City on Fire

the irony in this phrase. She tosses her hair, gives her lilting laugh. “You may have me indicted if you wish.”

Constantine’s brooding eyes gaze up at a blank video monitor. “Drumbeth dead. That is ill news. He could carry a good many soldiers and officers with him.”

“Pfah.” Disdainfully. “Soldiers and officers are readily bought… here and elsewhere.”

The voices are swallowed by the vast silence. They are deep in the Aerial Palace, in a cavernous command center tucked amid the giant brass-and-black-ceramic plasm accumulators and capacitors, the conduits of command nestled in perfect union with the font of military and magical power. The room is paneled in dark wood and lit by fluorescents set in long, scalloped brass chandeliers. On three walls are paintings of scenes from the military history of Caraqui, such as it is. Oval video monitors are mounted high on all sides, mostly set to outside views of the Palace, dull views of bridges and roadblocks, here and there a pockmarked wall or a wisp of smoke.

A map of the metropolis and its environs, three times Aiah’s height, occupies one wall. The map is painted on translucent plastic and is divided into sectors, with colored lightbulbs behind each sector to show whether it is held by friendly or enemy forces. Friendly is blue, neutral is white, and the enemy shows as a pale pink stain, blotches of a bad complexion.

Most of the city is white, there being no information one way or another. But the only blue light on the map is the Aerial Palace, and there is more pink than blue.

The Avians built the map decades ago, precautions against a war that never happened. It has waited unused till now.

Tables and chairs are set up in front of the display. Elaborately styled telephone headsets, white ceramic with gold wire and gold ear- and mouthpieces, are placed at intervals along the table. A silver vase filled with red carnations sits on one of the tables. In the back of the room are two carved wooden doors, set in brass frames, that lead to a communications center. A side door leads down a short passage directly to the plasm control room, with its glowing dials and its icon to Two-Faced Tangid.

Constantine paces as he thinks, hands locked behind his back, eyes shifting from the map to the video monitors to Sorya. Aiah watches in silence. Everything is collapsing into war and ruin, and it is all her fault.

There are two dozen people in the command center, though several of them, like Aiah, seem to have no particular job to do. Half of them are in uniforms, and the rest are civilians, mostly clerks. Sorya is perfectly at home in her tailored green uniform, and sits with one polished boot thrown up on a table while jotting in a notepad on her lap. Constantine stands in front of the city map, his eyes brooding on the symbols, gauging times, distances, forces.

“What of the cabinet?” Constantine asks.

“You and the Minister for Economic Development seem to be the entire cabinet at this point,” Sorya says. “He was in his office when things started—Faltheg is a banker and of limited use in this crisis, but I have him in the communications center trying to rally people to us. He has tried to contact the other ministers, but I suspect they are under arrest, in hiding, or with Colonel Radeen.”

“Hilthi? Parq?”

“The aide I sent to call Hilthi said there was no answer at his residence. I have not sent anyone to go in person. The young gentleman who phoned Parq could only get a secretary, but was told there had been shooting in the Grand Temple, so I suspect the comforts of religion are to be denied us.” She laughs and tosses her head. “It was you and Drumbeth they were afraid of. You and he they wasted plasm over. They knew who could stop them, and who could not. They knew the journalist had no army, and that Parq’s Dalavan Guard is a collection of pensioners in splendid uniforms.”

“We’ve lost the aerodrome. And Government Harbor will be gone soon.”

My fault, Aiah thinks dully.

Constantine looks up at the map. “How about Broadcast Plaza?”

“The guards report no disturbances.”

“We have how many people there—half a company?”

“A little less than that.”

“They should be reinforced. If we have radio and video, then we have a way to inform the people that resistance is possible.”

Sorya gives a cynical laugh. “How many guns do the people have?”

“People, I remind, make up the army. Perhaps they do not know what their commanders are about, and would refuse if they knew.”

“Ah.” Sorya shows teeth. “Yes.”

“Miss Sorya.” It is one of her aides, a smart young man in one of her green uniforms. “I have a call from Hilthi. Shall I switch it to your phone?”

“Put it on the speakers.” She takes one of the headsets from its hook, sweeps her long hair back, settles the gold earpieces on her ears, and speaks into the conical golden mouthpiece.

“Mr. Hilthi,” she says. “This is Sorya. Do you know what is going on?”

“They tried to kill me!” Electronic distortion mars Hilthi’s voice as it booms from overhead speakers. The voice mingles excitement and anger with sheer resentment at the assassins’ effrontery. Constantine winces, motions to turn down the volume.

“Are you safe now?” Sorya asks.

“I suppose so. We’re at… another place. The police came to my home to arrest me, but I told them no and… there was violence.” A tremor shakes Hilthi’s voice. “My bodyguards killed all the police, and moved me to a safer location.”

My fault, Aiah thinks. Gentri’s men. If she had only done as Constantine had asked…

Constantine gestures at Sorya for the headset, and she passes it to him. He doesn’t bother donning it, just holds the mouthpiece to his lips.

“This is Constantine. I’m very pleased you are safe, Triumvir.”

A howl of feedback whines from the speakers. Constantine claps his hand over the mouthpiece and the sound ceases.

“What is going on?” Hilthi asked.

“Radeen is trying to overthrow the government. He has one brigade of the army and at least some of the police. Drumbeth is dead, but I am in command here in the Palace.”

“Radeen.” There is a thoughtful pause. “What can I do?”

“Are you near Broadcast Plaza? That would seem to be your natural place in an affair like this. If you could get on video and issue a proclamation…”

Hilthi leaps on the chance. “Yes! But we’ve seen roadblocks everywhere.”

“I will send soldiers to escort you, Triumvir, but I need to know where to send them.”

There is a moment of silence. “How can I be certain you are not behind this?”

Constantine laughs, teeth flashing in amusement. “Sir—don’t you think I’m more competent at this sort of thing than Radeen? If I wished you harm, believe me when I say that you would be harmed.”

There is silence.

“Besides,” Constantine says, “you are the only member of the triumvirate known to be alive. I am willing to place myself under your orders and do as you command.”

Sorya scowls at this willing subordination, but it seems to bring Hilthi around. “Very well,” he says. “I will go to Broadcast Plaza.”

He gives his address, and Constantine makes note of it. “I will send soldiers as soon as I can,” he says. “In the meantime, be of good cheer—I believe their strike has miscarried.” He returns the headset to its hook. “Where is Colonel Geymard?” he asks.

One of the Cheloki soldiers answers. “Out inspecting our positions. I expect him back any moment.”

The steward pours coffee into a fine gold-rimmed porcelain cup with geometric Keldun designs. The coffee’s scent sends a bittersweet tang through Aiah, a familiar perfume rising amid the sour scent of the day’s disasters. Her stomach growls and Aiah remembers that she hasn’t eaten today: the banquet aboard the boat had all gone to waste.

And then she remembers her department, and another sick sensation of guilt flashes through her… at least eighty of her people would be on duty this shift, working in the Owl Wing as the rebel helicopters swung closer. She