City on Fire (Metropolitan 2) Read Online Free Page B

build precious metals from base matter. Or create base matter from nothing at all.
    In Constantine’s system of thought, plasm is the most real thing in the world. Because it can make anything else real, or it can take something that exists and uncreate it.
    Making something real from nothing would now seem to be Aiah’s job.
    Create a police force.
    What kind of magecraft is necessary for that? Absurd.
    Aiah tries, sketching idly on paper, to make plans. It’s usually easy enough to find out who the big thieves are, but discovering where they keep the goods is another matter.
    You have always exceeded my expectations.
    After a few hours, she wants to spit the words back in Constantine’s face.
    She throws down her pen, stands, paces the carpet while the plastic rattles in the wind.
    Welcome to Free Caraq — she thinks. Why is it up to her to fill in the missing letters?
    And then Sorya is standing in the door, and Aiah’s heart leaps.
    “Hello, missy.” Sorya walks into the room and holds out Aiah’s bag. “This was brought from your hotel.”
    “Thank you.” Aiah takes the offering. The cinders in the back of her throat make her cough.
    Deliberately, Sorya’s green eyes rove the room. There is a languid smile on her lips. She is balanced like a dancer, hips cocked forward, blond-streaked hair framing her face. She usually clothes her panther body in brilliant colors, apricot or green silk, the coiled muscle and curve of breast and hip garbed brightly as a flower . . . but at the moment she wears a green uniform with no insignia, a faded military greatcoat with brass buttons thrown over her shoulders like a cape, a peaked cap set with deliberate nonchalance on the side of her head. Not a flower, but something else.
    A mage, a potent one. A warrior, a general. Powerful and intent on growing more so.
    “We paid you well for your services in Jaspeer,” she says. “I was under the impression we had said good-bye.”
    “The cops were after me.”
    “That was careless of you.” She arches an eyebrow.
    Sorya turns, walks to the door, pauses deliberately, and looks at Aiah over her shoulder. “Let me take you to your suite in the Crane Wing.”
    Aiah clears her throat, finds her voice. “Don’t you have a more important job to do?”
    Sorya gives a lilting laugh. “I am providing orientation to a valued colleague. Please come.”
    Aiah follows. Sorya leads Aiah down a corridor with a shallow outward curve, a design feature presumably intended to enhance plasm creation.
    “I’ve been appointed head of the Intelligence Section,” Sorya says.
    “Drumbeth’s old job?”
    “ Colonel Drumbeth was military intelligence. I’m civilian, under the Ministry of State.”
    Aiah feels a tightness in her chest. “Head of the Specials, then.” The old political police, infamous for their torture and brutality.
    “We are going to be renamed the Force of the Interior, I believe.” Sorya throws the words carelessly over her shoulder. “The commanders of the Specials will be debriefed—they are valuable only for their information, and once that is extracted, I expect they will be tried and shot.” She flashes a cold smile over her shoulder. “Their crimes were real enough, and the population expects no less.”
    Sorya comes to an elevator, presses a button. The elevator door is polished copper, and Aiah can see her distorted reflection looming over Sorya’s shoulder— tall skinny body, brown skin, corkscrew hair pulled back in a practical knot. A gangling, hovering, uncertain form, quite the opposite of Sorya, with her perfect body, her exotic dress, her dancer’s poise and ruthless assurance.
    “Your principal duty will consist of intelligence gathering,” Sorya says. “I trust you will share any intelligence with my department.”
    Aiah gropes for an answer. "I will if my minister consents," she says.
    Her minister is Constantine, or so she presumes. Let him take the heat, one way or another.
    The elevator