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.
THE GOLDEN LADY—FREEDOM FIGHTER OR PLASM THIEF
TOMORROW ON THE WIRE
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.
JABZI ATTACKS “GOLDEN LADY”
AIAH “COMMON CRIMINAL,” SAYS INFORMATION MINISTER
“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.
MARTIAL LAW TO BE EASED
TERRORISTS, SILVER HAND STILL SUBJECT TO EMERGENCY POWERS
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.
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