There were twelve or so Breach in the cramped room, sitting, standing, precarious on the edge of desks, low muttering in two or three languages. A discussion midway. Why was I shown this?
“… Gosharian says it hasn’t, he just called …”
“What about SusurStrász? Wasn’t there some talk …?”
“Yes, but everyone’s accounted for.”
This was a crisis meeting. Mutterings into phones, quick checks against lists. Ashil said to me, “Things are moving.” More people came and joined the talk.
“What now?” The question, spoken by a young woman wearing the headscarf of a married Besźel woman from a traditional family, was addressed to me, prisoner, condemned, consultant. I recognised her from the previous night. Silence went through the room, leaving itself behind, with all the people watching me. “Tell me again about when Mahalia was taken,” she said.
“Are you trying to close in on Orciny?” I said. I had nothing to suggest to her, though something felt close to my reach.
They continued their quick back-and-forth, using shorthands and slang I did not know, but I could tell they were debating each other, and I tried to understand over what—some strategy, some question of direction. Periodically everyone in the room murmured something final-sounding and paused, and raised or did not raise a hand, and glanced around to count how many did which.
“We have to understand what got us here,” Ashil said. “What would you do to find out what Mahalia knew?” His comrades were growing agitated, interrupting each other. I recalled Jaris and Yolanda talking about Mahalia’s anger at the end. I sat up hard.
“What is it?” Ashil said.
“We need to go to the dig.” I said. He regarded me.
“Ready with Tye,” Ashil said. “Coming with me.” Three-quarters of the room raised their hands briefly.
“Said my piece about him,” said the headscarfed woman, who did not raise hers.
“Heard,” Ashil said. “But.” He pointed her eyes around the room. She had lost a vote.
I left with Ashil. It was there on the streets, that something fraught.
“You feel this?” I said. He even nodded. “I need … can I call Dhatt?” I said.
“No. He’s still on leave. And if you see him …”
“Then?”
“You’re in Breach. Easier for him if you leave him alone. You’ll see people you know. Don’t put them in positions. They need to know where you are.”
“Bowden …”
“He’s under surveillance by militsya . For his protection. No one in Besźel or Ul Qoma can find any link between Yorjavic and him. Whoever tried to kill him—”
“Are we still saying it’s not Orciny? There’s no Orciny?”
“—might try again. The leaders of True Citizens are with the policzai . But if Yorj and any other of their members were some secret cell, they don’t seem to know. They’re angry about it. You saw the film.”
“Where are we? Which way is the dig?”
HE TOOK US BY THAT AWESOME SUCCESSION of breaching transport, worming through the two cities, leaving a tunnel of Breach in the shape of our journey. I wondered where he carried what weapon. The guard at the gate of Bol Ye’an recognised me and smiled a smile that quickly faltered. He had perhaps heard I had disappeared.
“We’re not approaching the academics, we’re not questioning the students,” Ashil said. “You understand we’re here to investigate the background to and terms of your breach.” I was police on my own crime.
“It would be easier if we could talk to Nancy.”
“None of the academics, none of the students. Begin. You know who I am?” This to the guard.
We went to Buidze, who stood with his back to the wall of his office, stared at us, at Ashil in great and straightforward fear, at me in fear that was more bewildered: Can I speak of what we spoke of before? I saw him think, Who is he? Ashil manoeuvred me with him to the back of the room, found a shaft of shadow.
“I haven’t breached,” Buidze kept whispering.
“Do you invite investigation?” Ashil said.
“Your job’s to stop smuggling,” I said. Buidze nodded. What was I? Neither he nor I knew. “How’s that going?”
“Holy Light… Please. The only way any of these kids could do it would be to slip a memento straight in their pockets from the ground, so it never gets catalogued, and they can’t because everyone’s searched when they leave the site. No one could sell this stuff anyway. Like I said, the kids go for walks around the site, and they might be breaching when they stand still. What can you do? Can’t prove it. Doesn’t mean they’re thieves.”
“She told Yolanda you could be a thief without knowing it,” I said to Ashil. “At the end. What have you lost?” I asked Buidze.
“Nothing!”
He took us to the artefact warehouse, stumbling eager to help us. On the way two students I somewhat recognised saw us, stopped still—something about Ashil’s gait, that I was mimicking—backed away. There were the cabinets where the finds were, in which the latest dusted-off things born from the ground were stored. Lockers full of the impossible variety of Precursor Age debris, a miraculous and obstinately opaque rubble of bottles, orreries, axe heads, parchment scraps.
“Goes in, whoever’s in charge that night makes sure everyone puts whatever’s been found away, locks up, leaves the key. Doesn’t get out the grounds without we search them. They don’t even give us shit about that; they know that’s how it is.”
I motioned Buidze to open the cabinet. I looked into the collection, each piece nestled in its little house, its segment of polystyrene, in the drawer. The topmost drawers had not yet been filled. Those below were full. Some of the fragile pieces were wrapped in lint-free cloth, swaddled from view. I opened the drawers one below the other, examining the ranked findings. Ashil came to stand beside me and looked down into the last as if it were a teacup, as if the artefacts were leaves with which one could divine.
“Who has the keys each night?” Ashil said.
“I, I, it depends.” Buidze’s fear of us was wearing, but I did not believe he would lie. “Whoever. It’s not important. They all do it sometimes. Whoever’s working late. There’s a schedule, but they’re always ignoring it…”
“After they’ve given the keys back to security, they leave?”
“Yeah.”
“Straightaway?”
“Yeah. Usually. They might go to their office a bit, walk in the grounds, but they don’t usually stick around.”
“The grounds?”
“It’s a park. It’s … nice.” He shrugged helpless. “There’s no way out, though; its alter a few metres in, they have to come back through here. They don’t leave without being searched.”
“When did Mahalia last lock up?”
“Loads of times. I don’t know …”
“Last time.”
“… The night she disappeared,” he said at last.
“Give me a list of who did it when.”
“I can’t! They keep one, but like I say half the time they just do each other favours …”
I opened the lowest drawers. Between the tiny crude figures, the intricate Precursor lingams and ancient pipettes, there were deli-cats wrapped. I touched the shapes gently.
“Those are old,” Buidze said, watching me. “They were dug up ages ago.”
“I see,” I said, reading the labels. They had been disinterred in the early days of the dig. I turned at the sound of Professor Nancy entering. She stopped hard, stared at Ashil, at me. She opened her mouth. She had lived in Ul Qoma many years, was trained to see its minutiae. She recognised what she saw. “Professor,” I said. She nodded. She stared at Buidze and he at her. She nodded and backed out.
“When Mahalia was in charge of the keys, she went for walks after locking up, didn’t she?” I said. Buidze shrugged, bewildered. “She offered to lock up when it wasn’t her turn, too. More than once.” All the small artefacts were in their cloth-lined beds. I did not rummage, but I felt around at the rear of the drawer without what I imagined was the preferred care.