Metropolitan (38 page)

Aiah marvels at a director who knows how to use silence and stillness. She can’t remember when she’s last seen a chromoplay that wasn’t all fast cuts and constant movement.

“My father is dead, Reverence.” The first words spoken by Kherzaki. The voice isn’t Constantine’s, but that of a near cousin: Kherzaki’s opera training gives him a resonance and authority similar to Constantine’s even though the timbre is different, smoothly flowing liquid rather than tempered steel.

“Everything returns to the Shield in the end.” It’s the abbot speaking, a wizened man with a birdlike tilt to his head, a twittering voice, a holy symbol tattooed on his forehead and eerie blue blobs of mascara on his eyes.

“I request leave to attend his funeral.”

“You may have it, child of matter,” says the abbot.

Kherzaki gratefully inclines his head. “I ask first for a gift of your wisdom.”

“The gift is not mine,” the abbot demurs, “but that of the Great Path of Superior Perfection.”

“I wish to inquire about evil.”

“Evil is a transient phenomenon that cannot sustain itself. Purify your mind and heart of desire, and evil can gain no lodgment therein.”

The student is persistent. “And what of exterior evil? Can it be overcome through action?”

“All evil is transient. By its nature it cannot sustain itself. No action is necessary, nor required.”

Kherzaki’s deep eyes glitter. “If evil is transient, then the transience is because evil destroys itself, and that destruction is inevitable. Cannot people of virtue aid evil in its self-destruction, so as to prevent its innocent victims from suffering?”

The abbot frowns. “All weapons turn against their owners, child of matter. All desire corrupts. All action is futile. If you wish to aid those who suffer, then teach them to live without desire.”

“Without desire for food for their children? Without desire for hope? Without desire for liberty or justice?”

“Just so.”

There is a long pause, and then Kherzaki turns and leaves. The abbot gives a bemused smile and sips gratefully at his tea.

And Kherzaki, in his room, breaks his prayer sticks over his knee, leaves his robes in the closet, washes the ritual daubings from his face, and goes forth to make revolution.

It’s not precisely history — Aiah knows that Constantine left the School of Radritha some years before he made his bid for Cheloki, and that Constantine’s father survived, under house arrest, into the civil war that followed. The chromoplay names no real names: Kherzaki’s character is called Clothius, the monastery is a fictional one, though characteristic of its type, and the metropolis over which Kherzaki strives is called Lokhamar. The fictionalizations are transparent but somehow aid the chromo’s purpose; the characters aren’t so much anonyms as literary constructs, a thing in keeping with the entire chromoplay, which is highly stylized, as if inspired by Kherzaki’s world of the opera. The actions are grander than in reality, the colors brighter, the gestures more sweeping, the silences more profound. The heightened style transforms a kind of historical outline into a mighty tragedy, a form far more powerful than the merely true.

Kherzaki is never less than magnificent. He attempts no imitation of Constantine, but there are occasional intriguing echoes: an impatient gesture or pantherish glance, or phrases that Aiah remembers falling from Constantine’s lips. The actor is particularly effective at the end, after all hope is gone, striving to maintain his brittle dignity while trying to negotiate his own exile and the surrender of his metropolis to the corrupt forces that have brought about the destruction of all his schemes.

Aiah is thrilled to the marrow, and she’s not alone, because at the end the audience burst into applause right along with her. She’s never seen a biography of such scope, nor a worthier testimony to someone’s life and thought.

There’s a brief intermission, after which there will be a live report from the huge premiere party. After the five-course dinner that was the chromoplay, Aiah isn’t particularly interested in more bonbons from celebrities, so she rises and adjusts her jacket. Her doorman rises to give her room to pass.

“Good chromo,” he says.

“I think Constantine should be pleased.”

“Constantine?” His brow furrows. “Was he in the cast? I don’t remember seeing him.”

Aiah looks at the man. “It was about Constantine, about his life. Clothius was Constantine.”

The doorman blinks. “Oh. Is that why he’s famous, then? I never knew.” And then, at Aiah’s startled look, he adds, “I don’t much keep up with the news.”

Aiah makes an effort to master her surprise. “Well, I’m glad you liked it, anyway.” She shuffles past him on her way to the aisle.

“When is that gentleman of yours coming back?” the doorman asks.

Aiah shrugs and calls an answer over her shoulder.

“Who knows?”

*

Aiah takes a cab to Terminal. At the start of the weekend the streets are fairly full, with long lines outside the fashionable clubs and Shieldlight glittering bright on beads and jewelry. In the poorer areas like Terminal, whole blocks are barricaded off for street dances, with local bands playing atop flatbed trucks and vendors selling food, intoxicants and aphrodisiacs from shops set up in the outdoor scaffolding.

Aiah tells the driver to take her past the building that holds Kremag and Associates, but the street is blocked off — not with a block party, she sees, but by police. Flashing lights throb against the walls of the buildings, and there’s a touch of pepper gas in the air that makes Aiah’s eyes smart. A line of complaining people, bystanders apparently, lie on the sidewalk with wet towels over their eyes, supervised by indifferent ambulance personnel.

The police would never have used gas so freely in a rich neighborhood.

Still, Aiah is pleased to be able to give Constantine good news. She tells the cab to head for the Landmark, and as it turns away from the barriers, and rolls past the huge bulk of the housing project, Aiah sees Khoriak’s blond head gleaming from a shop doorway.

Her news won’t be news after all, Aiah thinks.

Security is already in place at the Landmark, along with a meal of cold noodles, pate, fruit and a fine amber wine. She eats, bathes, banishes weariness with a dose of plasm, and finds a gift from Constantine on the bed: a negligee of golden silk, a matching robe, bottles of Cedralla perfume and body oil. Aiah adds the ivory necklace that Constantine gave her, the carved white Trigram hanging low between her breasts. For a luxurious moment, as Aiah anoints herself, the fantasy of the kept woman floats through her mind again, the limousine, the shopping binges, the pug dog . . .

Pretty silly, she considers. She can’t see Constantine long keeping company with a woman so utterly useless.

Constantine arrives, face and form concealed in a hooded sweatshirt that makes him look like a retired prizefighter. “I believe I’ve decoyed the reporters,” he says cheerfully. “A last-minute switch of aerocars, and Martinus dressed in my hat and coat with a little plasm-glamor on his face. He should have led them all back to Mage Towers.”

Aiah congratulates him. He pulls the sweatshirt off over his head and tosses it on a chair. “Did you like the chromo-play?” he asks.

“It was magnificent.”

Constantine seems pleased with himself. “They will wonder, won’t they, if the chromo was made to promote the coup, or the other way around.”

“So which was it?”

He shrugs, “It was intended, quite frankly, as a showcase for my ideas. The Caraqui adventure came along quite by accident, and so did you, and these and the chromo jig-sawed together quite nicely.” His rumbling laugh rings out. “Millions more people will have seen the chromo than will ever have heard of the Cheloki wars. For a generation at least, historians will have to spend thousands of hours pointing out just where the chromo was different from history — and no one will really care. That magnificent creation of Sandvak and Kherzaki will be the
me
that people remember.” A mischievous smile crosses his face. “I’ll have to remember to live up to it, if I can.”

Aiah considers this while Constantine pours himself a glass of wine. “You . . .
arranged
this chromo somehow? My impression from all I’ve heard was that it was all Sandvak’s idea.”

“
I’m sure that’s what Sandvak believes. Sandvak believes intently and passionately and sincerely about
any
idea that takes his fancy, at least till another idea seizes possession of him. He was perfect for the project: he possesses great talent, but has no real convictions save those he borrows, momentarily, for the purposes of his art. I chose him, though he doesn’t know it — I even partly financed the chromoplay — and it looks as if I’ll make my investment back a hundredfold.”

Aiah is a bit dizzied by all this. Constantine laughs, and with one of his sudden movements sweeps Aiah up — the breath goes out of her in a surprised, delighted whoop. He carries her to the bed cradled against his broad chest. “So much for passive entertainments,” he says. “On to better things.”

*

Aiah has observed that, the more effective the lingerie, the less likely it is to remain on the body. This occasion is no exception.

Constantine is buoyant and playful, for once without the overpowering intensity he’s displayed in the past. He seems utterly without care, more inclined to make jokes than sage comments on the world and its workings. It’s as if a weight has been lifted from his heart.

“Are you so delighted with the chromo?” Aiah asks. “Or did something else happen to make you so carefree?”

A warm laugh rumbles deep in his chest. They lie next to each other in bed, propped up on elbows.

“I am lighthearted in part,” he says, “because the chromoplay was a masterpiece. But also because the business of Caraqui is now in train, and there is nothing I can do to alter it at this stage. The orders have been given, and it’s all in the hands of the gods. I may have a few hours of peace and pleasure before my part begins.”

A trickle of alarm shivers up Aiah’s spine. She straightens, looks at Constantine in concern. “When?” she asks.

“The soldiers will roll out of the barracks early Sunday, and should be in place by 05:00. That part is tricky — they all have to start at different times, so as to take their stations at the same moment. The actual attack will commence right at 05:00 whether everyone’s in place or not.” An expression of concern crosses his face as he looks at Aiah. “By this time tomorrow I will be in Barchab making final arrangements. Whatever the success of the strike, I daren’t return ever to Jaspeer — not once our secret of Terminal is connected with events in Caraqui.”

A hopeless protest dies on Aiah’s lips. Constantine looks at her soberly, a touch of sadness in his voice. “This is our last time together, Miss Aiah. I hope you will leave this place with no regrets.”

A knife of pure sadness slices into Aiah’s throat, stilling her voice. Unexpected tears sting her eyes. “I had hoped,” she manages finally, “to have more time.”

“If the strike works out well,” he says, “and you come to Caraqui, then we may have time to spare.”

Aiah throws herself back on the blue satin sheets. “But very possibly no time at all. You make no promises.”

“I can’t. My promises are to — well, if it is not too immodest to say so, to the world.” He tilts his head and looks at her, and places one big hand gently over hers. “You have a full life. You have your young man — who seems a decent sort — and financial security, and a special assignment for the Authority —” there is an amused glint in his eye “rooting out wicked folk like myself.

“More importantly,” he adds, “you know how to fly.” He kisses her cheek.

Aiah wants only to cry. She throws both arms around his neck, buries her face in the juncture of throat and jaw.

She hadn’t, she thinks with fierce astonishment, known she cared
this much
.

Gently he strokes her back. If he is surprised by the tempest, it doesn’t show in his voice. “I’m sorry for this suddenness,” he says, “but you knew, at best, we had only days in any case.”

“Of course I knew,” she says, voice muffled by his clavicle while she inwardly curses her foolishness. This is not a time to go to pieces. Not when a perfect chonah has come to its conclusion, the cash dropped safely and untraceably in a foreign bank, and all is well. Any other Barkazil would be dancing with joy.

Aiah leans back, dabs at her eyes with the back of her wrist. “I’m being stupid,” she says. “As you say, it’s nothing I didn’t know.

“I’m sorry for the upset.”

“It’s passed. I — it was the surprise, I think.”

He tilts his head again, considering her from a new perspective. “You have a grand future, you know. You have intelligence, and a great natural talent, and a fine ingenuity. You have the funds now to get a formal degree, if that’s what you want, or to set up a business of your own.”

“And how do I explain where the cash comes from?”

Constantine shrugs. “A trust set up by a rich grandfather. A scholarship fund in Barkazi. It’s unlikely that anyone will even ask — and if you think someone might, you can always apply to a university in another metropolis.”

That would mean leaving Gil behind, she thinks.

But then, perhaps she already has.

“It takes a while to get used to this kind of life,” she says. “Having so many things to hide.”

Constantine smiles. “Shall I tell you the secret, then? Of how to survive when you have so much to hide?”

“If you will.”

He leans close, whispers in her ear.
“Tell no one.”
He leans back and smiles. “It’s very simple.”

“Yes.”

“Crimes are solved when people inform. You’ve said that yourself.”

Aiah smiles, nods. Constantine appears to think she’s not taking him seriously, and continues, a little intense.

“
You tell your lover or your best friend. And then you have a fight, and they inform. Or they tell someone else, and that person has no loyalty to
you
, and is having tax problems or some other difficulty, and thinks cooperation may help, and so informs. The worst thing is to trust anyone in the criminal classes, as they inform as a matter of course. And therefore the secret, in brief...” He leans close to her ear again, warm breath touching her flesh.
“Tell no one.”