City on Fire

CARAQUI OFFERS TO SHARE POLICE INTELLIGENCE, WELCOMES EXTRADITION

COMPROMISE CALLED “INSUFFICIENT”

“A division within our ranks,” Constantine observes, “and not the first. There are those who wish true change, a revisu-alization of our world, and those who simply want the same old Caraqui with a new set of faces at the top.” He shrugs lazily, massive shoulders straining the seams of his velvet jacket. “Perhaps it is not Gentri’s fault. He is a product of the system here, and his imagination simply may not be sufficiently flexible to see that there is another way.”

The meeting is over, and Constantine’s air of satisfaction fills the mirror-and-gilt elevator as it swoops and slides its way down its curving shaft. He smiles; he gestures expansively.

Tiny Ethemark, in his shadow, is not so pleased. “But what of the half-worlds?” he says. “Gentri’s still allowed to send his police in.”

Constantine doesn’t look at him directly, but instead gazes at the twisted man’s distorted reflection in the polished-bronze door. “Those who steal plasm must take their chances, no?” he says. “And if the amounts the half-worlds are stealing are trivial, as you have always maintained, there will be little reason to go in at all. And in any case, the majority of the people will not be thrown out, and that is what we want most.”

“What I want,” Ethemark says forcefully, “is for the half-worlds to be let alone.”

Constantine gives Ethemark’s reflection a sharp look, a steely edge glinting through the velvet tone of his voice. “That was naive. I intend to let nothing alone—to allow nothing to remain unchanged at all.”

Their reflections are sliced open as the polished doors part. “Miss Aiah,” Constantine says, “a word with you.”

Ethemark makes his way down the corridor to his office, giving Aiah and Constantine a look over his shoulder as he retreats. The look on the smooth gray face, as always, is unreadable.

Constantine leans close, puts a warm hand on Aiah’s shoulder. “I have heard from your Mr. Rohder,” he says. “He says he will leave his position in Jaspeer and join us.”

Warm pleasure dances in Aiah’s veins. “I’m very happy.” She finds her lips twitching with the urge to kiss him, but it is a public corridor, and since he carried her away from the aerocar pad there have been no more demonstrations of affection in public.

There is a hidden glow in Constantine’s eyes, and Aiah senses that the thought of a stolen kiss has not eluded him either. But then the glow turns cold, the expression grim.

“Gentri,” he says, and before finishing lets the name hang for a moment in the air, “troubles me.”

Aiah hears a confirmation humming through her nerves, a sense that her intuition was not entirely misplaced.

“Yes,” she says. “There was something… not quite right there.”

“His performance was a little too fervid, I think. As if he was not defending merely his plasm squads—which is understandable, and after all his job—but perhaps himself as well.”

Aiah nods. “I see what you mean.”

Constantine straightens, a contemplative frown touching his face. “He was a prosecuting judge before the coup, and reckoned honest, as such people go. There was no reason to think him connected to anyone… untoward.” He nods to himself as if reaching a decision, then looks down at her. “I wish you to start a file. A discreet little file that most eyes will never see—none but yours, mine, perhaps Ethemark’s.”

Aiah considers this request. “Isn’t Sorya the person to ask for that sort of thing?”

“I have seen her file. There is little of any interest in it.”

“I’m not very qualified for this.”

He shrugs. “Do what you can. There may, after all, be nothing to find.” He takes her arm. “Come. I would like to review the day’s projects.”

She falls into step alongside him. “Three big arrests planned for first shift tomorrow. And a number of known associates for dessert.”

“Ah.” He smiles. “Progress made, then. And more to tell the cabinet, when next they meet.”

“Sir! Miss Aiah!”

It’s Ethemark, coming back on the run. “Bombings, sir! Alaphen Plaza, by Government Harbor—and the Exchange! Hundreds of people hurt!”

Constantine stops walking, his head held high, nostrils flared, as if to scent the wind. He nods. “Well,” he says, “someone makes a counterattack.”

“Who?” Aiah feels panic thrashing in her chest. “The Hand?”

“Someone… weak. Only the weak use terror.” He tilts his head, licks his lips as if to taste something. “Great-Uncle Rathmen, perhaps, letting us know he is displeased with the late assassination attempt. We shall see what news the investigation brings.”

The two bombings kill a handful and injure many, though fortunately there are not so many casualties as first believed. Sorya’s service is using plasm hounds within the hour, and though the bombers have taken precautions to clean themselves of any trace, the procedure was flawed in one case, and one of the killers is tracked south to Barchab, and there positively identified: a Handman. Barchab is quietly asked to arrest the individual and hand him over, and video reports of the stunned survivors staggering among the overturned carts and blasted barrows of the open-air Alaphen market prompt the Barchab government, not known for its efficiency, to act quickly for once.

Members of the government begin to walk about with guards, and their families move into the Aerial Palace. Hilthi protests—he wants to live among the people—but though he will not leave his apartment, at least he is persuaded to keep a guard about him.

Two days later, with the bomber still in Barchabi hands, a far worse catastrophe. Constantine and Aiah view it from his launch, the gleaming black-and-silver turbine-powered machine he had confiscated from the Keremaths.

Cold rain drizzles down as Aiah looks at the overturned apartment building. One of its two support pontoons had been bashed in, and the entire building, with upward of four thousand people inside, had capsized in minutes. The huge concrete pontoons are built with watertight compartments below the waterline and had capsized in minutes. The pontoons are built with massive redundancy, and such sudden and catastrophic failure should not be possible.

Not without help, anyway.

The apartment building, brick on a steel frame, had collapsed when it was overturned, though its watery grave is shallow and the intact pontoon is still visible, barnacle-encrusted flank exposed to the air like some strange leviathan floating dead on the water. Boats sit on the slack green water around the structure, picking up debris and the dead, and barges with huge cranes stand ready. But most of the rescue work is invisible: telepresent mages at nearby plasm substations scouring the rubble for signs of anyone trapped in an air pocket, and other mages with the rare and difficult skill of teleportation stand by to pop any survivors to the nearest hospital.

Constantine watches grimly, the collar of his windbreaker turned up as the rain falls in a soft mist on his bare head. Disposed about the boat are his guards, all twisted Cheloki with bony faces like armored black visors, and led by Martinus. They have followed Constantine all these years, from the Cheloki Wars on, and they have never failed him.

Constantine had not used so many guards until recently. Aiah assumes that telepresent mages are on guard as well. This business, she reflects, has made Constantine wary.

“It will be the Hand sending a message,” he says. Drops of rain course down his face, and he blinks them from his lashes as he speaks. “Who else has the plasm to waste? Sorya taught them not to use bombs.”

Aiah huddles beneath her jacket hood as rain patters on it, a steady percussion near her ears. “What can we do?”

Constantine tilts his head back, as if to consult with the low clouds. He opens his mouth and lets the rain refresh him. Then he looks at Aiah, and a dangerous light burns in his eyes.

“I want you to give me a list,” Constantine says. “Ten Handmen we have not arrested. Not necessarily the highest-ranking, but the worst, and all married—with large families, preferably. I want