“Oh, I wouldn’t expect old money to be cheap. Let’s take a look.”
She sits on the alley floor and sifts through the bag, which contains about six pounds of coins, all of many different types and denominations. They all have two things in common, however: they are all very old, and they are all Continental.
“It looks like we have all the polises covered,” mutters Shara. “Taalvashtan, Voortyashtan, Kolkashtan, Ahanashtan, Ol … Wait. Olvoshtan?”
Sigrud shrugs.
“This is a priceless artifact!”
“You asked me to be thorough. Just don’t ask how I managed to be so thorough.”
Shara studies the coins. “Right … So. Many different markings, many different meanings … The question is—which of the meanings has meaning?”
Sigrud stares at her blankly. “What?”
“Never mind,” says Shara. “There’s only one way to find out.” She turns and flings the coins down the alley, past the chalk line. They go ringing on the concrete, clattering and bouncing and rolling away to lie among the refuse.
Sigrud and Shara wait for them to settle, then pace down the alley to examine them. “Silver, silver,” mutters Sigrud. “Silver … Ah. Here. Lead.” Shara extends a hand. He places the coin in her palm, and they continue looking. “Silver, silver, silver … Silver … Lead. And silver … Two leads …”
Shara and Sigrud meet in this alley two nights out of every week. Shara would like to manage three, but her schedule won’t allow it—there are so many evening events, receptions and dinners and the like, that demand the presence of Bulikov’s chief diplomat. But it is this alley, and its invisible door, that occupies every moment of Shara’s waking life.
Does this alley function by calendar? By time? By the phase of the moon? Must it be approached by a certain angle? Sigrud has seen people both run and fall through these invisible doors, so the latter is unlikely. Does someone need to be on the other side of the door, to allow them through? Does it only work on men, not women? No, of course not, don’t be absurd. …
Trial and error, trial and error. Boil down all the possibilities until only one remains.
After picking up lead coins for nearly ten minutes, Shara has a brimming handful. She sits back to study them, one by one.
“Well?” says Sigrud.
Shara continues counting under her breath.
“Well?”
“Yes! Yes. It’s as I thought—all of the lead ones are either Jukoshtani, Kolkashtani, or Olvoshtani. The others remain silver.”
Sigrud lights his pipe. The scarred brick walls glint with orange, and his one eye glows. “So?”
“So, whatever is happening in this alley, it happens to specific items with specific markings. A reaction—like a chemical. It waits for the right thing. It’s not looking for an incantation, or some gesture, it’s looking for … I don’t know. For things to look right.”
“Like a guard,” says Sigrud.
“Like what?”
“Like a guard, watching the gate of a fortress. Do you have your badge? Are your colors right? Do you carry the right flag? If not, you don’t get through.”
“Yes, I suppose, it could be like a unif—” Shara stops. She slowly sits back to stare down the alley.
“What?” says Sigrud.
“A uniform … Sigrud—what’s the last thing to have disappeared down this alley?” she asks softly.
“Umm … The man who drove the car.”
“Yes. But think of this alley like the gate of a fortress, and there is something invisible here, acting as a guard like you said …”
“… checking his uniform,” says Sigrud. “So you are saying …”
“I am asking,” she looks up at him, her glasses glinting in the moonlight, “how easy would it be for you to get ahold of the Kolkashtani wraps that were worn by the men you killed?”
Sigrud sighs. “Oh, boy.”
*
Another cold night, another sky smoked with thin clouds, another moon weak and formless like a coffee stain. Shara stands as Sigrud comes pacing down the sidewalk to her, a heavy satchel swinging from his shoulder. “Now you’re late. What took you so long? Was it so hard to get the wraps?”
“The wraps,” he says slowly, “were not the problem. But I have them.” He reaches inside his satchel and hands one to Shara.
It is a hard, lumpy, dense ball of gray wool. The fabric is so tightly knit, it’s almost like sealskin. But of course it would be, thinks Shara. Kolkashtanis wouldn’t want to entertain even the chance of having something show through. “Excellent … Excellent!” she says. “Do I want to know how you got this?”
He shrugs. “I took some police officers whoring. Frequently the easiest solution is best, I find.”
Shara feels the edges of the fabric, her small fingers parsing through the threads. “Come on, come on. … There has to b— Wait.” The fabric around the neck is stiff and scratchy, like it has dried paint on it, or … “Wait, is this … ? Is this blood?”