Constantine affects to give this his consideration. “Dominion of the habited world,” he says, “and the ordering of it; the piercing of the Shield and the discovering of the glories that lie beyond; the captaincy of the great outflowing of humanity into the worlds there discovered, or built entire if there are none to be found; the creation of the nations into which humanity settles; the assurance that all patterns and powers are in order… and then, perhaps, I may retire and write my memoirs.”
There is a languid smile on Constantine’s face as he speaks, and irony puts an edge on his voice; but there is a chill glow in his eyes as he speaks the words, and Aiah feels an answering shiver along her spine as she realizes that he is at least partially sincere.
And then he laughs, a sudden surprising boom that shatters her awestruck mood, and his arms cinch her below her ribs; he picks her up and she is flying, spinning in circles, her feet sweeping papers from her desk…
He sets her down lightly, kisses her before she can catch her breath. “Perhaps I will forfeit it all,” he said, “for a few hours in your company, after our business is concluded today.”
“I wouldn’t want you to give up so much.”
He laughs again, spins round on his heel, thrusts out an arm at the scene beyond the window, the long cluttered view of the city built out over its sea. “Foolish to speak of ordering the world,” he says, “when I am confined to the role of a minor minister in a chronically misruled and impoverished metropolis…” He laughs again. “You would not believe the absurdities to which I am subjected. Yesterday’s cabinet meeting spent hours discussing a problem having to do with capital spending. It was a thousand radii beyond trivial, with no remedy besides, and it occupied a full day.”
“I believe you volunteered for the job,” Aiah reminds.
He gives her a sly look. “Miss Aiah, I believe you will keep me honest.”
She walks up to him and straightens a fold in his lapel. “We must both learn to be good subordinates.” He gives a dry little laugh. “I will do what I can.” “Will I see you third shift?” “Ah. 21:00, perhaps?”
“And no cocktail parties later? No receptions? Cabinet meetings? Duty calls on the dolphins? Visits from the winner of the Junior New City League’s essay contest?”
“I believe not.” He gives a lazy smile. “But I will have to consult my calendar in regard to that last point.”
She stands on tiptoe and kisses his cheek. “Till later, then.”
His brows rise in mock offense. “Such a slight good-bye? I would have a better memory of you than that.”
His arms coil around her again—the pigeons on the window ledge see the swift movement and fly in panic— and Aiah laughs as Constantine bends her over backward, like a swooning girl in a chromoplay, and dines for a long moment on her arched throat.
1.5 MILLION FOR CHARITY!
ALLEGED GANGSTER GIVES TO CHILDREN’S HOSPITAL
HOSPITAL HEAD RECEIVES “GREAT-UNCLE” RATHMEN
21:00. Aiah’s veins tingle with the plasm she’s just fed herself to keep weariness at bay. Constantine is on time, with a bottle of fine brandy and a crystal bowl of fruit plundered from one of the Keremaths’ rooftop arboretums.
Aiah feasts greedily on grapes, red-skinned and with a cool taste, their tiny seeds sweet like crystal-sugar, as if the fruit were stuffed with candy. Constantine pours brandy, swirls it in the glass, and sniffs it delicately, nostrils high, like a haughty bronze figure standing on some ancient wall gazing down at some conquered city. It is made, Aiah knows, from actual grapes, grown in actual gardens, not in vats with chemicals and hermetics.
“You have done admirably with your department,” Constantine says. “Two weeks, and it is actually functioning.”
“Not well,” Aiah grudges. She sighs, looks at her brandy, then puts the glass down. “When I worked for the Plasm Authority in Jaspeer I discovered that no one there ever talked to anyone else—our suggestions and complaints were transmitted off into the void, and were never acted on or even acknowledged, and orders came down from the hundred-fiftieth floor as if from beyond the Shield, with no consultation, no notion of how things actually stood, no concept of how to make it work.”
“Institutionalized dysfunction,” Constantine says.
“Oh yes. And institutionalized frustration as well. So now I am trying to set up the PED in order to facilitate lines of communication, to make certain that everyone has access to authority when needed…” She sighs again and picks up her brandy glass. “But that authority is
“It will dance and skip, given time.”
“The Ascended willing,” Aiah says, conceding somewhat to superstition as she sketches the Sign of the Ascended in the air with her brandy glass.
“But you have a department,” Constantine says, “and you have not gone mad, or had a fit of the vapors, or checked yourself into the hospital for a long course of sedation.”
“Give me time,” Aiah says, and smiles into her glass as she takes a sip.
“You deal well with Ethemark?”
She shrugs, feels a little insect-twitch of distaste crawl cross her face. “As I must. He is gifted, even if he isn’t my choice.”
“But you have hired other twisted people.”
“They’re applying in swarms!” Aiah says. “Ethemark or his kin must have put the word out. I’m hiring only the most qualified.”
“As you should.” He cocks his head, regards her. “But you don’t like them?”
She sighs, puts down her glass. “Is it bad of me to wish the twisted people well, but not to wish them in my vicinity?”
He purses his lips as he chooses words. “
Aiah sighs and throws up her hands. “Then I am inconsistent. But it is what I feel.”
“You are honest with
She looks at him. “They never make you uneasy? Or even afraid?” She thinks of Dr. Romus, the snake-mage, and represses a shudder.
Constantine considers this for a moment. “I must admit,” he says finally, “that I find myself comfortable amid all manner of unlikely people.”
Aiah reaches for her brandy. “That is your gift. It isn’t mine.”
“People born with money and position, I find, often possess this talent. I was raised a prince, and even considering that I was a prince of pirates, still it makes for a level of security in dealing with others.”
“And I’m a poor kid raised on the dole,” Aiah says. “But I don’t see what that has to do with consistency, or the lack of it. The rich seem to be as inconsistent as anyone else.”
He smiles. “Conceded absolutely,” he says. “But we were speaking of security, not hypocrisy. The Barkazil were refugees in Jaspeer, poor, confined to low-status jobs. Perhaps they competed with the twisted for work or for living quarters.”
“So far as I can tell,” Aiah mumbles into her drink, “we competed with poor longnose Jaspeeris, who hated us. I hardly ever saw a twisted person when I was growing up.”
“A theory only.” Constantine shrugs, and then his eyes turn to her. She sees in them a glow as mellow as that in the brandy that swirls in his glass. “Since you put such store in communication between members of the department,” he says, “let me communicate to you what I perceive in your PED. I am utterly gratified that you came to Caraqui. I was right to choose you for this work. You confirm my judgment every day, and I thank you.”
Heat rises in Aiah’s cheeks. She touches her glass to his, the crystal chime singing in the air for a long
