Sigrud considers climbing onto the roof of the car, judges that he doesn’t have enough time, pulls his knife free, and dives away.
It is a painful landing, but not as painful as what happens to the unconscious man dangling out the broken window of the car: there is a wet smack, and something goes tumbling across the stony streets. Sigrud can hear the driver begin to scream in horror, and what’s left of the passenger slips out the window to roll into the gutter.
The car makes a wide turn and roars down an alley. Sigrud, now quite frustrated, gets to his feet and sprints after it.
He turns down the alley. The car has come to a stop several yards down. He runs to the car and flings open the driver’s side door to see …
Nothing. The car is empty.
He looks around. The alley ends in the blank side of a building, yet before that there is nothing: no windows, no ladders, no sluice gates or manhole covers or doors.
Sigrud grunts, sticks his knife back in its sheath, and slowly walks the alley, feeling the walls. None of them give. It’s like the driver simply disappeared.
He sighs and scratches his cheek. “Not again.”
I am the stone beneath the tree.
I am the mountain under the sun.
I am the river below the earth.
I dwell in the caves in the hills.
I dwell in the caves in your heart.
I have seen what lies there.
I know what lives in your minds.
I know right. I know justice.
I am Kolkan, and you will listen.
—The Kolkashtava, Book Two
A Memory Engraved
The officers’ mess hall of the Bulikov Police Department is a unique vantage point for the unfolding panic. There are windows that allow the mess hall attendees to see into the front offices, where a full-scale riot is building—composed of politicians, reporters, outraged citizens, and family members of the hostages—and one can also see back into the halls of the interview rooms, where the Bulikov policemen are still confused as to who exactly is a suspect, who should get to go to the hospital, and what in the world to do with Sigrud.
“This is a new experience for me,” says Shara.
“Really?” says Mulaghesh. “I would have thought you’d been arrested at least a couple of times.”
“No, no. I never get arrested. One of the perks of being a handler.”
“It must be nice. You seem very calm, for someone who’s just been through an assassination attempt. How do you feel?”
Shara shrugs. The truth is she feels ridiculous, sitting here sipping tea with Mulaghesh while chaos surges around them. Their status immediately set them apart from the other rescued hostages, mostly due to Mulaghesh, whom all the police officers seem acquainted with. Mulaghesh holds a pack of ice to her eye and occasionally mutters curses about being “too shitting slow” or, alternately, “too shitting old.” She’s already sent her orders to the local outpost, and a small squad of Saypuri veterans should be here shortly to take watch over the both of them. Though Shara has not said so, she privately dreads this: one’s own security often makes it hard to penetrate that of one’s opponents. And Sigrud often provides enough security, anyway. Sigrud, however, is currently cooling off in a holding cell. The captured attacker has gone totally untouched, stuck in a tiny cell normally reserved for the most violent offenders.
An officer refreshes their teapot, which Shara promptly drains. “That’s your fourth pot,” notes Mulaghesh.
“So?”
“So, do you normally drink tea like that?”
“Only when I’m at work.”
“You seem like the type who is always at work.”
Shara shrugs mid-sip.
“If you continue at that pace, Ambassador, I would advise you familiarize yourself with a urologist.”
“How’s your eye?”
“Humiliating. But I’ve had worse.”
“It can’t be too humiliating. He did wind up the loser of your scrap, beyond a doubt.”
“There was once a day,” sighs Mulaghesh, “when I could dispatch such little cretins without bothering to breathe. No more, I suppose. What I would give”—she winces, prodding her eye—“for the vigor of youth. Though I doubt I could ever match what your man did in that house, even in my prime. Where did you find him?”
“Someplace quite bad,” says Shara simply.
Then she slowly retreats back inside herself. The susurrus of faraway shouting fades, and internally she begins to compose a list.