“I think you … you changed history. You changed history when we needed it changed.”
He grew a little stern at this. “Change? No, I did not change anything, Miss Komayd. I told what I thought was the truth. Historians, I think, should be keepers of truth. We must tell things as they are—honestly, and without subversion. That is the greatest good one can do. And as a Ministry servant, you must ask yourself—what truth do you wish to keep?”
And after that, Shara felt he held back a little, as if he’d sniffed her out, sensed she was a creature with different values than his, maintaining an agenda and a story he knew he’d one day refute. And Shara had wished to say, No, no, please don’t spurn me—I am a historian, just as you. I seek the truth, just as you do.
But she could not say this, for she knew in her heart that this would be a lie.
I have never met a person who possessed a privilege who did not exercise that privilege to the fullest extent that they possibly could. Say what you like of a belief, of a party, of a finance system, of a power—all I see is privilege and its consequences.
States are not, in my opinion, composed of structures supporting privilege. Rather, they are composed of structures denying it—in other words, deciding who is not invited to the table.
Regrettably, people often allow prejudice, grudges, and superstitions to dictate the denial of these privileges—when really it’s much more efficient for it all to be a rather cold-blooded affair.
—Minister of Foreign Affairs Vinya Komayd,
letter to the prime minister, 1688
Another wintry morning. As Shara opens the embassy front door, the courtyard guard, up to his nose in furs, turns and says, “He’s at the front gate. We didn’t let him in, because …”
“I understand,” says Shara. She crosses the embassy courtyard. The trees bow with what looks like layers of black glass; the embassy’s numerous corrosions and cracks are filled with pearly white, as if given fresh spackling overnight. The mug of coffee in her hand leaves a river of steam behind like a ship leaves bubbles in its wake. She reflects that it feels so much different in the day, clean and cold and glittering, than it did the night before, when Wiclov bayed through the bars like a guard dog.
The gates rattle open. The boy stands in the embassy drive, holding a silver plate aloft. He is dressed in what she recognizes as manservant clothing, but it seems he has walked some way: his upper lip is frosted with icy snot. If he were not shivering so fiercely, the expression he makes at her could almost be a smile. “Ambassador Thivani?”
“Who are you?” she asks.
“I … have a m-message for you.” He holds the silver plate out to her. In its center is a small white card.
Shara fumbles at it with her cold hands and squints to read.
HIS EMINENCE VOHANNES VOTROV
CITY FATHER OF THE 14th, 15th, and 16th WARDS OF THE POLIS OF BULIKOV
INVITES YOU TO A SPLENDID EVENING
TO BE HELD AT 7:30 PM TONIGHT
AT THE GHOSHTOK-SOLDA DINNER CLUB
SHOULD BE A LOT OF FUN
Shara crushes the card. “Thank you,” she says, and tosses it away. Of all the luck, she thinks. The one thing to break is the one thing I told Vinya I wouldn’t look at.
“Pardon, miss,” says the boy. “I hate to interrupt, but … c-can I go?”
Shara glowers at him for a moment, then shoves the cup of coffee into his hand. “Here. This’ll do you more good than it will me.”
The boy trudges away. Shara turns and swiftly paces back to the embassy front door.
A child begins crying in the street beyond the embassy. A snowball fight has taken a bad turn: one salvo contained an excessive quotient of ice, and the sidewalks fill up with pointed fingers and the persistent cries of Not fair, not fair!
*
Upon the opening of the door, the interior of the Ghoshtok-Solda Dinner Club appears to be a solid wall of smoke. Shara is perplexed by this sight, but the attendants do not seem to notice: they gesture as if this dense block of fog is a perfectly welcoming sight. The outside wind comes sweeping through, turning the smoke to swirling striae and slashing it thin, and Shara can just barely see the wink of candlelight, the sheen of greasy forks, and faces of men laughing.
Then the overwhelming reek of tobacco hits her, and she is almost blown backward.