City on Fire

Rohder gives a reluctant sigh, his eyes never leaving the screen. “I suppose I must.”

Regret sighs through Aiah’s mind. She herself, working for Rohder, had deceived him; it is possible, therefore, that someone else had.

Rohder’s division hadn’t undergone the stringent security checks required of the more paramilitary PED; Rohder had just hired as much young talent as he could find.

And it is necessary that an investigation be performed. In order to clear Rohder and Aiah themselves, at least.

An investigation might eventually mean brain scans for some of Rohder’s most skilled, valuable mages. Aiah wouldn’t be surprised if some of them quit rather than submit.

And in the end the mages involved might prove to be another group entirely.

Aiah bites her lip, then brings up the matter that has brought her to Rohder’s office in the first place.

“On another subject entirely,” she says, “what do you know about hanged men?”

Surprise lights Rohder’s eyes. He rears back in his seat and cranes his neck to look at her, the discomfort of his position a reflection of the discomfort visible in his face.

“Ice men, you mean?” he asks. “The damned?”

“Yes.”

Rohder frowns. “// they exist—and I am not entirely convinced that they do—then hanged men are very rare and highly dangerous. Toxic. If you ever encounter one, I would run as fast as possible and pray to Vida the Merciful while I ran.”

“How do you kill them?”

“It’s far harder than the chromoplays would suggest.” His frown deepens. “Why are you asking?”

Aiah leans closer. “I trust this will go no farther?” He shrugs. “Who would I tell?”

Were Rohder a Barkazil, his returning a question in this manner would tell Aiah that he was planning on telling everyone in the world; but Rohder is not a Barkazil, and Aiah reckons she can trust him with the falsehood she has carefully prepared.

Even lies, she knows, require a degree of trust. She retrieves her story from the mental closet where she has stored it. “I’ve found… something… out there in the plasm well. The thing scares me—it’s cold and it’s strong, and it’s lurking around the Aerial Palace. I’m afraid it might be scouting for an attack.”

Rohder’s look turns inward, calculating. He gropes in his pocket for a cigaret, remembers he’s run out, and instead gnaws a nicotine-stained thumbnail.

“If it is a hanged man,” he says carefully, “and not some kind of plasm construction, I don’t know anything that can stop it should it decide to attack.”

“If it isn’t a hanged man,” Aiah says, “it’s something else that can live and move in a plasm well, so we might as well call it a hanged man.”

Rohder’s absorbed, thoughtful expression shows no sign that he’s heard. “If it is a hanged man,” he says slowly, “and it’s moving through the Palace plasm well, then it may be an ally of someone already in the Palace. Someone very powerful.”

A series of barking curses chase each other through Aiah’s mind. Rohder wasn’t supposed to work this out, at least not yet.

Vexed with herself for not anticipating this, she reminds herself that he is over three hundred years old. He may not be very worldly, but he’s done very little but deal with bureaucracy for all his professional life, and he understands the architecture of power.

Aiah needs to remember that next time she tries to use him as her passu.

“If this thing is a pet of someone in the building,” Aiah says, “that makes it worse. I don’t think anyone should have such a creature at his beck and call.”

The fierce conviction in her words surprises her, and she sees Rohder’s eyes widen a bit at her evident fire.

He sighs heavily, then turns to his computer display. “I will find out what I can,” he says. “There are some people I can contact at Margai University.”

Aiah leans toward him, puts a hand on his shoulder. “Thank you, Mr. Rohder. This could be important.”

Rueful humor settles onto his face. “I don’t promise results,” he says. His hands automatically search his empty pockets for cigarets.

Aiah leans back, takes a pack of Amber Milds from behind the computer, and hands it to him with a smile as she heads for the door.

It’s nice, she concludes, for once in her life to leave Rohder’s office without the stench of tobacco on her clothes.

TIMETABLE FOR LANBOLA WITHDRAWAL TO BE NEGOTIATED

POLAR LEAGUE AID TO BE RESUMED

PRINCIPLE OF COMPENSATED DEMOBILIZATION ACCEPTED

“Thank you for seeing me, Miss Aiah.” Dr. Romus sways into Aiah’s office, moving by throwing a thick loop of his body ahead of him, then pulling the rest after.

Aiah wants to turn away from the sinuous, unnatural movement, but she compels a grave smile to appear on her face and rises to greet him.

“You said it was important?” she says.

The reedy voice echoes oddly from her office walls. “I can’t think it can be anything but important,” Romus says. Aiah sits, and Romus lowers his upper body to keep his head on a level with hers, his usual act of courtesy.

Aiah had difficulty justifying his hiring, particularly in light of his plasm scan, which revealed a long life—he is over a hundred—rich with various crimes, major and minor. But none of the crimes were vicious—most concerned theft of state property, like plasm, electricity, or fresh water—and any violence seemed to be in the interests of defending himself or protecting his half-world.

The plasm scan also revealed he had no intention of using his position in the PED for any illegal advantage. His criminality, he seemed to suggest, was in part justified by his desperate position in the world; once in a better position, there would no longer be a need for such activity.

It was not a justification that sits easily with Aiah’s judgment. But it was one she used herself—it had brought her here, to her position in Caraqui—and so she’d decided to take a calculated risk.

So far it seems to have paid off. Romus has been working for the PED for two weeks now, and reports from his superiors have been positive. He’s clever, they say, and he minimizes use of plasm. He’s very good at surveillance, very patient, and his reports are models of clarity.

“What’s the problem?” Aiah asks.

Shieldlight glitters in Romus’s yellow eyes. “I saw something first shift yesterday,” he says. “In the lobby of the secure room.”

A warning cry sounds in Aiah’s nerves. “What were you doing there? You’re not authorized for the secure room.”

“I was not in the secure room. I was in the lobby, resting. Sleeping, actually.” The cilia surrounding Romus’s face writhe uneasily. “I have no place to live, you see. I eat in the Palace restaurants using my meal ticket, and my other needs are few. So when I have no work, and if there is someone working in the office I share, I usually find a quiet place and sleep. The secure room lobby is quiet—the clerk on duty usually has very little business during sleep shift—and…” A little tongue licks his thin brown lips. “Because I am not shaped as the average human, my sleeping places tend to be where others might not expect to find a person… I am often overlooked. You have overlooked me yourself.”

“Yes,” Aiah says. Dread settles cold into her bones; she knows what is coming. “Go on,” she says.

“The triumvir came in around 02:30,” Romus says. “He came in with the giant guard, Martinus. He asked the clerk to leave and wait outside, then went into the secure room.

He was there for twenty minutes or so. I could hear him opening drawers and looking through files. And