His arm circles her from behind, and she takes his hand and places it on her breast, feeling herself filling his palm, wanting the intimate touch of him there.
“I’m glad we don’t do that every time,” she says.
His chuckle comes in her ear. “A pity. We could do it again now.”
A startled laugh bolts from her throat. “Vida’s mercy!” she says. “Give me time to catch my breath!”
“All right,” he says, amiable enough.
She gives him a look over her shoulder. “Are you serious? You must have just burned ten thousand dinars of plasm.”
His look is serious. “What I can give you in the next few hours I will give you.”
“Who’s paying for it?”
“Aldemar and I will settle between the two of us.” He kisses her neck again. “You are worth the expense, lady.”
Pleasure tweaks the corners of her mouth. “I hope Aldemar agrees,” she says, and pillows her head on his arm again.
His body steals closer to hers, stretching flesh against flesh. “Have you caught your breath yet?” he asks.
She laughs. “No,” she says.
“A pity. We have only a few hours left.”
“Hours.” She laughs again, then looks back at him. “Perhaps we could try the Fourth level,” she says, “if it’s less intense.”
“It isn’t,” Constantine says. “It’s just intense in a different way.”
“Well,” she says, “as long as we’re here…”
AN EMPTY SOUL OFTEN SCORNS WISDOM
A THOUGHT-MESSAGE FROM HIS PERFECTION, THE PROPHET OF AJAS.
Before they leave the apartment they bathe together, fitting their tall bodies with a certain deliberation into a long, oval tub that would have been ample for one. The scented water floats over Aiah like a milder version of the plasm fire that Constantine has called to aid her pleasure. The stress knots in her neck and shoulders, which had already begun to loosen their grip over the last few hours, are dissolved entirely by soap, scent, and Constantine’s powerful hands. Aiah dries her hair, then puts on her little red dress while in the other room Constantine calls Aldemar on the phone.
“She is the only person who knows we’re here,” he says as he hangs up the headset. “If something happened to her, I would be embarrassed to find a way back to Caraqui.”
He gives Aldemar a few minutes, and then slides open the patio door to let her plasm sourceline enter. A cool breeze floats in, along with the sound of traffic. He and Aiah fall into one another’s arms, Aiah pressing herself to his massive chest, his ruffled shirt against her cheek. She closes her eyes, wanting to prolong the moment, and keeps them shut as the power snarls around her.
“I brought you back to my apartment,” Aldemar says as Aiah blinks at the surroundings. She sits on a sofa with her feet up, elegant as possible considering she is dressed in a bathrobe with her hair wrapped in a kind of turban.
Aiah turns to her. “Thank you,” she says. “That was wonderful of you.”
“These days I seem to be using my talents mostly to move spies and munitions about,” she says. “I’m pleased to use my abilities in the service of love. And I would be happy to do so again.” She casts a skeptical look at Constantine. “//the two of you ever have another free moment.”
Constantine bends to kiss Aldemar’s hand, then her cheek. “Thank you,” he says.
Aldemar looks at Aiah. “We’ll have lunch soon, yes?”
“Of course.”
Constantine straightens, sighs. A kind of weight seems to settle onto his shoulders, and a distant crash of artillery rattles the windows. “And now,” he says, “we must return to our lives.” A kind of resentment enters his face. “Our military, militarized lives.”
Aiah’s heart sinks. She had not wanted a reminder.
Criminals and war and refugees and horror.
The windows rattle again.
Time to go back to work.
POLAR LEAGUE OFFERS MEDIATION GOVERNMENT CONSIDERS OFFER
Aiah and Constantine hold hands as they walk down the corridors of the Swan Wing. There is a thoughtful look on Constantine’s face.
“Karlo’s Brigade…,” he says, and his voice trails off.
“Yes?” She is mildly surprised at this choice of subject.
“Do you suppose, being Barkazils, that they have a relationship with Landro’s Escaliers on the other side?”
“I don’t know.”
“It occurs to me that we might make use of it somehow. Landro’s Escaliers are in the line, holding the Corridor between Lorkhin Island and Lanbola. And if they could be persuaded to switch sides…”
“Constantine,” Aiah points out, “they’re from the Timocracy!”
“Yes, I know. Garshab’s mercenaries pride themselves on honoring their contracts, and up till now they’ve been fighting very well for both sides, against people they know and have trained alongside.”
“Exactly.”
“But there are ways to slip contracts with a clear conscience—that’s what small print is for—and perhaps we can find Landro’s Escaliers an exit.”
“Good luck.” Skeptically.
“And to that end, I think it is time you became more prominent.”
Alarm brings warmth to Aiah’s cheeks. “Minister?” she says.
“You have succeeded very well in avoiding celebrity till now. Perhaps it is time people became aware of you.” “No!” Aiah is appalled.
“Celebrity is a weapon,” Constantine says. “You should learn to use it.” “I don’t want it.”
“The likes of Parq will find it much harder to remove you from the PED once you are well-known and appreciated here in Caraqui.”
She looks at him. “Why don’t we find someone else to be famous?”
Constantine continues as if he had not heard. “We will make you the most prominent Barkazil in the world.”
“I don’t want it. And besides, it’s ridiculous. Who’d be interested in me?”
Constantine smiles. “You underestimate the power of modern media, video in particular.” His heavy hand pats her shoulder in a gesture meant to be reassuring. “Don’t worry,” he says with a white smile. “I will handle it all.”
That’s just what I’m afraid of, Aiah thinks.
FIFTEEN
It is the Caraqui Medal of Merit, and Aiah, prominent in her civilian suit, stands amid a line of uniforms to receive it. Constantine, Minister of War, walks affably down the line, pinning medals on chests and chatting with the soldiers.
Aiah’s forehead prickles: the video lights are hot. Constantine’s plan to expand her fame is gathering speed.
Earlier Aiah’s apartment was invaded by a hairdresser, a manicurist, and a cosmetician. Their job is to make her exciting and glamorous for the video cameras. “The planes of your face aren’t going to show up on video,” the cosmetician tells her.
“I don’t have any planes in my face.” With irritation.
“You will when I’m done with you,” the cosmetician says; and now Aiah is to get a new face painted on at the commencement of every work shift. It’s an interesting face, Aiah has to admit, if not quite hers—the face of an experienced adventuress, ambitious and powerful, and not a young woman madly trying to keep up with her own schedule. It’s the face of someone Aiah wouldn’t mind becoming, if opportunity ever permits.
She also has to admit that she could probably learn to enjoy the pampering.
More video lights glare at her. Constantine arrives, pins the medal delicately to her lapel, and bends to kiss her cheek. “Congratulations,” he says.