Galagas nibbles at his mustache with white lower incisors. “If we switch sides in the middle of a campaign,” he says, “we can’t go back to the Timocracy. We have all sworn to obey the Timocratic Code. They wouldn’t have a unit that didn’t meet with their commitments.”
Holson’s big forefinger jabs at Aiah. “Your government had better be damned grateful, is what we’re saying,” he says. “Because if we join you, we’re going to have to stay in Caraqui permanently, and bring our families here.”
Aiah looks at Holson’s forefinger just long enough to make it clear she’s not intimidated by the gesture, and then she leans back in her chair.
“I am confident my government’s gratitude will extend that far,” Aiah says.
“You’re certain of this?”
A doubt raises its hand, like an uncertain student in a classroom. Aiah ignores it. “I can confirm it very quickly if you wish.”
“A bonus on signing?”
“I am authorized to offer three thousand dinars per soldier, five thousand for each field grade officer, and for senior officers,” nodding at the two present, “ten thousand.”
This is actually half of what she’s been authorized, but there’s no reason to tip her hand at this point.
“Standard rates of pay afterward?”
“Whatever you’re earning now.”
“Moving bonuses for our families?”
She hesitates. “Yes. I can get that. Say a thousand dinars per person?” She can take it out of the savings on the signing bonuses.
“How long a contract?”
“A year, extendable by mutual agreement.”
There is a pause. The two men look at each other. Galagas gives a little shake of his head. Holson turns back to Aiah, a frown on his face.
“We’re giving up our livelihoods,” Holson says, “and only for a year’s employment? We want more.”
“Five years guaranteed,” Galagas says.
“Five years, extendable. Or maybe....” Holson frowns at the floor for a moment. “Maybe commissions in the Caraqui army. It’s not entirely out of line— you’ve got a lot of mercenaries even in your regular army now, because native officers are so inexperienced.”
“With a guarantee,” Galagas adds, “that our soldiers will be able to continue serving with one another for five years. We stay together as a unit, not to be broken up, for five years.”
Aiah thinks for a moment, but she daren’t hesitate for too long. There’s momentum building here, and she doesn’t want to slow it down.
“I can get you the five-year guarantee,” she says, and hopes it’s true. “For the regular army commissions I’d have to speak to the War Minister, but I think they’d be happy to have officers of your experience on board.”
Might as well ladle on some flattery while she can.
“And then?” Holson asks.
Aiah smiles at him. “Sorry, General?”
“Barkazi. What about Barkazi?”
Aiah hesitates. “If this works, we’ll be united. We’ll have a power base in Caraqui, a government that will support us.” She forces a smile. “The rest depends on how cunning the Cunning People actually are, don’t you think? Whatever excuse the occupying forces had for annexing the Barkazi Sectors, the reason is long gone. If we stand united, here and there, surely there isn’t anything we can’t accomplish.”
Holson sits stone-faced, and Galagas gnaws his mustache again, but Aiah senses that she has somehow won. She’s said the right thing; she’s raised some strange, unreal hope in them.
And oddly enough, she feels hope glowing within herself. Before this situation, she’d never given thought to Barkazi— she’d never been there, and her family’s stories, all of horror and war, never gave her the slightest inclination to visit. But now she finds herself wondering if Barkazi would feel different beneath her feet than any other metropolis, if she would, on arrival, somehow sense that Barkazi was home.
She could hardly feel more displaced than she does now, sitting behind the desk of a minor, aquatic gangster, in a dark, foul-smelling watery cavern inhabited by twisted people with altered genes, negotiating with potential turncoats on behalf of a government that is not, when all is said and done, her own....
“Those recruiting bonuses,” Galagas says, crossing one knee over the other, “they seem a bit low to me. Considering what we’d be expected to do.”
Inwardly, Aiah smiles. Love of negotiation must be planted somewhere in Barkazil genetics.
“I think they’re fair,” she says, “though I suppose there’s a little room for negotiation.”
NEW CITY NOW!
Constantine’s presence tingles around her. Aiah bathes in it for a moment, fantasizes that she can taste him on her tongue.... She raises a hand to touch the ivory necklace he’d given her, a tactile remembrance.
—I think it went well, she sends.
—Any problems?
—They want the sun and the moon, but I have made them settle only for the moon.
She senses Constantine’s amusement. After she had agreed with Galagas and Holson to meet again tomorrow, and seen them back across the bridge to their boat, she had called the number in Gunalaht and told them that she would be available for contact every hour, on the hour.
—They want a five-year contract with Caraqui, Aiah sends. They say they can’t go back to the Timocracy after violating their Code.
—Five years? I suppose we shall still need mercenaries after that time.
—They suggest, as an alternative, that they could be made a part of the regular army establishment. But they want their unit to stay together for five years.
There is a moment’s hesitation. Through the plasm link, Aiah can sense the movement of Constantine’s thought.
—Yes, he sends. I can give them that. They are a good unit.
The Treasury was spending tens of billions on this war. Aiah knows that Constantine is not likely to quibble over payments and guarantees to the people who could actually bring an end to the fighting.
—And there is something else that I want, Minister.
—Ye-es? Constantine’s answer is wary.
—I want the same arrangement for Karlo’s Brigade, if Ceison wants it. If we are going to reward one unit for changing sides, we should also reward the unit that stays loyal.
—Many units have stayed loyal besides Karlo’s Brigade. Do we make them all such promises?
—Very well. I will modify my request. Let Karlo’s Brigade have the same contract as Geymard’s men.
There was a powerful silence. Geymard’s Cheloki had been with Constantine since the beginning. They were his bodyguard, his spearhead, the steel foundation of his military power.
When Constantine’s reply comes, she can sense amusement beneath the concession.
—Five years does not seem so bad, when things are taken all together.
—Thank you, Minister.
Aiah might as well turn humble, she figures. She has pushed her luck as far as it will go.
Constantine’s reply is swift.
—Is there any good news? he sends.
Laughter bubbles from Aiah’s throat.
—I have saved you money. The Escaliers are likely to accept a smaller signing bonus than we planned.
—Thank you, my child. Though the Treasury will not be pleased with the five-year contracts.
—Ending the war will save them money, and they will thank you.
Aiah can almost see Constantine’s rueful smile.
—The Treasury never thanks me, he sends.
—Galagas and Holson will be back tomorrow, 08:00. Once they are presented with the terms, we can work out the details of exactly how they are to slip out of their agreement.
Traced in the air before Aiah’s eyes comes the reply, lines of gold flame that form the Sign of Karlo.
—Blessings upon you, Miss Aiah.
—Thank you, Minister.
Constantine’s presence fades, and Aiah
is alone, listening only to the faint slap of water against the hull of Lamarath’s barge. She returns to her quarters. Lamarath and Dr. Romus are gone, and Statius and Cornelius, on guard and in any case unsettled by the strangeness of the half-world, are no company.
Aiah paces back and forth, fretting. She would like to rest, but she knows the Adrenaline Monster would snatch her from sleep if she closed her eyes.
“See if Craftig is outside,” she finally tells Cornelius. “We might as well play some checkers.”
“ELECTIONS WILL CONTINUE AS SCHEDULED,”
INSISTS GOVERNMENT SPOKESMAN
The next day Holson and Galagas are forty minutes late. “Sorry,” Holson says after their arrival. “We couldn’t get away—” He looks uncharacteristically vague. “A meeting, with members of the Provisional command.”
Aiah wonders if Holson is rash enough to be involved in a bidding war with the Provisionals— but no, she thinks, that would be suicidal. It’s bad enough they’re contemplating treachery against one side; treachery against both would be fatal. She tells the officers that the War Ministry has given official approval to their agreement.
“Now all that is required,” Holson says, “is to honorably extract us from our commitments to the Provisionals.”
“Do you have a copy of the agreement? We do not.”
According to the agreement, Landro’s Escaliers are irrevocably committed to continue with the Provisionals for another three days, after which, if there is mutual agreement, the contract may be extended. If no agreement is reached, the Escaliers will continue in service for another ten days, time enough for them to be evacuated back to the Timocracy and replaced in the line by another unit.
“How are the Provisionals on the warranties clause?” Aiah asks. “They’ve paid you on time?”
“Yes.”
Aiah skims the contract. “Have they arranged for sufficient supply, food, fuel, medical support, and— ah— other classes of logistical support as specified in Attached Agreement C?”
“The brigade whorehouse,” Galagas clarifies.
In the last months Aiah has become used to the ways of mercenary units, and is not surprised. She looks at Galagas.
“Has logistical support been, ah, sufficient in terms of the contract?”
Aiah wonders if a mercenary contract has ever been broken because prostitutes were not provided in sufficient number.
“Given the exigencies of war,” Holson says, “the government’s support has been adequate.”
“That’s not what I asked,” Aiah says. “I asked if the Provisionals’ logistical support has been sufficient in terms of the contract. Anything ever delivered late? Or delivered to the wrong people? Or the wrong stuff delivered to the wrong people?”
Given what Aiah knows of the military life, she would be amazed if this were not the case.
Holson and Galagas look at each other. Holson fingers his chin and shifts his weight uncomfortably in his chair. “Arrangements have not been perfect,” he says, “but I mislike breaking an agreement on these conditions, all so common in war. It could set an unfortunate precedent— any unit, on any side, would be justified in breaking its contract if this clause were strictly invoked.”
“Well,” Aiah says, turning pages, “we will keep that option in reserve.”
Unfortunately the contract is very straightforward and plainspoken, with few ambiguous clauses worthy of exploitation, and most of these involving situations that do not apply here. Maybe, Aiah thinks, it will have to be the whores after all.
“Can we arrange for the Provisionals to break the contract somehow?” Aiah asks.
They look at her. “In three days?” Holson asks. “How?”
“I keep coming back to the warranties clause,” Aiah says. “Can you arrange for some supplies to go astray? Suppose your food gets delivered to the wrong place....”
They consider this for a few minutes. Ideas are put forward, then rejected as too complex. Aiah scans the contract again.
“The signing bonus!” Aiah says finally. “What if that doesn’t get to you?”
Galagas seems relieved. “Well,” he says, “finally.”
It takes them only a few minutes to work out a plan, Aiah collaborating with the other two as if they had known each other for years, so smoothly that she wonders if there’s something, after all, to this business of the Cunning People having a special gift for duplicity.
Holson, they decide, will drag out negotiations with the Provisionals till practically the last minute. In the meantime, he will establish a new bank account in Garshab in order to receive the money. But the account number to which the Provisionals will be told to wire the signing bonus will be subtly different from the real number, a digit or two off.
When the deadline for payment passes without the bonus, Landro’s Escaliers will be free, legally and (it is hoped) morally, to sign another contract with someone else.
“We should have the contract with you in place beforehand,” Holson says. “That way we can take immediate action— holding a bridgehead, say— in accordance with the wishes of our new commanders.”
Aiah is surprised. “You can sign a contract before the old one has expired?”
“It will be provisional only. Full of thus-and-so’s, stipulating that in the event we are free of any other obligations before a certain date, we will consider ourselves yours to command. And we will give you an account number in Garshab”— he nods, with a significant smile— “a real account number, into which your government can place its good-faith deposit, perhaps one-tenth of the signing bonus?”
“I think this might be arranged.” He has anticipated, she notes, her objection to giving them their entire bonus, in case they re-sign with the Provisionals after all and dupe her government of all its dinars.
“We will return early third shift,” Holson says, “and bring the contracts with us. We can’t specify an exact hour— our other commitments are pressing.”
“I will wait, sir. I thank you both.”
Galagas— no longer so stiff and uncomfortable— reaches into a pocket and produces a silver flask. “I wonder, Miss Aiah, if you would join us in some kill-the-baby? It is from Barkazi.”
Aiah smiles. Kill-the-baby is a phrase her grandmother has used. “I would be honored, Colonel.”
Galagas raises the flask. “To success, and Barkazi.”
There is a strange light in his eyes. Aiah wonders at the man’s strange faith in her, in his belief that she is somehow destined to change the shape of things far away. It is beyond mere credulity, and well into some mystical realm of faith she can’t herself understand.
He drinks and passes the flask to Aiah, who echoes the toast and takes a swig. It is brandy, harsh and fiery and absent of refinement, without doubt the worst stuff she has ever tasted. This baby is dead, she thinks. Eyes streaming, she passes the flask to Holson.
If this is what the homeland tastes like, she thinks, I am not going.
She sees her guests out, and as they say farewell Holson surprises her by embracing her, kissing her on both cheeks.
“I know we will accomplish great things,” he says.
Aiah manages through her surprise to retain her air of confidence. “I have no doubt,” she says, and then accepts Galagas’s somewhat more reserved embrace.
As Aiah watches the two officers make their way across the swaying bridge, she feels a kind of wonder that it has all worked out exactly as Constantine had, weeks ago, anticipated. He has maneuvered all of them, somehow, into this position, and will doubtless get his victory.
But what then? Aiah wonders. Aiah and the Escaliers have been shifted into position, true, but the position is an artificial one. Aiah is not the redeemer of Barkazi— except on video, and in the mind of a deranged hermit back in Jaspeer— and the Escaliers are not an army of liberation. She doesn’t know how she can ever meet these people’s expectations.
We will accomplish great things.
She fear
s she is going to be a terrible disappointment to everyone who believes in her.
Aiah returns to Lamarath’s office to organize her notes and finds Lamarath there, along with one of his hulking guards. One of the locked metal cabinets has been opened, and Aiah sees inside it a video camera, set to gaze at the room through a spyhole. Lamarath has opened the camera and is removing the video cartridge.
Aiah looks at the camera in shock. “The meetings were recorded?”
Lamarath looks at her over his shoulder. “You didn’t know?” He seems surprised.
“No. I didn’t.” Anger blazes up in her. “I should have been told!” she says.
“If they’d found out—” If they’d found out, Aiah thinks, she’d have been killed.
Lamarath opens a briefcase and drops the cartridge into it. “A dolphin will carry it beneath the front to our friends,” he says. He pats the case. “Insurance,” he adds, “to make sure our mercenary friends won’t betray us.”
And insurance, Aiah knows, in case they’d failed to make an agreement at all. If the negotiations had failed, Constantine could have threatened to release the video to the Provisionals, which Holson and Galagas would have realized meant the end of them.
Displaced anger and fear rattle in the hollow of Aiah’s chest. Constantine, she thinks, is willing to sacrifice her here, if it means a greater chance to win his war.
She feels a tremor in her knees.
One must keep one’s true end in view. His end is victory, and Aiah herself— her life, her happiness— ranks somewhat lower on his scale of priorities.
Aiah walks unsteadily to Lamarath’s chair and lowers herself into it.
“Insurance,” she repeats, and thinks, Who is insuring me?
TIMES CHANGE, BUT OBEDIENCE IS ETERNAL.
A THOUGHT-MESSAGE FROM HIS PERFECTION,
THE PROPHET OF AJAS
—I am very pleased with this, Constantine sends. His tone, silky and satisfied, rolls through Aiah’s mind.
—I expect the Escaliers will keep their agreements, Aiah replies. Which means that those recordings made by Lamarath can be destroyed.... I would like, in fact, to see them destroyed personally.
City on Fire (Metropolitan 2) Page 43