City on Fire (Metropolitan 2) (41 page)

Sadness drifts through Aiah’s heart, and she impulsively kisses his cheek. She had not wanted to provoke these memories, this sadness. She puts her arms around his neck and kisses him again. “I forgive you,” she says.

He looks at her, intelligence burning in his glance, and his lips twist in a mocking smile. “For everything?” he asks.

She kisses his smile. “Of course.”

“For I am using you, lady, and everyone else, and sometimes I confess I no longer know why.”

“I forgive you,” she repeats, and he smiles again, sadly this time, and returns the kiss with a ferocity that takes her momentarily aback, but then she returns it, nerves answering to his need.

They kiss and caress, and the fiery hunger grows and kindles into flame while the Metropolis of Achanos goes about its life on the other side of the bronze-sheathed window. Eventually they move to the bedroom, and Aiah takes off her red dress, flirting with Constantine as he watches, using little tricks that she’s seen on video, pirouettes while half- undraped, showing him glimpses of her body, giving him little pouting kisses over a bared shoulder, flashing him every provoking look in her repertoire ... Eventually she turns down the bed and reclines on pearly satin, forearm beneath her head, wearing only the Trigram necklace, and looks at him. Constantine turns and searches in a drawer, smiles, raises his hand with a copper t-grip.

“Oh no,” she says.

He looks at her with a predator smile. “It has been too long, lady, since I had the leisure to truly pleasure you. And since through Aldemar’s kindness we have this opportunity, I wished to make it as memorable as possible.”

Aiah has experienced this once before, the Fifth of the Nine Levels of Harmonious and Refined Balance, and reckons she would just as soon never experience the Sixth through Ninth. The Fifth is intense enough.

“Well,” she says, and laughs, “perhaps just this one time...”

Constantine sits on the bed and touches her cheek with his free hand, plasm-warmth tingling along the tracks of his fingers. Aiah looks up into his glittering eyes, sees the power there, the intensity, the plasm coiled in him, all of it focused on her ... and the warmth spreads, touching her nerves, the sensation making her give a nervous gasp.

He kneels over her, hand and lips browsing along her body. The plasm pours over her skin like a sheet of fire, a burning that makes her cry out; she feels his kisses between her breasts, and seizes his head with both hands, pressing him to her heart. Her body shudders at the plasm onslaught, and she drives her legs up around him, heels digging into his back, demanding pleasure. She feels as if her lungs are filled with molten fire, and fire burns in her throat. The fire fills her, and she feels it scorch her bones, consume her organs, blacken her nerves; she can feel her skin split open, molten metal bursting from her, turning the room to flame.

After it is over she lies with Constantine, her lanky body, curled into a fetal shape, fitting spoonlike within the compass-arc of his larger frame, her head resting on his biceps. “Sometime,” she gasps, “I am going to do that to
you
.”

“I will look forward to it,” he says, and kisses her sweat-moist nape.

His arm circles her from behind, and she takes his hand and places it on her breast, feeling herself filling his palm, wanting the intimate touch of him there.

“I’m glad we don’t do that every time,” she says.

His chuckle comes in her ear. “A pity. We could do it again now.”

A startled laugh bolts from her throat. “Vida’s mercy!” she says. “Give me time to catch my breath!”

“All right,” he says, amiable enough.

She gives him a look over her shoulder. “Are you serious? You must have just burned ten thousand dinars of plasm.”

His look is serious. “What I can give you I will give you.”

“Who’s paying for it?”

“Aldemar and I will settle between the two of us.” He kisses her neck again. “You are worth the expense, lady.”

Pleasure tweaks the corners of her mouth. “I hope Aldemar agrees,” she says, and pillows her head on his arm again.

His body steals closer to hers, stretching flesh against flesh. “Have you caught your breath yet?” he asks.

She laughs. “No,” she says.

“A pity. We have only a few hours left.”

“
Hours."
She laughs again, then looks back at him. “Perhaps we could try the
Fourth
level,” she says, “if it’s less intense.”

“It isn’t,” Constantine says. “It’s just intense in a different way.”

“
Well,” she says, “as long as we’re
here
. . .”

AN EMPTY SOUL OFTEN SCORNS WISDOM

A THOUGHT-MESSAGE FROM HIS PERFECTION, THE PROPHET OF AJAS.

Before they leave the apartment they bathe together, fitting their tall bodies with a certain deliberation into a long, oval tub that would have been ample for one. The scented water floats over Aiah like a milder version of the plasm fire that Constantine has called to aid her pleasure. The stress knots in her neck and shoulders, which had already begun to loosen their grip over the last few hours, are dissolved entirely by soap, scent, and Constantine’s powerful hands. Aiah dries her hair, then puts on her little red dress while in the other room Constantine calls Aldemar on the phone.

“She is the only person who knows we’re here,” he says as he hangs up the headset. “If something happened to her, I would be embarrassed to find a way back to Caraqui.”

He gives Aldemar a few minutes, and then slides open the patio door to let her plasm sourceline enter. A cool breeze floats in, along with the sound of traffic. He and Aiah fall into one another’s arms, Aiah pressing herself to his massive chest, his ruffled shirt against her cheek. She closes her eyes, wanting to prolong the moment, and keeps them shut as the power snarls around her.

“I brought you back to my apartment,” Aldemar says as Aiah blinks at the surroundings. She sits on a sofa with her feet up, elegant as possible considering she is dressed in a bathrobe with her hair wrapped in a kind of turban.

Aiah turns to her. “Thank you,” she says. “That was wonderful of you.”

“
These days I seem to be using my talents mostly to move spies and munitions about,” she says. “I’m pleased to use my abilities in the service of love. And I would be happy to do so again." She casts a skeptical look at Constantine.
“If
the two of you ever have another free moment.”

Constantine bends to kiss Aldemar’s hand, then her cheek. “Thank you,” he says.

Aldemar looks at Aiah. “We’ll have lunch soon, yes?”

“Of course.”

Constantine straightens, sighs. A kind of weight seems to settle onto his shoulders, and a distant crash of artillery rattles the windows. “And now,” he says, “we must return to our lives.” A kind of resentment enters his face. “Our military, militarized lives.”

Aiah’s heart sinks. She had not wanted a reminder.

Criminals and war and refugees and horror.

The windows rattle again.

Time to go back to work.

POLAR LEAGUE OFFERS MEDIATION

GOVERNMENT CONSIDERS OFFER

Aiah and Constantine hold hands as they walk down the corridors of the Swan Wing. There is a thoughtful look on Constantine’s face.

“Karlo’s Brigade...” he says, and his voice trails off.

“Yes?” She is mildly surprised at this choice of subject.

“Do you suppose, being Barkazils, that they have a relationship with Landro’s Escaliers on the other side?”

“I don’t know.”

“It occurs to me that we might make use of it somehow. Landro’s Escaliers are in the line, holding the Corridor between Lorkhin Island and Lanbola. And if they could be persuaded to switch sides...”

“
Constantine,” Aiah points out, “they’re from the
Timocracy!”

“Yes, I know. Garshab’s mercenaries pride themselves on honoring their contracts, and up till now they’ve been fighting very well for both sides, against people they know and have trained alongside.”

“Exactly.”

“
But there are ways to slip contracts with a clear conscience— that’s what small print is
for
— and perhaps we can find Landro’s Escaliers an exit.”

“Good luck.” Skeptically.

“And to that end, I think it is time you became more prominent.”

Alarm brings warmth to Aiah’s cheeks. “Minister?” she says.

“You have succeeded very well in avoiding celebrity till now. Perhaps it is time people became aware of you.”

“No!” Aiah is appalled.

“Celebrity is a weapon,” Constantine says. “You should learn to use it.”

“I don’t want it.”

“The likes of Parq will find it much harder to remove you from the PED once you are well-known and appreciated here in Caraqui.”

She looks at him. “Why don’t we find someone else to be famous?”

Constantine continues as if he had not heard. “We will make you the most prominent Barkazil in the world.”

“
I don’t want it. And besides, it’s ridiculous. Who’d be interested in
me?”

Constantine smiles. “You underestimate the power of modern media, video in particular.” His heavy hand pats her shoulder in a gesture meant to be reassuring. “Don’t worry," he says with a white smile. “I will handle it all.”

That’s just what I’m afraid of
Aiah thinks.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

It is the Caraqui Medal of Merit, and Aiah, prominent in her civilian suit, stands amid a line of uniforms to receive it. Constantine, Minister of War, walks affably down the line, pinning medals on chests and chatting with the soldiers.

Aiah’s forehead prickles: the video lights are hot. Constantine’s plan to expand her fame is gathering speed.

Earlier Aiah’s apartment was invaded by a hairdresser, a manicurist, and a cosmetician. Their job is to make her exciting and glamorous for the video cameras. “The planes of your face aren’t going to show up on video,” the cosmetician tells her.

“
I don’t
have
any planes in my face.” With irritation.

“
You will when I’m done with you,” the cosmetician says; and now Aiah is to get a new face painted on at the commencement of every work shift. It’s an
interesting
face, Aiah has to admit, if not quite hers— the face of an experienced adventuress, ambitious and powerful, and not a young woman madly trying to keep up with her own schedule. It’s the face of someone Aiah wouldn’t mind becoming, if opportunity ever permits.

She also has to admit that she could probably learn to enjoy the pampering.

More video lights glare at her. Constantine arrives, pins the medal delicately to her lapel, and bends to kiss her cheek. “Congratulations,” he says.

She is receiving the medal for her actions at Fresh Water Bay and Xurcal stations on the day of the countercoup. At her insistence, Davath will postumously be given the same decoration.

Constantine hands her the satin-lined case with Davath’s medal. Its gold and enamel gleam in the lights of the video cameras.

“This decoration is posthumously awarded to your colleague Davath, who died heroically in a skirmish near Xurcal Station on the day the Provisionals attacked,” Constantine says.

Aiah clears her throat and takes the decoration from Constantine’s hand. “He died to save me and the rest of my team,” she says. “I will keep it in trust for his family.”

If she can ever find them, that is. Their half-world is in occupied Caraqui.

At least she didn’t flub her lines.

The cameras linger on her as Constantine passes to the next soldier. Aiah keeps her back straight and tries to think heroic thoughts.

All that comes to her mind is the hope that her family will never see this.

EXPLOSION IN LANBOLA

STOCKPILED MUNITIONS EXPLODE

LANBOLA CLAIMS SABOTAGE,

DENIES MUNITIONS MEANT FOR PROVISIONALS

The Crystal Dome, joyless, deep in its armored shaft. Second shift. Constantine reports to the full cabinet. The dolphin Aranax is conspicuous on his couch, next to Randay, the hapless new Minister of Public Security, who is trying to build a new police force from the defeated, demoralized remnants of the old.

Aiah is not here to speak herself, a fact for which she is grateful. Rohder will be making a presentation, and Aiah, as his superior, is here to support him. With luck she won’t have to talk at all.

Constantine’s summary is almost entirely devoted to the war situation: he describes new mercenary units recruited, the amount paid for each, the number of Caraqui recruits sent to the Timocracy for training— for they are trying to rebuild the Caraqui army, cheaper than mercenaries in the long run— and gives an estimate of enemy strength.

The figures, taken together, are staggering. When the Keremaths ruled Caraqui, they did so with a large, inefficient police force, a small but vicious secret police, and an army of under two divisions. Now, just to hold its ground, the new government controls dozens of divisions assembled into corps, and corps gathered into armies, and even the armies are joined to make two “grand armies,” each holding different parts of the front.

The original Keremath army would be lost in all of this.

Aiah finds the numbers fantastic. The finances are beyond imagining— so many tens of millions here, so many billions there. But apparently there is wealth to be found, because no one, not even the banker-president Faltheg, seems to think the sums incredible.

Constantine, in midspeech, raises his eyes to Sorya across the table. “My colleague Sorya has sent reports to the effect that the enemy has ceased to recruit new forces, even though their present strength is not sufficient to win the war for them. This may indicate that their financial benefactors have reached their limits. No doubt her report to us will go into greater detail on this matter.”