City on Fire

SEVEN

Perhaps Aiah should be grateful for the fact that Constantine cannot resist a gesture. After he carries her off through the corridors, things change.

It is hard to say exactly how. People react to Aiah differently—she catches a speculative look here, overhears an expression there, and sometimes she observes mere puzzlement, as if people are trying to understand just where she fits in, or what it is that Constantine sees in her.

She can’t blame them. It is not as if she has not speculated along these lines herself.

On occasion she finds the difference an unpleasant one. People condescend to her, assuming that she is merely Constantine’s plaything and knows nothing, or they try to use her as a conduit to reach him. Sometimes she has to administer a sharp correction.

Constantine himself is almost a daily presence: there are meetings, working lunches, reports commissioned and given. He drives and exhorts, setting an example of furious activity; he works on fifty things at once, somehow balancing them all, keeping them all filed within his capacious mind.

And yet, in their private moments together, he is somehow able to forget all business. He has learned from somewhere—the School of Radritha?—the art of relaxation. In her company he is happy to linger over a meal, or speculate about the implications of Rohder’s theories, or spin absurd theories about sorcery, society, or life beyond the Shield.

Every so often, sleep shift, she finds Constantine in the secure room, or discovers, looking at the log, that he was there the previous shift. Then she knows to avoid him, for when his thoughts are on Taikoen he is abrupt, uncivil, and distracted, and Aiah doesn’t know how to help, how to resolve the forces that are driving him.

Daily the mercenary teams continue their work, the anonymous powerboats slipping out at odd hours, returning with cargoes of Handmen for the prisons. The Silver Hand grows smarter and begins to fortify their plasm houses with bronze mesh and massive armored doors, but it doesn’t help them—the locations were betrayed before the Handmen ever began taking precautions, and thoroughly scouted in the days since. Arrests continue.

Fear of the firing squads makes the Handmen desperate, and when the storming parties arrive they try to defend themselves with the plasm available to them—but Constantine’s mercenaries, and their supporting mages, are professional enough to evade these hasty attacks.

Interrogation reports continue to arrive on Aiah’s desk, along with the occasional request to release Handmen for use as informers.

The soldiers continue drawing lots to discover who will make up the firing squads. Aiah finds grim satisfaction in hearing that the Handmen’s insurance companies have long since canceled their policies.

Six weeks after his escape, Aiah sees a video report of a failed assassination attempt on Great-Uncle Rathmen. The three shooters, Silver Hand types, are all dead. Two of the names are familiar: Aiah’s group had arrested them, and Sorya had asked them to be released as informers.

Deniability has been maintained—no one could connect the Caraqui government to this action. Pity, however, that Sorya had not chosen better instruments.

Aiah takes some comfort, though, in the fact that Constantine has not made use of Taikoen. Though she finds evidence of the creature’s activities elsewhere.

I committed the crime with Luking, but he died. He got the Party Disease, and I hope he didn’t give it to me.

There it is in one of her prisoners’ transcripts, a strange remark in the course of the narrative. The interrogator apparently found this avenue worth pursuing, but the interrogator’s questions are never provided, and the narrative simply continues.

The Party Disease must be new. It’s where you just go mad trying to have fun. You drink and pop pills and chase women and go to the clubs, you do it nonstop till you’re dead. Luking died of it, and I know three other people who died.

Apparently the interrogator found this too bizarre to be worthy of any further questioning, because the narrative then returns to more conventional paths, a list of crimes and accomplices and where the accomplices might be found.

The Party Disease. Enough Handmen had died of it for them to start talking.

Aiah pushes the matter out of her mind. She doesn’t want to know where Taikoen has left his footprints.

And then, after her department has been in existence for three months, Aiah is asked to make a report to the cabinet.

She hates talking before an audience.

Aiah marshals her statistics, her facts, her anecdotes. She memorizes the faces and biographies of cabinet members. Charts and handouts are prepared. She barely sleeps the shift before her presentation, and she takes a jolt of plasm beforehand, burns off the fatigue toxins and gives herself a dose of courage, a fervid high that sings through her veins. She hopes it will last the day.

Constantine fetches her from her office, along with Ethemark and two assistants to carry the charts. The polished-copper elevator doors open, and Aiah’s heart leaps as, inside the mirror-and-red-plush birdcage, she sees a twisted man, a cripple—no, not a twisted man; a dolphin—a dolphin sitting in a kind of mobile couch on wheels, pushed by a pair of human assistants. The couch is beautifully constructed, a polished frame of brass, and the cushions are upholstered with a colorful pattern of bright orchids.

“Most precious and gemlike greetings to you, illuminous Prince Aranax,” Constantine says.

Aiah has met Aranax once before, when she and Constantine slipped into Caraqui on a scouting mission. Since then Aranax had been named Minister of Oceanautics, a reward for dolphin cooperation in the coup.

Aranax’s beaklike face is fixed in a permanent grin, and his voice is a strange nasal drone. His skin is pinkish-white and covered with scars and open sores. He wears a streamlined vest with many pockets. There is a strange scent in the air, a mineral-laden salt-sea tang.

“Salutations to the godlike and immortal Constantine,” Aranax says. The first consonant of Constantine’s name is pronounced as an inhaled click.

The elevator doors threaten to close, and one of Aranax’s human assistants jumps to turn the brass knob that locks them open.

“Desolate though I shall be without your presence,” Constantine says, “I would not trouble your wisdom nor interrupt your sagacious meditations. Melancholy though I shall be in my desperate isolation, I shall with hope and fortitude await another elevator.”

Aranax snorts through the nostrils atop his bald head. “Truly would I chide myself for inconveniencing such a glorious one as the ever-brilliant Constantine. I hope you will condescend to share this conveyance with me, you and your perfect assistant, the sublime Miss Aiah.”

Constantine and Aiah step into the elevator, their knees up against Aranax’s couch, and Aranax’s assistant turns the knob to allow the doors to close, then sets to the top floor the eagle-claw control lever. There is no room for Ethemark or the others, and they will have to catch up later.

Aiah, her heart throbbing as she tries to frame a properly formal response to Aranax’s invitation, casts a longing glance over her shoulder as the polished-copper doors close behind her.

“Your illumination gives me great honor,” she manages, “in remembering our brief acquaintance.” All-too-brief, she thinks, the more extravagant the adjective the better, but too late to say it.

“Who would not remember even the briefest acquaintance with the exalted Miss Aiah?” Aranax replies effortlessly. “Warrior mage, and conqueror of the Silver Hand?”

Aiah blinks. “Your illumination does me far too much credit,” she says.

The flowery language is customary among dolphins, as are the old-fashioned titles, echoes out of some ancient romance. A human prince—assuming you could even find such a thing in the post-Metropolitan world—would be a rare thing indeed, but all dolphins seem to be titled: somehow they manage a society with all nobility and no commoners.

With Aranax in it, the elevator has become a glittering miniature palace, complete with ministers, functionaries, and royalty on his divan. Aiah wonders if all dolphins sat in such state once, before the wars that subdued them, and before human civilization expanded over the Sea of Caraqui and the world’s other bodies of water.

The passengers swoop upward along the slight arcs dictated by the Palace’s geomantic relationships. Constantine and Aranax engage in an ornate conversation about monetary supply and the Bank of Caraqui, and between them the elaborate language and abstruse subject matter combine to make the discussion completely unintelligible.

Being a high official, Aiah thinks, means having these sort of conversations all the time.

The elevator doors open into a circular room, and the party makes its way past deferent guards up stairs to the glittering Crystal Dome, where the cabinet meets. The dome is set atop the Palace like an insect eye gazing out at the sky, a sparkling webwork of bronze and crystal that slowly rotates above the world-city, providing the cabinet with spectacular views of the metropolis they govern. The long table, the chairs, and the tables are marvels of gleaming cantilevered tubes and faceted jewel surfaces. How it all survived the fighting is a mystery to Aiah.

Drumbeth sits at the head of the long crystal table, first among the triumvirate’s equals, looking down the table with his slitlike, impassive eyes. Before him, on the surface of the table, is set a small pyramid of crystal a hand high, apparently cast with the table surface in one huge piece. Hilthi and Parq flank Drumbeth, Parq in full clerical dress, with his soft gray mushroom-shaped hat atop his handsome head, and each has his own group of functionaries in support.

Constantine sits in the next tier of officials, with the uniformed War Minister, Colonel Radeen, across from him. Aiah sits among other subordinates behind Constantine, perched on the white leather sling of one of the tube chairs. Sorya, in silken green and orange, sits behind Belckon, the elderly, white-haired Minister of State, a dignified individual who might well have been chosen simply because he looked so much like a soothing, accomplished diplomat. Conspicuous among the eleven other ministers are Aranax on his couch, the little twisted embryo Adaveth, and another with twisted genes, rocklike Myhorn, a massive creature who Aiah knows is female only through once having heard her speak. The large number of assistants makes the big crystal room seem close.

Drumbeth picks up a small hammer—it is clear crystal, with a silver handle—and raps once on a side of the crystal pyramid before him. The glass table sings, a clear bell-like sound that hangs in the air, its hovering presence almost physical; and Aiah hears answering chimes, bits of the Crystal Dome resonating to the song of the long table, then answering each other, and Aiah feels her long bones answer as well, a tremor deep in her limbs…

Everyone falls silent.

“Let us begin,” Drumbeth says, and after the song of the Crystal Dome his mild voice seems harsh.

There are lengthy reports on other subjects first. When she finally has a chance to speak, Aiah finds her audience polite and reasonably attentive. Some—Constantine, Drumbeth, Sorya, and Hilthi—even seem interested. Hilthi, the former journalist, gazes down through crescent-shaped reading glasses as he jots into an open notebook with his gold pen. Gentri, the Minister of Public Security, seems far too interested—his own police plasm squads are suffering by comparison.

“In conclusion,” Aiah finishes, “the figures amount to this: we have brought almost three thousand Handmen and associates to justice. The Plasm Control Board, as a result of our actions thus far, will be able to sell no less than thirty-five thousand monthly megamehrs of plasm to the public. That is enough plasm to lift the Aerial Palace and sail it to Mount Chukhmarkh—” A few eyes lift to gaze at the distant volcano, which peaks blue on the horizon. “Or,” she says, “put another way, the Plasm Enforcement Division, in less than three months, has just added another four hundred and eleven million dinars to the treasury for this year alone.”

Around the table, Aiah sees chins lifting, a little abstract look entering the eyes. Yes, she thinks. Money. Think about it.

“With every day we continue our work,” she adds, “that figure increases.”

Constantine begins a round of polite applause. Aiah nods, relieved to have the formal part over with, and asks for questions.

Drumbeth folds his arms and frowns. Behind him, visible through the dome, a pair of eagles spire high on the Palace thermals.

“How badly has the Silver Hand been damaged?” he asks.

“In one sense,” Aiah says, “not at all.”

Drumbeth’s frown deepens. Gentri permits a smile to ghost across his face.

“There are an estimated two hundred thousand Handmen in Caraqui,” Aiah says, “along with perhaps a half a million known associates who work alongside them without necessarily being formal members of the organization. Of this total, we’ve arrested not quite three thousand, an insignificant number compared with the total.”

“Seven hundred thousand,” Drumbeth mutters. “That’s an army.”

“However,” Aiah says, “we have arrested much of their leadership, or driven them into exile or underground. We’ve probably confiscated a much larger percentage of their plasm than we’ve arrested of their membership—we have seriously damaged their business, and we’ve made it a much more dangerous business to be a part of. Without plasm, their power is much reduced.”

“And ours,” Constantine says, “becomes greater.” He clears his throat, as clear a call for attention as Drumbeth’s rap with the crystal hammer. “I have said,” he says, “that so much plasm in the hands of criminals is a danger to the state, and Miss Aiah’s division was created in response to that danger. There are seven hundred thousand of them—that’s five times the size of our army and our hired soldiers together—and who knows how much plasm they can summon among them.”

“Enough to get their chief out of prison,” Hilthi mutters, “or was money used instead?”

A huge plasm advert, flashing overhead, gives Hilthi’s face a greenish cast.

“The young lady’s work is commendable,” Parq says, “especially in one so young,” and proudly strokes his silky beard as if he was himself to be commended for saying such a thing.

Drumbeth’s eyes turn toward Aiah. “Reinforce success,” he says. “That is an army maxim. What can we do, Miss Aiah, to reinforce yours?”

Gentri permits himself a cynical little sneer. “Money, I expect, and more personnel,” he says.

Aiah’s temper flares, quickened by plasm-energy, but she bites down on her anger and any intemperate reply. “Time,” Aiah says, “most of all. We are all new to our job, and we are improving day to day. But yes—money and personnel will help us, of course. As will better salaries—though our people are proving to be extraordinarily dedicated, very few are experienced in this sort of work. We can’t afford to hire the people who are, so we hire others and hope to train them.”

“As the Plasm Enforcement Division is one of the few branches of government actually earning wealth for the state,” Constantine suggests, “I think any increase in its budget would be money well spent.”

Gentri leans forward and passes a hand over his balding head, smoothing into place strands of hair that are no longer there. “Perhaps I should point out once more,” he says, “that the plasm squads of the police already have a mandate to find plasm thieves. Though I compliment my colleague Aiah on her accomplishments, nevertheless I feel constrained to remark that my own ministry contains all the expertise and specialists necessary for this job. Not only that, but my department has sufficient personnel to arrest people without the necessity of calling out foreign mercenaries to break down doors and arrest citizens in their beds.”

Plasm snarls in her nerves and Aiah begins to reply, but Constantine looks up at her and gives a little flicker of his eye, and her reply dries up on her tongue. She settles for a glare at Constantine instead, and he smiles in answer and turns to his colleagues.

“Our respected colleague makes a telling point.” Hilthi nods, and looks down at the notebook he’s opened on the table. “I have viewed foreign newscasts, and they show little of our government but pictures of soldiers hauling citizens off to be shot. They make it look as if we’ve unleashed the military on our people.”

“The soldiers are a convenience,” Constantine says. “It is the fault of no one here, but it is a fact that the Silver Hand and their associates have made inroads into our political and police structure. If we used local forces, I fear our quarry would be alerted, and would escape ahead of time. Our soldiers—military police, most of them, brought into the country after the coup to keep order, and not assault troops or anything dangerous—have not been corrupted. Perhaps it would look better on video,” he smiles, “if we were simply to equip them with different uniforms and make their soldierly aspect less obvious.”

“May I make another point with regard to the government’s use of mercenaries?” says Colonel Radeen, the War Minister. He is a dark-haired, dapper man in a tailored uniform. He had commanded the Second Brigade when it stormed the Aerial Palace during the coup, and was rewarded with leadership of the armed forces. He holds a lit cigaret between his thumb and two fingers, like a pointer, and for the present keeps it aimed at the Shield.

“The Keremaths degraded the regular armed forces,” Radeen says, “and used the mercenary Metropolitan Guard to keep themselves secure. This did army morale no good, of course, and eventually contributed to the disaffection that led to the Keremaths’ overthrow.

“But now…” Radeen shakes his head. “I fear that we are slipping into the same situation. Army troops—my own brigade, in fact—captured the Palace, but it isn’t my brigade that guards the Palace now… The security of the government is now in the hands of a mercenary unit—and furthermore, a mercenary outfit that has a long record of service with a single member of the cabinet.” His hand tips his cigaret, slightly, in Constantine’s direction.

“I do not question my colleague’s loyalty to the triumvirate,” Radeen adds, again with a tip toward Constantine, “or that of the soldiers in question. But I do question appearances, and it concerns me how the morale of the army will be affected.”

“I should think,” Hilthi says, looking up from his notebook, “that our regard for the army should be apparent in our decision to double its size and to promote large numbers of officers. Did that not have a beneficial effect on morale?”

“Naturally,” Radeen says. “The officers were much gratified at the signs that the previous policy of neglect was being reversed.”

“Good,” Hilthi says. “I’m happy to hear that our budgetary excess had some good effect. Because if spending all that money didn’t work, we could reduce the army to its original size.”

Radeen reacts to this with a thin smile, as if he’s decided to treat Hilthi’s remark as a joke.

Drumbeth turns to Radeen. “We are satisfied with the performance both of the regular army and our hired troops,” he says. “While the armed forces are rebuilding, the security of the government is best guaranteed by a highly trained, professional unit such as that commanded by Colonel Geymard.”

Radeen decides, Aiah concludes, upon a tactical readjustment. “I spoke to appearances only,” he says. “The appearance of Geymard’s men is not good; nor is the appearance of mercenaries battering down the doors of our citizens.”

“We do not intend for this situation to last indefinitely,” Hilthi says. He looks to the other triumvirs for agreement. “After the state of emergency is over, and Caraqui returns to normal, we anticipate that the use of mercenaries will be scaled back.”

“There is no reason,” says Gentri, “not to scale them back now. My plasm squads—”

Constantine looks at Gentri, a little smile curling his lips, eyes alight with the anticipated sparring to come. “May I inquire of my esteemed colleague how many Handmen his plasm squads have of late arrested?” he asks. “And how much plasm has been returned to the state?”

Gentri strokes his little mustache. The rotating Crystal Dome has placed the tall gray spires of Lorkhin Island behind him, so that it looks as if his bald head has suddenly sprouted winged granite buildings. “Until recently,” he says, “the Silver Hand was given a degree of political protection by the Keremaths. My squads cannot be held accountable—”

“I mean only since the Hand’s protection was abolished,” Constantine says, “I wonder if my colleague can provide me with statistics concerning—”

“Our record-keeping doesn’t distinguish between arrests of Handmen and others,” Gentri says. “Allow me to reassure my colleague that my police place Handmen under arrest all the time. Nearly every day, I should imagine.”

“Can my colleague give me any names?” Constantine asks. “Any specific charges? Anything?”

“Our record-keeping—” Obstinately.

“I ask only,” Constantine says, “because most of our Enforcement Division’s records of the Handmen originally came from your police files. Miss Aiah’s units and your own, on the day the amnesty ended, had much the same information about the Silver Hand. But she seems to have been much more effective against the Silver Hand, even though she had to create her organization from scratch.”

“I dispute that!” Gentri snaps.

“Ah. Well.” Constantine gives a languid smile and draws from his jacket a piece of paper. “Fortunately I have some estimates,” he says, and opens the paper. He looks up at the other ministers. “You see,” he says, “when Mr. Gentri’s police raid an illegal plasm house, they have to call on workers from the Ministry of Resources—from my ministry—to wire the illegal plasm source into the system and to install meters to regulate it. And since the meters are read regularly, I have access to excellent data concerning just how much plasm my colleague’s experts have returned to the state. In fact,” his catlike smile widening, “I had all these meters read just yesterday, to make certain my statistics are up to date.”

Gentri licks his lips. “I have not seen these data,” he says. “How do I know—”

Constantine’s reply is smooth. “You may send your own people to read the meters, and correct me if I am in error.” He looks at the piece of paper. “Like my colleague,” he says, “I do not have the total number of Handmen arrested by the police for plasm theft—but I do have the total number of those whose meters my workers were called upon to install or adjust, and a cross-check with Enforcement Division computers records the total number of correspondences as…” He smiles, flashing white teeth. “Three. Three Handmen arrested by the plasm squads in the seven weeks since the end of the amnesty. Returning to the state a total of one hundred fifty kilomehrs monthly, or about nineteen million dinars per year. Roughly one-tenth what Miss Aiah has accomplished with far fewer resources.”

Gentri gives Constantine a stony look. “I am certain there have been more arrests than three,” he says.

Constantine shrugs. “Double the number, if you like. Triple it. There remains”—a laconic smile dances on his lips—“something of a contrast.”

“Our mandate is broader than containing the Silver Hand. We don’t just arrest Handmen—our concerns are far more wide-ranging than that.” Gentri takes a breath. “For instance,” he says, “just today we have begun a new campaign against a long-standing source of plasm theft: the illegal settlements called half-worlds.”

Aiah starts as Ethemark clamps a webbed hand on her thigh. “The half-worlds,” he whispers. “Did I not warn you?”

Gentri opens a folder and glances at a paper inside. “Since my colleague is so fond of statistics, let me furnish him some. First shift today my police entered two illegal settlements, those called Hog Sty and Dark Eighteen by their inhabitants. We arrested eight major plasm thieves, and dispersed over six thousand illegal settlers. At least a score of wanted fugitives were found among their number and a warehouseful of stolen property was recovered, along with thirty or more vessels believed to have been stolen.” He smiles and folds his arms triumphantly, like a conqueror. “I think we may say the operations were a success. Many more are planned.”

Ethemark’s fingers dig into Aiah’s thigh as he whispers fiercely to Constantine, “Do something!”

Constantine glances over his shoulder at Ethemark, frowns lightly with a shake of the head, then turns back to Gentri.

“I congratulate my colleague on his successful and well-planned operations,” he says. “May I ask him how much plasm will be recovered?”

“It’s too early to say. Several illegal taps were discovered.”

“I asked because the Plasm Enforcement Division had of course considered raiding the half-worlds, but concluded that it wasn’t cost-effective at the present time.”

“I disagree.” Gentri’s response is instantaneous.

A new voice speaks up. “With all humility and deference to my esteemed colleague the glorious Gentri,” says Prince Aranax, “who spreads his wisdom over our gathering like a god spreading a refreshing shower over the land, I myself, humble slave of fortune though I am, must in the most submissive fashion beg to disagree with the position he has so wisely maintained before this august gathering.”

The others watch Aranax with a mixture of anticipation and impatience. Aiah wonders how long he can string these sentiments out.

“The half-worlds,” Aranax says, “degraded though they may be in the eyes of Caraqui, nevertheless share the watery realm with my own lowly and miserable race. Such brilliantly planned and executed operations as envisaged by the ever-sagacious Gentri are bound to cause a disruption among my own unworthy kind, and I must implore and entreat my colleagues to spare my wretched and undeserving people the confusion necessarily caused thereby.”

“I agree with my esteemed colleague the minister and Prince Aranax,” says Adaveth, the gray-skinned embryo. “The half-worlds are the last refuge of the poor and desperate. Any police actions directed against them would cause great hardship.”

“And they would gain the state little but instability,” adds the giant Myhorn in her strangely feminine voice. “As Constantine has said, they are hardly cost-effective.”

Hilthi, scribbling in his notebook, gives a sharp glance over his spectacles at Constantine. “What do you mean, colleague?” he asks.

Constantine makes an equivocal gesture with one big hand. “Most of the half-worlds steal small amounts of plasm, true. They also steal fresh water and electricity, once again in insignificant amounts. And other things.”

“But all together,” Gentri says, “the amount is far from insignificant.”

“No doubt.” Constantine brushes the objection aside. “Still, no one lives in the half-worlds from choice. These communities exist because there is nowhere else that will have them.”

“Or because the police are looking for them,” Gentri says.

“Conceded. But my colleague speaks of dispersing six thousand inhabitants. May I ask where he expects these people to go?”

Gentri’s tone clenches his teeth. “The settlements,” he says, “were illegal. Where the inhabitants go is not our concern, provided they find a legal residence.”

“Where do the inhabitants have to go but other half-worlds? And once those are cleaned out, they will have no place to go but the streets, where they cannot help but create disturbances, and even a riot or two.” He turns to Hilthi. “How will the video broadcasts regard that? It is one thing to turn military police loose on the likes of the Silver Hand—it is regrettable, but most viewers will concede its necessity, given their threat to the state and a certain… reluctance … on the part of the proper authorities—but to set swarms of police loose on the most defenseless of our citizens, those on whose behalf we hope to create the revolution, to deprive them of shelter and set them out on the streets—”

“I object to these provocative descriptions!” Gentri shouts. “Swarms of police! Defenseless citizens! Reluctant authorities! My colleague is attempting to turn a perfectly legal police action into some grotesque act of brutality!”

There is an amused glint in Constantine’s eye. “I did not turn it so.”

Gentri looks at the others around the table. “Colleagues! This is outrageous!”

Constantine holds up a hand, forefinger tucked away with the thumb, remaining three fingers extended. “Three arrests of Handmen. That is outrageous.”

The room buzzes with the sound of everyone talking at once. Voices are raised. Finally Drumbeth picks up the crystal hammer and brings it down. The Crystal Dome rings with harmony, and—for the moment anyway—the babble of discord dies away.

Drumbeth looks at Gentri. “I had hoped for better results against the Handmen,” he says.

“Mr. President,” Gentri says, “they are a large and difficult target.”

“Miss Aiah has not found them so difficult.” Drumbeth frowns. “After the Keremaths, the Hand is the chief target of our administration. They are the chief threat to the security of our metropolis. When may we expect you to move decisively against them?”

Gentri licks his lips. Plasm adverts, red, yellow, green, bloom behind his head like fireworks. “Intelligence must be gathered, targets chosen, plans made…”

The commanding light that glitters in Drumbeth’s eyes is like the hard gleam off a diamond facet. He sits erect and motionless in his chair, and his presence seems to inflate: despite Drumbeth’s small body he suddenly seems to mass far more than Gentri, and to tower over him like the stone-face Myhorn.

“My understanding,” Drumbeth says, “is that you have gathered intelligence, that the police have years of intelligence.”

Gentri shifts uncomfortably in his seat, rearranges his thinning locks with a distracted hand. “We are in a process of review. To determine its accuracy.”

“And when may we expect to have the review completed?”

Gentri raises his hands helplessly. “I—have no estimate. I did not understand that any of these issues would be raised at this meeting.”

Constantine leans forward and speaks. His speech has turned silky; he is generous now that he has made his point.

“I sympathize with my colleague’s dilemma. He is new to his position, and he is not responsible for the fact that he has inherited a police force renowned for its corruption. I have a few of the same problems with some of the organizations under my ministerial control. One understands the situation, but one doesn’t want to admit the system’s failures among one’s peers.”

Gentri is in no mood to be appeased, and scowls as he makes his reply. “Steps are being taken to rectify this situation. I have made full reports to my colleagues on my efforts.”

Constantine continues soothing, his deep voice evoking odd little harmonies from the crystal surroundings, individual panes and plates ringing with his voice. “May I offer my colleague the technique that has produced such admirable results in the Plasm Enforcement Division? That each employee be subjected to a plasm scan in order to determine that he is not beholden to the Silver Hand or any other extralegal agency?”

Gentri glares at Constantine. Behind him, plasm letters hang burning in the sky. “The effects on police morale would be incalculable.”

Constantine’s laughter rumbles out, and somewhere a crystal pane hums in sympathy. “I should hope so.”

Gentri looks at the head of the table. “Am I to understand that the half-worlds now possess the same sort of political immunity formerly enjoyed by the Silver Hand and various Keremath enterprises? What possible use could such protection be for us—what is gained?”

Drumbeth frowns, thinks for a long moment. “I am concerned principally with returning plasm resources to the state. If there are plasm thieves, or other criminals, within the half-worlds, let them be arrested, by all means.”

Hilthi looks up again from his notebooks. “But deporting whole populations…” he says.

“I think not,” says Drumbeth. He looks at Gentri, and his voice turns commanding. “And we desire action against the Handmen. Names, charges, facts, totals of plasm and other stolen materials returned. All this, and soon.”

Gentri visibly bites down his resentment, and nods. “Very well, sir,” he says. “Soon.”

Soon. Aiah thinks she tastes an odd flavor in that word, as if Gentri is offering another promise entirely, something quite different from what Drumbeth has in mind.

But no one else seems to hear what Aiah hears, and suddenly there is a blaze of light overhead. Several in the cabinet start, afraid this might be some kind of attack, but there is no danger, it is only a plasm display—an illegal plasm display, because no displays are permitted over the Palace in the event they might be used to disguise an assault. But all faces turn upward in any case… A dolphin spins through space; a cat wearing white gloves and a vest makes a commanding gesture with a stick; a woman in tall boots contemplates some kind of net she is holding in her hand, a window which allows a glimpse of an unnaturally green plain, as if someone had sown the surface of a large roof entirely in grass and placed on it a few black-and-white cows. Each image leaping into being, moving, dissolving into another, all too fast for the mind to follow.

“What is that?” Constantine breathes in wonder.

“The Dreaming Sisters,” Aiah says.

“And who are they?” Constantine says.

Aiah doesn’t have an answer, and it is Ethemark—gazing upward, the images reflected in his huge eyes—who supplies the reply.

“They are a religious order,” he says.

“They must be a rich religious order,” Constantine says, “to afford so much plasm.”

“No doubt,” says Ethemark.

And then the image fades, leaving in Aiah’s heart a burning droplet of wonder, even as the cabinet meeting drones on.

“A division within our ranks,” Constantine observes, “and not the first. There are those who wish true change, a revisu-alization of our world, and those who simply want the same old Caraqui with a new set of faces at the top.” He shrugs lazily, massive shoulders straining the seams of his velvet jacket. “Perhaps it is not Gentri’s fault. He is a product of the system here, and his imagination simply may not be sufficiently flexible to see that there is another way.”

The meeting is over, and Constantine’s air of satisfaction fills the mirror-and-gilt elevator as it swoops and slides its way down its curving shaft. He smiles; he gestures expansively.

Tiny Ethemark, in his shadow, is not so pleased. “But what of the half-worlds?” he says. “Gentri’s still allowed to send his police in.”

Constantine doesn’t look at him directly, but instead gazes at the twisted man’s distorted reflection in the polished-bronze door. “Those who steal plasm must take their chances, no?” he says. “And if the amounts the half-worlds are stealing are trivial, as you have always maintained, there will be little reason to go in at all. And in any case, the majority of the people will not be thrown out, and that is what we want most.”

“What I want,” Ethemark says forcefully, “is for the half-worlds to be let alone.”

Constantine gives Ethemark’s reflection a sharp look, a steely edge glinting through the velvet tone of his voice. “That was naive. I intend to let nothing alone—to allow nothing to remain unchanged at all.”

Their reflections are sliced open as the polished doors part. “Miss Aiah,” Constantine says, “a word with you.”

Ethemark makes his way down the corridor to his office, giving Aiah and Constantine a look over his shoulder as he retreats. The look on the smooth gray face, as always, is unreadable.

Constantine leans close, puts a warm hand on Aiah’s shoulder. “I have heard from your Mr. Rohder,” he says. “He says he will leave his position in Jaspeer and join us.”

Warm pleasure dances in Aiah’s veins. “I’m very happy.” She finds her lips twitching with the urge to kiss him, but it is a public corridor, and since he carried her away from the aerocar pad there have been no more demonstrations of affection in public.

There is a hidden glow in Constantine’s eyes, and Aiah senses that the thought of a stolen kiss has not eluded him either. But then the glow turns cold, the expression grim.

“Gentri,” he says, and before finishing lets the name hang for a moment in the air, “troubles me.”

Aiah hears a confirmation humming through her nerves, a sense that her intuition was not entirely misplaced.

“Yes,” she says. “There was something… not quite right there.”

“His performance was a little too fervid, I think. As if he was not defending merely his plasm squads—which is understandable, and after all his job—but perhaps himself as well.”

Aiah nods. “I see what you mean.”

Constantine straightens, a contemplative frown touching his face. “He was a prosecuting judge before the coup, and reckoned honest, as such people go. There was no reason to think him connected to anyone… untoward.” He nods to himself as if reaching a decision, then looks down at her. “I wish you to start a file. A discreet little file that most eyes will never see—none but yours, mine, perhaps Ethemark’s.”

Aiah considers this request. “Isn’t Sorya the person to ask for that sort of thing?”

“I have seen her file. There is little of any interest in it.”

“I’m not very qualified for this.”

He shrugs. “Do what you can. There may, after all, be nothing to find.” He takes her arm. “Come. I would like to review the day’s projects.”

She falls into step alongside him. “Three big arrests planned for first shift tomorrow. And a number of known associates for dessert.”

“Ah.” He smiles. “Progress made, then. And more to tell the cabinet, when next they meet.”

“Sir! Miss Aiah!”

It’s Ethemark, coming back on the run. “Bombings, sir! Alaphen Plaza, by Government Harbor—and the Exchange! Hundreds of people hurt!”

Constantine stops walking, his head held high, nostrils flared, as if to scent the wind. He nods. “Well,” he says, “someone makes a counterattack.”

“Who?” Aiah feels panic thrashing in her chest. “The Hand?”

“Someone… weak. Only the weak use terror.” He tilts his head, licks his lips as if to taste something. “Great-Uncle Rathmen, perhaps, letting us know he is displeased with the late assassination attempt. We shall see what news the investigation brings.”

The two bombings kill a handful and injure many, though fortunately there are not so many casualties as first believed. Sorya’s service is using plasm hounds within the hour, and though the bombers have taken precautions to clean themselves of any trace, the procedure was flawed in one case, and one of the killers is tracked south to Barchab, and there positively identified: a Handman. Barchab is quietly asked to arrest the individual and hand him over, and video reports of the stunned survivors staggering among the overturned carts and blasted barrows of the open-air Alaphen market prompt the Barchab government, not known for its efficiency, to act quickly for once.

Members of the government begin to walk about with guards, and their families move into the Aerial Palace. Hilthi protests—he wants to live among the people—but though he will not leave his apartment, at least he is persuaded to keep a guard about him.

Two days later, with the bomber still in Barchabi hands, a far worse catastrophe. Constantine and Aiah view it from his launch, the gleaming black-and-silver turbine-powered machine he had confiscated from the Keremaths.

Cold rain drizzles down as Aiah looks at the overturned apartment building. One of its two support pontoons had been bashed in, and the entire building, with upward of four thousand people inside, had capsized in minutes. The huge concrete pontoons are built with watertight compartments below the waterline and had capsized in minutes. The pontoons are built with massive redundancy, and such sudden and catastrophic failure should not be possible.

Not without help, anyway.

The apartment building, brick on a steel frame, had collapsed when it was overturned, though its watery grave is shallow and the intact pontoon is still visible, barnacle-encrusted flank exposed to the air like some strange leviathan floating dead on the water. Boats sit on the slack green water around the structure, picking up debris and the dead, and barges with huge cranes stand ready. But most of the rescue work is invisible: telepresent mages at nearby plasm substations scouring the rubble for signs of anyone trapped in an air pocket, and other mages with the rare and difficult skill of teleportation stand by to pop any survivors to the nearest hospital.

Constantine watches grimly, the collar of his windbreaker turned up as the rain falls in a soft mist on his bare head. Disposed about the boat are his guards, all twisted Cheloki with bony faces like armored black visors, and led by Martinus. They have followed Constantine all these years, from the Cheloki Wars on, and they have never failed him.

Constantine had not used so many guards until recently. Aiah assumes that telepresent mages are on guard as well. This business, she reflects, has made Constantine wary.

“It will be the Hand sending a message,” he says. Drops of rain course down his face, and he blinks them from his lashes as he speaks. “Who else has the plasm to waste? Sorya taught them not to use bombs.”

Aiah huddles beneath her jacket hood as rain patters on it, a steady percussion near her ears. “What can we do?”

Constantine tilts his head back, as if to consult with the low clouds. He opens his mouth and lets the rain refresh him. Then he looks at Aiah, and a dangerous light burns in his eyes.

“I want you to give me a list,” Constantine says. “Ten Handmen we have not arrested. Not necessarily the highest-ranking, but the worst, and all married—with large families, preferably. I want their addresses and the names of their close kin. I want them by the beginning of work shift tomorrow.”

Aiah’s mouth goes dry. Her hand, holding her rain hood closed beneath her chin, begins to tremble. “Yes, Metropolitan,” she says.

He does not correct her use of his old title. Instead he looks at the rubble of the building. His tone turns meditative. “And another list, I think. Every Handman in your files. Names, pictures, current addresses.” He looks at her sharply. “But that for later. The list of ten, first of all. I would send Great-Uncle Rathmen an answer to his message.”

There are three bombings in the next wave. Three Hand-men are killed, along with their families. Three Handmen from the list of ten that Aiah had prepared. The explosions are carefully controlled, and there are no other casualties.

After this, the bombings cease entirely.

Aiah concludes that Constantine’s message has been received.

She does not watch the video for days, in order to avoid any pictures of dead children, but she finds, regardless, the dead haunting her dreams, a sad and silent procession, gazing at her with drowned, frozen, reproachful eyes.