Aiah restrains the impulse to take the folder, clasps her hands in her lap again. “Please understand,” she says. “I’m not in a position to really dictate policy.”
Lamarath frowns at her. “Influence policy,” he says. “That’s all I ask.”
Aiah takes a breath. “All I can assure you,” she says carefully, “is that any minor—I do mean minor—plasm thefts in the half-worlds will not be given a high priority by my department.”
“I will speak to my… counterparts in other half-worlds,” Lamarath says. “I hope to be able to provide you with more information along these lines.”
She looks at him—her heart bangs in her throat, and it’s difficult to steady her gaze into the huge dark eyes—and she takes good care with her words. “I will be grateful for any information. But understand that I will make no bargains with anyone concerning any plasm thefts brought to my attention. I can’t set policy. All I can say is that, from the limited knowledge I have of the subject, the half-worlds will not be a high priority.”
Lamarath holds her eyes for a long moment—behind her own composed expression, Aiah thinks wildly of assassination, of how no one knows she is here and how she could so easily be disposed of—and then gives a brief nod and reaches for another cigar.
“That will have to do, then,” he says.
“Nice to have met you,” says Dr. Romus.
Aiah’s mind swims as she follows Ethemark out of the barge. The boy Craftig waits outside, playing on the deck plates with toy figures of the Lynxoid Brothers, and cheerfully leads them aloft and back to the landing, then calls “Long live the revolution!” as the boat begins its journey to the open air.
Outside the day has became overcast, a skein of gray cloud over the Shield, and Aiah shivers in the faint light. She considers the bargain she has just made—for it was a bargain, deny it though she would—and wonders if she is a fool. She can’t even tell if she’s just been bribed. If she has become the hireling of some minor gangster, and betrayed everything she holds dear, all through ignorance, or fear for her life, or through some hopeless flaw in herself.
Whatever decisions she makes, correct or not, corrupt or not, she knows she will pay for them sooner or later. She only hopes the payment is something that she can bear.
A STATUTE AGAINST THE WILL OF GOD IS NO LAW.
A THOUGHT-MESSAGE FROM HIS PERFECTION, THE PROPHET OF AJAS
Item #5: Gil? Item #6: Family?
There’s yesterday’s list, its final two items still a weight on her conscience. Aiah still can’t bring herself to contact Gil, but she decides she can talk to someone else back in Jaspeer and at least let them know she’s well.
She looks at a wall clock: 20:04, halfway through third shift. People at home are probably still awake. Aiah goes to the communications array set into the wall near her bed, dons the headset—a nice lightweight model, with gold accents on the earpieces and the mouthpiece, a far cry from the heavy black plastic rig she’s accustomed to—and then presses the bright silver keys to connect her to her grandmother Galaiah back in Jaspeer.
“Hello?”
“Nana?” Aiah says. “This is Aiah.”
“It’s Aiah!” the woman bellows to someone else in the room. Aiah winces at her grandmother’s volume. There’s a sudden expectant babble of voices in the background, but then Galaiah hushes them.
“Where are you?” she demands. “Are you all right?”
Aiah turns down the headset volume. Her grandmother is a bit deaf and has a tendency to shout.
“I’m fine, Nana. I’m in Caraqui, and I have a new job.”
“You’ve got a good job?” Galaiah shouts. A refugee from the Barkazi Wars, she has a fine grasp of the essentials.
“A very important job. I’m going to be running a government department.”
“She’s running a government department in Caraqui!” Galaiah relays the information to her listeners.
“Who’s there?” Aiah asks.
“Landro and his family.”
Landro is Aiah’s cousin. He had been a plasm diver once, searching through forgotten tunnels and sealed-off basements in search of plasm he could sell. Caught, he’d done his term in Chonmas Prison, and now works in a hardware store.
“Have you talked to your mother?” Galaiah asks. “Not yet.”
“You should call her.”
“I will.” Reluctantly. Aiah’s mother is an indefatigable dramatist, and Aiah dreads the inevitable reaction: breast-beating, weeping, how could you do this to me? She can predict every word of the call.
“Those Authority creepers are still looking for you,” Galaiah says.
“Let them look.” She smiles: she’d got clean away, money in the bank and a new future.
“Esmon’s witch Khorsa told everybody how she helped you get away.”
“Did she tell the creepers?”
“Of course not,” scornfully. “She said she didn’t know anything!”
It occurs to Aiah that perhaps they have already told the creepers more than they ought to have.
“Perhaps we shouldn’t talk about this on the phone…”
“Hm?” Galaiah thinks about it for a moment. “Fine, then,” she says, and changes the subject. “There’s a lot of news about Caraqui on the video. They say Constantine’s in charge and that he’s going to change everything.”
“That’s… not really true, Nana. Constantine is only a minister in the government. But yes, we hope things are going to change.”
“That Constantine, he’s another of your passus, isn’t he?” she asks, using the Barkazil word for dupe or victim. She chortles. “That’s a lovely chonah you’ve rigged.”
“Constantine isn’t my passu.”
“Either he is your passu, or you are his.”
Aiah can’t find the strength to dispute this simple logic.
Besides, her grandmother might well be right.
“Your longnose lover is back in Jaspeer,” Galaiah adds. “He’s been calling the family and trying to find you.”
Sadness catches at Aiah’s throat. “Gil?”
“You haven’t called him, either, hanh?” Galaiah is gleeful—she’d never approved of Aiah taking up with a Jaspeeri. She holds the traditional Barkazil opinion that the rest of humanity is only useful as prey for the artful, devious, and highly superior Cunning People.
It’s precisely that attitude—that the Barkazil are a magical species above the laws that govern lesser beings—that led to the self-destruction of the Metropolis of Barkazi, and therefore to Galaiah’s journey as a refugee to Jaspeer. Aiah has always refrained from pointing this out to her grandmother. “I didn’t know Gil was back from Gerad,” Aiah says, perfectly aware of the inadequacy of her excuse.
There’s a buzz on the commo array and a flashing green light, the signal that someone else is trying to call. “Excuse me, Nana,” Aiah says. “I’m getting another call. Hold on a moment.”
She pushes the hold button, then turns the dial that switches the solenoids in the commo array. There’s a click and electric buzz, and then Aiah answers.
“You left messages for me.” It’s Constantine’s baritone, and Aiah’s warm blood sings in her ears at the sound of it.
“I couldn’t get back to you earlier,” he says. “What did you require?”
Aiah tries to organize her thoughts. “I needed to talk to you…” she begins, and then begins to look frantically for her list.
“You’re in your suite? May I come see you?” The voice takes on a lazy, self-satisfied tone. “I would like to relate my latest triumphs. I am pleased to report that it has been a very good day.”