City on Fire

desire.

Aiah draws her legs up into the chair, hugs her knees, lets her breath and heartbeat return to normal. The scent of brewing coffee floats past her nostrils. She has a whole day ahead of her, a long list of things to do.

She wishes she had someone to talk to.

THREE

Aiah is well into her list of requisitions, and the rest—access to certain files, the precise methods by which she will recruit her talent—is not entirely up to her. She is trying to reach Constantine to schedule a meeting, but he’s persistently unavailable.

There is a knock on her receptionist’s door, and there is no receptionist to answer. She rises from her desk, anticipating workers come to fix her window, and instead her skin crawls at the sight of a pair of the twisted, small figures with black goggle eyes and moist salamander flesh.

“I am Adaveth,” one says. “Do you remember me?”

“Yes, Minister, of course,” she says. She steels herself and shakes Adaveth’s smooth gray hand. Her nostrils twitch for expected odor, but she can detect nothing.

“This is Ethemark,” Adaveth continues. “He has been appointed your deputy.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Aiah lies, and clasps the offered hand.

“Honored, miss,” Ethemark says. The voice is surprisingly deep for such a small figure. He is dressed in subdued white lace and black velvet—velvet is worn a great deal here, Aiah has noticed, much more than in Jaspeer.

“Ethemark has a degree in plasm engineering,” Adaveth says. “He is also a mage with specialties in telepresence and tele-engineering.”

And therefore, Aiah reads behind his bland, expressionless face, is much more qualified for your job than you are.

“I’m sure he will be very useful, Minister,” Aiah says.

“During the revolution,” Adaveth adds, “Ethemark coordinated several sabotage teams.”

“I ran the plasm house in Jaspeer,” Aiah says, the defense rising to her lips without her quite intending it. Her claim is not precisely true, but she feels she ought to add a qualification or two to her side of the ledger.

“Ah,” Adaveth says. Transparent nictitating membranes partially deploy over his big eyes, giving him a sly look. “In that case, I am sure you will have much to say to one another concerning your service during the coup. I will leave you to your work.”

“Thank you for taking the time from your schedule, Minister,” Aiah says.

“You are very welcome. We have great hopes for your department, Miss Aiah.”

Adaveth leaves in the ensuing silence. Aiah turns to her deputy and looks at him. He gazes up at her with his huge eyes—all iris and pupil, no whites—and gives a little meaningless nod. Aiah wonders if he will ever have anything to say.

At least he doesn’t smell bad.

“Truth to tell,” Aiah says, “the two of us constitute the entire department right now. I’m keeping the whole of the department files in my briefcase. I have requisitioned rooms and equipment, but I can’t be sure I’ll get them.”

“I expected as much,” Ethemark says, the deep voice rolling out of the tiny frame. “The cabinet was pleased to create this department, but each minister will want his own constituency served.”

Aiah considers this. “May I expect other deputies to arrive in the next few days?”

“Not if Constantine and Adaveth can keep them out, no.” Ethemark’s head cocks to one side. “I don’t suppose we might sit down? I’ve been on my feet a lot in the last few weeks—they are webbed, and these shoes are new.”

“My office,” Aiah says reluctantly. “I would offer to show you yours, but I don’t know where it is, or shall be. Perhaps you should just find one on this floor and take it.”

“Perhaps I shall.” Agreeably.

“Would you like some coffee? I brought a flask.”

“Thank you, no.”

They sit. The broken window’s plastic sheeting rustles as they talk.

“From my own point of view,” Ethemark says, “I am concerned with any potential threat of interference from Triu-mur Parq.”

Parq, Aiah knows, is a priest who had betrayed both sides in the rebellion, playing his own duplicitous game, but managed to end up in the ruling triumvirate anyway.

“Do you think he is likely to interfere?” Aiah asks.

“When the Keremaths took power from the Avians,” Ethemark says, “it was in alliance with those of the Dalavan faith, who the Avians had subjected to continuous persecution.”

“Dalavans?” Aiah says. “They are not Dalavites? Or are they two different branches of the same—?”

A smile tugs at the corners of Ethemark’s lips. “The followers of the prophet Dalavos consider the term Dalavite pejorative. The reason involves their rather complex history, and I will spare you the details unless you are truly interested.”

“Thank you,” Aiah says. “I’m glad you told me this before I met Parq. But I’ve made you digress—do go on.”

“The prophet Dalavos preached continually against those with twisted genes, claiming that they— we—are a spiritual evil polluted by our altered genetics.” He clasps his hands together, the knuckles turning white. His voice maintains its objective tone, but the gesture informs Aiah of his feelings with perfect eloquence. “His target was the Avian aristocracy, of course, but the rest of the twisted fall almost by accident within the scope of this condemnation.”

Aiah watches Ethemark’s hands, the furious, trembling pressure they exert on one another.

“I would not find it congenial,” Ethemark says, “if Parq were able to control personnel in this department, or indeed in any other. The Dalavan prejudice against the twisted would be exerted to the full.”

“If Parq ever controls hiring to that extent,” Aiah says, “I would leave. I am not willing to offer my services to a theocracy.”

Ethemark’s huge deep eyes gaze at Aiah. Regret touches his voice. “You are lucky in having someplace to go, Miss Aiah.”

For a moment there is silence. Aiah’s nerves tingle with the force of this rebuke.

“You are very frank, Mr. Ethemark.”

Nictitating membranes half-shutter Ethemark’s eyes, and Aiah feels another eerie shiver up her nerves at this inhuman gesture.

“I answer frankness with frankness,” he says. “You were open in regard to our department’s deficiencies, and I in regard to what the future might bring us.” He sighs, his short child’s legs swinging below the chair, and uncouples his hands.

“To tell the truth,” he says, “we both owe our jobs to our loyalties. You are loyal to Constantine and I to Adaveth—or perhaps to the purpose each of our patrons represents—and therefore we have no present cause for conflict, as our two patrons are in alliance.”

Aiah raises an eyebrow. “No present cause?”

Ethemark presses his gray palms together and cocks his large head at a strangely birdlike angle. “I understand that you spent yesterday studying the plasm system within the Palace.”

“You are changing the subject, Mr. Ethemark.” And Adaveth has some good spies, she thinks.

“I hope to return to the subject by way of illustration, but in order to make my point I would like to take you outside the Palace. May I?”

“Now?” Dubiously.

“If you are not otherwise engaged. I gather you are not.”