City of Stairs

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 hells?”

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.”

What a pleasant thing it would be to be a knife, always eager to take the path of least resistance, always drawn to the weak points, falling through tendons and skin and rinds like a blade of grass swept downstream. The knife slips and slides, skids and curls, leaving piles of tiny scrolls of orange peels, lemon peels, melon rinds, like a mound of curling ticker tape. It saws slowly against flesh, parting vein and muscle, tendon and gristle, breaking the goat cutlet down until it no longer resembles any part of any living creature.

All you need is one good knife, and one good skillet, thinks Shara. With these simple tools one can create anything.

Shara lights a match, hunts for the gas jet. Flames bloom along the stove top, caressing the skillet. She douses the skillet with oil, then grabs an onion.

“There were six of them, originally,” says Shara quietly. Her face flickers with the light of the gas flames. “Or at least six that made themselves known. Olvos, the light-bearer. Kolkan, the judge. Voortya, the warrior. Ahanas, the seed-sower. Jukov, the trickster, the starling shepherd. And Taalhavras, the builder.”

Mulaghesh clenches her right fist; her knuckles emit a chorus of cracks. “I know all this. Everyone knows this.”

“You know part of it,” says Shara. She stands before the ovens in the spacious embassy kitchens, which once catered to numerous social events before Troonyi oversaw the embassy’s decline. Mulaghesh and Sigrud sit at the servants’ table producing a small cloud of smoke, Mulaghesh with her cigarillo, Sigrud with his pipe; Pitry runs back and forth from the pantry, bringing more vegetables, spices, salted meats. “There’s a lot of it that is not taught. The Worldly Regulations might demand silence from the Continent on this subject, but there are just as many strictures about it in Saypur. Historians are permitted to publish some discoveries; others are filed away to be forgotten. Especially when it comes to the Ancients, the Most Heavenly, the Divine. All six of them sprang to life on the Continent—how long ago, no one is quite sure—all six of them built their domains here, and all six of them fought like cats and dogs for what we estimate to be over five hundred years.”

“I didn’t know they fought,” says Mulaghesh. “I thought they were allies.”

Shara’s knife makes a seam on the onion’s skin; she plucks at it, peels it back, and tosses the glossy outer layer away. “They were, eventually. But at first they fought like mad, for territory, followers, anything. But sometime in the early 700s they chose to stop fighting, and unite. Shortly after, they chose to expand. Rapidly expand. This would be the beginning of the Continental Golden Age, and the beginning of Saypur’s slavery to the Continent. Of which we know much, of course, though we would prefer otherwise.” She pulls out a cutting board, tests its flex, and slaps it on the counter. “But imagine the Continent like a pie—for it is roughly circular—with six pieces cut. And there, at the center, the spoke of the wheel …”

“Bulikov,” says Sigrud. The word is a wad of smoke from his lips.

“Yes,” says Shara. She splits the onion, slaps one half down on the cutting board, and grips it hard enough that its tiny veins bleed white. The knife makes a staccato clattering; there is a wave of white blocks, and the onion appears to disintegrate. “The Seat of the World. No one’s city, and everyone’s city, established when they chose to unite. After all, each Divinity had their own city. Kolkashtan for Kolkan, Taalvashtan for Taalhavras, Ahanashtan for Ahanas, Jukoshtan for Jukov, and Voortyashtan for Voortya. So Bulikov was meant to belong to everyone.”

“But you only listed five,” says Pitry from behind a small mountain of celery.

“That’s true. Olvos did have a city, once. But she abandoned the Continent just after the Divinities opted to unite. And when she left, her followers deserted her city. They left it to be claimed, one historian recorded, by ash and dust. No one even knows where it was.”

“Why did she leave?” asks Mulaghesh.

“No one quite knows. Maybe she just wasn’t a sociable Divinity. Maybe she disagreed with something. Maybe she did not wish to take part in the Great Expansion, when the Continent would conquer almost all the known world. Whatever the reason, she has faded from history: the last time anyone saw or spoke to Olvos was in 775.”

“Wait, wait,” says Mulaghesh. “So everyone’s known for all these years that one of the Divinities might still exist? I thought the Kaj killed all of them!”

“Yes, but which ones have you been told he killed, specifically? In specific instances?” Shara counts off on her fingers: “Voortya he killed in Saypur, in the Night of the Red Sands. Taalhavras and Ahanas he killed when his army first landed on the Continent’s shore. And Jukov he killed in Bulikov. When, exactly, have you been told the definitive account of the assassination of Olvos? Or Kolkan, for that matter?”

“But … But everyone agrees history grew murky after the Kaj invaded,” says Mulaghesh. “No one’s entirely sure what happened. He could have killed Olvos or, or Kolkan then, right?”

“Somewhat true. We only know what the scraps of history tell us. We know the Kaj used his weapon on the Divinities—whatever it was—and they vanished. But that does not necessarily mean they are gone from the present altogether. Some miracles still work. The Divine have not completely left the Continent, despite our efforts and wishes. Our records are even inaccurate about how the Kaj killed the ones we know he killed—Jukov, for example, he killed three years after capturing Bulikov, something that is never mentioned in conventional texts.”

“I didn’t know that,” says Pitry. “I thought Jukov was executed in the Great Purge. That’s what they taught us in school.”

“That is because Jukov’s evasion is not a popular subject,” says Shara. “It makes the Kaj look weak. Jukov didn’t attack or confront the Kaj’s forces—he only hid from them. Yet the Kaj moved on, or perhaps he knew that sometimes you must defeat your enemy’s spirit before you can defeat their body. Which was why he started the Purge.”

Shara crushes garlic with her knife, dices it, and tosses it in with the onions. “The Great Purge was not the righteous act that’s often depicted in Saypuri history books. The Kaj did not use his weaponry to bloodlessly eliminate all the Divine creatures of the Continent at once. Nor did he drive them back into heaven, or into the seas.”

“Then what?” says Pitry.

“They were dragged from their homes, into the streets,” says Shara. She turns the knife over in her hands. The handle is slick and oily. “They were corralled and driven like animals, and slaughtered much in the same way. Unlike their creators, minor Divine creatures may be killed via conventional means.” Sigrud grins nastily, relishing some treasured vicious memory. “Bulikov, for example, is host to several mass graves,” continues Shara. “Who knows what sort of bones we would find if we dug them up? The delicate wings of a gityr, Ahanas’s winged ponies? The finger bones of a hovtarik, the twenty-fingered harpist from the courts of Taalhavras? The marred bones of a mhovost, the knuckle-men, Jukov’s pet horror? Presuming, of course, that the Kaj and his army did not destroy them beyond recognition … which, quite frankly, I think is probably the case. Perhaps they felt justified. Had not every Saypuri lived their lives under the boot heel of these creatures? Were they not dangerous monsters? But one soldier wrote of screams of pain coming from the fires, and how some of these creatures had the appearance and demeanor of children, and begged for mercy. Of which they received none.”

Mulaghesh is silent; her cigarillo’s smoke has dwindled to a slow bleed. Sigrud runs his finger along the blade of his black knife.

Shara checks the rice, which has been soaking in chicken broth, and the sauce, which is dark and creamy. This she sniffs, and adds a touch of garlic. “When the Purge came to an end, Jukov finally emerged. He had been hiding, it is said, in a pane of glass in a window—exactly what this means, I can’t say. Again, I only know what history tells us. Jukov sent word to the Kaj directly, asking him to meet. Alone. To the surprise of his lieutenants, the Kaj agreed. But perhaps the Kaj had some foresight, for when he met the last Divinity, it is recorded he saw that Jukov was no threat: the Divinity was weeping uncontrollably, distraught over the death and mayhem that had been wreaked upon the Continent.”

“He should have come to Saypur, then,” says Mulaghesh bitterly. “Then he would have been prepared for such misery.”

“Probably true. The two of them met in an abandoned temple. A ruin, really, though the reports of the Kaj’s lieutenants are unclear as to exactly where this temple is, or was. They were there for most of one night. What the two of them said there, no one knows. When he did not return, the Kaj’s lieutenants feared the worst. But then the Kaj emerged, having personally slain Jukov—yet the Kaj was weeping. Over what, he would not say. But he confirmed that Jukov was dead.” Shara wipes off the knife. “The Kaj became moody and silent after this last, final victory, and took to wine. He died of an infection less than four months later—one of the first deaths of the Plague Years, most likely.”

Sigrud sniffs and rubs his nose. He appears only mildly interested in such stories. Mulaghesh, however, eats up every word. “So Jukov was the last god killed.”

Shara salts the goat meat, then tosses it in with the simmering vegetables. “Yes. The Plague Years came just after, the last bit of Divine protection falling away, so we know for sure that he is gone from this world.”

Mulaghesh thinks. “It feels damn odd,” she says, “to list Divinities as you would suspects for a robbery. As if we could go out and line them up on a wall and have the victim come in and point the criminal out. So, the only confirmed dead gods—or at least, the ones that other people saw die—are Voortya, Taalhavras, Ahanas, and Jukov?”

“That would be a fair estimation,” says Shara.

“Which leaves Olvos and Kolkan.”

“Yes.”

“You haven’t said anything about Kolkan.”

“True. We know quite a bit about his existence. His end, though … That, no one knows. We don’t even think anyone on the Continent ever knew.”

“Did he also leave, like Olvos?” asks Pitry.

Shara washes her hands clean on a rag. “No. He did not. Or at least, we do not think so.”

“Then what happened to him?”

Shara checks the time. Twenty minutes until it’s all ready.

“That,” she says, sitting down, “is a very different story.”

“Kolkan, it is said, was a Divinity of judgment, and order. He was the Man of Stone, He of the High Places, the Far Shepherd. He’s depicted in many different aspects, but his most dominant appearance is as a man seated on a mountain, with both hands extended forward, palms up. Waiting to weigh, balance, and judge, you see. He was by far the most active Divinity out of the six. Jukov played tricks with his mortal followers, turning them into animals—wolves, sometimes, but most frequently brown starlings—and sometimes even going so far as to impregnate them, regardless of gender, if you can believe it.” Pitry’s mouth falls open, but Shara continues: “Taalhavras and Ahanas, being builders and growers, had larger affairs, and were only broadly concerned with mortal life. Olvos, as you know, was content to leave. And Voortya was quite active in her own right, personally leading war parties and raids. But none of them compare to Kolkan, who was fascinated—if not fixated—on the affairs of mortal creatures.”

Shara gently turns the goat meat over. Fat snaps and sizzles. She withdraws her hand before a gobbet of oil can leap onto her knuckle.

“Kolkan wished for nothing more than for his followers to lead a good and ordered life. After the city of Kolkashtan was established, he told his followers to come to him with any questions, any concerns, and he would be there to answer them, to judge them, and to help them. And they responded quite enthusiastically. There are records of lines of people five, ten, fifteen miles long. Of people fainting, starving, growing sick and infirm as they waited. The historical accounts are vague, but it’s estimated Kolkan listened to however many millions of people, judging day and night, sitting in one place, for over one hundred and sixty years.”

“By the seas,” mutters Mulaghesh.

“Yes,” says Shara. “Historians have agreed that it probably had some effect on Kolkan. Eventually he realized that this process was not efficient. So he ended his period of judgment, emerged from his temple, and began creating edicts based off of what he had learned during his time judging.”

Sigrud pulls a cured ham from the pantry. He sits, carves off a perfect scroll with his black knife, begins chewing it, and absently saws at the rest of the hard flesh.

“Over the space of two years, Kolkan produced twelve hundred edicts. By our modern standards, they were wildly invasive, often arbitrary rules: do not stack this type of stone upon this type; a woman’s hair should not be braided in this manner; these times of days are the appropriate times to speak, and these for silence; these meats can be cured, these cannot … and so on, and so on, and so on. You would think normal people would resist, and try and free themselves.… But the Kolkashtanis did not. They welcomed these rules, all twelve hundred of them. For, after all, if their Divinity said they deserved them, then did they not deserve them?”

“You can’t be serious,” says Pitry.

“I am quite serious. They genuinely tried to follow his edicts, no matter how bizarre. But, naturally, no one is perfect, and very few completely followed the edicts. But the edicts couldn’t be wrong—people enjoyed being told what to do. So, at some point, Kolkan decided the issue was that there wasn’t a big enough impetus to follow the edicts.” Shara lifts the top off the pot of rice. A rolling bloom of steam rises up, fogging her glasses. She steps back, sets the lid down, and polishes her glasses. “This was how the Writs of Punishments began. A living, ongoing, constantly edited document about how people should be … encouraged to follow the edicts. Over time, one sees an increasing tendency to—how shall I put this?—mar the flesh.”

“Mar?” says Mulaghesh.

“Whipping. Branding. Hobbling, blinding, and amputation for the worst offenders—striking off the right hand of a thief, and so on. Never death. Kolkan had decreed that life was sacred. Even he would not violate this proclamation. One of the most prominent punishments was called the Finger of Kolkan: a small round stone that would, when touched to flesh, grow heavier and heavier and hotter and hotter. Punishers would tie down the victims, place the Finger on their leg, or stomach, or chest, or …”

There is a squeak from Sigrud’s leather glove: his right hand is a trembling fist; his jaw is clenched around his pipe; the black knife is buried deep in the pork leg.

Shara coughs. “You get the idea,” she says. “These punishments were carried out with almost no objection. The people did not fight. They welcomed these punishments with the sober obsequiousness of the condemned.

“Over time, Kolkan’s punishments and rules became more and more severe, and odder and odder. He became fixated on flesh and desire, on sexuality and lust. He wished to wholly censor these subjects. His first method of repression may be ironically resonant to any Saypuri. For he banned any public acknowledgment of the female sex or anatomy. Much like how some of our own laws censor discussion.”

“What!” says Mulaghesh. “That’s not … That’s not like the Worldly Regulations at all! We’re trying to suppress something dangerous!”

“And to Kolkan, there was nothing more dangerous than sexuality. Saypuri historians are not sure why he opted to suppress the female sex.… It’s a highly debated point among certain specialists. But Kolkan demanded that his clerics and saints force women to completely shroud their figures in public, and to illegalize any mention of the female anatomy, sexuality, form—any of it—in public. This was referred to as the ‘Excision of Impurities.’ It led to a darkly amusing conundrum: how do you make a law outlawing saying a thing if you are not allowed to say that thing, even in the law? The lawmakers settled on the vague term ‘secret femininity,’ which can mean anything, really. So the law allowed for either mercy, or great cruelty, depending on the arbiter.”

The chill of the jail cell, the clutch of the shadows. The young boy whispering, Do not tempt me with your secret femininity!

“Things grew worse and worse. He began to insist that all his followers ‘veil their flesh’ and deny themselves all mortal pleasures: the taste of food, drink, the feeling of naked human skin, even comfortable sleep, for all of Kolkan’s followers were forced to sleep on beds of stone. Physical pleasure of any kind was not to be encouraged. And his punishments grew grotesque. Castration. Clitoridectomy. Terribly extreme amputations. And so on.

“Yet now the other Divinities began to take notice. While Divinities did have many interactions among themselves—even relationships—they were mostly happy to stay out of one another’s Divine business. But Kolkan’s new fixations began to spill over. He insisted Bulikov adopt his personal views on sexuality—homosexuality and promiscuity, for example, which were allowed under the more permissible Divinities, became illegal in Bulikov. Jukov was a particularly passionate opponent of this, but Kolkan’s perspective took root and has never left Bulikov, despite what happened later. Eventually, Jukov convinced the other Divinities to act.”

“Act how?” asks Mulaghesh. “You can’t tell me no one knows about a second war.”

“No,” says Shara. “There was no war. Because in 1442, Kolkan simply disappeared. With no explanation whatsoever.”

A pause.

“He just … disappeared?” asks Pitry.

“Yes.”

“Like with the Kaj’s weapons?” asks Mulaghesh.

“Not quite,” says Shara. “None of Kolkan’s works disappeared. Kolkashtan remained intact. But there were a few alterations: overnight, all those who were mutilated by Kolkan’s methods were suddenly whole, and healed. Except for the ones who had passed on, of course. This is strange in its own right, but the victims could also no longer recall even being punished—it was as if those memories had been painted over in their minds.”

“Then how …” Sigrud rolls his one eye up as he formulates his question. “How do you even know they were punished?”

Shara nods. “A fair point. It took a while, but Saypuri historians have pinpointed 1442 as a year of great historical confusion. They’ve tracked it regionally—all historical records, journals, and testimonies in Kolkashtan and Bulikov went suddenly and completely blank for the specific years of Kolkan’s punishments. We only know what we know from texts recovered far from Kolkashtan and Bulikov—these, somehow, escaped what seems to have been a historical purge.”

“And you assume it was the other four Divinities,” says Mulaghesh.

“I assume so—especially because the other Divinities did not remark upon Kolkan’s sudden absence at all. We have recovered no indications of a proclamation, or explanation.… They didn’t even mention him. It was as if he’d simply never existed. Reality was edited—no, overwritten.”

“And this …” says Mulaghesh. “Do you think it was this that you saw? A vanished Divinity, but not a dead one?”

Shara thinks. She finally says, “No.”

“Why not?”

“Our attackers were dressed and definitely spoke like traditional Kolkashtanis. But I have read accounts of communing with Divinities. And what I encountered in that jail cell was nothing so coherent. It was like a cacophony of voices, of images—many people in one. I do not know what to call it. Even Kolkan would have made much more sense than the thing I spoke to, I think.”

They are silent. Sigrud belches softly. “What happened”—another belch—“to the people?”

“The people?”

He waves a hand. “Of Kolkan.”

“Oh. Do you know, they more or less kept doing the same things? They wore Kolkashtani robes, followed Kolkashtani precepts, even enforced the Writs of Punishment, to an extent. They had faint memories of Kolkan, and they retained his edicts—those that were not erased—and they continued doing what they’d always done. It was never as terrible and punitive as it was under Kolkan himself, but the same perspective, the same beliefs … These persist in Kolkashtan and Bulikov even today, as you know.”

“So the reason Votrov’s art show was so scandalous,” says Mulaghesh slowly, “is because of what some mad god believed three hundred years ago?”

“More or less.” She checks the time, then the goat: much of the fat has rendered out. She scoops the diced meat out and allows it to drain. “I suppose these things are like momentum,” she says. “Once you get started, it’s hard to stop.”

Fat strikes the stovetop and sizzles like lava rushing into the sea.

Sigrud, Mulaghesh, and Pitry eat like starving refugees. There is curried goat, soft white rice, fried vegetable pastries, pork-wrapped melon. Within minutes all of Shara’s artful displays are reduced to ravaged scraps.

“This is”—Mulaghesh hiccups—“amazing. This is the best curry I’ve had in years. As good as at home. Where did you learn to cook?”

“From another operative.” She sips her tea, but does not eat. “You get stuck in one place a lot, in an operation. You learn to make do with what you have.” She sits back, looks up. Smoke stains trail across the stone ceiling. There is an oily sheen to them: grease deposits, no doubt, from dozens of bubbling meals. “You are absolutely positive, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that there has been no disturbance at the Warehouse?”

“None,” says Mulaghesh around a mouthful. “I sent a runner there just now to check. But I am confident that they don’t have the resources to mount an attack on the Warehouse.”

“Why?”

“The attack on Votrov took a lot of manpower. It wasn’t a distraction. If anything, it smacks of desperation to me. I don’t think they could mount two such operations at once.”

“But we will increase security at the Warehouse.”

“Most definitely.”

“Inside, and outside.”

“Well, no.” Mulaghesh coughs and wipes her mouth. “We don’t have any security inside the Warehouse.”

“None?”

“No. No one goes in the Warehouse.”

“Not even patrols?”

“Even if I wanted to do patrols, I doubt if I’d be able to order anyone in there. That place is full of ghosts, Shara. What’s there, we don’t want to disturb.”

“But you do have a list of what’s in the Warehouse?”

“Oh, yeah. Definitely.”

“And I don’t suppose,” she says slowly, “that you have more than one copy? Since Efrem was taking out parts of the list to study, I assume you’d want a backup in case something happened to it.…”

“We have two copies, yeah. What are you thinking?”

“I am thinking,” says Shara slowly, “that Irina Torskeny told me she copied around a hundred pages from the list before the Restorationists found either what they were looking for, or something that would be useful to them.”

“So?”

“So. We know it was the last few pages they were interested in. Once they found what they were looking for, or what would help them, they stopped. This occurred in the month of Tuva, per Irina. So we simply need to pull the segments of the list that he checked out in that period …”

“… and we’ll know what it is the Restorationists found! Of course! Damn, that’s brilliant!”

“No, it’s narrowing it down from a needle in a haystack to a needle in a slightly smaller haystack,” says Shara. “From what Irina told me of this list, there are dozens of entries on each page. So we would be reducing the quantity from thousands of entries to check to, oh, maybe only a few hundred.”

Mulaghesh’s face falls. “A few hundred …”

“It’s a starting point, at least,” says Shara. “And speaking of Irina …” She turns to look at Sigrud.

“We are watching,” says Sigrud.

“You’re certain of the men you hired?”

“I know what we are paying them,” he says. “For a job this simple, it will be no trouble. She’s been returned to her house, I am told. They have left her there, alone. And we are watching.”

“You must make sure not to miss her. She’s one of our last solid leads. And we must keep a close eye on Wiclov.”

“We”—Sigrud pulls his knife free of the ham shank—“are watching.”

Shara taps the side of her teacup. Sit on your leads, the saying goes, until they crack under your weight.

“If you only drink tea when you work,” says Mulaghesh, “I advise you switch to coffee. I see a lot of work in our future, and coffee packs more punch.”

“Coffee refreshes the body,” says Shara. “Tea refreshes the soul.”

“And is your soul so bruised?”

Shara does not respond.

“Aren’t you going to eat?” says Pitry. “Have some before we eat it all.”

“We could never eat all this,” says Mulaghesh.

“Mm. No,” says Shara, through the fog of thought.

“Why? Aren’t you hungry?”

“That’s not the issue. I tend to find,” says Shara as she refills her tea, “that the taste reminds me a little too much of home. If I want a taste of Ghaladesh, I prefer it to be tea.”

The coffin sits inside the shipping crate perfectly, hardly an inch of space on any side. I wonder, Shara thinks, if there’s a market for crates for coffins. Do so many people die overseas?

“Do you want us to nail it shut now?” asks the foreman. He and his three employees do not try to bother to hide their impatience.

“Not just yet,” says Shara quietly. She touches the surface of the coffin: lacquered pine, something most Saypuris would never be buried in. “Could you give me a moment, please?”

He hesitates. “Well … The train to Ahanashtan is set to leave within an hour. If it goes out late, then …”

“Then they dock your pay. Yes. I will gladly pay the difference, if I make you late. A moment. Please?”

The foreman shrugs, gestures to his men, and Shara is alone in the alley behind the embassy.

There ought to be more ceremony than this, but there almost never is. Her operative in Javrat; the mine overseer they turned in Kolkashtan; the peddler from Jukoshtan, going door to door selling cameras, taking pictures of the residents, ostensibly as part of his pitch … None of them she ever truly laid to rest. They wander in her mind still, just as they wandered in life.

If I could go home with you, she tells the coffin, just to see you rest, I would.

She remembers when he first came to her in Ahanashtan, how delighted she’d been to see he was exactly the bright-eyed, nattily dressed little man she’d always imagined him to be. After a day of training, he was impressed with how well read she was: “What university did you study at? I am so sorry. I’m unfamiliar with your publications.” And when she told him that she was not published, that she would never be published, that her line of work was far outside of academia, he paused, thinking, and asked, “I am sorry, I must ask … You are, ehm, Ashara Komayd, yes? Everyone seems a little reticent to say so … but that is the case, yes?”

Shara smiled a little, and reluctantly nodded.

“Ghonjesh and Ashadra—they were your parents?”

She stiffened, but nodded again.

He reflected on this a moment. “I knew them, you know. Very distantly. Back in the reformist days. Did you know that?”

In what sounded like a very small voice, Shara said, “Yes.”

“They were much more active than I was. I stayed behind my desk and wrote my letters and my articles, but they actually went to the slums, to the Plague areas, setting up medical tents and hospitals.… I suppose they knew the danger—the Plague was so infectious—but they did it anyway. I sometimes think I was a coward, in light of what they did. A cloistered academic to the core.”

“I don’t think so,” Shara said.

“No?”

“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.