City on Fire

TWENTY-THREE

“You should have trusted me, Triumvir,” Aiah says.

Constantine’s dreamy eyes contemplate columns of brilliant bubbles rising in golden liquid. He holds the crystal glass to the light that streams in the windows of his limousine, observing the way the crystal casts rainbows on the vehicle’s interior, and when he speaks his voice seems to drift into the car from far away.

“Do you remember, that time we spent together in Achanos, I spoke of my grandfather?”

“Yes, I remember.”

The facets of the crystal dapple Constantine’s face with little rainbows. A thoughtful frown touches his lips, and he touches a button that causes a slab of bulletproof glass to rise between the passenger compartment and the driver and bodyguard in the front seat.

“Do you remember when I spoke of my grandfather’s abdication? How he put his enemies in power, and arranged for them to fail, and then came back with everyone’s blessing to resume his place as Metropolitan—do you remember that?”

The memory floats to the surface of Aiah’s mind. He had told her, she thinks, exactly what he would do, and furthermore he had, when he first warned her of Parq’s rise, bade her to remember Achanos. She had thought, instead, he was trying to manipulate her through the memories of a moment of love.

“Yes,” she says. “I remember.”

Constantine’s eyes drift from the glass to Aiah. “I told you then what I planned, near as I dared.”

“But that was when the war was still in progress,” Aiah says. “You had made plans for Parq even then?”

“Of course. I had always intended, from the first, even before war came upon us, to deal with Parq exactly as I have.”

Knowledge of these deep-laid plans darkens the complexion of Aiah’s thought. What, she wonders, is his plan for her?

The limousine, part of a convoy with guards fore and aft and mages floating overhead on invisible tethers, turns to cross a canal. Shieldlight winks off the spiderweb supports of the suspension bridge; below the canal glitters greenly. The hum of the contra-rotating flywheels set between the driver’s and passengers’ compartments grows louder.

“But why?” Aiah asks. “Why put Parq in power in the first place? He was treacherous even during the revolution, and no credit to the government afterward.”

Constantine sips his wine and lets it hang on his palate for a long moment, savoring it, a reward of success.

“Because,” he says finally, “following the fall of the Keremaths, there were always a number of alternatives that presented themselves, and one of them was the concept of theocracy. The Dalavans are potentially a great power here, two out of every five people, and if they united behind Parq’s alternative, behind a theocratic concept, they could overpower any opposition. Theocracies, when they are not corrupt, are always vicious, always trying to impose their moral absolutes on an imperfect humanity. But they always sound attractive—their language seduces, like ecclesiastical architecture, music… Why not form a government of godly, disinterested people? Why not let them direct society in harmony with divine inspiration? Why not make people good? And so, on this promising moral premise, we find the coercive powers of the state united with the coercive powers of faith—people must be made good, the state must make them so when religion cannot; and if one is not good, one is not merely disobeying a custom or a law made by mortals, one is defying the universal truths behind the operation of the universe, one is opposing all that is true, all that is divine, and so the penalties must be savage for such willful perversity, such obstinacy in the face of revealed truth…”

He sips his wine again. “It is a powerful notion, and it was necessary that such a notion be discredited. And so Parq was given what he wished—power over the state, power to persecute and confiscate—and everyone in Caraqui got a taste of what it is like to live in a theocracy… and now, as a result, the concept of theocracy is discredited beyond saving. As long as there is a living memory of Parq’s abuses, the notion of rule by the godly will not raise its head in Caraqui, not for three generations at least, and by then I hope other institutions will be so firmly in place that theocracy will never be chosen but by a discontented few.”

“All the chaos was necessary?” Aiah asks. “The violence, the terror?”

Constantine gives her an indulgent look. “It got the matter over with in ten days. If theocracy had gained lodgment by another means—coming to power through an election, say, or by coup against a regime deemed insufficiently devout—there would have been years of terror.”

“//, you say, they had come to power. It might never have happened.”

Constantine frowns, sips at his wine. “//,” he repeats. “I thought we could not take the chance, Parq being Parq, and Caraqui being Caraqui.”

“And elections,” Aiah observes, “being within a few weeks.”

Constantine smiles to himself. “Even so.” He chuckles deep in his throat. “I can predict Parq’s next move. He will begin to intrigue with the Provisionals, and that will be the end of him. Because—count on it—I will monitor this conspiracy, and document it well, and then under threat of exposing it will make Parq my instrument forever.”

“Still,” Aiah says, “you should have trusted me, and made my part plain. I was forced to improvise, and I put myself in a dangerous situation.”

Constantine permits a look of irritation to cross his face. “I trusted no one. I told no one at all, not directly, not till the last moment, when I had to give the army its orders. It was not a thing to be spread about—and though I could trust you with a secret, I could not trust your reactions. I wanted you to be outraged about Togthan’s moves in your department, I wanted that emotion to be genuine. I didn’t want you turning smug and implying that you knew something Parq and Togthan didn’t.”

“I would not have done such a thing, Triumvir,” Aiah says.

“It was not a necessary thing for you to know,” Constantine insists. “I only do that which is necessary.”

Aiah is not willing, for her part, to let the matter go.

“You should also have consulted me about the movement of Karlo’s Brigade,” she says.

Grudgingly he looks at her sidelong. “Perhaps,” he allows.

Aiah presses in. “I think, in order to avoid these difficult situations in the future, the informal arrangement we have reached concerning the Barkazil Division should be put on a more formal basis. I suggest I become an employee of the War Ministry. I will not require a salary, but I want a place in the hierarchy. Vice-Minister for Barkazil Affairs. Something like that, but you may choose the exact wording.”

“It is not necessary.”

“Do you recall, a few days ago, when you said you would grant me anything in your power?”

Constantine puffs out a breath. “It is absurd for you to hold positions in two different ministries.”

“Surely it is not beyond the combined powers of the War Minister, the Resources Minister, and a triumvir to grant me an exception.”

Constantine gazes stolidly forward for a moment, then tilts his head back and laughs, the sound booming in the car. Wine dances in his glass.

“Very well,” he says. “If the Ministerial Assistant for Barkazil Liaison will cease to plague me about matters long past and done with, I believe I may satisfy her on this matter.”

Aiah smiles sweetly. “Thank you, Triumvir.”

Constantine booms another laugh. “You’re welcome, Miss Aiah.” He leans forward, snatches a grape from a waiting basket of fruit, pops it in his mouth, and chews with pleasure.

Beyond the windows a desert looms. The vehicle convoy is approaching the Martyr’s Canal, where a great battle had been fought, not in the war with the Provisionals, but in the original coup that had brought Constantine to Caraqui. The Burning Man had appeared here, in the midst of a quiet residential neighborhood, and set the entire district alight, a whirlwind of fiery horror that had killed at least twenty thousand people. Now the buildings are rubble or roofless shells, some mere steel skeletons, some with traces of fine stonework, graceful plaster accents, noble arches, fluted pillars that now support… nothing. Occasionally a forlorn Dalavan hermit is seen, hanging in a sack from a scorched wall, and election graffiti is splashed over anything left standing. The clouds float undisturbed overhead: no advertising flashes in the sky here, because there is no one to buy.

Many of the destroyed buildings were torn down to make way for new construction, but the Provisionals’ countercoup interrupted the work, and dozens of the dangerous, roofless ruins still stand open to the weather. The promised new con-truction hasn’t materialized, either, funds dried up by the war, and the entire district stands bereft of life except for the campsites of refugees with nowhere else to go.

A perfect workshop, Constantine considers it; a laboratory for experimentation.

Rohder is planning to perform a miracle here within the next hour.

Constantine’s convoy pulls off the road into an area bulldozed free of rubble. The song of the car’s flywheels decreases in volume. Constantine’s guards pour out of their vehicles and set up a watchful perimeter. A tugboat’s whistle shrieks on the nearby canal.

Constantine remains in the vehicle. After what happened at Rohder’s last outdoor demonstration, Constantine has decided to play it safe.

Rohder, already on the site with some of his assistants and a battery of complex instruments, approaches the car. He is wearing a red hard hat and heavy work boots.

Constantine presses a button and electric motors sing the window into the car’s armor. Aiah sees the guards grow more alert at the sign of this chink in their defenses. Rohder peers into the car, removes the inevitable cigaret from his lips, and says, “We are making some last-minute preparations. It’s very complex, and—”

“Take all the time you need, Mr. Rohder.”

Rohder nods and rejoins his assistants. Constantine smiles, sends the window up, settles back into the soft leather seat just as the telephone, set on the built-up area behind the driver, gives an urgent buzz. Constantine makes a face and moves forward into the seat opposite Aiah, picks up the headset, answers. A lengthy conversation follows, which from its diplomatic context Aiah concludes is with Belckon, the Minister of State. Constantine gives detailed instructions concerning something he calls “compensated demobilization,” then returns the headset to its cradle.

“Lanbola,” he sighs. “We will surrender it, now that Parq is gone and we have clear policy, but the details are complex. We do not want the Popular Democrats back, and we want some compensation for the expenses of the war, but our neighbors want us out—they do not like the precedent we have set.”

“Their protests have not been very loud,” Aiah says. “I was surprised.”

“They take note of the size of our army,” Constantine says, “and how swiftly Lanbola fell. It occurs to the wise among them not to protest too loudly, and it occurs especially to Nesca and Charna, who supported the Provisionals from the beginning… and it has occurred to some to hire mercenaries, and look to their own defense, but on hearing of their inquiries in Sayven, we told them these hires would not be considered friendly, and they have again chosen to act with caution. So even Adabil, which does not have a border in common with us, will not offer sanctuary to the surviving Provisionals or to Lanbola’s Popular Democrats, and Kerehorn and Great-Uncle Rathmen and their cohorts have been forced to Garshab, which is content to play host to the refugees so long as they bring their money with them.”

“’Compensated demobilization’?” Aiah asks.

Constantine makes an amused sound deep in his throat. “Our vast army is destabilizing to the region, and very expensive. Armies are expensive even to demobilize, and there are secondary effects, such as the economic consequences of releasing so many soldiers into the civilian economy at once. So we hope to acquire Polar League funds, both to rebuild our damaged homes and industry and to demobilize the army.” Merriment glitters in his eyes. “Our neighbors will pay us not to threaten them anymore. It will be cheaper for them than to raise armies of their own, and less dangerous… It is a fine sort of blackmail, one for which we need do nothing—not even threaten, for the mere presence of our army is enough—and I think I can bring it off.” He glances out the window, sees Rohder still talking to his staff, and then turns back to Aiah.

“Adabil, considering itself safe on account of our not having a border in common, will be against giving us aid, but unfortunately when we took Lanbola we discovered a store of documents detailing just who among them created the Provisionals, and why, and for how much. Does Adabil’s parliament know, I wonder, that its government drew twenty-two billions from the Secret Fund to support Kerehorn and his soldiers? Twenty-two billions!” He smiles grimly. “I will bring down their government with this, I think. It is just a matter of timing, and deciding how, and to whom, the discoveries will be leaked.”

Leaks, Aiah thinks; maneuverings, blinds, diplomacy, concessions, extortion. Behind it all, the threat of raw military power. All things that she must learn if the Ministerial Assistant for Barkazil Liaison is ever to prosper.

“We may thank the war for rationalizing much of the state,” Constantine muses. “Under pressure of the emergency, the tax laws were reformed at a single stroke. The government cut loose the various enterprises that were hampering its real work. Government departments could be relieved of their excess personnel, with the army to absorb the unemployed. Whole classes of criminals were swept away by the PED and the militia, and now the militia are swept away. Theocracy reduced, the Keremaths discredited beyond redemption, and our neighbors anxious to be our friends. Good laws, good armies—the foundation of a strong state. Such did the blood of our martyrs buy us.”

The phone buzzes again. Constantine gives an impatient look, answers, then hands the headset to Aiah. “For you,” he says.

It is Alfeg. “The interviewer from Third Shift wanted to change his appointment to 14:00 tomorrow. I checked with Anstine and your schedule is clear; shall I say yes?”

“I suppose. Why not?”

The Golden Lady was very much in demand these days. “And the Wire called again.”

Aiah sighs. The news service was doing a long piece on Aiah—she had been getting calls from her relatives about reporters turning up—and it seems it was doing some serious digging into Aiah’s life. Aiah dreaded a thorough investigation into the plasm she’d stolen in Jaspeer, dreaded what Charduq the Hermit might say in an interview, dreaded what her mother might be persuaded to say.

Dreaded, perhaps more than anything, a reporter talking to her former lover Gil.

And the results available over the Wire, in Jaspeer and half the world.

She sighs again. “We’ll use the Third Shift interview as a rehearsal,” she says. “Schedule the Wire for three or four days—that will give me time to prepare.”

“Very good. I’ll call Anstine and check your appointment schedule for a time, then call back and clear it with you.”

“Do that.”

She returns the headset to its box. Constantine gives her a skeptical look.

“You are discovering the perils of celebrity.” “I am. Yes.”

“Use it, Miss Aiah. It is not always up to you whether or not you are famous, but the use you make of it is yours.” “Yes,” she says. “I’ll try to do that.” There is a shadow at the window, a knock. It is one of Rohder’s assistants. Constantine lowers the window by a few inches.

“Mr. Rohder says we may begin now.” “Tell him to proceed,” Constantine says, and reaches for another grape.

Constantine and Aiah shift to seats on the port side of the limousine, nearer Rohder’s group. Rohder himself stands stiffly, his head thrown back—for Rohder this is an unusual posture, and Aiah concludes it is because he is in contact with one of his mages.

A broken wall stands before them, once part of a block of middle-class flats that had occupied the surface of this huge pontoon. The wall is broken now, cracked, fire-blackened, ragged-edged, its original peak gone. Tenuous plant life is taking root in its various niches. It is barely a wall at all.

There is a pause. Constantine fidgets as he looks out the window. And then a strange effect begins to take place around the wall, light shifted into a different spectrum, or a shade raised between the wall and the Shield. Constantine narrows his eyes, absorbed in the magework. The wall shimmers in the light and seems to expand, as if it has grown liquid and is filling an invisible mold. An apex forms, ready to support a roof, and the wall sheds its blackened color, shaking the soot from its skin.

Atmospheric generation. From out of nothing, something.

Difficult, or it would be more common. Hermetic plasm transformations are most often used in making or alloying metal, creating chemicals and materials for plastics, and sometimes for generating food substances… All that is relatively simple, one reaction at a time. But creating matter, and doing it in the open air, outside a factory or other controlled environment, is exacting, exhausting, and potentially dangerous.

The effects fade, and there is a wall there, intact, solid, real. Rohder’s crew grin, chatter, make excited gestures. Rohder scans the instruments on the table, nods, gropes in the pocket of his jacket for a cigaret. Puffing, he approaches the vehicle.

“Congratulations, Mr. Rohder,” Constantine says. “And congratulations as well to your mages.”

An uncharacteristic pleasure glows in Rohder’s blue eyes. “The transformation was very well controlled,” Rohder says. “So little radiation that my instruments barely detected it, and we kept heat within limits. The wall should be a bit warm to the touch, but the heat will dissipate. And our engineers will examine the wall in the next few minutes—take measurings and core samples and so on—and we shall see if it is structurally sound.”

“I have no doubt that the experiment was a complete success,” Constantine says. “I hope you will accelerate the pro-ject.”

Rohder gives him a judicious look. “It is difficult to train people to this work,” he says. “Even if things go better than expected, our progress will be slow.”

“Amplify your sense of scale, Mr. Rohder,” Constantine says. “Caraqui needs housing, and needs it cheaply, and soon. You may call upon every government resource.”

“We’ll take the samples,” Rohder says, “and see.”

Rohder’s caution does not dampen Constantine’s enthusiasm—all the way back to the Palace he speaks of hermet-ics, of the creation of living space for the city’s tens of thousands of refugees, for those now confined to the half-worlds. “And now that Rohder’s FIT theory is demonstrated, we can make use of that in construction—make certain that building skeletons are placed in the proper ratios, or even, through freestanding transformation, create retroactively a new structure within the old. Multiply plasm generation, and then use the new plasm to generate even more…”

Aiah watches him, smiling at his enthusiasm—this is a glimpse into a younger Constantine, one just formulating his ideas, a man subsequently eclipsed by disappointment, tragedy, his own cold irony. Constantine pauses, and gives her a sudden, sharp look.

“I have been meaning to ask,” he says, “and it has slipped my mind—I am addressing a New City Party election rally at Alaphen Plaza tomorrow. May I hope that my new ministerial assistant will persuade the Golden Lady to appear?” He smiles. “I think it will give greater impact to my harangue, and may guarantee a wider coverage on the video reports.”

Aiah considers this and finds herself surprised. “You expect that / will be able to secure you greater coverage on video?” she says. “Is this something new? Is this the Constantine I know?”

His look turns haughty, but there is self-mockery there as well. “I did not achieve my present station,” he says, “by overlooking a chance to secure myself a place on video screens.”

“No,” Aiah agrees. “I’m sure you have not.”

The Golden Lady appears on cue at the rally, flying over the heads of the assembled crowd while Constantine, in a large bulletproof enclosure shielded from mage attack, watches as the crowd goes wild, chanting Aiah’s name over and over again. It is exhilarating, swooping over this endless expanse of waving arms and upturned faces, a human sea teeming with life.

Not bad, Aiah thinks, for a ministerial assistant.

And then she swoops over the speakers’ platform and sees Constantine, a little sullen twist on his lips, a considered calculation in his eyes. His own reception from the crowd had been somewhat less rapturous than this.

Perhaps, she thinks, he is beginning to view the Golden Lady as a rival.

The Third Shift interview goes well. The Wire interview is tougher—they have built an interesting, though circumstantial, plasm theft case against her. But she denies everything, and they have no evidence.

Her heart gives a little lurch as Gil’s name comes up. Apparently they have interviewed him, but he declined to say much, and wisely did not mention the ten thousand dalders she had wired him.

The elections are held with a certain amount of confusion, but with no violence, no suggestion of large-scale tampering.

The New City Party wins 40 percent of the popular vote. Parq’s Spiritual Renewal Party comes in second with 12 percent, and Adaveth’s Altered People’s Party takes slightly under 10 percent.

The Liberal Coalition, the party to which President Faltheg has lately attached himself, takes less than 8 percent of the vote, and a host of smaller parties split the rest.

Faltheg, presumably concluding from the totals that he had failed to kindle the enthusiasm of the electorate, resigns his post as president of the triumvirate—to his relief, Aiah suspects—though he remains one of the triumvirs, and also continues as Minister for Economic Development, a post for which he has genuine ability.

Constantine becomes president of the triumvirate, first among the three alleged equals. With his own party, Faltheg’s, Adaveth’s, and as many of the smaller parties as he can tempt to his side with promises of rewards and offices, he reforms the cabinet and government. He promises on taking office that martial law will be relaxed in stages and the normal processes of justice and government resumed.

On the day following the Caraqui elections, the government of Adabil falls as its parliament discovers a gap in the budget twenty-two billions wide. The new government is much less hostile to Caraqui, and much less friendly to the Provisionals.

Other neighbors, Aiah trusts, are taking note.

Negotiations with the Polar League continue, and Lanbola and compensated demobilization is much discussed. The envoy Licinias returns and is cordially received. When he meets Aiah, he bows in his courtly way and expresses his pleasure at meeting the Golden Lady.

“I am very pleased to see you here,” she says. “I hope you negotiate for us a hundred-year peace.”

He looks doubtful. “I will do my best,” he says. “Certainly things seem to be falling President Constantine’s way—I am pleased I was wrong in my predictions of a stalemated war. But Constantine’s swift passage to power may have left turbulence in his wake—dangerous whirlpools, I fear—and these may yet prove troubling to his state.”

Aiah can only hope that Licinias remains a poor prophet.

“Oh, no. I’m not disappointed.”

Aldemar is a sufficiently good actress that Aiah can’t really figure out whether she is telling the truth or not.

“It’s a shame,” Aiah says. “I wouldn’t mind having the world thinking I look as good as you on screen.”

Aldemar, acting as her own producer, has lost the bidding war for a chromoplay based on the story of the Golden Lady. Aiah, delicate golden headset pressed to her ears, is calling from her apartment to express condolences.

“They would have made it a sequel to the chromo I just finished,” Aldemar says, “and it would have been as dreadful as the first.”

“It’s not very good?” Aiah is dismayed. Aldemar has sent her tickets to the premiere, which is taking place in Chemra. A visit to Chemra would also give her a chance to visit her agent, a man she’s never met.

“It had promise, but they wrecked it in the editing.” There is resignation in Aldemar’s voice. “Don’t worry—if you come for a premiere, I won’t make you watch the whole thing. You can slip out early and go to the party.”

“If you can watch it,” Aiah says bravely, “I can.”

“You’ll be luckier with your production,” Aldemar assures her. “You’ve got more money behind it, and Olli is a first-rate producer. He always does a high-class production.”

There is a moment’s pause. “You’ll get quite a bit of money, you know.”

Aiah will, in fact, receive a sum that, as a girl in Old Shorings, she would have thought beyond her wildest imagination. If she is not quite able to consider herself rich, she can certainly consider herself very, very lucky.

“With some competent management,” Aldemar says, “the money should keep you comfortable for the rest of your life.”

“I’ll keep myself in less comfort,” says Aiah, “because I’m going to give half the money to charities for refugees here in Caraqui.”

“That’s admirable.”

“They did all the suffering, and I got all the glory. It’s their story, too, and they deserve some of the profits.”

“In that case,” Aldemar says, “it’s more important that the money you keep be handled well. I can introduce you to some good money managers—they’ve made me a lot over the years.”

“Thank you, yes,” Aiah says. “It’s not a world I know much about.”

Her world, she thinks, is beginning to overlap with others in interesting ways. Requests for interviews, people who want her as a speaker at various functions, the continuing demands of her job… She needs a manager for everything, she thinks, not just her money.

Perhaps she can talk Constantine into allowing her an assistant.

“There is someone to see you.” Aiah’s receptionist Anstine, unusually pale, slides into Aiah’s office and quietly closes the door behind him.

“Yes?” Aiah says, looking up from a desk overflowing with documents relating to her department’s budgetary health. It’s an unusual visitor who actually prompts Anstine to enter her office, when he can just call her on the intercom from his desk.

Anstine bites his lip. “He—I think it’s a he—he says he knows you. He gives his name as Doctor Romus.”

The talons of the Adrenaline Monster dig into her back and Aiah starts upright, all at the sudden thought of Aground, of sudden death and terror. She looks into Anstine’s eyes and sees a look of concern cross his face at her reaction.

“Oh. Well,” she says. “Send him in.”

Anstine looks dubious, but leaves without comment. Aiah looks down at the documents covering her desk—all that postponed wartime paperwork catching up—and takes a long breath to calm her trip-hammer heart.

The war is over. Why does the Adrenaline Monster still lurk in her tissues, ready to rake her nerves with his chemical claws?

The door opens and Romus glides in, feathery tentacles fluttering around his little brown face. “Miss Aiah,” he says in his reedy voice, “I am honored to make the acquaintance of the Golden Lady.”

Aiah rises and tries to look at the unearthly figure without flinching. She represses an urge to shake hands: Romus has no hand to shake. She wonders if she should offer him a chair.

“I’m relieved you survived,” she says. “Ethemark has been trying to find people from Aground, but there are so many refugees, so many transit centers…”

Romus coils his lower body before Aiah’s desk and rears his head to her level. “I think most are dead,” he says. “The mercenaries killed everyone they could find, whether they were armed or not. Most of the able-bodied died trying to protect their families, and none had my gift of hiding.”

Sorrow floats through Aiah’s mind even as her body jitters to the Adrenaline Monster. Your fault, a voice whispers. She resumes her seat, and Romus curls his upper body into a fishhook to keep his face level with hers. “I wish,” she says, “things were different.”

No trace of sentiment glimmers in Romus’s yellow eyes. “Sergeant Lamarath knew the risk he was taking,” he says. “He agreed willingly.”

Aiah looks at him. “And what did he agree to, exactly?”

“He asked for money, medicine, and weapons, and he got them. He—we, for I advised him—felt it was a gamble worth taking.”

“And the other people who died? Did they think the gamble was worth taking?”

“For us,” Romus says, “all life is a gamble. The war could have killed us all without anyone ever knowing. The militia could have got us afterward. It could even have been an inhabitant of Aground who betrayed your mission—we tried to keep it a secret, but in a place like that it was impossible.”

Aiah does not find this reply entirely satisfactory, but finds no reason to dispute it. Romus, too, must live with his memories.

“I’m glad you are here, in any case,” Aiah says. “I wanted to thank you for helping me when the Provisionals attacked.”

Romus tilts his head. “You are welcome.” He licks his lips. “I would be very pleased should it prove possible for your gratitude to take a more material form.”

Aiah feels a more calculating, warier self sliding efficiently into place behind her politician’s face. She is not prepared, she thinks, to be taken for a passu by a giant snake.

“Yes?” she prompts.

“Quite frankly,” Romus says, “I could use a job. I have no home, no place, and no prospects.”

“What sort of job did you have in mind?”

A morbid smile crosses his lips. “I would hope that, in my case at least, genetics does not equal destiny. Mages created my kind for the purpose of inspecting pipes from the inside, or conducting repairs in tight places. The truth is that I find such duty about as fulfilling as you might, if you were forced into such work.”

“You hope for a job as a mage? Are you actually a doctor of some sort?”

Romus bobs his upper body in a kind of nervous apology. “Titles in the half-worlds are strictly honorary. The boss is called sergeant, and his assistant is called doctor. Though I took the title as seriously as I could, and did what was possible to look after the health of Aground’s population, I am strictly self-taught.”

“I’m afraid we don’t really need medicos, self-taught or otherwise,” she says.

“I have other experience with plasm. I have done quite a bit of surveillance, and”—he licks his lips, and bobs his upper body again—“and a certain degree of bodyguard and enforcement work. The half-worlds are dubious places, and sometimes such things are necessary.”

Aiah finds herself in no position to criticize. She folds her hands on the desk, frowns, gives the matter her consideration. Romus very possibly saved her life, and she will employ him if she can.

“It’s a mixture of talents that we can use,” Aiah says. She leans forward and looks into Romus’s eyes. The strength of her position gives her the power to look into the eerie face without flinching. “But I want to explain that our entrance exams are very stringent—we’re going to do a brain scan that will uncover any past criminal activity and any present notions of treachery. If you’re working for someone else, we’ll find it. If you’re planning on selling any information you find here, we’ll find that. So if there’s anything you’re not comfortable revealing to government interrogators, you might consider applying for a job in another department. I will give you a high recommendation.”

Romus considers for a long moment. His yellow eyes turn uneasily away. “I will admit to you now that I have stolen plasm in the past,” he says. “I will also state that I have no intention of stealing any in the future.”

“If that is true, the plasm scans will reveal it. And, I should add, all hiring and firing in this department ultimately rests with me. I am not interested in prosecuting any minor criminality that may have taken place in the past, under a different regime. But if there is any danger of future misbehavior, then my hand is forced. The PED is the only clean agency of law enforcement in the government, and it will remain so.”

Romus’s tentacles flutter uneasily. “I will take the test,” he decides.

“Very good. I will have Anstine give you the application forms and schedule the scan.”

Aiah watches Romus leave, then returns to the piles of paper spread before her.

She decides she needs a bigger desk.

Aiah looks stonily at the jerky video as another arrested suspect explodes. Fortunately the soldier carrying the camera faints almost immediately, and the video is short.

“Did you see the room?” Kelban says. “Bottles everywhere. Pills. Take-out food. And a girl had just left, a pro—surveillance saw her exit.”

Nictitating membranes half-lid Ethemark’s eyes. “The Party Sickness,” he says.

“Two people with Party Sickness symptoms, and they both blow up when arrested,” Kelban says. “This is not a coincidence.”

“But the first fellow to explode,” Ethemark remarks, “did so in front of his family. No Party Sickness there.”

Kelban frowns. “Maybe he was in the early stages.”

Maybe he was starting the party with the wife, Aiah thinks. She ventures a cautious shrug. “What can we do?” she says. “I’ve never heard of an illness that acts this way, and we’re not the Health Ministry in any case.”

Ethemark tilts his head back, considers. “We are not empowered to act on matters of public health, true. But if this is the result of a Slaver Mage, say, or an ice man, then this is definitely a case of misused plasm, and therefore falls within our purview.”

“I’d like an opinion from counsel in that regard,” Aiah says.

“Still,” says Kelban, “if this is a case of some kind of supernatural possession, then its only victims are Handmen. This mage, or whatever it is, is doing us favors.”

“We don’t know that its only victims are Handmen,” Ethemark points out. He turns to Aiah. “I’d like authorization to open a file on this, perhaps commit some of our investigators.”

“It looks like a dead end to me,” Aiah says. “We have no evidence, nothing but some bodies.”

“We don’t have any evidence yet. We haven’t looked—I want to thoroughly investigate the movements of the victims, who they saw, when and if they began to act strangely.”

That seems harmless enough, Aiah thinks. Certainly digging through the victims’ files and backgrounds is not going to lead anyone to Constantine.

“All right,” Aiah says. “Submit a proposal, then, and I’ll approve it, providing it doesn’t take too many personnel from their regular duties.”

Ethemark looks at her. “Very good. I don’t think we’ll need more than one mage, and maybe one good investigator on the ground.”

“Not full-time, I trust.”

“Probably not.”

“Well. Submit your proposal, and we’ll see.”

Aiah wonders if Ethemark has heard the same rumor that Khorsa had, that Constantine interviews prisoners, orders them released, and that they subsequently die of the Party Sickness. If this is an attempt by Ethemark, or Ethemark and Adaveth together, to discover something they can use against Constantine, or to hold over him.

Aiah remembers Constantine in the limousine just a few days ago, smiling as he gazed into his wineglass, firmly in command of Caraqui and himself, confident in his ability to manage any crisis. Taikoen was an element of his confidence, his power, but a dangerous element.

She wonders if it is possible to kill a hanged man, and how.

“The hearings in the Timocracy came to nothing,” Colonel Galagas is pleased to report. He touches his mustache, smiles. “No evidence was ever developed, and none of the Escaliers were ever required to testify.” “I’m pleased for you.”

Aiah has little actual interest in the findings, but they allow Galagas and the Escaliers to keep their standing within their profession. Invitations to the other mercenaries’ regimental dinners will continue.

Aiah leans forward across her desk and asks the question that truly interests her.

“Have the hearings revealed who betrayed us?”

Galagas shakes his head. Plasm displays, reflected from the window behind Aiah, glow gold and red in his eyes.

“I regret to say that they did not. The order to attack the Escaliers came from the headquarters of a Provisional general named Escart, but he was killed in the fighting, and we don’t know where he got his information.”

“Who could have told him?”

“Quite a few people, unfortunately. The information could have come from above, which would have meant army group or Provisional headquarters in Lanbola. Or below, possibly his own intelligence section.”

“Is there a way to find out?”

He gives a thin smile. “The Escaliers, too, have an intelligence section. They’re working on it—there is little else for them to do, really—and we’ll let you know if we find anything. Provisional headquarters no longer exists, and a number of their employees are now hard up for funds.”

Aiah returns Galagas’s smile. “The PED has a small budget for informers,” she says.

“Ah.” Galagas’s look brightens. “That is good to know.” He touches his mustache again. “When I was in the Tim-ocracy,” he says, “I looked at the Wire’s piece on you.”

Aiah finds herself making a face. “And?” she says.

“They made no effort to understand Barkazils, but otherwise I thought it was fair enough. And you?”

Aiah tries to banish the tension she feels in her shoulders. The Wire’s investigation had been extremely thorough, though fortunately it was reasonably objective—it gave her credit for investigating plasm thefts in Jaspeer and for her work against the Silver Hand and the militia, even as it raised suspicions about other activities.

Her heart had lurched when she’d seen her ex-lover quoted, but to her surprise, Gil had spoken nothing but praise, and defended her against any suggestion of criminality, something that relieved and gratified her. She should send him a wire of thanks, she thinks.

“I hate to see those old charges raked over,” Aiah says. “But at least they admitted they couldn’t find evidence.”

“The Cunning People leave no trace,” Galagas says. There is a confiding little gleam in his eye.

Aiah can only hope that, as far as the Escaliers and her own activities in Jaspeer are concerned, Galagas is speaking the truth.

Rohder’s computer gives a rumble, shudders slightly, and at length offers up its data, first in a tentative flickering upon the screen, and then with firmer, shining confidence.

“The trend’s continuing,” Rohder says.

Aiah glances over his shoulder at the columns of figures. “Good.”

“More for the Strategic Plasm Reserve.” Rohder frowns, looks at the data. “If only I knew why. The figures shouldn’t be this good.”

“An element you haven’t accounted for in your theory?”

“Oh, of course.” Dismissively. “There must be.” Rohder’s blue eyes brood upon the figures. “Our original experiments were necessarily on a small scale; but here we see a leap in plasm production beginning…” He traces a line of figures across the computer display with a horny thumbnail. “Here. Almost four months ago. A few weeks after the war started. And with the war destroying so many plasm-generating structures, there should have been less plasm, not more—But still the dip in generation is not as great as it should have been, and now, even though so much of the city has been wrecked, our overall plasm generation is better than before the war started.”

He rubs his chin. “I am straining my mind to find a theory that will accurately account for this rise. And I can think of none.”

“I can’t think of this plasm increase as anything but a blessing.” Aiah shifts an overflowing ashtray on Rohder’s glass-topped desk, then perches on the desk’s corner, crossing her ankles and lazily swinging her feet.

“And your other work?” she asks.

“The atmospheric generation teams continue to report success, and the minister continues to press us to actually erect a building. We are on the verge of achieving a degree of expertise that may permit that, but I will not do such a thing until I’m ready.” He shakes his head, reaches absently into his shirt pocket for a packet of cigarets, and produces only an empty one. Crumpled, it joins other empty packets in the vicinity of his wastebasket. He looks at it with a drift of sadness in his eyes.

“You are going to get a formal report on this tomorrow,” he says, “but I may as well tell you now about the results from our Havilak’s team. You recall we were going to perform some freestanding transformations on an office building owned by the Ministry of Works—retroactively alter the internal structure to bring it in line with FIT—and they found the most extraordinary thing: it had already been done.” Rohder’s watery blue eyes gaze up at Aiah in bemuse-ment. “Some unknown mage, or maybe a group of mages, had already gone into the building and done the job on it!”

Aiah looks at him. She has been in charge of a government department long enough to know that the cause probably lies within the bureaucracy.

“Our people didn’t get the work order mixed up? The job wasn’t done accidentally by another of your teams?”

“That’s the first thing we checked, and the answer’s no. None of our teams had ever done a job that large—we’d only been experimenting with empty, war-damaged buildings until we could be certain we could do the job safely.” He shakes his head. “Besides, the job was done differently from the way we’d planned it. We chose that particular building because it was new, only a hundred and eighty years old, and we had the plans on file—our engineers had planned every change we were going to make ahead of time. And when we discovered the changes already made, we discovered that they were different, though still made in perfect accord with fractionate interval theory…” He shakes his head. “Who would have done such a thing? And why?”

“Fraud, perhaps?” Aiah ventures. “Trying to raise the amount of plasm generated by the structure, and siphoning it off for their own use?” She reaches for a pad and paper. “I’ll have the ministry send a team to inspect the meters—”

“I already have,” Rohder says. “And I checked the building’s records—they show the increase. No one stole it. The excess went into the public mains, just as it ought.”

Aiah looks at him. “So who, then? And why?”

Rohder considers. “The who is most interesting. Who in Caraqui knows enough of fractionate interval theory to make such concrete application?”

“FIT isn’t a secret.”

“No.” Rohder’s voice turns rueful. “Not a secret, but I doubt that more than a handful of people have ever read Proceedings. So far as I know, our own teams are the only people ever to try to apply the theory in practice.”

“Perhaps someone on our transformation team is working on his own? Maybe the office building was just practice, and he intends to strike out on his own?”

“But why pick a building that he knew we were going to alter?”

Aiah looks out the window. Plasm displays shimmer on the near horizon. She bites her lip at the relentless conclusions that fall into place in her mind.

“Altering that building was illegal,” she says. “The plasm used to make the alterations might have been stolen.” She looks at him uneasily. “I regret to say that one part of my department may have to start an investigation of another part.”

Rohder leans back in his chair, looks at the data. “I can narrow the investigation for you. I can safely say that there are only a dozen or so people in my section that could have pulled this off.”

A falcon dives past the window, talons arched for prey. Aiah turns to Rohder again. “Very good. If you would send me the names…?”

Rohder gives a reluctant sigh, his eyes never leaving the screen. “I suppose I must.”

Regret sighs through Aiah’s mind. She herself, working for Rohder, had deceived him; it is possible, therefore, that someone else had.

Rohder’s division hadn’t undergone the stringent security checks required of the more paramilitary PED; Rohder had just hired as much young talent as he could find.

And it is necessary that an investigation be performed. In order to clear Rohder and Aiah themselves, at least.

An investigation might eventually mean brain scans for some of Rohder’s most skilled, valuable mages. Aiah wouldn’t be surprised if some of them quit rather than submit.

And in the end the mages involved might prove to be another group entirely.

Aiah bites her lip, then brings up the matter that has brought her to Rohder’s office in the first place.

“On another subject entirely,” she says, “what do you know about hanged men?”

Surprise lights Rohder’s eyes. He rears back in his seat and cranes his neck to look at her, the discomfort of his position a reflection of the discomfort visible in his face.

“Ice men, you mean?” he asks. “The damned?”

“Yes.”

Rohder frowns. “// they exist—and I am not entirely convinced that they do—then hanged men are very rare and highly dangerous. Toxic. If you ever encounter one, I would run as fast as possible and pray to Vida the Merciful while I ran.”

“How do you kill them?”

“It’s far harder than the chromoplays would suggest.” His frown deepens. “Why are you asking?”

Aiah leans closer. “I trust this will go no farther?” He shrugs. “Who would I tell?”

Were Rohder a Barkazil, his returning a question in this manner would tell Aiah that he was planning on telling everyone in the world; but Rohder is not a Barkazil, and Aiah reckons she can trust him with the falsehood she has carefully prepared.

Even lies, she knows, require a degree of trust. She retrieves her story from the mental closet where she has stored it. “I’ve found… something… out there in the plasm well. The thing scares me—it’s cold and it’s strong, and it’s lurking around the Aerial Palace. I’m afraid it might be scouting for an attack.”

Rohder’s look turns inward, calculating. He gropes in his pocket for a cigaret, remembers he’s run out, and instead gnaws a nicotine-stained thumbnail.

“If it is a hanged man,” he says carefully, “and not some kind of plasm construction, I don’t know anything that can stop it should it decide to attack.”

“If it isn’t a hanged man,” Aiah says, “it’s something else that can live and move in a plasm well, so we might as well call it a hanged man.”

Rohder’s absorbed, thoughtful expression shows no sign that he’s heard. “If it is a hanged man,” he says slowly, “and it’s moving through the Palace plasm well, then it may be an ally of someone already in the Palace. Someone very powerful.”

A series of barking curses chase each other through Aiah’s mind. Rohder wasn’t supposed to work this out, at least not yet.

Vexed with herself for not anticipating this, she reminds herself that he is over three hundred years old. He may not be very worldly, but he’s done very little but deal with bureaucracy for all his professional life, and he understands the architecture of power.

Aiah needs to remember that next time she tries to use him as her passu.

“If this thing is a pet of someone in the building,” Aiah says, “that makes it worse. I don’t think anyone should have such a creature at his beck and call.”

The fierce conviction in her words surprises her, and she sees Rohder’s eyes widen a bit at her evident fire.

He sighs heavily, then turns to his computer display. “I will find out what I can,” he says. “There are some people I can contact at Margai University.”

Aiah leans toward him, puts a hand on his shoulder. “Thank you, Mr. Rohder. This could be important.”

Rueful humor settles onto his face. “I don’t promise results,” he says. His hands automatically search his empty pockets for cigarets.

Aiah leans back, takes a pack of Amber Milds from behind the computer, and hands it to him with a smile as she heads for the door.

It’s nice, she concludes, for once in her life to leave Rohder’s office without the stench of tobacco on her clothes.

“Thank you for seeing me, Miss Aiah.” Dr. Romus sways into Aiah’s office, moving by throwing a thick loop of his body ahead of him, then pulling the rest after.

Aiah wants to turn away from the sinuous, unnatural movement, but she compels a grave smile to appear on her face and rises to greet him.

“You said it was important?” she says.

The reedy voice echoes oddly from her office walls. “I can’t think it can be anything but important,” Romus says. Aiah sits, and Romus lowers his upper body to keep his head on a level with hers, his usual act of courtesy.

Aiah had difficulty justifying his hiring, particularly in light of his plasm scan, which revealed a long life—he is over a hundred—rich with various crimes, major and minor. But none of the crimes were vicious—most concerned theft of state property, like plasm, electricity, or fresh water—and any violence seemed to be in the interests of defending himself or protecting his half-world.

The plasm scan also revealed he had no intention of using his position in the PED for any illegal advantage. His criminality, he seemed to suggest, was in part justified by his desperate position in the world; once in a better position, there would no longer be a need for such activity.

It was not a justification that sits easily with Aiah’s judgment. But it was one she used herself—it had brought her here, to her position in Caraqui—and so she’d decided to take a calculated risk.

So far it seems to have paid off. Romus has been working for the PED for two weeks now, and reports from his superiors have been positive. He’s clever, they say, and he minimizes use of plasm. He’s very good at surveillance, very patient, and his reports are models of clarity.

“What’s the problem?” Aiah asks.

Shieldlight glitters in Romus’s yellow eyes. “I saw something first shift yesterday,” he says. “In the lobby of the secure room.”

A warning cry sounds in Aiah’s nerves. “What were you doing there? You’re not authorized for the secure room.”

“I was not in the secure room. I was in the lobby, resting. Sleeping, actually.” The cilia surrounding Romus’s face writhe uneasily. “I have no place to live, you see. I eat in the Palace restaurants using my meal ticket, and my other needs are few. So when I have no work, and if there is someone working in the office I share, I usually find a quiet place and sleep. The secure room lobby is quiet—the clerk on duty usually has very little business during sleep shift—and…” A little tongue licks his thin brown lips. “Because I am not shaped as the average human, my sleeping places tend to be where others might not expect to find a person… I am often overlooked. You have overlooked me yourself.”

“Yes,” Aiah says. Dread settles cold into her bones; she knows what is coming. “Go on,” she says.

“The triumvir came in around 02:30,” Romus says. “He came in with the giant guard, Martinus. He asked the clerk to leave and wait outside, then went into the secure room.

He was there for twenty minutes or so. I could hear him opening drawers and looking through files. And then…” There is a look of fear in the yellow eyes. “And then something came. It didn’t come through the door, it just… it was just there.”

“What sort of thing was it?” Aiah asks.

“Unnatural. A presence… a creature of some sort.” His head bobs, turns away from Aiah’s glance. “I would have to invoke myth to describe it. A demon, an evil angel. A force. It was terror without form. My only instinct was to flee.” A trace of anger enters his voice. “I don’t understand how it got there. The secure room is fully shielded! It was—” Words fail him for a moment, and when they return, they grow increasingly dogmatic. “An impossibility. It should not have happened at all. It violates every law of—”

“Tell me what happened,” Aiah interrupts.

Romus’s head sways in agitation. “The thing spoke to the triumvir. It made demands of some sort… I could not quite understand what it wanted. The triumvir said that he was doing his best, that he was—I believe the word he used was searching. The demon was arrogant, threatening. It said that the triumvir was late. I began to understand that it was demanding… people. As if the triumvir was to sacrifice to it, as to an evil god. And then the triumvir said, Very well, these will do, but you must come to my suite, I can’t do it here. And then the creature left… just faded away.

“When the triumvir left a few moments later, he called the clerk back and checked out a file. After a few hours, Martinus returned the file, and it was checked in.” Romus rapidly licks his lips.

“I do not know if these things are usual. I do not know if I am permitted to speak of them. I come to you more for advice and—” He looks away again. “I wish to know if I am in danger for seeing this thing.”

Aiah clasps her hands to keep them from trembling. Too many people know, she thinks… It only requires them to start talking to each other for the secret to be revealed. And once word gets out, Constantine will be ruined…

Consorting with a demon. What would Parq and the Dalavans make of that?

“Have you told anyone else?” Aiah asks.

“No. I couldn’t make up my mind what to do. In the end I just came to you.”

His head sways toward her on the end of his long neck. Aiah starts back, then catches herself. She presses her hands to the cool top of the desk.

“Firstly,” Aiah says, “you must tell no one else. That will put you in danger.”

Romus’s head bobs. “I understand.”

“Secondly,” taking a breath, “please believe I am aware of the existence of this thing, and that I know it is very dangerous. The problem is capable of resolution, and steps are being taken. I can’t reveal what steps exactly, but I implore you to understand that this will take time. The nature of this creature is such that we cannot afford any mistake—if the strike against him misses, there will be no chance for another.”

A grimace passes across Romus’s homunculus face. “I have had the strangest notions since I saw this thing. Now I wonder how many of these creatures exist in the world, if they all attach themselves to powerful men, and how much of the evil in the world might be explained this way…”

For a moment Aiah considers this notion, the thought of a secret evil behind the veils of the world, Taikoen and his kin feeding forever on the weakness of the great.

Romus continues, the reedy voice thoughtful. “I concluded, however, that there cannot be very many of these things, because otherwise they would not hide, they would move openly and prey on whomever they wished.”

“There is only one that I know of,” Aiah says. She tries to put confidence in her voice. “And this one will be destroyed. But in the meantime…”

“Silence.” Romus’s head bows. “I understand.”

She has made Romus her passu, Aiah thinks. She has given him a version of the truth that may serve to keep him silent, at least for now, and perhaps given him a confidence that all this may be dealt with, that Aiah will see Taikoen destroyed.

Perhaps, Aiah thinks, she has made a passu of herself, convinced herself that there is a solution to this problem, and that it is within her grasp.

Taikoen, she thinks bleakly, might have made a passu out of everyone, from Constantine on down.

GOLDEN LADY CHROMOPLAY ANNOUNCED PRODUCER OF METRO FLIGHT ACQUIRES RIGHTS OLLI PLANS CHROMO OF “EPIC SCOPE”

And now, to Aiah’s strange, heterogeneous Caraqui family comes her real family—some of them anyway: her sister Henley and her cousins Esmon and Spano—riding the pneuma to Caraqui for Esmon’s marriage to Khorsa.

Khorsa’s sister Dhival performs the rites, linking the couple to the Three Horses and spreading the Yellow Paper Umbrella, with its vermilion symbols, above their heads. As they share the marriage cup, drums roll, the audience breaks out in shouts of joy and congratulation, and a rolling barrage of firecrackers fills the room with its pungent scent.

The Barkazil Division provides musicians for the reception, and the eerie sound of the vertical Barkazil fiddle floats above the throng. General Ceison takes his turn dancing with the bride. Rohder watches from the corner with an expression of amiable bemusement.

Constantine stands tall amid the crowd, splendid in his black velvet jacket, brilliant white lace, and a glittering diamond stickpin in the shape of the fabled sea horse. He moves as easily amid the Barkazil throng as he does anywhere else.

Aiah holds his arm, pleased that on a private occasion such as this there is no necessity of maintaining in public the formal relationship of the minister and his subordinate: they can be together as conspicuously as they like.

“Esmon looks splendid.” Constantine nods toward Aiah’s cousin, who stands in a jacket of glittering jet beadwork that contrasts with both his billowing lace and the foolish grin on his face.

Aiah smiles. “He’s always had a highly distinctive style sense.”

Especially since he’s been seeing Khorsa, who almost certainly bought this coat and any other fine clothes Esmon may have brought with him.

“He will take up residence here in Caraqui?”

“He already has.”

“Does he have a job yet?”

Aiah cocks an eyebrow at him. “Do you have a vacancy?”

“I don’t have one in mind, no. I don’t know what your cousin can do,” amusement invading his face, “unless it’s to model new uniforms for the military.”

“I’m sure he’d do that very well,” Aiah says. “But until that opportunity arises, I’m sending him around to various government departments, along with my letter of recommendation.”

“I’m sure that will obtain him a position.”

The fact is, Aiah knows, that though Esmon is one of her favorite relatives, and a perfectly charming man, he isn’t suited to do anything in particular; his last job, before he was laid off almost a year ago, was as a janitor in a home for the elderly.

Aiah waits for a few seconds to see if Constantine will make a point of offering Esmon a job, but he doesn’t; and she long ago promised herself not to ask Constantine for special favors for friends or relatives.

Alfeg approaches and asks her to dance, and she steps onto the floor with him. He is technically a fine dancer, but the spirit is not quite there; he thinks about it too much. At one point she catches the look he gives her—awed, worshipful—and it makes her cheeks flame.

He really believes, she realizes, what Charduq the Hermit has been saying. He truly believes she is an incarnation of Karlo or some other immortal, one of the Old Oelphil guardians of her people. It isn’t just a game; it isn’t just a notion he’s been playing with—Alfeg really believes it.

No wonder the dance doesn’t feel quite right. He’s almost afraid to touch her.

At the end of the dance, Alfeg returns Aiah to Constantine, who she finds chatting with her sister Henley. Henley is gesturing with her hands—lovely hands, long and graceful, once crippled by an Operation street lieutenant and then made even worse by arthritis, hands which Aiah, over the last months, arranged to have repaired.

Henley catches Aiah looking at her hands. She flushes, smiles, breathes the words, “Thank you.”

Aiah takes one of Henley’s hands and presses it. “I’m happy I was able to help,” she says.

Constantine watches this with a benign smile.

“Excuse me, sir,” Alfeg says.

Constantine gazes down at him. “Yes?”

“I thought I’d mention that we seem to be having no trouble at all recruiting replacements for the Barkazil Division. We’ve got swarms of applicants—more than we can use. We’ll have our pick of some very good men.”

“Splendid,” said Constantine. “Carry on.”

“But I feel I should mention—” Alfeg searches for words, then decides simply to say it. “If the government should ever decide to raise another Barkazil Division, or to expand the current division to a full three brigades, I would have no trouble finding recruits.”

Constantine’s eyes narrow as he considers this. “The military budget is due for reduction, not expansion,” he says. “But if the need should arise, I will bear this news in mind.”

Alfeg makes an effort to conceal his disappointment. “Yes,” he says. “Thank you, sir.”

“One other thing.”

“Sir?”

Constantine speaks quietly, a little abstractedly, like a teacher giving a well-worn lecture to his students. “You should consider that a number of your recruits will almost certainly be spies, most likely from Jabzi, who will be inserted into the Barkazil Division with the intention of discovering whether our recruits will be used to subvert the arrangement whereby the Barkazi Sectors are partitioned. Or perhaps these spies will even be there to subvert us.”

Aiah sees Alfeg’s astonished stare and knows it probably mirrors her own. “You know this?” he says. “Do you have any—anything concrete?”

“I note simply that Jabzi, which had formerly maintained only an honorary consul just over our border in Charna—a local fellow who operated more as a tourist agent than a diplomatic representative—is now upgrading their presence to that of a full embassy, with a staff of over sixty people. Why should they do that in a metropolis half a world away, with which they do so very little trade? I assume that the entire purpose of this establishment is to keep an eye on what Miss Aiah and the Barkazil Division are doing here in Caraqui.”

A kind of resigned amusement dwells in Constantine’s eyes, as if he could not expect anything better from his fellow creatures.

“And though / know that the threat you pose to Jabzi is small,” he says, “perhaps nil, I also assume that by the time this new embassy finishes its reports, you are going to be a fullblown menace to the security not just of Jabzi, but of the world. The jobs of those sixty people depend on your being a menace, and as far as they are concerned, you will be a menace.”

“When,” Aiah wonders thoughtfully, “did you discover this?”

“Yesterday.”

“Is there anything we can do about it?”

“I will have Belckon send someone to Jabzi to have what are usually described as ‘full and frank discussions,’ but I suspect their government has already made up its mind and is unlikely to alter its position anytime soon.” He scowls and allows an edge of anger into his voice. “I would hate for the Provisionals to get a new sponsor at this point, just as they’re losing their old ones.”

Alfeg still seems taken aback by this intelligence, but Aiah is already considering the consequences. Jabzi’s previous official reaction to events in Caraqui—their banning the Mystery of Aiah video—had backfired, increasing both Aiah’s celebrity and demand for the video. Perhaps Jabzi’s new action could be turned to similar account.

Aiah probably couldn’t make much of any espionage in the Barkazil Division, but if it were ever discovered that Jabzi had gone so far as to support the Caraqui Provisionals…

They fear Barkazil freedom so much, Aiah thinks, that they try to suppress it half a world away.

A useful slogan to keep in reserve.

Amusement tugs at Constantine’s lips as he observes Aiah’s reflections. He puts a hand on her shoulder. “Politics tomorrow, Miss Aiah,” he reminds. “Celebration today.”

Aiah laughs. “You’re right.” She cocks an ear to the music, then grins at Constantine. “Do you dance the koola?”

Constantine answers gravely. “I have not had that pleasure.”

“If you’re going to go to Barkazil parties, you should know the dances.”

He holds out his arms. “I am willing to be instructed.”

Constantine learns the dance quickly, even the strange, unpredictable rhythmic elision, a kind of sideways musical hiccup, that Barkazils call “the slip.” A tigerish smile settles onto his face as he gains confidence, and he settles powerfully into the movements, as if he were projecting himself into the dance, making it an instrument of his will, a proud extension of himself into the world.

“You’ve been practicing in secret,” Aiah says.

“I have not practiced. But I have observed. This isn’t the first koola danced at this reception.”

“I congratulate you on your observational powers, then.”

“Thank you—”

There is a moment of suspense during “the slip”—the dance hangs suspended for an instant, then begins in another place. Aiah and Constantine gracefully manage the transition.

“Thank you very much,” he finishes. A secret smile crosses his face. “I hope I will be able to sharpen my observational powers, as—in your company, I hope—I will have a unique chance for observation beyond the ordinary.”

“Yes?”

His smile broadens. “Second quarterbreak, second shift today—a hundred twenty days to the minute after you discovered the first flaw in the Shield—our rooftop detectors revealed that a small eyelet, less than two paces across, opened overhead, remained open for seventy-five seconds, and then closed. In ninety days’ time, I hope you will join me for an excursion through the eyelet I expect will open at that time.”

The music, and the world with it, gives a sideways lurch.

Aiah missteps. The universe spins in her head, and her knees go rubbery. Constantine catches her before she falls.

He braces her shoulders within the span of one powerful arm and walks her off the dance floor. “Perhaps I should have mentioned this at another time,” he says.

“It happened, then,” Aiah says. A strange little laugh froths up in her like bubbles in champagne. “It happened and I didn’t make it up and it wasn’t a hallucination and nobody planted it in my mind.” Relief sings through her, and she feels the flight of her soul, as if it is soaring telepresent over the world.

“It actually happened,” she repeats, drunk with sudden joy and wonder.

“And it will happen again,” Constantine says. He touches her cheek, turns her head toward him, kisses her for a long, warm moment. “We will share that—we will be the first in millennia to bear a message outward.” He straightens, and Aiah sees anger smouldering in half-lidded eyes. “The worlds you have seen beyond the Shield are our right, and we will tell them so.”

“Did you hurt yourself?” Esmon has rushed up, a look of concern on his face. “Did you twist an ankle?”

“I’m fine.” She gives the groom a hug, presses herself to the beaded jacket, and gives him a kiss on the cheek. “Just a little mishap, that’s all.”

“Careful now.” Esmon grins. “It’s bad luck if people get hurt at my wedding.”

Aiah shifts weight onto her legs, finds they will hold her. Constantine keeps a protective hand on her elbow. Aiah glances up at him.

“Don’t worry,” she says. “I think our luck may have changed.”

In his suite afterward, Constantine is full of plans and speculations about the Shield and the path that Aiah has found through it. He wonders whether to do something spectacular—a plasm display, perhaps—that will call immediate attention to their presence, or to spend the first several missions simply reconnoitering. He considers the possibility of putting some manner of detector through the gap—“in orbit,” as he puts it—and then bringing it down on the next trip.

A touch of resentment enters Aiah’s mind at this energetic speculation. It was her vision, she thinks, it is one of the things that made her special, and here is Constantine, usurping her place with all his plans.

Not that she had ever been able to develop any plans of her own, she admits.

She wonders whether to raise the subject of Taikoen, to tell Constantine that he and the ice man have been seen, and she decides against it. It would be too dangerous for Romus, she thinks. Let more time go by, she concludes, so that it won’t be so certain that this last visit of Taikoen’s was the one that was observed.

A few hours later, after bed, Aiah snaps upright in the grip of the Adrenaline Monster. She sits gasping on the bed, pulse thudding in her ears, an invisible claw around her throat. Ears strain for the rain of artillery. Hot tears spill down her face.

She jumps as she feels Constantine’s warm hand on her back.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes.” She swabs with a hand at the sweat that limns her throat. “Sometimes I wake up like this.”

She senses him sitting up. His hand strokes her bare back. “How often?” he asks.

“I don’t know, I—” She gulps air and decides to stop being brave. “Often,” she says. “Every sleep shift, usually more than once. I haven’t had a decent sleep in… in months. It’s the plasm that keeps me going.”

She can sense his calm scrutiny, draws strength from it, calms her flailing heart.

“I’ve known soldiers to develop this condition,” he says. “Restful sleep isn’t a survival trait for people in combat, so their adrenal glands compel them to remain alert with an occasional burst of adrenaline or norepinephrine.” “Is there a cure?” she asks.

His deep voice returns after a thoughtful silence. “Deep magic. Someone very talented will have to adjust your adrenal gland in a very subtle way. But that sort of thing is closer to an art than a science—it can easily go wrong. Still, if you wish, I will try to find a specialist.”

“I don’t know,” she says, and rubs her face. “I’ve been hoping it will go away by itself.”

“It may not.”

She lets her head droop between her knees. “Let’s talk about it later.”

“Can you sleep now?”

Terror still trembles in her limbs. Aiah doubts it will permit her any rest. “I can try,” she says.

Constantine seems to fall asleep almost at once. Sheltering in the curve of one of his arms, Aiah rests her head on his shoulder and tries to sleep.

With little success. She is still perfectly awake when Constantine’s steward wakes them at the beginning of the new shift.

FALCONS OF FREEDOM ALDEMAR’S EXCITING NEW CHROMOPLAY OPENING SOON!!!

Aiah floats through the reception in Chemra, nodding graciously to one world-famous person after another, as if she were Meldurne playing host to high society in one of her chro-moplays. Wrapped in a sheath of gold moire silk, Aiah plays the Golden Lady, knowing what will attract the attention of these people and what will not. The gold silk contrasts favorably with the room’s decor, which leans to polished brass rails and pale green glass and is dominated by man-sized standing lamps with green glass petals that unfold like tulips.

The background buzz of conversation brightens with applause as Aldemar enters. The reception celebrates the premiere of Falcons of Freedom, her new chromoplay, which Aiah and the others have just seen. It isn’t precisely an inspired piece of work, Aiah judges, but neither was it as bad as Aldemar had made out. She has overheard the conversation of some relieved distribution executives who seem to think it will make a decent profit.

Aldemar passes through the room with a glittering professional smile on her face. Aiah busses her on both cheeks as she passes, hears the actress’s low voice say, “Let’s talk later,” and nods in answer as Aldemar passes on to chat with the distributors Aiah had overheard earlier.

“You’re the Golden Lady, aren’t you?”

Metallic silver irises glitter strangely at Aiah in the green-tinged light. It’s Phaesa, who’d had her irises altered for a chromoplay decades ago, and who subsequently made them her trademark.

Aiah’s mother was a huge Phaesa fan. She will be thrilled to hear of this encounter.

Aiah takes the extended hand. “Aiah,” she says.

“Of course.” The silver irises flicker over the room. “Are you without an escort?”

“I’m with Olli, but he needed to speak with someone—a banker, I believe.”

“How discourteous of him. But that’s Olli for you—obsessed with the business.” Phaesa’s hands close firmly about Aiah’s arm. “And I’m sure you don’t know anyone here. Do you need that drink freshened?”

Aiah allows herself to be towed into Phaesa’s wake. Another green tulip glass of white wine is pressed into Aiah’s hands. She sips, sees her reflection in the intent, glittering irises.

“Everyone in our business is talking about the Golden Lady,” Phaesa says. “It’s a part every actress is salivating over.”

Olli, her producer, had told Aiah there would be moments like this, and had provided her with ammunition in the form of the appropriate response, which Aiah promptly chambers and fires.

“Unfortunately,” she says, “I have no power over who gets the part.”

“I’m sure Olli would consider your wishes.”

“I will mention your name, if you like.”

A smile touches Phaesa’s lips. “Yes. Thank you.”

Aiah gazes into the unearthly silver eyes and finds herself wondering out loud, “I wonder if the Golden Lady can have silver eyes?”

“I can change them,” Phaesa says.

/ can change them, Aiah thinks.

Of course.

It is one of those moments in which Chemra, and perhaps the whole world, seems to snap into perfect focus.

/ can change them, Aiah’s mind chatters. / can be younger. I can be thinner. I can be smarter…

“I wonder,” Phaesa continues, “if we might have luncheon at some point.”

“I’m not in Chemra for long, unfortunately.” Aiah says. “I have a whole government department to run, and it’s more than a full-time job.”

“But still—”

“Miss Aiah?” One of the waiters rescues her. “A call for you, from Caraqui. A gentleman named Ethemark, who says it is urgent.”

Aiah looks sidelong at Phaesa. “My apologies. I’d better take this.”

Phaesa puts a hand on her arm. “I’ll talk to you later, then.”

“Certainly.”

Aiah follows the waiter to a phone booth with sides of stained-glass green shoots and yellow flowers. “We’ve switched the call here,” he says, and bows as he hands her the headset of brass wire and green ceramic.

“Thank you.” Aiah shuts the door and carefully puts the headset on over her ringlets.

“Yes? This is Aiah.”

Ethemark’s deep voice rumbles in her ears. “Miss Aiah? We have a situation here. I thought you should be informed.”

“Yes?” The connection is bad, with an electric snarl fading in and out, and the conversation outside is loud. Aiah cups her hands over the earpieces to smother the sounds of the reception.

“There has been a coup in Charna,” Ethemark says, “one group of soldiers overthrowing another. The new government has declared its allegiance to the New City, and everyone seems to think it’s our fault. Koroneia and Barchab are making threats, and Nesca’s parliament has gone into executive session. The chairman of the Polar League has called the Emergency Committee into session.”

“Great Senko.” Aiah closes her eyes while a long throb of sorrow rolls through her. Everything was finally going well—an architecture for peace being hammered into place, the new regime safely established at last, principles for demobilization created. And now the whole fragile structure was in danger of being kicked over.

Ethemark continues. “I’ve been ordered to present a report on our plasm reserves to the triumvirate in just a few hours—23:30.”

Aiah rubs her forehead and looks at her watch. Almost 22:00. “I’ll try to get there,” she says, “though I don’t think I’ll make it by 23:30. Can you have someone on duty charter an aerocar here, and leave a message at my hotel concerning how to meet it?”

“What’s your hotel? Does it have a landing pad?”

“The Plum. And I don’t know.”

“I will find out and leave a message there.”

Aiah peers through the stained glass, sees the crowd outside through shifting pastel colors. Her bodyguards and driver are outside the banquet room, and she’s going to need to say good-bye to Olli and Aldemar on her way out. Perhaps from the hotel she can call Constantine and find out what really happened, and who was behind the coup.

But Aiah suspects she already knows.