“I’m … sorry,” says Vinya. “That was insensitive of me. You must understand. … It’s often a little hard for me to keep a common compassion, even in this case.”
“I know,” says Shara. It has been a little over seven years since Auntie Vinya assumed the role of Minister of Foreign Affairs. She was always the powerhouse of the Ministry, the officer whom all the decisions wound up going through one way or another; eventually it just became a matter of making it formal. In the time since her elevation, the boundaries of the Ministry have both grown, and grown permeable: it spills over into commerce, into industry, into political parties and environmental management. And now whenever Shara gets close to Saypur—which is very rare—she hears whispers that Vinya Komayd, matriarch of the eminent Komayd family and one of the most high muck-a-mucks in Ghaladesh, is eyeing the next highest seat, that of prime minister. It is an idea that both unnerves and thrills Shara: perhaps if her aunt occupied the highest office in Saypur, in the world, she could finally come home. … But what sort of home would she return to?
“If it had not been you who trained Efrem,” says Vinya, “if you had not been the one to volunteer to put him through his paces, to spend so much time with him … you know I’d use you in a second, my love. But case officers are never allowed to react to the death of one of their operatives; you know that.”
“I was not his case operative. I only trained him.”
“True, but you have to admit, you do have a history of reckless conviction, especially with personal matters.”
Shara sighs. “I honestly can’t even believe we’re still talking about that.”
“I am, even if you’re not here to listen to it. It gets brought up in all the political circles whenever I try for funding.”
“It was seventeen years ago!”
“Sixteen, actually. I know. Voters might have short memories. Politicians do not.”
“Have I ever in my history abroad caused even a whisper of a scandal? You know me, Auntie. I am quite good at what I do.”
“I will not deny that you’ve been a blessing to my work, darling, no.” Then Vinya sighs, and thinks.
Shara keeps her face still and closed as she rapidly reviews the last five minutes. This conversation has not gone at all as she anticipated: she expected a harsh rebuke from her aunt, because it certainly seems to Shara that she has stumbled across some deeper, much more dangerous operation, one in which Pangyui was apparently involved. But so far Auntie Vinya has reacted as if Pangyui was just a simple historian on a diplomatic mission. … Which means she either doesn’t know, thinks Shara, or she doesn’t want me to know that she knows.
So Shara waits. If you wait and watch, she’s found, things so often reveal themselves, despite your adversary’s best efforts. And though Vinya may be her aunt, there never was a relationship between a commander and their operative that wasn’t somewhat adversarial.
“Well then,” says Vinya. “I suppose you ought to brief me. What’s the situation there?”
Interesting, thinks Shara. “Poor. Mutinous. It would be an understatement to say CD Troonyi did not maintain the embassy to the best of his abilities.”
“Troonyi … My God, I’d forgotten they’d stuck him there. Are there any young girls about?”
Shara thinks of the tea girl. “One.”
“Was she pregnant?”
“Not that I could see.”
“Well. Thank the seas for small gifts.”
“What about Mulaghesh, the polis governor? She’s been very … hands-off with Bulikov. Still a keeper to the policies, in essence.”
“Can I rely on her?”
“Probably. She’s old military, fought in the rebellions. The brass is in her bones. You always do quite well with her sort. Now—what about the professor?”
“I’m collecting information as we speak,” says Shara—glib, trite, serviceable.
“And once you know who killed him, and why, what will you do?” asks Vinya.
“Take stock of the situation and see what threat it poses to Saypur.”
“So vengeance doesn’t cross your mind?”
“One has no room for vengeance,” says Shara, “when the eyes of the world are watching. We must be judicious, and bloodless. I am to be, as always, a simple tool in the hands of my nation.”
“Enough with the rhetoric,” says Vinya. “I’ve no idea who it actually works on anymore.” She looks away to think. “I’ll tell you what, Shara. I will be generous with you. I’ll give you a deadline on this—one week.”
Shara stares at her, incensed. “One week!”