City on Fire

find employment for Barkazils. You may have a pair of mages applying for work later this week.”

“Mages?” Aiah raises her eyebrows. “You happened to find a pair of Barkazil mages wandering around Caraqui looking for a job?”

He waves as vehicles roll past. “They’re people I went to school with. I happened to know they were looking for opportunities, so I called them and let them know we had vacancies.”

“Well.” She considers. “It isn’t exactly what I asked you to do, but as long as these newcomers are qualified, I could use the hires.” And then she smiles. “They can help you find work for others.”

Alfeg gives a little wince.

The last of the vehicles enters and the bronze-mesh gate rolls shut behind it. The soldiers gather around the speakers, and Aiah is awed by their sheer numbers. Millions of Barkazils live in Jaspeer, mostly in little ethnic enclaves like Old Shorings where Aiah grew up, but she has never seen so many of the Cunning People in one place. Karlo’s Brigade has nine thousand soldiers, and although there isn’t room for all of them here, they’re crowded shoulder to shoulder as far as Aiah can see. She finds herself grinning down at them, lifted by the sheer joy of their presence.

Just then the Caraqui music player gives a final wrench to the celluloid etching belt, and the belt disintegrates, along with the instrumental on Arno’s version of “Happy as a Metropolitan,” the distinctive sound of the three-string Barkazi fiddle turning into a nerve-shivering screech. The soldiers give a good-natured laugh as Aiah slaps at the machine’s chrome on-off lever. The sound, echoing from thousands of throats, threatens to float her from the stage.

She reaches for a microphone and tries to ignore the gleaming lenses of the camera that whirs at her from below the platform.

“On behalf of the government and the Barkazil community of Caraqui,” she says, “I’d like to welcome you all to our metropolis.” There is a modest cheer and some applause, and Aiah finds herself grinning—these are her people, she thinks, and there are thousands of them, and even though she doesn’t know a single person here, she hasn’t realized how much she’s missed them until now.

Her usual terror of speaking in front of an audience has flown away. She feels at home.

“My name is Aiah,” she says, “and I’m director of the Plasm Enforcement Division of the Ministry of Resources, which”—she grins—“makes me a plasm cop. These are two of my mages, Khorsa and Alfeg. We’ll do our best to make sure that your mages have all the plasm they need to keep you safe and help you do your jobs.”

There is a more enthusiastic cheer at this. Keeping their military mages supplied with plasm is a task dear to the hearts of the brigade.

Now that the wind wafting through the bronze mesh is dispersing the engine fumes, Aiah can scent cooking smells wafting toward them from the buffet. “I mentioned a moment ago that the Barkazil community welcomes you. This was easy for me to say, because”—she glances at her two companions—“we three up to this point seem to constitute the entire Barkazil community of Caraqui.” There is a rumble of laughter from her audience, a few wild cheers.

“But now,” she says, looking out over the huge sea of faces, “I see there are thousands of us!”

A roar goes up, a sound loud enough to carry Aiah back to the Shield. She looks out at the surging storm of humanity and feels as if she could spread her arms and fly out over their heads, supported only by their goodwill.

“I’d like you all to know,” she continues, “that we’ll do what we can to make you feel at home, and to keep you well fed and supplied. If you’re not being provided with something you need and you can’t get it anywhere else, please have your commanders—your commanders—call me or my associates. We might have an idea who to talk to.”

Aiah hopes this won’t actually happen. Her knowledge of the intricacies of War Ministry bureaucracy is nil.

“I won’t keep you from your meal,” she finishes. “We welcome you to Caraqui—now go enjoy your dinner!”

She sketches the Sign of Karlo in the air, and there is the biggest cheer of the day. Aiah’s heart leaps for the sky. The War Ministry’s cameraman lowers his chromocamera and gives her a wink. Most of the soldiers stream off to their meal, and Aiah steps down from her platform to meet their commander, Brigadier Ceison. He is a thin, tall, stooped man with a bushy mustache, and he politely invites Aiah to dine with him as soon as he has his headquarters and staff sufficiently organized. He introduces Aiah to the brigade’s mage-major, a burly uniformed woman named Aratha whose short brown curls and light green eyes demonstrate mixed Barkazil-Sayvenese ancestry. She is pure soldier and all business, and she looks dubiously at Khorsa, with her bright colors and folk- magic jewelry.

“I need to get my people on patrol,” she says, “so they can help defend our position and familiarize themselves with Caraqui. And for that I need to get some workers up here to give me access to plasm.”

“That hasn’t happened yet?” Aiah says. “I’ll talk to the ministry and find out what happened.”

“Thank you. There’s usually problems of this nature at the start, and knowing someone to call in the right ministry is always a bonus.”

Well, Aiah thinks, I asked for this.

Duty calls, but Aiah finds herself reluctant to leave, so she wanders through the huge concrete space, talking to the soldiers. She gets asked out about twenty times, and groped twice, in a perfectly friendly, inquiring way; but she slaps the hands aside with a grin and declines all invitations.

“They are from the Holy League,” Alfeg declares after obligations finally drag them away. “After peace was imposed, the last of the Holy Leaguers withdrew to Sayven with their entire army. They became mercenaries. These are their children or grandchildren.”

They are sharing the backseat of the big armored automobile that the ministry has loaned them for this occasion. Aiah peers out at the city through thick plates of bulletproof plastic and sees no sign of war at all, nothing but people heading places on their business.

“The Barkazi Wars ended two generations ago,” she says. “And these are still soldiers?”

“Sayven exports a lot of soldiers. But it’s not the national industry, as it is in the Timocracy, so we don’t hear about it as much.”

If her grandfather hadn’t been captured, Aiah thinks, she might have grown up in Sayven, in a military family. She wonders if her life would have taken her into the army, if she would have found herself a military mage serving alongside Aratha.

“Does the Holy League still matter to them?”

“Oh yes.” Blithely. “They’re convinced we’ll prevail, given time, and that Barkazi will be returned to us—to the Cunning People.”

Aiah smiles. Alfeg hadn’t been lying when he accused himself of a sentimental attachment to his grandfather’s cause.

“Well,” she says, “I hope it happens.”

And then she catches Khorsa’s sidelong look, Khorsa who has come here—possibly—because she thinks Aiah will somehow bring all the exiles home and restore Barkazi, and Aiah feels her jaw tighten.

I do not want you to need me this way! she thinks in sudden fury, but she swallows it, and makes herself concentrate on business—PED business—until the armored car rolls across the gilded bridge to the Palace.

FOOD FACTORY DESTROYED IN LOTUS DISTRICT

GOVERNMENT BLAMES SILVER TERROR

What waits in her office is not calculated to improve her temper: a Dalavan priest, young and burly, wearing the gray robes and soft mushroom hat of his order.

“I am the Excellent Togthan,” he says with a gracious bow, and presents Aiah with an envelope embossed