City on Fire

Item #5: Gil? Item #6: Family?

There’s yesterday’s list, its final two items still a weight on her conscience. Aiah still can’t bring herself to contact Gil, but she decides she can talk to someone else back in Jaspeer and at least let them know she’s well.

She looks at a wall clock: 20:04, halfway through third shift. People at home are probably still awake. Aiah goes to the communications array set into the wall near her bed, dons the headset—a nice lightweight model, with gold accents on the earpieces and the mouthpiece, a far cry from the heavy black plastic rig she’s accustomed to— and then presses the bright silver keys to connect her to her grandmother Galaiah back in Jaspeer.

“Hello?”

“Nana?” Aiah says. “This is Aiah.”

“It’s Aiah!” the woman bellows to someone else in the room. Aiah winces at her grandmother’s volume. There’s a sudden expectant babble of voices in the background, but then Galaiah hushes them.

“Where are you?” she demands. “Are you all right?”

Aiah turns down the headset volume. Her grandmother is a bit deaf and has a tendency to shout.

“I’m fine, Nana. I’m in Caraqui, and I have a new job.”

“You’ve got a good job?” Galaiah shouts. A refugee from the Barkazi Wars, she has a fine grasp of the essentials.

“A very important job. I’m going to be running a government department.”

“She’s running a government department in Caraqui!” Galaiah relays the information to her listeners.

“Who’s there?” Aiah asks.

“Landro and his family.”

Landro is Aiah’s cousin. He had been a plasm diver once, searching through forgotten tunnels and sealed-off basements in search of plasm he could sell. Caught, he’d done his term in Chonmas Prison, and now works in a hardware store.

“Have you talked to your mother?” Galaiah asks. “Not yet.”

“You should call her.”

“I will.” Reluctantly. Aiah’s mother is an indefatigable dramatist, and Aiah dreads the inevitable reaction: breast-beating, weeping, how could you do this to me? She can predict every word of the call.

“Those Authority creepers are still looking for you,” Galaiah says.

“Let them look.” She smiles: she’d got clean away, money in the bank and a new future.

“Esmon’s witch Khorsa told everybody how she helped you get away.”

“Did she tell the creepers?”

“Of course not,” scornfully. “She said she didn’t know anything!”

It occurs to Aiah that perhaps they have already told the creepers more than they ought to have.

“Perhaps we shouldn’t talk about this on the phone…”

“Hm?” Galaiah thinks about it for a moment. “Fine, then,” she says, and changes the subject. “There’s a lot of news about Caraqui on the video. They say Constantine’s in charge and that he’s going to change everything.”

“That’s… not really true, Nana. Constantine is only a minister in the government. But yes, we hope things are going to change.”

“That Constantine, he’s another of your passus, isn’t he?” she asks, using the Barkazil word for dupe or victim. She chortles. “That’s a lovely chonah you’ve rigged.”

“Constantine isn’t my passu.”

“Either he is your passu, or you are his.”

Aiah can’t find the strength to dispute this simple logic.

Besides, her grandmother might well be right.

“Your longnose lover is back in Jaspeer,” Galaiah adds. “He’s been calling the family and trying to find you.”

Sadness catches at Aiah’s throat. “Gil?”

“You haven’t called him, either, hanh?” Galaiah is gleeful—she’d never approved of Aiah taking up with a Jaspeeri. She holds the traditional Barkazil opinion that the rest of humanity is only useful as prey for the artful, devious, and highly superior Cunning People.

It’s precisely that attitude—that the Barkazil are a magical species above the laws that govern lesser beings—that led to the self-destruction of the Metropolis of Barkazi, and therefore to Galaiah’s journey as a refugee to Jaspeer. Aiah has always refrained from pointing this out to her grandmother. “I didn’t know Gil was back from Gerad,” Aiah says, perfectly aware of the inadequacy of her excuse.

There’s a buzz on the commo array and a flashing green light, the signal that someone else is trying to call. “Excuse me, Nana,” Aiah says. “I’m getting another call. Hold on a moment.”

She pushes the hold button, then turns the dial that switches the solenoids in the commo array. There’s a click and electric buzz, and then Aiah answers.

“You left messages for me.” It’s Constantine’s baritone, and Aiah’s warm blood sings in her ears at the sound of it.

“I couldn’t get back to you earlier,” he says. “What did you require?”

Aiah tries to organize her thoughts. “I needed to talk to you…” she begins, and then begins to look frantically for her list.

“You’re in your suite? May I come see you?” The voice takes on a lazy, self-satisfied tone. “I would like to relate my latest triumphs. I am pleased to report that it has been a very good day.”

“Yes. Of course.”

“I’m just a few corridors away. I’ll see you in a couple of minutes.”

He presses the disconnect button, and Aiah jumps for the switch to connect herself to Galaiah. No time to bathe and change. Damn it. “Nana? That was business. I’ve got to go.” “Give me your phone number!” “Yes.” She gives it. “I got a question!” the old lady says. “Yes. Quickly.”

“Can you get jobs for some of your family?”

The question stops her dead. “I don’t know,” she says.

“Most of us have never had a good job.”

“Let me think. I’ll call you again. Okay?”

“Call your mother!”

The imperious command rings out just as Aiah presses the disconnect button. She brushes her hair, checks herself in the mirror, wishes again there was time for at least a shower. She puts on the priceless ivory necklace that Constantine bestowed upon her, then anoints herself with the Cedralla perfume Constantine gave to her their last time together, before he flew off to Caraqui and the coup.

Memories, scent and sensation, worn about her body like little charms. She can only hope the tiny magics will do the job.

When she opens the door to his knock, Constantine rolls into the room like the irresistible tide. He’s no longer wearing the proper velvet suit of the minister, but clothing meant for ease and comfort: a blousy black shirt, a jacket of soft black suede imprinted with a design of geomantic foci, suede boots, no lace. The clothing suits him better than the confining garb of the politician, provides him a physical scope to match the ranging of his mind.

“The cabinet meets daily,” he says, “and all the news is good.”

“Would you like to tell me the details over a bottle of wine?”

“And food, if you’ve got it.” He prowls to the kitchen, opens the refrigerator, gazes inside.

Aiah scurries after. “I can throw something together, if you like.”

He turns, his massive hands close on her shoulders, and he propels her firmly to a chair next to the dining room table. His scent eddies along her nerves.

“Sit,” he says. “I’ll cook.”

“You don’t know where—”

“Yes I do. All these suites are built alike.”