Saypur, however, being a colony that only peripherally benefited from miraculous intervention, had better knowledge of nonmiraculous sanitation. They quarantined the infected, and when soldiers arrived home, they promptly quarantined them as well—a decision that caused much outrage in Saypur at the time. Overall, though the Plague Years were far from easy, Saypur lost less than ten thousand lives to the sudden, massive influx of disease.
It is this self-sufficiency that also came to Saypur’s aid in terms of technology. For the 867 years of its subservience, Saypur was forced to provide resources to the Continent chiefly by its own means—without Divine support. (Exactly why the Divinities needed Saypur to produce resources at all, rather than simply producing them with any number of miracles, is a favorite, and often rather infamous, question among Saypuri historians.) Having been forced to generate such technological innovation under threat, and now suddenly finding itself sitting upon a wealth of resources that could now be called its own, Saypur underwent a phenomenal technological transformation overnight. Vallaicha Thinadeshi herself, who is generally acknowledged to be the greatest of the iconic engineers of this period before her disappearance in Voortyashtan, said that for two decades “you could toss a stone out any window in Ghaladesh and strike four geniuses on the way down.” (It is perhaps noteworthy that the Kaj himself was an amateur scientist, performing many experiments on his estate.)
In contrast, the Continent—plague-ridden, starving—sank into its own helplessness. In the absence of any single ruling force, the polises succumbed to internal conflict. Bandit kings sprang up like mushrooms. During their withdrawal, some Saypuri soldiers recorded rumors of cannibalism, torture, slavery, mass rape. The people that were once the blessed luminaries of the world had, almost overnight, descended into monstrous, barbaric savagery.
It must have seemed to the newly founded Saypuri Parliament an easy if not satisfying decision: Saypur, for so long the subservient nation, would intervene in the Continent’s affairs and bring order. They would reinvade, this time under a banner of peace, and reconstruct.
But I am not sure if they truly understood the memory of the Continent—which, despite the Blink, despite the Plague Years, despite the bandit kings—remains to this day quite long, and bitter.
They remember what they were, and they know what they have lost.
—“The Sudden Hegemony,”
Dr. Efrem Pangyui
Dangerously Honest
Hazy morning light trickles across the rooftops. Shara squints as she tries to discern exactly where the walls of Bulikov start and stop, but she can see only the early morning sky—or perhaps she only imagines the diamond-flecks of stars glittering above the dawning sun. It’s not really the sun, she thinks. I’m not seeing the sky. It’s just the picture of the sun and the sky, produced by the walls. Or, at least, I think it is . … The Bulikov pigeons can tell no difference: they emerge from their roosts, fluff their feathers, and descend to the city streets in wheeling clouds.
Shara is not afraid. She tells herself this repeatedly, in the calm, cool voice of a doctor.
I have never thought of knowledge as a burden, thinks Shara, but how heavy this weighs on me . …
But inside her a small, quiet voice reminds her that this isn’t completely surprising. Shara spent enough time buried in the restricted information at the Ministry to understand that the history taught in Saypuri schools is just one variation on a story—one with many, many holes. But just because the nightmare you expected comes true, she tells herself, it doesn’t make it any less terrifying.
More and more, she worries about what could be in the Warehouse. And, more and more, she worries that someone other than Efrem could have gotten access to it. That should be impossible; but having just had what should be a dead Divinity directly address her, she knows the impossible cannot really be ruled out.
She picks up the morning paper on her desk and reads the account of the deaths last night for the hundredth time, paying close attention to two paragraphs in particular:
Vohannes Votrov expressed grief for his slain staff members and regret that the attack happened, but said he was not surprised: “With the current discourse we’re seeing in the city, I am not shocked at all that some citizens felt violence was the only answer. They are told day in and day out that [New Bulikov’s] vision for the city is one of destruction and death, that we are liars and deceivers. I have no doubt that such men felt they were acting out of a moral principle—and this I regret perhaps most of all.”
City Father Ernst Wiclov, a frequent opponent to Votrov and New Bulikov, was quick to condemn these accusations. “The very idea that someone would capitalize on such a tragedy for political gain is abhorrent,” he said in an interview mere hours after the attack. “This is a time for mourning and reflection, not self-righteous posturing.” Mr. Vohannes was not available for response.
There’s a knock at the door, and Mulaghesh sticks her head in. “I didn’t want to open up shop for anyone, but I thought I’d make an exception for this—your boy is here.”