And blinks at the sight of another place, a room with plush furniture, a glass table set atop a silver metal spiral, place settings for two, a bottle of golden wine waiting in a silver bucket, candles glittering off the gold rims of fine porcelain and the mirror surfaces of silver chafing dishes...
Aiah gapes in astonishment. Constantine’s voice purrs in her ear.
“Aldemar has given us a little vacation. Another place, quite secure, far from Caraqui, far from duty and war.”
“Great Senko,” Aiah murmurs, and touches the Trigram at her throat.
Constantine steps to the sliding glass balcony door, with its bronze frame and crosshatch of bronze wire, and closes it— that was the pathway, Aiah realizes, that Aldemar used to teleport them into the apartment.
Laughing plasm-warmth tingles in Aiah’s bones as her astonishment fades. She bounds forward to the buffet, lifts the lid of a chafing dish at random, sees cutlets of some sort in a brown sauce, with melted cheese; and then she replaces the silver lid and almost dances through the room, runs her fingertips along the plush cushion of a couch, feels the scalloped gilt edge of a mirror, plucks sprigs of jasmine from cloisonné vases to inhale the scent...
Far from duty and war ... Her heart lifts. She had not been away from the Metropolis of Caraqui for a single hour since her arrival.
She feels drunk with freedom. She turns to look at Constantine, sees the candles glowing gold in his eyes.
“Where are we?” she asks.
“Achanos.”
On the other side of the world, eight or ten thousand radii away. A stable, civilized metropolis, filled with prosperous bankers and healthy industries and glowing with economic health.
“No guards?” she asks. “No telephones?”
“There are guards, yes,” Constantine concedes, “but they do not know who it is they guard, nor will they disturb us. Aldemar arranged it so that we might seem to be a group of chromoplay producers meeting to arrange financing.”
“I’d wish we could stay a month.”
He looks at her, and the candlelight dances in his eyes. He takes the sprig of jasmine from her hand and places it behind her ear. “We will try to compress the best parts of that month into the few hours we have.”
They do their best, opening with wine, fruit, and little layered pastry curled around bits of spiced squab; then on to dinner, a choice of squab, a noodle dish, beef tenderloin, and the cutlet, all in their appropriate sauces, along with fresh vegetables, long crusty loaves of bread, and fruit.
“Have you heard from your family?” Constantine asks.
“I’m usually out when they call. My grandmother is the most insistent— she calls every so often to urge me to stock up on disaster supplies, and I’d like to be able to oblige her, but this is the first time I’ve been out of the Palace since I got back from Xurcal Station.”
Constantine tilts his head, curious. “Your grandmother survived the Barkazi Wars, yes?”
“Yes. My grandfather fought for the Holy League and ended up a prisoner of the Fastani, and Nana got her whole family out to a refugee center, then to Jaspeer. She raised all the children by herself. She’s tough.”
“I would like to hear her stories,” Constantine says. “I’ve spent years of my life at war, but I’ve always been a commander, relatively safe and comfortable. I try to visit the real victims, the refugees and the wounded, but it’s usually not safe to go out in public, unsafe not just for me but for the people I’m visiting, and now I share your situation— confined to the Palace— and move from one room to the next.”
Aiah remembers Constantine in her little apartment back in Jaspeer, the way he looked with such evident curiosity at the life of an ordinary person, and amusement tugs at her lips.
“And apropos of things Barkazil,” Constantine continues, “we have a brigade of Barkazil troops arriving at the aerodrome next week, and I’d be obliged if you will meet them and say a few words of welcome.”
Curiosity overcomes Aiah’s fear of speaking in public. “Barkazils? From Barkazi?”
“No. The Timocracy is running out of troops to send us, and so I have contracted with an agent in Sayven— another metropolis famous for exporting its soldiers. They are called Karlo’s Brigade— and Karlo, I recollect, is the Barkazil immortal.”
“Barkazils in Sayven?” Aiah frowns. “That’s nowhere near Barkazi. And Karlo’s Brigade— I wonder if that means they’re Holy League people.”
“Do those old factions still exist?”
“In Jaspeer the Holy League and the Fastani have become gangsters in Barkazil neighborhoods— they extort money from businessmen in the name of their old causes— but any actual veterans, unless they could afford life extension, would be ancient by now. They were always sitting in cafes when I was growing up, discussing the bad old days....”
“There are Barkazils on the Provisional Government’s side, too. Landro’s Escaliers, specialists in urban vertical assault and sniper work, from the Timocracy.”
Aiah gives a grimace. “I’m sorry to hear they’re on the wrong side. But whoever they are, I’ve never heard of them.”
Constantine shrugs. “I will send you to Karlo’s Brigade, and perhaps you can find out.”
“I will ask.” She considers. “I had a Barkazil apply to me today for a mage’s post. Came all the way from Jaspeer.”
“Will you give him the job?”
“He’s a young man— well, my age, actually. Wealthy family. He’s flying the nest in search of, oh, real meaning, or anyway the real something.” She shrugs. “I don’t know. Perhaps I won’t hire him. He’s getting scanned tomorrow; I’ll wait for the report.”
Constantine gives her a meaningful look. “I should think that any Barkazil in your division would be grateful to you for the job. Personal loyalty is not a small consideration, things being what they are.”
“He’s too rich and good-looking to have loyalties to a bureaucrat like me.”
Constantine’s laugh barks out. “He’s good-looking? You hadn’t mentioned that. Send him home!”
Aiah offers him an ambiguous smile. “Well. Perhaps I’ll hire him, then. If he makes you nervous, he may have his uses.”
Constantine gives a mock scowl. “I think I may learn to dislike this young gentleman.”
She takes her wineglass, rises, and walks to the apartment’s floor-to-ceiling window. “Do you think it would be unsafe,” she says, “if we looked out? You must be tired of blacked-out windows, and so am I.”
Constantine follows her, sweeps aside the deep blue drape at one side to look at the window mechanism, and nods. “It’s silvered on the outside,” he says. “I wish I could say the same for windows in the Palace.” He presses buttons, and with a stately electric purr the drapes pull back, revealing the window in its brushed-bronze frame. Aiah looks out through the almost-invisible bronze grid set into the glass, and a sudden singing pleasure makes her smile.
They are high in a granite tower, one of a cluster of white spears pointing at the Shield, each tipped with bright bronze transmission horns and ornamented with extravagant carved arabesques gilded with shining bronze. Shieldlight glows from tall columns of mirrored windows, and far below avenues stretch off into infinity, shadowed by tall brown-stone buildings crowned by roof gardens. A bright red aero-car, turbines rotating in their shrouds, descends slowly toward a pad below. Traffic fills the streets even at this late hour, Shieldlight winking from glass and chrome, and the walkways are full of people walking, browsing, shopping.
No gunfire, she thinks; no one hiding from shellfire or rockets. No plasm glow on the horizon to mark where mages are wrestling in midair.
And no water, either. The view is all brick and concrete and stone, like the vistas Aiah had known in Jaspeer.
How many of these people, Aiah wonders, have ever heard of Caraqui or its struggles? How many dream of the New City? Practically none, she imagines. Everything she does, everything she fights for, is less than a dre
am to the people here, more unreal than the people in a chromo.
Constantine’s arms circle her from behind. She tilts her head back against his shoulder.
“I wish I could give you that month here,” he says. “Perhaps after the war. It’s something you deserve.”
She sips wine from her gold-rimmed glass. “After the war you’ll just give me another twenty jobs, and I won’t have time.”
“Am I that demanding a boss?”
A low chuckle invades her throat. “Oh yes, Minister. You are.”
“You must learn to delegate, as I do. After all, I trust you with some of the most important tasks.”
“And that’s precisely why I must do them all myself. If something goes badly wrong, would you accept my explanation that I delegated the job to someone else and he failed?”
He considers this a moment. “I would hope the situation did not arise.”
“So would I. That’s why I do everything myself.”
“And I appreciate your dedication.” He kisses her at the juncture of neck and shoulder, and pleasure shimmers along her nerves.
“I think I would like to sit and watch the world for a while,” Aiah says.
They drag a sofa to the window, and Aiah reclines against Constantine as she gazes at the city below. She looks at him from the slant of her eye.
“I’ve talked to you about my family,” she says, “but I don’t really know anything about yours. Who was your grandmother?”
He considers for a moment. “She was the mistress of my grandfather. She lasted a few years, but in the end he lost interest in her, so she had a child in hopes of getting a hold on him.”
“Did it work?”
“Of course not. He was a politician who won a rigged election with the help of the military, then betrayed his allies and seized sole power for himself. He would never have let a matter of sentiment get in the way of what he really wanted. But he was decent enough by his lights, acknowledged my father and brought him up well.” She turns, takes one of his big hands in both her own, looks up at him.
“Did you know your grandfather?”
“Oh yes. He was a complete political animal, all hunger and corruption, no humanity at all. Tall and thin, lived very modestly— he wanted all the power and wealth in the world, but wouldn’t have known how to enjoy it once he got it.” A ghost of a smile crosses his face. “Let me tell you a story. After he had been Metropolitan for twelve or fifteen years it seemed everyone had finally had enough of him, and there were strikes and unrest. He could see people maneuvering to replace him and thought it possible he might not win ... so he gave up!” He laughs. “He announced he would step down and arrange for an orderly succession. He entered into a power-sharing arrangement with the people who wanted to replace him, allowing for the most inept of them to have the most power. They failed miserably, of course— he still had enough power to insure that they would— and their infighting paralyzed the country. So then, with the blessings of the people who had once wanted him gone, he stepped in to ‘save’ his beloved Cheloki, and ruled absolutely from that point on.”
Aiah turns to the view, gazes out at the granite towers, the countless people. “And your grandmother?” she asks.
“Very grand, very beautiful, very mercenary. I do not believe I ever saw her on the arm of any man who wasn’t worth fifty million dalders at least. But I didn’t know her very well— once she saw that having my father was a tactical error, she lost interest in him and left him to be raised by his father’s tutors.”
She frowns. “I am almost sorry I asked. They sound like a dreadful bunch.”
He smiles at her. “My father was more sympathetic. He was a complete mediocrity, but he tried to do well— he worked very hard at the government departments he was given, but the harder he worked, the worse the departments got. So he settled for being a sportsman— he played polo, if you know what that is.”
“I’ve seen it on video. It’s played on horseback.”
“It’s the most posh sport in the world. Horses cost millions, and my father had the best. You’ve got to rent huge rooftops for the horses to live on— that alone costs a fortune.”
“I’ve seen horses in zoos.”
“Polo was the only thing my father was good at. Polo and women.”
Aiah skates fingernails along the rim of her glass. Outside, a plasm advert, an image of a platinum Forlong necklace glittering with diamonds, winds like a ribbon between the granite towers. How long has it been since she’s seen a plasm advert? she wonders, one that wasn’t a government announcement or propaganda. She never thought she’d miss them...
“Do you know what?” she says. “None of these people sound like you. You don’t seem like any of your ancestors at all.” She turns, looks at him. “So where did you come from? Your genetics?”
“I would deny my ancestors if I could. I cannot admire a one of them, though perhaps I am more like my grandfather than you suspect." He looks out at the bright city below, face thoughtful. “Possibly I am my mother’s child. She was supposed to be brilliant when she was young— beautiful, witty, played half a dozen instruments. She used to give concerts. But by the time my sisters and I grew up she had already ... withdrawn.”
Aiah frowns. “If your father was only good at polo and women, that must have been hard on her.”
“The men in my family did not value women. Just bought them, and when they were tired of the first lot, they’d buy more. My father needed an ornament to cheer him at polo matches, and so he got one— and the fact she was very good at music was just a bonus, something else to brag about to his friends.”
“Why didn’t she leave?”
He tilts his head, considers. "She had a comfortable life. Lots of money, and nobody really cared what she did. She spent a great deal of time with me and my sisters— they were pleasant hours— and she drank, and had dozens of lovers, and over time the music she played got sadder and sadder. Toward the end she became very fond of morphine. Eventually she rode one of my father’s ponies right off a building and fell eighteen stories to her death. She was drunk. I was nine years old.”
Aiah looks at him in concern. “Suicide?” she asks.
He purses his lips in thought. “Probably not a deliberate one. But there are indirect ways of killing oneself, not with a knife or a gun. One of these is alcohol and morphine together, and that was her choice.”
“What about your sisters? How many were there?”
“Five, if you count the two cousins who came to live with us when they were young and were brought up as part of the family. We spent all our time together, were even schooled together, by a tutor.”
Aiah thinks of the young Constantine brought up as the adored only son amid this household of women. She sees sadness cross his face. “Two of my sisters are dead now. The others do not speak to me, not after my betrayal of the family.”
Who are his family now? she wonders. Martinus, Sorya, herself. . . and Taikoen.
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 wh
ile 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.”
City on Fire (Metropolitan 2) Page 31