“I work with the material I’m given,” Aiah says, deadpan.
Sorya seems immune to Aiah’s irony. “My prophet has the advantage of mobility—she can travel about, make converts, acquire donations. I expect the faith to be in the black within two or three years.”
“Well done.” One goddess to another.
Sorya glances across the room at Adaveth, Belckon, and Faltheg, and scorn glitters in her green eyes. “I do not understand why Constantine allows himself to be fettered to those… people.” Some residual caution has clearly replaced one description with another. “I would sweep away the lot,” she says, “and both I and the metropolis would be the better. But rather than taking control, Constantine prefers to let events narrow his choices and impel him in the direction he would have taken all along. He rules with one eye toward the history books, and concerns himself with what they will say when he is dead. He wants them to credit him with good intentions.” She shrugs.
“Ah well, that way his hand is not seen in events, though it makes for more confusion than one would desire…” She smiles, pinches out her cigaret with finger and thumb. “He will go where he wishes, but he lets others choose the time. He sacrifices initiative for deniability. I prefer to shape things directly, and will take the responsibility for success and failure both.”
She turns to find an ashtray for her cigaret, and Aiah wonders how much to trust Sorya’s judgment in this: that Constantine has somehow desired the constant crises since his arrival in Caraqui, and has preferred to let others create them… and, Aiah now adds, has put others in a position to solve these crises for him. Taikoen has solved certain problems, it occurs to her, and now—a shiver goes up her spine—perhaps she is to solve the problem of Taikoen.
And take the blame if anything goes wrong.
Sorya drops her cigaret into the ashtray and turns back to Aiah, a delicate smile on her lips. Aiah’s mind is still cautiously palpating this new vision of Constantine. She doesn’t wish to accept Sorya’s views of Constantine, but on the other hand she knows it is a logical enough view and that it fits with the facts, if also with Sorya’s prejudices…
But the proof will be before her today. If Constantine supports Sorya’s provocations in Charna, it will demonstrate he has desired such a thing all along.
Suddenly the door opens and Constantine appears, all smiles and apologies. “I am truly sorry,” he says. “There was a matter of some urgency having to do with…” He waves a hand. “But what does it matter? We must deal with Charna.”
As the others file into Constantine’s office, Aiah wonders if only she notices the t-grip sitting plainly on a side table, its cable still plugged into the socket—the t-grip that Constantine had undoubtedly used to project himself to Taikoen’s next victim and to put the hanged man in control.
But perhaps Aiah is the only one who notices, because the others are concerned solely with Charna. Sitting around Constantine’s spacious ebony desk, the other triumvirs insist that they have no reason to support Charna’s new government, let alone back a demented invasion threat. Belckon also speaks out strongly on the intermetropolitan repercussions of being associated with Charna’s junta and its reckless behavior.
Despite the tension and disagreement, Constantine seems perfectly at ease, almost lounging in his chair, a contrast to the others, who have to edge their chairs up to his desk to make their points. Despite the air of informality, Constantine is clearly controlling the meeting, indicating with a glance or a word who should speak next. Aiah can see Sorya’s face harden as one person after another speaks against her policy.
“I beg to disagree,” Sorya says when Constantine finally allows her to speak. “These people, however inept, are among our few friends in the region. They must be supported—yes, and guided. A communique must be issued promising action on our part if Charna is attacked. As for this foolish invasion threat—well, the invasion will not happen. President Constantine can see to that with a single phone call.”
Adaveth’s nictitating membranes slide partway over his eyes. “I beg to disagree with Madam Sorya’s premise. Charna is not our friend. Perhaps this Council of Colonels is the ideological ally of certain members of our government, but not all of us, and not our metropolis.” He leans forward, jabs the desk with a delicate hand. “I will utterly oppose any statement of support for Charna.”
“And I,” says Faltheg. “These people are out of control.”
Sorya’s lips press into a thin, white line. “What matters,” she says, “is power, and who has it, and who is willing to use it. If we do not support our friends, it will not matter how large our army may be, our word and our counsels will be ignored by everyone, and we will be seen as ripe for overthrow. For I remind everyone here,” tossing her head, “that we took power through force, and maintained ourselves through force, and if we do not show our willingness to use force to support our friends, compel neutrals, and punish our enemies, we will be seen as vulnerable by every pathetic little interventionist in the region; that this misapprehension is far more dangerous for us than any impression that we are dangerous, as our recent history has proved.”
In the quiet chill that follows, Adaveth and Faltheg gaze at Sorya with the same cold expression on their dissimilar faces. Belckon polishes his spectacles. Constantine breaks the silence.
“I will make the phone call that Madam Sorya proposes,” he says. “The best support we can give for anyone in our region is to help them extricate themselves from their difficulties. If Charna backs down, the crisis is over. And we will avoid making any official statements until the phone call is made.”
“Never back down,” Sorya murmurs, scorn on her face, but she turns away, backing down herself.
There is another long silence. Aiah looks at Geymard and Arviro, who are holding sheafs of documents about readiness levels and ammunition and fuel availability, and then down at the briefcase in her lap, with its latest statistics on the availability of plasm in case of military conflict… and feels a wave of thankfulness that the statistics will probably not be required.
Constantine steeples his fingers, gazes frowningly over them at the members of his government. “I have also considered ways in which we may suppress the reckless behavior of our Charni friends—or my Charni friends, if you will it so. They are clearly unfamiliar with the proper mechanisms and conventions of government, and I would help them if I can—make them our friends, then, and responsible friends, too. So perhaps a delegation from our government to their government, a diplomatic and economic mission—clearly not military—to help Charna’s new government control their metropolis.”
Adaveth suspiciously unveils a single eye. “A New City mission?” he asks.
“I would rather it represented all our metropolis,” Constantine says. He smiles pleasantly over his fingertips, then looks at Sorya. “I thought Madam Sorya would serve as its head, remaining of course under Minister Belckon’s direction.” Alarm flashes into the others’ eyes, and Constantine speaks quickly. “This will unfortunately require her resignation from the Force of the Interior, where she has done such excellent work… but I know she desires a more public role, and head of this special mission would, of course, be a promotion.”
Aiah can see the others working out the implications of this offer—and so is Sorya herself, who toys with the silver cuff buttons of her uniform jacket as she weighs this offer. On the one hand, she would be removed from her dangerous position as head of the secret service; on the other, she would serve as the principal advisor to a group of military officers already proven dangerously precipitate and headstrong… Sorya looks up.