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 wingtips— 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. “Kindly 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.”
“The triumvirate?” Aiah asks. “All three of them? All three of them voted to put Parq’s spies into your departments?”
“Hilthi was against it. But Parq can be persuasive, and Faltheg voted with him, after some hesitation.”
“What am I going to do with this man?” Aiah cries. “He’s going to be creeping around and—”
“You will work with him,” Constantine says. There is a steely edge to his voice. “Our government has concluded that he is necessary, and he will be far less of a danger to you if he is indulged. The best possible thing is for you to become his greatest friend in all the world.”
Aiah snarls silently into the mouthpiece and wishes she could tell some of her military police to chuck Mr. the Excellent Togthan off the roof into a canal.
“Right,” she says. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Constantine’s next question is artfully designed to prevent her from thinking of another protest. “Did things go well with Karlo’s Brigade?”
Aiah is still mentally enjoying Togthan’s arc into the canal, but follows Constantine’s shift well enough to answer.
“Oh yes. They seemed happy to see us. Their mage-major was complaining, though, that she hadn’t got access to plasm as yet.”
“I will make certain appropriate action is taken.”
“Thank you.”
Aiah presses the disconnect button, then calls her department heads to tell them that the Excellent Togthan will be joining the department, and that they are all to treat him with the utmost consideration.
“It’s because your boss sold us out,” Ethemark says. Rage in the little man’s deep voice keeps throwing his voice into squeaky upper registers. “He spoke in favor of Parq’s proposal at today’s cabinet meeting.”
“Constantine?” Aiah asks. “Is that who you’re talking about?”
“Yes. Your damned Constantine. It was bad enough when he supported the Dalavan Militia. But now because of Constantine, Parq’s spies will be in every branch of government “
Aiah struggles with bewilderment, tries to formulate a response. “Are you sure?” she manages. “Who is your informant?”
“Minister Adaveth,” Ethemark says. “And Minister Myhorn also. They were both astounded by Constantine’s attitude.”
“There must,” Aiah says, “must be a reason...”
“Constantine is allying himself with Parq. He and the Dalavans together can dominate Caraqui— neither of the other two triumvirs has a following. Adaveth and Myhorn are both considering whether or not to resign.”
“No.” Aiah’s response is instant. “There is—” Her mind stammers, and she tries to work out what is happening. “There has to be something else happening here. If Adaveth and Myhorn resigned, it would be giving Parq exactly what he wants.”
There is a grudging silence.
“This has to be some kind of stratagem,” Aiah says, and hopes she is right. “Give it time.”
“I have no choice but to ‘give it time.’ We of the twisted have been compelled to cultivate patience for many centuries now. ‘Giving it time,’” he snarls, “is what we know best.”
“Can we meet outside of the office?” Aiah says. “In my apartment, say? We can attempt to work out some strategies to limit Togthan’s influence.”
“Hm.” There is a brief silence, then, “Very well. Let’s do that.”
Aiah does some rearranging and gives Togthan an office with Alfeg. Put her own spy, she thinks, next to Parq’s spy. Then she calls Togthan in to see her.
“I apologize for the delay,” she says. "The war and ou
r expansion has caused a good deal of disarray.”
Togthan seats himself in the offered chair with a graceful swirl of his gray robes. His voice is smooth and unhurried. “I understand,” he says, and sips delicately from his cup of coffee.
“Because of the shortage of office space,” Aiah says, “I’m afraid you’re going to have to share an office with one of our mages.” Togthan frowns— the first hint of disapproval he has allowed himself, so Aiah hastens to add, “But he will often be in the Operations Room or otherwise working through telepresence, and I hope he won’t be too much of a bother.”
“Well. . .” Togthan says, “I suppose that if it will assist with the war effort, I daresay I can manage the inconvenience.”
If I can put up with you, Aiah thinks, you can put up with Alfeg.
“I observe,” Togthan says, “simply in walking through the corridors on my way here, that there are many of the polluted flesh working in this department.”
“I’m sorry?” Aiah says.
Togthan flashes an apologetic smile. “Beg pardon,” he says, “I introduced a Dalavan term. I refer of course to those who have been genetically altered.”
“Oh. I see.” Aiah hesitates, chooses words carefully. “When our department began we were underfunded, and had to hire those who we could. The, ah, altered were often the most available, because they were denied opportunity elsewhere.”
Togthan smiles and sips his coffee. “That is no longer the case, surely? Your pay is more attractive now, I have heard, and there are many more looking for work on account of the disruptions caused by the war.”
“Our policy has always been to hire the most qualified.”
“Miss Aiah, I’m sure no one desires that you hire the incompetent or deficient.” Togthan’s smile is all reason. “But there is much popular prejudice against the polluted flesh in Caraqui. I know that they are not to blame for their condition— our Dalavan faith is just in that regard— but nevertheless if there were too many of the twisted seen in this department, it might bias the people against you. Whereas if the population of your department more accurately reflected the composition of the population of the metropolis, I think you would find in the people a greater reservoir of goodwill toward your efforts.”
Aiah recalls Constantine’s wish that she become Togthan’s best friend, and compels herself to grace her clenched teeth with a smile. “I’ll give your wishes my best consideration,” she says.
Togthan sips his coffee again, his confiding smile an answer to hers. “I’m gratified that we understand one another," he says.
Oh yes, Aiah thinks, I understand, all right.
TRIUMVIR HILTHI DECLINES TO ORGANIZE POLITICAL PARTY
WISHES TO REMAIN ABOVE POLITICS
“WILL ENDORSE IDEAS, NOT CANDIDATES”
The Kestrel Room faces the guns of Lorkhin Island and is closed on that account; and so Aiah’s luncheon with Aldemar takes place at Dragonfly, a restaurant on the other side of the Palace, with a view of the distant blue volcanoes of Barchab. Dragonfly is smaller than the Kestrel Room, without its intimate alcoves and private rooms, and without its luxurious wood paneling; but it is a brighter place, its white plaster walls featuring strips of dark glossy polymer. It looks out over Caraqui with multifaceted, insectlike eyes, each reflecting a slightly different Caraqui, a slightly different plane. Along the walls and between the tables are fish tanks filled with scaled, rainbow-colored exotica, few of which Aiah imagines are actually to be found swimming in Caraqui’s sea below.
The actress wears a russet-colored rollneck, gray pleated slacks with nubbles and a subdued russet stripe, tasteful gold jewelry, suede boots with high heels. Her skin is flawless— the result more of genetics and lavish care, Aiah suspects, than plasm rejuvenation treatments, though beneath carefully applied cosmetic Aiah can see evidence for the latter, a kind of eerie, ambiguous glow notable more for its absence of character than anything else. Aiah finds herself envying Aldemar her epidermis far more than her celebrity.
Aiah orders fried noodles with prawns, vegetables, and chiles. Aldemar asks for half a grapefruit.
“You eat worse than I do,” Aiah says in surprise.
Aldemar’s answer is matter-of-fact. “It’s my job.”
“I guess you’re paid well enough for it.”
A smile tweaks its way onto Aldemar’s features. “Yes. Otherwise I’d never eat another damn grapefruit as long as I live.”
“What has become of the chromoplay you were working on? The one you abandoned to come here?”
Aldemar blinks. “Ah.” A dissatisfied look crosses her face. “Shut down for six weeks, a deadline soon to be extended. They have very cleverly shot every scene that can be managed without me. There are wrangles over money— I expect I shall have to part with some— but it’s not a very good chromo anyway, and letting it age in the bottle will not do it harm, and may do some good. And since in the chromo we get as far as staging a revolution, I suppose I can claim that I’m here researching a sequel.”
“Why are you making this chromoplay,” Aiah asks, “if it isn’t very good?”
Aiah is relieved that Aldemar doesn’t seem offended by the question. “To begin with," she says quite seriously, “good scripts are rare, and for the most part they go to other people. Those few that I have been involved with have all gone wrong somewhere— bad direction, bad editing, actors who didn’t understand their roles, or who demanded inane rewrites to make their parts larger or more sympathetic ... well—” A dismissive shrug. “I have not been lucky that way.
“And while I am waiting for something good to turn up, I must remain bankable— I must remain popular enough for investors to wish to invest in my ’plays. And it may surprise you to learn that the most popular chromoplay, worldwide, is the sort in which people like me fly and fight and war against evil. The genre transcends problems of ethnicity, dialect, metropolitan allegiance— everyone understands them, and everyone buys a ticket.”
“Is it what you intended when you chose to be an actress?”
Aldemar blows out her cheeks, looks abstract, a bit melancholy. “Perhaps that is why I’ve become interested in politics.”
“Are you a believer in the New City?”
“I used to be, but I’ve grown more modest over the years.” The actress tilts her head, props her jaw on one hand. “I support those who are straight against those who are corrupt, those with dreams against those who have none. The details— the precise content of those dreams— no longer interest me, provided they are not absolutely vicious. I’ve heard it claimed that political visionaries have caused more destruction and havoc and death than those leaders with less ambition— true, perhaps; I have seen no statistics— but I wonder about those lesser figures, those managers who say, I have no ideals, no dreams, all I want to do is make things run a little more efficiently.” She shrugs. “What reason is that for us to give them anything? I am mediocre, I have never had an idea to which you could object, give me your trust. They appeal only to exhaustion. It is an emptiness of soul into which rot is guaranteed to enter. Phah.”
Amusement tugs at Aiah’s lips. “But what you do is something more than support, ne?” she says. “You’re teleporting guns and spies and whatnot behind enemy lines. That doesn’t seem very much like disinterested idealism to me.”
Aldemar shrugs again. “Understand that I look at the world through a kind of aesthete’s eyeglass. Certain classes of people are offensive in a purely artistic sense— and that includes the Keremaths. Drooling, savage idiots, barely able to button their trousers unassisted, and running a metropolis! And this Provisional Government— gangsters, military renegadoes, thieves, and the Keremaths again, all propped up by the Foreign Ministry of Lanbola for no other reason than it gives them something to do, something to meddle in. Great Senko— I would teleport them all to the Moon if I could.”
The mention of the Moon sends a memory on a spiral course through Aiah’s thoughts, a slate-gray woman a-danc
e in the sky.
Aldemar continues, unaware of Aiah’s distraction. “Constantine deserves a chance to fix this place. If anyone can do it, he can.”
“So your loyalty is to Constantine? Not to the government?”
Beneath her black bangs, Aldemar’s eyes glimmer as they look into Aiah’s.
“Miss Aiah, I do not know the government.” She shifts her gaze, looks moodily out one of the Dragonfly's faceted windows. “Bad policy, perhaps, to support individuals this way— to expect a single person to change the course of a metropolis, a world— but ultimately who else is there? You either trust the person to do it or you don’t.”
Their luncheon arrives. Aldemar looks at her grapefruit, with its scalloped edges and the sprig of mint laid on top, sitting on fine porcelain rimmed with gold and painted with delicate figures of plum blossoms, and says, “At least it’s presented well.” She picks up a silver-topped shaker and sprinkles left-handed sugar on the fruit.
“How long have you known Constantine?” Aiah prompts.
The last thing Aiah wants is to talk about herself. Aldemar obliges her. “Thirty years,” she says. “I was in school in Kukash, studying to be a mage with the intention of going into advertising. Constantine was there to get an advanced degree. We were lovers for, oh, two years or so.”
Blood surges into Aiah’s cheeks, catching her by surprise. Aldemar perceives it and narrows her brows.
“Are you jealous?” she says.
“It depends.”
“I see.” An amused smile dances across her face, and Aiah notes an echo of Constantine’s own amusement there, his own delight in irony. “One may judge the relationship by its outcome,” she says. “I became an actress, and Constantine a monk. He abandoned his degree and went to the School of Radritha. I finished my degree but never made use of it, went to Chemra, and began working in video.” Her smile turns contemplative. “Constantine is very good at finding the chrysalis within his friends. I had no more notion of being an actress than becoming a mechanic. But he turned me inside out and found an ambition that wouldn’t go away.” She looks at Aiah once again. “I imagine he has done much the same to you.”
City on Fire (Metropolitan 2) Page 35
