City of Stairs (6 page)

Shara opts to state the obvious: “So, because I have seen so much that we cannot admit exists,” she says, “I cannot come home.”

“And because of who you are, if you were to come home, you would be questioned extensively. And since you know so much no one else should ever know …”

Shara closes her eyes.

“Give me time, my love,” says Vinya. “I am doing what I can. The powers that be listen to me more than ever before. Soon they can’t help but be persuaded.”

“The problem is,” Shara says quietly, “we operatives fight to protect our home … but we must return home occasionally, to remember the home we fight for.”

Vinya scoffs. “Don’t be so softhearted! You are a
Komayd
, my child. You are your parents’ child, and
my
child—you are a patriot. Saypur runs in your blood.”

I have seen dozens of people die,
Shara wishes to say,
and signed the death warrants of many. I am nothing like my parents. Not anymore.

Vinya smiles, eyes glittering. “Please stay safe, my love. History weighs a little heavier in Bulikov. Were I you, I’d step carefully—especially since you’re a direct descendant of the man who brought the whole Continent crashing down.” Then she reaches out with two fingers, wipes the glass, and is gone.

It is the duty of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs to regulate that which could not possibly be regulated.

However, just because something is impossible does not mean that the people of Saypur should not expect it to be done: after all, before the War, didn’t impossible things happen on the Continent every hour of every day?

Is that not why Saypur, and indeed, the rest of the world, sleeps so poorly every night?

—Prime Minister Anta Doonijesh,
letter to Minister Vinya Komayd, 1712

B
ulikov University is a sprawling, many-chambered structure, a dense network of stone and atriums and passageways hidden behind towering walls on the west side of Bulikov. The university’s stonework is stained with rain and dark blooms of mold; its floors and sidewalks are worn smooth, as if trodden on for many years; and its fat, swollen chimneys, which resemble wasp nests more than any functional architectural feature, are of a make not used in several centuries at least.

But, Shara notes as she enters, the university plumbing is nothing short of immaculate. As with most buildings, only pieces of it can be seen: connections to water mains, sprinklers in the ceiling, along with the usual taps and sinks. But what she sees is fairly advanced.

She tries not to smile. Because Shara knows that despite the university’s ancient appearance, the structure itself is little more than twenty years old.

“Which wing are we in now?” she asks.

“The Linguistics wing,” says Nidayin. “And they prefer to call them ‘chambers.’ ”

Shara blinks slowly at such a prompt correction. Nidayin, she finds, is not an unusual embassy officer, in that he is snotty, dismissive, and self-important. However, he is also the embassy’s public affairs representative, which means he is the person who formally gets ambassadors and diplomats into important places—like the university.

“Very long chambers,” says Pitry, looking around. “It’s a hallway, really.”

“The term ‘chambers,’ ” says Nidayin severely, “has a very
symbolic
meaning.”

“Which is what?”

Nidayin, who evidently has not expected to be quizzed in such a manner, says, “I am sure it has no bearing on the investigation. It doesn’t matter.”

Their footsteps echo on the stone. The university is empty after the death of Dr. Pangyui. Perhaps it is the way the blue light of the lamps (the
gas
lamps, Shara notes) plays on the stone walls, but she cannot help but feel this is a profoundly organic structure, as if they are within some insect’s hive, or the belly of some titanic creature.
But that,
she thinks,
is probably exactly what the architects intended.

She wonders what Efrem thought of this place. She has already seen his rooms at the embassy, and, as expected, found them completely barren, shorn of any detail at all: Efrem was a man who lived for work, especially
this
kind of work, in this historied place. She has no doubt that stuffed in some drawer in his office in the university are hundreds of charcoal sketches of the university cornices, gates, and, almost certainly, dozens and dozens of doorknobs, for Efrem was always fascinated by what people did with their hands:
It is how people interact with the world,
he told her once.
The soul might be within the eyes, but the subconscious, the matter of their behavior, that is in the hands. Watch a man’s hands, and you watch his heart.
And perhaps he was right, for Efrem was always touching things when he encountered some new discovery: he stroked tabletops, tapped on walls, kneaded up earth, caressed ripe fruit. … For Efrem Pangyui, there was never enough of the world to experience.

“Well, now I’m curious,” says Pitry.

“It doesn’t matter,” says Nidayin again.

“You don’t know,” says Pitry.

“I
do
know,” says Nidayin. “I merely do not have the appropriate resources in front of me. I would not wish to give incorrect information.”

“What rot,” says Pitry.

Sigrud sighs softly, which for him constitutes an exasperated outburst.

Shara clears her throat. “The university has six chambers,” she says, “because the Continentals conceived of the world as a heart with six chambers, each chamber housing one of the original Divinities. The flow between each of the Divinities formed the flow of time, of fate, of all events: the very blood of the world. The university was conceived as a microcosm of this relationship. To come here was to learn everything of everything, or so they wished to suggest.”

“Really?” says Pitry.

“Yes,” says Shara. “But this is not the original university. The original was lost during the War.”

“After the Blink, you mean,” says Nidayin. “It vanished with most of Bulikov. Right?”

Shara ignores him. “The university has been rebuilt based on sketches and art made before the War. Bulikov was very insistent it be re-created exactly as it was: they tore down a great deal of the surviving ancient architecture so the university could be rebuilt with genuine ancient stone. They wanted it to be authentic—or at least,” she says, gently touching a gas lamp, “as authentic as one could make it while still allowing certain modern conveniences.”

“How do you know all that?” asks Pitry.

Shara adjusts her glasses. “What sort of classes do they teach here?”

“Erm, these days, mostly economics,” says Nidayin. “Commerce. Basic job training, as well. Chiefly because the polis has made a concerted effort to become a financial player in the world. Part of the New Bulikov movement, which has had a bit of backlash lately since some people are interpreting it as modernization. Which it is, really. There’re sporadic protests around the university campus, most of the time. Either about New Bulikov, or, well …”

“About Dr. Pangyui,” says Shara.

“Yes.”

“I suppose,” says Pitry as he absently examines the doors, “that they can’t teach history.”

“Not much, no,” says Nidayin. “What history they teach is strictly regulated, due to the WR. The Regulations sort of cripple everything they do here. And they have trouble teaching science and basic physics, since for so long things here didn’t
function
by basic physics. And in some places, they still don’t.”

Of course,
thinks Shara.
How do you teach people science when the local sunrise refutes science every morning?

Sigrud stops. He sniffs twice, then looks toward one door on the right. Like most of the doors at the university, it is thick wood with a thick glass window in the center. Otherwise, it is bereft of markings.

“Is that Dr. Pangyui’s office?” asks Shara.

“Yes,” says Nidayin. “How did he—?”

“And has anyone besides the police been inside?”

“I don’t believe so.”

Still, Shara grimaces. The police, she knows, will be bad enough. “Nidayin, Pitry—I would like it if you would check all the offices and rooms in this chamber of the university. We need to know which other university staff might have been nearby, as well as the nature of their relationship to Dr. Pangyui.”

“Are you sure we should be taking up such an investigation?” asks Nidayin.

Shara gives him a look that is not quite cold: perhaps the cooler side of lukewarm.

“I mean, not to speak out of turn, but … you are only the
interim
CD,” he says.

“Yes,” says Shara. “I am.” She produces a small pink telegram slip and hands it to Nidayin. “And I am following orders from the polis governor, as you will see.”

Nidayin opens up the telegram, and reads:

C-AMB THIVANI PRELIM INVEST POLIS FORCES ASSIST STOP GHS512

“Oh,” says Nidayin.

“Strictly the preliminary investigation,” says Shara. “But we must take advantage of evidence while it is still fresh, or so I am told. Would I be wrong?”

“No,” says Nidayin. “No, you would not.”

He and Pitry begin their rounds, checking the adjacent offices. Within twenty feet they begin bickering again.
That should keep them busy for a while,
she thinks.

She tucks the telegram inside her coat. She knows she’ll probably need it again.

Naturally, Polis Governor Mulaghesh sent no such telegram, but it’s useful to have friends in every Comm Department, no matter what you’re up to.

“Now,” says Shara. “Let’s see what’s left.”

* * *

The office of Dr. Efrem Pangyui is a knee-high sea of torn paper, with his desk resembling a barge lost on its yellowed waves. Shara turns on the gas lamps and surveys the damage: she sees countless tacks on the corkboard on the walls, with scraps of paper still tacked up. “The police must have torn them all down,” she says quietly. “My word.”

It is a small, dingy office, not at all befitting a man of Pangyui’s stature. There is a window, but it is of stained glass so dark it might as well be brick.

“We shall have to bag this all up and take it back to the embassy, I suppose.” She pauses. “Tell me: how many followed us on the way here?”

Sigrud holds up two fingers.

“Professionals?”

“Doubt it.”

“Did Nidayin or Pitry see them?”

Sigrud gives her a look:
What do you think?

Shara smiles. “I told you. Stir up the hornets’ nest … But back to the matter at hand. What do you think?”

He sniffs and rubs his nose. “Well … Obviously someone was looking for something. But I think they did not find it.” Shara nods, pleased to see her own conclusions were correct. Sigrud’s one gray eye dances along the tides of paper. “If they were looking for one thing, and found it, they would have stopped. But I see no sign of stopping.”

“Good. I see the same.”

Which leaves the question—what were they looking for? The message in Pangyui’s tie? She isn’t yet sure, but more and more, Shara doubts if Pangyui was murdered simply for committing heresy in Bulikov.

Assume nothing,
Shara reminds herself.
You do not know until you know.

“All right,” says Shara. “Where?”

Sigrud sniffs again, shuffles through the paper to the desk, and uses his foot to clear away the floor on the side of the desk opposite from where the professor would normally work. A large, dark stain still lies on the stone floor. She has to get very near before she catches the coppery smell of old blood.

“So he wasn’t at his desk,” says Shara.

“I doubt it, yes.”

She wishes she knew where he lay when they found him, what was next to him, what was on his person. … There were notes in the police report, of course, but the police report did not mention Pangyui’s shredded clothing at all, so it’s not exactly trustworthy. She supposes she’ll have to work with what she has.

“If you could fetch me a bag for this paper, please,” she says softly.

Sigrud nods and stalks off down the hallway.

Shara surveys the room. She walks forward gingerly, and stoops and picks up a scrap of paper:

… but the contention is that the Kaj’s history as an unusually entitled Saypuri does not undermine his actions. His father was a collaborator with the Continent, yes, and we know nothing of his mother. We know the Kaj was a scholar and something of a scientist, performing experiments in his home, and though he did not lose any of his own in the massacre, he …

She picks up another.

 … one wonders what the chamber of Olvos was used for in the original university, for it is suggested she disapproved of the actions of the Continent, and indeed the other Divinities. Considered a Divinity of hope, light, and resilience, Olvos’s withdrawal from the world in 775 at the onset of the Continental Golden Age was considered a great tragedy. Exactly why she withdrew was hotly debated: some texts surfaced claiming Olvos predicted nothing but woe for the path the other Divinities had chosen, yet many of these texts were quickly destroyed, probably by the other Divinities …

And another:

… by all indications, the Kaj’s time on Continental shores was spent very sparsely before he died of an infection in 1646. He slept, ate, and lived alone, and only spoke to give orders. Sagresha, his lieutenant, records in her letters, “It was as if he was so disappointed in the homelands of those who had conquered and ruled over his people for so long that it wounded him. Though he never said so, I could hear him thinking it: ‘Should not the land of the gods be fit for gods?’ ” Though of course the Kaj could not know that he was almost directly responsible for the devastation of the Continent, for it was the Kaj’s successful assassination of the Divinity Taalhavras that brought about the Blink …

Shara recognizes a lot of this as Efrem’s older writings, already published. He must have brought his old volumes here, and the police shredded them during their “search.”
Perhaps they enjoyed destroying so much celebrated Saypuri writing,
she thinks.
That is, if it was really the police who did this.

Her eye catches a bulky form in the corner. Upon examination, it is a dense, impressive safe, and what’s more its door is ajar. She inspects the lock, which is terribly complicated: Shara is not a skilled lockpick, but she’s met a few in her time, and she knows they’d blanch at this. Yet the lock shows no sign of damage, nor does the door or the rest of the safe, nor is there any scrap or sign of what the safe once held.