Bulikov 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.”