City on Fire m-2

by Walter Jon Williams

  So she doesn’t dare tell anyone. It must remain her secret until she can work out both what it means, and what it means for her.

  A detonation slaps her awake. She was unaware that she’d even closed her eyes, that she’d lulled the Adrenaline Monster into letting her drift toward sleep, but now she’s awake again, counting the explosions as shellfire rains down somewhere close.

  Four, five, six. She wipes sweat from the hollow of her throat.

  Another series of shells begins to land, and she realizes she will get no more sleep this shift.

  She rises from the bed, runs her fingers through her hair. It is another day, and it begins early.

  KEREHORN SPEAKS TO PROVISIONAL CONGRESS

  RECALLS “ERA OF STABILITY”

  “THIEVES AND GANGSTERS,” RETORTS TRIUMVIR HILTHI

  The report on the dead cousin lies before Aiah and Ethemark in the meeting room. The mercenary captain who led the raid is there, and so is Kelban, who’d served on the commission when they had last had a catastrophe of this kind.

  “I was there myself,” Aiah says, “with an anima configured to be sensitive to plasm. I saw nothing. No obvious attack.”

  —You interfere overmuch with my pleasures, lady. Hearing that rumbling in your bones, a terrifying chill voice that whispers in your head, that is not seeing.

  “It was Exploding Head Disease,” Kelban mutters. “It’s like the Party Sickness. It’s going around.”

  He has been most thorough in his investigation. The mages involved in this case were different from those of the prior case, so there was no single secret assassin working within the PED. Each of the mages involved was interviewed, and background checks performed to make certain none was involved with the dead gangster or could have any reason to want him dead.

  “Do we give everyone involved plasm scans?” Kelban says. “I’d hate to—there are potential dangers involved—but if we want to clear our own people of any suspicion, it’s the only way to do it.”

  Ethemark and Aiah look at each other. She reads assent in him, considers the matter, finally shakes her head.

  “No,” she says. “I have to trust our people. It was a mage from the Hand who outwitted us, some enemy of the suspect perhaps, or possibly some elaborate form of suicide.”

  “Remember the time-bomb theory I mentioned before?” Ethemark says. “That somehow they managed to place in themselves a plasm device designed to kill if they are ever apprehended? Perhaps we should take it more seriously.”

  “Perhaps we should.” Aiah is content enough that they should chase up this wrong alley.

  “One of the witnesses had another idea,” the mercenary lieutenant offers. “I didn’t put it in the report because, well, it was just too wild.”

  A warning tone sounds along Aiah’s spine. But Kelban turns to the lieutenant and says, “Which witness?”

  “One of the whores. The older one. She said that she’d met the suspect before, when he was using another body, and that she’d probably meet him again.”

  Kelban gives an incredulous laugh. “He jumps around from body to body? Had she just seen Bride of the Slaver Mage or something?”

  The lieutenant gives an embarrassed smile. “Maybe. But she said that she’d met him twice before, in different, uh, incarnations. All gangsters. He called her agency, I guess. Once he took her to Gunalaht for a weekend. She said that his personality was, ah, repellent in a very distinctive way, so that she recognized him from one incarnation to the next, but that he paid very well and always provided plenty of liquor and food. And she also said she’d heard that at least one of his former incarnations had died, of that Party Sickness we keep hearing about.”

  “The girl probably has so many repellent customers they all just seem alike,” Aiah says.

  Kelban grins. “She thinks he’s a ghost?”

  The lieutenant shrugs. “Something unnatural, anyway. Something that can jump from one body to another and kill it when he’s done. An ice man, maybe. Or even a Slaver Mage.”

  There is a moment’s silence. Slaver Mages are a serious matter.

  And the idea of an ice man, or hanged man, is not one Aiah wants anyone ever to mention again.

  Aiah closes the file before her. “I don’t believe in ice men,” she says. “I’m not sure if I believe in modern Slaver Mages, either, but if there’s a Slaver working among the gangsters, it’s their problem. I propose to accept the report as written unless we have some more real evidence before us.”

  There is silence.

  The report is accepted, and goes into the files. Aiah thanks Kelban on behalf of the department, then adjourns the meeting.

  She goes to her office and sags into her chair.

  Perhaps, she thinks, she should find some way of telling Taikoen that he should vary his women a little more.

  PARQ ENDORSES PLATFORM OF SPIRITUAL RENEWAL PARTY

  The Barkazil troops, flown with their equipment from Sayven into neutral Barchab, come across the border into Caraqui in their own armored vehicles, the column protected by a swarm of telepresent military mages alert for any sign of trouble. The bivouac is already prepared, a parking garage appropriated by the government, concrete walls and floors now covered with bronze mesh to keep out enemy mages. No incidents occur—perhaps security measures have worked for a change.

  Aiah is sent as official government greeter, and she takes Khorsa and Alfeg, the only two Barkazils she knows of within three thousand radii. She wears her medal pinned to her lapel, in hopes it might establish another degree of com-monship. The War Ministry provides a full set of commissary specialists with a buffet meal for an entire brigade, and also a camera and soundman to record the event for posterity. Aiah also brings an amplifier, some speakers, and a platform to speak from, so when the first armored car rolls into the empty concrete parking bay, it is to the familiar sound of Arno’s “Barkazi Monday.”

  Aiah has never been much of an Arno fan, but he’s the entertainer all Barkazils recognize—even in the oddly distorted version caused by the government music player’s ill-tuned tweaking of the celluloid etching belt—and so Aiah stands between the speakers, waving and smiling as the vehicles roar past and the soldiers, most of them sitting casually on the hatches, recognize the music and break into smiles and laughter.

  The soldiers are mostly young, with a few older hands among them, and most of them show at least some Barkazil ancestry: the smooth brown skin, the brown eyes, the thick curls, or some diluted variation of these. But the three generations since the Barkazi Wars have left their mark, and there are many signs of the pale, light-eyed Sayvenese mixed with the Barkazil, mostly visible in cast of feature: longer heads, sturdier bodies, lantern jaws.

  The armored cars and personnel carriers are not burning hydrogen, but a less dangerous, less explosive, hermetically created hydrocarbon fuel, and the stuff doesn’t burn cleanly: the garage fills with fumes and Aiah, half-deafened by the speakers on either side, tries not to shrink from the stench.

  Khorsa is wearing her full witch regalia—red dress, starched petticoats, and gem-encrusted geomantic foci gleaming on her turban—and the soldiers recognize the costume, flashing magic finger-signs at her as they roar past. Many of them have good-luck foci worn as charms on caps or helmets, and weapons strapped with cult fetishes are waved benignly in Khorsa’s direction. The vehicles each bear a discreet yellow Holy League badge somewhere on the armor. Alfeg’s dress is more conservative—he’s still wearing his Jaspeeri wardrobe, with its heavy lace—and he smiles and waves with the assurance of a young politician shaking hands at a factory gate.

  “I have done as you asked,” he says in an aside, voice barely audible over the booming music. “I’m trying to find employment for Barkazils. You may have a pair of mages applying for work later this week.”

  “Mages?” Aiah raises her eyebrows. “You happened to find a pair of Barkazil mages wandering around Caraqui looking for a job?”

  He waves as vehicles roll past
. “They’re people I went to school with. I happened to know they were looking for opportunities, so I called them and let them know we had vacancies.”

  “Well.” She considers. “It isn’t exactly what I asked you to do, but as long as these newcomers are qualified, I could use the hires.” And then she smiles. “They can help you find work for others.”

  Alfeg gives a little wince.

  The last of the vehicles enters and the bronze-mesh gate rolls shut behind it. The soldiers gather around the speakers, and Aiah is awed by their sheer numbers. Millions of Barkazils live in Jaspeer, mostly in little ethnic enclaves like Old Shorings where Aiah grew up, but she has never seen so many of the Cunning People in one place. Karlo’s Brigade has nine thousand soldiers, and although there isn’t room for all of them here, they’re crowded shoulder to shoulder as far as Aiah can see. She finds herself grinning down at them, lifted by the sheer joy of their presence.

  Just then the Caraqui music player gives a final wrench to the celluloid etching belt, and the belt disintegrates, along with the instrumental on Arno’s version of “Happy as a Metropolitan,” the distinctive sound of the three-string Barkazi fiddle turning into a nerve-shivering screech. The soldiers give a good-natured laugh as Aiah slaps at the machine’s chrome on-off lever. The sound, echoing from thousands of throats, threatens to float her from the stage.

  She reaches for a microphone and tries to ignore the gleaming lenses of the camera that whirs at her from below the platform.

  “On behalf of the government and the Barkazil community of Caraqui,” she says, “I’d like to welcome you all to our metropolis.” There is a modest cheer and some applause, and Aiah finds herself grinning—these are her people, she thinks, and there are thousands of them, and even though she doesn’t know a single person here, she hasn’t realized how much she’s missed them until now.

  Her usual terror of speaking in front of an audience has flown away. She feels at home.

  “My name is Aiah,” she says, “and I’m director of the Plasm Enforcement Division of the Ministry of Resources, which”—she grins—“makes me a plasm cop. These are two of my mages, Khorsa and Alfeg. We’ll do our best to make sure that your mages have all the plasm they need to keep you safe and help you do your jobs.”

  There is a more enthusiastic cheer at this. Keeping their military mages supplied with plasm is a task dear to the hearts of the brigade.

  Now that the wind wafting through the bronze mesh is dispersing the engine fumes, Aiah can scent cooking smells wafting toward them from the buffet. “I mentioned a moment ago that the Barkazil community welcomes you. This was easy for me to say, because”—she glances at her two companions—“we three up to this point seem to constitute the entire Barkazil community of Caraqui.” There is a rumble of laughter from her audience, a few wild cheers.

  “But now,” she says, looking out over the huge sea of faces, “I see there are thousands of us!”

  A roar goes up, a sound loud enough to carry Aiah back to the Shield. She looks out at the surging storm of humanity and feels as if she could spread her arms and fly out over their heads, supported only by their goodwill.

  “I’d like you all to know,” she continues, “that we’ll do what we can to make you feel at home, and to keep you well fed and supplied. If you’re not being provided with something you need and you can’t get it anywhere else, please have your commanders—your commanders—call me or my associates. We might have an idea who to talk to.”

  Aiah hopes this won’t actually happen. Her knowledge of the intricacies of War Ministry bureaucracy is nil.

  “I won’t keep you from your meal,” she finishes. “We welcome you to Caraqui—now go enjoy your dinner!”

  She sketches the Sign of Karlo in the air, and there is the biggest cheer of the day. Aiah’s heart leaps for the sky. The War Ministry’s cameraman lowers his chromocamera and gives her a wink. Most of the soldiers stream off to their meal, and Aiah steps down from her platform to meet their commander, Brigadier Ceison. He is a thin, tall, stooped man with a bushy mustache, and he politely invites Aiah to dine with him as soon as he has his headquarters and staff sufficiently organized. He introduces Aiah to the brigade’s mage-major, a burly uniformed woman named Aratha whose short brown curls and light green eyes demonstrate mixed Barkazil-Sayvenese ancestry. She is pure soldier and all business, and she looks dubiously at Khorsa, with her bright colors and folk-magic jewelry.

  “I need to get my people on patrol,” she says, “so they can help defend our position and familiarize themselves with Caraqui. And for that I need to get some workers up here to give me access to plasm.”

  “That hasn’t happened yet?” Aiah says. “I’ll talk to the ministry and find out what happened.”

  “Thank you. There’s usually problems of this nature at the start, and knowing someone to call in the right ministry is always a bonus.”

  Well, Aiah thinks, I asked for this.

  Duty calls, but Aiah finds herself reluctant to leave, so she wanders through the huge concrete space, talking to the soldiers. She gets asked out about twenty times, and groped twice, in a perfectly friendly, inquiring way; but she slaps the hands aside with a grin and declines all invitations.

  “They are from the Holy League,” Alfeg declares after obligations finally drag them away. “After peace was imposed, the last of the Holy Leaguers withdrew to Sayven with their entire army. They became mercenaries. These are their children or grandchildren.”

  They are sharing the backseat of the big armored automobile that the ministry has loaned them for this occasion. Aiah peers out at the city through thick plates of bulletproof plastic and sees no sign of war at all, nothing but people heading places on their business.

  “The Barkazi Wars ended two generations ago,” she says. “And these are still soldiers?”

  “Sayven exports a lot of soldiers. But it’s not the national industry, as it is in the Timocracy, so we don’t hear about it as much.”

  If her grandfather hadn’t been captured, Aiah thinks, she might have grown up in Sayven, in a military family. She wonders if her life would have taken her into the army, if she would have found herself a military mage serving alongside Aratha.

  “Does the Holy League still matter to them?”

  “Oh yes.” Blithely. “They’re convinced we’ll prevail, given time, and that Barkazi will be returned to us—to the Cunning People.”

  Aiah smiles. Alfeg hadn’t been lying when he accused himself of a sentimental attachment to his grandfather’s cause.

  “Well,” she says, “I hope it happens.”

  And then she catches Khorsa’s sidelong look, Khorsa who has come here—possibly—because she thinks Aiah will somehow bring all the exiles home and restore Barkazi, and Aiah feels her jaw tighten.

  I do not want you to need me this way! she thinks in sudden fury, but she swallows it, and makes herself concentrate on business—PED business—until the armored car rolls across the gilded bridge to the Palace.

  FOOD FACTORY DESTROYED IN LOTUS DISTRICT

  GOVERNMENT BLAMES SILVER TERROR

  What waits in her office is not calculated to improve her temper: a Dalavan priest, young and burly, wearing the gray robes and soft mushroom hat of his order.

  “I am the Excellent Togthan,” he says with a gracious bow, and presents Aiah with an envelope embossed with an ornate red wax seal.

  “The triumvir and Holy, Parq, has kindly written this letter of introduction.”

  Togthan’s voice, like Parq’s, is soft, and his expression gracious. It puts Aiah on her guard at once.

  Aiah opens the letter and frowns at it. This will introduce Togthan, an Excellent of the Red Slipper Order—Aiah casts a surreptitious glance at Togthan’s footwear and discovers he is wearing black wing tips—who is, by my authority, appointed Advisor to the Plasm Enforcement Division. You are requested to provide him with an office and total access to any information he may require, including complete
details on the scope and nature of all relevant PED activities.

  Anger knots Aiah’s stomach, but she tries to keep her face immobile as she glances at Togthan over the letter. “Advisor?” she says. “What kind of advisor?”

  “Advisor on spiritual matters,” Togthan says with another bow, “and of course on political direction. Triumvir Parq wants to see all government departments unified behind the triumvirate.”

  “I see,” Aiah says. She wants to crumple the letter and fling it in Togthan’s face, but instead says, “I wish I had known you were coming. I would have had your office ready.”

  “It was decided at the cabinet meeting just after shift change. Since the PED has become such an important part of government, I am one of the first advisors assigned.”

  “Yes.” She glances around her receptionist’s office, looking for a way to escape. “Please take a seat for a few minutes, and I’ll try to arrange an office for you. Please have some coffee. There’s a meeting after quarterbreak, and I’ll introduce you to the department and division heads.”

  “Thank you, Miss Aiah.” Togthan swirls his robes as he sits, a compliant smile on his face.

  “What the hell is this?” Aiah demands as soon as she can get Constantine on the telephone. “Who is Togthan? What is Parq’s spy doing in my department?”

  The unusual lack of emphasis in Constantine’s deep voice signals that he is choosing his words carefully. “The triumvirate honored Parq’s request for political supervision of all government departments—especially Resources and the War Ministry.”

  “Those are your portfolios! This is aimed at you.”

  “If the triumvirate is nervous about an outsider heading two departments crucial to the survival of the regime—one who is furthermore the head of a political party that may run in opposition to their own—I cannot entirely blame them. Try to work with Togthan if you can.”