City on Fire

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?”

Aiah bites her lip. “I’ve been underwater once or twice,” she says. And hadn’t enjoyed herself.

“There’s a mask tied down there, a buoyancy harness, and a pair of fins,” Cornelius adds. “If you need to hide, you’ll have air enough for two hours if you don’t go any deeper and don’t expend any air swimming around.”

“I’ll freeze,” Aiah says.

“Well”—Cornelius shrugs—“it’s for emergencies only. If things really deteriorate, it’s better to risk hypothermia than to get shot.”

“Hi, Miss Aiah!” says a cheerful voice. “Do you remember me?”

Statius gives a little start, and curses under his breath: he hadn’t seen the boy sitting, a shadow in a deeper shadow, on the rusting deck plates.

Aiah’s own nerves are in little better shape. “Hello, Craftig,” she manages.

The boy stands, massive frame lurching upward, and Statius mutters something again and takes a step back. “The Sergeant said you were coming back,” Craftig says. “Are you going to be staying long?”

Aiah considers this. “I’m just here to do some business,” she says. “When it’s over, I’ll go.”

“If you get bored,” the boy says, “we can play checkers. I’m good at checkers.”

“I’ll let you know if I have some time,” Aiah says, and then adds, remembering her last visit, “How’s the family?”

Craftig tells her at length, not caring that she hasn’t met a single one of his kin. A few minutes into the narrative, Aiah hears Statius discreetly clear his throat.

“Sorry about your uncle,” Aiah says, interrupting the chronology in midflow. “I’d like to stay and chat, but I have an important meeting coming up.”

“With those Escalier guys?” Craftig says. “See you later, hey? Have a nice time while you’re here.”

Aiah hears Cornelius sigh. “So much for security.”

Aiah turns to him. “Better finish this in a hurry, then.”

The delegation from the Escaliers are due in an hour or so. Aiah changes from the coveralls she’d worn during her tour into a gray wool suit, combs her hair, fluffs her lace. She puts on the priceless ivory necklace she’d received from Constantine, with its dangling Trigram. She wishes the room included a mirror so that she could make certain of the effect, then decides that a mirror would only make her insecure and she was better off without it.

Instead of a mirror, she’d like a plasm connection. A jolt of artificial confidence is just what she needs right now.

She steps into Lamarath’s office and reviews her files on Brigadier Holson and Colonel Galagas, the two officers she’ll be speaking with.

Landro’s Escaliers were formed out of elements of the Fastani army when Barkazi fell. Now, fifty years later, they seem not to be as attached to the Fastani cause as Karlo’s Brigade are to the Holy League; otherwise, looking down the road, there might be trouble between the two. Landro, the original brigadier, was killed in fighting in Morveg thirty years ago, though the brigade retains his name, out of both sentiment and convention.

Holson, the current commander, was actually born in Barkazi, in the Jabzi Sector, the part of Barkazi first invaded by a neighbor intent on restoring order and civilizing, or recivilizing, the natives. Aiah thinks it is probably significant that, though Holson received a military education in Jabzi, he hadn’t joined its army or those of any of the other occupying powers. He had wanted to serve in a Barkazil force, and that was what he did, traveling thousands of radii to do it.

Galagas was the fifth generation of his family to follow the military life. Aiah’s dossier was uncertain as to whether his grandfather had fought with the Fastani out of conviction or because it was the Fastani who happened to command most of the Barkazi army at the start of the civil wars.

But Galagas, also, had not joined any regular army, and had instead stayed with this band of Barkazil mercenaries.

That, Aiah thought, was important. Holson and Galagas, both talented officers, preferred serving with ethnic Barkazil mercenaries than with a regular army that would probably pay better and offer better security. Both were married to ethnic Barkazil women. Being Barkazil was important to them.

They thought of themselves as Barkazil before they thought of themselves as Jabzil or Garshabis or whatever. And that, Aiah thought, was the key.

They were willing to follow Aiah the Queen of Barkazi, or at least to think about following her.

It wasn’t just that they were exploring their options. If they wanted to involve themselves in a bidding war between the factions, they could do it openly, negotiate through their agents in Garshab.

No, it was treachery they were meditating—the deliberate betrayal of their current employers. The mercenaries supposedly had a professional code that prevented such things. They were betraying not only their employers but their profession.

They were meeting with her because they wanted to. They were already convinced they wanted to switch sides—otherwise they wouldn’t be here at all.

What Aiah should strive to do was, in essence, passive—she should not change their minds, but rather allow their preconceptions to model her behavior. She had to be whatever they wanted her to be, whether it was the Sorceress-Queen of Barkazi or the Dreaming Sisters’ Apprentice or a superheroine out of one of Aldemar’s films.

“I don’t suppose I will be allowed to remain,” says a voice in Aiah’s ear. She jumps, puts a hand to her heart.

“Sorry I startled you,” apologizes Dr. Romus in his eerie, reedlike voice. His wizened brown face looks more amused than apologetic.

“I forgot you were here.”

“Yes,” more amusement, “that happens more often than you’d think. I thought I should remind you I was here before your guests arrive.”

“Thank you.” Aiah tries to calm her flailing heart. “I suppose you shouldn’t stay. Thank you for understanding.”

Dr. Romus uncoils his forebody—thick as Constantine’s leg—and drops a loop to the floor, followed by the rest of him. He keeps his head raised, at Aiah’s level, as he progresses toward the hatch. His feathery tentacles are busy around the lock for a moment, and then, smiling, he opens the door and makes his way out.

“Bye now,” Romus says. “See you later.”

Aiah tries to focus on the dossier, but her concentration fails. In a few minutes, Cornelius comes in to tell her the delegates’ boat has been sighted—two green and one white light, as agreed. “Do you want to wait here?” he asks.

Aiah shakes her head. “I should meet them.” She closes the dossier, opens a drawer of Lamarath’s desk, sees a pair of large cockroaches scuttle from the light… She closes the door and decides she may as well leave the dossier on the desk.

Outside, in the red glow of the strands of lights, Aiah waits on the rusting deck plates. There is a creak from the cables that support the swinging bridge that leads from the mooring. Aiah strains into the darkness, sees several shadows crossing the bridge, the first preceded by a tiny cherry-red glow. This proves to be a cigar clenched in the teeth of Sergeant Lamarath, who guides two men in uniform: Holson and Galagas.

Aiah waits for the group to get off the bridge, then steps forward and holds out her hand. If they have come this far, taken this risk, she will at least walk across the deck to greet them.

“General Holson. Colonel Galagas. Thank you for agreeing to meet me.”

Holson is a big, broad man with a powerful neck and shoulders; his hair is cropped so severely that the rugged contours of his skull, reflecting red light, are plainly visible. His hand is large, his palm dry; as he clasps Aiah’s hand he looks at her with intent, unwinking eyes.

Galagas is smaller, with a mustache. He is formally correct: he tucks his cap under one arm and bows slightly over Aiah’s hand as he takes it. Somehow he avoids clicking his heels.

Formality covering nervousness? Aiah wonders. Perhaps he doesn’t even want to be here.

“Would you follow me, gentlemen?” Aiah says. “I’ll take us to a place where we can talk.”

Holson nods. Aiah turns to Lamarath. “Thank you, Sergeant,” she says. Lamarath grins and waves his cigar.

“No problem, miss.”

Holson gazes uneasily over the floating half-world as he follows Aiah toward the hatch. “How many people live in these places?”

“Millions, if you count them all.”

Holson looks unhappy. “And here they are, in our security zone. I had no idea these places existed. These people are a danger.”

Aiah pauses, one hand on the open hatch, and looks at Holson. She doesn’t want to inadvertently cause some kind of horrid persecution of those who live in the half-worlds.

“These people are a danger only if you destroy their homes,” Aiah says. “Then they will be in your security zone, and you won’t want them there.”

She lets Holson chew that over for a few seconds, then enters the hatch and leads the delegates to Lamarath’s office. She offers them drinks, coffee flask, and snacks from a table made ready for them.

Galagas pours coffee for his superior. “Sorry I don’t have any Barkazi Black,” Aiah says. “I have a cousin who works at the factory, but his last shipment was delayed by the war.”

This is not true—the cousin exists; the shipment does not—but Aiah wants through this genial lie to establish some kind of connection here, invoke the tribal longings of her audience…

Galagas hands coffee to Holson. “What’s his name?” he asks.

“Endreio. Endreio the Younger, actually.”

Galagas pours coffee for himself. “I have a cousin there myself. Franko. And my grandfather was a director there, before the war.”

The factory was a strong point for the Fastani during the fighting, Aiah knows. The Battle of the Coffee Factory was one of the early bloodbaths.

Galagas sips his drink. “My grandfather said the coffee never tasted the same after they rebuilt the factory.”

“My grandmother says the same thing.” Which, it happens, is true.

Holson looks at her and runs a hand over his cropped head. “Is all your family from Old Oelph?” This being the district with the coffee factory, now part of the Metropolis of Garkhaz.

“My maternal line is Oelphil. My father’s might be, it’s hard to say…” She looks at Holson. “Your name was originally Old Oelphil, ne? There was Holson the Praefect back in Karlo’s time…”

“He is supposed to be an ancestor.” Holson looks a little skeptical as he says this, probably so that Aiah won’t think he’s boasting by claiming descent from one of the Old Oelphil families, those who, according to the legend, had agreed to be reincarnated over and over again as protectors of the Barkazil people.

Of course, the records from the time of Senko and Karlo have not survived, and anyone can claim descent from anyone else.

“Would you like to sit down?” Aiah invites.

She sits behind Lamarath’s desk. Squares her shoulders, folds her hands on top of the desk.

Holson and Galagas sit. Galagas sits bolt upright, plainly uncomfortable, but Holson’s bold gaze challenges Aiah.

“And you look different than on video,” he says.

“The light here,” she says, gesturing at the fluorescents, “is less flattering.”

“You’re younger than I expected.”

Aiah allows herself what she hopes is an enigmatic smile. “I’ve come a long way,” she says.

“And where do you plan to go?”

“Farther. Barkazi, if things work out.”

Skepticism narrows Holson’s eyes. “And what will you do in Barkazi?”

He is pushing, she thinks. She suspects he will not respect her unless she pushes back.

“What I do,” she says, “depends on what kind of support I can acquire in the meantime. Right now there are only two Barkazil military units in the world, and they are fighting on opposite sides of a war that has nothing to do with Barkazi. I like to solve my problems one at a time, and that’s the problem I’d like to start with.”

“You want Barkazil military units?” Holson says. “For what? Any attempt to liberate Barkazi with two brigades is naive.”

Aiah looks at Holson and hopes the surprise she feels shows on her face. “Did I say I wanted to invade Barkazi? I’m not interested in bloodbaths. But see, now…”

She leans forward, narrowing the distance between them. “If we can join forces,” she says, “then my government will be very grateful, both to me and you. Their gratitude has already extended to settling Barkazil refugees here, to establishing a Barkazil community. And if we wished to try to alter the situation in Barkazi, the government here would help us. Whereas…” Aiah looks at Holson for a moment, and then at Galagas. “Well, you know your employers best. What sort of gratitude would you expect from them? You’d be lucky if you got a bonus on your way back to the Timocracy.”

Galagas nibbles at his mustache with white lower incisors. “If we switch sides in the middle of a campaign,” he says, “we can’t go back to the Timocracy. We have all sworn to obey the Timocratic Code. They wouldn’t have a unit that didn’t meet with their commitments.”

Holson’s big forefinger jabs at Aiah. “Your government had better be damned grateful, is what we’re saying,” he says. “Because if we join you, we’re going to have to stay in Caraqui permanently, and bring our families here.”

Aiah looks at Holson’s forefinger just long enough to make it clear she’s not intimidated by the gesture, and then she leans back in her chair.

“I am confident my government’s gratitude will extend that far,” Aiah says.

“You’re certain of this?”

A doubt raises its hand, like an uncertain student in a classroom. Aiah ignores it. “I can confirm it very quickly if you wish.”

“A bonus on signing?”

“I am authorized to offer three thousand dinars per soldier, five thousand for each field grade officer, and for senior officers,” nodding at the two present, “ten thousand.”

This is actually half of what she’s been authorized, but there’s no reason to tip her hand at this point.

“Standard rates of pay afterward?”

“Whatever you’re earning now.”

“Moving bonuses for our families?”

She hesitates. “Yes. I can get that. Say a thousand dinars per person?” She can take it out of the savings on the signing bonuses.

“How long a contract?”

“A year, extendable by mutual agreement.”

There is a pause. The two men look at each other. Galagas gives a little shake of his head. Holson turns back to Aiah, a frown on his face.

“We’re giving up our livelihoods,” Holson says, “and only for a year’s employment? We want more.”

“Five years guaranteed,” Galagas says.

“Five years, extendable. Or maybe…” Holson frowns at the floor for a moment. “Maybe commissions in the Caraqui army. It’s not entirely out of line—you’ve got a lot of mercenaries even in your regular army now, because native officers are so inexperienced.”

“With a guarantee,” Galagas adds, “that our soldiers will be able to continue serving with one another for five years. We stay together as a unit, not to be broken up, for five years.”

Aiah thinks for a moment, but she daren’t hesitate for too long. There’s momentum building here, and she doesn’t want to slow it down.

“I can get you the five-year guarantee,” she says, and hopes it’s true. “For the regular army commissions I’d have to speak to the War Minister, but I think they’d be happy to have officers of your experience on board.”

Might as well ladle on some flattery while she can.

“And then?” Holson asks.

Aiah smiles at him. “Sorry, General?”

“Barkazi. What about Barkazi?”

Aiah hesitates. “If this works, we’ll be united. We’ll have a power base in Caraqui, a government that will support us.” She forces a smile. “The rest depends on how cunning the Cunning People actually are, don’t you think? Whatever excuse the occupying forces had for annexing the Barkazi Sectors, the reason is long gone. If we stand united, here and there, surely there isn’t anything we can’t accomplish.”

Holson sits stone-faced, and Galagas gnaws his mustache again, but Aiah senses that she has somehow won. She’s said the right thing; she’s raised some strange, unreal hope in them.

And oddly enough, she feels hope glowing within herself. Before this situation, she’d never given thought to Barkazi—she’d never been there, and her family’s stories, all of horror and war, never gave her the slightest inclination to visit. But now she finds herself wondering if Barkazi would feel different beneath her feet than any other metropolis, if she would, on arrival, somehow sense that Barkazi was home.

She could hardly feel more displaced than she does now, sitting behind the desk of a minor, aquatic gangster, in a dark, foul-smelling watery cavern inhabited by twisted people with altered genes, negotiating with potential turncoats on behalf of a government that is not, when all is said and done, her own…

“Those recruiting bonuses,” Galagas says, crossing one knee over the other, “they seem a bit low to me. Considering what we’d be expected to do.”

Inwardly, Aiah smiles. Love of negotiation must be planted somewhere in Barkazil genetics.

“I think they’re fair,” she says, “though I suppose there’s a little room for negotiation.”

Constantine’s presence tingles around her. Aiah bathes in it for a moment, fantasizes that she can taste him on her tongue… She raises a hand to touch the ivory necklace he’d given her, a tactile remembrance.

—I think it went well, she sends.

—Any problems?

—They want the sun and the moon, but I have made them settle only for the moon.

She senses Constantine’s amusement. After she had agreed with Galagas and Holson to meet again tomorrow, and seen them back across the bridge to their boat, she had called the number in Gunalaht and told them that she would be available for contact every hour, on the hour.

—They want a five-year contract with Caraqui, Aiah sends. They say they can’t go back to the Timocracy after violating their Code.

—Five years? I suppose we shall still need mercenaries after that time.

—They suggest, as an alternative, that they could be made a part of the regular army establishment. But they want their unit to stay together for five years.

There is a moment’s hesitation. Through the plasm link, Aiah can sense the movement of Constantine’s thought.

—Yes, he sends. I can give them that. They are a good unit.

The Treasury was spending tens of billions on this war.

Aiah knows that Constantine is not likely to quibble over payments and guarantees to the people who could actually bring an end to the fighting.

—And there is something else that / want, Minister.

—Ye-es? Constantine’s answer is wary.

—I want the same arrangement for Karlo’s Brigade, if Ceison wants it. If we are going to reward one unit for changing sides, we should also reward the unit that stays loyal.

—Many units have stayed loyal besides Karlo’s Brigade. Do we make them all such promises?

—Very well. I will modify my request. Let Karlo’s Brigade have the same contract as Geymard’s men.

There was a powerful silence. Geymard’s Cheloki had been with Constantine since the beginning. They were his bodyguard, his spearhead, the steel foundation of his military power.

When Constantine’s reply comes, she can sense amusement beneath the concession.

—Five years does not seem so bad, when things are taken all together.

—Thank you, Minister.

Aiah might as well turn humble, she figures. She has pushed her luck as far as it will go.

Constantine’s reply is swift.

—Is there any good news? he sends.

Laughter bubbles from Aiah’s throat.

—I have saved you money. The Escaliers are likely to accept a smaller signing bonus than we planned.

—Thank you, my child. Though the Treasury will not be pleased with the five-year contracts.

—Ending the war will save them money, and they will thank you.

Aiah can almost see Constantine’s rueful smile.

—The Treasury never thanks me, he sends.

—Galagas and Holson will be back tomorrow, 08:00. Once they are presented with the terms, we can work out the details of exactly how they are to slip out of their agreement.

Traced in the air before Aiah’s eyes comes the reply, lines of gold flame that form the Sign of Karlo.

—Blessings upon you, Miss Aiah.—Thank you, Minister.

Constantine’s presence fades, and Aiah is alone, listening only to the faint slap of water against the hull of Lamarath’s barge. She returns to her quarters. Lamarath and Dr. Romus are gone, and Statius and Cornelius, on guard and in any case unsettled by the strangeness of the half-world, are no company.

Aiah paces back and forth, fretting. She would like to rest, but she knows the Adrenaline Monster would snatch her from sleep if she closed her eyes.

“See if Craftig is outside,” she finally tells Cornelius. “We might as well play some checkers.”

The next day Holson and Galagas are forty minutes late. “Sorry,” Holson says after their arrival. “We couldn’t get away—” He looks uncharacteristically vague. “A meeting, with members of the Provisional command.”

Aiah wonders if Holson is rash enough to be involved in a bidding war with the Provisionals—but no, she thinks, that would be suicidal. It’s bad enough they’re contemplating treachery against one side; treachery against both would be fatal. She tells the officers that the War Ministry has given official approval to their agreement.

“Now all that is required,” Holson says, “is to honorably extract us from our commitments to the Provisionals.”

“Do you have a copy of the agreement? We do not.”

According to the agreement, Landro’s Escaliers are irrevocably committed to continue with the Provisionals for another three days, after which, if there is mutual agreement, the contract may be extended. If no agreement is reached, the Escaliers will continue in service for another ten days, time enough for them to be evacuated back to the Timocracy and replaced in the line by another unit.

“How are the Provisionals on the warranties clause?” Aiah asks. “They’ve paid you on time?” “Yes.”

Aiah skims the contract. “Have they arranged for sufficient supply, food, fuel, medical support, and—ah—other classes of logistical support as specified in Attached Agreement C?”

“The brigade whorehouse,” Galagas clarifies.

In the last months Aiah has become used to the ways of mercenary units, and is not surprised. She looks at Galagas.

“Has logistical support been, ah, sufficient in terms of the contract?”

Aiah wonders if a mercenary contract has ever been broken because prostitutes were not provided in sufficient number.

“Given the exigencies of war,” Holson says, “the government’s support has been adequate.”

“That’s not what I asked,” Aiah says. “I asked if the Provisionals’ logistical support has been sufficient in terms of the contract. Anything ever delivered late? Or delivered to the wrong people? Or the wrong stuff delivered to the wrong people?”

Given what Aiah knows of the military life, she would be amazed if this were not the case.

Holson and Galagas look at each other. Holson fingers his chin and shifts his weight uncomfortably in his chair. “Arrangements have not been perfect,” he says, “but I mislike breaking an agreement on these conditions, all so common in war. It could set an unfortunate precedent—any unit, on any side, would be justified in breaking its contract if this clause were strictly invoked.”

“Well,” Aiah says, turning pages, “we will keep that option in reserve.”

Unfortunately the contract is very straightforward and plainspoken, with few ambiguous clauses worthy of exploitation, and most of these involving situations that do not apply here. Maybe, Aiah thinks, it will have to be the whores after all.

“Can we arrange for the Provisionals to break the contract somehow?” Aiah asks.

They look at her. “In three days?” Holson asks. “How?”

“I keep coming back to the warranties clause,” Aiah says. “Can you arrange for some supplies to go astray? Suppose your food gets delivered to the wrong place…”

They consider this for a few minutes. Ideas are put forward, then rejected as too complex. Aiah scans the contract again.

“The signing bonus!” Aiah says finally. “What if that doesn’t get to you?”

Galagas seems relieved. “Well,” he says, “finally.”

It takes them only a few minutes to work out a plan, Aiah collaborating with the other two as if they had known each other for years, so smoothly that she wonders if there’s something, after all, to this business of the Cunning People having a special gift for duplicity.

Holson, they decide, will drag out negotiations with the Provisionals till practically the last minute. In the meantime, he will establish a new bank account in Garshab in order to receive the money. But the account number to which the Provisionals will be told to wire the signing bonus will be subtly different from the real number, a digit or two off.

When the deadline for payment passes without the bonus, Landro’s Escaliers will be free, legally and (it is hoped) morally, to sign another contract with someone else.

“We should have the contract with you in place beforehand,” Holson says. “That way we can take immediate action—holding a bridgehead, say—in accordance with the wishes of our new commanders.”

Aiah is surprised. “You can sign a contract before the old one has expired?”

“It will be provisional only. Full of thus-and-so’s, stipulating that in the event we are free of any other obligations before a certain date, we will consider ourselves yours to command. And we will give you an account number in Garshab”—he nods, with a significant smile—“a real’ account number, into which your government can place its good-faith deposit, perhaps one-tenth of the signing bonus?”

“I think this might be arranged.” He has anticipated, she notes, her objection to giving them their entire bonus, in case they re-sign with the Provisionals after all and dupe her government of all its dinars.

“We will return early third shift,” Holson says, “and bring the contracts with us. We can’t specify an exact hour—our other commitments are pressing.”

“I will wait, sir. I thank you both.”

Galagas—no longer so stiff and uncomfortable—reaches into a pocket and produces a silver flask. “I wonder, Miss Aiah, if you would join us in some kill-the-baby? It is from Barkazi.”

Aiah smiles. Kill-the-baby is a phrase her grandmother has used. “I would be honored, Colonel.”

Galagas raises the flask. “To success, and Barkazi.”

There is a strange light in his eyes. Aiah wonders at the man’s strange faith in her, in his belief that she is somehow destined to change the shape of things far away. It is beyond a mere credulity, and well into some mystical realm of faith she can’t herself understand.

He drinks and passes the flask to Aiah, who echoes the toast and takes a swig. It is brandy, harsh and fiery and absent of refinement, without doubt the worst stuff she has ever tasted. This baby is dead, she thinks. Eyes streaming, she passes the flask to Holson.

If this is what the homeland tastes like, she thinks, I am not going.

She sees her guests out, and as they say farewell Holson surprises her by embracing her, kissing her on both cheeks.

“I know we will accomplish great things,” he says.

Aiah manages through her surprise to retain her air of confidence. “I have no doubt,” she says, and then accepts Galagas’s somewhat more reserved embrace.

As Aiah watches the two officers make their way across the swaying bridge, she feels a kind of wonder that it has all worked out exactly as Constantine had, weeks ago, anticipated. He has maneuvered all of them, somehow, into this position, and will doubtless get his victory.

But what then? Aiah wonders. Aiah and the Escaliers have been maneuvered into this position, true, but the position is an artificial one. Aiah is not the redeemer of Barkazi—except on video, and in the mind of a deranged hermit back in Jaspeer—and the Escaliers are not an army of liberation. She doesn’t know how she can ever meet these people’s expectations.

We will accomplish great things.

She fears she is going to be a terrible disappointment to everyone who believes in her.

Aiah returns to Lamarath’s office to organize her notes and finds Lamarath there, along with one of his hulking guards. One of the locked metal cabinets has been opened, and Aiah sees inside it a video camera, set to gaze at the room through a spyhole. Lamarath has opened the camera and is removing the video cartridge.

Aiah looks at the camera in shock. “The meetings were recorded?”

Lamarath looks at her over his shoulder. “You didn’t know?” He seems surprised.

“No. I didn’t.” Anger blazes up in her. “I should have been told!” she says. “If they’d found out—”

If they’d found out, Aiah thinks, she’d have been killed.

Lamarath opens a briefcase and drops the cartridge into it. “A dolphin will carry it beneath the front to our friends,” he says. He pats the case. “Insurance,” he adds, “to make sure our mercenary friends won’t betray us.”

And insurance, Aiah knows, in case they’d failed to make an agreement at all. If the negotiations had failed, Constantine could have threatened to release the video to the Provisionals, which Holson and Galagas would have realized meant the end of them.

Displaced anger and fear rattle in the hollow of Aiah’s chest. Constantine, she thinks, is willing to sacrifice her here, if it means a greater chance to win his war.

She feels a tremor in her knees.

One must keep one’s true end in view. His end is victory, and Aiah herself—her life, her happiness—ranks somewhat lower on his scale of priorities.

Aiah walks unsteadily to Lamarath’s chair and lowers herself into it.

“Insurance,” she repeats, and thinks, Who is insuring me?

—I am very pleased with this, Constantine sends. His tone, silky and satisfied, rolls through Aiah’s mind.

—I expect the Escaliers will keep their agreements, Aiah replies. Which means that those recordings made by Lamarath can be destroyed… I would like, in fact, to see them destroyed personally.

Their mental contact is sufficient for Aiah to receive Constantine’s jolt of surprise, along with his reaction, chosen from an array of possible responses. He rejects a lie, first thing of all.

—It was to protect you, he ventures. If they had attempted treachery…

—The recordings could not have been produced until it was too late. You have put me in danger with this.

—Very little. It was all carefully calculated…

Wordless fury rages through Aiah’s mind. She can feel Constantine recoil.

—Apologies, he responds quickly. It was a bad decision, and shall not—

—It will not have the opportunity to happen again. I shall guard my own back in future, and not let you do it.

For a moment she senses thoughts rolling in his mind, their exact nature beyond her reach, imponderable.

—That is wise, he judges.

In answer she just radiates anger at him. Constantine absorbs this, and she senses, strangely, his approval.

—You are growing, Miss Aiah, and that is good.

He breaks contact, and leaves her with a reluctant sense of surprise tingling in her bones.

Head down, arms folded over the dangling Trigram on her ivory necklace, Aiah paces along the deck, thoroughly in the grip of the Adrenaline Monster. It is third shift, the two officers could arrive at any time, and she is too nervous to wait in Lamarath’s stuffy office. It is dinnertime, and the twisted families are settling in for the sleep shift that will begin at 24:00. Cooking smells join the miasma over the dark half-world, mingled with the odor of sea, garbage, and feces. Video screens light the darkness here and there, blue video light glowing on twisted faces, reflecting off dark water. Judging by the laughter rolling up from barges here and there, most are tuned to the weekly episode of Folks Next Door. Aiah wonders what these people make of the video they watch, the constant display of goods, wealth, and security they have never possessed.

No one, she thinks, will ever make a weekly comedy about life in the half-worlds.

And then something blows up.

Right in the middle of the half-world, fifty paces away, a bright flash followed by a hot wind that presses on Aiah’s face, that blows her hair back and ruffles the lace at her throat and wrists. In the roofed space of the half-world the sound is deafening. Aiah claps her hands over her ears, but this does not shut out the screams and cries for help or the sudden startled pounding of her own stammering heart.

She stands on the iron deck and stares into the darkness, but there is a huge bright bloom on her retinas that dazzles her, keeps her from seeing any of the explosion’s aftereffects. Suddenly there is a firm hand on her elbow, and she jumps.

“Miss, you should take shelter.” Statius’s voice. “It’s probably just an accident, there are all these pressurized hydrogen tanks here and open burners, but we should—”

Another explosion rips through the darkness. The pressure wave punches Aiah in the solar plexus and tears a cry from her throat. Statius wastes no more words; his hands close on her shoulders and he half-carries her toward the hatch.

A third explosion, on the other side of the barge from the first two, turns the darkness bright. Actinic light etches the ramshackle structures, the hunched bodies of the twisted people, bent over their meals and only now beginning to react. Aiah can hear metal fragments whistling through the air. There is a terrible stench, the smell of the explosive chemicals themselves. And then Aiah hears sirens, a terrifying wailing that echoes dizzyingly from the concrete and iron that surrounds them, and the sound of a machine gun, thud-thud-thud, and sees tracer rounds flying overhead in a regular stream…

Statius throws her inside the hatch and slams the door shut behind them. Cornelius is there, machine pistol ready in his hand. He licks his lips. “What’s happening?”

Statius answers as he propels Aiah through the neat, whitewashed rooms of Lamarath’s headquarters. “Some kind of attack. Mage throwing mines or shells, I think.”

“Who’s doing it?”

“No idea.”

The oval hatch to Lamarath’s office looms ahead. It is shut. Statius throws himself onto the central wheel and heaves the hatch open as another explosion shifts the deck beneath their feet. Aiah stumbles through the hatchway, pain shooting through her leg as she catches a shin on the lintel.

“Hold the hatch, please,” says an odd, reedy voice. Dr. Romus, the snake-mage, swims over the lintel with powerful, swift pulses of his body—for all the weight of his thick trunk, he is fast—he shoots across the room and lunges up the wall to the hook, the plasm connection, where he usually hangs, and coils himself around it.

“I will protect you as best I can,” he says.

“That’s our job,” Statius says, crossing the room toward Romus. Behind him Cornelius slams the hatch to, spinning the wheel and dogging the hatch closed.

Dr. Romus’s eyes are closed as he concentrates on the plasm world. “I am used to this connection,” he says. “I am used to working with the little plasm available—you’d use it up in a minute or two.”

Statius reaches for the plasm hook, grips it firmly. The barge lurches to a near-explosion. Plaster drifts from the ceiling like pollen. “I deflected that one,” Romus says. “It would have killed us all. Please—let me do my job.”

Statius looks uncertain for a moment, then takes his hand away. Cornelius is by the communications array, jiggling the headset hook. He shrugs. “Line’s cut,” he says. “I’ll have to radio for an evacuation.” He picks up the portable radio in its padded black plastic case and slings the strap over one shoulder. Statius joins him, gripping his gun. Cornelius looks back at Romus.

“Can you give me cover?” he asks.

Romus speaks without opening his eyes. “I’ll do what I can. There’s not much plasm here.”

The two guards open the hatch that leads to the back passage, hop over the sill, and slam the hatch shut behind them. A nearby explosion shifts the barge under Aiah’s feet, and soft white plaster rains down from the ceiling.

Aiah feels warm blood dripping down her scraped shin. She looks down at herself, at the neat suit, white lace, pumps, torn hose. This is the most ridiculous outfit she can imagine for a battle. She turns to Romus.

“Can I help?” she asks. “Can I do anything?”

Romus just gives a brief shake of his head. The sound of battle outside has increased, weapons rattling like a continuous storm of hail. Aiah decides she might as well get out of her absurd clothing, and yanks open the door to her private room. She kicks off her pumps, grabs the jumpsuit she arrived in, and pulls it on over the clothes she’s already wearing. There’s an unpleasant baggy lump in her crotch where the skirt has wadded up, but she feels a greater readiness now that she’s no longer dressed for a business meeting, and no longer so conspicuous.

She closes the jumpsuit up to the collar, over the ivory necklace, then pulls on a pair of boots and slams down the metal clips—she has to hit them with her fist because her fingers are trembling too hard to work them properly. Explosive compression waves slap the barge, rain plaster down.

“Miss? Miss?” Romus’s voice. Aiah jumps into the other room, sees Romus’s fierce yellow eyes staring at her. “Yes?” Aiah says.

“Your guards want me to tell you this: Statius is broadcasting the pickup signal, but he hasn’t got an answer. That doesn’t mean they’re not hearing it at the Palace, it just means the receiver isn’t placed well enough to catch any reply.”

Aiah nods her understanding. Adrenaline is making her teeth chatter, causing sweat to pop out on her forehead. There’s nothing she can do.

Romus continues, voice rapid. “There are mages attacking, and I’m running the plasm batteries low fending them off. Soon this shielding is going to be breached. Your guards say that you need to get into the water and start breathing off that apparatus and wait for pickup.”

Aiah gives another frantic nod. “Yes,” she says. “I understand.”

“Now, miss.”

She nods again, then realizes that, despite her intentions, her feet are somehow not moving toward the water. She makes them move and runs to the hatch, tears it open, steps through into the low corridor behind.

“Close it, miss.”

“Ah. Right.” Aiah stops, reverses herself in the narrow space, pulls the hatch shut. Then she runs along the corridor, tries the hatch leading outside, and finds it won’t open. She slams her shoulder into it; pain jolts her body, and she realizes the door is locked. She claws at the bolt, throws the door open, and then there is the flash of an explosion that lights the hallway from the outside, and all the electric lights die. The mad sound of sirens fills the air, monsters calling their kin. Tracer bullets flash by in the dark, making snapping sounds like a whip, and glowing off every surface is the rolling red glare of fires. Aiah huddles in the doorway as terror scrapes her nerves, hands clenched on the doorjamb, with no intention of ever letting go.

I’m sorry, she thinks, / can’t go in that water.

Then an explosion rocks the barge and Aiah finds herself pitching forward. The lurch unlocks her hands, lets her tumble through the doorway. Deck plates bite her palms. Bullets snap overhead. The pipe clamped to the side of the barge reflects silver-red fires, and Aiah can see it plainly. She crawls madly for the pipe, clutches it, pulls herself to it. The water below flares with reflected fire. Aiah takes a breath, kicks her legs, and tumbles off the barge.

The freezing water stops her heart for a long, shocking second. The taste of salt floods her mouth. She flails out for the pipe, finds it, pulls herself down its length. She can hear, louder even than the explosions, the whine of high-pitched screws.

Aiah finds the apparatus hanging there, fumbles in the darkness for a length of hose… She finds it, reaches frantically along it, finds the second-stage regulator and mouthpiece at its end. She jams the rubber mouthpiece in her mouth, blows out to clear the regulator, inhales… nothing.

Nothing. No air. Terror fills her lungs instead. She’s going to drown! She flails for the surface, all frantic panic motion, and somehow manages to rise instead of sink. She breaks the surface, splashing, mouth gasping in air. Sirens and battle sounds fill her ears. Fire boils up all around her. In the confined space beneath the platform overhead, the air is filling with smoke. Aiah coughs, sees the pipe nearby, clutches at it. Thoughts whirlpool in her mind.

It’s a catastrophe. The mission’s gone, she’ll be killed or captured, and there’s no air in the tank. This last treachery, the thoroughness of the way fate has betrayed her, leaves her numb.

A concussion passes through her like a wave, blows the air from her lungs. She looks up at the slablike side of the barge and wonders how she’ll get back aboard. If she stays in the water she’ll freeze or drown.

The valve. The thought comes to her head unbidden.

The air tank, she realizes, has plenty of air. But its valve was turned off so that the air wouldn’t drain away through any minor leak in the connections. All she has to do is turn the valve on and she’s got at least an hour of air.

Falling debris splashes water near her. Aiah drags in air, fills her lungs, then shuts her eyes and plunges underwater again. She finds the diving gear, gropes for the valve handle atop the tank, and gives it a yank. Then she reaches for the regulator hose, finds it, pulls on it hand over hand until she finds the regulator. Her teeth clamp down on the mouthpiece and she blows out, clearing the regulator, then inhales…

Air. Sweet air. She feels a moment of indescribable bliss as the dry pressurized air touches her palate.

Aiah floats in the frigid, buoyant darkness. High-speed screws sing in her ears. Detonations slap at the water.

Red light seeps down, touches her eyelids. She opens her eyes, looks up at flame. The barge is on fire and has become very bright. She wonders if Dr. Romus is trapped inside, if Statius and Cornelius will manage an escape. She looks around her, sees the diving gear hanging on a hook. Had Cornelius said there was a mask here?

Aiah reaches out and finds the mask, pushes floating hair back from her face, and puts the mask over her face. She tries to remember her brief lessons months ago, then presses the mask hard to her forehead and exhales through her nose. The water in the mask bubbles away and suddenly she can see quite clearly.

The water is very bright, almost as bright as day. The barge is a huge shadow above her, and she can sense other shadows nearby.

There is a splash, a rush of bubbles. It is one of the half-world’s inhabitants, a little goggle-eyed man. He swims with apparent ease beneath the surface, his big eyes like a pair of headlamps. He swims past her strongly, a line of little bubbles trailing from his mouth, and his eyes roll toward her. He watches her expressionlessly as he swims past, his adaptation to the aquatic environment much greater than hers, then kicks on into the darkness.

A line of bullets rips the water over her head. Aiah watches the bullets hit the water in a fury of bubbles, then lose their momentum and spiral harmlessly past her. The fighting, she thinks, is getting very close.

There is another splash overhead, another figure striking the water in a burst of bubbles. It is one of the stonefaces, mouth open, eyes agape. He drifts downward in a cruciform shape, arms wide as if to embrace the water. A thread of blood trails from his mouth.

Dead, Aiah thinks, and then, Davath!

She bottles up a scream at the bottom of her throat. She flails as she drags on the buoyancy harness, fighting the tangle of straps. A whole family of goggle-eyed twisted swim by, mom and pop and two curious children. The lead weights in the harness pockets try to drag her to the bottom, so she inflates the air pockets in the harness until her buoyancy neutralizes. Then she kicks off her boots and puts on her fins.

As she handles these routine tasks, her breath returns to normal, her heartbeat slows. But then the barge gives a huge lurch. The pipe kicks up and hits her in the face. An explosion batters at her ears. A surge of bubbles blinds her, and suddenly the pipe is tilting up, bringing her close to the surface.

Fear makes her relinquish the pipe and drop back into the sheltering sea. The barge has been holed, she realizes, and it is filling with water and rolling away from her as it does so.

It’s going to sink, and she needs to get away before it drags her down. She backpedals, kicking away from the barge. Bullets rip up the water above her head and she pulls the release valve on the buoyancy harness, allowing herself to sink deeper into the water… She tries to orient herself, tries to think which way is out. There is a horrid metallic rending sound from the barge, some internal bulkhead caving in.

Another twisted man swims by, big eyes bulging. He must know a safe place, she thinks, and decides to follow him.

She kicks out and has no trouble keeping up with him. The cold is making her shiver. Her body wants to curl up to conserve heat and she has to make an effort to keep her legs kicking.

It’s a hideous failure, she thinks. Statius and Cornelius are probably dead, the half-world is being destroyed, hundreds of people are going to die.

And the war will go on.

An uncontrollable shudder runs through her frame.

And I, Aiah thinks, am going to die of cold, and very soon.

Then she feels plasm prickling her skin, warm like a blanket, and she is sprawling, amid a gurgling, splashing lake of seawater, on Aldemar’s carpet…

Powerful arms pick her up, strip the mask from her face, the regulator, begin unclipping the harness.

“A hot bath,” Constantine says. “Draw it. Now.” He kisses her cold lips. Aiah looks at him from heavy-lidded eyes.

The diving gear tumbles to the floor, lead weights thudding.

Constantine picks her up and carries her to warmth, to life.