Aiah manages to delay the implementation of this last procedure by insisting on a personal interview with every new hire, so that she knows how to best assign them. It is a depressing task, because they are generally less qualified than the people she’d been forced to dismiss. Many of them seem to have been included on the list solely because they have a close relative in the Dalavan Militia.
Outside the Palace, heavily armed groups of militia prowl the streets and canals. Shops owned by genetically altered people are vandalized or looted, as are pawnbrokers and moneylenders, who, in the terminology of the Campaign of Purification, are now declared “usurers” and “bloodsuckers.” Regional offices of the Altered People’s Party, the political organization of the twisted, are sacked; and offices belonging to several other parties are vandalized or attacked.
But the twisted swiftly recover from the surprise of the first day’s onslaught. Many acquired arms and military skills during the war, and their mages are not entirely without ability, or without plasm. Bloody battles are now waged in the darkness below the city as the inhabitants of the half-worlds try to defend their homes.
Aiah does what she can. She rearranges Khorsa’s schedule so that she works third shift and can fly against the militia during work shift, while Aiah is in her office.
Three days into the purification campaign Aiah observes the first graffito sprayed onto the side of a building: Long Live the Golden Lady! In the next few days she sees more signs that her anima has inspired hope: The Golden Lady Rules! All Glory to the Golden Lady! Five days into the Campaign of Purification, Aiah first hears of the Golden Lady on the news. Two days later, Parq announces a reward for information leading to the Golden Lady’s capture.
If only the Golden Lady’s plasm weren’t running out.
The stockpiled plasm allowance is being consumed fast, and by the end of the first week the Golden Lady is put on a strict ration.
After a few days, the news programs report an increase in sightings of the Golden Lady, and Aiah and Khorsa realize that they are not responsible for some of these appearances. Other people are finding the Golden Lady inspiring, and are using her image in resisting Parq.
While her covert activities are exhilarating, the situation at work sends despair sighing through Aiah’s veins. Togthan is running the department in all but name, and once Aiah’s plasm allowance runs out, she reasons, there will be very little point to staying, save her desperate, dwindling faith in Constantine, that and her stubbornness, a refusal to admit that it had all been a hideous mistake.
She decides that when she finally runs out of plasm, mere days from now, she will resign.
Perhaps it’s just as well, she thinks. It’s only a matter of time before the identity of the Golden Lady will be revealed. All it will take is for someone to backtrack her sourceline to the Palace, or for a clerk to go over her plasm records and wonder why she is consuming so much of her allowance all at once.
Ten days into the Campaign of Purification, as she prepares to leave the office at the 16:30 shift change, her receptionist puts through a call from General Ceison in Lanbola.
“Miss Aiah,” he says, “something curious has occurred. I wonder if it might be possible to speak privately.”
“Yes.” It has never been wise to send confidential information through the Palace switchboards, and it is doubly unwise now.
“I will be on the roof of the headquarters building in… will 16:50 be too soon?” “I can manage 16:50.”
Aiah finds the compass bearing to the Lanbola headquarters in her directory, calls the plasm control room, and arranges to have plasm delivered to her apartment and the use of a plasm horn set at 040 degrees true. She returns to her rooms, sits near a plasm connection, holds the t-grip in her hand.
Something curious. She presses the trigger.
The plasm sings a song of welcome in her veins. Aiah pauses for a moment to hear magic’s song of creation, destruction, and desire, the song of sheer reality running along her nerves. And then she lets herself surge along the Palace’s plasm lines and speed from the scalloped bronze horn on the roof.
The horn directs her on course 040, beaming plasm on a bearing to Ceison’s headquarters. Aiah pushes her consciousness slowly out along the beam, over the flat surface of Caraqui, the war’s great ruined scar that lies across the metropolis, then over the taller cityscape of Lanbola that falls below her as the world curves away. The clouds are low and dark and full of rain, and the plasm beam wants to fire straight through them; with an effort of will Aiah curves the beam, keeping it and her sensorium below cloud cover. Below, clouds and rain have darkened the city sufficiently for it to be illuminated by stormlights.
Rain drifts like a shroud over Lanbola’s government district, the proud white buildings erected by the Popular Democrats. Aiah dives like a questing falcon, finds the party headquarters building, and discovers Ceison standing quietly near a sandbagged mortar emplacement, wearing a hooded rain cape and calmly puffing a pipe. Delicate drops of rain cling to his mustache.
Aiah reaches toward Ceison with tenuous mental tendrils. Ceison stiffens, his lean face turning alert. He takes the pipe from his mouth and holds it, hand cupped around the bowl, by his side.
—General? Can you hear me?
—Yes.
Ceison’s mental voice sounds much like his speaking voice, reasoned and deliberate, possessing an undemonstrative kind of authority.
—You wished to speak with me?
—Yes, miss.
Ceison ducks farther into his hood as a gust of rain pelts down, frowns as he assembles his thoughts.
—Two days after you visit here, he begins, we had a visit from the War Minister. And he passed on a warning very similar to the one you gave us.
Surprise floats through Aiah at this news.
—Go on, she sends.
—I thought, well, it is good that you and the minister are in accord. But yesterday I received another visit from the War Minister, with very specific instructions, and I thought I should speak with you for… for purposes of coordination.
—What were the instructions?
—Karlo’s Brigade is to move at 02:00 tomorrow into Caraqui, and occupy certain sites: bridges, plasm stations, and several local headquarters of the Dalavan Militia. The Escaliers are to remain behind to make certain Lanbola remains calm.
Somehow Aiah is not surprised: comprehension falls solidly into place, as if the parts of the puzzle had already been assembled in her mind, and only needed Ceison’s words for her to become aware of them.
Parq, she knows now, had been set up for a great fall. Constantine had encouraged him to run wild, to set his mobs loose on the metropolis, to abuse his every authority; and now Constantine would bring him down with the support of every other element in the state.
The only question now, she thinks, is Constantine’s ultimate purpose. Is he doing this all on his own, with the intention of setting himself up as Metropolitan, sole commander of Caraqui; or is his goal somehow more modest?
Ceison’s mental voice brings Aiah’s thoughts back to the present.
—Do you concur in this program, Miss Aiah?
The answer is clear enough. In any struggle of Constantine against Parq, she must support the former, whatever else Constantine’s move may imply.
—Yes, Aiah sends. And furthermore I want to be with you when you move. Do you have camera crews on hand?
—Of course.
Cameras naturally accompany any military movement: their feed is used to help military mages orient themselves, project their animas and magic to the places where they are most needed.