The car continues toward him. As it wheels around the drive, Morotka shouts, “You come when you’re called, all right? I haven’t flagged you yet. I don’t care what your master says, you come when you’re called.”
As the car pulls up before him, Morotka sees movement on the manor wall out of the corner of his eye: a dark figure peeps up, points something at the remaining guard. There is a click, and the guard goes stiff and tumbles backward, his tin hat bouncing off the wall to clatter and clunk to the street below.
There is the glimmer of a bolt-point in the window of the car. A voice says, “But we have been called.”
Then a harsh click, and the car seems to fall away.
*
Sigrud stares into the fire, lost in his memories.
The blood in the water, the halberd in his hands. The monstrous shadow in the sea, thrashing, moaning, spouting gore. How he thought those days hellish, but he’d not known hells yet.
The leather of his gloved hand squeaks as he clenches his fist.
“Are you all right?” asks his companion. The woman examines him. “Would you need another glass of wine?” She gestures to a footman.
Yet then Sigrud hears it, terribly faintly, but there: a very soft click, out at the front of the house. And he knows that sound very well.
At last. A distraction.
“Here,” says the woman. She turns back around with another goblet. “Here you g—”
But she can only stare at the empty seat beside her.
*
“The enemy of old Bulikov,” says Vohannes, “is not Saypur, and it is not me, or the New Bulikov movement. It’s time.” They sit on a bed in one of the guest rooms. It is, like most of this floor, decorated in deep, warm reds and gold gilt. The estate grounds end just outside the window, and the walls gently curve around the house below. “There’s a tremendous age gap in Bulikov, you see: after the Great War and the Blink, it took so long for life to return to normal. So there’s a dying portion of the population that still remembers the old ways, and devoutly clings to them, and there’s a growing new portion of the population that never knew anything about them, and doesn’t care. They just know they’re poor, and they don’t have to be.”
“The New Bulikov movement,” says Shara.
Vohannes waves a hand at her. “That’s just a name. What we’re seeing is much bigger than politics. It’s a generational shift, and I am definitely not its creator: I’m just riding the wave.”
“And the Restorationists hate you for it.”
“Like I said, they’re fighting history. And everyone loses that fight.”
“Have they threatened you in any way, Vo?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Then why the guards out front?”
He pulls a face. “Hmph. I prefer to be discreet about that … But trust you to see. They have never threatened me directly, no. But there’s lots of political talk that teeters toward the violent side. The biggest offender being Ernst Wiclov, who is, more or less, the biggest player in the Restoration game. Another City Father. Rather dogmatic fellow. Throws a lot of money around. I suppose you could say he’s my political opponent. I never engage him—I don’t really need to—but he depicts me less as a political opponent, and more like a demon shat straight out of hell.”
“He sounds like a very wise man.”
“Don’t try to be cute. You’re terribly bad at it.”
“And this Wiclov,” says Shara, “would he … ?”
“Would he have been one of the biggest agitators behind the protests against Pangyui?” Vohannes smiles savagely, a surprisingly ugly expression. “Oh, yes. I’ve no doubt he’s neck-deep in all this, and I’d not weep to see you sic your dogs on him. The man is a reeking bag of goat shit with a beard.”
“There are two other City Fathers aligned with the New Bulikov movement,” she says, “but none attract near as much hate as you.”
“Ah, well,” says Vohannes, “I’ve become a bit of an iconic figure. I have always had a taste for fashion and architecture, you know that. … And part of it is that it’s fun to rile them up. I indulge in a bit of decadence right in the open, and offend their fusty old values of modesty and repression, and they let loose a string of hateful screeds that wins me however many new voters.” A dainty puff of his cigarette. “It’s win-win, from my perspective. They also mistrust my background, though. … Considering my education, they believe me half-Saypuri.” Then a guilty look: “But I do have … a few projects of my own that may cause friction.”
“Such as?”
“Well … Saypur is the largest buyer of weapons in the world, of course. But all those soldiers are stuck using bolt-shots rather than rifles, just mechanized bows and arrows. The issue, as you may know, is one of saltpeter: Saypur and her supporting nations have almost none of it, and you can’t make gunpowder without it. The Continent, however, has saltpeter aplenty. …”
“So you want to make munitions for Saypur?” she asks, astonished.
What she does not say is: How have I not heard about this?
He shrugs. “My family made bricks. Mining isn’t that much different.”
“But, Vo, that’s … Are you an idiot?”