“Atmospheric generation?” Rohder’s watery blue eyes gaze thoughtfully at Constantine.
“Yes.”
“You’ll need some highly trained people.” “You’re talking about building things out of air?” Aiah asks.
Constantine nods. “Hermetics transforms one thing into another, base matter into food, say, or plastic. Why not a freestanding, plasm-generating structure assembled—reassembled really—out of thin air?” He shrugs. “It’s not a new idea… There are mages who specialize in such transformations, in places inaccessible or dangerous for people. Reactor cores, say.”
Rohder puffs as he muses on the notion. “Those mages are too specialized for what you have in mind. You’ll need to create teams of specialists from scratch.”
Constantine gives a shrug. “One thing a war leaves is rubble, and rubble would seem to be the perfect experimental medium. If things go wrong in training, we create only more rubble. It seems a safe enough experiment, well worth the risk.”
“If you say so,” Aiah says. “But it seems horribly complex.”
“Mathematics is complex,” Constantine says, “but it begins with one plus one.”
Aiah turns to the golden figures shimmering in Rohder’s computer display, and feels unease roll through her mind. “Some unanticipated results are to be expected,” she says, quoting Rohder; and the others nod. Constantine’s eyes are agleam.
“One plus one,” he says, “and then you keep going,” and he laughs, happy in the world of the unanticipated.
PROVISIONALS ACCUSE GOVERNMENT OF BREAKING TRUCE
“SIMPLE REDEPLOYMENTS,” SAYS GOVERNMENT SPOKESMAN
After the meeting, as they walk toward Aiah’s office, Constantine observes, “I understand you have paid two visits to Karlo’s Brigade and General Ceison.”
“Yes.” She glances up at him. “They are my army—my power base, as you would call it—and I want to know them better.”
“How well have you succeeded?”
“Somewhat. I have asked a great many naive questions and, one Cunning Person to another, General Ceison and Mage-Major Aratha have answered them without condescending too very much.”
He looks down at her, and the calculation in his glance belies the humor in his tone. “I hope you will let the government borrow your army for this offensive.”
Aiah answers the glance and not the voice. “Perhaps I will, if they are not simply to be thrown away. Ceison told me of your plans for the Dalavan Guard, hurled in a diversionary attack against the Island.”
“May we not speak so loudly when it comes to these matters?” Constantine cautions. He lifts one brow in thought. “I wonder where your friends heard that story. Surely not from any official briefing.”
Aiah smiles and keeps her voice low. “We private armies keep track of one another. I understand that Parq is very happy with his army’s prominent role in the offensive, but then Parq is very vain and not a general.”
“Whereas you are.”
“Whereas,” she corrects, “I hope to be, and I listen to those who are. My first lesson concerned the difference between an offensive and a suicide.”
Constantine sighs. “Assaulting Lorkhin Island is a job best suited to fanatics who do not measure the odds. And Parq has raised a unit of fanatics who will be very useful as long as the war lasts, and very inconvenient afterward. If they join their faith’s long line of martyrs, both they and I will have reason to be satisfied.”
Aiah tries to view this slaughter from the point of view of one of the Cunning People. A true daughter of Karlo and Chonah would have no qualms at two enemies massacring each other.
Looking through the twin organic lenses of a human being, however, Aiah finds the idea of the carnage more than a little horrifying.
But ultimately the Dalavan Guard is Parq’s worry, not hers. “As long as my army is not added to the martyrs’ list,” she says, “there will be plenty of satisfaction to go around.”
“Your army consists of motorized troops who will be used to exploit any breakthrough. They will capitalize on any victory won at the cost of others.” Sharply. “I hope that will satisfy you.”
“Yes, r think so.”
She wonders about another private army, Sorya’s Force of the Interior, a more nebulous organization than the Dalavan Guard, and far less inclined to self-immolation.
“I hope you will enjoy your army for the time being,” Constantine says. “You may not have it for long.”
She looks at him. “Yes? And this means?”
“Your mission to the occupied zone may be canceled.” He looks petulant. “We can’t seem to find a safe place for the meeting. For security’s sake it has to be within the area the Escaliers control. It can’t be in any of the buildings they actually occupy, because we can’t trust every single member of their brigade—it only takes one to inform. We had a safe apartment set up, but then Great-Uncle Rathmen moved a detachment of his tax collectors into the building—the Silver Hand is collecting the Provisionals’ taxes for them!” He shakes his head in disbelief, then mutters, “At least that means the Provisionals will never have any money.”
Relief dances along Aiah’s veins. She will not have to enter enemy territory after all—she can quietly vacate her unearned position as Queen of Barkazi and go back to chasing gangsters down Caraqui’s brackish back alleys.
But Aiah finds that the initial sensation of relief is followed by an unanticipated sense of loss. She had been, in some way, ready for the thing—for the negotiations, the tense bargaining under threat of capture and death, ultimate barter for ultimate stakes… Aiah the Cunning had almost been looking forward to it.
“We’re checking out other places for the meeting,” Constantine continues, “but the buildings not occupied by soldiers are filled with refugees, and that’s not a secure situation, either.”
They have reached Aiah’s office. She puts her hand on the doorjamb, sees Ethemark quietly waiting to see her, a file in his hand. “And the Sorya option?” she asks. The end run through Lanbola.
“Still undecided.”
Her eyes stray to Ethemark. “Have you considered the half-worlds for the meeting?” she asks, and in the hesitation that precedes Constantine’s reply, she knows the answer.
Aiah the Cunning, deep in Aiah’s mind, gives a cry of triumph.
“May I intrude on your meeting with Ethemark?” Constantine asks. “Strange how, under the pressure of duty, I seem to have forgotten one of my significant constituencies.”
PEACE TALKS DEADLOCK
ENVOY LICINIAS TO “MAKE FINAL EFFORT”
The envoy Licinias moves through his final meeting with grace, concealing any disappointment he may feel. Perhaps he is not disappointed after all, Aiah thinks; perhaps he is too wise ever to have expected results. He has been through all this before.
“In view of the government’s inability to make further concessions,” Licinias says, “I must regrettably declare the negotiations at an impasse.”
Faltheg, speaking for the triumvirate, gravely thanks Licinias for his attempts at creating a settlement, and then goes on to offer his thanks to the Polar League for supporting his mission.
The government, indeed, had made few concessions. They had offered to postpone the elections for a further six weeks, and to allow the Provisionals to participate: but Kerehorn and his advisors, coldly looking at the numbers of votes they could expect from their remaining loyalists, rejected the terms, and instead demanded a place on the triumvirate and six seats on the cabinet. The government’s masterful, scornful reply, delivered by Constantine, is broadcast not only within Caraqui but throughout the world, in most places simply for its entertainment value.
“We are willing, in any case, to continue the cease-fire,” Faltheg continues.
Licinias takes formal note of this, then rises from the table. There will be a dinner afterward in his honor, with toasts and speeches by notables, but in the meantime there is to be a cocktail party.
Aiah drifts through it, chatting to people she barely knows about things that within minutes she can barely remember—her mind is focused on Landro’s Escaliers—and then she finds herself near Licinias. He bows to her in his courtly way, and she approaches him.
“I’m sorry that your mission wasn’t successful,” she says.
Gentle regret informs Licinias’s tone. “It was not entirely unexpected. I anticipate another round of meetings, after the usual sad experience tarnishes the gleaming optimism of the participants.”
“You think the war will go on, then?”
“Experience suggests that most wars end in stalemate. Every building in our world is a fortress, and our world holds very little but buildings. It is too expensive in terms of both money and lives to capture them all.”
He glances over Aiah’s shoulder, and she turns her head to follow his gaze, directed at Constantine. “The Cheloki Wars stalemated repeatedly,” Licinias says, “despite your friend’s great military skill. He had the grace to negotiate an exile for himself, when it became obvious that his enemies would never give in.”
/ can’t let the nightmares loose again! Aiah remembers Constantine raving and weeping in the privacy of his office, the tears splashing on her hand, her own terror at seeing the wild fear unleashed in him…
She summons confidence. “I think that he may have learned a few things in the years since.”
Licinias gives a cold nod. “I hope that is the case.” There is a moment of silence, and then he looks at her with a kind of calculating glance that Aiah finds reminiscent of Constantine. “I have been giving thought to the subject of our last conversation,” he begins.
“I’m flattered that you remember,” Aiah says.
“It is difficult to forget. You remain singularly prominent on video, Miss Aiah.”
She smiles. “I don’t watch much video, I’m afraid.”
“Still, your prominence remains a fact. And then, in combination with this fact, I consider another fact—that the government is clearly preparing an offensive with both its mercenaries and its rebuilt army. And I further consider that when the military situation threatens stalemate, a natural reaction is to attempt subversion of the other side’s forces. And then lastly, when I consider the peculiar mix of troops on both sides, a reason for your sudden prominence begins to suggest itself……”
A cold fist closes on Aiah’s insides. She tries to keep her smile stuck to her face. “I wonder, Mr. Licinias,” she asks, “if you have shared this insight with anyone?”
Mild brown eyes gaze levelly from his lined copper face. “It is not my job to share insights with people at random. I am a listener, rather, and a conveyor of other people’s messages.”
She considers this—her smile is aching—and says, “That is not quite an answer, Mr. Licinias.”
“True.” He pauses for a thoughtful moment, then speaks. “Let us consider, therefore, what the future implies. If the war drags on, certain things, hitherto obscure, shall become more apparent. The Provisionals have sponsors whose naked interest becomes more and more obvious the longer the war continues. The more obvious their interest, the more their prestige becomes involved, and the more difficult it is to negotiate a retreat from their support of the Provisionals. Any attempt to resolve peace becomes multisided, counting all the Provisionals’ sponsors, and I assure you that it’s hard enough to stop a war when only two sides are involved. The more complex the matter, the more work for me, and in all probability the less desirable the outcome…” He gives another courtly bow. “And so I wish your video appearances all the success they so clearly deserve.”
She returns his bow. “Thank you, sir.”
He drifts away, an enigmatic smile on his lips, and Aiah stands for a moment watching him. A thrill sings along her nerves at the thought of playing this game at such a high level; though another, more anxious, level of her mind is carefully replaying the conversation to make certain it meant what she thinks it did.
She looks over her shoulder for Constantine, possibly to enlist his aid as interpreter, but finds he is talking to Sorya. Though she hadn’t appeared at any of the negotiations, she is nevertheless present, like some carrion bird, at their demise. She is dressed in her green uniform, polished boots light as slippers on her feet. She tosses her head with a swirl of blonde-streaked hair, and Aiah hears her tinkling laugh. Aiah scowls.
“Excuse me, miss.” She starts and discovers two men maneuvering a video camera into position. She makes way for it.
The negotiations weren’t shown on video, but their termination will be. If Licinias’s theory holds, there should be a great many long and uninteresting speeches.
Licinias is right. Aiah drowses through the lengthy platitudes, her mind elsewhere, in the faraway ruined landscape where Landro’s Escaliers, her distant kinsmen, hold ajar the gate to Constantine’s victory.
PROVISIONALS DENOUNCE DIRECTOR OF PED
“AIAH IS CONSTANTINE’S ASSASSIN,” SAYS KEREHORN
“MURDER CLIQUE” CONDEMNED
After the speeches are over, Aiah walks to the offices of the PED—they are on her way, and she might as well check on the next shift’s operations. When she goes to fetch a file she finds Constantine in the secure room, a stack of files on the desk in front of him. His skin is drawn taut over his face, and there is a haunted look in his eyes, as if he is gazing into an agony from which there is no escape.
Aiah’s mouth goes dry as she sees him, but his attention snaps to her as soon as she steps within his sight, and there is no way to withdraw… so she presses the day’s code into the pad, opens the barred gate, enters, closes it behind her.
Constantine does not speak, but watches her as she walks to the file drawer she wants, unlocks it, slides open the bronze-fronted door on its silent bearings, and finds the folder she needs. She takes the file, closes the drawer, and makes her way out. Her nape hair crawls beneath his steady gaze.
There was hatred in the twist of his lip, she saw. Hatred and contempt. Though whether for her, or himself, or the world itself she cannot tell.
FEARS OF RENEWED FIGHTING BOTH SIDES STOCKPILE MUNITIONS
Constantine embraces her, a fierce hug that drives the breath from her lungs. Then Aldemar, the copper transference grip already in her hand, gives her a gentler embrace. The briefest sensation of plasm tingles on Aiah’s skin. Aldemar seats herself, closes her eyes, focuses.
Constantine’s eyes burn into hers. “Come back,” he says, voice low, an earthquake rumble in Aiah’s bones. Aldemar tilts her head back, stiffens, throws out an arm. A surge of plasm startles Aiah, and she takes in a breath…
And expels it in another place. Warm, humid darkness surrounds her, strangely strung with holiday lights. The air smells of decay, brackish water, fecal matter. A generator’s hum is oppressively loud in the enclosed space.
A little gray man approaches, strung lights glowing in his huge eyes. He takes a cigar out of his mouth and speaks in a rasping voice. “I’m Sergeant Lamarath,” he says. “Remember me? Welcome back to Aground.”
TWENTY
Many of the twisted in Aground, Aiah observes, are carrying guns—part of the payment, she suspects, for the risk Lamarath is taking here. The ominous half-human figures, shadows coiled around oiled weapons, are visible here and there as she takes a brief tour around the floating half-world.
Constantine has sent loyal Cheloki soldiers, Statius and Cornelius, to secure the place ahead of time, though they admit there isn’t much to be done. “If we’re attacked by the Escaliers or anyone else,” Statius says, “this place won’t hold out two minutes. Mages could set it alight or just smash it to pieces. And if anyone gets a heavy weapon down here and starts pumping shells into this junkyard, it’ll come apart.”
Aldemar is standing by, Aiah knows, to teleport her away in case things go wrong, but the problem is how to let Aldemar know when it’s necessary. The protocols of the negotiation state that neither side is to send mages into the area,
and that any signs of telepresence are to be taken as hostile. Statius and Cornelius have been provided with a radio, but it hasn’t been tested—they daren’t broadcast for fear the Provisionals would pick up the signal.
There is, as it happens, a telephone. The Agrounders have hijacked some phone lines, and Aiah, because a call to unoccupied Caraqui would almost certainly not go through, has been given a number in Gunalaht she can call if an emergency threatens.
Aiah appreciates all the effort on her behalf, but suspects that in a genuine emergency none of them would be worth a half-dinar.
Aiah is again taken on a tour of Lamarath’s arcane headquarters, marine superstructure mated with surface vehicles and stray bits of portable housing, then strung with red holiday lights. The meetings themselves will be conducted where Aiah first met Lamarath, in his shielded office with its locked metal cabinets and massive desk. Aiah’s nerves chill at the sight of the serpentine Dr. Romus still hanging from his hook. Romus smiles at Aiah from his brown homunculus face, his wreath of tentacles waving hello; Aiah stammers through a greeting.
“You’ll be staying in the next room.” Statius opens an oval hatch to reveal a small room set up with a bed and a bedside stand. Bronze mesh is tacked to the walls, floor, and ceiling, reinforcing whatever shielding may already be present under the plaster. “This here,” opening another hatch from the office, “leads to a shielded back passage,” more bronze mesh, “which leads to an exterior hatch.”
The hatch is scaled to Lamarath’s size, and Aiah and her guards have to bend low to exit into the darkness outside. “We’ve clamped a pipe here,” Cornelius says, revealing a vertical pipe whose lower end disappears into the black water below. “We’ve put a tank of air and a regulator down there, about three paces down,” Cornelius says, then looks up in sudden uncertainty. “We were told you know how to use them, yes?”
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