City on Fire (Metropolitan 2) (19 page)

Constantine laughs, and Aiah laughs with him. And then he shakes his head. “And it is not up to me. I am but a voice in the government. I must persuade, and I must persuade for the next thirty years.”

“You’re doing pretty well so far.”

He shrugs. “I have the PED, yes. I have given it to you, because I can trust you to carry on with it.”

*

The keys on Aiah’s office commo unit are stainless steel, ranked in a gleaming, efficient array. Here in her bedroom the commo keys are silver, and set amid a polished fruitwood setting, a design of interlocking sigmas that climb into a third dimension through clever use of trompe l’oeil.

Aiah wonders if living amid this type of ornate luxury is changing her, even if the luxury is not precisely hers.

She remembers Rohder’s extension number perfectly well, and punches the number onto the silver keys of her commo array. Through her gold-and-ivory headset she hears the clatter of relays, and then the ringing signal.

“Da. Rohder.” The voice is breathy, distracted, cigaret-harsh. Aiah finds herself smiling at the familiar sound.

“Mr. Rohder? This is Aiah.”

There is a moment’s silence. “I am surprised to hear from you,” Rohder finally says.

“Why is that?”

Aiah hears the sound of Rohder pulling on a cigaret, then the exhalation.

“The Authority police seem to think you are a criminal,” he says. “They have questioned me repeatedly. Perhaps I am under suspicion myself.”

“They would be pretty foolish to think that.”

“You embarrassed them.” There is a little pause. “And you embarrassed me.”

A pang of conscience burns in Aiah’s throat. “I’m sorry if that’s the case,” she says. “I hunted plasm thieves for you. And I found them, too.”

“Yes, you did. Which makes your other behavior even more surprising.”

Time, Aiah thinks, to change the subject. She is tired of dwelling on her sins.

“Perhaps I can make it up to you,” she says. “I head the Plasm Enforcement Division now, in Caraqui.”

Rohder takes a meditative draw on his cigaret. “Caraqui, yes. People are being shot there, I believe, by foreign mercenaries. I have seen it on video.”

Aiah winces. The executions of the first few Handmen were widely publicized, to demonstrate to the population that the Silver Hand was no longer immune to justice. But the publicity didn’t stop at the borders. Now all most people knew about Caraqui was that Constantine’s government was employing firing squads.

“I— it wasn’t my idea to shoot them,” she says. “They are gangsters, of course.”

“Were,” Rohder corrects. “And if you ever engage in the sort of activities in Caraqui in which you seem to have engaged here in Jaspeer, you could be shot, too.”

Aiah feels herself harden at the implied accusation. “You don’t know
what
I did in Jaspeer, Mr. Rohder.”

“True.” After a moment’s thought.

“The fact that I helped you take down some Operation plasm houses should show you what side I’m on.”

“Perhaps.”

“Since my department started its work just a few weeks ago, we’ve put the hammer on ninety-one plasm houses in Caraqui and arrested over three hundred people, many of them high-level Operation types. There are another sixty-odd plasm houses we’ll move on in the next few weeks, once investigations are completed. I wonder, Mr. Rohder— how many plasm houses has the Jaspeeri Plasm Authority taken down since I left?”

There is a long silence, filled only by the meditative drawing on a cigaret.

“Perhaps you have a point, Miss Aiah,” he says.

Aiah plunges ahead. “My boss, the Minister of Resources Constantine, has read your books.
Proceedings
, I mean. All fourteen volumes. And he thinks they, and you, are brilliant, and wants to meet you.”

There is another silence, then, “He must be a fast reader.”

“He would like to arrange a personal meeting to discuss your work. You would be picked up by aerocar, taken to Caraqui, lodged in the Aerial Palace for the duration of your stay, and returned by aerocar. Your fee would come to two thousand Jaspeeri dalders.”

“That is remarkably attractive.”

Aiah smiles. “Constantine makes attractive offers to those whose work impresses him. Is there a time when the visit will be most convenient?”

There is a hint of humor in Rohder’s reply. “Well, I seem to have little occupying my attention at present. Though I suppose it would be best if I came to Caraqui on a weekend, just for appearances. And also for appearances’ sake I will decline the fee, lest someone conclude that I am being paid for ... well, past services rendered, and not a lecture.”

“Perhaps I could arrange for the aerocar to fetch you this Friday? Service shift, after work hours?”

Arrangements are made. A glow of triumph warms Aiah’s heart.

Things are progressing.

She hangs her headset on the hook, leans back on the pillows she’s propped up on her bed, and considers what to do next. Perhaps she could go down to the operations center and see how the shift’s activities are advancing. Several arrests have been scheduled for midway through sleep shift.

But no. Ethemark is in charge this shift. Aiah would just be in the way.

She wonders if there’s anything on video worth watching.

The truth is, outside of her work and the few hours each week she spends with Constantine, she has no life in Caraqui. What she has seen of the metropolis does not attract her, and though she’s grown familiar with parts of the city through telepresent surveillance work, most of her physical knowledge of Caraqui is confined to the carpeted, paneled labyrinth of the Aerial Palace.

It occurs to her that she could use a few friends. Perhaps she should try to recruit a few.

There is an urgent knock on the door, and then the door chime, the soft tone repeating itself over and over again as Aiah’s visitor leans on it.

There is no reason for anyone to behave this way. If there’s a situation in the department, someone can call. It’s certainly faster than running all the way over from the Owl Wing.

Aiah puts her eye to the peephole. She doesn’t see anyone. Reflexes honed in her old neighborhood remind her not to open the door.

“Who’s there?” she calls.

“Ethemark.”

Ethemark, too short to be visible through the peephole. Aiah opens the door, sees herself reflected in her deputy’s goggle eyes.

A cold hand touches Aiah’s neck at the expression on Ethemark’s face.

“What’s happened?”

“Great-Uncle Rathmen. He’s gone.”

“Gone? How?”

“Teleported out of his cell, apparently. Right out of the secure unit.”

Cold anger clenches Aiah’s fists. “Somebody’s been paid off.”

“Very likely. I’ve got a boat waiting at the northwest water gate.”

So that’s why he’d come in person: Aiah’s apartment was on his way to the northwest gate.

“Let me get a jacket,” Aiah says.

TRIUMVIR PARQ ADDRESSES THE FAITHFUL

“DALAVOS, HIS PROPHECIES, AND YOU”

THIRD SHIFT ON CHANNEL 17

The prison dates from the period of the Avians, who liked their official buildings to aspire to a certain magnificence. Shieldlight gleams from its white stone walls and winks off the baroque bronze traceries, functional and ornamental at once, designed to ward off attack. It is as if the building were designed to deny the horrors that went on inside.

As with the Palace, evidence of the Avians is all over the building, stylized reliefs of wings over every entrance, the wing tips curled outward into the third dimension, as if to embrace the prisoners as they approach. Transmission horns in the shape of hawks or eagles, statues of raptors in niches, and even the bronze collection web is an abstract design of interlocking wings.

Aiah hasn’t had a reason to be here before. As the boat approaches the prison’s water gate, she looks up at the out-curving wings above her and shivers as the shadow comes between her and the light.

Inside, the place is strangely hygienic and functional, like a hospital, or a modern abattoir. Unstained bright colors, polished metal, bright fluorescent light. The Keremaths had remained true to the Avians’ spirit and kept their dungeons tidy.

The special secure wing is deep in the heart of the building and smells of disinfectant and despair. The triumvir Hilthi had paid for his journalistic dedication with a few years here, and so had many others released by the coup. Now the place was filled with Keremath supporters and gangsters.

Great-Uncle Rathmen had been tried by a military court and condemned to death within a week of his capture. He had been kept alive only because his interrogations were producing valuable information. Because he knew so much, the plasm scanners wanted to be very thorough with him, and the interrogations were many and painstaking. His file in Aiah’s secure room was growing thicker every week, long lists of contacts, payoffs, funds hidden in banks or basements.

To reach through the secure area, Aiah has to pass through two airlocks, sets of double doors screened with bronze mesh, intended to prevent even the smallest probe of plasm from slipping through. No expense or effort was spared to keep the prisoners out of the reach of any mage who might have wished to liberate them.

No expense was spared, that is, except on the guards. They are paid poorly, as are all civil servants here, and Aiah finds that Rathmen has almost certainly been paying them commissions. His cell is filled with homey touches: a piece of colored paper taped over the recessed light to moderate the harsh electric bulb, a thick carpet with a Sycar design, Sycar wall hangings, photographs of Rathmen’s family propped on a little table, cigarette butts in an ashtray. Even a box of sweets and a half-eaten pigeon pie.

Pillows— thick, soft, pleasant-looking pillows— are stuffed under the blanket to give the illusion of a sleeping prisoner.

Anger steams through Aiah’s veins. She turns to the officer on watch, a big, balding man with a nervous gleam of sweat on his forehead.

“Have any of the other prisoners been allowed personal items?”

He shakes his head. “Not to my knowledge.”

She decides to find out for herself and walks up to several cells at random.

Just a few glimpses through peepholes show that a great many of them contain nonregulation items: colorful blankets, wall hangings, lamps, videos, even small refrigerators. Many are large enough to contain hidden plasm batteries.

Aiah turns to Ethemark. “Kelban is off this shift. Call him— I want him to create a plasm hound here and see if he can trace where Rathmen went.”

Little creases form at the inner edges of Ethemark’s eyes. His expressions are very subtle, but Aiah is slowly learning them. This is his uncertain look.

“Miss, if Rathmen was teleported out of here, there won’t be a trail for a hound to follow.”

“
If
he was teleported. He might have walked out, possibly with a bit of plasm-glamour to disguise him, and in that case I want to know where he went.”

Understanding crosses Ethemark’s face. “Right away,” he says.

The watch officer clears his throat. “Beg pardon, miss, but there’s a problem.”

Aiah glares at him. “Yes?”

“There are no plasm outlets down here— we don’t want the prisoners ever getting ahold of the goods. So if you want to create a hound here, you’ll have to bring plasm in on a wire, or open enough doors so that a plasm sourceline can be sent into the area.” He adopts a pained expression. “I wouldn’t recommend that. Not if there’s a teleportation mage who’s already found a way in once.”

Aiah sees his point. “Mr. Ethemark, did you hear that?” she calls.

Ethemark turns on his way to the phone. “Yes, Miss Aiah.”

“Have Kelban bring a long wire.”

“I’ll do that.”

Aiah turns back to the officer. “I want a list of everyone who’s been on watch within the last twenty-four hours. And the names of whoever carried out Rathmen’s interrogations.”

“I—” The officer looks up, and his eyes go wide for a moment. Aiah turns, and there is Sorya walking through the door. She is dressed casually— baggy slacks and a rollneck sweater and scuffed suede boots, with her worn green military greatcoat thrown over her shoulders. On her, this unlikely ensemble looks superb.

Two bodyguards are with her, Cheloki, big men with black skins and twisted genes, facial features sunk into bony armored plates, knuckles the size of walnuts.

But Sorya doesn’t need bodyguards to make her dangerous. She carries the glamour of authority with her, and it is evident in every step she takes, in the cold fluorescent gleam of her eyes.

She walks past Aiah to stand before the officer, hands propped on her hips, the greatcoat flared out behind her like a cloak. “I have put guards on the doors,” she says. “No one will leave till this is resolved. I will need the names of everyone who has been in this area within the last twenty-four hours, because the ones who aren’t here are all about to be got out of bed. I have other people on the way ... specialists.”

The word
specialist
seems to make the officer even more nervous.

“We are under the Ministry of Justice,” the officer ventures. “The ministry may wish to make its own investigation.”

Aiah and Sorya ignore this. “The gentleman was already getting that information for me,” Aiah says.

Sorya doesn’t spare Aiah a glance. “That is well,” she says. “You can leave now, Miss Aiah. I’ll assume responsibility for the investigation.”

Aiah feels her mouth go dry. She stands erect at Sorya’s shoulder and wills the other woman to face her.

“
He was my prisoner,” she says. “My own investigation is far from complete. I would like to—” She stumbles, corrects herself. “I
will
stay.”

Sorya turns her head, eyes Aiah for a long moment. Then she gives a shrug inside her greatcoat. “As you like,” she says. She stands close to Aiah, and lowers her voice. “Since you are here, I may as well tell you now: there are two Handmen whom I wish released. They have agreed to serve as informers. Can you contrive to lose the paperwork on them, or free them in some other plausible way?”