The face in the reflection is not the face of an aging man. He is much how he remembered himself before he went into hiding: middle-aged, scarred, and bitter—but still middle-aged. Which Sigrud certainly no longer is.
Perhaps it is simply the blessing of good lineage. Perhaps that’s it.
Then Ahanashtan emerges on the horizon. And instantly, he forgets his worries.
“Oh,” he whispers, “by the seas…”
When Sigrud first came to Ahanashtan, over thirty years ago, he regarded it as one of the most impressive metropolises the world had yet produced (behind Bulikov and Ghaladesh, of course). Yet at that time it was still mostly a sea port, devoted to industry and the military—in other words, it was dirty, dank, and dangerous. It had a few skyscrapers then, buildings fourteen, fifteen, even sixteen stories tall, monumental achievements for architects in those days, and everyone agreed that the future had truly dawned on the Continent.
But as Sigrud’s train grows closer to the colossal clutch of towers on the ocean, he sees that the architects and industry magnates of thirty years ago had no idea what was coming.
He tries to count their height. Maybe thirty, forty, or even sixty stories tall? He can’t believe it, can’t fathom the massive stone-and-glass structures that stand so still and perfect against the sea, the sun dappling their crenellated surfaces. Some are tall and straight and square, others are like vast wedges, like a cut of cheese made of granite and glass, and still others look like nothing more than gigantic metal poles, silvery and shimmering, with rows and rows of tiny windows riddled in their sides. Running across the countryside to this cluster of structures is what at first seems to be countless rivers or tiny, shining tributaries, but Sigrud slowly realizes that these are rails: what must be a hundred or more railroads weave and merge until they all, eventually, join together in Ahanashtan.
To the northwest is something even stranger: a glittering metal construction that looks almost like utility lines, huge wires mounted on poles, except they’re far too tall…and it looks like little pods are crawling along the wires. He can’t figure it out from this distance.
Sigrud turns back to the metropolis ahead. And I, he thinks, am supposed to find Shara’s killer in there?
He packs up this emotion and shoves it away somewhere in the back of his mind. He has no time for self-doubt.
There is where Shara met her end, he thinks. There is where she was murdered. And there is where I will shed the blood and break the bones of those who cast her down.
The gleaming towers of Ahanashtan swell up before him. He remembers something Shara said when they first came here, she seated at a table, encoding a message; Sigrud on the bed, sewing up a rent in his coat. She said, No one knows what the original Ahanashtan really looked like, back in the Divine days. The historians theorize it was a giant, organic tangle of trees and vines, all of which merged together to create homes and structures. Glowing mushrooms and peaches acting as lights, vines flowing forth with healing waters, that kind of thing. Records suggest it was beautiful. But it all vanished when Ahanas died. Then she paused, and added, And good riddance too.
He looked up from his work. Good riddance? If it was so beautiful?
It was certainly beautiful. But Ahanashtan was also the port where the Continent brought in Saypuri slaves. All these beautiful structures, overlooking a bay teeming with human misery…Even the most beautiful creations cannot wipe away such corruption.
Sigrud watches as the giant towers loom over him. Maybe the change, he thinks, is only superficial.
First, logistics.
A room at the edge of town, close to the docks but not too close. He knows the waterfront, knows its crannies and its smoke and the tang of diesel. He wants to have his back pushed up against known territory.
The room is bare-bones. Walls and a bed and a tiny closet with all the soul and allure of a soiled bar of soap. Not a great place to hide things. So he doesn’t.
He finds an abandoned restaurant down the block. It’s suffered water damage from some past storm, and clearly won’t be occupied anytime soon. He picks the lock on the back door and skulks inside. He assembles a cache in the oven ventilation shaft, the dilapidated kitchen ringing with little clinks and clanks as he works.
Inside he places his handheld bolt-shot, a pistol and ammunition—acquired along the way—and a second, shoulder-mounted bolt-shot, this one much more high-powered than the little handheld one. He stores away his backup POTs, as well: he’s Mr. Jenssen here in Ahanashtan, here to look for work, but he might need to be someone else if the situation calls for it. He also stores away some but not all of his money. He knows to seed that throughout his terrain like a squirrel does nuts. But he’s been without money before. He knows it’s easier to live hand to mouth in the city than in the wilds. Provided you don’t mind what you’re putting in your mouth.
He slips out the window of the restaurant, then stands in the shadows for a moment, watching the streets. No movement, no watchers. In and out and done.
Now to wait for nightfall. And then to visit the Golden.
Midnight in Ahanashtan. The city is largely electrified now, so the streets are never fully dark. It’s a strange feeling for Sigrud, who knows the shadows better than he knows his own skin. He doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like how the steam and clouds obscure the moon and stars, yet the moisture traps the artificial light of this modern place, smearing the world above with a muddy orange color.
Or perhaps he just doesn’t like being here, being on this street, on this block. Where she was. Where she died.
Sigrud stares at the Golden from a darkened doorway. It is a husk of a building, a corpse, its facade broken and dark. Police ropes, dyed bright red, festoon the streets outside, warning people to keep out.
His eye lingers on the massive rent in the top corner, lined with splintered wood, like broken teeth in a gaping maw.
That was her. That’s where she was.
A few patrolmen lurk in the doorways, Ahanashtani officers keeping watch over the site. Sigrud’s already spotted them, even the ones trying to remain hidden. The Ahanashtani police know as well as anyone that the death of Ashara Komayd is an international incident, so they must deploy their forces as much as possible to stave off any criticism—even if they aren’t quite sure what to do with those forces.
Sigrud slips out of the doorway, satchel over his shoulder. He pads down a back road, ducks through a torn chain-link fence, and weaves down a filthy alley until he approaches the eastern side of the Golden.
He dodges under the police rope and waits in the darkness, head cocked, listening carefully. Nothing. If he’s been seen, they aren’t doing anything about it yet.
He walks along the hotel’s brick wall until he finds a service door. He tries the knob—locked, of course. But after a moment’s work with his torsion wrench and his hook picks, the lock springs open, and he slips inside.
Sigrud stands in the darkness of the hotel, listening once more. He can tell right away that the building is broken: there is a curious way that the wind blows through bombed-out structures, one you only hear when segments of the walls have been torn apart.
He winds through the spacious lobby, then climbs the stairs. He has a torch, but chooses not to use it. The luminescence from the streetlights spills through the Golden’s many windows, and is more than enough to see by.