City on Fire

engineers to calculate the amount of mass in each building. Where do you expect we could get them?”

Aiah stares at him blankly. “Structural engineers?” She shakes her head and writes it down. “I will consult,” she says. “For the moment, you might as well get a good shift’s sleep.”

He stands, and then his eyes lift from Aiah to the window behind her. He stares for a moment, mouth dropping open in shock, and Aiah swings her chair around, afraid she will be staring straight at a hovering enemy helicopter, its weapon racks loaded with rockets.

For a terrifying moment she fears it’s worse than that, for the horizon seems to roil with images of conflict. Aiah sees arms bearing weapons aloft, faces distorted in terror or rage, rows of sharp teeth, flashes like bursts of gunfire, shattered skulls in rows, all the images mingled together or following in swift succession, the display’s chameleon form altering too swiftly for any single impression to remain for long.

“What is that?” Rohder demands. His voice trembles.

“The Dreaming Sisters,” Aiah says. “They seem to have noticed that we’re at war.”

THIRTEEN

An endless round of exhausted labor follows, dreary days that leave Aiah feeling as if she has spent weeks slogging through a mud storm. Any restful sleep is impossible: it seems as if she has only to close her eyes for the Adrenaline Monster to jerk her awake and leave her staring wide-eyed into the darkness, nerves alert to any sign of danger, pulse beating in her ears, sweat moist on her nape. The endless hours and infinite frustrations of work are made possible only by periodic injections of plasm, jolts of fiery energy straight to the heart.

But perhaps the entire government is running on plasm-energy, because things are moving quickly. Due to an unusual spirit of unity among the triumvirs, Rohder’s problems are solved with remarkable speed: Parq’s fledgling Dalavan Militia performs traffic control duties around Rohder’s crews—a task well within the inexperienced militia’s capabilities—and his teams of estimators are provided by engineering and architecture students, two entire senior classes of whom are simply conscripted for the duration.

Aiah presents Constantine with a budget, and he signs it without even a glance.

She gives everyone in her department, excepting herself, a raise of 25 percent—a nagging scruple prevents her from raising her own salary. Her deputy Ethemark now earns more than she does. She hopes the raises will do morale some good.

While the Plasm Enforcement Division grows under emergency pressures, the war continues. The northeast horizon glows around the clock as more plasm becomes available to the contending mages. Droning fills the air as reinforcements shuttle through the aerodrome. Shellfire lessens as both sides begin to conserve ammunition for the battle they know is about to take place.

As soon as he has his military units positioned, Constantine launches the Battle of the Corridor, designed not to attack the enemy strongpoint at Lorkhin Island, but instead to cut the Provisionals off from their support in Lanbola.

It fails.

HEAVY FIGHTING IN CARAQUI ENTIRE DISTRICTS AFLAME TENS OF THOUSANDS OF REFUGEES

Aiah finds Constantine in his emergency suite, a place he stays when battle threatens, an old storeroom deep in the con-crete-and-steel caverns beneath the Palace. It is near the command center and Plasm Control, so that he might appear in either place on short notice, but it is a dismal place, airless and cold, with moisture beading the scarred metal walls. Light comes from battered overhead fluorescents. The furniture is ornate and comfortable, scavenged from state apartments in the Swan Wing, but it is out of place in this tall, narrow, oppressively lit room.

Constantine is sunk into a winged armchair, head bowed over his chest. His jacket is thrown on the bed, and great blooms of sweat darken the fabric beneath his arms. He glances up as Aiah enters. The expression of sullen anger on his face makes her hesitate, and her words dry up on her tongue.

“Betrayed,” he says, and lets the word hang in the cold air for a moment; then he throws his head back, runs his hands over his face. “I should have anticipated it,” he says. “Lanbola has violated its own neutrality repeatedly to aid the Provisionals, but this… this last outrage!” His hands clench into massive fists; the cords on his neck threaten to burst his collar. “The Corridor was won, it was hard fighting but the Provisionals were beaten!” He stands, unable to keep his seat, the anger marching him up and down the narrow metal-walled room.

Aiah bites her lip. She remembers Constantine being in this violent, reckless mood once before, when Drumbeth had checked him over Qerwan Arms. She doesn’t know how to curb this kind of rage, not when her every instinct is to leave now, or hide, until it is all over.

“For Lanbola to permit the Provisionals’ mercenaries to make such an attack!” he roars. “Upon our flank, and out of their own territory! Such a prodigious violation of all law, all decency, all honor…!” He walks up to the metal wall and smashes at it with a gigantic fist.

Aiah holds her breath as the room seems to give a leap. She is waiting for the cry of pain—her brother Stonn broke his hand in just this fashion, enraged over losing a bet on his favorite football team—but Constantine has judged the force of his blow well, and he merely draws back the hand, examines the bruised knuckles, and scowls as if he were angry that something had not shattered.

“These wretched petty treacheries have followed me all my life,” he murmurs. “Checked me at every point, hindered every action, fettered every reform, compromised every victory. The gods trifle with me for their debased amusement, and the froward perversity of humanity is without limit. Enough!” He makes as if to strike the wall again, thinks better of it, lowers his hand. He looks at Aiah from under his brows.

“What I wish to do seems so very simple,” he says. “Must I wade thigh-deep in blood to accomplish it? And is it worth the cost?”

Aiah gropes for words. She had come to offer comfort, not to answer questions. “You didn’t start this war,” she says.

Constantine gives a low laugh. “Of course I did,” he says. “You helped me—you gave me the plasm for Drumbeth’s coup, and everything since, all this tragedy, has followed. And so…”

He glides toward her, eyes glittering beneath his brow, like a great cat stalking its prey. Aiah feels a thrill of fear run up her neck. He moves close to her; she can smell sour sweat, feel the heat of his body.

“What do you think of your gift now, Miss Aiah, that great well of plasm whose power you gave me?” There is a mocking tone in his voice. “Are you pleased with the result?”

Aiah straightens her spine, looks at him coldly. “I think this is Sorya’s reasoning,” Aiah says. “She is the one who says that all wars are one war, that there are no truces, that it’s all one grand struggle for power, back to Senko’s day I suppose. I gave you the plasm, and I will take responsibility for that, but this war is not something I created. It is not mine. I decline to be answerable for it, and I don’t think you should try to make it my fault.”

He looks at her for a long moment with that dangerous light still in his eyes, then takes a step back, and then another. He turns away and faces the far wall, head high, as if he were contemplating a view. His voice is a soft, penetrating rumble echoing from the metal walls. “You humble me,” he says, “and you are right. I was finding the blame for this failure hard to bear,” he says, “and looking for someone to help me shoulder it.”

“I will help you,” Aiah says, “but not by taking blame that isn’t mine.” She licks her lips. “And the blame isn’t all yours either. There are still Gentri and Radeen.”

“No, there are not.” Constantine’s voice is cold. “They died, four days ago, as the offensive began, along with all their staff. And I am responsible for that as well, though it is a burden I can bear more lightly than many another.”

“Taikoen,” Aiah says. In the metal room the name echoes louder than she would have wished.

“Yes,” Constantine says. “My greatest weapon. But the purpose for which I used him came to nothing, and