Walter Williams - City on Fire

Romus continues, the reedy voice thoughtful. “I concluded, however, that there cannot be very many of these things, because otherwise they would not hide, they would move openly and prey on whomever they wished.”

“There is only one that I know of,” Aiah says. She tries to put confidence in her voice. “And this one will be destroyed. But in the meantime…”

“Silence.” Romus’s head bows. “I understand.”

She has made Romus her passu, Aiah thinks. She has given him a version of the truth that may serve to keep him silent, at least for now, and perhaps given him a confidence that all this may be dealt with, that Aiah will see Taikoen destroyed.

Perhaps, Aiah thinks, she has made a passu of herself, convinced herself that there is a solution to this problem, and that it is within her grasp.

Taikoen, she thinks bleakly, might have made a passu out of everyone, from Constantine on down.

GOLDEN LADY CHROMOPLAY ANNOUNCED PRODUCER OF METRO FLIGHT ACQUIRES RIGHTS OLLI PLANS CHROMO OF “EPIC SCOPE”

And now, to Aiah’s strange, heterogeneous Caraqui family comes her real family—some of them anyway: her sister Henley and her cousins Esmon and Spano—riding the pneuma to Caraqui for Esmon’s marriage to Khorsa.

Khorsa’s sister Dhival performs the rites, linking the couple to the Three Horses and spreading the Yellow Paper Umbrella, with its vermilion symbols, above their heads. As they share the marriage cup, drums roll, the audience breaks out in shouts of joy and congratulation, and a rolling barrage of firecrackers fills the room with its pungent scent.

The Barkazil Division provides musicians for the reception, and the eerie sound of the vertical Barkazil fiddle floats above the throng. General Ceison takes his turn dancing with the bride. Rohder watches from the corner with an expression of amiable bemusement.

Constantine stands tall amid the crowd, splendid in his black velvet jacket, brilliant white lace, and a glittering diamond stickpin in the shape of the fabled sea horse. He moves as easily amid the Barkazil throng as he does anywhere else.

Aiah holds his arm, pleased that on a private occasion such as this there is no necessity of maintaining in public the formal relationship of the minister and his subordinate: they can be together as conspicuously as they like.

“Esmon looks splendid.” Constantine nods toward Aiah’s cousin, who stands in a jacket of glittering jet beadwork that contrasts with both his billowing lace and the foolish grin on his face.

Aiah smiles. “He’s always had a highly distinctive style sense.”

Especially since he’s been seeing Khorsa, who almost certainly bought this coat and any other fine clothes Esmon may have brought with him.

“He will take up residence here in Caraqui?”

“He already has.”

“Does he have a job yet?”

Aiah cocks an eyebrow at him. “Do you have a vacancy?”

“I don’t have one in mind, no. I don’t know what your cousin can do,” amusement invading his face, “unless it’s to model new uniforms for the military.”

“I’m sure he’d do that very well,” Aiah says. “But until that opportunity arises, I’m sending him around to various government departments, along with my letter of recommendation.”

“I’m sure that will obtain him a position.”

The fact is, Aiah knows, that though Esmon is one of her favorite relatives, and a perfectly charming man, he isn’t suited to do anything in particular; his last job, before he was laid off almost a year ago, was as a janitor in a home for the elderly.

Aiah waits for a few seconds to see if Constantine will make a point of offering Esmon a job, but he doesn’t; and she long ago promised herself not to ask Constantine for special favors for friends or relatives.

Alfeg approaches and asks her to dance, and she steps onto the floor with him. He is technically a fine dancer, but the spirit is not quite there; he thinks about it too much. At one point she catches the look he gives her—awed, worshipful—and it makes her cheeks flame.

He really believes, she realizes, what Charduq the Hermit has been saying. He truly believes she is an incarnation of Karlo or some other immortal, one of the Old Oelphil guardians of her people. It isn’t just a game; it isn’t just a notion he’s been playing with—Alfeg really believes it.

No wonder the dance doesn’t feel quite right. He’s almost afraid to touch her.

At the end of the dance, Alfeg returns Aiah to Constantine, who she finds chatting with her sister Henley. Henley is gesturing with her hands—lovely hands, long and graceful, once crippled by an Operation street lieutenant and then made even worse by arthritis, hands which Aiah, over the last months, arranged to have repaired.

Henley catches Aiah looking at her hands. She flushes, smiles, breathes the words, “Thank you.”

Aiah takes one of Henley’s hands and presses it. “I’m happy I was able to help,” she says.

Constantine watches this with a benign smile.

“Excuse me, sir,” Alfeg says.

Constantine gazes down at him. “Yes?”

“I thought I’d mention that we seem to be having no trouble at all recruiting replacements for the Barkazil Division. We’ve got swarms of applicants—more than we can use. We’ll have our pick of some very good men.”

“Splendid,” said Constantine. “Carry on.”

“But I feel I should mention—” Alfeg searches for words, then decides simply to say it. “If the government should ever decide to raise another Barkazil Division, or to expand the current division to a full three brigades, I would have no trouble finding recruits.”

Constantine’s eyes narrow as he considers this. “The military budget is due for reduction, not expansion,” he says. “But if the need should arise, I will bear this news in mind.”

Alfeg makes an effort to conceal his disappointment. “Yes,” he says. “Thank you, sir.”

“One other thing.”

“Sir?”

Constantine speaks quietly, a little abstractedly, like a teacher giving a well-worn lecture to his students. “You should consider that a number of your recruits will almost certainly be spies, most likely from Jabzi, who will be inserted into the Barkazil Division with the intention of discovering whether our recruits will be used to subvert the arrangement whereby the Barkazi Sectors are partitioned. Or perhaps these spies will even be there to subvert us.”

Aiah sees Alfeg’s astonished stare and knows it probably mirrors her own. “You know this?” he says. “Do you have any—anything concrete?”

“I note simply that Jabzi, which had formerly maintained only an honorary consul just over our border in Charna—a local fellow who operated more as a tourist agent than a diplomatic representative—is now upgrading their presence to that of a full embassy, with a staff of over sixty people. Why should they do that in a metropolis half a world away, with which they do so very little trade? I assume that the entire purpose of this establishment is to keep an eye on what Miss Aiah and the Barkazil Division are doing here in Caraqui.”

A kind of resigned amusement dwells in Constantine’s eyes, as if he could not expect anything better from his fellow creatures.

“And though / know that the threat you pose to Jabzi is small,” he says, “perhaps nil, I also assume that by the time this new embassy finishes its reports, you are going to be a fullblown menace to the security not just of Jabzi, but of the world. The jobs of those sixty people depend on your being a menace, and as far as they are concerned, you will be a menace.”

“When,” Aiah wonders thoughtfully, “did you discover this?”