City on Fire

It is as if Hilthi were caught between his old profession of journalist, interrogating guilty members of a wicked government, and his new occupation, a politician who makes speeches.

“We can arrest a few now,” Aiah says. “Or many later. No official policy has yet been formulated concerning which of these options we consider desirable.” She casts a glance at Constantine. He has been in the back of the crowd, looming over the triumvirate with an imperturbable expression on his face, and till now content to let her do the talking.

“I’m afraid that’s my fault, gentlemen,” he says. “I wanted better information on the dimension of the problem before taking action. The amnesty is still in place, after all, and we have all been on the job only a few weeks.”

Hilthi scowls and writes on his pad.

“May I point out,” Gentri says, “that Public Security has a policy in place, and that our plasm squads arrest criminals almost daily? Was it not Mr. Hilthi”—he gives a slight bow to his superior—“who issued the directive about eliminating redundancy whenever possible?” He looks at Aiah. “I do not doubt the enthusiasm of these, ah, amateurs, but I very much doubt if they will give you anything like satisfactory results.”

Aiah feels Gentri’s sting lodge in her heart. It would hurt less, she knew, if she weren’t, in fact, such a complete novice at everything she’s done.

She looks at Gentri levelly. “Give us six months,” she says, “and we shall see whose record is better.”

“A bold challenge,” Gentri says, “but my personnel outnumbers yours by tens of thousands. You don’t have a chance.”

Aiah’s response is ready on her tongue—in your pants, perhaps, or call the neighbors, or some other expression from her old neighborhood—but though the words are ready, she manages to bottle them up at the last second. Perhaps Drumbeth senses her struggle, because he chooses this moment to speak.

“Perhaps,” he says, “we will observe an exhibition of the values of competition. Now shall we go on to the ops rooms?”

The ops rooms, one large and one small, are still a shambles: video monitors with their copper cables hanging, plasm connections with hardware yet to be installed, plastic flooring still in huge rolls in the corner. But Aiah finds herself growing enthusiastic as she explains what it will look like when it’s finished, how supervisors will use the monitors to coordinate the actions of mages and military police.

“This is all very well, and you speak with enthusiasm and charm,” says Parq, whose title is not only triumvir but Holy. “The material functions of the room—its mighty purpose and dread, impersonal power—are impressive indeed. But I sense a certain moral uncertainty at work here. Perhaps the young lady stands in need of guidance.” He approaches Aiah and takes her hand.

Aiah cannot conceive of a more perfect image of a spiritual leader—Parq is tall and dignified and handsome, with solemn brown eyes in a long, copper-skinned face. His curling gray beard is long and silky and perfumed, and his soft, satin baritone projects a perfect sincerity. He wears gray robes, beautifully ornamented with silver lace, and a soft mushroom-shaped hat.

If Aiah didn’t know he was a corrupt tyrant who had only been elevated to his position because he was willing to collaborate with the Keremaths, she might well have fallen under his spell.

At close range, Parq gazes into Aiah’s eyes with utter concern. “Wouldn’t your task be made easier,” he asks, “if you had a spiritual guide in your division, one to give you insight into the complex decisions with which you will be faced almost daily?”

Aiah restrains the impulse to yank her hand back from his satin grip.

“I’m sure that’s not for me to say, sir,” she says.

Parq presses on, taking a soft step nearer Aiah so that she can feel the warmth of his breath on her cheek. She suppresses the urge to claw his face to ribbons. “You would find such guidance to be of use, I’m certain,” he says, his soft voice like that of a suitor whispering into the ear of his beloved. “You are a stranger here, and so is Minister Constantine, and a wise advisor familiar with the local conditions would be worth everything to you……”

“That’s a decision that will have to be made at a higher level than mine, I’m afraid,” Aiah says, and slides her hand from his grasp.

“Perhaps,” Constantine says, secret amusement glittering in his eyes, “you gentlemen would care to observe a few of our mages conducting a surveillance…”

GRADE B EARTHQUAKE IN DOLIMARQ

75,000 DEAD

TRIUMVIRATE EXPRESSES SYMPATHY FOR VICTIMS

“A delicate escape from Parq,” Constantine says, “but nicely done. I could tell that you wanted to strike him, and on behalf of the Ministry of Resources I would like to commend you on your restraint.”

The tour over, Constantine and Aiah take refuge in his office.

Weariness and relief beat down on Aiah’s shoulders. She can’t tell if she’s done well or ill, but she is thankful that she will not have to deal with any more triumvirs today. She collapses into a chair, feels leather and hydraulics receive her.

“I wish I felt I could have spoken to them more frankly,” she says. “I would like to tell them I’d make a hundred arrests the very day the amnesty ends.”

He looks at her, fingers thoughtfully touching his chin. Behind him, visible through the huge oval window, plasm adverts glow in air. “Can you make a hundred arrests? Will you?”

“You said you wanted them destroyed. I can’t do that, I suppose, but I’ll do what I can. If, of course, you’ll give me the soldiers to do it. And warrants.”

“Naturally I shall. Geymard’s troops will get bored if they do nothing but guard the Palace.”

She glances up at him. “I have learned something from you and Geymard and Drumbeth,” she says. “A tactic I wish to employ.”

“Yes?”

“Decapitation is best. I want to slice the head of the Silver Hand clean off in one stroke.”

“There are more Handmen than there were Keremaths,” Constantine observes. “And more heads.”

“With their leaders gone, I hope the rest will fight over the spoils. And perhaps even inform on each other, to weaken their rivals.”

Constantine nods. “A policy that promises well. Though you should not count on them to inform—it is the one thing, the one guild rule, that is ruthlessly enforced.”

“I would like to publicize a telephone number that informants can call. With rewards, perhaps. But that means hiring more clerical staff and coming up with reward money.”

Constantine gives this notion a moment’s thought. “Wait until after your first arrests. If they are successful, I will have more leverage with the triumvirate.”

“If you think that’s best.”

Constantine looks down at his ebony-and-gilt desk. He opens a drawer, reaches inside, takes out Aiah’s copy of Proceedings, and pushes it across the desk toward her.

“I have ordered the entire set from the Jaspeeri Plasm Authority,” he says, and his grin broadens. “I wonder what they will make of it? Double-express delivery, and addressed to me personally, a man to whom the Authority police would very much like to talk.”

She takes the heavy book from his desk and holds it in her lap. “I imagine they will take your money and send the books.”

“I imagine they will.” His head cocks to one side, and he regards her from beneath half-closed eyes. “How well did you know this Rohder?”

“Not well, though I worked for him at one point. Catching plasm thieves, because the Authority had given him