‘So is it a chen they are sending?’ Tawaddud asked.
‘Probably not. It is more likely that they will send a sumanguru – or several, it could be a bodyship. They are warriors and enforcers of some sort. Policemen. Like Repentants.’
The young man’s voice was eager and breathless. ‘I must say that I envy you this opportunity. To interact with a Founder from the Deep Time. To find out more about all the big questions, even hints – the Cry of Wrath and why they are so vulnerable to wildcode, why they allow our city to exist, why they are building the Gourd, why they haven’t already uploaded Earth—’
The young man’s eyes gleamed with something akin to religious awe. It made Tawaddud’s skin crawl, and she was glad that her sister interrupted him.
‘There is no need for any of that,’ Duny said. ‘Whoever it is, you will start with Alile. You will give the envoy temporary Seals and take them to the Councilwoman’s palace: they know to expect you. All the Repentants there are with House Soarez: they are sympathetic to our cause, as is the Councilwoman’s heir, Salih. Let the envoy investigate as much as they want: I doubt they will do any better than the Repentants. But be carefuclass="underline" we don’t want to alert the rest of the Council to our guest’s presence just yet.’ She turned back to the young man. ‘What do we know about the sumangurus?’
‘Well, our hsien-ku sources are . . . afraid of them.’ The athar screens fill with ghosts of a black-skinned man with a shaved head and scarred face. ‘If what we know about the original is anything to go by, there is a good reason. He escaped a black box upload camp when he was eleven. Became a Fedorovist leader in Central Africa. Single-handedly wiped out gogol trade there.’ The young man licks his lips. ‘Of course, that was before he became a god.’
Dunyazad gave Tawaddud a dark look. ‘Sounds like you two should get along just fine.’
She feels foolish for mocking Duny now. She is not going to forget that. There was more, speculation about alliances between hsien-kus and vasilevs and instructions on how to operate the Repentant jinn ring the young man gave her for safety, Secret Names for emergencies, a Seal for the envoy. Inside the Station, all of it feels absurd, schemes of ants trying to understand the thoughts of gods. Her head aches with fatigue and anxiety.
A river of light flows to the upload platform she is standing on, carrying a group of twenty people or so: upload converts in black Sobornost unifs. Their shaved heads gleam in the rain, and they flinch at every thoughtwisp thunderclap, every scan beam lightning strike. A vasilev – an impossibly handsome blond young man she recognises from statues – shepherds them, moving quickly from one person to the next, touching their shoulders, whispering in their ears.
They all stare at the scan beam target markers – dull metallic circles on the floor in front of them – except for a skinny boy who steals a look at Tawaddud, a hungry, guilty glimpse. He cannot be more than sixteen, but his hollow temples and the grey hue of his skin make him seem older. His lips are blue, and his mouth is a thin line.
Why did you go to the temple where they told you of Fedorov and the Great Common Task and immortality? Tawaddud wonders. Perhaps because they said you were special, that you were clean of wildcode. They taught you exercises to prepare your mind. They told you they loved you. That you would never have to be alone again. But now you are not sure. It is cold in the rain. You don’t know where the thunder is going to take you. Tawaddud smiles at him. You are braver than I was, her smile says. It’s going to be all right.
The boy’s back straightens. He takes a deep breath and looks ahead with the others.
Tawaddud sighs. At least she can still tell lies that men need to hear. Perhaps the envoy won’t be any different.
The air booms like the skin of a drum. The ethereal machinery beneath the Station’s dome moves, coalesces into a whirlpool. A pencil beam comes from above, incandescent finger of a burning god. Tawaddud feels heat on her face as if from a furnace. The ray flickers back and forth, as if writing in the air. She squeezes her eyes shut against the unbearable brightness, but the light only becomes red, filtering through her eyelids. Then it is gone, and only an afterimage remains. When she can see again, there is a man with the face of one of the Station gods standing on the platform.
Tawaddud curtsies. The man fixes his gaze on her with a sudden jerk of his head. The pale blue eyes and their tiny pupils feel like a blow. His skin is even darker than Tawaddud’s own, except for a purple cluster of rough scars across his nose and cheekbone.
‘My lord Sumanguru of the Turquoise Branch,’ Tawaddud says. ‘Please allow me welcome you to the city of Sirr, on behalf of the Muhtasib Council. I am Tawaddud of House Gomelez. I have been assigned to be your guide.’
She speaks out the words of the Seal, moving her hands in the ritual gestures of a muhtasib. In the athar, her fingers paint swirls of golden letters in the air. They swarm around the Sobornost man like insects and settle on his skin. For an instant, he is tattooed with fiery characters, spelling out the unique Name given to the Seal that only the muhtasibs know.
Sumanguru flinches, looking at his hands. His massive chest heaves beneath the featureless black Sobornost unif that looks like paint on his skin.
‘I have given you one of our Seals. It will protect you from wildcode for seven days and nights,’ Tawaddud says. ‘Hopefully your task will not require more than that.’ Besides, the Accord modification vote goes ahead in two days.
Sumanguru’s nostrils flare.
‘I thank you,’ he says. ‘But a guide . . . a guide will not be necessary.’ He speaks slowly, with a rumbling voice, and smacks his lips as if tasting the words. ‘I am fully briefed and capable of carrying out my task. I will interface directly with the Council if necessary.’
Tawaddud’s neck prickles. The uploads and the vasilev on the platform are frozen, staring at Sumanguru with a look of abject terror.
‘Perhaps there has been a miscommunication. The Council feels that—’
‘There has. I will require your assistance no further.’ Sumanguru takes a step forward. He looms in front of Tawaddud, two heads taller than her. Like the Station, he is built according to a different scale. His skin has the same dark sheen as the floor, and the rain does not seem to cling to him. Tawaddud’s heart pounds.
‘But you may find the city strange,’ she says. ‘And there are many customs you will not be familiar with—’
‘You have a problem. Tell your masters I will solve it. Is that not enough?’
He pushes Tawaddud aside with a movement so quick it feels more like a blow, a stinging impact just below her left collarbone that makes her lose her balance and fall down. There are bright flashes in front of her eyes.
Tawaddud the diplomat. Stupid girl.
She shakes her head to clear it. There is something familiar about the clumsiness in Sumanguru’s movements. The realisation almost makes her smile.
Sumanguru looks down at her for a moment, impassively. He turns to leave, but Tawaddud holds his gaze with her own.
‘It is strange, isn’t it?’ she says.