Aiah is sent as official government greeter, and she takes Khorsa and Alfeg, the only two Barkazils she knows of within three thousand radii. She wears her medal pinned to her lapel, in hopes it might establish another degree of com-monship. The War Ministry provides a full set of commissary specialists with a buffet meal for an entire brigade, and also a camera and soundman to record the event for posterity. Aiah also brings an amplifier, some speakers, and a platform to speak from, so when the first armored car rolls into the empty concrete parking bay, it is to the familiar sound of Arno’s “Barkazi Monday.”
Aiah has never been much of an Arno fan, but he’s the entertainer all Barkazils recognize—even in the oddly distorted version caused by the government music player’s ill-tuned tweaking of the celluloid etching belt—and so Aiah stands between the speakers, waving and smiling as the vehicles roar past and the soldiers, most of them sitting casually on the hatches, recognize the music and break into smiles and laughter.
The soldiers are mostly young, with a few older hands among them, and most of them show at least some Barkazil ancestry: the smooth brown skin, the brown eyes, the thick curls, or some diluted variation of these. But the three generations since the Barkazi Wars have left their mark, and there are many signs of the pale, light-eyed Sayvenese mixed with the Barkazil, mostly visible in cast of feature: longer heads, sturdier bodies, lantern jaws.
The armored cars and personnel carriers are not burning hydrogen, but a less dangerous, less explosive, hermetically created hydrocarbon fuel, and the stuff doesn’t burn cleanly: the garage fills with fumes and Aiah, half-deafened by the speakers on either side, tries not to shrink from the stench.
Khorsa is wearing her full witch regalia—red dress, starched petticoats, and gem-encrusted geomantic foci gleaming on her turban—and the soldiers recognize the costume, flashing magic finger-signs at her as they roar past. Many of them have good-luck foci worn as charms on caps or helmets, and weapons strapped with cult fetishes are waved benignly in Khorsa’s direction. The vehicles each bear a discreet yellow Holy League badge somewhere on the armor. Alfeg’s dress is more conservative—he’s still wearing his Jaspeeri wardrobe, with its heavy lace—and he smiles and waves with the assurance of a young politician shaking hands at a factory gate.
“I have done as you asked,” he says in an aside, voice barely audible over the booming music. “I’m trying to find employment for Barkazils. You may have a pair of mages applying for work later this week.”
“Mages?” Aiah raises her eyebrows. “You happened to find a pair of Barkazil mages wandering around Caraqui looking for a job?”
He waves as vehicles roll past. “They’re people I went to school with. I happened to know they were looking for opportunities, so I called them and let them know we had vacancies.”
“Well.” She considers. “It isn’t exactly what I asked you to do, but as long as these newcomers are qualified, I could use the hires.” And then she smiles. “They can help you find work for others.”
Alfeg gives a little wince.
The last of the vehicles enters and the bronze-mesh gate rolls shut behind it. The soldiers gather around the speakers, and Aiah is awed by their sheer numbers. Millions of Barkazils live in Jaspeer, mostly in little ethnic enclaves like Old Shorings where Aiah grew up, but she has never seen so many of the Cunning People in one place. Karlo’s Brigade has nine thousand soldiers, and although there isn’t room for all of them here, they’re crowded shoulder to shoulder as far as Aiah can see. She finds herself grinning down at them, lifted by the sheer joy of their presence.
Just then the Caraqui music player gives a final wrench to the celluloid etching belt, and the belt disintegrates, along with the instrumental on Arno’s version of “Happy as a Metropolitan,” the distinctive sound of the three-string Barkazi fiddle turning into a nerve-shivering screech. The soldiers give a good-natured laugh as Aiah slaps at the machine’s chrome on-off lever. The sound, echoing from thousands of throats, threatens to float her from the stage.
She reaches for a microphone and tries to ignore the gleaming lenses of the camera that whirs at her from below the platform.
“On behalf of the government and the Barkazil community of Caraqui,” she says, “I’d like to welcome you all to our metropolis.” There is a modest cheer and some applause, and Aiah finds herself grinning—these are her people, she thinks, and there are thousands of them, and even though she doesn’t know a single person here, she hasn’t realized how much she’s missed them until now.
Her usual terror of speaking in front of an audience has flown away. She feels at home.
“My name is Aiah,” she says, “and I’m director of the Plasm Enforcement Division of the Ministry of Resources, which”—she grins—“makes me a plasm cop. These are two of my mages, Khorsa and Alfeg. We’ll do our best to make sure that your mages have all the plasm they need to keep you safe and help you do your jobs.”
There is a more enthusiastic cheer at this. Keeping their military mages supplied with plasm is a task dear to the hearts of the brigade.
Now that the wind wafting through the bronze mesh is dispersing the engine fumes, Aiah can scent cooking smells wafting toward them from the buffet. “I mentioned a moment ago that the Barkazil community welcomes you. This was easy for me to say, because”—she glances at her two companions—“we three up to this point seem to constitute the entire Barkazil community of Caraqui.” There is a rumble of laughter from her audience, a few wild cheers.
“But now,” she says, looking out over the huge sea of faces, “I see there are thousands of us!”
A roar goes up, a sound loud enough to carry Aiah back to the Shield. She looks out at the surging storm of humanity and feels as if she could spread her arms and fly out over their heads, supported only by their goodwill.
“I’d like you all to know,” she continues, “that we’ll do what we can to make you feel at home, and to keep you well fed and supplied. If you’re not being provided with something you need and you can’t get it anywhere else, please have your commanders—your commanders—call me or my associates. We might have an idea who to talk to.”
Aiah hopes this won’t actually happen. Her knowledge of the intricacies of War Ministry bureaucracy is nil.
“I won’t keep you from your meal,” she finishes. “We welcome you to Caraqui—now go enjoy your dinner!”
She sketches the Sign of Karlo in the air, and there is the biggest cheer of the day. Aiah’s heart leaps for the sky. The War Ministry’s cameraman lowers his chromocamera and gives her a wink. Most of the soldiers stream off to their meal, and Aiah steps down from her platform to meet their commander, Brigadier Ceison. He is a thin, tall, stooped man with a bushy mustache, and he politely invites Aiah to dine with him as soon as he has his headquarters and staff sufficiently organized. He introduces Aiah to the brigade’s mage-major, a burly uniformed woman named Aratha whose short brown curls and light green eyes demonstrate mixed Barkazil-Sayvenese ancestry. She is pure soldier and all business, and she looks dubiously at Khorsa, with her bright colors and folk-magic jewelry.
“I need to get my people on patrol,” she says, “so they can help defend our position and familiarize themselves with Caraqui. And for that I need to get some workers up here to give me access to plasm.”