“Why did you stop?”
“They asked me to. Not at first—after the first time, when I brought them copies, they were less and less pleased. ‘Oh, this is good, but it is not what we were looking for, not what we need at all.’ As if it was all my fault! But then, one day, the tall pale one, he saw something on the list, and he did not smile, exactly, but his eyes, they crinkled, and he nodded. And the men laughed and said, ‘Good! Good, good, very good.’ As if they’d found what they needed. And they never asked me to get anything else again.”
Shara feels an immense dread welling up in her. “What day was this?”
“Day? I am not sure. …”
“Month, then.”
“It was still warm, then. It must have been late fall. The month of Tuva, I think.”
“Is there anything else you can tell me about this list?”
“I do not know anything more than what I said.”
“You copied it. You copied hundreds of pages of it. What was on them?”
Irina thinks. “Well. There were page numbers.”
“Besides those.”
“Besides those, there was … There was a stamp in the corner. No, not a stamp—a sign of some kind, in the corner of every page. Like a … a bird atop a wall.”
Shara is quiet. Then: “Did it have a crest on its head? And did it have its wings outstretched?” She holds out her arms to show her.
“Yes. I had never seen a bird quite like it.”
That’s because it lives only in Saypur, thinks Shara, who knows this insignia well. There could be only one list bearing the stamp of the polis governor’s office that would excite the Restorationists so much: So not only have our enemies known about the Unmentionable Warehouse for months, she thinks, but they also know its contents, something even I am not allowed access to . … She deeply regrets her promise to her aunt now: perhaps Pangyui’s dead drop contains some hint of what the Restorationists were looking for.
“What does it all mean?” asks Irina.
“I’m not sure yet,” says Shara.
“I thought I hated the professor,” says Irina. “But when I was told he was dead, I realized I never really did. I wanted to hate him. But I hated things far larger than him. I hated feeling so … humiliated.” She looks at Shara, her eyes wet with fresh tears. “What will you do with me? Will you kill me?”
“No, Irina. I am not in the business of hurting innocents.”
“But I am not innocent. I got him killed.”
“You cannot know that. As you said, you hated things far larger than you—and I think things far larger than you, or me, or the even the professor are in play here.”
Irina looks hopeful, relieved. “Do you think so?”
Shara tries not to let her face hint at her dread. “I know so.”
Then both women look up as shouts echo up from the street outside: “Let me through! Let me through!”
“What is that?” says Irina.
Shara leans over and pulls a drape aside with a finger. There is a small crowd gathered before the embassy gates: Shara can see the glimmer of a golden sash, suggesting a City Father, and numerous official-looking men in off-white robes. And before them, on the inner side of the gates, is Mulaghesh, arms crossed, feet fixed in a martial pose, emanating contempt like a fire makes smoke.
Shara smiles at Irina. “Excuse me.”
*
Shara can hear the bellowing before she even exits the front doors. “This is a political and ethical travesty, do you hear me!” shouts a man. “A crime that verges on a declaration of war! Grabbing a woman from her home? An old maid, who’s spent her life serving one of Bulikov’s most beloved and revered institutions? Governor, I insist you step aside and release her immediately! If you do not, I will do everything in my power to guarantee this becomes an international incident! Am I clear?”
Mulaghesh mutters something back, but it is too quiet to hear.
“Attack? Attack?” the man’s voice answers. “The only attack we should be concerned with is the attack on the rights and privileges of the citizens of Bulikov!”
Shara crosses the courtyard. She can see Sigrud lurking in the shadows, leaning up against the embassy wall. The City Father outside grips the gate as prisoners do their cell bars. He is tall, for a Continental, and his face is brown and bright red. Shara imagines a potato that has been glazed and fired in a kiln. Half of his face, however, is concealed behind a thick, woolen beard that climbs almost up to his eyes.
Shara recognizes him. The photo in the paper, she thinks, does not do the real Ernst Wiclov justice. …
Behind him stand at least twelve bearded men in the plain, off-white robes of Bulikovian advocates. Each of them observes Mulaghesh with small, unimpressed eyes, and in their right hands they carry leather valises like most men would swords.
Now we must deal with lawyers, too, thinks Shara. If I were to die now, I’d count myself lucky.