“I’m sorry,” says Shara. “I should not have said that.” She sits—her legs sing out in praise—and rubs her eyes again. “But the bridge has just fallen,” she moans, “and already we must begin scheming again. … What is this about a council?”
“The City Fathers called an emergency meeting to discuss what to do,” says Vohannes. “After deciding basic search-and-rescue matters, I wanted them to ask Saypur for help in recovery. They eventually voted against me, though they offered no alternate plan. But the vote isn’t really legitimate, as Wiclov was nowhere to be found.”
Shara’s fingers drum against the tabletop. “Is that so?”
“Yes. Funny, isn’t it? No one’s seen him for nearly a week, not since he stood at the embassy gates and hurled invective at you, in fact.”
Though Sigrud saw him deliver Torskeny to the mhovost, thinks Shara, before disappearing down an alley. … She thinks, then blearily looks at Mulaghesh for help.
“Please don’t make me stand up,” Mulaghesh begs.
“I won’t,” says Shara. “Not tonight. This … Vo, this must wait until the morning.”
“You must strike,” says Vohannes, “while the iron is hot!”
“I don’t decide public policy!”
“But you must have many friends in high places, don’t you?”
“Whose friendship is already tested, or will be, by what’s happened tonight.” She sighs. “Vo, you’ve no idea what’s happened in the past few hours. I say this in strictest confidence, but we have suffered considerable losses. And we are still nowhere on figuring out who our enemies are, or what they’re doing! This is not the time for huge plans. We will leave Bulikov to Bulikov, for tonight.”
“That policy,” says Vohannes, “is almost certainly what created the Restorationists in the first place, and it will be the father of every consequence after. This city pickles in its own jar. Every disaster is an opportunity, Shara! Make the most of this one.”
“I have suffered so many disasters tonight.” She laughs hollowly. “You don’t want me in your corner, Vo. By sunup, I might not have a career.”
“I very much doubt that. Especially since right now every man, woman, and child in Bulikov thinks you all to be glorious, glorious heroes.”
Mulaghesh and Shara are both nodding in their chairs, but they blink awake at this claim.
“Wh-What?” says Mulaghesh.
“What do you mean, what?” asks Vohannes.
“I mean … what did you just say?”
“Oh? Did you really not realize? That crowd out there …” He points north, toward the door. “Did you think they’re angry? Seeking to throw down the gates? No, they’re amazed! You all slaughtered a monster in front of a terrified city! It’s the … Well, it’s the stuff legends are made of.”
Shara says, “But it was a holy creature. … There used to be a temple to Urav in the city square! This country used to worship that thing!”
“The operative word being used to. That was over three hundred years ago! It was trying to kill us all!”
“But … But it was Sigrud who did almost all of it!”
He shrugs. “The credit spreads. The City Fathers were confounded about what to do. You may just be the first Saypuri to have ever won the commendation of Bulikov in the city’s history. And if you or anyone in Ghaladesh tried, Saypur could sail into this city, rebuild the bridge, and be considered a savior ever after!”
Shara and Mulaghesh both sit dumbfounded. Vohannes produces a cigarette from a tiny silver box and fits it into his holder. “But let’s just hope,” he says, “they don’t find out who you really are. Knowing your family history, it would create some nasty parallels, would it not?”
*
Shara drinks. It feels appropriate to do so: she is a soldier among soldiers, celebrating their survival when so many perished. The wine mixes with the fatigue, and Vohannes joins her and Mulaghesh, and the whole evening transmutes from one of frayed nerves and horrible trauma to one of their old school nights, sitting up in their common room with their classmates, sharing gossip and determinedly ignoring the mad world outside.
What a wonderful thing it was, Shara thinks, to feel common.
Mulaghesh is snoring in her chair in the violet hours just before dawn. Vohannes has to help Shara up the stairs. She stops for breath beside the wide stairway windows. The stars rest on a blanket of soft purple clouds, supported by the walls and cityscape of Bulikov; it is scenic to the degree that it could be the work of a sentimental, tactless painter.
Vohannes slowly limps up behind her, suddenly quite frail.
“I’m …” Shara knows she is about to say something she shouldn’t, but she’s too inebriated to stop herself. “I’m sorry about your accident, Vo.”
“It’s the way things are,” he says softly. If he knows she knows how he really got hurt, he does not show it. “I only ask your help in changing them.”
When they finally make it to her room, she sits on her bed, holding her forehead. The room spins and sways like the deck of a ship.
“It’s been a while,” says Vohannes’s voice in the dark, “since I’ve been in a woman’s bedroom. …”