“The secret is very near to being revealed,” Aiah insists. “There is no one who can follow Constantine, no one capable of continuing his work. If he is linked with this creature, he falls, and all our work, yours and mine, goes for nothing. I haven’t given my life to Caraqui to have it wrecked by something like this.”
Rohder leans back and considers. A spasm, amusement perhaps, crosses his features. “You want to keep your job,” he says. “That is a reason I can respect.”
“That is not what I mean!” Frustration and anger fire her words into the air like bullets. “It’s not just me, it’s the tens of thousands who died, all the people who lost their homes… All they’ve got left is hope, and I can’t let them lose that, too, not when I could have helped…” Her nails bite the metal of the chair arm, leave silver scars in the gray paint.
Rohder regards the matter, nods. “I will offer what advice I can, though I will not confront this thing directly, nor will I play a part in your actual operation.”
Aiah feels her frustration abate somewhat. “Thank you,” she says.
“And in regard to our jobs, our official jobs,” reaching for a file, “I have another report from the Havilak’s Transformation team. They have found another altered office building, the Communications and Telephony Center down on Orange Canal.”
“Altered.” The shift in subject matter bewilders her for a moment. “Oh—you mean—”
“Another building, which we’d scheduled for internal reshaping along the lines of fractionate interval theory, was found to have been altered before we could get there. A complete job this time, not half-finished like the first.”
The Dreaming Sisters, Aiah thinks, a burst of revelation. It’s the sisters who are altering these buildings, giving themselves the plasm for those huge displays. They must have discovered FIT long ago, kept it to themselves, along with their theories of life extension and plasm use…
“As before,” Rohder continues, “the meters have shown the increase, which occurred gradually about a month ago, and there is no evidence that any plasm was stolen.”
They only used the plasm for a brief display, Aiah thinks. Afterward they let it flow into the public supply.
Perhaps she will confront them with this knowledge at some time, or through this matter of Taikoen earn their trust so that they will share their secrets with her.
“If there was no plasm stolen,” Aiah says, “then it’s not the business of our department.”
“I find it difficult to believe,” Rohder says, “in these omnibenevolent mages who creep about in secret to improve the structure of our public buildings. I would like to know what they’re after.”
“Maybe you’ll meet them someday.”
He narrows his eyes, suspicious of her sudden gaiety.
“Maybe,” he says.
CONSTANTINE PROMISES “HOUSING OUT OF THIN AIR”
PLANS NEAR COMPLETION
Alfeg’s office is filled with Barkazil memorabilia: old Holy League recruiting posters, a frame chromo of the Coffee Factory before the war, pictures of long-dead politicians, and, in a wetsilver frame, the same cheap portrait of Karlo that hangs in Aiah’s flat.
The metal door is locked from the inside. Aiah sits on the desk, Khorsa and Alfeg are in chairs, and Dr. Romus is coiled on the floor. Refiq is back in his apartment, with booze, pills, and a girl he picked up, and will probably be there for a while.
“Destroying the hanged man,” Aiah tells them, “will mean destroying Refiq’s body along with it. Refiq is already dead, but we can’t prove it, and it won’t look that way to an observer. It will look like a violation of the victim’s rights. Even under martial law we’ve had to obtain warrants for our arrests, we’ve presented evidence to military judges, and the sentences passed have been legal under martial-law decree. If we destroy the hanged man, we will be acting in violation of law.”
She looks at the solemn faces of Khorsa, Alfeg, and Dr. Romus. “That’s why I’ve spoken only to you three. Whatever we do here, I want absolute secrecy in this matter, and I want you to understand that this mission will not take place officially, that there will be no files, no casework, no commendations. It’s a job that needs to be done in complete secrecy, so complete that no one else can ever be told.”
Khorsa sits below a framed blowup of the cover of Corona, Aiah smiling from the balcony of the Falcon Tower, her skin tones subtly tinged with gold. Khorsa tilts her head in thought. “This is where the Party Sickness comes from, isn’t it?” she says.
“Yes. It’s the hanged man trying to get the most out of his stolen body before it dies. The Party Sickness is always fatal, remember.”
“Ethemark is forming a task group on the Party Sickness. Does he know about this?”
Aiah looks at her. “No. Ethemark is a talented mage and administrator, but he is a political appointee with his own agenda. I do not wish to bring him into this, because there are political implications which I do not wish to see any party in Caraqui attempt to exploit.”
Alfeg seems surprised. “How is this a political issue?”
Aiah looks at him and unloads the half-truth she has ready. Risky, because she knows that Romus already knows more than she plans to tell the rest of the team.
“I have detected the hanged man in the Palace,” she says. Alfeg and Khorsa stare up at her with horror in their eyes.
“I don’t believe anyone in the Palace has suffered from the Party Sickness,” Aiah continues, “but everyone here is vulnerable not only to having our bodies possessed by this creature, but to physical attack as well.”
Alfeg stammers out a question. “Shouldn’t you tell—I don’t know—the army? The president? Someone?”
Aiah looks at him. “How do I know this isn’t the army’s creature? Or the ally of someone in the Palace? Or maybe spying on behalf of one of our own government departments?” She looks at them each in turn.
“Force of the Interior,” Khorsa murmurs.
Aiah gives Khorsa a look as if to say yes. Aiah has no objection to their all believing the hanged man is something of Sorya’s.
“We keep the existence of this thing entirely in this room,” Aiah emphasizes, “and we tell no one.”
“Not even—?” Khorsa ventures to suggest.
’Wo one,” Aiah says. Khorsa looks uncertain. “Who is the creature likely to be spying on, if it’s here to spy?” Aiah asks. “Exactly the person you’re thinking of, most likely. And we don’t know for certain how many of these creatures there are.” She shakes her head. “The matter stays here. And we handle it ourselves, and with the help of some others we can trust.”
Change the subject now, she thinks, before they have a chance to work up objections. She turns to Alfeg. “We’re going to try to lure Refiq to a place we can control, and then finish him off.”
“Just the four of us?” Khorsa asks.
“No.” A demonic little grin tweaks the corners of Aiah’s mouth. “No. We are going to be assisted by two hundred and fifty-six other mages.”
POLAR LEAGUE FREEZES FUNDS, DEMANDS DEMOBILIZATION
“Hanged man, eh?” Aratha says. She puts down her coffee mug. “I may have material on how to fight creatures of the sort—mind if I check something?”
Aiah looks at her in wonder. “Please do.”
Mage-Major Aratha is a solid woman, broad-shouldered and powerful, with deep cinnamon skin and surprising green eyes. Aiah had flown to Lanbola to meet her in her small apartment, before normal work hours, and found her in the middle of breakfast.