City of Stairs Read Online Free PDF Page B

huge and thick and gleaming, protecting every inch of their bodies; their helmets depict the glinting visages of shrieking demons; their swords are utterly immense, nearly six feet in length, and flicker with a cold fire. The painting makes it plain that these terrifying men of steel and blade will cleave the poor, ragged Saypuris in two. Yet the swordsmen are standing in a state of some shock: they stare at one Saypuri, who stands on the top of one tall dune at the back of his army, brave and resplendent in a fluttering coat—the general of this tattered force, surely. He is manipulating a strange weapon: a long, thin cannon, delicate as a horsefly, which is firing a flaming wad up over his army, over the heads of the opposing force, where it strikes …
    Something. Perhaps a person: a huge person, rendered in shadow. It is difficult to see, or perhaps the painter was not quite sure what this figure looked like.
    Shara stares at the Saypuri general. She knows that the painting is historically inaccurate: the Kaj was actually stationed at the front of his army during the Night of the Red Sands, and did not personally fire the fatal shot, nor was he near the weaponry at all. Some historians, she recalls, claim this was due to his bravery as a leader; others contend that the Kaj, who after all had never used his experimental weaponry on this scale and had no idea if it would be a success or a disaster, chose to be far away if it proved to be the latter. But regardless of where he stood, that fatal shot was the exact moment when everything started.
    Enough politeness.
    “Do you meet with the City Fathers of Bulikov in this office, Ambassador?” asks Shara.
    “Hm? Oh, yes. Of course.”
    “And have they never … commented upon that painting?”
    “Not that I can recall. They are sometimes struck quiet at the sight of it. A magnificent work, if I do say so myself.”
    She smiles. “Chief Diplomat Troonyi, you are aware of what the professor’s purpose was in this city?”
    “Mm? Of course I am. It kicked up quite a fuss. Digging through all their old museums, looking at all their old writings. … I got a lot of letters about it. I have some of them here.” He shoves around some papers in a drawer.
    “And you are aware that it was Minister of Foreign Affairs Vinya Komayd who approved his mission?”
    “Yes?”
    “So you must be aware that the jurisdiction of his death falls under neither the embassy, nor the polis governor, nor the regional governor, but the Ministry of Foreign Affairs itself ?”
    Troonyi’s birdshit-colored eyes dance as he thinks through the tiers. “I believe … that makes sense. …”
    “Then perhaps what you do not know,” says Shara, “is that I am given the title of cultural ambassador mostly as a formality .”
    His mustache twitches. His eyes flick to Sigrud as if to confirm this, but Sigrud simply sits with his fingers threaded together in his lap. “A formality?”
    “Yes. Because while I do think you believe my appearance in Bulikov to also be a formality, you should be aware that I am here for other reasons.” She reaches into her robe, produces a small leather shield, and slides it across the table for him to see the small, dry, neat insignia of Saypur in its center, and, written just below it, the small words: ministry of foreign affairs .
    It takes a while for this to fall into place within Troonyi’s head. He manages a, “Wha … Hm.”
    “So yes,” says Shara. “You are no longer the most senior official at this embassy.” She reaches forward, grabs the bell on his desk, and rings it. The tea girl enters, and is a little confused when Shara addresses her: “Please fetch the maintenance staff to take down that painting.”
    Troonyi practically begins to froth. “What! What do you mean by—?”
    “What I mean to do,” says Shara, “is to make this office look like a responsible representative of Saypur works here. And a good way to start is to take down