City on Fire (Metropolitan 2) (67 page)

“Is there a way to find out?”

He gives a thin smile. “The Escaliers, too, have an intelligence section. They’re working on it— there is little else for them to do, really— and we’ll let you know if we find anything. Provisional headquarters no longer exists, and a number of their employees are now hard up for funds.”

Aiah returns Galagas’s smile. “The PED has a small budget for informers,” she says.

“
Ah.” Galagas’s look brightens. “That is good to know.” He touches his mustache again. “When I was in the Timocracy,” he says, “I looked at the
Wire’s
piece on you.”

Aiah finds herself making a face. “And?” she says.

“They made no effort to understand Barkazils, but otherwise I thought it was fair enough. And you?”

Aiah tries to banish the tension she feels in her shoulders. The
Wire’s
investigation had been extremely thorough, though fortunately it was reasonably objective— it gave her credit for investigating plasm thefts in Jaspeer and for her work against the Silver Hand and the militia, even as it raised suspicions about other activities.

Her heart had lurched when she’d seen her ex-lover quoted, but to her surprise, Gil had spoken nothing but praise, and defended her against any suggestion of criminality, something that relieved and gratified her. She should send him a wire of thanks, she thinks.

“I hate to see those old charges raked over,” Aiah says. “But at least they admitted they couldn’t find evidence.”

“The Cunning People leave no trace,” Galagas says. There is a confiding little gleam in his eye.

Aiah can only hope that, as far as the Escaliers and her own activities in Jaspeer are concerned, Galagas is speaking the truth.

MARTIAL LAW TO BE EASED

TERRORISTS, SILVER HAND STILL SUBJECT TO EMERGENCY POWERS

Rohder’s computer gives a rumble, shudders slightly, and at length offers up its data, first in a tentative flickering upon the screen, and then with firmer, shining confidence.

“The trend’s continuing,” Rohder says.

Aiah glances over his shoulder at the columns of figures. “Good.”

“More for the Strategic Plasm Reserve.” Rohder frowns, looks at the data. “If only I knew why. The figures shouldn’t be this good.”

“An element you haven’t accounted for in your theory?”

“
Oh, of course.” Dismissively. “There must be.” Rohder’s blue eyes brood upon the figures. “Our original experiments were necessarily on a small scale; but here we see a leap in plasm production beginning....” He traces a line of figures across the computer display with a horny thumbnail. “
Here
. Almost four months ago. A few weeks after the war started. And with the war destroying so many plasm-generating structures, there should have been less plasm, not more But still the dip in generation is not as great as it should have been, and now, even though so much of the city has been wrecked, our overall plasm generation is better than before the war started.”

He rubs his chin. “I am straining my mind to find a theory that will accurately account for this rise. And I can think of none.”

“I can’t think of this plasm increase as anything but a blessing.” Aiah shifts an overflowing ashtray on Rohder’s glass-topped desk, then perches on the desk’s corner, crossing her ankles and lazily swinging her feet.

“And your other work?” she asks.

“The atmospheric generation teams continue to report success, and the minister continues to press us to actually erect a building. We are on the verge of achieving a degree of expertise that may permit that, but I will not do such a thing until I’m ready.” He shakes his head, reaches absently into his shirt pocket for a packet of cigarets, and produces only an empty one. Crumpled, it joins other empty packets in the vicinity of his wastebasket. He looks at it with a drift of sadness in his eyes.

“
You are going to get a formal report on this tomorrow,” he says, “but I may as well tell you now about the results from our Havilak’s team. You recall we were going to perform some freestanding transformations on an office building owned by the Ministry of Works— retroactively alter the internal structure to bring it in line with FIT— and they found the most extraordinary thing:
it had already been done
.” Rohder’s watery blue eyes gaze up at Aiah in bemusement. “Some unknown mage, or maybe a group of mages, had already gone into the building and done the job on it!” Aiah looks at him. She has been in charge of a government department long enough to know that the cause probably lies within the bureaucracy.

“Our people didn’t get the work order mixed up? The job wasn’t done accidentally by another of your teams?”

“That’s the first thing we checked, and the answer’s no. None of our teams had ever done a job that large— we’d only been experimenting with empty, war-damaged buildings until we could be certain we could do the job safely.” He shakes his head. “Besides, the job was done differently from the way we’d planned it. We chose that particular building because it was new, only a hundred and eighty years old, and we had the plans on file— our engineers had planned every change we were going to make ahead of time. And when we discovered the changes already made, we discovered that they were different, though still made in perfect accord with fractionate interval theory....” He shakes his head. “Who would have done such a thing? And why?”

“Fraud, perhaps?” Aiah ventures. “Trying to raise the amount of plasm generated by the structure, and siphoning it off for their own use?” She reaches for a pad and paper. “I’ll have the ministry send a team to inspect the meters— ”

“
I already have,” Rohder says. “And I checked the building’s records— they
show
the increase. No one stole it. The excess went into the public mains, just as it ought.”

Aiah looks at him. “So who, then? And why?”

Rohder considers. “The
who
is most interesting. Who in Caraqui knows enough of fractionate interval theory to make such concrete application?”

“FIT isn’t a secret.”

“
No.” Rohder’s voice turns rueful. “Not a secret, but I doubt that more than a handful of people have ever read
Proceedings
. So far as I know, our own teams are the only people ever to try to apply the theory in practice.”

“Perhaps someone on our transformation team is working on his own? Maybe the office building was just practice, and he intends to strike out on his own?”

“
But why pick a building that he
knew
we were going to alter?”

Aiah looks out the window. Plasm displays shimmer on the near horizon. She bites her lip at the relentless conclusions that fall into place in her mind.

“Altering that building was illegal,” she says. “The plasm used to make the alterations might have been stolen.” She looks at him uneasily. “I regret to say that one part of my department may have to start an investigation of another branch.”

Rohder leans back in his chair, looks at the data. “I can narrow the investigation for you. I can safely say that there are only a dozen or so people in my section that could have pulled this off.”

A falcon dives past the window, talons arched for prey. Aiah turns to Rohder again. “Very good. If you would send me the names...?”

Rohder gives a reluctant sigh, his eyes never leaving the screen. “I suppose I must.”

Regret sighs through Aiah’s mind. She herself, working for Rohder, had deceived him; it is possible, therefore, that someone else had.

Rohder’s division hadn’t undergone the stringent security checks required of the more paramilitary PED; Rohder had just hired as much young talent as he could find.

And it is necessary that an investigation be performed. In order to clear Rohder and Aiah themselves, at least.

An investigation might eventually mean brain scans for some of Rohder’s most skilled, valuable mages. Aiah wouldn’t be surprised if some of them quit rather than submit.

And in the end the mages involved might prove to be another group entirely.

Aiah bites her lip, then brings up the matter that has brought her to Rohder’s office in the first place.

“On another subject entirely,” she says, “what do you know about hanged men?”

Surprise lights Rohder’s eyes. He rears back in his seat and cranes his neck to look at her, the discomfort of his position a reflection of the discomfort visible in his face.

“Ice men, you mean?” he asks. “The damned?”

“Yes.”

Rohder frowns. “
If
they exist— and I am not entirely convinced that they do— then hanged men are very rare and highly dangerous. Toxic. If you ever encounter one, I would run as fast as possible and pray to Vida the Merciful while I ran.”

“How do you kill them?”

“It’s far harder than the chromoplays would suggest.” His frown deepens. “Why are you asking?”

Aiah leans closer. “I trust this will go no farther?”

He shrugs. “Who would I tell?”

Were Rohder a Barkazil, his returning a question in this manner would tell Aiah that he was planning on telling everyone in the world; but Rohder is not a Barkazil, and Aiah reckons she can trust him with the falsehood she has carefully prepared.

Even lies, she knows, require a degree of trust. She retrieves her story from the mental closet where she has stored it. “I’ve found...
something
... out there in the plasm well. The thing scares me— it’s cold and it’s strong, and it’s lurking around the Aerial Palace. I’m afraid it might be scouting for an attack.”

Rohder’s look turns inward, calculating. He gropes in his pocket for a cigaret, remembers he’s run out, and instead gnaws a nicotine-stained thumbnail.

“If it is a hanged man,” he says carefully, “and not some kind of plasm construction, I don’t know anything that can stop it should it decide to attack.”

“If it isn’t a hanged man,” Aiah says, “it’s something else that can live and move in a plasm well, so we might as well call it a hanged man until we find out otherwise.”

Rohder’s absorbed, thoughtful expression shows no sign that he’s heard. “If it is a hanged man,” he says slowly, “and it’s moving through the Palace plasm well, then it may be an ally of someone already in the Palace. Someone very powerful.”

A series of barking curses chase each other through Aiah’s mind. Rohder wasn’t supposed to work this out, at least not yet.

Vexed with herself for not anticipating this, she reminds herself that he is over three hundred years old. He may not be very worldly, but he’s done very little but deal with bureaucracy for all his professional life, and he understands the architecture of power.

Aiah needs to remember that next time she tries to use him as her
passu
.

“If this thing is a pet of someone in the building,” Aiah says, “that makes it worse. I don’t think anyone should have such a creature at his beck and call.”

The fierce conviction in her words surprises her, and she sees Rohder’s eyes widen a bit at her evident fire.

He sighs heavily, then turns to his computer display. “I will find out what I can,” he says. “There are some people I can contact at Margai University.”

Aiah leans toward him, puts a hand on his shoulder. “Thank you, Mr. Rohder. This could be important.”

Rueful humor settles onto his face. “I don’t promise results,” he says. His hands automatically search his empty pockets for cigarets.

Aiah leans back, takes a pack of Amber Milds from behind the computer, and hands it to him with a smile as she heads for the door.

It’s nice, she concludes, for once in her life to leave Rohder’s office without the stench of tobacco on her clothes.

TIMETABLE FOR LANBOLA WITHDRAWAL TO BE NEGOTIATED

POLAR LEAGUE AID TO BE RESUMED

PRINCIPLE OF COMPENSATED DEMOBILIZATION ACCEPTED

“Thank you for seeing me, Miss Aiah.” Dr. Romus sways into Aiah’s office, moving by throwing a thick loop of his body ahead of him, then pulling the rest after.

Aiah wants to turn away from the sinuous, unnatural movement, but she compels a grave smile to appear on her face and rises to greet him.

“You said it was important?” she says.

The reedy voice echoes oddly from her office walls. “I can’t think it anything
but
important,” Romus says. Aiah sits, and Romus lowers his upper body to keep his head on a level with hers, his usual courtesy.

Aiah had difficulty justifying his hiring, particularly in light of his plasm scan, which revealed a long life— he is over a hundred— rich with various crimes, major and minor. But none of the crimes were vicious— most concerned theft of state property, like plasm, electricity, or fresh water— and any violence seemed to be in the interests of defending himself or protecting his half-world.

The plasm scan also revealed he had no intention of using his position in the PED for any illegal advantage. His criminality, he seemed to suggest, was in part justified by his desperate position in the world; once in a better position, there would no longer be a need for such activity.

This is not a justification that sits easily with Aiah. But it was one she used to absolve the actions she’d taken to help Constantine in Jaspeer— and so she’d decided to give Romus the benefit of the doubt.

So far it seems to have paid off. Romus has been working for the PED for two weeks now, and reports from his superiors have been positive. He’s clever, they say, and he minimizes use of plasm. He’s very good at surveillance, very patient, and his reports are models of clarity.

“What’s the problem?” Aiah asks.

Shieldlight glitters in Romus’s yellow eyes. “I saw something first shift yesterday,” he says. “In the lobby of the secure room.”

A warning cry sounds in Aiah’s nerves. “What were you doing there? You’re not authorized for the secure room.”