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.
‘What?’ His shoulders shift slightly.
‘The jinni say they become different when they wear bodies. They say there is a craving that comes, afterwards. It must be very strange for you to have a body again, after so long. Being poured into a different cup.’ She struggles to get up. ‘A hsien-ku told me it is a privilege amongst your people to wear flesh again.’
‘The hsien-kus say a lot of things,’ Sumanguru says. His mouth is a grim line, but there is something in his eyes that Tawaddud recognises. Fascination. Curiosity. ‘Flesh is the enemy.’ Slowly, he extends a hand and pulls Tawaddud up, fingers engulfing hers. His grip is just a little too tight, but his fingers are warm.
‘And do you know your enemy?’ Tawaddud winces at the fresh bruise in her chest, gritting her teeth. ‘Because I do.’ She inserts a deliberate note of pain into her voice.
Sumanguru frowns. ‘Are you . . . hurt?’
Speak their own language, Kafur said. Tell beautiful lies with it.
Tawaddud slaps him, across the cheek with the scars, as hard as she can. It feels like hitting a statue, and the sting of the blow almost makes her cry out. But Sumanguru flinches, takes a step back and lifts one confused hand to his face.
‘Not anymore,’ Tawaddud says. She flexes her tingling fingers. ‘I don’t know where you come from, Sumanguru of the Turquoise Branch,’ she says softly. ‘But you do not know flesh like I do, or the stories it tells. And Sirr is a city of stories made flesh. Can you read them? Did they teach you that in the guberniya ?’
Sumanguru takes a step closer and bends down, staring at her as if looking for his reflection in her
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.
‘What?’ His shoulders shift slightly.
‘The jinni say they become different when they wear bodies. They say there is a craving that comes, afterwards. It must be very strange for you to have a body again, after so long. Being poured into a different cup.’ She struggles to get up. ‘A hsien-ku told me it is a privilege amongst your people to wear flesh again.’
‘The hsien-kus say a lot of things,’ Sumanguru says. His mouth is a grim line, but there is something in his eyes that Tawaddud recognises. Fascination. Curiosity. ‘Flesh is the enemy.’ Slowly, he extends a hand and pulls Tawaddud up, fingers engulfing hers. His grip is just a little too tight, but his fingers are warm.
‘And do you know your enemy?’ Tawaddud winces at the fresh bruise in her chest, gritting her teeth. ‘Because I do.’ She inserts a deliberate note of pain into her voice.
Sumanguru frowns. ‘Are you . . . hurt?’
Speak their own language, Kafur said. Tell beautiful lies with it.
Tawaddud slaps him, across the cheek with the scars, as hard as she can. It feels like hitting a statue, and the sting of the blow almost makes her cry out. But Sumanguru flinches, takes a step back and lifts one confused hand to his face.
‘Not anymore,’ Tawaddud says. She flexes her tingling fingers. ‘I don’t know where you come from, Sumanguru of the Turquoise Branch,’ she says softly. ‘But you do not know flesh like I do, or the stories it tells. And Sirr is a city of stories made flesh. Can you read them? Did they teach you that in the guberniya ?’
Sumanguru takes a step closer and bends down, staring at her as if looking for his reflection in her
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