City on Fire

staffs, though doing their best, were clearly overtaxed. There hadn’t even been enough beds, not until thousands were liberated from nearby hotels.

Aiah hated hospitals, and she’d blanched at the scents of disinfectant, polish, old blood, and sickness. She hadn’t known what to say to these total strangers whose bodies had been torn apart on her behalf {your fault, an inner voice insisted), and entering the first ward, she’d hesitated.

Fortunately Galagas and Aratha talked her through it—they had been through this many times. “Ask their names and where they’re from,” Aratha said. “Ask what unit they’re in. Ask if there’s anything you can do for them.”

After the first few halting questions, Aiah relaxed, and it went well enough. Many of the wounded were well into their recovery, were lively and full of complaint against their condition. They were robust young men for the most part, they had volunteered for this unit, and they were not inclined to self-pity. Half of them were lying on big soft hotel beds, mingling absurdity with the tragedy of their wounds.

Her people. It was far less an ordeal than she’d anticipated. She admired the fashion in which, with such limited aid available, they helped each other, changing dressings and administering medication. She understood the tough faces they displayed, their lack of sentimentality, their denial of the pain that so often glittered in their eyes. It was sad, but in its odd way it was home…

For the people in Aground, she thought, there is none of this—no ambulances, no care, no medicine, no homes to receive them at recovery’s end. (Your fault.) She wondered what she could do for them, and concluded there was nothing. Aground had vanished, its survivors scattered into the darkness beneath the city…

There is a pause as the music fades. A polite warrant officer asks Aiah to dance, and she assents; he takes her hand and leads her onto the dance floor as the music booms out again. Aiah sees newcomers at the door, stiffens, whispers to her escort, “I’m sorry, I will have to postpone our dance, forgive me,” and slips away from his hand.

Sorya is dressed in silks, green and orange, and her chin bobs in time to the music. Her guards, attired more soberly, bulk large behind her: two huge twisted men with glittering, suspicious eyes. When she sees Aiah walking toward her, Sorya smiles brightly and advances to meet her. She embraces Aiah, kisses her on both cheeks. Aiah smiles in return, kisses in return—she is a politician now, after all—but wariness tingles up her spine at this unexpected display of sorority.

Sorya takes her arm and begins an unhurried stroll around the perimeter of the room. She gestures with her free hand at the party. “Your young men have done well for you.”

“Thank you.”

“And you have done well for yourself.” Sorya’s green eyes regard Aiah with frank interest. “I had not expected that. I may, after all, have to take notice of you.”

Aiah tilts her head graciously while, behind her mask of pleasantry, a shiver runs through her soul. “Ought I to fear such notice?” she asks.

Sorya’s throat flutters with her lilting laugh, and she speaks into Aiah’s ear over the throb of music. “Miss Aiah, our goals are similar: the elevation of Constantine. You, I expect, view him as an alternative to the wretched pettiness and persecutions of other factions; whereas I want his greatness to flourish, and mine with it.”

Sorya favors a nearby cluster of officers with a gracious smile, then speaks into Aiah’s ear again. “No—I meant that I must take note of your power, which though growing is hardly a threat to mine, and your method, which is unique. The religion racket, for instance…” She gives a bemused shake of her head, while annoyance shivers through Aiah’s mind. Religion racket, indeed.

“I wish I had thought of that,” Sorya continues, “harnessing such a powerful, arcane force as belief. It is a superstitious world, after all.” Her laugh lilts again in Aiah’s ear. “People need to believe in something, or someone. I shall find a hermit myself, I think, to proclaim me the savior of, oh, something or other, and see how I fare.”

“Be careful,” Aiah says. “Hermits are inconvenient people.”

“My hermit won’t be,” cynically. “And I gather one is expected to enact the odd mystery or perform the occasional miracle, neither of which is beyond possibility, given human credulity and plasm…” She regards the soldiers with a thoughtful expression. “I must say, you have backed yourself into a corner regarding Barkazi. They’ll want you to do something over there, and what, realistically, can you accomplish?” She gives the matter thought. “Well, the soldiers are still a good idea,” she judges. “Look at history. A prophet without an army is bound to fail, whereas prophets with an efficient military can do well. Look at Dalavos, for heaven’s sake.”

“And look how well Parq is doing,” Aiah probes, “with just his rabble militia.”

Calculation glimmers in Sorya’s eyes. “This is Parq’s chance,” she says. “Either he must seize all power now, or watch it slip away.”

“Which do you think he will do?” Aiah asks.

“He will be Parq,” Sorya says. She pauses, takes a slim cigaret out of a platinum case, strikes flame from a matching lighter. She takes a breath of smoke and lets it out with a toss of her head. She smiles.

“I would like to stay, Miss Aiah,” Sorya says. “It has been a long time since I danced.”

“I hope you have a pleasant time,” Aiah says. She pauses, observes her warrant officer waiting discreetly a few paces away, and joins him.

Sorya stays for hours, well into first shift.

She dances, Aiah observes, very well.

JABZI BANS RELIGIOUS “CULTS”

“SUBVERSIVE IDEOLOGY MASQUERADING AS PIETY” NO LONGER TOLERATED

GROUPS WATCH BANNED VIDEO, CONDUCT SERVICES

Aiah returns to Caraqui, bathes, has a few hours’ sleep, and reports for work an hour late. As she walks to work through the maze of the Palace, kill-the-baby pokes at the backs of her eyeballs with a sharp pencil.

The Excellent Togthan sits, not in the waiting room, but in her office, and Aiah pauses in the doorway and takes a breath, knowing that the moment has come.

He stands, bows formally, holds out a sealed note. Aiah observes that he is wearing red leather pumps. “From the Holy, Parq,” Togthan says. “A change is being made throughout government. The polluted flesh are forbidden to hold a position higher than F-3.”

Restricted, then, to manual labor, making repairs, and chauffeuring their betters. Aiah takes the note, breaks the seal, reads it. Effective immediately, it says.

// you are given an order, follow it. A memory of Constantine’s voice.

“Not only the government will be purified,” Togthan says, “but Caraqui at large. The Dalavan Militia will be given a free hand to enforce public order and the sumptuary laws, and to drive the defiled from the sight of the good people of the nation.”

Aiah walks around her desk, touches the glass top with her fingertips, and does not sit down.

“There are ninety-eight of the polluted in the department,” Togthan continues, and hands her another paper. “Here is a list. I will remain while you call them one by one into the room and dismiss them.”

Aiah looks at him, straightens her spine. “I do not think that will be possible,” she says. “I will make my own arrangements as regards compliance with this order.”

Togthan’s chin jerks up. Anger glitters in his eyes. “Miss Aiah,” he says, “this is a direct order from—”

“The order,” Aiah says, “makes no mention of you whatever, Mr. Togthan. It does not specify that you need to be present anywhere, for any reason. I will comply with the triumvir’s wishes, but I see no reason why I need take up your valuable time.” Still contemplating the order, she sits down, gazes up at Togthan, and then, dismissively, looks down at the paper again.

“You may leave, Mr. Togthan,” she says.

Togthan stands for a moment in silence—Aiah, calmly viewing the paper as her heart hammers in her ears, contemplates calling in some of her guards and having them shatter his knees with heavy sledges—and then Togthan turns and makes his exit.