So that’s why he’d come in person: Aiah’s apartment was on his way to the northwest gate. “Let me get a jacket,” Aiah says.
TRIUMVIR PARQ ADDRESSES THE FAITHFUL “DALAVOS, HIS PROPHECIES, AND YOU” THIRD SHIFT ON CHANNEL 17
The prison dates from the period of the Avians, who liked their official buildings to aspire to a certain magnificence. Shieldlight gleams from its white stone walls and winks off the baroque bronze traceries, functional and ornamental at once, designed to ward off attack. It is as if the building were designed to deny the horrors that went on inside.
As with the Palace, evidence of the Avians is all over the building, stylized reliefs of wings over every entrance, the wing tips curled outward as if to embrace the prisoners as they approach. Transmission homs in the shape of hawks or eagles, statues of raptors in niches, and even the bronze collection web is an abstract design of interlocking wings.
Aiah hasn’t had a reason to be here before. As the boat approaches the prison’s water gate, she looks up at the out-curving wings above her and shivers as the shadow comes between her and the light.
Inside, the place is strangely hygienic and functional, like a hospital, or a modern abattoir. Unstained bright colors, polished metal, bright fluorescent light. The Keremaths had remained true to the Avians’ spirit and kept their dungeons tidy.
The special secure wing is deep in the heart of the building and smells of disinfectant and despair. The triumvir Hilthi had paid for his journalistic dedication with a few years here, and so had many others released by the coup. Now the place was filled with Keremath supporters and gangsters.
Great-Uncle Rathmen had been tried by a military court and condemned to death within a week of his capture. He had been kept alive only because his interrogations were producing valuable information. Because he knew so much, the plasm scanners wanted to be very thorough with him, and the interrogations were many and painstaking. His file in Aiah’s secure room was growing thicker every week, long lists of contacts, payoffs, funds hidden in banks or basements.
To reach through the secure area, Aiah has to pass through two airlocks, sets of double doors screened with bronze mesh, intended to prevent even the smallest probe of plasm from slipping through. No expense or effort was spared to keep the prisoners out of the reach of any mage who might have wished to liberate them.
No expense was spared, that is, except on the guards. They are paid poorly, as are all civil servants here, and Aiah finds that Rathmen has almost certainly been paying them commissions. His cell is filled with homey touches: a piece of colored paper taped over the recessed light to moderate the harsh electric bulb, a thick carpet with a Sycar design, Sycar wall hangings, photographs of Rathmen’s family propped on a little table, cigarette butts in an ashtray. Even a box of sweets and a half-eaten pigeon pie.
Pillows—thick, soft, pleasant-looking pillows—are stuffed under the blanket to give the illusion of a sleeping prisoner.
Anger steams through Aiah’s veins. She turns to the officer on watch, a big, balding man with a nervous gleam of sweat on his forehead.
“Have any of the other prisoners been allowed personal items?”
He shakes his head. “Not to my knowledge.”
She decides to find out for herself and walks up to several cells at random. Just a few glimpses through peepholes show that a great many of them contain nonregulation items: colorful blankets, wall hangings, lamps, videos, even small refrigerators. Many are large enough to contain hidden plasm batteries.
Aiah turns to Ethemark. “Kelban is off this shift. Call him—I want him to create a plasm hound here and see if he can trace where Rathmen went.”
Little creases form at the inner edges of Ethemark’s eyes. His expressions are very subtle, but Aiah is slowly learning them. This is his uncertain look.
“Miss, if Rathmen was teleported out of here, there won’t be a trail for a hound to follow.”
“//he was teleported. He might have walked out, possibly with a bit of plasm-glamour to disguise him, and in that case I want to know where he went.”
Understanding crosses Ethemark’s face. “Right away,” he says.
The watch officer clears his throat. “Beg pardon, miss, but there’s a problem.” Aiah glares at him. “Yes?”
“There are no plasm outlets down here—we don’t want the prisoners ever getting ahold of the goods. So if you want to create a hound here, you’ll have to bring plasm in on a wire, or open enough doors so that a plasm sourceline can be sent into the area.” He adopts a pained expression. “I wouldn’t recommend that. Not if there’s a teleportation mage who’s already found a way in once.”
Aiah sees his point. “Mr. Ethemark, did you hear that?” she calls.
Ethemark turns on his way to the phone. “Yes, Miss Aiah.”
“Have Kelban bring a long wire.” “I’ll do that.”
Aiah turns back to the officer. “
“I—” The officer looks up, and his eyes go wide for a moment. Aiah turns, and there is Sorya walking through the door. She is dressed casually—baggy slacks and a rollneck sweater and scuffed suede boots, with her worn green military greatcoat thrown over her shoulders. On her, this unlikely ensemble looks superb.
Two bodyguards are with her, Cheloki, big men with black skins and twisted genes, facial features sunk into bony armored plates, knuckles the size of walnuts.
But Sorya doesn’t need bodyguards to make her dangerous. She carries the glamour of authority with her, and it is evident in every step she takes, in the cold fluorescent gleam of her eyes.
She walks past Aiah to stand before the officer, hands propped on her hips, the greatcoat flared out behind her like a cloak. “I have put guards on the doors,” she says. “No one will leave till this is resolved. I will need the names of everyone who has been in this area within the last twenty-four hours, because the ones who aren’t here are all about to be got out of bed. I have other people on the way… specialists.”
The word
“We are under the Ministry of Justice,” the officer ventures. “The ministry may wish to make its own investigation.” Aiah and Sorya ignore this.
“The gentleman was already getting that information for me,” Aiah says.
Sorya doesn’t spare Aiah a glance. “That is well,” she says. “You can leave now, Miss Aiah. I’ll assume responsibility for the investigation.”
Aiah feels her mouth go dry. She stands erect at Sorya’s shoulder and wills the other woman to face her.
“He was my prisoner,” she says. “My own investigation is far from complete. I would like to—” She stumbles, corrects herself. “I
Sorya turns her head, eyes Aiah for a long moment. Then she gives a shrug inside her greatcoat. “As you like,” she says. She stands close to Aiah, and lowers her voice. “Since you are here, I may as well tell you now: there are two Hand-men whom I wish released. They have agreed to serve as informers. Can you contrive to lose the paperwork on them, or free them in some other plausible way?”
Resentment stiffens Aiah’s spine. “I will… consider it. If I may share the intelligence.”
“I will pass it to you.” Her lips turn up in a cold smile. “A personal favor. In exchange for this little kindness to me.”
The next hours are long indeed.
GOVERNMENT TO SELL WORLDWIDE NEWS SERVICE
INTERFACT AND THE
