant to mock us, to goad us—the only way to identify them is to ask to see their feet, because that’s the only thing they can never really hide. Though I’ve no idea how it’s alive. … Is Jukov dead?” she asks the creature.

Still pacing back and forth, the mhovost shakes its head. Then it stops, appears to think, and shrugs.

“How are you here?”

Again, a shrug.

“I knew they could last for some time,” says Shara, “but I did not think that Divinities’ creatures could persist so long after their death.”

The mhovost extends a repulsively long, flat hand and tilts it back and forth: Maybe. Maybe not.

“The two men who were here,” says Shara. “Did they trap you here?”

It resumes pacing back and forth—Shara presumes she’s just angered it, so she must be right.

“How long have they had you trapped in this building?”

The creature mimes a laugh—Shara again reflects on what an astonishing pantomime it is—and waves a hand at her: What a silly question!

“A long time, then.”

It shrugs.

“You don’t look underfed. How many others have you killed?”

It shakes its head, waggles a finger: No no no no. Then it lovingly, thoughtfully caresses its stomach: What makes you think they’re dead?

Children laugh in the empty chambers of Shara’s head. She resists the urge to retch again. “How … How many have they pushed within this circle?”

It flaps its bill. Shrugs.

“A lot.”

Another shrug.

Shara whispers, “How are you alive?”

The mhovost begins waltzing across the circle, twirling gracefully.

“I very much wish to kill this thing,” says Sigrud. The mhovost spins around and waggles its bony behind at Sigrud. “Much more than I do most things,” he adds. “And we have killed Divine creatures before. …”

“Listen to me, abomination,” says Shara coldly. “I am descended from the man who killed your race, who pulled your Divinities down and laid them low, who ruined and ravaged this land within weeks. My forebear buried dozens, hundreds of your brothers and sisters in the mud, and there they rot, even to this day. I have no qualms doing the same to you. Now, tell me—is your creator, the Divinity Jukov, truly gone from this world, never to return?”

The mhovost slowly stands. It appears to reflect on something—for a moment, it almost appears sad. Then it turns around, looks at Shara, and shakes its head.

“Then where is he?”

A shrug, but not half so malicious and gleeful as its others: this gesture is doleful, confused, a child wondering why it was abandoned.

“These two men who were here. One of them was fat and bald, yes?”

It starts pacing the edge of the ring, walking in a frantic circle.

A yes, Shara assumes. “And the other one—what did he look like?”

The mhovost adds a decidedly swishy step to its pace; it puts one hand on its hip, bends the other hand effeminately at the wrist; and as it pivots across the ring, it strokes the bottom of its bill as if luxuriating in its gorgeous features . …

That, thinks Shara, does not sound like the sort of person Wiclov would normally dally about with.

“How did Wiclov trap you here?” she asks.

The mhovost stops, looks at her, and bends double in silent laughter. It waves at her as if appreciating a merry joke: What a ridiculous idea!

“So it wasn’t Wiclov,” says Shara. “Then who?”

It bends its wrist, affects a feminine posture, and shakes its head in a manner that could only be called “bitchy.”

“The other man trapped you here. Who is this other man?”

It performs an agile flip, assumes a handstand, and begins trotting around on its palms.

“Who was he?”

The light in the room flickers as the candelabra flames dance. And all the flames bend, Shara notices, at the exact same angle. …

A breeze?

She examines the walls. In the far corner, deep in amber shadows, she thinks she spies a crack in the stone—perhaps a panel, or a door.

She looks down at the floor. The salt ring fills the room almost perfectly: it’s impossible to reach the door without going through the mhovost’s little enclosure. Like a guard dog …

“What’s through that door?” asks Shara.

The mhovost looks up at her, does yet another flip, and lands on its feet. It cocks its head, canine-like, and theatrically scratches its bald head with one quadruple-jointed finger.