The steel-lined Crystal Dome, with or without fresh-cut flowers in its vases, had been thought too depressing for the reception of the Polar League’s envoy, and so it will be held in the Swan Wing, in one of the Keremaths’ extravagant ballrooms: there are pink-veined marble pillars holding up a fan-vaulted ceiling, niches with bronze statues of gods and immortals, a floor of cream and strawberry tiles… In the midst is set a massive table of marble supported by an ornate frame of polished bronze. Tackles on a steel tripod had been needed to move the thing into position.
The government of Caraqui sits on one side of the long table, the triumvirate in the middle, flanked by Constantine and Belckon and their various aides and supporters. Aiah is present, she suspects, largely so that video cameras can record her entrance and exit, more evidence for her audience that she is important, that cities are set atremble at her very word. But Constantine has, perhaps, another reason. “Might as well learn how this works,” he tells her, with a smile.
The Minister of State Belckon, Aiah observes, has not found it necessary to bring Sorya. But Aiah does not doubt that Sorya will find out what happens sooner rather than later.
Licinias, for his part, brings only a pair of assistants, though his air of composed authority seems to weigh the table subtly to his side… It is an interesting effect, and Aiah wonders how he does it.
There are formalities first: the government thanks Licinias and the Polar League for their interest in Caraqui’s problems; Licinias thanks the government for receiving him, and expresses the hope he may contribute to a settlement. He then offers to read a position statement from the Provisional Government.
“It is kind of you to deliver it,” Constantine replies—he speaks in advance of the triumvirs, but since the three leaders show no surprise, Aiah concludes this is by prearrange-ment.
“But sir,” Constantine continues, “I wonder if you would first enlighten us concerning two points: first, whether the so-called Provisional Government is willing to recognize this government as the legitimate government of Caraqui; and second, their timetable for evacuating their forces from our territory.”
Licinias listens with apparent courtesy—if he is surprised, he hides it well—and then says, “The Provisional Government’s statement addresses neither of these points.”
Constantine shrugs, his lip curling. “Then I fear that these proceedings are a waste of our time and yours,” he says.
Licinias indicates the papers before him. “Shall I read you the Provisional Government’s statement?”
Constantine scowls—Aiah wonders whether this, too, is prearranged—and then Faltheg raises a hand. “Proceed, Mr. Licinias.”
It is, as Constantine predicted, a waste of time. The Provisionals’ statement is little more than a demand for surrender. The triumvirate rejects it unanimously, then produces a statement of their own position, prepared ahead of time, in which they promise amnesty for all the Provisional leaders but two—Kerehorn and Great-Uncle Rathmen are both named—if their forces are evacuated and disbanded at once.
“You do not give me much maneuvering room,” Licinias says as he glances at the terms.
“We cannot tolerate a hostile force occupying a part of our metropolis,” Constantine says. “Any settlement must be aimed at removing that force.”
Licinias permits himself a delicate shrug. “I will inform the Provisionals of your conditions,” he says. “But I’m afraid an impasse may be created, and that will throw the matter before a general League council… on which, I am afraid, your opponents may command more votes than you.”
“If the Polar League does not support the right of a metropolis to remain free of invasion,” Constantine asks rhetorically, “what good can anyone expect from them?”
“The Provisionals maintain that their force in fact represents the legitimate government,” Licinias offers, “and that your government is usurping their authority.”
“We are preparing, even in the midst of war, to hold an election that will confirm our legitimacy,” Constantine says. “What do the Provisionals offer?”
Licinias hands the paper to one of his assistants, who puts it in a dispatch case. “We shall see,” he says.
After which the meeting is brought to an end, a luncheon buffet is wheeled in, and the delegates mingle for a while. Aiah, holding a plate of vegetables and munching a stick of celery, finds herself near Licinias, and the envoy bows formally to her.
“You are Miss Aiah?” he says. “I believe I recognize you from video.”
Aiah offers him her hand. “I hope you don’t believe everything you saw,” she says.
He shakes her hand with a dry, papery palm. “I am refreshed to hear that you do not believe it,” he says. “But I am inclined to wonder”—he looks thoughtful—“why your government has seen fit to place you in such prominence, and in such a sensational fashion.”
Aiah smiles. “I am sometimes inclined to wonder that myself.”
Licinias gives a dry laugh. “I have often found the actions of governments inexplicable,” he says, “but I confess it is refreshing to find such a prominently situated member of the government in question agreeing with me.”
“I’m not prominent,” Aiah says. “I’m just on video.”
Licinias gazes at her with wise brown eyes tucked up under winged white brows. “There is, you will discover, very little difference between the two.”
Aiah does not find this thought comforting. Later, as she leaves the meeting with Constantine, and bodyguards fall into step before and behind, he takes her arm and says, “I observed that you spoke to Licinias.”
“Yes. We were both reflecting on the puzzling nature of my fame.” She looks up at Constantine. “Tell me about Licinias.”
“He’s from Conpurna. He was a jurist, a specialist in intermetropolitan law. He was Conpurnan ambassador to the Polar League and the World Council and served on the Polar High Court, and after he failed at electoral office back home he began to devote himself to the thankless cause of making peace, which suggests that he is either a towering egoist or a genuinely good person.” He pauses, faintly surprised at his own judgment. “One does meet a good person from time to time, I find,” he adds.
“I liked him.”
Constantine raises an eyebrow. “Is it your preference for older men I hear speaking?”
Aiah feigns indignation. “I don’t prefer older men. I like interesting men.”
“Luckily for me”—Constantine grins—“I am both.”
Since they are in the Swan Wing, he takes her to his current lodgings—marble-sheathed walls, plush carpet, and ornamental, scalloped wings of silvery alloy all deployed to disguise the plasm-generating Palace structure that runs inconveniently through the huge rooms. He has not spent much time here since the war began, preferring for safety’s sake to sleep in the empty suites he chose at random for his mobile office, and the rooms have an unused smell to them.
Guards take up position outside the door, and others ghost through the rooms to make sure no ambush has been laid. Constantine closes the door and leans close.
“I wished to speak with you privately,” he says. “We are beginning to receive indications that our propaganda is having some effect.”
“Yes?” She should be delighted, she thinks, but there is a focused urgency in Constantine’s tone that makes her uneasy.
“The Provisionals’ contract with Landro’s Escaliers expires in ten days. Normally there is an automatic extension—the Provisionals would pay another bonus, and the Escaliers would remain with their army—but now a possibility exists that the Escaliers may be persuaded to change sides.”