They are both soldiers, both young men. Uniforms and weapons are stacked neatly on chairs, ready to be donned at the end of their interlude. A bundle of keys sits on a table. Aiah doubts that either one of them is authorized to be here.
The ferocity and certainty of their passion sends a pang through Aiah’s nerves. Her heart is racing. She finds herself wanting to join them, to fling herself onto the bed in a sweaty knot of limbs and furious delight.
Voyeurism, she knows, is one of the privileges of the mage. No one, unless they’re hiding in a room sheathed with bronze, is immune to this kind of observation. She has never known if she has ever been seen in any of her own private moments. The odds are against it—she can’t conceive of anyone with access to that much plasm ever being that interested in her—but there’s no way of knowing for certain.
Watching the soldiers, she realizes, is only making her conscious of her own loneliness…
Aiah draws herself away from the scene, dissolves her anima, allows her sensorium to fade into her own natural perceptions. She thumbs the switch on the t-grip and the plasm ebbs from her awareness, leaving her alone in her silent room, aware of the rapid throb of her heart, the warmth and arousal that flush her tissues, the fiery pangs of lust that burn in her groin.
She closes her eyes. An image of the two soldiers seems seared onto her retinas. Loneliness clamps cold fingers on her throat.
She dips a hand between her legs and, in a few urgent moments, relieves herself of her burden of desire.
Aiah draws her legs up into the chair, hugs her knees, lets her breath and heartbeat return to normal. The scent of brewing coffee floats past her nostrils. She has a whole day ahead of her, a long list of things to do.
She wishes she had someone to talk to.
THREE
Aiah is well into her list of requisitions, and the rest—access to certain files, the precise methods by which she will recruit her talent—is not entirely up to her. She is trying to reach Constantine to schedule a meeting, but he’s persistently unavailable.
There is a knock on her receptionist’s door, and there is no receptionist to answer. She rises from her desk, anticipating workers come to fix her window, and instead her skin crawls at the sight of a pair of the twisted, small figures with black goggle eyes and moist salamander flesh.
“I am Adaveth,” one says. “Do you remember me?”
“Yes, Minister, of course,” she says. She steels herself and shakes Adaveth’s smooth gray hand. Her nostrils twitch for expected odor, but she can detect nothing.
“This is Ethemark,” Adaveth continues. “He has been appointed your deputy.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Aiah lies, and clasps the offered hand.
“Honored, miss,” Ethemark says. The voice is surprisingly deep for such a small figure. He is dressed in subdued white lace and black velvet—velvet is worn a great deal here, Aiah has noticed, much more than in Jaspeer.
“Ethemark has a degree in plasm engineering,” Adaveth says. “He is also a mage with specialties in telepresence and tele-engineering.”
And therefore, Aiah reads behind his bland, expressionless face, is much more qualified for your job than you are.
“I’m sure he will be very useful, Minister,” Aiah says.
“During the revolution,” Adaveth adds, “Ethemark coordinated several sabotage teams.”
“I ran the plasm house in Jaspeer,” Aiah says, the defense rising to her lips without her quite intending it. Her claim is not precisely true, but she feels she ought to add a qualification or two to her side of the ledger.
“Ah,” Adaveth says. Transparent nictitating membranes partially deploy over his big eyes, giving him a sly look. “In that case, I am sure you will have much to say to one another concerning your service during the coup. I will leave you to your work.”
“Thank you for taking the time from your schedule, Minister,” Aiah says.
“You are very welcome. We have great hopes for your department, Miss Aiah.”
Adaveth leaves in the ensuing silence. Aiah turns to her deputy and looks at him. He gazes up at her with his huge eyes—all iris and pupil, no whites—and gives a little meaningless nod. Aiah wonders if he will ever have anything to say.
At least he doesn’t smell bad.
“Truth to tell,” Aiah says, “the two of us constitute the entire department right now. I’m keeping the whole of the department files in my briefcase. I have requisitioned rooms and equipment, but I can’t be sure I’ll get them.”
“I expected as much,” Ethemark says, the deep voice rolling out of the tiny frame. “The cabinet was pleased to create this department, but each minister will want his own constituency served.”
Aiah considers this. “May I expect other deputies to arrive in the next few days?”
“Not if Constantine and Adaveth can keep them out, no.” Ethemark’s head cocks to one side. “I don’t suppose we might sit down? I’ve been on my feet a lot in the last few weeks—they are webbed, and these shoes are new.”
“My office,” Aiah says reluctantly. “I would offer to show you yours, but I don’t know where it is, or shall be. Perhaps you should just find one on this floor and take it.”
“Perhaps I shall.” Agreeably.
“Would you like some coffee? I brought a flask.”
“Thank you, no.”
They sit. The broken window’s plastic sheeting rustles as they talk.
“From my own point of view,” Ethemark says, “I am concerned with any potential threat of interference from Triu-mur Parq.”
Parq, Aiah knows, is a priest who had betrayed both sides in the rebellion, playing his own duplicitous game, but managed to end up in the ruling triumvirate anyway.
“Do you think he is likely to interfere?” Aiah asks.
“When the Keremaths took power from the Avians,” Ethemark says, “it was in alliance with those of the Dalavan faith, who the Avians had subjected to continuous persecution.”
“Dalavans?” Aiah says. “They are not Dalavites? Or are they two different branches of the same—?”
A smile tugs at the corners of Ethemark’s lips. “The followers of the prophet Dalavos consider the term Dalavite pejorative. The reason involves their rather complex history, and I will spare you the details unless you are truly interested.”
“Thank you,” Aiah says. “I’m glad you told me this before I met Parq. But I’ve made you digress—do go on.”
“The prophet Dalavos preached continually against those with twisted genes, claiming that they—we—are a spiritual evil polluted by our altered genetics.” He clasps his hands together, the knuckles turning white. His voice maintains its objective tone, but the gesture informs Aiah of his feelings with perfect eloquence. “His target was the Avian aristocracy, of course, but the rest of the twisted fall almost by accident within the scope of this condemnation.”
Aiah watches Ethemark’s hands, the furious, trembling pressure they exert on one another.
“I would not find it congenial,” Ethemark says, “if Parq were able to control personnel in this department, or indeed in any other. The Dalavan prejudice against the twisted would be exerted to the full.”
“If Parq ever controls hiring to that extent,” Aiah says, “I would leave. I am not willing to offer my services to a theocracy.”
Ethemark’s huge deep eyes gaze at Aiah. Regret touches his voice. “You are lucky in having someplace to go, Miss Aiah.”
For a moment there is silence. Aiah’s nerves tingle with the force of this rebuke.