Perhaps it was that knowledge that caused the sharpness of everything—the return of his sense of smell and taste and these strange moments of connectedness. They would kill him. He had no doubt of it. But for hours, despite that, he lost himself in the work. At first he had thought of it as a maze, as he usually did. That was the common metaphor—the labyrinth.

But these last few days he had come to see it for what it was: a palace. It was a palace as large as the world itself. As he wandered its corridors, searching for a way into its central chambers, he became more and more aware of the beauty of its construction. There was nothing like it in the world. Being able to explore it was a gift. They would kill him. If not her, then the organization that stood behind her. If not today, or in a week, then in a year. But even if it cost him his life, what of it? Who else could see a mind like this, and understand it?

Rustem felt his whole life had been leading up to this point. All those lonely days were a preface to these moments, here in this city, wandering the castle of this mind and then walking the streets when it became too much for him. Everything in his life before was reshaped, given purpose and direction. All of it led up to now, and to what he would do next.

Should you ever need us, come ring the bell. And when the time comes, do what is right.

Several times he had gone back to the door and considered ringing the bell.

Now he was here.

I won’t do it. I won’t make a weapon from a work of art. This isn’t a thing to be manipulated. It is a temple. I won’t be a part of desecrating it. That’s why I am here.

Rustem had been going over these lines in his head for an hour, at least.

He rang the bell again.

He had already been standing in this doorway for a few minutes now. He had imagined ringing the bell, the door opening. The graying temples and the friendly, knowing face. The worn-in corduroy field jacket. But now he was not even sure he had the correct doorway.

I won’t do it, he said to himself again. It seemed important to get this first phrase just right. Like a password. I won’t make a weapon from a work of art …

The door opened.

It wasn’t him, but Rustem recognized the man: an old man with a stringy fringe of gray hair in janitor’s coveralls with a name tag that read FARHOD. He had been snoozing at a table in the room where Rustem and the man in the field jacket had spoken.

“I’m—”