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Authors: Robert Jackson Bennett
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the Kaj could not know that he was almost directly responsible for the devastation of the Continent, for it was the Kaj’s successful assassination of the Divinity Taalhavras that brought about the Blink …
Shara recognizes a lot of this as Efrem’s older writings, already published. He must have brought his old volumes here, and the police shredded them during their “search.” Perhaps they enjoyed destroying so much celebrated Saypuri writing, she thinks. That is, if it was really the police who did this.
Her eye catches a bulky form in the corner. Upon examination, it is a dense, impressive safe, and what’s more its door is ajar. She inspects the lock, which is terribly complicated: Shara is not a skilled lockpick, but she’s met a few in her time, and she knows they’d blanch at this. Yet the lock shows no sign of damage, nor does the door or the rest of the safe, nor is there any scrap or sign of what the safe once held.
As she sits back to think, she notices one corner of paper jutting up from the wreckage that is starkly different: it is not a page from an academic publication, but an official form with the Ministry of Foreign Affairs seal in the upper left corner, and in the upper right, the seal of the polis governor’s office.
She fishes it out. It’s a request form filled out by Efrem. Exactly what it is requesting is hard to tell: the request itself is reduced down to a code, ACCWHS14-347. Efrem has signed the bottom, but there’s another signature needed, and underneath the blank are the words: turyin mulaghesh, polis governor, bulikov .
“Found something?” says Sigrud’s voice from the door.
“I’m not sure yet,” says Shara.
As they bag up all the material, Shara finds that this is not the only document of the polis governor’s that’s found its way into Efrem’s possession: among the scraps of paper is a hefty number of entry permission stubs, probably handed to him by a guard when he was approved to enter … somewhere.
Shara counts them when they’re done: there are a total of nineteen permission stubs here in the office. Shara knows Efrem probably didn’t keep them intentionally: they’d likely be worthless once his visit was over. He must have just emptied his pockets once he came back to his office.
Shara glances back at the safe in the corner. And perhaps he brought back more than ticket stubs.
Nidayin and Pitry both stumble in looking quite harassed. Nidayin holds a long, smudged piece of paper in his hands. “Well,” he says. “We’ve finished. We have a sum of sixty-three names, and we’ve recorded their departments, tenure, relation to the professor, and—”
“Good work,” says Shara. “Sigrud, if you could please add that to our collection. I believe we’ve done what we need to here. We’ll be back to the embassy now. And then, Pitry, you will probably need to fill up the car again. I believe a short excursion beyond Bulikov is in order.”
“Where are we going?” asks Pitry.
Shara fingers the permission stubs in her pocket. “To be frank,” she says, “I don’t quite know.”
* * *
When they exit the university and begin to cross to the car, Shara slows down.
Sigrud walks behind her. There is a soft hiss as he exhales through his nose.
She glances down and to the side, at his hands.
He makes a tiny gesture with his index and middle finger, no more than a tap against his thigh. She glances to the right.
They look like ordinary people sitting at the café, but then of course they would: a man buried in a thick gray coat, with oily hair and two days’ worth of beard, who is slowly peeling back the packaging on a cigar; the other, a woman of about fifty or fifty-five, with skinny, bitter features, purplish, worn hands, and gray hair pulled back in a severe bun. The woman refuses to look up from her sewing, yet Shara can see her hands are trembling.
No. Not professionals.
“We’ll drop you around the corner,” says Shara. “Then,
Shara recognizes a lot of this as Efrem’s older writings, already published. He must have brought his old volumes here, and the police shredded them during their “search.” Perhaps they enjoyed destroying so much celebrated Saypuri writing, she thinks. That is, if it was really the police who did this.
Her eye catches a bulky form in the corner. Upon examination, it is a dense, impressive safe, and what’s more its door is ajar. She inspects the lock, which is terribly complicated: Shara is not a skilled lockpick, but she’s met a few in her time, and she knows they’d blanch at this. Yet the lock shows no sign of damage, nor does the door or the rest of the safe, nor is there any scrap or sign of what the safe once held.
As she sits back to think, she notices one corner of paper jutting up from the wreckage that is starkly different: it is not a page from an academic publication, but an official form with the Ministry of Foreign Affairs seal in the upper left corner, and in the upper right, the seal of the polis governor’s office.
She fishes it out. It’s a request form filled out by Efrem. Exactly what it is requesting is hard to tell: the request itself is reduced down to a code, ACCWHS14-347. Efrem has signed the bottom, but there’s another signature needed, and underneath the blank are the words: turyin mulaghesh, polis governor, bulikov .
“Found something?” says Sigrud’s voice from the door.
“I’m not sure yet,” says Shara.
As they bag up all the material, Shara finds that this is not the only document of the polis governor’s that’s found its way into Efrem’s possession: among the scraps of paper is a hefty number of entry permission stubs, probably handed to him by a guard when he was approved to enter … somewhere.
Shara counts them when they’re done: there are a total of nineteen permission stubs here in the office. Shara knows Efrem probably didn’t keep them intentionally: they’d likely be worthless once his visit was over. He must have just emptied his pockets once he came back to his office.
Shara glances back at the safe in the corner. And perhaps he brought back more than ticket stubs.
Nidayin and Pitry both stumble in looking quite harassed. Nidayin holds a long, smudged piece of paper in his hands. “Well,” he says. “We’ve finished. We have a sum of sixty-three names, and we’ve recorded their departments, tenure, relation to the professor, and—”
“Good work,” says Shara. “Sigrud, if you could please add that to our collection. I believe we’ve done what we need to here. We’ll be back to the embassy now. And then, Pitry, you will probably need to fill up the car again. I believe a short excursion beyond Bulikov is in order.”
“Where are we going?” asks Pitry.
Shara fingers the permission stubs in her pocket. “To be frank,” she says, “I don’t quite know.”
* * *
When they exit the university and begin to cross to the car, Shara slows down.
Sigrud walks behind her. There is a soft hiss as he exhales through his nose.
She glances down and to the side, at his hands.
He makes a tiny gesture with his index and middle finger, no more than a tap against his thigh. She glances to the right.
They look like ordinary people sitting at the café, but then of course they would: a man buried in a thick gray coat, with oily hair and two days’ worth of beard, who is slowly peeling back the packaging on a cigar; the other, a woman of about fifty or fifty-five, with skinny, bitter features, purplish, worn hands, and gray hair pulled back in a severe bun. The woman refuses to look up from her sewing, yet Shara can see her hands are trembling.
No. Not professionals.
“We’ll drop you around the corner,” says Shara. “Then,
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