City on Fire (Metropolitan 2) (10 page)

“I would have greeted you earlier,” Romus says, “but I was engaged in a little act of telepresence.” He turns to Lamarath. “The Mokhrath Canal house is still active.”

Lamarath nods. “Thank you, Doctor.”

“My pleasure.”

Dr. Romus isn’t hanging from a hook, Aiah realizes, it’s a plasm connection. He’s a mage, and he’s been on a mission.

Lamarath opens a drawer, pulls out a folder, and pushes it across the desk. “The twisted get around, you know, he says. “People make a point of not seeing us, or think we’re too stupid to understand; or they employ us for things that aren’t strictly legal.”

Aiah finds a reply bubbling from her lips. “My people, too,” she says. The Jaspeeris had never known quite what to do with the Barkazils. Her teachers at school, and her superiors at the Authority, had always been faintly surprised whenever she said something intelligent.

Lamarath gives her a curious look at this remark. He nudges the folder toward Aiah again. “This is for you. A list of twelve plasm houses in this district. Most of them Silver Hand, some not.”

Aiah restrains the impulse to take the folder, clasps her hands in her lap again. “Please understand,” she says. “I’m not in a position to really dictate policy.”

Lamarath frowns at her. “
Influence
policy,” he says. “That’s all I ask.”

Aiah takes a breath. “All I can assure you,” she says carefully, “is that any
minor
— I do mean minor— plasm thefts in the half-worlds will not be given a high priority by my department.”

“I will speak to my . . . counterparts in other half-worlds,” Lamarath says. “I hope to be able to provide you with more information along these lines.”

She looks at him— her heart bangs in her throat, and it’s difficult to steady her gaze into the huge dark eyes— and she takes good care with her words. "I will be grateful for any information. But understand that I will make no bargains with anyone concerning any plasm thefts brought to my attention. I can’t set policy. All I can say is that, from the limited knowledge I have of the subject, the half-worlds will not be a high priority.”

Lamarath holds her eyes for a long moment— behind her own composed expression, Aiah thinks wildly of assassination, of how no one knows she is here and how she could so easily be disposed of—and then gives a brief nod and reaches for another cigar.

“That will have to do, then," he says.

“Nice to have met you,” says Dr. Romus.

Aiah’s mind swims as she follows Ethemark out of the barge. The boy Craftig waits outside, playing on the deck plates with toy figures of the Lynxoid Brothers, and cheerfully leads them aloft and back to the landing, then calls “Long live the revolution!” as the boat begins its journey to the open air.

Outside the day has became overcast, a skein of gray cloud over the Shield, and Aiah shivers in the faint light. She considers the bargain she has just made— for it was a bargain, deny it though she would— and wonders if she is a fool. She can’t even tell if she’s just been bribed. If she has become the hireling of some minor gangster, and betrayed everything she holds dear, all through ignorance, or fear for her life, or through some hopeless flaw in herself.

Whatever decisions she makes, correct or not, corrupt or not, she knows she will pay for them sooner or later. She only hopes the payment is something that she can bear.

A STATUTE AGAINST THE WILL OF GOD IS NO LAW.

A THOUGHT-MESSAGE FROM HIS PERFECTION, THE PROPHET OF AJAS

Item #5
: Gil?

Item #6:
Family?

There’s yesterday’s list, its final two items still a weight on her conscience. Aiah still can’t bring herself to contact Gil, but she decides she can talk to someone else back in Jaspeer and at least let them know she’s well.

She looks at a wall clock: 20:04, halfway through third shift. People at home are probably still awake. Aiah goes to the communications array set into the wall near her bed, dons the headset— a nice lightweight model, with gold accents on the earpieces and the mouthpiece, a far cry from the heavy black plastic rig she’s accustomed to— and then presses the bright silver keys to connect her to her grandmother Galaiah back in Jaspeer.

“Hello?”

“Nana?” Aiah says. “This is Aiah.”

“
It’s Aiah!”
the woman bellows to someone else in the room. Aiah winces at her grandmother’s volume. There’s a sudden expectant babble of voices in the background, but then Galaiah hushes them.

“Where are you?” she demands. “Are you all right?”

Aiah turns down the headset volume. Her grandmother is a bit deaf and has a tendency to shout.

“I’m fine, Nana. I’m in Caraqui, and I have a new job.”

“You’ve got a good job?” Galaiah shouts. A refugee from the Barkazi Wars, she has a fine grasp of the essentials.

“A very important job. I’m going to be running a government department.”

“
She’s running a government department in Caraqui!”
Galaiah relays the information to her listeners.

“Who’s there?” Aiah asks.

“Landro and his family.”

Landro is Aiah’s cousin. He had been a plasm diver once, searching through forgotten tunnels and sealed-off basements in search of plasm he could sell. Caught, he’d done his term in Chonmas Prison, and now works in a hardware store.

“Have you talked to your mother?” Galaiah asks.

“Not yet.”

“You should call her.”

“
I will.” Reluctantly. Aiah’s mother is an indefatigable dramatist, and Aiah dreads the inevitable reaction: breast-beating, weeping,
how could you do this to me?
She can predict every word of the call.

“Those Authority creepers are still looking for you,” Galaiah says.

“Let them look.” She smiles: she’d got clean away, money in the bank and a new future.

“Esmon’s witch Khorsa told everybody how she helped you get away.”

“Did she tell the creepers?”

“Of course not,” scornfully. “She said she didn’t know anything!”

It occurs to Aiah that perhaps they have already told the creepers more than they ought to have.

“Perhaps we shouldn’t talk about this on the phone. .. .”

“Hm?” Galaiah thinks about it for a moment. “Fine, then,” she says, and changes the subject. “There’s a lot of news about Caraqui on the video. They say Constantine’s in charge and that he’s going to change everything.”

“That’s. . . not really true, Nana. Constantine is only a minister in the government. But yes, we hope things are going to change.”

“
That Constantine, he’s another of your
passus
, isn’t he?” she asks, using the Barkazil word for dupe or victim. She chortles. “That’s a lovely chonah you’ve rigged.”

“
Constantine isn’t my
passu
.”

“
Either he is your
passu
, or you are his.”

Aiah can’t find the strength to dispute this simple logic. Besides, her grandmother might well be right.

“Your longnose lover is back in Jaspeer,” Galaiah adds. “He’s been calling the family and trying to find you.”

Sadness catches at Aiah’s throat. “Gil?”

“You haven’t called him, either, hanh?” Galaiah is gleeful— she’d never approved of Aiah taking up with a Jaspeeri. She holds the traditional Barkazil opinion that the rest of humanity is only useful as prey for the artful, devious, and highly superior Cunning People.

It’s precisely that attitude— that the Barkazil are a magical species above the laws that govern lesser beings— that led to the self-destruction of the Metropolis of Barkazi, and therefore to Galaiah’s journey as a refugee to Jaspeer. Aiah has always refrained from pointing this out to her grandmother.

“I didn’t know Gil was back from Gerad,” Aiah says, perfectly aware of the inadequacy of her excuse.

There’s a buzz on the commo array and a flashing green light, the signal that someone else is trying to call. “Excuse me, Nana,” Aiah says. “I’m getting another call. Hold on a moment.”

She pushes the hold button, then turns the dial that switches the solenoids in the commo array. There’s a click and electric buzz, and then Aiah answers.

“You left messages for me.” It’s Constantine’s baritone, and Aiah’s warm blood sings in her ears at the sound of it.

“I couldn’t get back to you earlier,” he says. “What did you require?”

Aiah tries to organize her thoughts. “I needed to talk to you . . . ,” she begins, and then begins to look frantically for her list.

“You’re in your suite? May I come see you?” The voice takes on a lazy, self-satisfied tone. “I would like to relate my latest triumphs. I am pleased to report that it has been a very good day.”

“Yes. Of course.”

“I’m just a few corridors away. I’ll see you in a couple of minutes.” He presses the disconnect button, and Aiah jumps for the switch to connect herself to Galaiah.

No time to bathe and change. Damn it.

“Nana? That was business. I’ve got to go.”

“Give me your phone number!”

“Yes.” She gives it.

“I got a question!” the old lady says.

“Yes. Quickly.”

“Can you get jobs for some of your family?”

The question stops her dead. “I don’t know,” she says.

“Most of us have never had a good job.”

“Let me think. I’ll call you again. Okay?”

“Call your mother!”

The imperious command rings out just as Aiah presses the disconnect button. She brushes her hair, checks herself in the mirror, wishes again there was time for at least a shower. She puts on the priceless ivory necklace that Constantine bestowed upon her, then anoints herself with the Cedralla perfume Constantine gave to her their last time together, before he flew off to Caraqui and the coup.

Memories, scent and sensation, worn about her body like little charms. She can only hope the tiny magics will do the job.

When she opens the door to his knock, Constantine rolls into the room like the irresistible tide. He’s no longer wearing the proper velvet suit of the minister, but clothing meant for ease and comfort: a blousy black shirt, a jacket of soft black suede imprinted with a design of geomantic foci, suede boots, no lace. The clothing suits him better than the confining garb of the politician, provides him a physical scope to match the ranging of his mind.

“The cabinet meets daily,” he says, “and all the news is good.”

“Would you like to tell me the details over a bottle of wine?”

“And food, if you’ve got it.” He prowls to the kitchen, opens the refrigerator, gazes inside.

Aiah scurries after. “I can throw something together, if you like.”

He turns, his massive hands close on her shoulders, and he propels her firmly to a chair next to the dining room table. His scent eddies along her nerves.

“Sit,” he says. “I’ll cook.”

“You don’t know where—”

“Yes I do. All these suites are built alike.”

Aiah surrenders— the fact of his touch, this near-embrace, make surrender all too easy— and allows herself to sit. She has been in the kitchen so little she has no real notion it’s hers. She cocks her head and regards him from this new angle. “I didn’t know you could cook, Minister.”

An amused glow warms his brown eyes. “I didn’t say I could cook
well
. But I have absorbed at least a few principles of cooking which I hope, in this case, will prove universal.”

He takes off his jacket, opens the pantry door, gazes in thoughtfully. Plucks things from the shelf and finds a saucepan. He cocks an eye at her.

“I take it all this dates from the previous administration?”

Aiah shrugs. “Who has time to shop?”

“I wish you would remember to eat from time to time.” His big body prowls the confined kitchen with perfect assurance. He surveys his finds, then reaches for a knife.

“Our main course will have to come out of cans. And the vegetables are far from fresh, but I will try to make do.”

“There are few sights as attractive,” Aiah observes, “as that of a man cooking.”

“Wait till you see how dinner turns out before you judge how attractive I am.”

He sets water boiling, opens cans, and finds a bottle of wine on the built-in rack. “Do you know,” he says, looking in drawers for a tool to remove the bottle cap, “that thirty percent of the population of Caraqui are on the government payroll?”

“The drawer on your left, Minister. We have that many civil servants?”

“
Civil servants plus the dole, yes. Besides a civil service so bloated that it defies comprehension— the Keremaths wanted
everyone
on their payroll— the government owns a surprising number of commercial firms. All the communications companies save for the broadcast station controlled by the Dalavans, the Worldwide News Service, the video networks, construction and shipping firms. Factories. Fisheries. Office buildings. Even restaurants! And if you add the firms that the Keremaths owned personally, the total is even higher.” He gives a knowing smile as he opens the wine bottle and pours. “They arranged things with a certain criminal inevitability,” he says. “I find the pattern familiar— my own family in Cheloki were no better. There was a law that all streets had to be paved with a certain grade of concrete, but the only company offering such a grade was owned by the Keremaths. And another special type of nonporous concrete was required for the pontoons that underlie all the buildings, and again the Keremaths’ company was the only company that offered it. To prevent dependence on foreign energy sources, only domestically produced hydrogen is permitted in the metropolis, but the New Theory Hydrogen Company, the only one in Caraqui, was owned by the Keremaths ...” A laugh rumbles deep in his barrel chest. “The only New Theory, so far as I can tell, was that the Keremaths got
everything
.” He touches glasses. “To your health.”

“To yours.” The amber wine tastes of smoke and walnuts.