Aiah, who has not eaten for the last twenty-four hours, is finding the look and scent of Aratha’s toasted muffin very inviting.
Aratha steps into the living alcove, unstraps a military-looking trunk of battered gray metal, and opens the lid. She pulls out a series of plastic-bound volumes, finds the one she is looking for, and returns the others to the trunk. “Phantasm and Plasm Emanation Manual,” she says as she returns to the table. Aiah’s mouth quietly waters as Aratha bites into her muffin while leafing through the index.
“Does the military encounter hanged men often?” Aiah asks.
Aratha chews with gusto, shakes her head in answer, then swallows. “I don’t know anyone who ever has,” she says, “but since we encounter a lot of odd things in the course of our duty, we’re supposed to be prepared for anything. There’s usually a procedure for encountering anything you can imagine. See also vampires,” reading, narrowing her eyes. “I haven’t reviewed this since my academy days, so please forgive my poor memory.”
She flips pages and reads quietly while eating. When she is done, she puts down the book and looks up at Aiah. “You’ve got yourself a problem, all right. You couldn’t pick anything simple, like a flamer or an incarnate demon sword or anything, it had to be a hanged man.”
“The hanged man,” Aiah says, “picked Caraqui.”
“The biggest problem is going to be finding it—configuring your sensorium to detect not just plasm, but a modulation in plasm, which is what this thing is, according to what I read here. And if you can’t see it, you can’t confine it. Fortunately the manual has some ideas.”
“We’re going to lure it into an isolated plasm well, then use up the plasm. The creature will die when the plasm runs out.”
“The manual says that’s possible, but you want to know it’s in the plasm well.”
“I’d like to see the manual, if I may.”
Aratha shoves it across the table to her. Aiah looks with dismay at columns of fine print, a bewildering amount of jargon, and a large dose of acronyms. Configuration of the PMDS should be completed before arrival at the ASoO, she reads.
“You’re going to do this today?” Aratha says. “I’ll get a team together—two of my mages, people who survived the war, which means they’re both good and used to practically everything. And myself, of course.”
Aiah looks at her in surprise. She had not yet asked Aratha for anything. Aratha sees her look, misunderstands it.
“You won’t be wanting us?” she says.
“I will. I’m relieved that you’re so willing.”
“Oh.” Aratha shrugs. “You’re our Ministerial Assistant for Barkazil Liaison, after all. We’re under your orders.”
“This whole operation may be illegal. I can’t give you an order for it.”
Another shrug. “Verbal order will do. Then you class the whole operation as secret and no one will think about it ever again.” She gives Aiah a reassuring look. “Don’t worry. You have no idea how often this sort of thing comes up in wartime. I’ll pick trustworthy people.”
Aratha’s war, Aiah thinks, was probably very bad, all madness and terror and reflex. Practically all a military mage did involved the deliberate murder of the enemy, or alternatively, frantic attempts to keep her own people or herself from being killed. But Aratha had survived it, and survival had given her a kind of serene, uncomplicated confidence—she felt she^ould view anything, deal with anything, engage with any kind of enemy, and on short notice.
Aiah’s war, probably less perilous, had left her feeling isolated, with only the Adrenaline Monster for company. But then Aratha had all the other officers to support her, the entire military culture. Aiah had little support in her life, only crushing responsibilities that did not permit her any weakness.
“Thank you,” Aiah says simply.
“It will do us good,” Aratha judges, “to get away from routine for a while.”
NECESSITY IS THE WATCHWORD OF THE GODS.
A THOUGHT-MESSAGE FROM HIS PERFECTION, THE PROPHET OF AJAS
“Refiq?” Alfeg says. “This is Dulat. I wanted to remind you about the party. Third shift today, 21:00.”
He holds the heavy plastic headset to his ears as he listens, looks up at Aiah, mouths the words, “He’s drunk.”
“Everything’s laid on,” Alfeg says, when he gets a chance to speak. “The best liquor, the best pills, entertainment, and more girls than you can imagine. Do you have the address?”
Alfeg waits again, presumably for Refiq to find something to write with, then says, “100 Cold Canal. It’s a really strange building, all carved stone, off the Seahorse Waterway. Do you need directions, or will you just take a water taxi?”
Sweat is gleaming on his forehead by the time Alfeg finishes the call. “He believed me, I think.” He looks up at Aiah. “He—it—doesn’t have Refiq’s memories, right? He doesn’t know that Dulat is just someone we made up?”
“Refiq’s gone,” Aiah assures him. “There’s only that thing in there.”
Alfeg wipes his forehead with the back of his hand. “I was terrified,” he says, “just knowing what was on the other end of the line.”
“If he was drunk,” Khorsa says, “do you think he’ll remember about the party?”
“We’ll have someone call later and remind him,” Aiah says. “Melko.”
She looks up at Melko, one of the two mages that Aratha has brought with her from Lanbola. He is tall, gangly, and wears black plastic-rimmed glasses tied around his ears with loops of elastic. He looks far too young to be the captain his collar tabs proclaim him to be.
Aratha’s other mage looks too young to be anywhere but in school. A silent, spotty girl, painfully thin, Kari sits atop a file cabinet with her legs drawn up and plays nervously with the dangling geomantic charms on her bracelet.
Combat mages tend to be young, Aiah has discovered. The young have a sense of invulnerability that is useful in that line of work.
“In the meantime,” Aiah says, “Khorsa needs to continue our surveillance to make sure Refiq doesn’t get away. I have reserved the small Operations Room for all third shift today and first shift tomorrow. And—”
There’s a knock on the door. Aiah goes to the door, unlocks it, cracks it open, and sees her receptionist, Anstine.
“The president’s on the phone for you,” he says. “I told him I’d see if you’re available.”
“I suppose I must be,” Aiah decides.
She walks to her office, where she picks up the delicate headset and places it over her ears.
“Yes?” she says.
Constantine’s deep voice rumbles in her ears. “Did you get the flowers?”
Aiah is suddenly weary. She folds into her chair. “You know I did.”
“And did you read the note?” “No. I haven’t had the time.”
There is a moment’s awkward silence, then, “What’s so urgent? I thought you were taking these days off?”
“An investigation coming to a head. I won’t bore you with detail.” She’s too weary to make them up anyway.
“The note,” Constantine says, “contained, I thought, a very well-phrased apology, eloquent yet humble, a model of its kind.”
“I’ll read it,” Aiah says, “when I have the time to appreciate such a piece of art.”
“I hope you will take its sentiments to heart.”
“I hope,” Aiah says, “that I may be able to.”
There is another moment’s pause, and then Constantine says, “Sorya is going to Charna. Tomorrow. I am dining with her late third shift to say good-bye. These things must be done properly—farewells gracefully said, closures correctly made.”