City on Fire

“Of course,” Aiah says, and she wonders in what context her name arose in a conversation between those two.

Aldemar smooths her long dark skirt and joins Aiah on the sofa. Aiah sees flashes of jealousy radiate from others in the room and smiles inwardly.

“Have you just arrived?” Aiah asks.

The actress shakes her head. “Oh no. I’ve been here for two days, directing part of the plasm war.”

Aiah looks at her in surprise. In an elegant long skirt and a white lacy blouse, her face a natural-seeming composition of artful cosmetic, Aldemar hardly looks like a general fresh from the wars.

“You got here fast,” Aiah says.

“I teleported in as soon as I heard the news. Had to shut down production on the new chromoplay, but I hope the additional publicity will mollify my investors.”

Teleportation was one of the surprising skills Aldemar was revealed to possess in the aftermath of the coup. This ability had given Aiah greater respect for Aldemar’s skills as a mage than she’d ever had for her chromoplays. Teleportation is difficult and dangerous, and though there are mages who cheerfully accept large fees for teleporting equipment and personnel, few ever dare to teleport themselves.

“What’s the new play about?” Aiah asks.

Aldemar’s eyes glitter with amusement from beneath her black bangs. “Coincidentally enough, I play an actress who helps an idealistic and charismatic political leader overthrow a corrupt government.”

“Is it good?”

Aldemar dismisses the production with a little shake of her head. “It’s no Lords of the New City, but it will probably make everyone concerned a great deal of money.”

They are interrupted by one of the soldiers, who asks for an autograph. Aldemar graciously complies, and this begins a general movement toward the actress, who signs bits of paper or the backs of official requisition forms for a few minutes until Martinus, Constantine’s chief bodyguard, steps into the room and calls her name.

Aldemar rises, hands the last autograph to one of her fans, and turns to Aiah. “Let’s meet when there’s a lull. I’d like to talk to you sometime.”

Aiah blinks. “Certainly.”

“I’ll call your office,” Aldemar promises, and gives a little wave as she walks to her interview.

Aiah sits back on the sofa and is aware of a new respect in the eyes of the other supplicants. Strange how exchanging a few casual words with a celebrity should suddenly make her so much more interesting.

She wonders how Aldemar and Constantine happened to meet, and how long-term—and intimate—their relationship is.

Time passes. Aldemar bustles out after a few minutes, waves to Aiah again as she departs, and then a whole group of officers are called into Constantine’s presence. After they leave, a number of Constantine’s staff exit the inner rooms as well and stand waiting in the anteroom.

He has sent them out for some reason. Even Martinus stands waiting, his impassive armor-plated face showing no emotion.

A slow chill crawls up Aiah’s spine. The hairs on the back of her neck rise in shivering terror.

Perhaps it is intuition only, or perhaps there is some tangential connection with the plasm that still warms her blood. But somehow she knows the identity of Constantine’s visitor, the meeting so private he had to send even his intimates out of the room.

Taikoen. The hanged man. The damned. The creature, once a man, now a disembodied entity living in the drumbeat of plasm.

Cold terror fills the hollow of Aiah’s bones. The next minutes seem to last centuries.

Suddenly the terror fades. Aiah looks wide-eyed at the others, wonders if any of them sense the creature’s presence.

Apparently not.

The door handle turns, and Constantine appears briefly in the partly open door.

“Aiah,” he says briefly, then walks off, leaving the door open. She rises from the sofa and follows, closes the door softly behind her.

Her every nerve is alight, straining for sign of Taikoen. But she senses nothing, and slowly she feels herself relax.

“Is he gone?” she asks.

Light shimmers from mirrored walls. Constantine stands in the center of the priceless carpet surrounded by boxes and stacks of files, the work from his office now stacked atop the glittering luxurious Keremath tables, chairs, and shelves. He seems unsurprised by her question.

“Taikoen?” he says. “Yes.” He cocks his head, looks at her. “You are unusually sensitive to his presence.”

Aiah hugs herself and shivers. “I wish I weren’t.”

Concern glows amber in Constantine’s eyes, and then he crosses the distance between them and wraps his arms around her. She rests her head on his shoulder and tries to let her anxiety sigh from her lungs like a breath.

“I’m afraid of him,” she says.

He strokes her hair. “I will never let him harm you.”

The words bubble from her mind, and she can’t stop them. “Have you sent him to kill?”

“No. Since he can get through shielding, I have sent him to find certain people. The headquarters of the enemy soldiers, the communications center. So that we can disrupt them later.”

“And you will give him his price.”

“I will,” simply. “It will save lives, many more lives than Taikoen can inhabit in my lifetime.”

Aiah presses herself to him, inhaling the familiar, comforting scents of his body, his leather jacket, the scented hair oil. “I wanted to touch you these last few days,” she says. “And I couldn’t.”

“You were braver than I would have believed, than I wished to believe.” He kisses the top of her head. “I will arrange for some official thanks—a citation, a medal, something trivial but the best the state can do—but you must not take such risks in the future.”

They fall silent. Aiah tightens her arms about Constantine, pressing herself as close to him as possible, wanting to annihilate herself, to dissolve into him. For once he shows no sign of impatience, seems content to allow the embrace to go on as long as Aiah wishes. Finally it is she who stands back.

She wants to tell him about Sorya, but she can’t find a place to start.

“I can take down almost a hundred plasm houses,” she says instead, “but I can’t use just my clerks—I need police to do it.”

He considers. “I can take some of the military police guard from the Palace,” he concludes, “but they’re not the units you’ve worked with before—those are scattered throughout the metropolis, guarding vital installations.”

“If you will tell the commanders to get in touch with me…?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“Secondly, I have sprung Rohder from jail, and he’s either on his way to the Palace or, more likely, has already arrived.” “Excellent. Very fast work.” He turns, fingering his chin, and begins to prowl among the piles of boxes, thinking as he paces. “There is another thing I need you to do.”

A weak little laugh bubbles up from Aiah’s throat. “Another?”

His eyes are on her, intent and commanding as a pair of shotgun barrels. “You need to build your department,” he says. “Double it in size, triple it. And you must make it loyal to you.”

“Yes.” She stands amid the clutter and feels suddenly alone. Objections, perfectly good organizational objections, spring to her mind. “Yes, but—expanding it so quickly, we—”

He glides toward her, his expression so intent it frightens her. He leans close, takes her forearm in one of his big hands, bends toward her ear. “Do you recall the moment when Sorya was urging me to declare myself Metropolitan?”

Fear crawls over Aiah’s scalp with clinging spider feet. He knows, she thinks. “Of course I remember,” she says, “but—”