“We’re not sure yet,” says Mishra. “We’re still assessing the situation. Do you have any reason to believe it’s connected?”
“No,” he says, surprised. “Not yet, at least. Though I certainly hope not.”
“You said you had another series of deaths at another location, downriver?”
“A coal warehouse, yes. Professionally done. Very professionally done.” He looks her over. “I do hope you’re not about to tell me that Saypur had something to do with it, though. I thought the days of murderous conflict taking place at our back door without any warning were behind us.”
“There’s little I can tell you now. But one thing I absolutely can tell you is that the Ministry of Foreign Affairs had absolutely nothing to do with this. Though it does worry us. Have you identified any of the bodies?”
“Not a one. It’s early yet.”
“And…” She nods ahead at the burned-down slaughterhouse. “No body found here?”
“Not yet. Though it’s in a poor state. It’ll take some time to search.”
“And nothing washed downriver?”
“No.” He gives her a hard look. “Who exactly might I be looking for, Captain?”
“Someone tall,” says Mishra. “Hair cut very short. A Dreyling. With a false eye.”
He shakes his head. “We’ve found no body matching that description, ma’am. Can you give me any more?”
“If I knew more, Lieutenant, I would give it. Just an unsavory character that has been identified at another recent incident.” She pulls out her card and hands it over. “If you happen to learn of anything, can you notify me, please? We’d like to keep abreast of this situation.”
“I would be happy to, ma’am,” he says, though he smiles icily enough that it’s obvious he means quite the opposite.
“Thank you, Lieutenant,” says Mishra. She nods to him, then turns and walks back to her auto.
She takes a short breath of relief. She expected someone from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs would have already paid him a visit—someone who would have had official orders to be there—and that could have been awkward. For while Mishra did have orders to check in on the scene, they didn’t come from the Ministry.
She drives north, away from the industrial neighborhoods, passing all the mills and the refineries and the plants belching up steam. She tools around until she comes to the traffic tunnels connecting east Ahanashtan to all the north-south thoroughfares—tiny, cramped arteries carved into the hillsides. She drives into one tunnel and pulls over about halfway through, guiding her auto onto the shoulder. Then she sits for a moment, watching the other autos. She looks in the rearview mirror, her amber-colored eyes narrow and watchful. Once she’s confirmed she wasn’t followed, she pulls out the envelope.
The envelope is thick and very formal-looking, closed by a string tied around a brass button. Mishra checks her surroundings again, then opens the envelope and pulls out what appears to be a piece of black paper.
She’s done this before, many times. But she still can’t help shuddering every time she touches the paper. She knows it’s not really paper, it’s something else: its surface feels as soft as sable, yet if you push on it it’s as hard as glass….Whatever it is, her skin recognizes it as something alien.
And it is simply too black. Far too black.
She takes out a pencil and begins to write on the paper. She can’t read what she’s writing—gray on black is too tricky for her eyes, in any light—but she knows it won’t matter to him. The controller, as he prefers to be called in casual conversation, can see in any darkness.
She writes:
BODIES NOT YET IDENTIFIED. NO CONNECTION TO KHADSE OR KOMAYD HAS BEEN MADE. I HAVE CONFIRMED THAT KHADSE’S OPERATIONAL HOUSE HAS BEEN THOROUGHLY CLEANED.
PROVIDED AHANASHTANI POLICE WITH THE DESCRIPTION YOU GAVE. NO SIGN OF THE SUSPECT YET. PLEASE ADVISE AS TO WHETHER OR NOT I SHOULD NOTIFY THE MINISTRY THROUGH OFFICIAL CHANNELS.
—KM
She folds up the paper and steps out of her car, wincing as a large, rattling truck goes cruising by, spewing exhaust. Though Mishra’s a Saypuri, she’s a country girl at heart, and much prefers a horse and cart over all these new autos.
She walks to a small service door on the side of the tunnel, checks her surroundings again, and opens it.
Inside is a small cement closet, just four bare walls and a floor. There’s a broken broomstick standing in the corner, along with an old dusty glass bottle. Besides that, there’s nothing.
She places the paper in the middle of the closet floor, then shuts the door, watching as the door’s shadow falls across the paper.
Mishra checks her watch—Five minutes to go—leans up against the tunnel wall, and lights a cigarette.
She doesn’t wonder if it will work. She knows it will work. All the bits of shadow paper find him quick enough, if placed in deep enough darkness. No matter where that darkness happens to be, for all darkness is one to him.
She watches the traffic, making note of the models of cars, the colors, the faces of the drivers. He’s protected her, blessed her, given her defenses—but after last night, who knows if they’ll work. What mad risks I take, she thinks, for a creature I can barely understand.
But she knows that’s wrong. She does understand him. And he understands her.
She remembers when he first came to her—1729, she thinks it was, almost ten years ago. Four years after Voortyashtan. Four years after her brother Sanjay had died in combat there, stabbed by a shtani girl hardly older than fifteen. He’d been battling insurgents, trying to save the girl, but the girl didn’t understand that—or perhaps she did, but didn’t care. Who knows what these degenerates think?
And what did Saypur get for her brother’s sacrifice? What was earned by his death? After Komayd left power, Mishra couldn’t tell. The Ministry and the military were in tatters. Public trust in the national forces was at an all-time low. The merchants were spilling into government and treating generals and commanders as if they were simple bureaucratic officials, pencil pushers and seat-fillers. Mishra, like a lot of other loyalists, found herself disgusted with her nation.
She thought she kept her disgust a secret. But it soon became clear that she hadn’t. Because one day, while she was stationed here in Ahanashtan, someone slipped a letter under her apartment door.
This disturbed her. Mishra’s residential address was a carefully kept Ministry secret. Direct correspondence was strictly forbidden.
But another thing that disturbed her about this letter was the color of its paper.
It was black. Not dyed black, like a shirt—but black, as if someone had taken the idea of blackness and cut a perfect square from it.
Mishra opened the letter. And though she couldn’t understand how, she could see writing on it, letters in black, but it was in different shades of black.
…or perhaps the letter did something else. Perhaps when you looked at it, rather than seeing the words there, the paper wrote words upon your mind.
The letter said:
DO YOU FEEL THAT THE CONTINENT HAS FAILED?
DO YOU FEEL THAT SAYPUR HAS FAILED?
DO YOU WISH TO DO AWAY WITH BOTH?
DO YOU WISH TO START ALL OVER AGAIN?