How odd it feels, thinks Shara, to literally change the world. …
Shara likes to think she is above such sentiments, though it does irk her that Saypur’s considerable technological advances still have yet to catch up to most of the Divine tricks. The Divinity Olvos originally created this little miracle hundreds or perhaps thousands of years ago, specifically so she could look into one frozen lake and see and communicate out of a different frozen lake of her choosing miles away. Shara has never been quite sure why the miracle works on glass: the generally accepted theory is that the original Continental term for “glass” was very similar to “ice,” so the miracle unintentionally overlaps—though the Divine were fond of using glass for many strange purposes, storing items and even people within a hair’s breadth of glass like a sunbeam caught in a crystal.
The woman in the glass looks up. The perspective is a little peculiar: it is like peering through a porthole. But what is really on the other side of the glass, Shara knows, is the shutter on the embassy window, and after that a one-hundred-foot drop. It is all a play of images and sound: somewhere in Ghaladesh, across the South Seas in Saypur, a single pane of glass in this woman’s office is showing Shara herself, staring out from Troonyi’s rooms.
The woman appears quite startled, and her mouth moves. A voice accompanies the movement of her lips, yet it is soft and tinny like it is echoing up a drainpipe: “Oh! Oh.”
“You look like you expected someone else,” says Shara.
“No. I wondered if you’d call, but I didn’t expect the emergency line.” Despite the distortion, her voice is quite low and husky, the voice of a chain-smoker.
“You’d prefer I didn’t use the emergency line?”
“You so rarely use the tools I give you,” says the woman, and she stands and walks over, “for the purposes for which they are intended.”
“It is true that this is not … quite an emergency,” says Shara. “I wanted to let you know that I have … I have picked up an operation in Bulikov.”
The woman in the glass smiles. Despite her mature age, she is quite striking: her coal-black hair falls in thick locks about her shoulders, the front forelock shot through with a streak of gray, and though she is at an age when most women begin to abandon any attempt at a fetching figure, she still retains nearly every curve, many more than Shara could ever aspire to. But Auntie Vinya’s allure, Shara feels, has always gone beyond her beauty: it is something in her eyes, which are both wide and widely set, and deep brown. It is like Auntie Vinya is always half remembering a long life most people would have killed to lead.
“Not an operation,” says Vinya. “An outright diplomatic mission.”
Shara sighs inwardly. “What tipped you off?”
“The Thivani identity,” says Vinya. “You’ve been sitting on it for years. I tend to notice things like that. When someone, how shall I say, walks by the buffet and tucks a biscuit or two in their sleeve. Then suddenly the name gets activated the very night we hear about poor Efrem. … There’s only one thing you could be doing, couldn’t you?”
This was a mistake, thinks Shara. I should not have done this when I’m so tired.
“Shara, what are you doing?” says Vinya gently. “You know I never would have approved this.”
“Why not? I was the closest agent, and the most qualified.”
“You are not the most qualified, because you were personally connected to Efrem. You are better used elsewhere. And you should have sent in a request first.”
“You might wish to check your mail,” says Shara.
A shadow of irritation crosses Vinya’s face. She walks to the mail slot in her door, flips through the waiting bundle, and takes out a small slip of paper. “Four hours ago,” she says. “Very timely.”
“Quite. So,” says Shara, “I’ve made all the official overtures. I have violated no rules. I am the highest-ranking agent. And I am an expert in this field. No one knows more about Bulikov’s history than me.”
“Oh yes,” says Vinya. She walks back to look into the glass. “You are our most experienced agent in Continental history. I doubt if anyone in the world knows more about their dead gods than you, now that Efrem’s gone.”
Shara looks away.