City on Fire

EIGHTEEN

“I observe,” says the Excellent Togthan, “that you have hired two more genetically altered mages.”

“Have you seen their qualifications?” Aiah asks.

“Impressive, surely,” Togthan shrugs, “but hardly unique. There were other mages fully as qualified.”

“I hired them as well,” Aiah points out.

“But still, in view of our understanding that the personnel of the PED would reflect the composition of our metropolitan population…” Togthan lets his words trail off while he sips his coffee, and then places the cup in its saucer with a delicate porcelain chime.

Aiah tastes at her own coffee while composing her answer. Togthan has been a presence in her office for three weeks. He has done little on his own other than announce a daily prayer meeting at the start of second shift—a few people attend, Aiah is told. Togthan appears at most of the important meetings, and he has asked to see the applications of all the new hires; but he has, till this moment, offered no comment on the way the department is being run.

Togthan’s lack of activity had not made Aiah any easier with his presence. She had dreaded the moment that she knew would come.

And now Togthan sits in her office, sipping coffee and directly challenging her decisions. Politely and smoothly, but then one can afford to be polite if one is in a position of strength. One of the triumvirs is behind him, and Aiah cannot be certain of her own support.

“My impression is that we are better reflecting the composition of Caraqui,” Aiah says. “Aside from some clerical staff, these are the only two of the twisted that have been hired.”

“I would not desire the population to grow offended by this department,” Togthan says. “There is much prejudice against the polluted flesh.”

“I am sure,” unblinking, “that the wisdom of the people’s spiritual leaders is capable of mitigating any prejudice on the part of the ignorant.”

“It is the wish of the triumvir and Holy, Parq, that the hiring of the polluted flesh cease entirely.”

Aiah sips her coffee again and frowns. “The triumvir’s requests shall of course be respected,” she says. “But in order that there be no more misunderstandings, I wonder if he will put his wishes in writing?”

Togthan tilts his head and favors Aiah with a reproving stare. “On this issue you may consider my words to be those of the Holy. Written communication is scarcely necessary.”

So this is how it’s done, Aiah thinks.

Up till now she’s only been on the other end of this issue. Back in Jaspeer it was scarcely necessary that anyone actually compose directives that Barkazils not get good housing outside their own neighborhoods, or good jobs practically anywhere. She’d never known how these things were decided… and now here she is, one of a pair of privileged people nodding in their civil way, sipping coffee out of fine porcelain, and deciding the fate of people whom they may never meet.

“Very well,” Aiah says. “I understand.” And she thinks, Time to talk to Ethemark.

Ethemark’s huge eyes darken as Aiah relates the substance of her conversation with Togthan, and he exchanges uneasy glances with Adaveth, the twisted Minister of Education.

“I would resign,” Aiah offers, “but I can’t think what good it would do. I would be replaced with someone friendly to Parq.”

Little folds appear in specific locations around the small man’s eyes—expressions of concern, Aiah has learned, and thought—and then he looks up at her. “He has not asked you to dismiss any of us?”

“No. I would resign in that case, and as publicly as I could.”

Ethemark’s coffee sits untouched by his elbow. They are meeting in Aiah’s apartment, where Aiah can control security, and where they are well away from the eyes of Parq’s spy.

“And,” Ethemark continues, “he hasn’t put his own people forward?”

“No, and I can’t think why.”

“I can think of two reasons,” says Adaveth. “First, talented Parq loyalists may be spread a bit thin at the moment. He’s organizing both the Dalavan Militia and the Dalavan Guard of regular soldiers. Both units require mages as well as other talent.”

“And the second reason?” Ethemark asks. Adaveth’s looks grow foreboding.

Aiah answers for him. “Parq may already have his spies in place.”

The three look at each other. “Watch,” Ethemark says. “Wait. What else can we do?”

“Win the war,” Aiah says. “Because then Parq will no longer be so necessary.”

The claws of the Adrenaline Monster pluck Aiah from sleep, and she wakes, eyes staring and a cry on her lips, to discover herself stretched across Constantine’s barrel chest. She has thrown an arm over him and one of her legs is coiled about his thigh. Though her ears are alert to the sound of shellfire or alarm, she hears only the languorous throb of his heart, regular as a clock.

“You fell asleep,” he says, voice soft in the silent room.

Not for long, she thinks.

There is an ache in her throat where her frantic heart seems to have lodged.

They are in Constantine’s suite-of-the-day, enjoying one of their rare, scattered hours, pleasure snatched from the heart of duty and war. The room is dark, with the windows entirely polarized, and the only light filters from a single lamp in the next room. The Palace and the world outside are silent, and the rhythm of Constantine’s pulse is the loudest sound in the room.

Strange, Aiah thinks, that thanks to The Mystery of Aiah there are thousands of people who think she is living in some kind of continuous carnal delirium with Constantine, whereas the sad fact is that she hardly ever sees him in the flesh, and even then it is often only to exchange a few words and perhaps a kiss in passing.

Now, thanks to both of them wrenching their schedules out of shape, they actually have a few hours together. Aiah tells herself that she should be grateful.

“You are thinking,” Constantine says. He folds his arms behind his head and looks down at her over the foreshortened planes of his face.

“Oh yes.”

“Not about work, I hope.”

“Not exactly,” she says, and she tells him. He laughs, a deep rumbling earthquake that seems to propagate more through the bone and muscle of his chest than through the air. His big arms unfold and encompass her, holding her like a child against his big body.

“Come war’s end,” he says, “we shall try to exceed your viewers’ most sybaritic fantasies.”

“And when will that be?” she says, half-rhetorically, but he considers the question and replies.

“The Polar League has sent a representative,” he says, “a man named Licinias—by repute a good man, but I don’t know what he can hope to accomplish here. There will be a cease-fire, and we will get some favorable propaganda out of it, but unless he can persuade the Provisionals to leave, or neighboring powers to stop supporting them, the war will go on. I will be using the cease-fire to prepare for a new offensive.”

She looks up at him. “Is a new offensive possible? Will it succeed?”

“Yes,” judiciously, “and very possibly. The new Caraqui army—built almost from scratch after the coup, and trained in the Timocracy—has completed its basic training. They are inexperienced, but perfectly capable of holding sections of the line. We will use the cease-fire to put these new units into the front line, then pull back our more experienced mercenaries into a reserve. It is they who will form spearheads for the actual offensive.”

Things are coming to a head, Aiah thinks. “When?” she asks.

“The cease-fire will begin in two days. Licinias will begin consultations with the Provisionals in Lanbola, and then he will fly to present their position to us. We will prolong the talks for at least a week, because it will take that long to put our new soldiers into the line.”

“And then?”

“Things will happen fast.”

“Has—” Aiah has difficulty forming the words. “Has Taikoen a part to play?”

She can feel a grim mood settle like a shroud on Constantine’s thoughts. “No,” he says. “We used him in our original coup, and in the battle for the Corridor. We cannot use him a third time, not without making it obvious that we have something of his nature working for us.” He sighs deeply. “Besides, the Provisionals have taken warning from what happened to their predecessors. Their headquarters and communications staffs have been dispersed to many different locations, to make a decapitation strike that much less likely.”

“But their government is still vulnerable. Kerehorn and Great-Uncle Rathmen.”

“We wish them both to stay alive,” Constantine says. “Kerehorn because he is ineffective, and puts the worst face possible on their movement—and Rathmen for much the same reason. Plus”—his tone darkens—“he is one of the people we could contact… if we need to end the war.”

// we need to surrender, Aiah thinks with a shiver. That’s what Constantine means.

There is a dull, resentful glimmer in Constantine’s eyes. “No, I will not use Taikoen again. His exactions have reached their limit—I will not give him more.”

“I am glad for that.”

There is silence for a moment as Constantine idly strokes Aiah’s hair.

“Will we invade Lanbola?” she asks. All neutralities are imaginary, she thinks, remembering Sorya’s words. “If nothing else works.” Simply.

Aiah closes her eyes, feels weariness and sadness steal into her, into her heart, into her very bones. “And one of the things that may work is The Mystery of Aiah.”

“It is proving a very popular video,” Constantine says. His voice is cheerful; he is pleased with the success of his idea. “The Provisional soldiers spend days cooped up in fortified buildings with nothing to do but polish their weapons—it is too dangerous to venture out—and so they watch video. And the only video available to them is that which we send them—the old Keremath video monopoly assures that they have nothing else to watch. And so the enemy are assured of a constant diet of our propaganda, some of which we know must be affecting them. We know that Landro’s Escaliers have seen you on video. And we have distributed the video in the Timocracy, so that the Escaliers’ families can see it. We hope they will be able to suggest to the Escaliers that they may be on the wrong side.”

Aiah sighs. “I want it to be worthwhile,” she says. “If I must donate my privacy to this war, and masquerade as the savior of Barkazi, I hope at least some of it comes to something.”

Constantine widens his eyes in mock surprise. “You haven’t been chosen by the gods to save Barkazi?”

She glares at him. “That isn’t funny. I wish I didn’t have to spend so much time thinking about religion. I’m supposed to be a cop, damn it.”

His look turns curious. “Have all the recent war deaths turned your mind to thoughts of the eternal?”

“Most of it’s politics. Khorsa and Dhival and that old madman Charduq want me to wave a magic wand and save Barkazi—and you’re supporting them, because you want to use this nonsense to corrupt Landro’s Escaliers. Parq and the Dalavans are building their own police force and army, and you don’t act to stop them; and Parq’s spy is conducting a religious persecution in my department, and you support that____________________”

Constantine is nettled by this accusation. “Parq is necessary. His acts are distasteful and so is he, but he is necessary.”

“So you assure me.”

“The war must be won,” Constantine insists. “Parq is the spiritual leader of two-fifths of the population. If he can inspire them to support the government, then it is good for everyone, including the people Parq aspires to persecute.” He pauses. “When one is a politician, one must deal with many unpleasant people, and sometimes one must hold one’s nose and do unpleasant things. But one must keep one’s true end in view. And my ultimate goal has nothing to do with Parq.”

“I’ve been ordered not to hire any more twisted. Togthan said he was speaking for Parq.”

Constantine’s glance is sharp. “Your feelings about the twisted would seem to have changed since I first met you.”

There is a moment’s pause. “I never knew any before.” Then she adds, “And I wouldn’t like Parq’s interference in my department even if I didn’t want the twisted in it.”

Constantine lets his head fall back against the pillow. “Bend with the wind,” he says. “It will not always blow from this particular quarter.”

“Well,” mumbling into his chest-curls, “the Dreaming Sisters tell me it all doesn’t matter anyway.”

“The Dreaming Sisters?” Constantine’s head rises from the pillow again; he looks at her over his cheekbones. “When have you met the Dreaming Sisters?”

“Last week.”

“And why?”

“Because I got curious about them, and when I looked into their records, I discovered that the plasm they must have expended in order to create those displays of theirs hadn’t been metered.”

“They’re plasm thieves?” The possibility seems to delight him. “Are they really?”

“They have to be, although we haven’t found proof. But I interviewed one of their members, who said she was four hundred years old, and who told me that the best course in life was acceptance, because there was nothing new and no improvement would last—that, and to stick a kind of plasm-pacifier in my mouth and experience fundamental reality without actually doing anything with it.”

“And accept their raids on the plasm supply as well.” Constantine grins and drops his head to the pillow again. “Philosophically, then, they are not unlike my former colleagues in the School of Radritha. They, too, urged withdrawal from the world—because they were afraid, I think. Afraid of power, afraid of what it would do to them when they acquired it.” He booms out a laugh. “What does it matter if there is nothing new beneath the Shield? There can be new combinations… surely their imagination will extend to that? And even if one’s accomplishments fade away, hey, it is something to have accomplished. What does one say—’I saw a chance of doing good, but I did not do it, because it has been done before, and because in any case in a thousand years it will not matter’? Ha! What a pathetic argument for inaction!”

“I am not certain that is quite what they were saying,” Aiah ventures. “But in any case, they were very good. I was impressed by their presentation. They… really worked on me.”

“But they weren’t good enough to actually fool one of the Cunning People?” Constantine says.

“No…” Aiah hesitates, and the Woman who is the Moon dances stately in her thoughts. “Except in the one thing that made me go there in the first place.”

“Which was?”

She hesitates—it was her journey, she thinks, and she has not puzzled out what it could possibly mean, and besides he may think her mad… But then, she concludes, if anyone is going to believe her it will be Constantine. And with The Mystery of Aiah already made, the chances of his using it in one of his publicity campaigns is lessened.

Besides, she doesn’t want to be alone with this anymore.

“Which was,” she says wearily, “what I saw when I accidentally traveled past the Shield.”

Through her flesh and muscle and bone, through her body, which are so in contact with Constantine that he could hardly move a muscle or formulate an intention without her becoming immediately aware of it… suddenly she feels his body flare, as if his entire organism, every cell and nerve, has suddenly become very, very interested.

“You did what?” he asks.

And she tells him.

FOR RADICAL SOLUTIONS… VOTE RADICAL!

At the end of her story he is pacing back and forth, lamplight from the next room shining gold off his massive ebon body, while she reclines on the bed, head propped on one hand. “You don’t think I’m crazy?” she says.

He glances at her briefly, and then his eyes dismiss the idea.

“No,” he says. “Though I am not entirely convinced that the shock of encountering the Shield may not have caused you in some way to hallucinate, or that you may not have been practiced upon.”

“Practiced upon?”

Even in the darkness Aiah can see the gravity of his expression. “There were other mages in the ops room, other plasm outlets. One of them may have used plasm against you—perhaps just mischievously—and directed this vision into your mind.”

Alarm sings in Aiah’s heart. “Isn’t that dangerous?”

He frowns. “Potentially. You should arrange an appointment with a neurologist to see if there has been any damage.”

“Damage?” Aiah bolts upright. Constantine stops, smiles, blankets her shoulder with a reassuring hand.

“Precautionary only,” smiling. “If you’d been rendered an idiot surely one of us would have noticed.”

Aiah, not comforted, rests her chin on her knee.

“We should also discover the exact hour and minute of your discovery,” Constantine says.

“I have the logs. It’s all on record.”

“Good.” Constantine’s laugh rumbles out. “And you say that the aperture closed behind your anima as you continued upward?”

“Yes.”

He begins to pace again. “I wonder if it opens at intervals, and if so what those intervals might be. How big the aperture is. And if it opens only here, or elsewhere. I wonder if we might mount some very sensitive detectors on the roof of the Palace… If the aperture is small—you had no sense of its size?—if the aperture is small, the detectors would have to be very sensitive… If the Shield is vulnerable, then, when the aperture opens…”

Desperation rises in Aiah. She reaches out and snatches one of his big hands. “Stop,” she cries. “I need to talk.”

At once he is all attention, the kinetic body still, his formidable concentration directed entirely at her.

“Of course,” he says.

“This has all come to me,” she says. “So far as we know, I’m the only person to penetrate the Shield in thousands of years. I need to know what it means.”

Understanding lights his eyes. “Ah,” he says. His voice is soft. “I must confess, dearest Miss Aiah, that I do not know what it means either—but if it is any comfort, I plan to get to the bottom of it one way or another.”

“Because,” she continues, “if I saw these things, perhaps I was meant to see them, and then Charduq the Hermit and his followers are right, and I am in fact destined to…” Bleak despair flutters in her heart. “To I don’t know what.”

He sits beside her, his hand still clasped in hers, and his other arm steals around her waist. She leans against the warm solidity of his body, rests her head on his shoulder, closes her eyes. “I don’t know anything,” she says. “I saw people and things in the sky, and that’s all. None of them spoke to me. None of them ever made a sign they knew I was there, or cared. None of them—”

Hot tears spill from her eyes. A sob catches at the back of her throat. Constantine strokes her hair, murmurs unheard consolation into her ear.

“They may not know us, or care about us,” he says finally, “but in time we shall make them.” She feels determination, or perhaps anger, harden in him, turn his muscles to stone. “All these intrigues, these wars… they are the university of our race, and after our graduation we will Ascend and demand what is ours.” His gentle hand pushes her ringlets from her face, and he kisses her damp eyes. At close range, his gold-flecked eyes gaze soberly at hers.

“You give me a most peculiar sense of hope, Miss Aiah,” he says. “If what you have told me is true, then your Dreaming Sisters are wrong, because everything will change. I will make it change.”

His arms circle her and he holds her close. Aiah closes her eyes, accepting the warmth of his body and the comfort of his scent, but she feels a tremor shiver for a moment in her spine at the knowledge that her shoulders are too thin to bear the weight of everything, everything changing…

Within a few days, discreet detectors, each in its own sandbagged bulwark, appear on the Palace roof, all aimed at the Shield overhead. Their purpose is secret: it is assumed they have to do with war work.

The report of the neurologist is negative: she detects no sign that Aiah’s mind was ever interfered with. This does not rule out interference by someone highly skilled, but at least it eases Aiah’s anxiety.

The doctor also tells Aiah she would benefit greatly from a week or two away from her job, in a carefree resort in, say, Gunalaht or Achanos.

And then Aiah laughs, and the doctor laughs with her.

The envoy Licinias has a halo of wavy white hair that contrasts with his copper skin and gives him the impressive air of a patrician. He is tall, and a straight-spined military bearing makes him look taller.

Acute brown eyes look at the video cameras set up in corners of the room. “Do we absolutely need the video?” he says. “People who are being recorded tend to speak in platitudes, or to make speeches for their constituencies, and I would prefer to proceed without all that.”

The triumvirs look at each other, at Constantine. It is Constantine who gives the order. “Turn them off,” he says, then adds with a smile, “I can make the speeches later.”

The steel-lined Crystal Dome, with or without fresh-cut flowers in its vases, had been thought too depressing for the reception of the Polar League’s envoy, and so it will be held in the Swan Wing, in one of the Keremaths’ extravagant ballrooms: there are pink-veined marble pillars holding up a fan-vaulted ceiling, niches with bronze statues of gods and immortals, a floor of cream and strawberry tiles… In the midst is set a massive table of marble supported by an ornate frame of polished bronze. Tackles on a steel tripod had been needed to move the thing into position.

The government of Caraqui sits on one side of the long table, the triumvirate in the middle, flanked by Constantine and Belckon and their various aides and supporters. Aiah is present, she suspects, largely so that video cameras can record her entrance and exit, more evidence for her audience that she is important, that cities are set atremble at her very word. But Constantine has, perhaps, another reason. “Might as well learn how this works,” he tells her, with a smile.

The Minister of State Belckon, Aiah observes, has not found it necessary to bring Sorya. But Aiah does not doubt that Sorya will find out what happens sooner rather than later.

Licinias, for his part, brings only a pair of assistants, though his air of composed authority seems to weigh the table subtly to his side… It is an interesting effect, and Aiah wonders how he does it.

There are formalities first: the government thanks Licinias and the Polar League for their interest in Caraqui’s problems; Licinias thanks the government for receiving him, and expresses the hope he may contribute to a settlement. He then offers to read a position statement from the Provisional Government.

“It is kind of you to deliver it,” Constantine replies—he speaks in advance of the triumvirs, but since the three leaders show no surprise, Aiah concludes this is by prearrange-ment.

“But sir,” Constantine continues, “I wonder if you would first enlighten us concerning two points: first, whether the so-called Provisional Government is willing to recognize this government as the legitimate government of Caraqui; and second, their timetable for evacuating their forces from our territory.”

Licinias listens with apparent courtesy—if he is surprised, he hides it well—and then says, “The Provisional Government’s statement addresses neither of these points.”

Constantine shrugs, his lip curling. “Then I fear that these proceedings are a waste of our time and yours,” he says.

Licinias indicates the papers before him. “Shall I read you the Provisional Government’s statement?”

Constantine scowls—Aiah wonders whether this, too, is prearranged—and then Faltheg raises a hand. “Proceed, Mr. Licinias.”

It is, as Constantine predicted, a waste of time. The Provisionals’ statement is little more than a demand for surrender. The triumvirate rejects it unanimously, then produces a statement of their own position, prepared ahead of time, in which they promise amnesty for all the Provisional leaders but two—Kerehorn and Great-Uncle Rathmen are both named—if their forces are evacuated and disbanded at once.

“You do not give me much maneuvering room,” Licinias says as he glances at the terms.

“We cannot tolerate a hostile force occupying a part of our metropolis,” Constantine says. “Any settlement must be aimed at removing that force.”

Licinias permits himself a delicate shrug. “I will inform the Provisionals of your conditions,” he says. “But I’m afraid an impasse may be created, and that will throw the matter before a general League council… on which, I am afraid, your opponents may command more votes than you.”

“If the Polar League does not support the right of a metropolis to remain free of invasion,” Constantine asks rhetorically, “what good can anyone expect from them?”

“The Provisionals maintain that their force in fact represents the legitimate government,” Licinias offers, “and that your government is usurping their authority.”

“We are preparing, even in the midst of war, to hold an election that will confirm our legitimacy,” Constantine says. “What do the Provisionals offer?”

Licinias hands the paper to one of his assistants, who puts it in a dispatch case. “We shall see,” he says.

After which the meeting is brought to an end, a luncheon buffet is wheeled in, and the delegates mingle for a while. Aiah, holding a plate of vegetables and munching a stick of celery, finds herself near Licinias, and the envoy bows formally to her.

“You are Miss Aiah?” he says. “I believe I recognize you from video.”

Aiah offers him her hand. “I hope you don’t believe everything you saw,” she says.

He shakes her hand with a dry, papery palm. “I am refreshed to hear that you do not believe it,” he says. “But I am inclined to wonder”—he looks thoughtful—“why your government has seen fit to place you in such prominence, and in such a sensational fashion.”

Aiah smiles. “I am sometimes inclined to wonder that myself.”

Licinias gives a dry laugh. “I have often found the actions of governments inexplicable,” he says, “but I confess it is refreshing to find such a prominently situated member of the government in question agreeing with me.”

“I’m not prominent,” Aiah says. “I’m just on video.”

Licinias gazes at her with wise brown eyes tucked up under winged white brows. “There is, you will discover, very little difference between the two.”

Aiah does not find this thought comforting. Later, as she leaves the meeting with Constantine, and bodyguards fall into step before and behind, he takes her arm and says, “I observed that you spoke to Licinias.”

“Yes. We were both reflecting on the puzzling nature of my fame.” She looks up at Constantine. “Tell me about Licinias.”

“He’s from Conpurna. He was a jurist, a specialist in intermetropolitan law. He was Conpurnan ambassador to the Polar League and the World Council and served on the Polar High Court, and after he failed at electoral office back home he began to devote himself to the thankless cause of making peace, which suggests that he is either a towering egoist or a genuinely good person.” He pauses, faintly surprised at his own judgment. “One does meet a good person from time to time, I find,” he adds.

“I liked him.”

Constantine raises an eyebrow. “Is it your preference for older men I hear speaking?”

Aiah feigns indignation. “I don’t prefer older men. I like interesting men.”

“Luckily for me”—Constantine grins—“I am both.”

Since they are in the Swan Wing, he takes her to his current lodgings—marble-sheathed walls, plush carpet, and ornamental, scalloped wings of silvery alloy all deployed to disguise the plasm-generating Palace structure that runs inconveniently through the huge rooms. He has not spent much time here since the war began, preferring for safety’s sake to sleep in the empty suites he chose at random for his mobile office, and the rooms have an unused smell to them.

Guards take up position outside the door, and others ghost through the rooms to make sure no ambush has been laid. Constantine closes the door and leans close.

“I wished to speak with you privately,” he says. “We are beginning to receive indications that our propaganda is having some effect.”

“Yes?” She should be delighted, she thinks, but there is a focused urgency in Constantine’s tone that makes her uneasy.

“The Provisionals’ contract with Landro’s Escaliers expires in ten days. Normally there is an automatic extension—the Provisionals would pay another bonus, and the Escaliers would remain with their army—but now a possibility exists that the Escaliers may be persuaded to change sides.”

“Is that what their agents in the Timocracy are telling you?”

Constantine gives a brief shake of the head. “We would never deal with their agents on a matter like this—the agents make their living negotiating for reliable mercenaries; they would turn us down flat. We have approached the Escaliers directly, in occupied territory, and they have shown interest—and furthermore, we believe that their interest is genuine.”

Dread oozes through Aiah’s nerves. She shivers. “And what does this have to do with me?”

As she utters the words she feels she already knows the answer.

Constantine hesitates before he speaks, and Aiah senses the calculation in his mind. “They wish to see you, directly. To negotiate with you, receive their guarantees from you.”

“From my video persona, you mean. Or from Charduq’s Aiah, blessed of the gods and redeemer of Barkazi.” Bitterness flavors her words. “What happens when they meet the real me?”

He takes her shoulders, speaks close enough so that his words puff her cheek with warmth. “You underestimate yourself. You are intelligent and experienced, and your mission will receive the best support I can arrange.”

“And where is this mission? Lanbola, Nesca, Garshab—where?”

He hesitates. “Let me tell you first what is at stake.” She looks at him. The Adrenaline Monster plucks at her nerves. “No. Tell me where I am expected to go.”

Another moment of hesitation. He licks his lips and says, “Occupied Caraqui. Their officers cannot move freely, and they want negotiations in their area, where they can control security.”

Anger flares in her. “Where they can control security!” she mocks. “Where is my security? Great Senko, I need bodyguards even in friendly territory!”

She turns away and walks blindly into the vast room, heels clicking on polished pink granite. Constantine follows, his voice low and urgent. “If we cannot subvert the Escaliers, then we will have to try a direct assault across the security zone the Provisionals have created, and we will lose tens of thousands just crossing the zone, before we can even properly engage them. Or we can attempt Sorya’s right hook into Lanbola, and destabilize the entire region.”

He catches her, takes her shoulders again. She tries to shrug him off, fails, permits him in the end to wrap his arms around her stiff, resisting frame.

“You have created this,” she says. “You created this video image of me deliberately, and now they want this thing.”

Constantine’s low tones sound in her ear. “I did not anticipate they would demand to speak to you directly. I would not have put you at risk in this way.”

“Of course you would have.” Coarse laughter bubbles from her throat. “One must keep one’s true end in view—how many times have I heard you say it? And your goal is not love or peace but victory for the New City, and so…” She waves a hand. “It is a game, and you move a piece, and the piece is me. And even if you lose the piece, your position is stronger. And that is the way it’s always been for me, here in your game.”

There is a moment’s pause, and then she hears Constantine’s sigh, and feels the tension in him fade, the strength ease in the arms that circle her. “If you wish it,” he says, “I will tell them no, and we will try to work out something else.”

She laughs again. A bitter taste stripes her tongue. “You know me better than that,” she says. “You know I won’t want thousands of deaths on my conscience. Of course I’ll go.” She turns, looks up into his face, his guarded face.

A crackling fire, anger and resentment, burns in her heart.

“You say you want me to have my own power base,” she says. “Very well, I’ll have it. If I bring Landro’s Escaliers over, I want them—I want them here with me, and I want command of them, real command, whatever other purely paper arrangements might be made. I want Karlo’s Brigade as well. I want to be involved in any decision involving their deployment. I want Alfeg’s organization to get official backing and money, and any Barkazils he brings over to work or to fight for us—I’ll want command of them, too.”

Constantine considers this, eyes narrowed, fleshy face impassive. “Anything else?” he asks.

“I would ask for your fidelity, for something like marriage and maybe even children someday, but—” She gulps for breath. “You’d probably rather give me an army.”

He nods, as if confirming an observation he has made to himself. He bends and gives her cheek a kiss—not the kiss of a lover but, perhaps, the paternal benediction of a father.

“You have changed much since I first met you,” he says.

“For the better, Metropolitan?” she asks. “Or otherwise?”

There is a kind of sadness in his eyes. “Those sorts of judgments are beside the point. The change happened, and it has made you stronger.”

Constantine straightens, drops his arms, and walks away from her, lost apparently in his own thoughts. Aiah calls after him.

“Do I get what I want, Metropolitan?”

He hesitates, looks at her over his shoulder with a kind of surprise. “Of course,” he says. “I thought it went without saying.”