City on Fire

have accomplished. What does one say—’I saw a chance of doing good, but I did not do it, because it has been done before, and because in any case in a thousand years it will not matter’? Ha! What a pathetic argument for inaction!”

“I am not certain that is quite what they were saying,” Aiah ventures. “But in any case, they were very good. I was impressed by their presentation. They… really worked on me.”

“But they weren’t good enough to actually fool one of the Cunning People?” Constantine says.

“No…” Aiah hesitates, and the Woman who is the Moon dances stately in her thoughts. “Except in the one thing that made me go there in the first place.”

“Which was?”

She hesitates—it was her journey, she thinks, and she has not puzzled out what it could possibly mean, and besides he may think her mad… But then, she concludes, if anyone is going to believe her it will be Constantine. And with The Mystery of Aiah already made, the chances of his using it in one of his publicity campaigns is lessened.

Besides, she doesn’t want to be alone with this anymore.

“Which was,” she says wearily, “what I saw when I accidentally traveled past the Shield.”

Through her flesh and muscle and bone, through her body, which are so in contact with Constantine that he could hardly move a muscle or formulate an intention without her becoming immediately aware of it… suddenly she feels his body flare, as if his entire organism, every cell and nerve, has suddenly become very, very interested.

“You did what?” he asks.

And she tells him.

FOR RADICAL SOLUTIONS… VOTE RADICAL!

At the end of her story he is pacing back and forth, lamplight from the next room shining gold off his massive ebon body, while she reclines on the bed, head propped on one hand. “You don’t think I’m crazy?” she says.

He glances at her briefly, and then his eyes dismiss the idea.

“No,” he says. “Though I am not entirely convinced that the shock of encountering the Shield may not have caused you in some way to hallucinate, or that you may not have been practiced upon.”

“Practiced upon?”

Even in the darkness Aiah can see the gravity of his expression. “There were other mages in the ops room, other plasm outlets. One of them may have used plasm against you—perhaps just mischievously—and directed this vision into your mind.”

Alarm sings in Aiah’s heart. “Isn’t that dangerous?”

He frowns. “Potentially. You should arrange an appointment with a neurologist to see if there has been any damage.”

“Damage?” Aiah bolts upright. Constantine stops, smiles, blankets her shoulder with a reassuring hand.

“Precautionary only,” smiling. “If you’d been rendered an idiot surely one of us would have noticed.”

Aiah, not comforted, rests her chin on her knee.

“We should also discover the exact hour and minute of your discovery,” Constantine says.

“I have the logs. It’s all on record.”

“Good.” Constantine’s laugh rumbles out. “And you say that the aperture closed behind your anima as you continued upward?”

“Yes.”

He begins to pace again. “I wonder if it opens at intervals, and if so what those intervals might be. How big the aperture is. And if it opens only here, or elsewhere. I wonder if we might mount some very sensitive detectors on the roof of the Palace… If the aperture is small—you had no sense of its size?—if the aperture is small, the detectors would have to be very sensitive… If the Shield is vulnerable, then, when the aperture opens…”

Desperation rises in Aiah. She reaches out and snatches one of his big hands. “Stop,” she cries. “I need to talk.”

At once he is all attention, the kinetic body still, his formidable concentration directed entirely at her.

“Of course,” he says.

“This has all come to me,” she says. “So far as we know, I’m the only person to penetrate the Shield in thousands of years. I need to know what it means.”

Understanding lights his eyes. “Ah,” he says. His voice is soft. “I must confess, dearest Miss Aiah, that I do not know what it means either—but if it is any comfort, I plan to get to the bottom of it one way or another.”

“Because,” she continues, “if I saw these things, perhaps I was meant to see them, and then Charduq the Hermit and his followers are right, and I am in fact destined to…” Bleak despair flutters in her heart. “To I don’t know what.”

He sits beside her, his hand still clasped in hers, and his other arm steals around her waist. She leans against the warm solidity of his body, rests her head on his shoulder, closes her eyes. “I don’t know anything,” she says. “I saw people and things in the sky, and that’s all. None of them spoke to me. None of them ever made a sign they knew I was there, or cared. None of them—”

Hot tears spill from her eyes. A sob catches at the back of her throat. Constantine strokes her hair, murmurs unheard consolation into her ear.

“They may not know us, or care about us,” he says finally, “but in time we shall make them.” She feels determination, or perhaps anger, harden in him, turn his muscles to stone. “All these intrigues, these wars… they are the university of our race, and after our graduation we will Ascend and demand what is ours.” His gentle hand pushes her ringlets from her face, and he kisses her damp eyes. At close range, his gold-flecked eyes gaze soberly at hers.

“You give me a most peculiar sense of hope, Miss Aiah,” he says. “If what you have told me is true, then your Dreaming Sisters are wrong, because everything will change. I will make it change.”

His arms circle her and he holds her close. Aiah closes her eyes, accepting the warmth of his body and the comfort of his scent, but she feels a tremor shiver for a moment in her spine at the knowledge that her shoulders are too thin to bear the weight of everything, everything changing…

Within a few days, discreet detectors, each in its own sandbagged bulwark, appear on the Palace roof, all aimed at the Shield overhead. Their purpose is secret: it is assumed they have to do with war work.

The report of the neurologist is negative: she detects no sign that Aiah’s mind was ever interfered with. This does not rule out interference by someone highly skilled, but at least it eases Aiah’s anxiety.

The doctor also tells Aiah she would benefit greatly from a week or two away from her job, in a carefree resort in, say, Gunalaht or Achanos.

And then Aiah laughs, and the doctor laughs with her.

WARRING FACTIONS ACCEPT MEDIATION POLAR LEAGUE ENVOY TO ARRIVE

The envoy Licinias has a halo of wavy white hair that contrasts with his copper skin and gives him the impressive air of a patrician. He is tall, and a straight-spined military bearing makes him look taller.

Acute brown eyes look at the video cameras set up in corners of the room. “Do we absolutely need the video?” he says. “People who are being recorded tend to speak in platitudes, or to make speeches for their constituencies, and I would prefer to proceed without all that.”

The triumvirs look at each other, at Constantine. It is Constantine who gives the order. “Turn them off,” he says, then adds with a smile, “I can make the speeches later.”

The steel-lined Crystal Dome, with or without fresh-cut flowers in its vases, had been thought too depressing for the reception of the Polar League’s envoy, and so it will be held in the Swan Wing, in one of the Keremaths’ extravagant ballrooms: there are pink-veined marble pillars holding up a fan-vaulted ceiling, niches with bronze statues of gods and immortals, a floor of cream and strawberry tiles… In the midst is set a massive table of marble