“Irina … I would not advise it,” says Shara. “The men behind these actions are terribly dangerous. You know that.”
“But a City Father would never—”
“I can hear you!” says Wiclov—an obvious lie. “I can hear you talking to her, telling her to give up her rights as a child of Bulikov! Do not listen to her, Irina Torskeny!”
“Irina,” says Shara. “Think.”
But Wiclov continues: “She is not of your race, of your people! And she is not sacred, like you and I, and all your brothers and sisters. Saying such a thing violates their laws, but you know in your heart it is true!”
Irina looks up at Shara, and Shara can tell she’s made up her mind. “I’m … I’m sorry,” she whispers, and she crosses the courtyard.
Wiclov rattles the bars again, bellowing for Mulaghesh to open the gates. Mulaghesh looks to Shara. Shara tries to think of something, anything, but nothing comes. Mulaghesh nods stiffly, face bitter, and machinery begins clanking and wheels start spinning, and slowly the gates draw back.
To stretch your years across the waves
To bend your soul across the cliffs
To wash your hands in blood and salt
To close your eyes to the chorus of wood
We are a blade in the wind
An ember among the snow
A shadow under the waves
And we remember
We remember the sea-days, the river of gold
Days of happy conquest, treasure unending
They called us barbarians
But we knew we lived in peace
For violence we know all too well
Violence, our unwelcome friend
How long we lived in its shadow
Until the kings pulled us from its depths
From the window a dart of steel
From the torch a guttering flame
To creep up rafters, crawl across thatch
A cry in the dark, unanswered
We lost him, we lost his family
Our family, for we have lost our king
We could not even mourn his passing
They spirited Harkvald’s body away
Fed it to the waves, to the creatures of the sea
Fed it to the harvest from which we fed our children
Red days these are now, dark days
Days of piracy and lawlessness
Days of warfare never ending
Days of empty shores, and full graves
We remember him. We remember his family
We remember his lost son
We remember the Dauvkind
And we know one day
He will return
And save us from ourselves
—Anonymous Dreyling song, 1700
What History Tells Us
Shara stands in the courtyard, watching the small crowd depart. Mulaghesh and Sigrud slowly cross over to her. “Well,” says Mulaghesh, “That … didn’t go well.”
Shara agrees—in fact, the past thirty-six hours have not gone well at all. In her opinion, they have been nothing short of disastrous.
She reviews the situation: the Restorationists know about the Unmentionable Warehouse. Worse, it sounds very likely that they’ve learned of something in the Warehouse that would be quite terribly useful. The question is, thinks Shara, have they somehow gotten inside the Warehouse yet? And if they have, have they started using whatever it is they found? Is that why I contacted that Divinity?
And stranger still: Why kill Pangyui after they’ve gotten what they wanted from him? Especially if it brings “bad people” to Bulikov.
Shara rubs her eyes. A tiny growl of frustration squeaks out of her throat.
Pitry coughs from the doorway. “Are … Are you okay?”
“No,” says Shara softly. “No, I am not.”
“Is there anything I can get you?”
Shara’s index and thumb find the webbing of her opposite hand, and she pinches, hard. The dull pain fails to break through the ice currently cracking about in her mind.
Only one thing to do, then.
“I need,” she says, “a knife.”
“What?” says Pitry.
“Yes, a knife. A very sharp one.”
“Uhh,” he says, alarmed.
“And an iron skillet.”
Mulaghesh cocks her head. “What?”
“And two fresh onions, parsley, salt, pepper, paprika, and about three pounds of goat, I think.”
Sigrud groans and covers his face. Shara ignores him and walks back into the embassy. “Come on,” she says, and waves to them.
“What?” says Mulaghesh. “What the hell?”
Sigrud grumbles for a moment but reluctantly explains, “She always cooks when she is really angry.”
Shara stops and points at Sigrud without looking. “Are you still in touch with your contractors?”
“Of course,” says Sigrud.
“Have them follow Torskeny and Wiclov. And report back to us hourly.”
“Do you not wish for me to do it?” asks Sigrud.
“I need you with me,” says Shara. She marches down the embassy halls. “We’re going to sort some things out.”
“What kind of things?” asks Mulaghesh.
“Dead things,” says Shara. “Or things that should be dead.”