Aranax snorts through the nostrils atop his bald head. “Truly would I chide myself for inconveniencing such a glorious one as the ever-brilliant Constantine. I hope you will condescend to share this conveyance with me, you and your perfect assistant, the sublime Miss Aiah.”
Constantine and Aiah step into the elevator, their knees up against Aranax’s couch, and Aranax’s assistant turns the knob to allow the doors to close, then sets to the top floor the eagle-claw control lever. There is no room for Ethemark or the others, and they will have to catch up later.
Aiah, her heart throbbing as she tries to frame a properly formal response to Aranax’s invitation, casts a longing glance over her shoulder as the polished-copper doors close behind her.
“Your illumination gives me great honor,” she manages, “in remembering our brief acquaintance.” All-too-brief, she thinks, the more extravagant the adjective the better, but too late to say it.
“Who would not remember even the briefest acquaintance with the exalted Miss Aiah?” Aranax replies effortlessly. “Warrior mage, and conqueror of the Silver Hand?”
Aiah blinks. “Your illumination does me far too much credit,” she says.
The flowery language is customary among dolphins, as are the old-fashioned titles, echoes out of some ancient romance. A human prince—assuming you could even find such a thing in the post-Metropolitan world—would be a rare thing indeed, but all dolphins seem to be titled: somehow they manage a society with all nobility and no commoners.
With Aranax in it, the elevator has become a glittering miniature palace, complete with ministers, functionaries, and royalty on his divan. Aiah wonders if all dolphins sat in such state once, before the wars that subdued them, and before human civilization expanded over the Sea of Caraqui and the world’s other bodies of water.
The passengers swoop upward along the slight arcs dictated by the Palace’s geomantic relationships. Constantine and Aranax engage in an ornate conversation about monetary supply and the Bank of Caraqui, and between them the elaborate language and abstruse subject matter combine to make the discussion completely unintelligible.
Being a high official, Aiah thinks, means having these sort of conversations all the time.
The elevator doors open into a circular room, and the party makes its way past deferent guards up stairs to the glittering Crystal Dome, where the cabinet meets. The dome is set atop the Palace like an insect eye gazing out at the sky, a sparkling webwork of bronze and crystal that slowly rotates above the world-city, providing the cabinet with spectacular views of the metropolis they govern. The long table, the chairs, and the tables are marvels of gleaming cantilevered tubes and faceted jewel surfaces. How it all survived the fighting is a mystery to Aiah.
Drumbeth sits at the head of the long crystal table, first among the triumvirate’s equals, looking down the table with his slitlike, impassive eyes. Before him, on the surface of the table, is set a small pyramid of crystal a hand high, apparently cast with the table surface in one huge piece. Hilthi and Parq flank Drumbeth, Parq in full clerical dress, with his soft gray mushroom-shaped hat atop his handsome head, and each has his own group of functionaries in support.
Constantine sits in the next tier of officials, with the uniformed War Minister, Colonel Radeen, across from him. Aiah sits among other subordinates behind Constantine, perched on the white leather sling of one of the tube chairs. Sorya, in silken green and orange, sits behind Belckon, the elderly, white-haired Minister of State, a dignified individual who might well have been chosen simply because he looked so much like a soothing, accomplished diplomat. Conspicuous among the eleven other ministers are Aranax on his couch, the little twisted embryo Adaveth, and another with twisted genes, rocklike Myhorn, a massive creature who Aiah knows is female only through once having heard her speak. The large number of assistants makes the big crystal room seem close.
Drumbeth picks up a small hammer—it is clear crystal, with a silver handle—and raps once on a side of the crystal pyramid before him. The glass table sings, a clear bell-like sound that hangs in the air, its hovering presence almost physical; and Aiah hears answering chimes, bits of the Crystal Dome resonating to the song of the long table, then answering each other, and Aiah feels her long bones answer as well, a tremor deep in her limbs…
Everyone falls silent.
“Let us begin,” Drumbeth says, and after the song of the Crystal Dome his mild voice seems harsh.
CRIME BOSS MEETS WITH GOVERNMENT IN EXILE
KEREMATHS AND GREAT-UNCLE RATHMEN SEEN IN CONFERENCE
There are lengthy reports on other subjects first. When she finally has a chance to speak, Aiah finds her audience polite and reasonably attentive. Some—Constantine, Drumbeth, Sorya, and Hilthi—even seem interested. Hilthi, the former journalist, gazes down through crescent-shaped reading glasses as he jots into an open notebook with his gold pen. Gentri, the Minister of Public Security, seems far too interested—his own police plasm squads are suffering by comparison.
“In conclusion,” Aiah finishes, “the figures amount to this: we have brought almost three thousand Handmen and associates to justice. The Plasm Control Board, as a result of our actions thus far, will be able to sell no less than thirty-five thousand monthly megamehrs of plasm to the public. That is enough plasm to lift the Aerial Palace and sail it to Mount Chukhmarkh—” A few eyes lift to gaze at the distant volcano, which peaks blue on the horizon. “Or,” she says, “put another way, the Plasm Enforcement Division, in less than three months, has just added another four hundred and eleven million dinars to the treasury for this year alone.”
Around the table, Aiah sees chins lifting, a little abstract look entering the eyes. Yes, she thinks. Money. Think about it.
“With every day we continue our work,” she adds, “that figure increases.”
Constantine begins a round of polite applause. Aiah nods, relieved to have the formal part over with, and asks for questions.
Drumbeth folds his arms and frowns. Behind him, visible through the dome, a pair of eagles spire high on the Palace thermals.
“How badly has the Silver Hand been damaged?” he asks.
“In one sense,” Aiah says, “not at all.”
Drumbeth’s frown deepens. Gentri permits a smile to ghost across his face.
“There are an estimated two hundred thousand Handmen in Caraqui,” Aiah says, “along with perhaps a half a million known associates who work alongside them without necessarily being formal members of the organization. Of this total, we’ve arrested not quite three thousand, an insignificant number compared with the total.”
“Seven hundred thousand,” Drumbeth mutters. “That’s an army.”
“However,” Aiah says, “we have arrested much of their leadership, or driven them into exile or underground. We’ve probably confiscated a much larger percentage of their plasm than we’ve arrested of their membership—we have seriously damaged their business, and we’ve made it a much more dangerous business to be a part of. Without plasm, their power is much reduced.”
“And ours,” Constantine says, “becomes greater.” He clears his throat, as clear a call for attention as Drumbeth’s rap with the crystal hammer. “I have said,” he says, “that so much plasm in the hands of criminals is a danger to the state, and Miss Aiah’s division was created in response to that danger. There are seven hundred thousand of them—that’s five times the size of our army and our hired soldiers together—and who knows how much plasm they can summon among them.”