My fathers and mothers died in bondage. I will die in bondage. My children will die in bondage. If we are but a possession of the children of the gods, why do the gods allow us to grieve?
The gods are cruel not because they make us work. They are cruel because they allow us to hope.
—Anonymous Saypuri testimonial, cir. 1470
To Do What He Does Best
The house of Votrov is one of the most modern homes in all of Bulikov, but you could never tell by looking at it: it is a massive, bulky, squat affair of dark gray stone and fragile buttresses. Tiny windows dot its bulging sides like pinpricks, some filled with the narrow flicker of candle flame. On the south side, away from the prevailing northern wind, it features massive, gaping balconies arranged in what appears to be a stack, each balcony slightly smaller than the one below it, ending at a tiny crow’s nest at the top. To Shara, who grew up seeing the slender, simplistic wood structures of Saypur, it is a primitive, savage thing, not resembling a domicile as much as a malformed, aquatic polyp. Yet in Bulikov it is quite new, for unlike so many homes of the old families, this house was built specifically to accommodate the cold, wintry climate. Which, one must remember, is a somewhat recent development.
To acknowledge things have changed, thinks Shara as her car approaches, is akin to death for these people.
Her stomach flutters. Could he really be inside? She never knew about his home before, and to see it now, to realize it is real and that he had a life beyond her, strangely disturbs her.
Be quiet, she says to the mutterings in her mind, yet somehow this only makes them louder.
A huge line of automobiles and carriages inches forward to the Votrov manor entrance. Shara watches the rich and celebrated citizens of Bulikov emerge from their various methods of transport, one lapel flipped up to shield their faces from the frosty air before hurrying inside. After nearly half an hour, Pitry, tutting and wincing, pulls the car through the estate gates and up to the door.
The valet receives her with a look as cool as the night wind. She hands him her official invitation. He takes it, offers a curt nod, and gestures with one white-gloved hand to the door, which he is pointedly not holding open.
With a chorus of squeaks from the car’s shocks, Sigrud emerges and mounts the bottom step; the valet twitches almost imperceptibly, bows low to Shara, and opens the door.
She steps over the boundaries. How many parties have I been to in my life, thinks Shara, with warlords and generals and proud murderers? And yet this one I dread more than any of those.
In stark contrast to the exterior, the interior is stunningly lavish: hundreds of gas flames line the entry hall, each filtering through tinted chimneys to provide a flickering, golden hue; a staggeringly complicated chandelier of crystal slabs appears to drip down from the rounded ceiling, giving one the impression of a massive, glowing stalactite; and at the center of the room, two huge hearths are filled with roaring fires, and between them a set of curling stairs twists upward to ascend the vaults of the home.
A voice not dissimilar to Auntie Vinya’s says, You could have lived here with him if not for your pride.
He did not love me, she says back, and I did not love him.
Shara is not stupid enough to convince herself these are truths; but neither, she knows, are they wholly lies.
“The reason it’s so big,” says a voice, “is because he owns all the damn builders, of course.”
Mulaghesh stands at attention before a pillar. Just looking at her posture makes Shara’s back hurt. Mulaghesh is dressed in her uniform, which is pressed, polished, spotless. Her hair is tied back in a brutal bun, and her knee-high black boots boast a mirror shine. Her left breast is covered in medals; her right handles the considerable overflow. Overall, she does not look well dressed, but rather carefully assembled. Shara is almost tempted to search the seams of her coat for rivets.
“The original home vanished in the Blink,” says Mulaghesh. “Or so I’m told.”
“Hello, Governor. You look quite … impressive.”
Mulaghesh nods, but does not take her eyes off the socialites milling before the fires. “I don’t like for these people to forget what I am,” she says. “Despite all diplomatic pretenses, we are a military presence in their city.”
Once a soldier, thinks Shara, always a soldier. Beside the hearth on the right is a plinth with five short statues standing on it. “And those would be the reason for the occasion?” asks Shara.