City on Fire m-2

by Walter Jon Williams

Everything has become my responsibility again, she thinks. Even whether or not the Handmen receive decent treatment.

  How does he do it? she wonders.

  There is a whir and thump as an artillery shell lands nearby, and then the sound is repeated. Aiah finds herself counting the rounds: there are six guns in an enemy battery, and once six shells have landed, there is a little respite.

  Four, five, six. Silence.

  Constantine looks up at her. He, too, has been counting. “Is that all?” he asks. Aiah supposes that it is.

  PARQ PROCLAIMS MILITIA “A SUCCESS” THOUSANDS OF HANDMEN ARRESTED CRIMES OF TERROR REDUCED!

  The amateurs of the Dalavan Militia are as bad as Aiah expects. Lists of the proscribed in hand, they knock down doors, or simply shoot through them; they arrest the wrong people, and sometimes kill them; and it’s only a matter of days before the first complaints of extortion are heard.

  Enthusiastic citizens make the situation worse. The rewards are available to anyone who brings in one of the proscribed, and Caraqui is full of desperate people, many of them left homeless and rash by the war, willing to risk their own lives by finding a Handman or two and dragging them before a magistrate. Cases of misidentification are legion, and though it’s bad enough when the wrong man gets hauled before a magistrate, it’s far worse when the victim is dead before he—or anyway his head—appears in court.

  And since these enthusiasts charge into the fray without proper intelligence, without support, and usually without mages to cover their backs, the hardened criminals of the Silver Hand are not inclined to go quietly, and they do not always prove to be the victims. By now their plasm houses are shielded and fortified: sometimes plasm attacks leave the attackers dead or injured, and sometimes there are gun battles that put a dozen people in the morgue or in hospital.

  Aiah directs her department’s efforts toward the most hardened targets she can find, hoping by the efforts of her own professionals to keep the casualties to a minimum. She divides the rewards between her mercenaries and her department’s own treasury, with occasional handouts to informants.

  And the Silver Terror fades. Scores of Handmen are captured trying to leave Caraqui, and thousands of others join Great-Uncle Rathmen in exile. The number of bomb and plasm attacks declines remarkably.

  Progress, Aiah concedes, of a sort.

  She does not see Constantine in person, but only as a presence in video or memoranda or news reports. He floats in a circle far above hers: his fight is in the clouds, and hers in the bog below.

  She tries not to think of him, not to judge him. The endless worry and activity make it easier.

  Her department grows. For once she has her pick of candidates—the war has disrupted enough lives that plenty of qualified people are willing to take a secure government job, even an underpaid one, and even a job in a building that is regularly the subject of enemy attack. Because many of the Handmen are now in hiding, Aiah hires squads of detectives, many former police, people familiar with Caraqui and the ways of the Hand, investigators who can interview witnesses properly and track down the Handmen in their hiding places. She is surprised to discover that many of the ex-police pass their plasm scans: apparently there were honest cops out there, trying to do their best but compromised by the corrupt system in which they worked.

  She is interviewing a candidate for a clerical position when her receptionist tells her that Constantine is on the line. She finishes making an appointment for the young man’s plasm scan, sees him out of the office, then picks up the headset.

  “Yes, Minister.”

  “I’m sorry,” he says at once.

  “For what?”

  “For handing you a thousand impossible tasks. For showing you the worst of my character. For neglecting you for weeks in an unforgivable fashion.”

  There is a moment’s silence.

  “Miss Aiah?” Constantine prompts. “What are you thinking?”

  Aiah feels a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “I’m thinking it’s a start.”

  “I am willing to apologize at greater length, midbreak third shift, if you can clear your schedule.”

  “I’m supposed to be plasm angel for my troops.”

  “Get someone else.”

  She sighs. “I’ll try.”

  “20:00.1 will give you dinner. And, if I can beg a favor of you, may I ask you not to dress as you would at the office? I see nothing but suits and uniforms all day, and something soft would be a pleasure.”

  “I’ll make an effort.”

  “And I will try to make your effort worth your while.”

  Aiah puts the headset on its hook and scrubs her fingers through her hair. Constantine clearly has a romantic interlude on his mind, and she is not certain if she has any romance left in her.

  Not without a month’s vacation in some resort, anyway.

  She throws the switch on her communications array and tells her receptionist to send in the next candidate.

  When he walks in there is a flash of recognition, and Aiah’s heart lifts. Perhaps one of her family…? But no: the new candidate is a stranger.

  And, she thinks, she knows much about him, even if she’s never met him before.

  He is Barkazil, almost certainly. Smooth brown skin, brown eyes, curly black hair, a home-district smile. He’s dressed Jaspeeri-fashion—shiny gray polymer suit and big swatches of lace dripping from wrists and throat—and he carries himself with a self-confidence almost impudent in someone this young.

  He shakes her hand. “Alfeg,” he says, then adds, “of the Cunning People,” before she can ask.

  “Aiah,” she says. “The same.”

  “I know.” His white, confiding smile suggests that he and Aiah share a great many secrets.

  Guns thunder outside, and Aiah’s window, divided for safety’s sake into diamonds by a crosshatching of masking tape, gives a sympathetic rattle.

  She sits behind her desk and pulls his file off the stack. Citizen of the Scope of Jaspeer, sure enough. Degrees in chemistry and plasm use from Margai University. Age: twenty-three. Single. Current employer: United Polymer, Arsenide City Complex, Jaspeer. Current salary: 38,000 dalders per annum.

  He wants to become one of her mages. Aiah looks up.

  “I don’t think we can afford you,” she says.

  “Money isn’t of the first importance,” Alfeg says. “Do you know the Gar-Chavan Bakeries in Old Shorings?”

  “Yes. I grew up in Old Shorings.”

  “My father is Mr. Chavan. Money is not so much a necessity as a way of keeping score.”

  “Ah.” A rich boy: so that’s where he got his self-confidence. “Well, if it’s your only way of keeping score, you’re not going to get a lot of points in Caraqui.”

  He looks at her with a composed, sincere expression, though there is still a degree of amusement dancing behind his eyes. “I want to do something meaningful before I die,” he says. “If that’s not a foolish thing to admit.”

  Perhaps it is, Aiah thinks, in the circles he’s used to.

  The guns boom again, and again the windows rattle.

  “Your search for meaning could get you killed,” Aiah points out. “We’re fighting a war.”

  “That makes it more interesting, from my point of view.”

  “You’re not experienced in police work, I take it?”

  “No.”

  “And though you work with plasm, your experience is in chemistry, which would not seem to be of great relevance.”

  He nods. “But I have considerable experience in telepresence. Dangerous hermetics are always initiated at a distance.”

  “I see. You haven’t ever created or worked with a plasm hound?”

  “I’m afraid not.” He smiles apologetically. “I never had a reason to track anything.”

  She frowns, looks at the file again while the guns boom out. Young, rich person seeks meaning. And once he’s had his little adventure in relevance, he can always return to his social ni
che.

  An option, Aiah reminds herself, not available to herself.

  But even so, she finds herself aching to hire him. He is of the Cunning People, and possibly the only Barkazil in all the Metropolis of Caraqui other than herself. The only thing she finds herself missing about Jaspeer is the ability to bathe in her Barkazil identity.

  In fact, she thinks, being a Barkazil here might have its advantages. In Old Shorings, she’d have to cope with her family. Here, she does not.

  “When can you start work?” she asks.

  “Right away. Within the hour, if you like. I can wire my resignation back to United Polymer before they know I’m gone from my desk.”

  The ease with which he proposes to dispose of an extremely lucrative job seems improbable. And, to someone brought up on legends of Chonah, the immortal so successful at confidence games that she had given her name to a whole species of dubious endeavor, it seems more than a little suspicious.

  She puts down the file and regards him. “You’re not an agent of the Jaspeeri government, by any chance?”

  The question seems to startle him. His eyebrows lift. “No,” Alfeg says. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

  “Or any other government? Or institution? Or criminal enterprise?”

  “Immortal Karlo, no!”

  There is a bang, a lurch, a rumble. The other side of the Palace, facing Lorkhin Island, has taken a hit from something big.

  “You will have to undergo a plasm scan to verify you’re telling the truth,” Aiah says. “It will be very thorough, and is certain to discover any secret allegiances. Do you have a problem with this?”

  He looks uncomfortable for a moment. “I suppose not,” he says.

  “We look for absolute commitment,” Aiah says, “absolute honesty, and absolute discretion.”

  “I suppose my romantic, futile attachment to the lost cause of the Holy League of Karlo will prove no impediment?” Alfeg says. “My grandfather fought for them.”

  The Holy League was one of the many factions that finished off the Metropolis of Barkazi, one of a disheartening, endless list of lost causes from the Barkazi Wars.

  Aiah finds a smile tugging at her lips. “My granddad fought for the Holy League as well,” she says. “I don’t imagine there will be a problem unless you try to resurrect the Holy League here.”

  Alfeg nods graciously, and playfully sketches the Sign of Karlo in the air. “I was rather hoping you would, actually,” he says.

  A peculiar sensation hums along Aiah’s nerves. She looks at him sharply to see if he’s joking or not, but she can’t be certain.

  “I’m here to build the New City,” she says, “not to bring back the Metropolis of Barkazi. Which in any case is thousands of radii away.”

  “Of course.”

  “If you still want the job, I can slot you into a plasm scan early tomorrow. Second shift, first quarterbreak.”

  “Yes. I can manage that, though I’ll have to wire United Polymer and tell them I need another day off.”

  “That’s up to you. You can make an appointment with my secretary.”

  He seems a bit puzzled for a moment, as if he had been expecting something more, and then rises and takes Aiah’s hand.

  “Thank you, Miss Aiah,” he says.

  “Thank you for applying. I appreciate your coming all this distance.” Even, she thinks, if it was in the Rande aerocar your daddy bought you.

  ADAVETH ELECTED HEAD OF ALTERED PEOPLE’S PARTY

  TWISTED UNITE TO SEEK RIGHTS, ECONOMIC OPPORTUNITY

  Buoyed perhaps by the meeting with Alfeg, perhaps by the thought of having Constantine to herself for at least a few hours, Aiah almost overdoes it. She arranges for someone to cover her shift, makes an appointment with one of the Palace hairdressers, gets a manicure while her ringlets are attended to, and then turns up at Constantine’s door promptly at 20:00, wearing heels and a very short dress of blazing scarlet that she’d bought during her first day’s shopping in Caraqui and never found an occasion to wear. She also wears the priceless ivory necklace, with its dangling Tri-gram, that Constantine had given her.

  Judging from their smiles and glowing eyes, Constantine’s guards, at least, appreciate her efforts.

  She is taken through the layers of security that surround Constantine’s apartment-for-a-day, and finds him lounging casually on the couch, hands clasped behind his head. He wears a soft gray chambray shirt with ruffles on the front and wide sleeves, and his long legs, propped up before him, are clad in pleated slacks of a darker gray.

  Aiah is surprised to find Aldemar here. The petite actress sits at a desk, eyes closed, with a copper t-grip in her hand, a little frown on her perfect face.

  Constantine bounds to his feet on Aiah’s entrance, smile spreading over his face. “Welcome!” he cries. Takes her hands, kisses her cheek. “You look lovely!”

  “Thank you.”

  “Did you buy the dress just for me?”

  She gives him a sidelong look. “Perhaps,” she says, and then looks toward the actress.

  “Aldemar has offered to give us a gift,” Constantine says. “I must say it is an inspired one.”

  Aiah considers Aldemar’s intent concentration on her magework. “Shall I thank her now,” she says, “or is she busy?”

  “Perhaps tomorrow.”

  Tomorrow? Aiah wonders. Is Aldemar going to be with them for the rest of the shift?

  But then Aldemar’s eyes flutter open and after a moment’s vague search focus on Aiah and Constantine. “I’ve established the sourceline,” she says. “Are the two of you ready?”

  Constantine steps close to Aiah, puts an arm around her waist. “At your convenience,” he says.

  Aldemar gives a knowing smile, then closes her eyes again. She reaches out, her free hand unfolding as if offering something on her palm, and Aiah’s skin warms to the touch of plasm, and she opens her mouth in surprise at the sheer power she feels surging toward her…

  And blinks at the sight of another place, a room with plush furniture, a glass table set atop a silver metal spiral, place settings for two, a bottle of golden wine waiting in a silver bucket, candles glittering off the gold rims of fine porcelain and the mirror surfaces of silver chafing dishes…

  Aiah gapes in astonishment. Constantine’s voice purrs in her ear.

  “Aldemar has given us a little vacation. Another place, quite secure, far from Caraqui, far from duty and war.”

  “Great Senko,” Aiah murmurs, and touches the Trigram at her throat.

  Constantine steps to the sliding glass balcony door, with its bronze frame and Crosshatch of bronze wire, and closes it—that was the pathway, Aiah realizes, that Aldemar used to teleport them into the apartment.

  Laughing plasm-warmth tingles in Aiah’s bones as her astonishment fades. She bounds forward to the buffet, lifts the lid of a chafing dish at random, sees cutlets of some sort in a brown sauce, with melted cheese; and then she replaces the silver lid and almost dances through the room, runs her fingertips along the plush cushion of a couch, feels the scalloped gilt edge of a mirror, plucks sprigs of jasmine from cloisonne vases to inhale the scent…

  Far from duty and war… Her heart lifts. She had not been away from the Metropolis of Caraqui for a single hour since her arrival.

  She feels drunk with freedom. She turns to look at Constantine, sees the candles glowing gold in his eyes.

  “Where are we?” she asks.

  “Achanos.”

  On the other side of the world, eight or ten thousand radii away. A stable, civilized metropolis, filled with prosperous bankers and healthy industries and glowing with economic health.

  “No guards?” she asks. “No telephones?”

  “There are guards, yes,” Constantine concedes, “but they do not know who it is they guard, nor will they disturb us. Aldemar arranged it so that we might seem to be a group of chromoplay producers meeting to arrange financing.”

  “I’d wish we could stay a month.”<
br />
  He looks at her, and the candlelight dances in his eyes. He takes the sprig of jasmine from her hand and places it behind her ear. “We will try to compress the best parts of that month into the few hours we have.”

  They do their best, opening with wine, fruit, and little layered pastry curled around bits of spiced squab; then on to dinner, a choice of squab, a noodle dish, beef tenderloin, and the cutlet, all in their appropriate sauces, along with fresh vegetables, long crusty loaves of bread, and fruit.

  “Have you heard from your family?” Constantine asks.

  “I’m usually out when they call. My grandmother is the most insistent—she calls every so often to urge me to stock up on disaster supplies, and I’d like to be able to oblige her, but this is the first time I’ve been out of the Palace since I got back from Xurcal Station.”

  Constantine tilts his head, curious. “Your grandmother survived the Barkazi Wars, yes?”

  “Yes. My grandfather fought for the Holy League and ended up a prisoner of the Fastani, and Nana got her whole family out to a refugee center, then to Jaspeer. She raised all the children by herself. She’s tough.”

  “I would like to hear her stories,” Constantine says. “I’ve spent years of my life at war, but I’ve always been a commander, relatively safe and comfortable. I try to visit the real victims, the refugees and the wounded, but it’s usually not safe to go out in public, unsafe not just for me but for the people I’m visiting, and now I share your situation—confined to the Palace—and move from one room to the next.”

  Aiah remembers Constantine in her little apartment back in Jaspeer, the way he looked with such evident curiosity at the life of an ordinary person, and amusement tugs at her lips.

  “And apropos of things Barkazil,” Constantine continues, “we have a brigade of Barkazil troops arriving at the aerodrome next week, and I’d be obliged if you will meet them and say a few words of welcome.”

  Curiosity overcomes Aiah’s fear of speaking in public. “Barkazils? From Barkazi?”

  “No. The Timocracy is running out of troops to send us, and so I have contracted with an agent in Sayven—another metropolis famous for exporting its soldiers. They are called Karlo’s Brigade—and Karlo, I recollect, is the Barkazil immortal.”