City on Fire

lightless compartments below the waterline, with wealthier residents in the airy flats above.

“What’s going on?” people ask. “What’s happening?”

“Listen to Hilthi on the radio,” Aiah gasps, breath almost gone. “Do what he says.”

They jog up another stair, then turn onto a gangway that leads to an outside door. Plastic flooring booms under their feet. Shieldlight gleams through the door.

They burst out onto another gangway, this one webbed by chain-link. Their boat awaits, moored to a pier at the bottom, engines idling. As the crewmen see the party running, the engines roar into life.

There is a concussion, a flat slap that strikes painfully at the ears. An explosion at the plasm station.

Aiah leaps into the boat, throws herself gasping into a padded chair. “Go,” she says.

Another explosion shocks the air, and the boat throttles up, standing on its wake as it races away.

TRIUMVIR HILTHI CALLS FOR POPULAR UPRISING!

“DESTROY THE REBELS WHO WOULD ENSLAVE YOU!”

Aiah’s four teams rendezvous at a Dalavan temple—Constantine’s people had given them the address. The place is a strange blocky building, the facade a structure made up entirely of pillars, pillars built around and next to and on top of each other, like a double handful of pencils. They are bright red or yellow, and each is topped with a little bell-shaped dome. Gateways are cut through the pillars, their curving arches carved with a wild variety of threatening monsters, all painted in lifelike colors. Ascetics hang from the building in sacks, and some, it appears, have been dead for some time—dead in a holy cause, they are allowed to hang there until they rot, inspiration for the faithful.

The temple priests provide them with a hot meal and an office in which Aiah can spread out maps and plan the assault on Xurcal Station. On the wall, an oval screen shows Triumvir Parq speaking on the Dalavans’ video link. Parq has donned the ebony-and-gold Mask of Awe worn when speaking as the official head of the Dalavan faith, and his magnificent voice booms from the mask in a tireless call to strife and battle. Where formerly Aiah had heard only the silky tones of the politician and born seducer, now she hears the ringing voice of a commander calling on his troops. She is struck with admiration for his verbal skill at the same time as she is chilled by its effect.

“I declare the rebels to be the enemies of the Supreme One Dalavos and his people!” he cries. “Their secret purpose, a conspiracy plotted in the very pits of Hell, is to destroy both our state and our faith. The wickedness of the Avians was as nothing compared with the evil of these rebels, for the Avians were deformed in body and spirit while these appear as normal men, even if their souls are twisted.”

He takes a breath. Eyes glitter, red and silver, from the depths of the mask. “All those faithful to Dalavos and his teachings must resist them to the utmost of their power,” he proclaims. “Ambush their patrols! Shoot them down from hiding! Steal their plasm!” His fists clench, pounding the air like hammers as they beat time to his thoughts. “I declare, as the supreme leader of the faithful, that those who, having heard my word, continue the obstinate fight for the rebel cause are condemned as traitors to Heaven. Never shall they be accepted in our temples! Never shall they be seen among us! Never shall they share our food or taste our drink! Never shall they take the least shelter from us! I curse them!”

Aiah shivers, tries to focus on her map. Parq’s voice drops and he speaks rhythmically as he begins an incantation. The camera closes in on his face, on the eyes like embers lying in the mask, the lips of flesh writhing behind the frozen lips of ebony.

“Curst be their hearts, for their hearts are filled with evil. Curst be their minds, for their minds are the dwelling place of rebellion. Curst be their feet, for their feet bear them on the road to Hell. Curst be their throats, for the words in their throats are the wicked lies of demons and the undead…”

Aiah is having a hard time concentrating on her maps.

“I don’t suppose,” she ventures, “it might be possible to lower the volume?”

Surely before he gets to the spleen, she thinks, but she doesn’t know how devout any in her party might be, and she dares not say it aloud.

Davath approaches the video and snaps it off. The picture vanishes, shrinks down to a little white eye in the center of the oval screen, and then this disappears as well.

Parq’s resonant voice can still be heard from speakers elsewhere in the building, but his words are indistinct. Aiah looks down at her map, points with a pencil.

“We’ll take Gernan Canal to Bannaltir,” she says. “That’s where we’ll split up. Hoyl and Parasqof will turn east.”

The telephone gives a loud electric buzz. Aiah picks up the headset, presses one earpiece to her ear.

“This is Aiah.”

“Congratulations, my lady. Fresh Water Bay Station has fallen, and the battle was brief.”

Constantine’s resonant voice and apparent cheerful mood bring a ghostly smile to her lips. She settles the headset into place and adjusts the mouthpiece on its flexible mount.

“Thank you, Minister,” she says, and she sees the others exchange glances, knowing now who is on the other end of the line.

“My people have done an exceptional job,” she adds. “Xurcal will not be as easy. The rebels have learned from their mistakes, it appears. Our mages tell us that police are guarding the cables near the station, and that there are roving patrols elsewhere.”

“Can you give me locations?”

“I will give you such information as I have,” Constantine says, and does so. Aiah jots it down with her pencil. “The situation is fluid, of course,” he adds. “I should be very careful.”

“Can you give me more crews?” Aiah asks. “It would be safer for us all in the long run.”

“I will see what I can do.”

“What else is happening?”

“The admirable Captain Arviro and his Marines will be pitching into the aerodrome very shortly. We are husbanding our plasm in aid of that fight. We have cleared the area around the Palace of police roadblocks, which is allowing our mages to come in from the city and join us. Radeen and his brigade at Government Harbor are not moving. I received a number of reports that a great many of the roadblocks dissolved once the police found out what they were in aid of, and that many of the cops simply went home. I have other reports of police gangs marauding and looting shops, however, so apparently some are not beyond using the situation to their advantage.”

“If there’s a fight about to start, we’d better drop the shoe on Xurcal soon.”

“Whenever you can.” Constantine lowers his voice, and at the intimate sound, like the touch of bedroom silk in the darkness, Aiah feels a yearning eddy along her nerves. “But be careful, Miss Aiah. I would not lose you for Xurcal or all the plasm stations in the world.”

Aiah’s heart fills her throat for a moment; when she can find words she says, “I don’t plan to do anything foolish.”

“I wish you had been less scrupulous, and not gone out with your people. I would have talked you out of it had I known what you intended.”

“What else could I do? I couldn’t stand it sitting in the Palace giving orders and wondering if my people would…” The word die withers on her tongue as she looks up at her crew and sees their patient eyes. “Run into trouble,” she finishes, lamely.

“Yes,” he says, “waiting in the Palace is my lot, and I know its frustrations. I would rather be with you, on your little boat, than here in perfect safety.”

Aiah licks dry lips. “I wish you were here, too.”

Her fellows exchange glances again. It is not often they hear a comrade exchange intimacies with one of the Powers.

Constantine’s voice turns weary. “Each in our spheres, we move according to our degree. At least certain political choices are now made easier.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“I will try to get you more crews. Would Ethemark know how to raise more people?” “Yes.”

“I will have him call you.” “Good.”

There is a moment’s hesitation. “We are going to have a battle any moment, so I cannot speak for long.” “I understand.”