City of Stairs (16 page)

Shara does not consider herself excessively attractive, but she is always willing to try anything. “I find it quite hot in here,” she says. “Don’t you? My hands sweat when I get hot.” She pulls off her gloves, finger by finger, delicately folds them, and places them on the table. “Do your hands sweat?” She reaches out to his injured hand.

He pulls away as if she’s made of fire. “Do not
touch
me, woman! And do not try to ply me with your … your secret femininity!”

It takes a lot of effort for Shara not to laugh. She has not heard that term spoken aloud outside of her history classes, and she’s
never
heard it spoken with such sincerity. “For someone who refuses to talk, you’re talking quite a bit now. But, I admit, you’re still talking less than your friend.” She pulls a file out of her satchel and consults it.

“Who?” says the boy suspiciously.

“The other one we captured,” says Shara. “He wouldn’t give us his name, either. Even though he was close to death. But he talked about many other things.” Of course, none of this is true—Sigrud very much killed all of the other attackers, except for the one who vanished—but she smiles at the boy, radiating cheer, and asks, “How does the disappearing trick work?”

The boy flinches.

“I know that’s how you get across the city,” says Shara. “Cars. People. They find some street or alley, head down it, and then
poof
. They’re gone. It’s quite … miraculous.”

There is a gleam of sweat next to the boy’s ears.

“He was rambling,” says Shara. “Weak from blood loss, you see. I wasn’t quite sure what was true and what wasn’t, but … I’m tempted to think almost all of it is. Which would be quite remarkable, really.”

“That … that can’t be true,” says the boy. “None of us would ever talk. Even when dying. Throw us in Slondheim, and we still wouldn’t talk.”

“I could make that happen, actually,” says Shara. “I’ve been to that prison. It’s worse than you can imagine.”

“We would
never
talk.”

“Yes, but if you don’t possess full control of your faculties … It’s perfectly understandable. What else will he tell us? If you tell us now, and tell it to us honestly, we’ll be lenient on you. We will make sure you get home. We can put all of this behind us. But if you don’t …”

“No,” says the boy. “
No
. We could never … We
will
be rewarded.”

“With what?”

The boy takes a breath, disturbed, and begins to chant.

“What’s that?” says Shara. She leans in to listen.

The boy is chanting, “On the mountain, by the stone, we will be rewarded, holiest of holies. On the mountain, by the stone, we will be rewarded, holiest of holies.”

“Rewarded with jail, death … ,” says Shara. “So many of you died already. I saw it. I know you did, too. Are they rewarded? Did they get what they wished?”

“On the mountain, by the stone, we will be rewarded, holiest of holies,” says the boy, louder. “On the mountain, by the stone, we will be rewarded, holiest of holies.”

“Are their families rewarded? Their friends? Or do they not even have these?”

But the boy simply keeps chanting, over and over again. Shara sighs, thinks, and excuses herself from the room.

* * *

“I have need of you, soldier,” says Shara.

Sigrud cracks an eye. He is slumped in the corner of his cell. His hand is wrapped in bandages, and he has been scrubbed somewhat clean of blood. Shara can tell he is awake, though: his pipe is still smoking.

“They will be releasing you in just a short while,” she says. “I’ve managed to get all that arranged despite the … casualties. Hostages corroborate that you acted like a hero.”

Sigrud shrugs, indifferent, contemptuous.

“Right. Now. I asked you to send feelers out and look at hiring a few contractors. Did you have any luck?”

He nods.

“Good. We’ll need some thuggish assistance, if you please. When you’re released, I want you to snatch up that maid from the university. The one who worked alongside Pangyui, the one who was tailing us the other day. We should have done it immediately, but we were … occupied. Grab her, and get her to the embassy. I want to question her myself. I want your contractors to stay back and watch her apartment, and see if anyone comes or goes. I will need this done by …” She consults her watch. “… six in the evening. And you must be discreet. Assume both you and her are being watched. Understand?”

Sigrud sighs. Then he pulls a face, as if mulling over his options and realizing he really had nothing better to do tonight. “Six in the evening.”

“Good.”

“The survivor,” he asks. “Is he talking?”

“No. And I can tell he’s not the talking type.”

“Then what?”

Shara adjusts her glasses. “I’ve stalled for more time, but not nearly enough to crack him via the normal means.”

“Then what?”

“Well.” She stares off into the corner of his cell in thought. “I think I’m going to have to dose him.”

Sigrud grows much more awake. He looks at her, disbelieving. Then he smiles. “Well, then. At least you will have entertainment.”

* * *

Shara stands at the cell door, watching the captured boy through the viewing slot. She checks her watch—forty minutes. The boy shakes his head as if shaking off a chill, then takes his cup of water and sips it.
Seven sips so far,
thinks Shara.
If only he were utterly parched. …

The boy slowly droops forward more and more, as if deflating. She checks her watch again: it’s not going unusually slowly, but she wouldn’t mind if it were quicker.

“This couldn’t possibly be all that riveting,” says Mulaghesh, joining her.

“It isn’t,” says Shara.

“Mm. I’d heard our survivor wasn’t talking.”

“No. He’s a fanatic—unfortunate, but expected. I don’t think he’s the sort who’s afraid of death. He’s more worried about what happens after.”

The boy in the cell raises his head to stare into the wall. His face is awed, horrified, fascinated. He starts to tremble a little.

“What’s wrong with him?” says Mulaghesh. “Is he mad?”

“No, no. Well, maybe, considering what he did. But that’s not what
this
is.”

“Then what it is it?”

“It’s an … unorthodox method I picked up in Qivos. It’s useful when you’re crunched for time, though I’d prefer it if we had even more for this … Four, five hours at least. But it’s cheap. And it’s easy. You just need a dark room, some sound effects … and a philosopher’s stone.”

“A
what
?”

“Don’t pretend to be such an innocent lily, Governor,” says Shara. “It doesn’t suit you.”

“You
drugged
him?”

“Yes. It’s a powerful hallucinogenic, and it’s actually common here, though it’s not used for recreational purposes, really. Which is understandable, as it has some history on the Continent.”

Mulaghesh is still too aghast for words.

“There are dozens of stories of people using it to communicate more closely with the Divine,” Shara continues absently. “Breaking down barriers, merging with the infinite, that kind of thing. It even amplified the performance of certain miracles: acolytes of the Divine used to ingest it before performing astounding miraculous feats. Powerful substance—but still just a drug.”

“You just walk around with that kind of thing?”

“I had Pitry run and get it from the embassy. What I usually like to do is make them feel like they’re at home, suffering a fever, with their family members nearby, or at least people claiming to be their family members, and most of the time they get so agitated they wind up telling us everything. I’m not sure if that’ll be the case here, however, as the jail cell may induce a delirium of a much more …”

The boy gasps, looks at his arm, then up at the ceiling. Then he grabs the sides of his head and sobs a little.

“… nightmarish sort.”

“Isn’t this torture?”

“No,” says Shara quietly. “I’ve seen torture. This is nowhere close. And besides,
this
gets somewhat accurate answers. Torture usually gets you whatever you want to hear. And people are usually much more forgiving of this method. Mostly because they’re never quite sure any of it really happened.”

“I am so happy I chose to remain a soldier,” says Mulaghesh, “and never went into your line of work. This puts a bad taste in my mouth.”

“The taste would be much worse if we did
not
get the information, which often saves lives.”

“And this means we shed our morals at the door?”

“ ‘Nations have no morals,’ ” says Shara, quoting her aunt from memory. “Only interests.”

“Probably true. But I’m still surprised you’d do something like this.”

“Why?”

“Well … I wasn’t in Ghaladesh during the National Party scandal. But no one needed to be, to hear all about it.
Everyone
talked about it. The man everyone assumed would be prime minister going down in utter flames … Not to mention the party treasurer attempting suicide—nothing more ignoble than a failed noble exit. But most of all, I remember hearing about this girl who caused it all, who rocked the boat so much.”

Shara blinks slowly. Down the hall, a conversation between three policemen grows into outraged bickering.

“Not really her fault, they said,” Mulaghesh says. “Just passionate, and very young. Twenty at most, they said. She didn’t know that there were just some corruptions you don’t try and drive out, some rocks you don’t turn over.”

A furious secretary stomps out of her office and shushes the three policemen, who cast ugly looks at one another before separating.

“She let her heart guide her,” says Mulaghesh, “rather than her head. And mistakes were made.”

Shara stares into the room at the twitching boy, who now seems torn between laughing and crying.

“I always imagined,” says Mulaghesh, “that that girl just happened to be a good sort in a rotten line of work. That’s all.”

The boy leans back and rests his head against the stone wall, staring forward with blank, glassy eyes. Shara shuts the viewing slot in the door.

Enough.

“If you will excuse me,” says Shara, and she opens the door, slips in, and shuts it behind her.

Never has she been so happy to walk into a jail cell.

* * *

The boy tries to focus on her, and asks, “Who’s there?”

Shara shushes him. “Don’t worry. It’s me. You’re fine.”

“Who? Who is it?” He licks his lips. He’s drenched with sweat by now.

“You need to relax, please. You’re in recovery now.”

“I am?”

“Yes. You had a bad fall. Don’t you remember?”

He squints as he thinks about it. “Maybe. I think I … I fell during that party. …”

“Yes. We had to put you in a cool, dark place, for you to relax. You were very agitated, but you’re going to be fine.”

“You’re sure? You’re sure I’ll be fine?”

“We’re sure. You’re at the hospital. We just have to keep you here for a little bit longer, to make sure.”

“No! No, I need to go! I have to … to …” He fumbles with his seat, trying to stand.

“What do you have to do?”

“I have to make it back to everyone.”

“To who? To your friends?”

He swallows and nods. He’s almost panting now. Shara imagines he is seeing blinding bursts of color, rippling shadows, cold fires . …

“Where would you need to go?” she asks.

He struggles with this question. “N-no … I have to … to go.”

“You can’t, I’m afraid,” she says soothingly. “We have to take care of you. But we can send word to your friends. Where are they?”

“Where?” he says, confused.

“Yes. Where are your friends?”

“They’re … they’re in another place. It’s a place from another place. I
think
.”

“All right. And where is this place?”

He rubs his eyes. When he looks back at her, she sees he has burst several blood vessels in them.

“Where?” she says again.

“It’s not … not
like
that. It’s an … older place. Where things ought to be.”

“Ought to be?”

“
How
things ought to be.”

“But how do you get to this place to see your friends?”

“It’s hard.” He stares at the light in the ceiling. He looks away, like the sight of it pains him. Then he says, “The world is … threadbarren. Threadbare.”

“All right?”

“It’s incomplete. The city is. It has spots where a thing was, but there’s nothing there now. It got taken away. Connective …” He furrows his brow. “… 
tissue
. But you can still get to them. To the places. If you belong. The gold is … smudged, but it still shines. The pearl has cracked. Yet it is still the city. Still what I feel”—he taps his heart—“here.”

“Is this how people disappear?”

He starts laughing. “Disappear? What a … what a ridiculous idea.” The idea tickles him so much he almost falls out of his seat.

She tries another tactic: “Why did you come to the party tonight?”

“Tonight?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.” He holds his head. “Are you sure it was tonight? It seems so long ago. …”

“It wasn’t. It was just a few hours ago.”

“But I felt years pass through my fingers,” he whispers. “Like the wind.” He reflects on it. “We came for … metal.”

“For
metal
?”

“Yes. We were trying to buy some, but it was too slow. We didn’t like him … We
hate
him. But we had to have him.”

“Votrov?”

“Yes. Him.”

Shara nods. “And did the woman have anything to do with it?”

“Who?”

“The …” She thinks. “… the shally.”

“Oh. Oh,
her
.” He starts laughing again. “Do you know, we had no idea she’d be there at all?”

“I see,” says Shara quietly. “What do you need the metal for?”

“We can’t fly through the air on boats of wood,” says the boy. “That’s what they said. They’d all fall apart. Wood’s too weak.” His eyes trace the passage of something invisible through the air. “Oh, my goodness … How beautiful.”

Shara wonders if she perhaps overdosed him. “Did you and your friends kill Dr. Pangyui?”