from your lips, and the house of cards would tumble.” Vinya waggles her fingers, imitating the snowfall spin of falling cards. “If you are so well prepared, my darling, surely it’ll take mere hours .”
Shara adjusts her glasses, frustrated. “Fine.”
“Good. Keep me informed. And I would appreciate it if you would keep your man from murdering anyone for at least a few days.”
“I can’t promise that.”
“I know. But I thought I’d ask.”
“And if I defuse this situation in one week,” says Shara, “if I do actually work the impossible this time, is there any chance that—”
“That what?”
“That I could be transferred.”
“Transferred?”
“Yes. Back to Ghaladesh.” Then, when Vinya stares blankly at her: “We talked about this. Last time.”
“Ah. Ah, yes,” says Vinya. “That’s right, we did, didn’t we. …”
You know that, Shara thinks. And we talked about it the time before that, and the time before that, and the time before that. …
“I must confess,” says Vinya, “you are the only operative I know of who genuinely wants a desk job back at the home office. I thought you would love the Continent, it’s all you ever studied in training.”
“I have been abroad,” says Shara softly, “for sixteen years.”
“Shara …” Vinya smiles uncomfortably. “You know you are my foremost Continental operative. No one knows more about the Divine than you … and more so, almost no one in Ghaladesh knows that traces of the Divine still exist on the Continent, to some degree.”
How many times, Shara thinks, I have heard this speech.
“It’s the policy of the Ministry to never disclose the continued existence of the Divine, however slight. Saypuris prefer to believe all that is history—dead, and gone. They cannot know that some miracles still work on the Continent … and they certainly cannot know that some Divine creatures still exist, though you and your man are very good at cleaning those up.”
Shara is silent as she reflects that her aunt has no idea what such a thing means.
“So long as the Divinities themselves remain gone—and we are so happy that that is the continued situation—we have no reason to tell people what they don’t wish to know,” Vinya says.
Shara opts to state the obvious: “So, because I have seen so much that we cannot admit exists,” she says, “I cannot come home.”
“And because of who you are, if you were to come home, you would be questioned extensively. And since you know so much no one else should ever know …”
Shara closes her eyes.
“Give me time, my love,” says Vinya. “I am doing what I can. The powers that be listen to me more than ever before. Soon they can’t help but be persuaded.”
“The problem is,” Shara says quietly, “we operatives fight to protect our home … but we must return home occasionally, to remember the home we fight for.”
Vinya scoffs. “Don’t be so softhearted! You are a Komayd , my child. You are your parents’ child, and my child—you are a patriot. Saypur runs in your blood.”
I have seen dozens of people die, Shara wishes to say, and signed the death warrants of many. I am nothing like my parents. Not anymore.
Vinya smiles, eyes glittering. “Please stay safe, my love. History weighs a little heavier in Bulikov. Were I you, I’d step carefully—especially since you’re a direct descendant of the man who brought the whole Continent crashing down.” Then she reaches out with two fingers, wipes the glass, and is gone.
It is the duty of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs to regulate that which could not possibly be regulated.
However, just because something is impossible does not mean that the people of Saypur should not expect it to be done: after all, before the War, didn’t impossible things happen on the Continent every hour of every day?
Is that not why Saypur, and indeed, the rest of the world, sleeps so poorly every night?
—Prime Minister Anta
Shara adjusts her glasses, frustrated. “Fine.”
“Good. Keep me informed. And I would appreciate it if you would keep your man from murdering anyone for at least a few days.”
“I can’t promise that.”
“I know. But I thought I’d ask.”
“And if I defuse this situation in one week,” says Shara, “if I do actually work the impossible this time, is there any chance that—”
“That what?”
“That I could be transferred.”
“Transferred?”
“Yes. Back to Ghaladesh.” Then, when Vinya stares blankly at her: “We talked about this. Last time.”
“Ah. Ah, yes,” says Vinya. “That’s right, we did, didn’t we. …”
You know that, Shara thinks. And we talked about it the time before that, and the time before that, and the time before that. …
“I must confess,” says Vinya, “you are the only operative I know of who genuinely wants a desk job back at the home office. I thought you would love the Continent, it’s all you ever studied in training.”
“I have been abroad,” says Shara softly, “for sixteen years.”
“Shara …” Vinya smiles uncomfortably. “You know you are my foremost Continental operative. No one knows more about the Divine than you … and more so, almost no one in Ghaladesh knows that traces of the Divine still exist on the Continent, to some degree.”
How many times, Shara thinks, I have heard this speech.
“It’s the policy of the Ministry to never disclose the continued existence of the Divine, however slight. Saypuris prefer to believe all that is history—dead, and gone. They cannot know that some miracles still work on the Continent … and they certainly cannot know that some Divine creatures still exist, though you and your man are very good at cleaning those up.”
Shara is silent as she reflects that her aunt has no idea what such a thing means.
“So long as the Divinities themselves remain gone—and we are so happy that that is the continued situation—we have no reason to tell people what they don’t wish to know,” Vinya says.
Shara opts to state the obvious: “So, because I have seen so much that we cannot admit exists,” she says, “I cannot come home.”
“And because of who you are, if you were to come home, you would be questioned extensively. And since you know so much no one else should ever know …”
Shara closes her eyes.
“Give me time, my love,” says Vinya. “I am doing what I can. The powers that be listen to me more than ever before. Soon they can’t help but be persuaded.”
“The problem is,” Shara says quietly, “we operatives fight to protect our home … but we must return home occasionally, to remember the home we fight for.”
Vinya scoffs. “Don’t be so softhearted! You are a Komayd , my child. You are your parents’ child, and my child—you are a patriot. Saypur runs in your blood.”
I have seen dozens of people die, Shara wishes to say, and signed the death warrants of many. I am nothing like my parents. Not anymore.
Vinya smiles, eyes glittering. “Please stay safe, my love. History weighs a little heavier in Bulikov. Were I you, I’d step carefully—especially since you’re a direct descendant of the man who brought the whole Continent crashing down.” Then she reaches out with two fingers, wipes the glass, and is gone.
It is the duty of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs to regulate that which could not possibly be regulated.
However, just because something is impossible does not mean that the people of Saypur should not expect it to be done: after all, before the War, didn’t impossible things happen on the Continent every hour of every day?
Is that not why Saypur, and indeed, the rest of the world, sleeps so poorly every night?
—Prime Minister Anta
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