Burning Bright

“Wait for it,” Faro murmured, the words almost a mantra. “Wait for it.”

The guards stood still for a moment longer, visibly conferring via the helmet links. Then the first guard started toward the sound of the footsteps, and the second man moved out of the hatchway to cover him.

“Now!” Avellar said.

The others fired almost as he spoke. The second guard fell without a sound, crumpling back into the hatchway. The first guard spun around, staggered by the shot, but fought to keep his feet and bring his laser to bear. Africa fired again, and this time he went down.

“Did he warn the main party?” Avellar demanded, looking at Lyall.

The telepath shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

“Then let’s go,” Avellar said. He looked down at Blue, who was slowly opening his eyes, extended a hand to help him to his feet. Faro did the same, and together they pulled the telekinetic upright. Belfortune stepped forward without a word, took Avellar’s place. He winced when his share of Blue’s weight hit him, but made no sound.

“Let’s go,” Avellar said again, and started across the open corridor toward the hatch. The others followed, Africa still with his laser at the ready, but nothing moved to stop them.

They crowded into the narrow space, and Avellar laid his hand against the sensor panel that regulated access to the freighter’s cargo lock. There was a soft click, and then a high‑pitched tone.

“Royal Avellar,” he said distinctly, and waited. A heartbeat later, the cargo lock creaked open. Familiar people, familiar faces, were waiting inside the lock, and Avellar allowed himself to relax for the first time since they had left the prison complex.

“Thank God you made it,” a well‑remembered voice said, and Avellar grimaced, relief and chagrin equally mingled in his face.

“Danile. I didn’t get him.”

“I know.” The man–greying, thin, a long, heavily embroidered coat thrown over expensively plain shirt and trousers–looked back at him gravely. “But you’re safe, and alive, and well out of this place. And the rest of you, too.” His eyes swept over the others, stopped when he saw Faro. “So.” The word was little more than a hiss. “You found something you wanted more than your lands, Faro?”

Faro glared back at him, then deliberately reached out to touch Belfortune’s wounded shoulder. “Yes. And I’ve paid, Danile. I can’t go back to the Baron now.”

There was a little silence, broken by one of the crew saying urgently, “Sirs…”

Danile nodded. “All right, Faro. All of you, we have to hurry. We’re cleared for departure, let’s go while we can.”

There was a ragged murmur of agreement, and the group began to move further into the ship, following Danile and Avellar. The cargo door slid shut behind them, closing off their last view of Ixion’s Wheel.

Evening, Day 30

High Spring: Shadows, Face

Road, Dock Road District

Below the Old Dike

There was a little silence after the session ended, the images fading slowly from the VDIRT table, and then a murmur of satisfaction, of pleasure, before the applause began. Ransome joined with the rest, but long before they’d finished, he was pushing his way through the crowd to Medard‑Yasine’s side. “I want to meet her, Davvi.”

Medard‑Yasine looked blank for a moment, then visibly pulled himself out of the Game universe. “So long as you’re not planning to kill her, I‑Jay. I want her working here.”

Ransome gave his crooked smile. “No, I wasn’t planning on it. She did a pretty good job with that scenario.” Better than pretty good; it was her players who held her back. God, wouldn’t I love to play a session, show them all how it should be done… It had been a long time since he had felt that way about any of the Game versions, and his smile widened for an instant.

“Can I quote you?” Medard‑Yasine said.

“Maybe. Once I’ve met her.”

Medard‑Yasine laughed. “Come on, then.”

The players were gathering in one of the larger lounges, where food and drink were already set out for the players–on the house, Gueremei said loudly. Medard‑Yasine nodded his agreement, and moved off with only a quick word of apology to supervise the house staff. Ransome stood just inside the door, content to watch from a distance for now, matching names and real faces to voices that had become oddly familiar. Savian and Beledin he had recognized instantly, despite the new implants glimmering in Beledin’s eyes, and seeing them standing with their arms around each other, he guessed that their old affair might rekindle for the night. A thin, olive‑skinned young man in a steward’s jacket stood blinking for a moment in the doorway, the mark of his shades prominent on his nose, and Beledin detached himself from Savian’s hold to embrace the newcomer. Jack Blue? Ransome wondered, and the steward’s voice confirmed it. Huard he knew also, admitted grudgingly that the man had done a good job within conventional limits, as had Mariche. He searched the crowd for an instant before he found her, was not surprised to find her hooked up to another terminal, waiting to see if her ratings had changed. Imbertine– who did better than I expected, given the others’ conventional play–floated in his chair at her side, rubbing his wrists as though the bracelets chafed him. Ransome allowed himself another quick smile–Mariche had always been overly concerned with rankings. That left Roscha– Galan Africa–and Lioe. He looked again, and realized that the stunning redhead talking to Huard must be one of the players. Roscha, then–and it’s a shame her mouth is that hair too big, or she’d be perfect. So where’s Lioe?

Even as he thought it, the door from the session room opened again, and a tall, lanky woman came into the room. She was dark, her skin the color of old bronze, and her face was made up of stark planes, a severe and sculptural beauty. A pilot’s hat, a small one, just a narrow toque with a knot of spangled fabric wound around it, hugged her close‑cut hair. Then someone called to her, a voice out of the crowd congratulating her on the session, and she turned to face him, her expression breaking into a smile that shattered the stony beauty and gave her instead a vivid plainness. Ransome caught his breath–he hadn’t expected that, had expected a woman with looks like that to use them, to stay always grave and expressionless, to fear the sudden change–and in that moment someone spoke his name.

“Having fun, I‑Jay?”

He looked down and down again, to the upturned face and half‑bared breasts of a tiny, perfect woman. She smiled up at him, well aware of and comfortable with his regard, and Ransome was unable to keep his own smile in return from twisting slightly out of true. “Oh, enormously,” he said. “Are you here professionally, Cella, or are you here to play?”

If the barb touched her, she gave no sign of it. “To play–or to watch, rather. It was nice of you to drop in, I‑Jay, after all this time. But then, somebody was playing with your toys.”

She kept her tone light, masking the insult, but Ransome was not deceived. “Why do you care if I’m out of the Game?”

Cella laughed at him, a lovely, practiced sound. “We’ve missed you, I‑Jay, missed Ambidexter. Though with this Lioe around, that may be less of a problem. She does very well with your templates, don’t you think?”

“Well enough,” Ransome said. But I’m better. He controlled the impulse to boast, said instead, “Have you been playing much lately, Cella?” He knew perfectly well that she had been, that her most recent session had been panned by most of the nets as too political, and that the one before that had gotten an A rating on‑and off‑world– and did she deliberately blow a session, set it up so you couldn ‘t miss the politics, just to try to lure me back on line? It didn’t seem likely–one did not waste a session that way, not if one was serious about the Game–but he couldn’t shake the sudden suspicion.

“Oh, I’ve been running a session or two,” Cella said. “But we’ve all missed your input.”

“I’ll have to see if I can remedy that,” Ransome said slowly, and was not reassured by Cella’s blinding smile. I’m doing what you want, Chauvelin, but I’m not at all happy about it. At least I’ve got an excuse. Except that Lioe’s good, good the way I was, and I don’t think I’d‘ve missed her play.

“I’ll look forward to it.” Cella touched his arm lightly, and slipped away into the crowd. Ransome watched her make her way between the groups of much taller men and women, a tiny, opulent shape in rich violet silk, her blue‑black hair piled in braids interwoven with strands of the same clear color. She paused to speak briefly with one of the other Gamers, and then vanished among the crowd. Ransome stared a moment longer, wondering what she and Damian Chrestil were up to this time, then resolutely looked away.

“I‑Jay!” Beledin was waving to him from across the room. “I should’ve known you’d come.”

Ransome made his way to join the other, allowed himself one genuinely mischievous smile before he smoothed his expression. “Hello, Bel. It was a good session.”

Beledin nodded. “It was.”

“That’s what I always liked about you, Bel,” Ransome murmured. “No false modesty.”

Beledin ignored him, gestured to the two men standing with him. “You know Peter, but I don’t know if you’ve met Vere?”

Ransome started to shake his head, looking at the steward’s jacket, then frowned, a vague memory teasing him.

“Audovero Caminesi, ditVere,” the young man said with prompt courtesy.

“Illario Ransome.” Ransome held out his hand, still frowning. “Have we met?”

“I played a tenth‑run session of yours a few years ago, back when you–when Ambidexter was still working out of Two‑Dragons,” Vere answered, and took the other’s hand.

Ransome nodded, unable to sort him out from the hundreds of other players, and took refuge in present truths. “It was a good session, quality play, tonight. I liked what you did with Jack Blue–did you set the weight, or was it a given?”

“Player’s choice,” Vere answered. He shrugged, trying for nonchalance. “I figured he’d need all the help he could get, playing with Grand Types, and the heavier he was the more powerful he was.”

“Makes sense,” Ransome said. In spite of himself, in spite of everything he’d ever said about the Game, it was too easy to get caught up in the old interests. He shrugged one shoulder, annoyed at himself for no reason, and looked away.

The servers had already been around with the drinks tray. Savian drained the last of his glass, and lifted a hand to wave to someone in the crowd. “Na Lioe! There’s someone here you should meet.”

“Peter.” Beledin frowned quickly at him, at the emptied glass, and looked at Ransome. “I‑Jay. She’s good–”

“Trust me,” Ransome said, and turned to face the woman as she emerged from the crowd.

Lioe looked warily from Savian to the stranger, aware of undercurrents but uncertain of their meanings. The stranger smiled back at her–a gaunt, white‑faced man with deep lines that bracketed his mouth, turning his expression crooked–and said, “I’m pleased to meet you, Na Lioe.”

Lioe nodded, waiting for the name, and the stranger’s smile broadened.

“I’m Illario Ransome.”

“Na Ransome.” Lioe held out her hand, and the stranger took it, his grip neither testing nor condescendingly weak, still with that crooked smile.

“He’s Ambidexter,” Vere said, and for an instant sounded all of twelve years old. Ransome gave him a fleeting, amused glance, and the younger man flushed to the roots of his hair.

“You left some good characters,” Lioe said, mildly annoyed by his treatment of her player. “It’s a shame you quit the Game.”

There was a sudden silence, spreading from her words, and she was aware of Savian’s open grin, daring her to say more. Beledin kicked his friend just above the ankle, not gently, but the Republican ignored him. Ransome stared back at her for a long moment, and then, slowly, the crooked smile widened, became real and unexpectedly appealing. The whole shape of his face changed, gaining sudden lines and hollows; his coarse grey‑streaked hair fell untidily into his eyes. He pushed it back impatiently, as though he were no longer conscious of the movement, said, “I mightn’t‘ve done, if there’d been sessions like this to play in. I enjoyed watching.”

“Thanks,” Lioe said. I will not apologize for playing your characters.

“I’ll be looking forward to seeing more of your work,” Ransome said.

“That’s high praise, from Ambidexter,” Savian murmured.

Ransome cocked an eyebrow at him, but did not answer. Lioe said, with deliberate nonchalance, aiming for exactly the tone she would have used with anyone, “Thanks. You should come and play sometime.”

The expressive eyebrows rose even higher. Lioe met the stare blandly, and, quite suddenly, Ransome laughed. “I might, at that. It was a pleasure to meet you, Na Lioe.”

“And you,” Lioe said, and couldn’t keep a hint of irony out of her voice. She was already speaking to his back, however; she was sure he heard, but he made no response. “I think,” she added, mostly under her breath, and was rewarded by a rather nervous giggle from Vere.

“Would you like some methode?” Beledin said hastily, and Lioe nodded.

“So that’s Ambidexter,” she said, and accepted the glass that Beledin held out to her. The liquor was thick and fizzy, and cheaply sweet. She took a careful swallow, waiting for their answers.

“Indeed it is,” Savian said.

“He’s a good player,” Beledin said. “Nobody’s matched his Court templates, outside the Grand Game.”

“Harmsway’s a great character,” Vere agreed.

Once diverted into the Game, they could go on for hours. Lioe glanced away from the conversation, searching for Ambidexter–Ransome–among the crowding bodies. He was not a tall man, and it took her a minute to find him. He was standing with Gueremei and the man who had been pointed out to her as Davvi Medard‑Yasine, Shadows’ primary owner–standing between the two of them, so that he seemed to be holding court, the other two dancing attendance. Does he do that on purpose? she wondered. It’s obnoxious–but he does do it well. “Why did he quit gaming?” she asked, and the others looked at her in surprise.

“Ransome, you mean?” Beledin asked, and Lioe nodded.

“Sheer pique,” Savian said, with a wicked grin.

“Give it a fucking rest,” Beledin said. He looked back at Lioe, shrugged one shoulder. “He said he was bored. And he’s got his story eggs to keep him busy.”

There was a note of constraint in his voice, the faintest hint of something unspoken. Lioe cocked her head, wondering how to ask, and Savian said, “They’re easier than real people.”

Beledin scowled, opened his mouth to say something, and Savian held up both hands. “I’m not being bitchy, that’s the truth. I think he got tired of trying to bully his players into doing what he wanted.” There was something in his voice–a certainty, maybe–that silenced Beledin.

“So what did Ambidexter want?” That was Roscha, emerging from the crowd like the avenging angel in a popular film. Lioe caught her breath, impressed in spite of herself–in spite of being all too familiar with the type, of having written the template for the type–by the streetwise swagger and the striking figure.

“He said he enjoyed the session,” Vere said.

Roscha whistled softly. “From him, that’s a compliment and a half.”

“So what does he do?” Lioe asked. “Now that he doesn’t play.”

Roscha shrugged–clearly, the world outside the Game meant nothing to her, Lioe thought, not sure if she admired or was annoyed by the attitude–and Beledin said, “He’s an artist, an imagist, actually. He makes story eggs.”

“What are those?” The others looked rather oddly at her, and Lioe smiled broadly to hide her embarrassment. “I don’t know them.” And I dare you to comment, either.

Beledin gestured, shaping a sphere, an ovoid, about twenty centimeters long, miming a size and weight that would be reasonably comfortable in the hand. “It’s… they have these pictures in them, like a holofilm loop, that tells a story–suggests it, more like. You look through a lens at one end to see the display. They’re really neat, the ones I’ve seen, very stylized, so you do a lot of guessing.” He stopped, shrugged. “I’m just a musician, though. I don’t know much about it.” There was frustration in his voice, as though he was still looking for the words to describe what he’d seen.

Savian said, all trace of malice or mischief gone from his tone, “They really are spectacular, some–most of them. I saw one, it was just a plain, black metal case, smaller than usual, something you could put in your pocket, but when you looked into it, it was as though you were looking into a Five Points palazze. It was all golden lights, and carved furniture, and jewels, and velvets, and you could just see two figures moving through that setting, in and out of the clutter of things. You could turn the egg, rotate it, I mean, and you could see more bits and pieces of the scene, but you could never be quite sure what the two were doing, whether it was courtship, seduction, or one of them trying to escape. And you never could see the end of the scene, either, no matter how hard you tried.” He shook his head. “It was very–well, sensual, more than sexy, but ambiguous, too, so you couldn’t be comfortable with it.” He paused, tried a smile that carried at least some of his former detachment. “I don’t think Ransome likes you to be comfortable.”

I can believe that, Lioe thought, glanced again through the crowd. Ransome had moved away from Gueremei and Medard‑Yasine, was standing for that moment a little apart from all the rest, a glass of methodein one hand, the other deep in the pocket of his plain black trousers. For just an instant, his face was without expression, held nothing but its lines and a bone‑deep exhaustion. Then someone spoke to him, and Lioe saw his face change, take on a mask of detached amusement. So that’s where Savian got it, she thought, and had to hide a grin, deliberately turning her back to Ransome.

“That was a great session, Na Lioe.”

Lioe turned to face the speaker, a stocky, dark‑haired man with a horus‑eye tattoo on one cheek, half concealing the delicate data socket.

“Thanks,” she said, and Gueremei, coming up behind the man, cleared her throat gently.

“I don’t think you’ve met Davvi–Davvi Medard‑Yasine, our main owner.”

Lioe murmured something, and Medard‑Yasine grinned, rather sheepishly.

“Sorry, Na Lioe, I’ve seen enough of your work on the intersystems nets that I feel as though I know you. But it was a great session tonight.”

“I enjoyed it,” Lioe said, and waited.

“I wonder,” Medard‑Yasine began, and turned a shoulder to the other players, deftly easing her away from the others, “if you’d consider coming to a temporary agreement with us here at Shadows. I understand from Lia that you’re only on planet for half a week?”

“Five days at minimum,” Lioe said, and then remembered that Burning Bright kept a ten‑day week. “The ship I’m crewing for is in dock for recalibration of the sail projectors, so I’m dependent on the dockyards. They told my boss it would take five to eight days.”

Medard‑Yasine nodded. “Would it be presumptuous to assume you meant to spend most of that time gaming?”

“This is Burning Bright,” Lioe said, with a smile to take the sting out of her words. “I’d call that a reasonable assumption. Yes, I was hoping to get in as many sessions as possible.”

“After tonight’s session,” Medard‑Yasine said, “we’d be interested in anything else you might have ready to run. We’d be willing to offer twenty‑five percent of the fees, and free machine time to prepare any new ideas.”

“That’s very generous,” Lioe said, and meant it. Most Gaming clubs made a good proportion of their income from the fees they charged for use of the club’s equipment. A session could be outlined easily enough on a Gameboard, but fine‑tuning the details took the raw power–and often the more extensive libraries–available through the clubs. It had cost her over a hundred credits to complete just the prison segments of Ixion’s Wheel.

“We’re very interested,” Medard‑Yasine said.

Lioe grinned. “Would this be an exclusive deal?”

“We’d want it that way,” Medard‑Yasine agreed.

“I see.” She hadn’t really meant much by that, was just buying time, but Medard‑Yasine’s thick brows drew together slightly.

“We’d also be prepared to pay an exclusive‑use fee, for Ixion’s Wheel, on a time‑limited basis.”

“You are serious,” Lioe said, smiling, and Medard‑Yasine nodded. His face was completely without expression, and Lioe realized for the first time that he meant to buy her–her presence at the club, as a session leader–and her scenario, whatever it cost him. It was an unfamiliar feeling, and somewhat unsettling; she wondered if she had been selling herself short, back on Callixte. That was an unpleasant thought, and unproductive; she dragged herself back to the business at hand. “What kind of a time period?”

“The length of your stay,” Medard‑Yasine said promptly. “Or, since you’re not sure how long that will be, a week–ten days. We’re prepared to offer you five hundred real, over and above your cut of the session fees, and of course the free machine time, on a second‑priority basis, if you’ll let us have an exclusive license on Ixion’s Wheel for the next ten days. And, of course, if you’ll run at least five sessions for us.”

Lioe hesitated, juggling numbers in her head. She could expect to clear about fifty realper session, if Shadows’ fees were in line with the rest of the club system’s; that plus the five hundred would pay all her bills at the transients’ hostel, and the machine time would let her explore some ideas that had been nagging at her for most of the trip, ideas that sprang directly from Ixion’s Wheel… She curbed her enthusiasm. It also meant that someone else would be running her scenario several times a day, without her having any control at all over how it was handled. But then, most of those players would be household Gamers anyway, people who couldn’t handle the scenario without a highly interventionist session leader, not at all the kind of players she wanted to be bothered with anymore. “What if it turns out that people want to play more than five sessions, and my schedule lets me handle it?” she asked, still playing for time.

Medard‑Yasine said, “From what you’ve told me, I don’t know how likely that is.” He grinned, and looked suddenly years younger. “With Storm coming–the Carnival, that is–I’d expect you to want to see some of the celebration. Frankly, I don’t expect my full‑timers to do much work, this time of year.” Gueremei gave a short bark of laughter, and Medard‑Yasine gave her a conspiratorial glance. “But if you do find time to give us some extra sessions, I’ll match whatever you make from fees.”

Lioe nodded. “All right,” she said. “It sounds like a good deal. I’m willing to try it.”

“Excellent,” Medard‑Yasine said, and smiled again. “I’ll draw up a contract, and you can drop by anytime tomorrow–”

“Anytime?” Gueremei said, and Medard‑Yasine grimaced.

“All right, anytime after noon. I’ll have a voucher for the fees waiting then, too.”

“It sounds good,” Lioe said. “I’ll see you then.”

“It’s good to have you in the house,” Medard‑Yasine said. “Even if it’s only for a few days.” They clasped hands again, and then he and Gueremei moved away.

Left to herself, Lioe took a careful step backward, away from the crowd of Gamers. She was flattered by Medard‑Yasine’s praise, flattered and startled and suspicious in about equal measures, and she wanted time to think. It wasn’t that she disliked the noise and the babble and the flying cross‑talk that surrounded her, compliment and critique and commentary filling the air around her, but it distracted her, made her feel almost too much at home. Her decision wasn’t irrevocable–she could always refuse to sign the contract the next morning–but she felt the sudden need to sit down somewhere quiet and work out what she’d done. Nothing but good, seemingly: a damn good session, a contract, even a compliment from Ambidexter, which, after she’d used his character without permission, was an accomplishment indeed. From what the others had said, Ambidexter had a reputation for being possessive– and I probably wouldn’t ‘ve done it if I’d realized he was still around.

She scanned the groups of players, looking again for Ambidexter– Ransome, she corrected herself, Illario Ransome–but the thin figure had vanished. Out of sight, or gone? she wondered, and the stab of disappointment was unexpectedly keen. Why the hell should I care? Except that he was–is?–Ambidexter, and he complimented my play. That’s reason enough for any Gamer. But… I want to talk to him again.

“So.”

That was Africa’s voice, at her elbow, and Lioe turned, was vaguely startled to see Roscha’s striking face instead of the session’s icon. Roscha went on, apparently unaware of the other’s surprise, or so used to it as to be immune to the effect.

“Did he make you a decent offer?” She held out a glass of methodeas she spoke, added, “I saw you weren’t drinking.”

“Thanks,” Lioe said, and accepted the tall glass. The wine was comfortingly familiar, and she drank with pleasure.

“So will you be working here?” Roscha asked.

Lioe lifted an eyebrow, and the other woman stared back, unimpressed and still curious. “We’re–negotiating,” Lioe said after a moment, and Roscha grinned, not the least abashed.

“Shadows is a good club, and the play’s quality. You ought to think about it.”

“I am thinking about it,” Lioe said, and laid the lightest of stresses on thinking. The party was winding down around her, session participants and observers alike edging toward the door. She glanced sideways to call up the implanted chronometer’s display–one of the minor conveniences that came with a pilot’s job–and saw without surprise that it was past local midnight. Savian and Beledin stood close together near the far wall; even as she watched, Beledin smiled, and touched the other man’s shoulder, easing him toward the door. He caught her eye, and the smile widened to a grin, and then they were gone. Vere was nowhere in sight, nor Imbertine; Mariche was deep in conversation with a handsome, greyhaired man, who leaned close, resting a tentative hand on her waist. Huard stood next to a full‑bodied woman with gold flowers painted on her dark skin and hsaii ribbons woven in her hair. Even as Lioe watched, the woman reached up to touch Huard’s face, the flowers glittering in the cold light.

She looked away politely, feeling vaguely jealous–why should she be the only one going home alone?–and Roscha said, “If you’re interested, I know a good after‑hours bar. After that session, I owe you a drink.”

Lioe glanced curiously at her, wondering if she really had heard a double invitation, and what she would do about it if she had. Roscha was a striking woman, there was no doubt about it, the strong sexy curves well displayed by the plain workcloth trousers and the thin knit shirt beneath the worn jerkin. More than that, though, she was something familiar, a kind of Gamer Lioe knew and understood, and all of a sudden she was hungry for just that familiarity. “Thanks,” she said. “I’ll take you up on that.”

Roscha’s smile in return was dazzling. “It’s the least I can do. You gave me a great character.”

I didn’t choose you, unfortunately, Lioe thought, and Africa’s pretty conventional. She mumbled something in answer, and looked around for Aliar Gueremei. The older woman was standing with a group of Gamers on the far side of the room. Lioe lifted a hand to catch her eye, and started toward her, but Gueremei waved her away, her expression at once amused and approving. Lioe waved back, and turned toward the door. Roscha followed her from the room.

The hallways were less crowded than they had been, but players still clustered in the courtyard, busy at the food bars and in the lobby. A few of them called congratulations; Lioe nodded back, called polite responses, and felt the sense of satisfaction growing in her. She had done well, and she deserved the praise. Outside Shadows, the street was quiet, only dimly lit by the cool spheres at each intersection, and Lioe checked in spite of herself. The food shop seemed all but deserted, the orange light behind its open door like the glow of a banked fire. Music no longer spilled into the street, and even the bouncers had disappeared.

“The club’s down toward the Straight,” Roscha said, and Lioe jumped a little.

“How are the streets, this late?” she asked.

Roscha shrugged, looking rather surprised at the question. “Not bad–not in this quarter, anyway.” She tossed her head to send her thick hair tumbling back over her shoulders. “Come Storm, of course, everybody will be out all night, but I don’t know if that makes you any safer.”

True enough, Lioe thought, true on any planet. But I wonder if your definition of “safe” matches mine. “That’s the Carnival, right?” Keep her talking, and see what it is she wants. Since I think I could want her too.

“Yeah. The winds have already shifted, you can feel it, but the weather people aren’t predicting anything yet. There’ll be fireworks tomorrow night–the Syncretist Congregations are sponsoring that–and a big display on Storm One, that’s day after tomorrow. There’s a lot going on–people have scheduled stuff for the whole three weeks.”

There was an amusement in her voice that Lioe couldn’t translate. Was it because the city had scheduled events for the whole period, as though there was a chance that nothing would happen? Or was it just that she thought Storm was funny? Vaguely, she remembered reading stories of floods and damage, docks and whole waterfront neighborhoods washed away. Burning Bright City nestled inside the circling islands as if it lay in the bottom of a bowl; let a storm into that confined space, and wind and water would wreak havoc. She shivered, thinking of Callixte’s summer storms, the blue‑black clouds marching along the horizon, lightning striking fires to scour the central plains. She couldn’t quite imagine that force unleashed on a city–a crowded city–or with the force of the sea behind it. Maybe all you can do is laugh.

“The Syndics parade is tomorrow night,” Roscha went on, and Lioe dragged her attention back to the conversation. “That’s on the Water.”

“Parade?” Lioe asked.

“Yeah. They run barges–the big, flat‑bodied ones, set up pageants on them.” She grinned again, a look of pure mischief, and Lioe wondered just how young she was. “They do all the fittings outside of Mainwarden Island–that’s the big island, sits astride the southern end of the Water?”

Lioe nodded.

“They try to keep the presentations a big secret,” Roscha said. “When I was a kid, we used to sneak out there, try and see them ahead of time. It’s Beauties and Beasts this year–that’s the theme. You should get yourself a costume, if you go.”

“I’m not much one for dressing up,” Lioe said doubtfully, and Roscha sounded a little subdued when she answered.

“I could recommend a good costumer.”

Lioe looked sideways at her, and Roscha looked away, as though she’d said something wrong. “Thanks,” Lioe said, but the other didn’t answer. Lioe sighed slightly. She wasn’t much one for costume, had never really learned how to play those games: Carnival wasn’t part of Callixte’s heritage, and Foster Services hadn’t wanted to offend the Neo‑pagans by encouraging its client‑children to mask at Samhain.

They walked on in silence, through the dimly lit streets, passing from the pool of light that marked each intersection to the brief edge of almost‑dark where the first light ended and the next did not quite reach, then into the light again. The neighborhood was not very different from the one where Shadows lay, the same flat‑fronted, oddly decorated, anonymous buildings that could be shops or houses or factories; the same tiny parks and gardens, half hidden behind grillwork and brick walls; the same sudden bridges arching over an all‑but‑invisible canal. Lioe found herself concentrating on them anyway, trying to drown her sudden awareness of Roscha walking next to her. The cold, blank walls with their cryptic patterns, bands of lighter stone against the dark main body, were no help at all; she imagined she could feel the heat of the other woman’s body, a subtle radiance in the night air. She looked up, looking for the stars, for that distraction, but the star field was drowned in the city lights. A moon showed briefly over her right shoulder, an imperfect oval just past or not quite full; ahead–to the north, beyond the Straight and the Junction Pools–a shuttle rose like a firework from Newfields, a familiar and comforting flare of light and almost invisible cloud. She was not surprised when Roscha’s hand brushed her own.

She closed her hand around Roscha’s fingers, felt calluses under her touch, calluses across Roscha’s palm and on three of the fingertips, all sensed in a single rush of sensation, and then she slipped her hand, still awkwardly twined with Roscha’s, into the pocket of her trousers. Roscha’s knuckles rested against her thigh; the sudden movement pulled Roscha sideways a little, so that she stumbled, and made a small noise like a laugh, and their shoulders touched. Lioe smiled, said nothing, too aware of the warmth and weight of the other’s touch to speak. Then Roscha’s hand wriggled in hers, loosened and shifted its grip to shape a familiar code. Sex? the shifting fingers asked, and Lioe moved her own hand to answer, Yes.

Plain or fancy?

Either.

Latex?

Nothing oral without it. Lioe felt Roscha pull away slightly, knew her own answer had come too quickly, and looked sideways to see Roscha looking at her with an expression that hovered between amusement and irritation. “Well, you don’t know where I’ve been, either,” she said aloud, and Roscha’s anger dissolved in a shout of laughter. She flung her head back, the light from the intersection gleaming in her hair, and Lioe couldn’t help laughing with her.

“Your place or mine?” Roscha asked, after a moment, and Lioe shrugged.

“I’m staying in a hostel in the Ghetto,” she said. “You’re welcome, but it’s a long way.”

Roscha laughed again, more quietly. “I live on my boat. I drive a john‑boat for C/B Cie., deliveries and stuff. The tie‑up’s not far–as long as you don’t mind a boat.”

“Your place, then,” Lioe said, and they walked on. Roscha freed her hand from Lioe’s pocket, slipped it around the other woman’s waist; a heartbeat later, Lioe did the same. She was very aware of the gentle pressure of Roscha’s hand against her skin, and at the same time the texture of Roscha’s stiff jerkin under her hand. It felt a little like thick leather, but the surface was oddly patterned, like scales. She squeezed Roscha’s waist, trying to feel her body under the jerkin, and felt Roscha’s fingers tighten in answer against her shirt. It was not satisfactory, to be touched, and to feel so little in return; she squeezed Roscha’s waist again, and then released her, sliding her hand and arm up under the skirts of the jerkin so that her hand now rested directly against the thin shirt. Its weave was loose; she prodded experimentally at it, working one finger into the fabric so that she could feel warm skin, and Roscha jerked and gave a stifled giggle.

“That tickles.”

“Sorry,” Lioe said, and stopped poking, but she did not take her hand away.

They reached the edge of the Straight at last, a broad stretch of road, quiet now, only a few bicycles and a single flatbed carrier visible along its length. The Old Dike loomed in the distance, towering over the housetops. The noise of the carrier’s engine echoed oddly between the housefronts and the water; a bicycle whispered past, tires singing against the pavement. Lioe caught a glimpse of the rider’s face stern with concentration as he flashed under the nearest streetlamp. They crossed the trafficway cautiously, mindful of bicycles, and Roscha stepped up onto the wide poured‑stone ledge that edged the river. Lioe copied her, more cautiously, and looked down to see the water black beneath her, shadowed from any glint of light by the stone wall that was its bank. Bollards, low iron things with rounded tops like fantastic mushrooms, sprang up at regular intervals along the wall, one or two with a coil of bright yellow safety line looped around them. Roscha led the way along the ledge, Lioe following a little more slowly–the wall was broad, but the black emptiness beside and beneath her, and the low rush of the water, were enough to encourage caution–and stopped beside a bollard that carried a double loop of safety line around its base.

“Here we are,” Roscha said, and nodded at a rope ladder that was hooked into two of the holes drilled into the bank. Lioe looked down rather dubiously, was reassured to see the soft glow of a steering lamp. In its dim light, she could see most of Roscha’s boat, a long, narrow shape, blunt at both ends, with an arched section at the bow that vanished into the shadows. The deck glowed gold directly under the lamp, and a solar strip glittered softly. Roscha frowned absently down at the boat, one hand buried in a pocket, and a few seconds later Lioe heard the faint double chime of a security system disarming itself. “I’ll go first,” Roscha said, and let herself down the ladder without waiting for Lioe to agree.

Lioe lifted an eyebrow at that, but waited until the other woman had reached the deck before easing herself onto the unsteady ladder. It took her a moment to find her balance, but then she had it, and lowered herself cautiously onto the deck. Roscha was waiting to steady her, and Lioe accepted the support for a few seconds, until she caught the rhythm of the boat in her feet and legs. She nodded to Roscha–the boat moved less than she had expected, but it was a jerky movement, unpredictable–and Roscha released her, moved forward to the shelter and crouched on the deck to release a hidden latch. A section of the deck came up in her hand, revealing a short ladder and a dim, red‑toned light. Lioe grinned, even though she knew perfectly well why any boatman– or pilot, for that matter–kept red lights in the sleeping quarters, and came forward to join her. Roscha smiled and said, “After you.”

The cabin space was mostly bed, a thin mattress on top of a good‑sized platform that probably concealed storage space. Lioe sat on the edge of the mattress–there was no room for two to stand in the narrow stairwell, and the arched ceiling kept her from standing upright except in the very center of the cabin–while Roscha secured the double‑doored hatch behind them, and turned at last to face her. One hand was in her pocket still: the security system chimed again, resetting itself, and the red light strengthened slightly. In the comparative brightness, Lioe could see more details, the crumpled blankets and the cases of disks, Rulebooks and session supplements, mounted on the bulkhead just above the bed. Roscha slipped out of her jerkin, hung it on a hook mounted beside the hatch, and seated herself on the mattress beside the other woman. Lioe smiled and reached for her, and Roscha reached back. They kissed, lips meeting and parting, slow and awkward until they’d settled on who would lead. Lioe leaned into Roscha’s strong embrace, let herself be held and touched, Roscha’s callused fingers fumbling under her clothes to free her breasts, pinching her nipples into stiffness. And then they were scrambling with clasps and zippers and catchtape, struggling to get all the way onto the bed without letting go, either one of the other, until they were lying nearly face to face, legs tangled, thigh to crotch. Lioe leaned back a little to let Roscha’s hand between her legs, to let the deft fingers slide between her labia, circling and searching and teasing in the thick wetness until she found the right stroke. Lioe buried her face against the other woman’s shoulder, riding her hand and the rhythm of the boat until she came. Roscha came a few minutes later, driving her crotch against Lioe’s thigh, and they lay tangled, breathing hard, until finally Lioe shifted her shoulders so that she could lie flat, displacing most of Roscha’s weight sideways onto the mattress. Roscha mumbled something, already half asleep. Lioe craned her neck awkwardly to look at her, caught between amusement and chagrin– no particular sense of prowess, I didn’tdo anything–but it was late, and there was no place she needed to be. She shifted again, freeing herself from the uncomfortable parts of Roscha’s embrace, and let herself relax toward sleep.

Part Three

« ^ »

Early Morning, Day 31

High Spring: The

Chrestil‑Brisch

Palazze, Five Points

It was very late by the time Damian Chrestil came home to bed, a bored helio pilot lifting him from the Junction Pool helipad up and over the light‑streaked mass of the Old Dike to the Chrestil‑Brisch compound on the headland that was the third of the original Five Points. Most of the lights were out in the narrow buildings, only faint security lights glowing behind the arches of the first floor. The second and third stories, solid walls of dark stone broken by unlit slit windows, looked ungainly, top‑heavy, without light to give them balance. Only the ring‑and‑cross of the landing pad glowed blue through the darkness, and the helio pilot landed them with the rotors barely moving, balancing the weight of the passenger pod against the gas in the lifting cells. Damian nodded his approval– no need to wake everyone in the house–and let himself in through the security ring, raising his hand in greeting to the single human being sitting sleepily at the center of the glowing banks of controls. Like all the Five Points families, and most of the other groups that dominated Burning Bright’s commerce, the Chrestil‑Brisch had good reason to employ a private police force. It was a matter of pride that theirs was smaller than many. The guard nodded back, and said, “Na Damian, there’s a visitor waiting in your suite. She’s on your admit list.”

Damian lifted an eyebrow at him. The only woman the guard would describe as a visitor whom he would let into his rooms was Cella, and he couldn’t imagine what she would be doing here. Her regular nights were the fourth, fourteenth, and twenty‑fourth. “Is there a message?” he asked, and the guard shook his head.

“No, sir. She just asked to be let in.”

“How charming.”

Damian turned away, made his way down the echoing corridors toward his own suite of rooms. The palazze’s floors were seamarble, quarried from the uninhabited, and uninhabitable, Midseas Islands; his footsteps sounded hollow on the green‑veined stone, and he found himself stepping lightly, trying not to wake the distant echoes. The automatic lamps lit at his approach, fretted globes held in fantastic sconces, and closed down again after he had passed, so that he walked in the center of a moving tunnel of light. His private rooms were at the northwestern corner of the palazze, where short domed towers sprouted like mushrooms, looking out over the old city toward the rising mass of the Landing Isle and Newfields. As he approached them, the security board outside the main door lit, and chimed softly for his attention. The lights glowed green and yellow among the wide leaves and thick clustered fruit of the frieze of sea grape carved around the doorway, spelling out a familiar pattern. Even so, Damian Chrestil slid his hand into his pocket, curled his fingers around the familiar shape of his household remote, feeling for the control points by instinct. He trusted Cella as much as he trusted anyone, but it was as well to be prepared. He palmed the device, cutting off the system’s programmed announcement of his presence, and let himself into the suite.

Cella was waiting in the reception room, as he’d known she would be, in the corner of the room under the arches that held up the main tower. Moonlight poured in through the window on her left, draping her with the shadow of the fretwork tracery outside the window, drawing blue fire from the seabrights scatter‑sewn across her fractal‑lace overskirt. Behind her, the Old City was spread like a faded carpet, the regular lights of square and street broken by the darkness of the distant reservoirs and the unlit lines of the Straight and the Crooked rivers and the velvet texture of the parklands. She was wearing a violet bodice above the lavender and silver lace, dyed raw silk cut close to her full breasts, rising and sweeping outward to expose her shoulders; braids of the same clear violet were woven into the glossy black of her hair. The double light, the moonlight and the city lights behind her, rounded even further the lavish curves of her body. Damian Chrestil caught his breath as she turned to smile at him, and saw the faint pulsing light of an orbiter rising over her shoulder from the pens at Newfields. It was perfectly timed, it had to have been timed, and he knew he should laugh, tease her for it, but the effect was too perfect, good enough to convince even him. Then she took a step forward, and he saw from the look on her face, the uncalculated, crooked grin so different from her usual cool smile, that effect was the last thing on her mind. He blinked, but touched the remote to light the wall lamps and opaque the windows, and said aloud, “What brings you here, Cella?”

Her grin widened. “You told me,” she said, “you told me you wanted Ransome back on the nets, and by the very God, he’s back.”

“So?” Damian was suddenly very tired, not in the mood for games or the Game. “So you’re good. I knew that, it’s what I pay you for.”

Cella tilted her head at him, still smiling, but turned away toward the sideboard bar. She ran her hands across the carved border of lions and deer, fingers working deftly on the disguised controls, and then extracted bottles and two ice‑lined tumblers. She poured two drinks, ardentecut with the sweet‑and‑sour syrup distilled from sugarwort, and brought one across to him. The ice in the tumblers cracked sharply as the warmed ardentehit it. She said, over the random noises, “But I didn’t do it, Damiano. He came back on his own.”

Damian lifted an eyebrow at her, and settled himself on the long, low chaise, deliberately stretching out his legs to keep her from sitting beside him. Cella smiled, not the least put out, and seated herself demurely in a willow‑work chair opposite him. She might, from her expression, have been the perfect salarywife greeting her corporate husband.

“I’ve been trying to lure him in, get him interested–I even botched a scenario on his account–but he’s been too damn careful.” She grinned suddenly, lopsidedly, an expression as unexpected as her attempts at respectability. “Or at least too busy with those story eggs of his. I was beginning to think you’d do better to commission one, Damiano.”

“But he came back,” Damian said. “Do stick to the point, Cella, I’m tired.”

One eyebrow flickered up in mute but pointed question, but Cella said only, “That’s right. He came back because there’s a new notable in town, and she had the temerity to play one of his Grand Types. And she did it well, too. So I think Na Ransome will have his mind on the Game for at least a week–that’s how long this woman is going to be here. Or maybe longer. When I left, he was buying Rulebooks, and I haven’t heard of him doing that in years.”

“So.” Damian sipped at his drink, considering her news, and slowly allowed himself to smile. The Game, or at least the new notable, would keep Ransome busy in the Game nets, and he could slip the lachesi quietly into the system, and ship without interference from the Republic, local Customs, or Chauvelin. It seemed that ji‑Imbaoa’s interference hadn’t roused anyone’s suspicions after all. “Tell me about this new notable.”

Cella shrugged, a calculated indifference. “I don’t know much. She’s a Republican, union pilot–from Callixte, or at least she plays out of Callixte’s nets. Her ship’s supposed to be in dock‑orbit for repairs, and she’s planning to spend the time gaming. Decent‑looking woman, if you like them thin and stern. And a damn good session leader.”

“Find out about her,” Damian said. “Politics, background–whatever.”

Cella nodded. “Ransome was really interested,” she said. “I haven’t seen him in a club in years, he won’t let it rest at just one session. He’ll be busy with this scenario for the rest of Storm, at least.”

“Not bad,” Damian Chrestil said, and allowed his approval to color his voice. He considered the invitation that he knew was waiting in his files, added, “Are you working tomorrow–I mean, tonight?”

Cella frowned slightly, slipped a hand into the folds of her skirt to consult a scheduler hidden somewhere out of sight. “Tonight, no. Why?”

“Chauvelin is having his annual night‑before‑Storm party,” Damian said. “I’d like you to accompany me.”

Cella paused, shrugged slightly. “All right. Our usual arrangement, I assume?”

“Of course.”

“All right, then.”

“Excellent,” Damian said.

“Not bad,” Cella answered, “not bad at all.” She set her now‑empty tumbler aside, and came to sit next to him, pushing his legs out of her way. “All things considered, I think I have every right to be pleased.”

“For whatever it was you did,” Damian said. He eyed her almost warily, recognizing the mood. It was neither drink nor drugs, but the solid high of an unexpected success, and he would reap the benefits of it, whether he liked it or not. She smiled down at him, well aware of her own excitement and his lack of immediate response, and ran two fingers up the inside of his thigh. It was a touch that rarely failed to rouse him; he laid one hand flat against her breast, and felt her nipple already stiff against the palm of his hand, easily discernible through the rough silk. She had done the job he wanted, however she’d done it, and her choice of coin was sex: sex of her choice, for her pleasure, at her whim. He caught his breath as her hand moved higher, brushed past his groin, and came to rest flat against his lower belly, a steady, urgent pressure. Not that it was a difficult payback– a hard one, maybe–but it was unavoidable, if he wanted to keep their tacit agreement. Cella’s smile widened, as though she’d read his thoughts, and she slid an expert hand under his clothes, ending all possibility of protest.

He woke in his own bed the next morning, to sunlight and the steady shrilling of an alarm. He swore, wondering for a bleary instant why Cella let it sound, then reached across the empty bed for the remote. The time was flashing on the far wall, the red numbers almost drowned by the bright sunlight: almost the ninth hour. He had slept through at least two earlier wake‑ups. No wonder Cella hadn’t waited. He sat up, wincing–he wasn’t hung over, but he functioned badly on fewer than six hours’ sleep–and touched the remote again. His fingers slid clumsily over the rounded surface. It was a pretty thing, shaped like a wide‑web node with a single broad leaf wrapped around it, carved from a brown stone so dark that it looked almost black except in direct sunlight, but this morning the carving distracted him. He found the proper control points at last, launched the program that displayed his schedule on the far wall below the chronometer’s numbers. The ninth hour was given over to the weekly breakfast meeting with his siblings.

He swore again, checked the time–less than a quarter hour, barely enough time to shower and shave and dress, much less find a wake‑up pill–and forced himself out of bed. Neither the shower nor the pill Cella had kindly left for him helped much, but he managed to dress with reasonable care, and made his way to join the others. He was not the last to arrive, and Chrestillio–Altagracian Chrestil‑Brisch, the family pensionary and titular head of the family by virtue of being firstborn–nodded at him from his place at the head of the long table. Bettisa Chrestil‑Brisch, known as Bettis Chrestil, the family’s representative to the Five Points Bank, did not look up from the workboard where the night’s downloaded trade figures were playing.

“Good morning,” Damian Chrestil said, keeping his voice suitably subdued, and crossed to the sideboard to pour himself a cup of coffee from the intricate silver brewer. The coffee was cut half‑and‑half with milk from the Homestead Island farms–even the Chrestil‑Brisch couldn’t afford to import coffee in bulk–and he added a toffee‑colored crystal the size of his little fingernail from the sugar bowl. Sugar was expensive, too–most of the sugarwort crop went to the distilleries–but there was no point in being stingy this morning. He collected breakfast as well, a wedge of soft, mild cheese, a few thin, chewy slabs of docker’s bread, and a spoonful of sour preserved fruit. There was fish sausage as well, and a bowl filled with half a dozen hard‑boiled eggs, their shells painted with swirls of dye, but he ignored them both, and seated himself opposite Bettis Chrestil. The sunlight, mercifully, was behind him; it streamed into the room, casting shadows across the polished and inlaid tabletop and onto the olive‑and‑gold paneling. The carnival scenes that filled the central medallion of each panel looked bleached in the strong light.

“Has anyone seen the weather?” Damian asked.

Bettis looked up from her board. “About what you’d expect, this time of year. There’s a depression to the southeast, but there’s no saying if it’ll strengthen, or come this way.”

Chrestillio said, “The street bookmakers are saying it’s at forty‑to‑one to hit at all, at any strength, but I hear that’s dropping.”

And the street bookies would know, Damian thought. They know as much and more than the weathermen, but then, they have more to lose. The canalli bet on the weather with the same passion that he himself played politics.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” a new voice said, and Damian looked up to see the last of his siblings standing in the doorway. She came fully into the room, a broad‑shouldered, broad‑hipped woman in the grey‑green coveralls that anyone wore to visit the distillery, and a whiff of the mash came with her, a sour odor almost thick enough to taste. Damian winced, and Calligenia Chrestil‑Brisch finished stripping out of the heavy coveralls and dropped them in the hallway outside the door. She closed the door behind her, leaving the clothes for a household cleaner, said, “I got caught up in some stuff at the plant.”

“Problems?” Chrestillio said, and Calligan Brisch shook her head.

“Not really. We were doing preliminary slow‑down for Storm, and there was a minor hassle with one of the big vats. About what you’d expect, this time of year.”

Chrestillio nodded, satisfied, and Damian took a cautious sip of his coffee, trying to drown the last of the smell.

“Did you get that shipment in, Damiano?” Calligan went on, and turned to the sideboard. She filled a plate–a little of everything, cheese, sausage, bread, a couple of the eggs, a healthy spoonful of the preserved fruits–and came to take the final place at the table. Looking at her, at all of them, Damian was struck again by the resemblances between them. Not that they precisely looked alike, beyond a general similarity of coloring–Chrestillio and Calligan Brisch had both gotten their mother’s build, big, broad‑shouldered people, while he and Bettis Chrestil took more after their slimmer, fine‑boned father–but there was a certain something, the shape of the long nose and the quirk of the wide mouth, that marked them unmistakably as siblings. He shook himself out of the reverie, and made himself answer her question.

“Yes. There was some minor spoilage in one of the batches of red‑carpet–TMN again.”

“I think we ought to cut ties with them,” Calligan Brisch said, and reached for a saltcellar. Bettis Chrestil slid one across to her, still not taking her eyes from the workboard.

“We probably should,” Damian agreed. “Unless they give us a real break on the next few batches.” And anyway, he added silently, they’ve served their purpose. I’ve got enough information on their codes to fake a shipment from them, and that will help the lachesi get through.

“What I’d like to know,” Chrestillio said, “is why the Republicans have been sniffing around our warehouses again.”

“Not here, surely,” Bettis said.

“No,” Chrestillio said.

“On Demeter, right?” Damian said, with all the innocence he could muster. “I think it was TMN they were after–another reason to drop them, I guess.”

“You heard about it, then?” Chrestillio asked.

“I got your message yesterday,” Damian said. “I’m sorry I didn’t get back to you, but I did have time to look into the matter, and from what our factor tells me, they were looking for something in the TMN shipment that came through yesterday.” Was it only yesterday? It feels as if it were years ago. He shook the thought away. Republican Customs‑and‑Intelligence had certainly been tipped off to the lachesi that had traveled with the red‑carpet; the only real question was, by whom, and the factor would deal with that. But C‑and‑I had no proof; it would be safe enough to begin the next stage of the transfer. In fact, the sooner the better.

“As you say,” Bettis murmured, “another good reason to sever ties with TMN. I’ve never understood why you dealt with them in the first place, Damiano. They’ve got a reputation for shady dealing, buying smuggled goods and the like.”

That was why I started dealing with them. Damian curbed his tongue, said mildly, “They were cheap, and they’re brokers for a growers’ union that–until last year, anyway–was reliable, gave us a quality product. I agree, I think they’ve outlived their usefulness.”

Chrestillio said, “I’m still concerned that C‑and‑I was down on one of our houses, Damiano.”

“It wasn’t us they were after, but I agree,” Damian said. “I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

Chrestillio shook his head. “Not good enough. Are you running shadow cargoes, Damiano?”

Damian hesitated, not sure how he wanted to answer this– of course I am, but I’m not sure you want to hear that–and Chrestillio went on, “We do a lot of business with the Republic. I don’t want to screw up our good relations there.”

“We do a lot of business in HsaioiAn, too,” Damian said, sure of his ground in this well‑worn argument. “We need to keep on good terms with them, too.”

“But I don’t want to do it at the expense of our Republican connections,” Chrestillio said.

“They could make it pretty difficult to get the red‑carpet if they wanted to,” Calligan Brisch said. “We have stockpiles, of course, and they will get us through Storm, but they won’t last long after that. And the distillery will need a few weeks to get back up to speed.”

“To put it bluntly,” Chrestillio said, “what do we get out of this, in return for this risk?”

“What risk?” Damian asked, and suddenly realized that his siblings knew, or guessed, more than he’d intended. Not that it should surprise me. But I didn’t expect them to challenge me quite so soon. “What I’m hoping to get is permission to trade directly with Highhopes and the human settlement on Nan‑pianmar. I’m doing a favor for certain persons, and those worlds lie within his sphere of influence.”

“It would be nice not to go through the Jericho brokers,” Bettis said, “but do you really think they’ll allow it?”

Damian grinned. “Frankly, I think it’s a long shot, but the–the main person with whom I’m dealing has invested status in the question, and it’ll be worth his while to buy us off. And ours, too. And he will be indebted to us.”

“Well?” Chrestillio looked at the others.

“As long as it doesn’t screw up my production schedules,” Calligan Brisch said. “Otherwise, it sounds like a chance worth taking.”

Bettis nodded. “I agree. Our investments in the Republic can stand a little scandal.”

Chrestillio nodded. “All right. But I don’t want trouble on Demeter.”

“There won’t be,” Damian answered, and kept himself from crossing his fingers under the tabletop, as though he were a child again. And there shouldn’t be any trouble, not if ji‑Imbaoa gets me the codes he’s promised. With Ransome off the nets, or at least busy with the Game, there’s no one else on the hsai side who can spot what’s happening, and I know there aren’t any traces on Demeter that will lead to me. TMN can fend for itself. And if I win–never mind the trading rights, there will be people on both sides deep in debt to me. He smiled to himself, and reached for the dish of preserves.

Day 31

High Spring: Shadows, Face Road,

Dock Road District Below the Old Dike

Lioe settled herself at a console in one of the club’s workrooms, her fingers moving easily over the controls, probing the club’s extensive libraries for ideas for a new scenario. It would be nice to pursue some of the ideas from Ixion’s Wheel–particularly Avellar’s bid for the throne, dependent as it was on the same psionics that had been banned throughout the Imperium. Avellar, tied to his surviving clone‑siblings by a telepathic link, was potentially a fascinating character, though she would have to find a player who could be relied on to avoid Gamer angst. Ambidexter could do it, she thought, if he was still playing. She shook that thought away. Ambidexter was no longer a player; there was no use pining over what might have been. Avellar’s bid for the throne would provide the most interesting resolution to the unstable political and emotional balance within the Game itself; his plot had ties to all the other versions and variants of the Game, could pull it all together into one final, complete scenario that would take years to run. She could see how it could be structured, how to use Avellar to bring in each strand of the Game, all the plots that had evolved and mutated from the original scenario–they were linked anyway, so intermingled that a schematic of the Game looked more like a snarled web of string than a normal variant tree. But Avellar, or, more precisely, Avellar’s bid to take the throne, could untangle it all, and bring the situation to a final resolution.

And that, of course, was the problem, and the main reason she would never float that grand scenario. To follow that line would mean coming dangerously close to the end of the Game. About the only convention that was held sacrosanct by every Gamer was that no scenario could be allowed to tip the balance between Rebellion and Imperium: to change that would be to change the Game itself. It wouldn’t be the end, not really, a voice whispered, just the start of a new Game, but that was almost as unacceptable. She had been told, years ago, when she was just starting out in the Game, that she had too much of a taste for endings. She sighed, and touched the key sequence that would load another file into her Gameboard–Shadows had given her unlimited copy privileges–and got the double beep that warned her that the datasphere was reaching capacity. She sighed again, released it from the read/write slot, and fumbled in her carryall until she found the case of disks she had bought that morning. She fitted a new one into place, touched keys again, and saw the monitor screen shift to the familiar transmission pattern.

She leaned back in her chair, watching the patterns change, and wondered what she would do for another scenario. Ixion’s Wheel was fun, but neither last night’s session nor any of the off‑line test sessions back on Callixte had been quite what she wanted. There was always somebody who wouldn’t play the templates the way they were written, or something to throw off the balance she had imagined. Maybe a different set of players would do better, or maybe a different scenario–something in the Court Life variant, say, secret rebels working at court–would give her what she was looking for, would give her the perfect session that no one would ever want to rewrite.

She turned her thoughts away from that impossibility–the point of the Game was that everything could be rewritten, that the main points of the evolving story could only be arrived at by concensus, the acceptance of large numbers of one’s peers–and flipped a secondary screen to the in‑house narrowcast. One of the house notables was running Ixion’s Wheel already, and she paused for a moment, touched keys to bring up the audio feed.

“–but can you be trusted to support the Rebellion, my lord?” a voice said, and she winced, and flipped the screen away. She hadn’t expected the players to be very good, playing in a low‑level session like this one, but that was the kind of Gamer dialogue that she particularly disliked.

She called up another set of menus, but let them sit untouched, staring at the complex symbol strings. Just at the moment, none of them were terribly interesting. She sighed again, and touched keys to move out of the Game systems and into the regular communications net. It was probably past time to check her temporary mailbox; it would be just like Kerestel to call to see how she was doing, and to worry if he received no answer. She touched codes, frowned for a moment at the mailbox prompt, and then searched her bag until she found the slip of foil with the account numbers printed on it. She typed them in, followed it with her password, and the screen went blank for an instant before obediently presenting her with a list of messages. As expected, Kerestel had called–twice–but at least the second message confirmed that they would be staying on Burning Bright for a full ten days. She dispatched a quick acknowledgment– at least he’ll know I’m all right, and checking my mail–and called up the third message. The sender’s code was unfamiliar. She wondered for an instant if Roscha had sent some kind of note–that sort of gesture didn’t seem to be at all her style–and then the screen windowed again on the short printed message:

I ENJOYED YOUR SCENARIO, AND WOULD LIKE TO TALK MORE ABOUT IT. WOULD YOU BE INTERESTED IN COMING TO A PARTY TONIGHT AT THE HSAI AMBASSADOR’S WITH ME? I THINK YOU MIGHT FIND IT INSTRUCTIVE. RANSOME.

Lioe studied the note for a moment, trying to work out the implications. It was flattering that Ransome/Ambidexter had thought enough of the scenario to extend this invitation, and if sex was intended, she wasn’t entirely sure she’d say no– but I really don’t think I like the word “instructive.” And why is the hsai ambassador inviting him to parties, anyway? She left the message hanging on that screen, touched her keyboard to move onto a general data net. A chime sounded and glyphs flashed, warning her that any charges from this node were her personal responsibility. She sighed, and hit the accept button, though she touched a second series of keys to post a running total at the base of the screen. The screen went dark for a moment, then presented her with another series of menus.

Burning Bright’s datastore was indexed according to an unfamiliar system. She wasted perhaps five minutes and ten reallearning how to phrase her questions, but at last found the hsai ambassador’s public file. He was human– and I probably oughtn’t be surprised at that; the hsai do tend to staff their embassies with adopted members of the local species–but not jericho‑human, not born inside the borders of HsaioiAn. What was unusual was that he had been born on Burning Bright, one of the select few who had been coopted for adoption into the hsai kinship system. Lioe stared at that information for a moment, wondering how it must feel to come back to your homeworld after all this time–over thirty years, if his age was correct, and he had been coopted in his twenties, like most chaoi‑mon. She shook herself then, seeing the list of honors that followed his name: membership in the imperial family, half a dozen different awards for merit, including a personal letter from the Father‑Emperor himself. Whatever he had felt about cooption at the time, Tal Chauvelin had adapted, and flourished. And there were reasons to accept cooption, after all. Lioe frowned slightly, remembering the last big series of hsai cooption raids. She had just begun piloting then, and the risk had been real enough, even on the fringes of the Republic, that she had had to consider what she would do if she were faced with that choice. The hsai wanted to join the entire galaxy in kinship, according to their own phrase, and, however you felt about it personally, they did live up to their side of that philosophy. Chaoi‑monwere, by law and custom, full members of hsai society, fully part of the elaborate system. Given a choice between that and death, or at best a few years in a holding pen while the metagovernments squabbled over repatriation, becoming chaoi‑monwas not that bad an option. And if you came from a poor world, either in the Free Zone or on the fringes of the Republic, or even from a poor sector of a good world, it was a definite step forward.

However, Chauvelin’s background didn’t tell her why Ransome was invited to his party, or why Ransome would invite her. She skimmed through the rest of the file, and found nothing useful. Ransome’s public file was short, and heavily edited: it made no mention of his Gaming career, and concentrated on a list of the awards he had won for his story eggs and other image installations. He had been born on Burning Bright, held Burning Bright citizenship, but the only remotely personal piece of information in the file was the note that his parents had been Syncretist Observants, minister/administrators of Burning Bright’s peculiar religion. She hesitated, wondering if it was worth her while to try to hack the system–there had to be other records available somewhere–but then smiled, slowly. There was, of course, an even simpler way to answer her question: ask him directly.

She flipped herself out of the datastore–the charges read fifty real, and she made a face at the total–and back onto the main communications net, transferring Ransome’s mailcode from the message that still waited on the secondary screen. There was another brief pause, and then the communications screen lit and windowed.

“Na Lioe. I see you got my message.”

Lioe leaned back in her chair to look at the face in the screen. Ransome was looking even paler than he had the night before, and a hectic flush stained his high cheekbones. But then, I probably don’t look so great myself, after last night. She had not slept well on Roscha’s boat. She put that thought aside, said aloud, “I did. I was wondering why.”

There was a little pause, and Ransome said, “Why what?”

“Why you invited me,” Lioe answered. And why you were invited in the first place.

Ransome grinned. “I told you, I like your play, and I think you might find hsai politics amusing–maybe even useful. Are you committed to a session tonight?”

“No.” Lioe hesitated, unsure of the right move. But I want to go, she realized abruptly. I’ve never seen real hsai society, just the jericho‑humans who broker for them. And most of all, I want to find out more about Ransome. “Yes,” she said slowly. “Yes, I’d like to come. How do I get there–and how formal is this, anyway?”

“Moderately,” Ransome said. “I’ll meet you at the Governor’s Point lift station at eighteen‑thirty, and we can ride together–if that’s agreeable to you.”

“Thanks,” Lioe said. “I’ll be there.”

“Until tonight, then,” Ransome said, and cut the connection.

Lioe stared at the empty screen for a moment longer, then made herself begin closing down the systems. From what she had seen of Burning Bright, “moderately formal” here should probably be translated as “strictly formal” in Republican terms. Nothing in her carryall–nothing in the storage cells back on the ship, or indeed left behind in her one‑room flat on Callixte–fit that description; she would have to find the local shop district, and hope she could pick up something appropriate. She hesitated then, her fingers poised for the final sequence. The cab driver had said something about Warden Street, the street that ran along the top of the Old Dike, being a center for fashion. Why not go there, especially when she had money to spend? Less than she had before she’d gone into the datastores, but still enough to afford a few more indulgences. She smiled to herself, and finished closing down the system.

She paid her fee at the main desk in the lobby, and found her way to the nearest waterbus stop. Roscha had tried to explain the local transit system before she’d dropped Lioe off on the canalside south of Shadows, and so far the hurried explanation seemed to make sense. She bought a regular ticket–she didn’t want to indulge in express buses, not when she was planning to buy clothing–and when the bus arrived, seated herself in the stern, under the faded brick‑red awning. The bus was crowded, and slow, stopping every two hundred meters or so to take on more passengers or to drop someone off, and for once Lioe let herself enjoy the scenery.

The canal was filled with traffic, from covered barges half again as long as the waterbus to the narrow, high‑tailed passenger boats that Roscha had called gondas, to one‑and two‑person skids. Most of the people riding skids were young, standing barefoot on the platform, skimming in and out of the traffic trailing a plume of spray. One bright‑red craft cut close enough to the bus to send water spraying across the open passenger compartment, and Lioe joined in the general shout of anger. A woman at the head of the bus pitched a piece of fruit after the skid’s driver, hitting him neatly in the back of the head, and the other passengers applauded. The woman stood and bowed, like an actor, and Lioe saw the mask sitting on the bench beside her, a grinning devil‑face, the gold and black vivid against the faded grey of the seats.

At the next stop, a gaggle of children in school uniforms, black high‑collared smocks open over a variety of shirts and trousers, climbed aboard; they vanished one by one as the bus wound its way up the canal toward the Crooked River. At last the bus turned onto a much broader canal, this one paralleling the Old Dike, so that they moved between a narrow embankment, and the houses shouldering each other for place beyond it, and the immense bulk of the Dike itself. Even in the daylight, with the sunlight to soften it, it was an impressive sight, towering over the traffic, bicycles and three‑wheeled carts and denki‑bikes and the occasional heavy carrier, that moved along the embankment at its foot. The stone of its face had faded from its original near‑black, and the salt stains had all but vanished, replaced by the softer faded lavender and grey‑green of rock‑rust. Lioe leaned back, trying to see Warden Street at the top of the wall, but she could only hear it, the traffic moving in counterpoint to the noise of the street at its base.

The canal widened perceptibly, and the banks were crowded with low‑slung barges, their open decks piled high with crates and boxes. Shoppers, men and women alike in loose shirts and trousers, many of them barefoot on the sun‑warmed stones, moved along the banks with string sacks balanced on each shoulder, calling to each other and to the merchants on the barges. The barge tenders seemed to sell anything, Lioe saw with amazement. There was one stocked with food, set up like any land‑bound store with neat aisles and display cases; tied to its stern was a much smaller boat that seemed to be filled with rags. A couple of adolescents were pawing through the piles. As Lioe watched, one of them straightened with a crow of delight, and slung a salvaged cape around his thin shoulders, striking a dramatic attitude. Farther on, a closed barge sold custom masks, a white, unpainted face peering from each of the tiny portholes. It was an unsettling effect, and Lioe looked away quickly.

The bus stopped three times in the market basin–Warden Mecomber’s Market, the signs read, in Burning Bright’s old‑fashioned, legible script–and the passengers climbed out in droves, calling to the driver as they went. As the bus pulled away from the final stop, only Lioe and a trio of musicians, two towheaded young men who looked like siblings and a stocky, flat‑faced woman, remained. The musicians huddled together, talking in low voices, their cased instruments tucked between their feet. The woman, sketching phrasing and tempo in the air, had beautiful hands.

The bus moved more slowly now, and the tone of its engine deepened, as though it were fighting a new current. Lioe glanced over the side, curious, but the oily water slid past, apparently unchanged. Then she heard a new rushing noise–not so new, she realized; she had been hearing it since the market, but the babble of voices had kept her from realizing what it was. The bus slanted in toward the left‑hand bank, the embankment side, and the driver’s voice crackled in the speakers.

“Crooked Underpass, people. End of the line.”

Lioe followed the musicians up onto the bank, and stopped short, staring at the Dike. Directly ahead of her, the embankment ended in a woven iron railing; beyond that, water spurted from a hole in the Dike, a short, meter‑long fall to the river below–not a hole, she realized instantly, but a tunnel. The Crooked River had to pass through the Dike–she had known that, but it hadn’t quite sunk in to her consciousness–and this was the mouth of the tunnel that carried it. The tunnel probably has hydro generators in it, too, she thought, striving for some kind of perspective. Burning Brighters don’t seem to waste power. Beyond the railing, the water roared, and a segment of the spectrum danced in the spray. She stared for a moment longer, then made herself look away.

She rode the elevator up the face of the Dike–it was a closed car, and she wasn’t entirely sure if she was glad or sorry–and passed through the elevator station and into a blaze of noise and color. She blinked, startled, checked instinctively, and nearly ran into someone. Warden Street was mobbed, people jostling shoulder to shoulder along the walkways and spilling out into the street, so that the trolley sounded its two‑toned whistle almost continually, and still barely moved more than a few meters at a time. A group of musicians–not the trio from the bus–were playing on a wooden platform that looked temporary, the stinging sound of steel strings ringing over the crowd, but the singer’s words were lost in the general uproar. Lioe blinked again, realized that she was becoming a traffic hazard, and made herself start walking.

The crowds here were better dressed than they had been on the streets below. Here most of the people, men and women, wore either the full‑skirted, nipwaisted coats or loose, unshaped wraps of some silky fabric that seemed to float in the air around them, trailing strange perfumes. Quite a few wore strands of bells, silver or gold or enameled in many colors, slung from shoulder to hip, and Lioe found herself eyeing them curiously, wondering if the style would suit her. The shop windows were enticing, holograms revolving in the thick display glass, showing off clothes more improbable even than the Republic’s highest fashion, the prices flickering discreetly just below the items. A few of the older buildings had real windows, with real goods in the boxes behind them. Lioe slowed her step to stare, not caring if that betrayed her as a foreigner–the neat hat would do that anyway, marked her as a pilot and a Republican on any human‑settled world–and realized that the prices in these windows were sandwiched in the glass itself, faint opalescent numbers visible only from a certain angle. She couldn’t begin to guess how much such a display would cost, but she suspected the shops made more than enough to cover their expenses. Still, one of them was bound to have what she needed.

She found what she was looking for at last, in a smaller store toward the center of the Dike, a place crammed with racks of the full‑skirted coats and the silky wraps, and a pile of skirts made of reembroidered lace, each pattern in the lace itself redefined by an overlay of colored shapes cut from sequensa shells. She fingered that fabric cautiously, admiring its elaborate beauty, but knew better than to buy. She wouldn’t know how to wear a skirt, how to make herself look good in it, but even so, she sighed for the lost possibility. She bought a coat instead, this one straight‑bodied, a rich gold‑on‑gold brocade embroidered at the neck and shoulders with gold beads and leaf‑shaped paillettes of gold‑dyed sequensas. It looked good, she had to admit as she looked at herself in the shop mirror, the counterwoman hovering in the background, good enough to make her reckless. She bought a shirt as well, a loose tunic of the floating silk dyed a darker mustard color, and a thin scarf bordered with more sequensas and gold embroidery. It took everything that was left of the voucher from Shadows to pay for it all, but she shrugged away the thought that she was doing it to impress Ransome. This was easy money, easy come and easy go, to be spent on indulgences like this. And if I want to impress somebody with it, well, I’ll just call Roscha. I might do that anyway. She passed the last of the vouchers over the countertop, watched the woman feed them one by one into the bank machine. I think I’ll do just that–and if I need money, there’s always Republican C‑and‑I. Kichi Desjourdy’s station chief here, and she always paid well for information. There’s bound to be enough stuff going on here that would interest her. She watched the counterwoman wrap the clothes into a tidy bundle, accepted it with thanks. Certainly there should be enough happening at this party of Ransome’s. She tucked the bundle under her arm, and stepped out of the shop to catch the trolley back toward Governor’s Point and her hostel in the Ghetto beyond.

Evening, Day 31

High Spring: The Hsai

Ambassador’s House, in the

Ghetto, Landing Isle Above

Old City North

It was evening in Chauvelin’s garden, and Damian Chrestil stood with his back to the terrace wall, looking inward toward the house. It was almost as large as a midsize palazze, the sort that cousins of Five Points families built in the districts below the Five Points cliffs. The white stone glowed in the twilight, very bright against the purpling haze of the sky; the open windows were filled with golden light, spilling a distant music into the cooling air. In the gap between the southern wing and the main house, he could just see a blue‑black expanse of ocean, reflecting a rising moon in a scattering of light like foam. He looked away from that, made uneasy by the sight of open water–the sea should be viewed from the security of the barrier hills, or from an open deck, not glimpsed like this across a garden–and found the lesser moon, just rising, riding low beneath a bank of cloud. The larger moon was well up, and all but invisible, just a faint glow of pewter light behind the thickening clouds. The street brokers were saying it was thirty‑to‑one that the storm that was building to the south would hit the city, but no one was taking odds on strength.

The distant rumble of an orbiter, lifting from Newfields, caught his attention, drew his eyes west just in time to see the spark of light dwindle into a pinpoint no brighter than a star, and vanish in the twilight. The sky behind it was streaked with cloud and layered with the orange and reds of the sunset, the distant housetops outlined against it as though against a sheet of flame. The sound of the takeoff hung in the air, undercutting the drifting music. It was nothing special, and he looked away, back toward the crowd of people filling the terrace. One of them–a woman, tall, face thin and sculpturally beautiful, the lines of her bones drawn hard and pure under skin like old honey–had heard the orbiter too, was still staring upward as though she could pick out the light of its passage from among the scudding clouds. There was some expression behind that still face, knowledge, perhaps, that was no longer hunger, and Damian caught his breath in spite of himself, watching her watch the orbiter’s flight. Then there was a movement in the crowd beside her, and she turned away, her face breaking into movement, the stone‑hard beauty shattering into a sort of vivid ugliness. Ransome smiled crookedly at her–they were of a height–and drew her away with him toward the house. As she turned, Damian saw the hat slung over her shoulder, dangling from a spangled scarf that from this distance looked as though it had been woven from the sunset sky. A short grey plume flowed like a cloud from the hat’s crown. So that’s the pilot, he thought. She’ll certainly bear watching.

“I see you’ve spotted her. That’s Lioe.”

Damian looked down and down again, smiled in spite of himself at Cella’s delicate face turned up to him. She was a tiny woman, barely tall enough to reach his shoulder; even her eight‑centimeter heels did not bring her chin above his armpit. She was beautifully dressed, as always, this time in a sleeveless bodice the color of bitter chocolate that hugged breasts and hips and gave way to a swirling skirt embroidered at the hem with a band of pale copper apples. The almost‑sheer fabric emphasized perfect calves and elegant ankles. Her breasts swelled distractingly above the jerkin’s square neckline.

“Have you found out anything more?” Damian asked.

Cella smiled. She had painted her lips and cheeks and nails to match the new‑copper apples on her skirt, a cool metallic pink barely paler than her skin. “Not much. She’s from Callixte–born there, apparently, not just works from there. She’s a notable by anyone’s reckoning, and the people on the intersystems nets like her a lot. If she’s political, she’s a Republican, but that’s a big if. Between piloting and the Game, I can’t see that she’s had much time for politics. She did know Kichi Desjourdy when Desjourdy was on Falconsreach, but I can’t trace anything more than just knowing each other. Desjourdy’s a Gamer, after all, and a class‑four arbiter.”

Damian nodded thoughtfully. Kichi Desjourdy was the new Customs‑and‑Intelligence representative to Burning Bright, a clever woman, and therefore dangerous. And that made any connection between her and this Lioe a dangerous one. “Do you think this–this whole thing, meeting with Ransome and all–could be some kind of setup?”

Cella shook her head. “Not with his consent, anyway. I’m quite certain they met at the club–that that was their first meeting, and that it wasn’t staged in any way.” She paused then, and her smile took on a new edge. “I did find out one thing interesting, though. She spent last night with one of yours, Damiano. A john‑boat girl called Roscha.”

“Did she, now?” Damian said, softly. Trust Roscha to be more trouble. “Why didn’t I hear about it?”

“No one knew you were interested,” Cella said. “I didn’t know you were interested, until last night.”

“They’re sleeping together?”

“I would say so.” Cella shrugged. “I would.”

“Charming.” Damian stared out into the crowd, did not find the pilot, turned slowly so that he faced back toward the cliff and the Old City spread out beyond the lower terrace. Most of the lights were on now, the sky faded to a thick and dusty purple, and the pattern of the lights in the lower garden echoed the play of light from the city below, disrupted only by the figures moving along the silvered stones of the pathways. Neither Ransome nor Lioe was anywhere to be seen.

“I could introduce you,” Cella said. “I’ve met her.”

Damian glanced down at her, surprised less by the offer than by its timing, and she nodded to the window above them. A woman stood silhouetted in the golden light, a newly familiar, broad‑shouldered shape with a hat slung across her back. She was looking in at the party, standing quite still, and Damian hesitated, tempted. It would be interesting to speak to her directly, get some feel for what she was like–He shook his head, not without regret. It was much safer to keep his distance, just in case she did turn out to have some connection with C‑and‑I. “No, not right now, I think. But keep an eye on her, Cella. I want to know exactly what she’s doing.”

“All right,” Cella said, and sounded faintly surprised.

Damian looked away from her curiosity, back toward the lower terrace, and his eyes were caught again by the grey‑and‑silver stones that covered the paths. The more distant paths seemed to glow in the last of the light, and the nearer ones, closer to the cool standard‑lamps, caught the blue‑toned light and held it, odd shadows playing over their surfaces. He frowned, curious now, and walked away, down the steps to the graveled paths of the lower terrace. Cella followed a few steps behind, but he ignored her, stooped to examine the stones. A dozen, a hundred tiny faces looked back at him, all smiling slightly, as if they were amused by his surprise. He caught his breath, controlled his instinctive revulsion– how could anyone stand to walk here, if they saw those looking back at them?–and said, “Ransome’s work, I take it?” His voice sounded strange to him, strained and taut, but Cella didn’t seem to notice.

“I would say so.”

“They are,” Damian said, with precision, “very strange men, he and Chauvelin.” He paused, and shook his head. “I suppose I had better pay my respects to the ambassador.” He did not wait for her response, but started back across the terraces toward the ambassador’s house.

Chauvelin greeted his guests in the main hall. The long room was lit as though by a thousand candles, light like melted butter, like curry, pouring from the edges of the ceiling across the polished bronzewood floor, gilding everything it touched. It turned the ice statue on the buffet–a sleek needle‑ship poised on the points of its sailfields–to topaz, set deeper red‑gold lights dancing in its heart like the glow of invisible reactors. Chauvelin smiled, seeing it, and made a mental note to thank his staff. They had done well in other things, too: the heavy bunches of red‑streaked flowers that flamed against the ochre walls, the food, the junior staff–jericho‑human, chaoi‑monand hsai alike–circulating among the guests to diffuse tension and keep the conversation and the wine flowing with equal ease. Je‑Sou’tsian had the unenviable task of keeping an eye on ji‑Imbaoa, but she seemed to be handling it without undue strain. She had chosen to wear her full honors, and the clusters of ribbon flowed from her shoulders almost to the floor. Perhaps it was not the most tactful of gestures, Chauvelin conceded– ji‑Imbaoa has fewer hereditary honors than she–but he couldn’t bring himself to reprove her. In any case, ji‑Imbaoa seemed unaccountably sober, and in control of himself. There should be no trouble until later, if at all.

Satisfied that everything was at least temporarily secure in that quarter, Chauvelin looked away, searching the crowd for Ransome. He owed him thanks, as well as money, for the stones that paved the garden paths, and he was more than a little surprised that the imagist hadn’t already collected. He found him at last, standing by the arched hallway that led in from the garden, and lifted a hand to beckon him over. Ransome raised a hand in answer, but glanced back over his shoulder, toward the tall woman who followed at his heels. Chauvelin lifted an eyebrow–he had thought that he knew most of Ransome’s friends and proteges–but made no comment as the two made their way across the crowded room. The woman was striking, not at all in Ransome’s usual line–his taste in women, such as it was, ran to flamboyant Amazons like LaChacalle–and she wore her clothes, Burning Brighter clothes, by the familiar cut and fabric, with the bravado born of unfamiliarity. Then he saw the way Ransome was watching her–she was even with him now, moving shoulder to shoulder with him through the room–and felt the touch of an unfamiliar pain. That intensity of gaze should be for him, not this stranger, and he resented the shift in Ransome’s attention. He put that thought aside, frowning slightly at himself, as Ransome approached.

“Sia Chauvelin.”

The tone even more than the choice of title was a warning that Ransome was in one of his more playful moods, capable of almost any mischief. Chauvelin nodded warily, said, “Good evening, I‑Jay.”

“I’d like to introduce someone to you,” Ransome went on, still in the light tone that Chauvelin had learned to distrust, and motioned to the woman at his side, not quite touching her shoulder. “This is Quinn Lioe, one of the better Gamers I’ve seen in years. I’m enjoying my return to the Game much more than I’d expected.”

“Na Lioe,” Chauvelin murmured, and the woman answered, “Ambassador Chauvelin.” Her voice was deep, soft and rather pleasant, the clipped Republican vowels adding a tang to her words.

Ransome smiled, but it did not quite match the expression in his eyes. Anger? Chauvelin wondered. Or triumph? “I’m very grateful to you, Sia,” the imagist went on. Look what I found in the Game, his expression implied.

Chauvelin made himself keep his expression neutral, though his mouth wanted to twist as though he’d bitten something sour. The woman Lioe– the pilot Lioe, he realized abruptly, seeing the hat hanging at her shoulder–recognized that there was some undertone of passion here; she was watchful, but uninvolved, her face set in a serene and stony calm. Whatever Ransome thinks he’s doing, Chauvelin thought, Lioe will have her own ideas. The recognition steadied him; he said, “I still owe you part of your fee.”

Lioe lifted an eyebrow in mute question, glancing from one to the other, and Chauvelin said, “I‑Jay was good enough to hurry a commission for me–the stones on the paths in the lower gardens.” He took a petty pleasure in emphasizing Ransome’s subordinate position.

“Was that your work?” Lioe said, and Ransome nodded, still grinning. Lioe nodded back, her expression still serene. “Yes, I can see you don’t like people to be comfortable.”

There was a little silence, and Chauvelin wanted suddenly to cheer. Ransome said, “Why should they be? I’m not.” He paused again, and added, striving for the earlier lightness, “Who have you been talking to, anyway?”

Lioe smiled slightly. “Other Gamers.”

“I should’ve expected that,” Ransome murmured.

“I still owe you money, I‑Jay,” Chauvelin said, riding over whatever else either one of them might have said. “You must have had workshop fees.”

Ransome nodded. “Oh, I’ve submitted the bills, have no fear. But I think the result was worth it.”

“It is spectacular,” Chauvelin agreed, and, to his surprise, Lioe nodded.

“The faces are very beautiful,” she said. “It must have changed your garden completely, Ambassador.”

“It did,” Chauvelin said.

“For the better, surely,” Ransome said.

“I think so,” Chauvelin said, and smiled. “Certainly it was a change.”

His eye was caught by a sudden movement, a subtle gesture from across the room. He looked toward it, past Ransome’s shoulder, and saw je‑Sou’tsian standing a little apart, one hand lifted in mute appeal. Ransome saw his eyes move, controlled the impulse to look, said instead, “I don’t want to monopolize you, Sia.”

“Not at all,” Chauvelin said. “But something seems to have come up.” He nodded toward je‑Sou’tsian, and Ransome glanced over his shoulder.

“Ah, the Visiting Speaker’s arrived?”

“My honored guest the Speaker has been here since the first arrivals,” Chauvelin said, not without irony. “Na Lioe, it was a pleasure to meet you. I hope I’ll have the pleasure again.”

She murmured something inaudible in response, but there was an amusement lurking in her gold‑flecked eyes. Chauvelin bowed over his clasped hands, hsai fashion, and moved away.

Je‑Sou’tsian bowed slightly at his approach, but her hands were still, suppressing whatever she was feeling.

“What is it, Iameis?” Chauvelin said, and kept a smile on his face with an effort of will.

The steward’s hands moved slightly, shaping anger and apology. Her fingerclaws, gilded for the occasion, glowed in the buttery light. “I’m sorry to have troubled you,” she said, her tradetalk even more precise than usual, “and indeed I wouldn’t have if it hadn’t been Sia Ransome you were speaking with, but several members of the Visiting Speaker’s household have asked permission to use the intersystems link. They’ve also asked that our technicians not oversee the linkage.”

Chauvelin bit back his first response, knowing he was on firm ground here. “I’m hurt that the Speaker’s people should imply distrust of my household, knowing as I do the Speaker’s respect and friendship. You may tell them that, word for word.”

Je‑Sou’tsian bowed again. “I will do so, with pleasure.”

She started to back away, but Chauvelin said, “Iameis. Is there anything else?”

The steward hesitated for a heartbeat, then gestured negation, the movement solid and decisive. “No, Sia. But I thought that should be nipped in the bud.”

Chauvelin nodded. “I agree. Keep an eye on them, Iameis.”

“Of course, Sia.” Je‑Sou’tsian bowed again, and backed away.

Chauvelin stared after her, furious at ji‑Imbaoa for trying such an obvious and infantile trick. What can he think he’ll gain from that? And why in all hells does he have to do it now, when I can’t do anything about it? The answer was too obvious to be considered, and he made himself put it out of his mind, turning away to greet a stocky man who served on the board of the Five Points Bank. He answered mechanically, his mind on ji‑Imbaoa, and on Ransome and his new friend, and was not sorry when the banker excused himself, heading for the buffet. He stood alone for a moment, found himself scanning the crowd for Ransome. The imagist was standing near one of the windows that overlooked the garden, Lioe beside him, tall against the glass. Her coat blended with the golden light caught in the mirrorlike panes, drawing her into the reflections like a ghost; in contrast, Ransome was looking pale and interesting. It was hard to tell, these days, if it was deliberate or inevitable. Chauvelin suppressed the worry, reminding himself that he could always query the medsystems records if he really wanted to know. But whatever the cause, the look worked: Ransome had dressed with millimetrically calculated disorder, plain‑slashed jerkin hanging open over equally plain shirt and narrow trousers, his unbrushed boots a well‑planned disgrace. He made a perfect foil for Lioe’s severe elegance, and Chauvelin felt again a stab of jealousy. Who in all hells is she, that Ransome should behave like this?

“Good evening, Chauvelin,” a familiar voice said, and Chauvelin turned without haste to bow to Burning Bright’s governor.

“A good evening to you, Governor.”

Kasiel Berengaria nodded back, the gesture as much of a concession as she would ever make to hsai etiquette. She was a stocky, broad‑bodied woman, comfortable in a heavily embroidered coat and trousers; a massive necklace of Homestead Island pearls made a collar around her neck, and held a seabright pendant suspended just at the divide of her full breasts. The skin exposed there was weathered, like her coarse, salt‑and‑pepper hair, and the short hands with their broken nails. “I haven’t seen the Visiting Speaker tonight, Chauvelin.”

Chauvelin picked his words carefully, well aware of the amusement in her mismatched eyes. One was almost blue, the other green‑flecked brown: a disconcerting effect, and one he was certain she enjoyed. “The Visiting Speaker has been holding court in the inner room, Governor. I’m sure he’d be glad to see you.”

Berengaria made a face. “I doubt it. Or at best, no happier to see me than I am to see him.”

Chauvelin smiled in spite of himself. “Quite possibly.”

“You have had an interesting time of it, with him in your household.”

“Interesting is a good word,” Chauvelin said. He and Berengaria were old adversaries, almost friends by now; she preferred the Republic to HsaioiAn, but Burning Bright before both of them. It was a position he understood perfectly, and he had always admired her skill.

“One hears that the je Tsinraan are rising in favor at court,” Berengaria went on.

“One of them made a decent profit for the All‑Father on Hazuhone,” Chauvelin said. She would already know at least that much; there was no point in denying it. He shrugged, carefully casual. “I must say, I doubt it will last.”

“One hopes not,” Berengaria said. “And not just for your sake.”

She didn’t have to say more, and Chauvelin nodded in agreement. The je Tsinraan, having been out of favor for years, were attempting to rally other groups who had stood aloof from court politics by advocating a return to the old, hard‑line, imperialistic policies of two generations ago. Unfortunately, now that HsaioiAn and the Republic were trading freely, or at least relatively freely, through the merchants on entrepot worlds like Burning Bright, both sides would suffer from a change in attitude. And Burning Bright and her fellow entrepots would suffer most of all.

“The All‑Father knows perfectly well where his bread is baked,” Chauvelin said aloud, and hoped it was true.

“I hope so,” Berengaria said, in unpleasant, unintended echo. “Whatever else happens, Chauvelin, I’d be very sorry if you were a casualty.”

“I don’t intend to be,” Chauvelin answered. His mouth was dry, and he smiled to hide the sudden fear.

“Good,” Berengaria said. She smiled back, but the expression did not touch the lines around her mismatched eyes. “It would be very dull without you.” She nodded, and turned away into the crowd.

Chauvelin watched her go, turning her words over in his mind. It was not a good sign that Berengaria had heard rumors of power shifts between the factions in HsaioiAn, and even less good that she was expressing concern for his future. And I wonder, did I hear a hint that she might offer sanctuary, if things get bad? There would be a price, of course– and probably a high one–but it was an option to keep in mind. At least Ransome was, for once, doing what he was told: that might buy enough time to deal with ji‑Imbaoa. They said, on Burning Bright, that Storm brought a change in luck–he could remember, dimly, his mother buying lottery chances on the first day of Storm, hoping to bring money into the household. I have to hope that’s true.

Ransome made his way through the maze of smaller rooms off the main hall. Chauvelin’s household had thrown them open as well, knowing the space would be needed. Ji‑Imbaoa was holding court in the largest of these, and Ransome paused at the door for a brief moment, glancing in past the crowding guests. He had lost Lioe some while back, to a conversation with the novelist LaChacalle, and hoped to find her– though probably not here. The Visiting Speaker was popular with certain groups on Burning Bright, most notably and most obviously the ones who traded heavily with HsaioiAn, and he was surrounded by their representatives, but Ransome hardly thought that a Republican pilot would be likely to join them. The members of ji‑Imbaoa’s own household stood watchfully at the Speaker’s shoulder, and at the edges of the room. Their ribbons, short strands of red that fell barely to their waists, were vivid against the sea‑green panels. It was an elegant display, and one that deliberately overshadowed Chauvelin’s less formal presence.

He had looked too long. Across the room, the Visiting Speaker lifted his hand in acknowledgment, and beckoned for Ransome to approach. It was not a request. Ransome hid a scowl, and started toward ji‑Imbaoa. The crowd made way for him, a few people murmuring his name. Overhead, false lightning flickered through holographic clouds, and Ransome couldn’t resist a quick look to see how the installation was doing. He had made the image canopy for Chauvelin a few years before; so far, he thought, it seemed to be holding up well.

“ Tso‑eh, Ransome,” the Visiting Speaker said, granting the courtesy of a formal greeting. He continued in tradetalk, however, lifting his voice a little to be sure that the fringes of the group could hear. Conversations faded at that signal, and Ransome was suddenly aware of all eyes intent on him. Ji‑Imbaoa was making this a matter of prestige, and for Chauvelin’s sake– and my pride, too–he could not afford to make mistakes.

“I’m told you made this display?” Ji‑Imbaoa gestured to the image in the dome overhead, where half‑hawk, half‑human figures now swirled through the gaps in the clouds, riding the illusory lightning.

“That’s right,” Ransome answered, and forced himself not to mimic the hissing accent, the heavy emphasis on terminal sibilants.

“It’s very striking,” ji‑Imbaoa said, without looking up. “But when will you come back to HsaioiAn and show your talents there?”

Ransome pretended to glance up at the dome, not really seeing the roiling clouds, controlled his anger with an effort. Ji‑Imbaoa had threatened him with prosecution if he returned to HsaioiAn; this was a particularly clumsy maneuver. He looked back at the Visiting Speaker, said politely enough, “Probably when such a generous commission is offered me. Do you think your t’ueanaowould be interested, Na Speaker?” He deliberately used the word that meant more than just family or household unit, that carried connotations of political rank and power as well, and saw from the sudden convulsive clenching of ji‑Imbaoa’s hand that the implications had struck home. Chauvelin was still a member of the tzu line; Ransome carried some of the same prestige by virtue of his patronage.

Ji‑Imbaoa mastered his annoyance instantly, though the fingers of his free hand were still crooked slightly, and the red‑painted fingerclaws rapped gently against his thigh. “Perhaps we shall,” he said. “I am sure such a–thing–would please my dependents. You would come if we asked?”

Ransome bowed slightly, perfectly aware of where this game could lead if not precisely judged. He could not let himself be trapped into a commission, even if it meant seeming to back down. “If the price were right, and the time were convenient, and I were committed to no other business, yes, of course, Speaker.” He paused, then added, “And, of course, assuming that all issues of freedom could be resolved. Some people take offense at images when none is intended; it seems–safer–to settle that ahead of time, than risk displeasing anyone.”

Ji‑Imbaoa showed teeth in an approximation of a human smile. The expression was delicately close to the bared teeth of insult, but not quite; Ransome admired his control even as he bit back anger. “I’m sure we could work out appropriate compensation,” the Visiting Speaker said, and looked away, lifting a hand to beckon another guest. The woman turned toward him at once, and ji‑Imbaoa took a few steps to meet her, bringing the group’s attention with him. Ransome hesitated for a moment longer, tempted to protest this dismissal, but made himself turn away.

Lioe was standing just inside the doorway. “Were you having fun?” she asked, and Ransome made a face.

“How much of that did you hear?” He touched her shoulder lightly, easing her out into the more dimly lit hallway. The walls here were painted a deep red, the rich color of wine held up to a light. Golden vines coiled along the ceiling just below the hidden lights.

“Most of it, I think. I gather he doesn’t like you.”

“Not much,” Ransome agreed. Lioe kept looking at him, one thin eyebrow lifted in an expression that reminded him suddenly of Chauvelin, and he touched her shoulder again, steering her toward one of the side rooms. It was little more than an alcove, pillared walls painted in a coppery brown, the pillars themselves painted with more delicate vines, the lighting concealed in thick clusters of sea grapes that dangled from the heads of the pillars. Bench‑seats had been built into the side walls, and the space between the central set of pillars on the rear wall had been turned into a display recess. The shelves were filled with odd objects, and Ransome was startled to recognize one of his own story eggs among them.

“All right,” Lioe said, “why doesn’t this Visiting Speaker like you?”

Ransome hesitated again, then grimaced. “I’m not trying to put you off, I just don’t know where to begin.”

Lioe laughed. “You make friends easily, I see.”

Ransome smiled back. “All right. For one thing, he and Chauvelin are from opposite factions, and Chauvelin has been my patron for years. For another–” He stopped, took a breath. “When I was younger, I worked for a local company, worked in HsaioiAn, on Jericho, and I got into trouble there. I offended some people as well as breaking a few laws, but because I was only houtathen they couldn’t do anything about it–the insults, I mean. They enforced the laws. Now that I’m min‑hao, though, they can take notice of those insults, and ji‑Imbaoa–aside from being personally stupid and therefore an irresistible target–is closely related to someone with a serious grudge against me.”

“That does explain a lot,” Lioe said, after a moment. She cocked her head to one side, clearly reviewing his conversation with the Visiting Speaker. “Given all that, though, was it wise to antagonize him?”

“Probably not,” Ransome admitted. “But he really is irresistible.”

Lioe shook her head, but she was smiling. “I hope you and your patron get along.”

Ransome winced, remembering their earlier conversation. “I’m sorry about earlier,” he said. It was because Chauvelin’s been pushing me, pushing me back into the Game when that’s the last thing I want to waste my time with–But that was not something he could say aloud. “Do you do your own backgrounds, for the Game?”

Lioe nodded, obviously glad to accept the change of subject. “Yes. I carry a recorder when I go planetside. A lot of times I stumble into places that I can use later. When I can get time on the club machines, I do some manipulations, of course, but most of the time I can’t afford it. That’s the good part about this deal with Shadows. I’ve got all the time I want, and the run of their libraries.”

“For ten days,” Ransome said. That wasn’t nearly enough time, not for any real work.

Lioe shrugged. “I have a contract with Kerestel.”

Ransome stared at her with a certain frustration, wondering how she could stand to work part‑time, only when there was time available on club machines, only when she wasn’t piloting–how she could stand to stay confined, stuck inside the boundaries of the Game, where the ultimate rule was, never change anything? He opened his mouth, searching for the right words, and saw her pick up the story egg, hold its lens to her eye. He remembered that one well–an early work, filled with flames and a figure made of flame that shifted from male to female and back again with the fire’s dance–and closed his mouth again, wondering what she would say.

“Is this yours?” Lioe asked, after a moment. She set the egg carefully aside, as though she thought the mechanism was something delicate. Her voice was without emotion, without inflection, polite and unreadable.

“Yes,” Ransome said, “it’s one of mine.”

“How do you do that?” Abruptly, Lioe’s voice thawed into enthusiasm. “How do you pull it all together?”

“Do you mean mechanically, or how I structure the images?” Ransome asked.

“Yes–both, I mean.” Lioe grinned again, looked slightly embarrassed. “Sorry, I don’t mean to hassle you.”

“No!” Ransome had spoken more sharply than he had intended, shook his head to erase the word. “No, you’re not hassling me. I like to talk about my work.” And anything to get her away from the Game. “It’s a lot like finding settings for Game sessions,” he said, and heard himself painfully casual. “I spend a lot of time on the nets. I’ve got a pretty complete tie‑in in my loft, and a good display structure. I pull clips off the nets, break down the images, then rebuild them into the loops for the eggs.”

“That must take a lot of storage,” Lioe said.

“But only linear, that’s cheap enough,” Ransome answered. “Look, it’s easier to show you what I do than it is to talk about it. Would you like to go back to my loft, look at the system? I’ve got some things in progress, you could see how everything fits together–you could even play with the machines, if you’d like.”

Lioe gave him a measuring look, and Ransome felt himself flush. “No strings attached. This is not an unsubtle way of getting you into bed.”

Lioe smiled. “I wasn’t really worried about it.” She laid the lightest of stresses on “worried.”

“Will you do it, then?” Ransome asked, and did his best to hide his sudden elation at her nod. Maybe, just maybe he could show her what was so wrong with the Game, why it was a waste of any decent talent–she was good at the Game, good enough that she should have a try at something else, something that would last beyond the ephemeral quasi‑memory of the Game nets. He shook those thoughts away. Time enough for that if she was interested, if she cared about anything beyond the Game. “I was wondering,” he said aloud, and Lioe glanced curiously at him. “You’ve got a great reputation on the Game nets. Why haven’t you gone into it full‑time, become a club notable? You could make a living at it, easily.”

Lioe looked at him for a long moment, obviously choosing her words with care, and Ransome found himself, irrationally, holding his breath. “Two reasons,” she said at last. “One, piloting’s a better living. Two–the second reason is, I can’t see making it my life.” She shrugged and looked away, embarrassed. “It’s a game. It’s only as good as all its players.”

Yes, and that’s most of what’s wrong with it, Ransome thought. But there’s so much else out there, besides the Game. What the hell were your parents thinking of, to send you into piloting? There was no answer to that, and he curbed his enthusiasm sharply. “Let me show you my setup,” he said, and started out of the room.

The second moon was setting over Chauvelin’s garden, throwing long shadows. Beyond the garden, fireworks flared in silent splendor over the Inland Water, great sprays of colored light that rivaled the moon. Damian Chrestil stood in a darkened embrasure, one of the archways that looked out onto the upper terrace, idly tugging the curtain aside to watch the departing guests, filing by ones and twos along the path that led to the street. His eye was caught by a familiar figure: Ransome, and the pilot was with him. That was a good sign–Ransome should stay preoccupied with the nets, with the Game, with Lioe to distract him–and he smiled briefly.

“So you see it’s going well.” Ji‑Imbaoa slipped into the embrasure beside him, gestured to one of his household, who bowed and backed away.

Damian let the heavy curtain fall back into place, effectively cutting off any view from the garden. He was blind in the sudden darkness, heard ji‑Imbaoa’s claws chime against a crystal glass, a faint, unnerving music. “So far,” he said.

“Chauvelin has accepted that it is important, and Ransome will do what he tells him,” the Visiting Speaker went on. “I should think that conditions would be ideal.”

Damian’s eyes were beginning to adjust to the dimness. He could see ji‑Imbaoa outlined against the faint light from the hallway; he shifted slightly, his shoulder brushing the curtains, and a thin beam of moonlight cut across the space, drawing faint grey lights from the Visiting Speaker’s skin. “Conditions will be ideal,” Damian said, “once I have the codes.”

Ji‑Imbaoa gestured unreadably, only the fact of the movement visible in shadow behind the moonlight. “It takes time to get those, time and a certain amount of privacy. I will have them for you tomorrow, I am certain of that.”

I was expecting them tonight. Ransome won’t be distracted forever, and C‑and‑I is sniffing around on Demeter. I don’t have time to waste on this, I need to move the cargo now… Damian bit back his irritation, said, “I hope so, Na Speaker. The longer I have to wait for them, the more risk to all of us.”

“Tomorrow,” ji‑Imbaoa said again, and there was a note in his voice that warned Damian not to push further.

“All right,” he said, but couldn’t resist adding, “Tonight was such a good chance. I’m just sorry we missed it.”

Ji‑Imbaoa made a hissing sound, but said nothing.

“Until tomorrow, then,” Damian said, cheerfully, and slipped out of the embrasure before the Visiting Speaker could think to stop him.

Part Four

« ^ »

Day 1

Storm: Ransome’s Loft, Old Coast Road,

Newfields, Above Junction Pool

Lioe woke slowly, blinking in the light that seeped in through the filtered windows. She lay still for a moment, remembering where she was, then cautiously pushed herself upright. The door to Ransome’s bedroom was still closed, but the light was on in the little kitchen, and she could hear the last gasps as an automatic coffee maker completed its cycle. She glanced sideways, checking the time, and made a face as the numbers flashed red against the stark white wall. Almost noon, and she was committed to a midafternoon meeting at Shadows, reviewing her scenario for a group of club session leaders.

She reached for her shirt and trousers, the loose silky tunic incongruous at this hour of the morning, and dressed quickly, then went into the kitchen alcove. The coffee maker was obviously on a standard program: the tiny pot held barely enough for a single mug. She hesitated for an instant, but poured herself some anyway. That emptied the pot, and she searched cabinets, the little room as compulsively ordered as a ship’s galley, until she found the box of makings and set another pot on to brew. She folded up the bed as well, but could not remember where Ransome had kept it; she left it sitting against the wall, and went back to the computer setup that dominated the working space. She touched one of the secondary keyboards lightly, but did not bring up the system, remembering instead what she had done the night before. It had been like the best parts of the Game, the preparation, hunting through the nets and libraries and her own collection of filmed scenes until she found just the right image– or the image that can be adjusted, manipulated, until it has exactly the impact you wanted, that will conjure upjust the right responses from your players, and they can take that knowledge and run with it… Except, of course, that Ransome’s work stopped there, before the others, any others, entered the picture. He set up the image, calculated the effect, but didn’t stay to finish the job. Or else he assumed he had finished his job, that the effect would be what he intended. She shook her head, not sure if she even really believed in that sort of confidence– or is it arrogance?–and turned away from the computers, touched the window controls to clear the treated glass.

The city stretched out below her, a breathtaking view over the housetops toward the Inland Water. The sky above the city was milky white, sunlight filtered by clouds, but light still glinted from the solar panels and on the murky water of the Junction Pool at her feet. It was busy, barges and lighters of all sizes snugged up to the multiple docking points that lined the Pool’s edges. One of the largest ships, broad‑beamed, its deck piled high with the familiar scarred‑silver shapes of drop capsules, was moored at the foot of a cargo elevator. As she watched, fascinated–pilots rarely got to see where their cargoes ended up–a crane swooped down, delicately picked up two of the capsules, and added them to the neat pile growing in the elevator’s open car.

She finished the coffee before the crane operator finished loading the elevator, and looked sideways again, checking the time. Past noon, and it would take almost an hour to reach Shadows–more, if she understood right, and the Storm celebrations had already begun. She looked again toward Ransome’s door, blinking away the chronometer’s numbers, wondering what she should do. It seemed rude just to leave, but it might well be worse to wake him. Of course, she could always leave a note. She looked around, searching for a notepad/printer or pen and paper, and the door to the bedroom opened.

“Good morning,” Ransome said. He looked tired, Lioe thought, more tired than she would have expected. “I see you found the coffee.”

“Yes, thanks,” Lioe answered. “I made a second pot.”

“Thank you,” Ransome said, and stepped into the kitchen. “I’m glad you found the makings, most people I know drink tea.” He came back out into the loft’s main room, mug of coffee in one hand, a polished spherical remote in the other. His hand moved easily over the steel‑bright surface, and the display space in the center of the room flashed into life. Lioe looked away, vaguely embarrassed, from the loop she had compiled the night before.

“That’s really quite good,” Ransome said.

“Beginner’s work,” Lioe said, more roughly than she had intended. In the display space, a metal‑skinned woman transformed herself into a bird, the fingers elongating into feathers, hair into the crest of a hawk, body melting and shrinking into a compact and vicious form, rose and turned and swooped on something invisible, then landed, body beginning to turn again into a woman’s even as she fell the last few meters, until the silverskinned woman sat again on a bench in the sun, inspecting her long, bony feet. Even in the light from the window, the forms were clear and vivid.

“Certainly,” Ransome said. “Everybody starts off with this kind of thing. But it’s got promise. You could do something with it.”

Lioe looked suspiciously at him, but he was staring at the images, watching the loop run its course one more time. It wasn’t often one heard judgment and praise so neatly balanced; there was something in his tone that let her believe his words. “Thanks,” she said. She sounded stilted, even to herself, and added, “And thanks for letting me play with your equipment. I really enjoyed it.”

Ransome touched the remote again, and glyphs flashed in the air around him. From where she stood, Lioe could only see enough to recognize the drop‑to‑storage sequence. “You should try it again. I’m serious, you have a knack.”

“Thanks.” Lioe looked at the chair, the wire gloves discarded on the stand beside it, but made herself look away. “I’ve got to be at Shadows, though. I’m committed to a training group for their session leaders.”

“For Ixion’s Wheel?” Ransome asked, and Lioe nodded.

“They’re paying me,” she said, and didn’t know quite why she felt so defensive.

Ransome grinned. “Well, that’s a good reason, there. But don’t you ever get sick of the Game?”

“No,” Lioe said, automatically, and then, because Ransome had been honest with her, added, “It’s not like I do it for a living.”

“You could,” Ransome murmured.

Lioe made a face. “I suppose. But I like piloting, which is a steady income, unlike Gaming, and–” She stopped abruptly, acknowledging what he had said. “And, yes, I think I’d be bored–well, not bored, exactly, but the Game, the scenarios never seem to resolve anything.”

Ransome nodded. “Ixion’s Wheel comes pretty close, from what I saw.”

Lioe smiled, and didn’t bother to deny it. “It could be the start of something. I think Avellar could pull the whole Game together into one really big scenario, but I know damn well no one’s going to want to play that.”

She stopped then, knowing how she sounded, but Ransome nodded again, more slowly, his expression remote. “A scenario that concentrated on Avellar’s bid for the throne–you’re right, that would pull everything in, wouldn’t it? Rebellion, Psionics, Court Life… it would be worth playing. And Ixion’s Wheel really sets it up. Have you started work on it?”

“No one wants to change the Game,” Lioe repeated. “Not that drastically, anyway.”

Ransome sighed. “You’re probably right, which is why I stopped playing. It’s a pity, though.”

It’s the nature of the Game. Lioe said instead, “I suppose. But, listen, I do have to leave, if I’m going to make this meeting on time. Thanks again.”

“My pleasure,” Ransome said, automatically. “You know where the helipad is?”

“I know where the tourist‑trolley stops,” Lioe answered. “I can’t afford helicabs.”

“All right,” Ransome said. “Are you running any sessions yourself today?”

“Tonight,” Lioe answered. She looked back, her hand on the main latch. “Why?”

“I thought–” Ransome paused, then gave a wry smile. “I thought I might see if there were any places left. Like I said the other night, it’s been a long time since I’ve seen a scenario that made me want to play.”

“Shall I hold Harmsway for you?” Lioe asked.

“Why not?” Ransome’s smile changed, became openly mischievous. “I don’t think that part was played to its potential.”

Lioe smiled back, flattered and apprehensive at the same time. Ambidexter in the scenario, playing his own template: it was a thought to conjure with, and to strike terror into the souls of lesser players. It was also a challenge, and she did not turn down a challenge. “I’ll do that. And thank you again for a fascinating evening.” She let herself out into the hallway, not quite hearing his murmured reply.

Left to himself, Ransome went back into the narrow kitchen, rummaged in the cold storage until he found a package that promised to cook in three minutes. He fitted it into the wall‑mounted cooker, and made himself open the container once the timer sounded. The spicy pastry smelled good, but his appetite did not return; he forced himself to finish it anyway, standing at the counter, and turned his attention back to the main room and the empty display space. Lioe’s hat was sitting on the folded bed, forgotten in her hurry. He sighed, and hoped he would remember to return it that night.

The hawk‑woman had been a good image, for someone who’d never worked with more than the Game’s more limited editors, and Lioe had been quick to sense the difference in form between the Game images and the image loops that filled a story egg. It was just too bad she was so caught up in the Game… He crossed to the windows, staring down on the city. It would be Carnival already in the Wet Districts, the streets and canals busy with costumed figures. It would be Carnival on the nets as well, and that might be the best time to look into just why Damian Chrestil wanted him back in the Game.

He turned back to the display space, spun his chair into place at its center, but hesitated, slipping on the wire‑bound gloves. It would be Carnival, all right, but that didn’t mean that his usual net projection wouldn’t be recognized. He crossed to the shelves where he kept the shells of the unfinished eggs, searched among the clutter until he found the mask he had bought two years before, for a party he could no longer clearly remember. It was a plain white mask, of the three‑quarters size that left only mouth and chin free, a standard form, eyebrows and cheekbones and nose all coarsely modeled from the dead white plastic. He contemplated it for a moment–it had always been an affectation of his not to mask, to walk the streets and nets at Carnival as himself–but this was not the time for that. He set the mask carefully on one of the imaging tables, and switched on the cameras. Lights flared, crisscrossed, catching the mask in a web of stark white beams. He turned back to the display space, and saw the mask’s image floating in the air above his chair, waiting to be remade.

He fingered the remote to dim the windows, and the image grew correspondingly stronger as the competing daylight faded. He set the remote aside, pulled on the remaining glove, and settled himself in his chair. The servos whirred softly, tilting it and him to the most comfortable position; the image moved with him, floating in the air within easy reach. He studied it for a moment longer, then reached tentatively into another image bank to pull out a series of other faces. He found one with a mouth he liked, bleached that image to match the mask’s absolute lack of color, then patched the two together, bringing the mouth and chin from the new image to cover the missing parts of the original mask. He studied the result for a moment, then ran his hand over the compound image, deepening the modeling of mouth and chin so that it matched the mask. He cocked his head to one side, then drew the corners of the mouth down into a parody of tragedy’s mask. He tilted the eyes down as well, filled the empty holes with absolute black, and dumped the resulting image to main memory. It was not at all his usual style: no one on the nets should recognize it as him.

He reached into control space to change modes, rewriting his usual identification‑and‑projection package to display the newly created mask, and flipped the whole system to Carnival mode. Now all identification inquiries would automatically be ignored–this was the only time of year when that routine would not get one dumped from the nets in short order–and a secondary program would deflect any attempt to trace the point of origin. He smiled then–he was going to enjoy this after all–and flipped himself out onto the nets.

The nets were crowded with ghostly shapes, a cheerful anarchy overriding the narrowcast lines and filling the unreal echo of the city with light and sound and sheets of brilliant color. Scenes like the loops of a story egg filled a number of nodes: rather than simply projecting an image, many of the maskers had chosen to create a brief repeating scene, and let that represent them to the world. Ransome let himself drift for a while, slipping from one system to the next with the ebb and flow of the crowds. A few groups and systems still tried to keep to business‑as‑usual, pale geometrics and strings of symbols competing with the gaudy loop‑displays of the revelers, but they were easily overwhelmed. Some of the Carnival displays were elaborate, a sphere of scenery enclosing a character or two–often Grand Types from the Game–so that Ransome had either to bypass that particular node or move through the ongoing scenario. Near the Game nets, it was easier to go through than to try to find a way around the miniature worlds; he let himself slide through like a ghost, ignoring the spray of words and images that greeted any stranger, idly tracking the Grand Types that appeared. There were quite a few Avellars, as well as the inevitable Barons and Ladies: Lioe should be pleased, he thought, and turned his attention toward the port systems.

If Damian Chrestil wanted him back in the Game, it was all but certain that the Game was not really important, was only a blind–and certainly he’d found nothing during his time on the Game nets to indicate otherwise–which made it well worth his time to see what was happening on the various nets that served the port and the traders who depended on the port for their living. He dimmed his own image further, so that he saw his mask floating ghostly through a Bower of Love that currently filled a transfer node. It was a striking image, the death‑white mask drifting expressionless, incurious, through the flower‑draped temple where an improbably well‑endowed man and woman were locked in vigorous and detailed sex, and he touched the capture sequence to record the moment. It would make an interesting story egg, someday, but he made himself turn away once the capture was complete and follow the multiple channels into the port systems.

There were fewer Carnival images here: more off‑worlders used the port nets, and there weren’t many Burning Brighters who dealt with them who could afford to give up a day’s trade. Still, an Avellar walked through a segment of corridor, striding hard as though it was work to keep up with the moving tiles; another Grand Type, the Viverina, braided tiny human skulls into her long hair. Ransome frowned, trying to remember the scenario that had spawned the image, but couldn’t place it. The Judge Directing presided over a node that gave entrance to a merchant bank. The serene face was semitransparent, and Ransome recognized familiar features behind the cloaking Carnival image. He adjusted his own projection, allowing his familiar on‑line presence to show behind the floating mask, and slipped into the node.

The Judge Directing turned to face him, the ster serenity melting to a more familiar grin, and codes flashed through the display space, weaving a private link‑in‑realtime. “Ransome. I didn’t expect to see you masking.”

“Neither did I,” Ransome answered, truthfully. Guyonet Merede was a Gamer as well as a banker, and a former patron who owned several of his earlier story eggs. “But it seems to have worked out well.”

“It’s a nice image,” Merede said. He was older than he looked behind the Judge’s face: the projection’s stony beauty reminded Ransome for an instant of Lioe’s face in repose.

“Thanks,” he said. “I wonder if you could do me a favor, Guy. I need access to the raw feed from the port computers–the unsorted line, the one that carries the general traffic.” If Damian Chrestil wanted him on the Game nets, it could only be to keep him away from some other part of the greater system. C/B Cie. was an import/export firm, and that most likely meant smuggling. And the best way to track that down was to sift the day‑to‑day chatter and hope that, despite the sheer volume, he could find some hint of an irregular shipment, something that didn’t match the more public records. And if I can’t find it, well, there are other places to look, political games he could be playing, and I won’t have wasted much time. But I’m betting it’s a doctored cargo.

Merede was silent for an instant, his face gone very still, and then he said, cautiously, “You know I can’t do that, I‑Jay.”

You’ve done it before. Ransome said aloud, “I just need to pull some numbers for a piece I’m working on. It’s a commission for the MIS, and I need some strings for background. I thought I’d tie part of the loop to the trade balance.”

It was an easy lie, and plausible, but to his surprise Merede shook his head. “I’m sorry, I‑Jay. If it weren’t Carnival–but we’ve had some complaints recently, people saying stuffs been pulled out of the raw feed that should’ve stayed confidential. I just can’t do it.”

Ransome nodded. “I can see that. I guess I can rig what I need some other way.” He did his best to look thoughtful, glad of the mask that screened his features. “Who’s been complaining, anyway?”

Merede glanced down at something out of camera range. “The Five Points Bank’s merchant division–you know, the exchange‑rate people?–and a couple of importers, Ionel Factor and C/B Cie., and one of the private captains.”

Who I just bet is connected to the Chrestil‑Brisch, too. Ionel Factor was closely tied to the Chrestil‑Brisch–Ionel dealt in off‑world spirits, and therefore, inevitably, was tied to the Chrestil‑Brisch distillery and their various wholesalers–and Bettis Chrestil was head of the merchant division’s steering group. “You think there’s anything in it?” he said aloud, and Merede shrugged.

“We haven’t seen anything on our screens, and we tap pretty carefully. I suppose it could be a very directed probe, but–between you and me only, Ransome–I think they’re overreacting.”

“I’ll keep it quiet,” Ransome said. “Thanks anyway.” He touched the key sequence that released the private linkage, and let himself drift deeper into the port nets. He adjusted his presence, making the mask opaque again, so that his identity was completely hidden except to the most determined probe, and shifted the scale slightly. To a cursory scan, he should look like a bounce‑echo from the chaos on the public nets, a common enough phenomenon at this time of year. Satisfied, he let himself slide further into the system, looking for an interface of commercial and customs data.

It took him over an hour to find that node–it shifted, as did the codes that guarded it–and another hour to prove to himself that it was unusually well guarded. None of the usual sources would provide a key, and that left Selasa Arduinidi, who was one of the better security consultants in the business and, on the shadow nets, a reliable data fence. She had a name as a netwalker, too, prided herself on knowing how to access any part of the net, but when he finally tracked her down, she shook her head in disgust.

“I’ve been fighting with that one for two days now, I‑Jay. I haven’t cracked it yet. You’ll have to get legit codes for that one, I’m afraid.”

“Nobody’s telling–or selling,” Ransome answered. He stared at her icon floating in the air in front of him, a huge‑eyed owl perched in a glowing tree branch that seemed to grow directly out of the lines of the net itself. “What’s going on, Selasa?”

“I don’t know,” Arduinidi answered, but there was something in her voice, a subtle admiration that belied her words. “Somebody’s up to something, that’s for sure.” She broke the connection before he could ask anything more.

Somebody like Damian Chrestil, Ransome thought, sourly. The deeper he tried to probe, the more likely it seemed that the Game was just a blind, and that Damian Chrestil was hiding something. From the way his own probes were being blocked, it seemed to have something to do with run cargoes. But if that’s all, why is ji‑Imbaoa involved? Politics and smuggling: the two did not often overlap, but when they did, it was a particularly volatile mix. Which is what I will tell Chauvelin myself, he thought, and began to extricate himself from the maze of the port’s multinet. It would be easy enough simply to shut down his system, but then the automatics would take over the shutdown procedures and leave a clear trail back to his loft. Better to do things slowly, and make sure he wasn’t followed.

Day 1

Storm: The Hsai Ambassador’s House,

in the Ghetto, Landing Isle Above

Old City North

Chauvelin sat in his office at the top of the ambassador’s residence, staring into the desktop displays without really seeing the multiple screens. The hazy sunlight poured in through the slightly curved windows, dulling the displays; he hit the key that brought the glyphs and numbers and the harsh strokes of hsai demiscript to their greatest brightness, but did not dim the window glass. He could see the first signs of the approaching storm on the horizon beyond Plug Island, a thicker bank of clouds like fog or a distant landfall. The weather service still said that bank was only an outrider, and the real storm behind it would not arrive for days, but Chauvelin could feel it waiting, a brooding, distant presence. The street brokers had it at twenty‑to‑one to hit within the next five days, though the pessimists were hedging their bets by excluding lower‑category storms. Chauvelin sighed, and leaned back in his chair. If nothing else, the storm was already starting to interfere with the connection to the jump transmitter orbiting the planet, the one that carried the communications link with HsaioiAn. On the one hand, the erratic reception was a good excuse to keep ji‑Imbaoa from using the house transmitters without one of Chauvelin’s own household present, ostensibly to monitor the machinery. On the other, he was under no illusion that this would keep ji‑Imbaoa from finding some way to contact his patrons in HsaioiAn, nor would it prevent the Visiting Speaker from dealing with someone on planet. And it annoyed the Visiting Speaker. Chauvelin allowed himself a quick, private smile. That also had disadvantages, but it did give him a certain sense of satisfaction.

A chime sounded in his desktop, a discreet, two‑toned noise, and Chauvelin glanced down in some surprise. He had left instructions that he was not to be disturbed, and je‑Sou’tsian was usually scrupulous about obeying him. He touched the icon, and the tiny projector hidden in a disk of carved and lacquered iaon wood lit, forming a cylindrical image. JeSou’tsian bowed to him from the center of that column of light.

“I’m very sorry to interrupt you, Sia, but Na Ransome is here, and says he needs urgently to speak with you.”

Chauvelin lifted his eyebrows, but nodded. “All right, show him into–no, bring him up here. Without any of the Visiting Speaker’s people seeing him, if you can.” If Ransome had come in person, and not on the nets, it was bound to be something important.

“Yes, Sia,” je‑Sou’tsian said. “I’m sorry, but I’m not sure that some of the Speaker’s household didn’t meet him as he came in.” Her voice trailed off, and she gestured apology.

“That’s all right, it can’t be helped,” Chauvelin said. “But bring him up here.”

“At once, Sia,” je‑Sou’tsian said, and her image vanished from the cylinder. The empty rod of light retreated into its base, and a string of lights played across a secondary screen: the steward and Ransome were on their way. Chauvelin ran his hands across the shadowscreen, closing down some programs and putting others to sleep, watched as the multiple screens beneath the desktop copied his movements. A few moments later, the door slid open, and je‑Sou’tsian appeared in the arched opening.

“Sia, Na Ransome is here.”

“Thanks,” Chauvelin said, and gestured for the other man to come in. Ransome did as he was told, settled himself comfortably on the corner of the desk. Chauvelin smiled slightly, but said nothing: the seat would prove its own punishment.

“What is it?” he asked, and Ransome smiled back at him.

“You’ve been suckered,” he said bluntly– and with entirely too much enjoyment, Chauvelin thought. But that was his own fear speaking, not his intellect.

“How so?”

“I did exactly what you wanted,” Ransome said. “I’ve gone back into the Game, I’ve trawled the Game nets, every one of them at least twice, and there’s nothing going on–except Lioe’s scenario, of course. But nothing, absolutely nothing, that involves Damian Chrestil. But when I went onto the port nets, into the commercial systems, I found a lot of blocks that didn’t used to be there.”

“Such as?” Chauvelin kept his tone strictly neutral, buying time. He had been half expecting something like this, some new revelation of wheels within wheels, but not from the port district. He frowned slightly, readjusting his thoughts to add money and shipping to the already volatile political mix. It didn’t make sense, not yet–the Chrestil‑Brisch were supposed to favor the Republic, not HsaioiAn–but if Ransome was being shut out of the port computers, then there had to be an economic motive.

“For one thing–” Ransome paused, laughed shortly. “This is at best unethical, by the way, if not actively illegal.”

“I’m not surprised,” Chauvelin murmured.

Ransome nodded again, conceding the point. “It’s not usually very hard to get someone to give you an address and an access code for the raw datafeed from the port computers–you know, the ones that control the warehouse records for individual firms, scheduling, all that sort of thing.” He shrugged. “Too many people know about it, and there are always plausible reasons to want access. And of course, a lot of people owe me favors.”

“Of course.”

“But today, when I tried to get those codes, first of all no one was selling them–and I’ve never seen that happen, somebody’s put the fear of Retribution into the shadow‑walkers like I’ve never seen–and then no one I know would give me anything. Now, that’s happened before, especially after someone’s scored a coup, but no one has, that I’ve heard, and I hear these things.” Ransome paused, all the humor gone from his voice. “What I did find out was that some companies complained that information had been copied from those feeds, and used against them. And when I got names, they were all tied to Damian Chrestil.”

“Who were they?” Chauvelin asked.

“C/B Cie. itself, Ionel Factor–they import wines and spirits, and they’ve got ties to the Chrestil‑Brisch distillery business–and one of the FPB’s steering groups.”

“Let me guess,” Chauvelin said. “The merchant division, the one that Bettis Chrestil heads?”

“Got it in one.” Ransome smiled sourly. “But what exactly it all means is beyond me.”

And me, Chauvelin thought. At least for the moment. He looked down at the empty screens under the surface of the desktop, debating whom to query– Eriki Haas, certainly, once we’re in phase and if the transmitter is reliable enough, just to see what connections ji‑Imbaoa has with Damian Chrestil or C/B Cie. The chime sounded again beneath the desktop. He frowned, more deeply this time, and touched the icon flashing in the shadowscreen. The projector lit, and je‑Sou’tsian bowed from within the cylinder of light.

“I apologize again for disturbing you, Sia, but the Visiting Speaker is on his way to your office.”

That’s all I need. Chauvelin said, “All right, Iameis, thank you.”

“Wonderful,” Ransome murmured, a crooked smile on his face.

“Quite.” Chauvelin leaned back in his chair, deliberately closed the last of the sleeping files. There was nothing he could do to stop ji‑Imbaoa–the Visiting Speaker was technically head of the ambassadorial household during his visit, and no doors could be shut to him–but he did not have to welcome him. The shutdown codes were still flickering across the screens when the door slid back and ji‑Imbaoa strode into the room.

“So, Chauvelin,” he said, “your agent’s here. I want to talk to him.”

“As you wish,” Chauvelin said, spread his hands in a deliberate gesture of innocence. “I didn’t want to trouble you until I was sure it was worth your time.”

Ji‑Imbaoa’s fingers twitched– annoyance? Chauvelin thought, or fear? He did not move, but felt himself suddenly, painfully tense, waiting for the Visiting Speaker’s next move.

“What have you found? Have you gone back to the Game?”

Ransome hesitated, visibly choosing his words with care, and Chauvelin wondered for a moment if the other might have learned discretion. He need not have worried, however. Ransome said, “Yes, Na Speaker, I’ve been back to the Game, and found very little of interest.”

“Then surely you haven’t looked very hard, or very long,” ji‑Imbaoa snapped. “Particularly since you have only been looking for two days.”

“I don’t need any more than that to tell you there’s nothing there,” Ransome said.

Chauvelin said, “If Na Ransome says he’s found nothing in the Game, then there’s nothing to be found.”

Ji‑Imbaoa glanced back at him, fingers still twitching with unreadable emotion. “Then why should Damian Chrestil go to so much trouble to get him back into those nets? It must have to do with the Game.”

“Na Ransome thinks it’s a distraction,” Chauvelin said. “That Damian Chrestil’s real interests lie elsewhere.”

“Don’t you think you’re being overelaborate?” ji‑Imbaoa interrupted rudely.

“Perhaps the Visiting Speaker is being underelaborate,” Ransome murmured. “After all, he isn’t used to the complex dishonesties of our local politics.”

He had used the hsai word that linked dishonesty and foreignness, so that the statement hovered delicately between compliment and insult. Chauvelin said, “I think Na Ransome’s assessment is plausible, Sia.”

“And I tell you it is unlikely,” ji‑Imbaoa said. “I tell you, on my name and my fathers‘, this must be pursued, and pursued through the Game.”

Chauvelin kept his face impassive with an effort, torn between anger and elation. Ji‑Imbaoa had made it a direct order, one that Chauvelin could not directly disobey, but at the same time he’d made it equally clear that there was something important at stake. “Very well, Sia,” he said aloud. “Na Ransome will remain with the Game a little while longer.”

“Until he finds what Damian Chrestil wants,” ji‑Imbaoa said.

“So be it,” Chauvelin said. Behind ji‑Imbaoa’s shoulder, Ransome rolled his eyes.

“You must do more,” ji‑Imbaoa said, and turned to face the imagist.

“I do my poor best,” Ransome murmured, and bowed, too deeply for sincerity.

Ji‑Imbaoa ignored that, and glanced back at Chauvelin. “I expect to be kept informed.”

“As you wish,” Chauvelin said, and the Visiting Speaker lifted a clawed hand to signal the door. It slid open obediently, and ji‑Imbaoa stalked out, his ribbons flurrying behind him.

Ransome said, even before the door had fully closed again, “Pity everything else isn’t so docile.”

“You’d better have meant the door,” Chauvelin said, without heat.

“What else?” Ransome darted him a suddenly mischievous glance, said, “Am I to keep on with the Game, then? Or would you rather know about the larger nets?”

“Both,” Chauvelin said. “You heard him. I need you to be visible on the Game nets, to be sure he knows you’re doing what he ordered.”

“That won’t be too difficult,” Ransome said.

“You’ve changed your tune.” In spite of himself, Chauvelin felt a stab of jealousy, remembering the way the other had looked at the pilot, Lioe, the night before.

Ransome gave him a rueful smile. “She’s good,” he said. “And she’s wasted in the Game.”

Chauvelin said, more abruptly than he’d intended, “Whatever. But I do need you to be seen in the Game.”

“I’ve said I would,” Ransome said. He pushed himself off the corner of the desk. “But, damn it, Damian Chrestil is up to something that has nothing at all to do with the Game.”

“I believe you,” Chauvelin said. “I’m doing what I can to find out what.”

“That would make sense,” Ransome said. He lifted his hand to open the door, paused with the gesture half completed. “Do you want me to keep on the port nets?”

Chauvelin nodded. “If you can, yes, but the main thing’s the Game. I think you’re right, but ji‑Imbaoa’s forced my hand.”

Ransome nodded abruptly. “I know, I’m sorry. I’ll do what I can.” He finished his gesture, and the door slid open.

Chauvelin watched him leave, watched the door slide shut again behind him. As long as you stay on the Game nets, as long as you’re conspicuously doing what ji‑Imbaoa wants, then I’ve got a little time. He reached for the shadowscreen, recalling one of the chronometers, and checked the transmission pattern between Burning Bright and maiHu’an. He had just missed a window: the two planets would not be in phase for another twenty hours. Not until tomorrow, then, he thought, and tomorrow afternoon at that. For a moment, he considered using the more complicated–and expensive–emergency channels, but rejected the thought almost at once. The Remembrancer‑Duke would never sanction the expense. But tomorrow he would send a message to Eriki Haas, and find out if, and how, the je Tsinraan were connected to the Chrestil‑Brisch. He leaned back in his chair, staring at the ocean and the distant cloud bank without really seeing them. There were too many possible connections right now, but with any luck Haas would be able to narrow them down, and then… He smiled slowly. Then ji‑Imbaoa would have to regret the way he had behaved. Maybe, he thought, maybe the old superstitions are right, and my luck will change with Storm. He glanced down at the shadowscreen again, and touched icons to shift to another mode. It was time to start asking questions of his own.

Day 1

Storm: Shadows, Face Road, Dock Road

District Below the Old Dike

Lioe blinked even in the filtered sunlight that filled the inner courtyard, set her workboard down beside an unoccupied datanode, and turned her attention toward the food bars in the corner. She fed one the last of her free cash, and chose a box of thick rice and seacake from the cheaper half of the menu. She chose a bottle of medium‑priced water as well, and carried the food back to her table. It had been a long session, and a rewarding one; the session leaders had been excited by the scenario, eager to follow her suggestions, and genuinely interested in preserving her intentions for the session. It was a new experience, being taken that seriously: on the whole, she thought, I think I like it.

She triggered the self‑heating unit, waited the required thirty seconds while the little charge cycled, and opened the box. The steam that rose from the mix of rice and onions and chunks of palmweed and the flower‑shaped seacakes was thick and appetizing, smelling of salt broth and the smoky oil that preserved the fish. There was a tiny dish of sweet mustard as well, but she had learned that it was far more mustard than sweet and should be approached with caution. She spread a pinpoint of the condiment over the first of the seacakes, and tasted warily. It was spicy, cutting the oil, but not so hot that it brought tears to her eyes. She hadn’t realized quite how hungry she had become, caught up in the intricacies of the Game, and she ate with relish, pursuing the last grains of rice around the bottom of the box. Both rice and seacakes were ubiquitous on Burning Bright, the staple of everyone’s diet–the rice grown in the tidal shallows, the seacakes processed at sea from the bits and pieces left over after the more expensive fillets and chunks were set aside–but she had not been on planet long enough to get tired of the salt‑and‑smoke flavors.

She reached for the datacord then, plugged her workboard into the unoccupied node, touched keys to activate the unit and call up the night’s schedule. Somewhat to her surprise, the session hadn’t filled yet, but then she remembered that it was the first night of Storm, the first night of the Carnival. It wasn’t that surprising, after all, but it was a shame that she wouldn’t be making as much money from the session fees as she had hoped. Unless, of course, she could fill the session herself… She tilted her head to one side, considering. She had reserved Harmsway for Ransome, as he’d asked, and Savian and Beledin had signed up to play Lord Faro and Belfortune again– I’d like a second chance at him, Beledin had said, when she had met him in the hall on her way to the session leaders’ meeting–and a couple of unfamiliar names filled other slots, but no one had signed up for Jack Blue, or Mijja Lyall, or Avellar. Lioe frowned, seeing that. She had expected the unfamiliar names to fill last–and neither Jack Blue nor Lyall was a well‑known template–but she would have assumed that Avellar would go quickly. An inexpert Avellar would throw off the balance of the entire scenario; she needed someone good in that spot, if the session was to work at all.

“Quinn. I’ve been looking for you.”

The voice was familiar, but Lioe couldn’t quite place it. She looked up, still frowning, and felt the frown dissolve as she looked up at Roscha. “I’ve been around,” she said. “Are you playing tonight?”

Roscha’s wide mouth widened further in a grin that showed perfect teeth and heightened the impossible cheekbones. “I hope so. I just got off work, and they told me there were still places left for tonight’s session.”

Lioe looked down at the little screen, juggling choices. Roscha was good, all right, but volatile; there had been moments in the first session when she’d amply justified Gueremei’s description of her as “difficult.” On the other hand, that volatility might make for a very interesting key character. “How would you feel about playing Avellar?” she said slowly. “The other real option is Jack Blue–Lyall’s open, too, but that doesn’t strike me as your style.”

“Avellar.” Roscha’s voice caressed the name. “Hell, yes, I’d like to play him–or her, if you’ll let me play the she‑clone.”

Avellar, by Game convention, was actually a four‑person clone, the survivors of a larger clone that had been partially destroyed some years before, in the clone’s childhood. It provided an explanation for the character’s limited telepathy; it also gave players who didn’t like crossing gender lines further options. Lioe shrugged. It made no difference in the context of the scenario; she was just a little surprised that Roscha, of all people, would choose not to cross gender. “If you want, sure,” she said. “I don’t have any problem with that.” She touched keys, and watched the program add Roscha’s name to the list of players.

“Great.” Roscha ran a hand through her hair, dislodging the strip of indigo silk that confined it, and impatiently rewrapped it, tossing the red curls out of her eyes. “I was wondering. I see you’ve eaten, but you’ve got some time before the session starts. Would you like to go down to the Water, and see the Beauties and Beasts?”

Lioe frowned, knowing she’d heard the term before, and Roscha said, “The Syndics’ parade, I mean. It’s well worth seeing.”

Lioe looked back down at the screen, at the two slots that remained. Both of them were important–she prided herself on never having written a scenario that included unnecessary characters–and she hated to think she would have to run them from a distance. On Callixte, of course, she had a list of people she could call at short notice, fellow players and session leaders who were glad to fill in in exchange for a rebate on session fees, but here she would have to rely on the club’s resources. She hesitated then, and touched keys on the workboard to find an outgoing communications channel. “I’d like that,” she said, “but there’s one thing I have to do first.”

“Sure,” Roscha said easily, and seated herself in the chair opposite, where the unfolded screen blocked her view of the other woman’s hands on the keys and controls.

Lioe nodded her thanks, her attention already back on the Game. When Kichi Desjourdy had been Customs‑and‑Intelligence’s representative on Falconsreach, she’d been known to sit in on Game sessions on a fairly regular basis. Lioe herself had relied on her as a player as well as an arbiter. Maybe, just maybe, Lioe thought, she could help me out now. Desjourdy was good; she’d be an excellent choice either for Jack Blue or Lyall. She touched the final sequence, one of Desjourdy’s private codestrings, letting her know it wasn’t business, and dispatched the package into the communications system.

Carnival had not taken over ordinary communications yet. A few thin images, a masked face, a dancing, six‑armed figure, drifted across her screen, while the connect codes blinked behind them, and then the screen lit fully, driving out the last of the Carnival ghosts. Kichi Desjourdy looked out of the little screen, the office wall behind her distorted by its limited projection. Desjourdy herself looked normal enough, Lioe thought, but with Desjourdy it was sometimes hard to tell. The Customs‑and‑Intelligence representative had a round, rather ordinary face, with only the silvery disks of two triple datasockets set into the bone at the corner of each eye to set her apart from most net workers. At the moment, none of the sockets were in use, and Lioe, who had seen Desjourdy bristling with cords, was oddly grateful.

“Quinn,” Desjourdy said. “It’s good to see you. I’ve been hearing a lot of talk about you on the Game nets.” Her voice was clear and true, an elegant soprano, and Lioe was struck again by the mismatch of voice and face.

“Thanks,” she said. “That was sort of what I was calling you about.”

“Oh, yes?”

“I’ve got a session going tonight,” Lioe said, “and I’m short. I need a player I can rely on. Are you free?”

Desjourdy laughed. “I never know whether I should be flattered or not when somebody asks me like this. Is this for Ixion’s Wheel?”

“Yes.”

Desjourdy’s smile widened. “Well, that one I can’t turn down. Who is it, anyway?”

“There are two slots still open,” Lioe answered. “Jack Blue, the telekinetic, leader of the prison population, and Mijja Lyall, who’s a secret telepath and a member of the research staff at the prison.”

“Put me down for Jack Blue,” Desjourdy answered promptly. “He–is it he?–sounds interesting. Can you flip me a copy of the template?”

“Sure.” Lioe touched keys to call the file from storage and duplicate it for transmission. “Are you ready?”

“Line’s open and ready.”

“Sending,” Lioe said, and waited while icons formed and shifted at the bottom of the screen.

“All set,” Desjourdy said, and in the same instant the icons vanished. “What time does the session start?”

Lioe glanced at her reminders list. “At twenty hours.”

“I’ll be there,” Desjourdy said. “And thanks, Quinn. I owe you for this.”

“I think I owe you,” Lioe answered and closed down the connection.

“Who was that?” Roscha asked.

Lioe glanced at her warily, wondering if she had heard a possessive note in the other woman’s voice, but Roscha’s expression was merely curious. “A woman I know from Falconsreach, a Gamer. I told you I was short a couple of people.” And I’m still short one player, for Lyall. She touched keys again to call up the list, to add Desjourdy’s name, and was startled to see that someone had already signed up for Lyall. It was not a name she knew, but at least it solved the problem. She added Desjourdy’s name to the list, and closed down the system.

“Are you still interested in going down to the Water?” Roscha asked, and Lioe shrugged.

“Why not?” She knew she sounded less than enthusiastic, and added, “I would like to see the procession.”

“Leave your board,” Roscha said, pushing herself back from the little table. Lioe glanced at her curiously, and Roscha made an embarrassed face. “If there’s going to be any trouble, it’ll be tonight, kids steaming–you know, a gang of them runs through the crowd, grabs at whatever people’re carrying? That doesn’t often happen down here, it’s more something they do up in Dry Cut, or over on Homestead, but you don’t want to take chances.”

“Right,” Lioe said, allowing the skepticism to color her voice, but she left her Gameboard and most of her credit and cash with Gueremei.

The streets were already crowded, the sun low on the horizon, so that the buildings cast long shadows and only the open plazas were still bathed in amber light. Nearly everyone was masked, faces obscured by strips or full stiffened ovals of beaded lace, or completely hidden by fantastic, beak‑nosed half‑masks painted in every color of the rainbow. A few, men and women in seemingly equal numbers, simply painted their faces, the aged‑ivory complexion that was common on Burning Bright making a perfect backdrop for the delicate sprays of color. Gold flowers climbed one woman’s neck and cheek, appeared again at her bare shoulder, a golden vine winding languidly down to her wrist and a hand that bloomed like a bouquet, each knuckle sprouting a tiny, perfect rose. Her clothes were otherwise ordinary, a sleeveless vest and docker’s trousers, and Lioe caught herself staring at the brilliant contrast, wishing she had her recorder with her. In one of the plazas, a trio of drummers in black, shapeless robes and grotesque masks like the skulls of birds beat a complex almost‑tune, the high‑pitched hand drum weaving a stuttering, offbeat counterpoint to the steadier, full‑toned notes of the larger drums. A slim man in black– in Avellar’s black and gold, Lioe realized, and felt a thrill of absolute delight run up her spine, Avellar’s black and gold and Avellar’s face for a mask–paused to listen, and then pushed the mask back on his head, reaching for something inside his jacket. He pulled out a slim silvered pipe, began improvising against the beat of the drum. The hand‑drummer nodded to him, beckoned him with a movement of head and chin, and the group–a quartet now, for as long as the spirit seized them–played on. A pair of women, their blank silver masks topped with fantastic turbans, flowers and leaves dripping from braided coils of iridescent fabric, danced with them for a moment, then darted away, the metal and glass that weighted the hems of their enormous skirts flashing in the last of the sunlight.

“You should mask,” Roscha said. “I want to mask.”

Lioe hesitated, uncertain, and Roscha caught her arm.

“Come on, Gelsomina was tied up in the public cut not more than an hour ago. If we hurry, she might still be there.”

“I don’t know,” Lioe said, but let herself be towed through the busy streets. Roscha paused at the first canal bridge, looking right and left as though searching for a scent, then started left along the bank. This was a narrow waterway, barely wide enough for two gondas to ride side by side, and the embankment was equally narrow, so that she had to step carefully to keep up with Roscha. She dodged another Avellar–a woman this time, but with the same familiar features shaping the hard‑faced mask, the corners of this one’s mouth drawn down in a frown that was almost tragedy–and nearly ran into a street vendor, his cart folded to its minimum width. She murmured an apology, and saw Roscha beckoning from the bend in the bank ahead of them.

The streetlights were starting to come on–the sun must be down by now, Lioe realized, though it hardly seemed to make much difference in the shadowed streets–and their light fell into the canal’s dark water. A boat, a small barge with its mast unstepped and laid from bow to stern, lay at the center of one pool of light, and a woman looked up at them from the boat’s low deck. She was dressed as the Viverina, rich purple robe embroidered with dragons, sleek black wig that fell almost to her knees, skulls with bright red eyes braided into that mass, and she was laughing at them from behind the painted mask. Dozens, a hundred masks and piled cloth that must be costumes filled every available centimeter of the deck; masks hung from the horizontal mast, crowded cheek to cheek along its length, and still others dangled from the crossbar of the Viverina’s spear.

“Gelsomina,” Roscha said. “Are you still selling?”

“Since you’re here, I suppose so,” the Viverina answered. She was older than Lioe had guessed at first, about sixty, but straight as the spear she carried. “What will it be, something from the Game?”

“Yes, if you have it,” Roscha answered, and the woman beckoned to her.

“Well, come aboard, then.” She looked up at Lioe, tilting her head inside the painted mask. “And you too. Are you here for a mask?”

“I don’t know,” Lioe began, and Roscha answered for her.

“Yes, probably.” She dropped down onto the deck–not a long drop, not much more than a meter–and the boat rocked under her. Gelsomina kept her balance effortlessly, and beckoned for Lioe to follow. Lioe hesitated, but lowered herself more carefully onto the unsteady planks. The boat rocked anyway, and she steadied herself against the mast. It shifted under her hand, and the faces danced, seeming almost alive in the streetlight’s glow.

“These are beautiful,” she said, and didn’t quite realize she’d spoken aloud until Gelsomina bowed to her.

“Thank you. But then, I enjoy my work.”

“Do you have any Avellars left, Na Mina?” Roscha asked, and Gelsomina shook her head.

“No, child, not a one. There’s some off‑worlder doing a scenario with him at the heart of it; I sold my last one before noon.”

“Damn,” Roscha said, and then, belatedly remembering her manners, “Na Mina, this is a friend of mine, Quinn Lioe. She’s the one who wrote that scenario.”

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” Gelsomina said. She tilted her head to one side, studying Lioe from behind the mask. “What were you looking for, do you know?”

“Thanks,” Lioe said, and heard her own uncertainty in her voice. “I didn’t really have anything in mind. I’ve never been on Burning Bright during Storm.” She scanned the rows of masks in the hopes of finding something, and, to her surprise, one face seemed to leap out at her from the row crowded on the mast. It was a full mask, with a heavy, elaborately braided wig covering the back of the head. One half of the face was plain, smooth, a bland collection of planes and angles, pleasing enough, but nothing out of the ordinary; the other was deformed and distorted like the carvings on a ritual mask, the cheek eaten to the bone, the mouth drawn down by a scar like a sneer, the eye hidden by a painted patch. And the rest of the scars were decorated, too, layered with color so that they became almost an abstract painting of a face. Lioe reached out to touch it, drawn and repelled at the same time, and Gelsomina nodded.

“That’s from one of LaChacalle’s novels–Helike, from The Witch‑Vizier. Do you know it?”

“I’m afraid I don’t,” Lioe answered, and didn’t know if she was glad or sorry. The new name, the last name on the session list, had been LaChacalle. “Is LaChacalle a Gamer?”

Gelsomina shrugged one shoulder. “She used to be. I haven’t seen her much lately–she quit about when Ambidexter did. They were old friends.”

“She’s playing tonight, I think,” Lioe said. “Or someone with that name is, anyway.”

“There’s only one of her,” Gelsomina said.

“What about Hazard?” Roscha asked, and Gelsomina shook her head.

“No, but I do have Cor‑Clar Sensmerce. I remember you used to play her.”

“Thanks,” Roscha said, and Gelsomina turned to the lines of masks, running her staff idly along the rows until she found the one she wanted.

“There you are. It’s twenty real. Or we can make a trade.”

Roscha stopped, her hand on the purse inside her belt. “What trade?”

“You needn’t sound so suspicious,” Gelsomina said. “Are you going to watch the parade?”

“We were, yes,” Roscha answered, and despite Gelsomina’s words still sounded wary. Lioe grinned, and then wondered if she should be more cautious.

“I’d rather watch it from the Water, myself, with all the stock aboard,” Gelsomina went on, “and I wouldn’t mind having some younger bodies to help me get this cow down to the canal mouth. I’ll trade you each a mask, and bring you back to your club–is it Shadows you’re playing at? as close as I can get, then–before the session starts.”

Roscha relaxed visibly. “That would make life easier.”

Lioe shrugged. “Can we get back in time?”

“When is the session?” Gelsomina asked.

“Twentieth hour,” Roscha said, and looked at Lioe. “It shouldn’t be a problem. The parade starts at dark–seventeenth hour.”

Lioe glanced sideways, checking the time, and shrugged again, willing to let herself be overruled. “If you’re sure, why not? It should be worth seeing.”

“It always is,” Gelsomina answered. “There’s nothing quite like our Carnival, not anywhere in human space.”

Or anywhere at all, Lioe thought. Under Gelsomina’s instructions, she and Roscha stowed most of the masks and costumes that cluttered the decking in the storage cells that ran along the gunwales, but left the ones that lined the mast. Then Roscha freed the mooring lines while Gelsomina took her place in the steering well. Lioe, knowing nothing of boats, crouched beside the mast and waited to be told what to do. The motor coughed and caught, settled almost instantly to a steady purr. Roscha shoved them free of the embankment, and the barge swung out into the channel, heading toward the Inland Water.

The people on the banks were moving toward the Water, too, knots and groups of them in bright matching costumes, a few who walked alone, families with strings of children going hand in hand under an elder’s watchful eye. There were more boats on the canal, too, some smaller than Lioe had seen before, little more than a shell with a racketing motor slung over the stern, and, of course, the inevitable mob of gondas. A Lockwardens’ patrol boat moved silently through the crowd, its flashing light sending blue shadows across the water and along its own black hull. The civilian craft all carried bright lights at stern and bow–the littlest shells had handlights rigged to the motors–and even as Lioe noticed that, lights blossomed along the sides of Gelsomina’s barge. They were directed outward, shielded from the boat’s occupants, but Lioe could see their brilliance reflected in the water. It was a beautiful effect, the shape of the barge outlined in light, but she guessed it was as much precaution as decoration. There would be a lot of traffic on the canals tonight: it was a good time to be visible.

Horns sounded as they came up on the wide feeder channel that carried local traffic down to the Water, and Lioe jumped as Gelsomina sounded their own horn in answer. The barge swung over, stately, Roscha standing ready in the bow, boatpole in hand to fend off any unwary craft, and then Gelsomina had tucked them neatly into the line of traffic. The canal was jammed with barges and gondas, and here and there a bigger commercial boat–heavy barges and seiners in about equal numbers–loomed above the crowd, their sides dripping with strings of chaser lights. A heavy barge swayed past, set Gelsomina’s boat rocking in its wake, the strings of lights dipping into the water as it heeled over slightly to avoid a passing gonda. Its open deck was crowded with people of all ages, from babies in flotation suits to old men and women in support chairs. Families of the regular crews? Lioe wondered, but it was too noisy to ask.

Blatting one‑note trumpets sounded from the walkways that lined the shore–children, mostly, carrying the brightly colored horns that were a full meter long, taller than some of the children who sounded them–and were answered by another clutch of children on the heavy barge’s deck. Other boats took up the sound, and Lioe covered her ears, wincing, until the boats had passed and the shore children had admitted defeat. People called to each other, their words drowned in the general din, and a man dressed all in bells danced on a bollard, the clanging all but inaudible as Gelsomina’s barge slipped past only a few meters from the wall. A disk of light swept across the crowd, and Lioe looked up to see the familiar shape of a hovering security drone scanning the crowd. The Lockwardens’ insignia was picked out in lights on its stubby wings. A cheer, ironic but not hostile, rose from the crowd as the light touched them.

Farther up the canal, there were whoops, and then a splash, the sound distinct and chilling even in the uproar. Lioe turned her head sharply, even though it had been too loud to have been a child, saw Roscha’s body a tense shadow against the shore lights. Then, as suddenly, she saw her relax as two drones flung their lights onto the source of the sound. Caught in that double disk of light, a dripping boy hauled himself back onto a fingerling dock, shaking water from the ruined feathers that decorated his mask. He shook his fist at another boy, but a third grabbed his shoulders, and hustled him away. One of the drones followed the group for a moment longer, then turned away, taking the light with it. As the bright circle swung briefly aimless along the buildings that fronted the canal, it hit a doorway where a man and a woman were locked in blind embrace, her skirt rucked up to her waist, and flashed away again. Lioe blinked, not sure if she’d seen the woman reaching not for her partner but for his wallet, but there was nothing she could do about it if she had.

The feeder widened suddenly as it opened onto the Water. Gondas were clustered in flotillas along either bank, filled and overfilled with masked and costumed figures, standing shapes balanced precariously against the chop where the two currents met. The Water itself was black and empty, except for a few speeders that carried the blue lights of the Lockwardens; another Lockwardens’ speeder, throttled back so far that it barely made headway against the chop, moved along the line of gondas, a tall man calling instructions from the pilot’s well.

“Which way?” Gelsomina called from her place in the stern, and Lioe saw Roscha look right and left before she answered.

“It looks clearer down toward the Warden’s Channel.”

“Right.” The boat swung left as Gelsomina answered, pulling out around the mob of smaller boats, and Lioe felt rather than heard the beat of the engine strengthen as they picked up speed.

“Do you see a buoy?” Gelsomina called.

“No, not yet–wait.” Roscha leaned precariously out over the bow, one hand clinging tight to the mast. “Wait, yes, past that seiner there’s a free point.”

Gelsomina did not answer, but Lioe felt the boat surge again, as though she’d opened a throttle. The barge passed two more ships–another barge filled with people costumed from the Game, several Avellars among them, and then a seiner, its nets spread to let a horde of children climb to a better view–and then started to slow. They were almost on top of it before Lioe saw the mooring point. Roscha had had it in view long before, however, and caught it easily with the boatpole’s hooked end. Gelsomina saw the movement, the swoop and jerk of the pole against the shore lights, and reversed the engines. The barge slid neatly up to the orange‑painted buoy, coming to an almost perfect stop against its scarred sides. Roscha looped a cable into place, tugged twice to snug it home. Flares blossomed in the distance, toward the entrance to the channel.

“They’re coming,” Roscha called, and Gelsomina pulled herself up out of the steering well, came to sit on the unstepped mast. Lioe seated herself beside the older woman, careful of the masks and the barge’s unpredictable roll, and Roscha joined them a moment later, tucking the boatpole neatly under their feet. A larger Lockwardens’ boat, a slim needle of a ship twice as long as a gonda, slid past down the center of the channel, a tail of spray gleaming behind it.

“In that compartment there,” Gelsomina said, “you’ll find a bottle of raki.”

Roscha grinned, and rummaged in the shallow space until she had found the bottle and three small, unmatching cups. She poured a cup for each of them, and came back to sit beside Lioe. “Health,” she said, and the three touched cups.

They did not have to wait long for the parade to appear. Lioe sipped cautiously at the bitter drink–it tasted of anise, a flavor she didn’t like–and looked south again just as another flare blossomed in the darkness over the Warden’s Channel. A trio of speeders, all with Lockwardens’ lights and markings, swept into view, and another group of three followed more slowly, peeling off to take up stations just inside the line of spectators.

“Soon now,” Gelsomina said, and Roscha said, “Mommy…” She caught a five‑year‑old’s whine so perfectly that Lioe laughed aloud.

“Five more minutes,” Gelsomina said.

Lioe looked south again, still smiling, toward the light at the point of Mainwarden Island, and saw a dark shape eclipse the light. The parade? she thought, and Roscha whooped beside her.

“There they are!”

Gelsomina fumbled in the folds of her costume, and produced a slim set of night glasses. She laid her staff aside and used both hands to work the focusing buttons. Lioe narrowed her eyes at the dark platform, wondering how anyone would be able to see anything on that distant deck. And then a giant figure unfolded itself from the barge, a woman in a full skirt and low‑cut bodice, a giantess with a crown of blue‑white stars, and more stars draped and scattered across her dress. She stood for a moment, a sketch in light and shadows, and then spotlights came on, revealing her full glories. There was a gasp from the crowds on the banks and on the boats to either side, and then shrill applause. It had to be some kind of puppet, Lioe knew, an enormous automaton that swept into an astonishingly graceful curtsy as the sound of the cheers reached it, but the illusion was nearly perfect. The face was serenely beautiful, elegantly proportioned; as Lioe watched, the features shifted, rearranging themselves into a gentle smile.

“Oh, they’re not going to like that,” Gelsomina said. “Half the crowd will miss the lighting.”

“No, look,” Roscha answered, pointing as the spotlights faded again, leaving the giantess wreathed in her own lights. “Oh, very nice.”

Gelsomina nodded, fumbling again with her glasses.

“It must be, what, ten meters tall,” Lioe said, and Roscha nodded.

“Between ten and twelve. Whose is it, Na Mina?”

“Who pays for them all?” Lioe asked.

“Civic groups,” Gelsomina answered, not taking her glasses from her eyes. “That’s Estens there–one of the Five Points Families, Na Lioe. They, the Five Points Families, I mean, and the Merchant Investors Syndicate, the Five Points Bank, cartels like Yardmasters and Fishers Co‑op, and the Lockwardens, of course, each one sponsors a barge. Once a group’s bought the framework, it’s just a matter of dressing it each year.”

“It’s a way of proving your importance,” Roscha said.

Gelsomina went on as though she hadn’t spoken, lowering the glasses into her lap. “I used to dress for Yardmasters, a long time ago, and then for the MIS. Before it got so political.”

Lioe nodded, not really understanding, and a second barge swept into view. This one carried a massively muscled male shape, naked except for a blue‑and‑gold loincloth and heavy golden bracelets running from its wrists almost to its elbows. Its head was the head of a bull, the horns tipped with gold as well, and its body glittered in the spotlight, as though its skin were sheathed in some kind of faintly mottled coating, a gold iridescence like tiny scales. It threw back its head as the crowd’s noise reached it, massive mouth opening in a silent roar, and beat the air with its fists.

“Five Points Bank?” Roscha said, and Gelsomina nodded.

“More money than sense. But that’s always been their problem.”

“It looks,” Roscha said slowly, frowning, “you know, it looks almost hsaia, with that skin. I wonder if they meant it?”

“I doubt it,” Gelsomina said. “I heard talk about this. They hired Marrin Artisans to come up with a new way to make the sheathing, out of sequensas–rejects and scrap, mind you, but still. You can imagine what that cost.” She stared at the figure for a long moment, and added, grudgingly, “Still, it does look pretty good from here.”

“It still looks hsaia to me,” Roscha said. “And the FPB does a lot of business with HsaioiAn.”

“And that,” Gelsomina said, “is what’s wrong with the parade these days. Remember the year the Five Points Families each did one of the Four Judges? That started it, once their candidate got elected that year. Everything’s got a political angle, some kind of message–even when you don’t mean it to, somebody’s going to see it. The old days were a lot better.”

Roscha looked away, her expression at once embarrassed and mulish in the dim light, and Lioe said hastily, “Who’s that coming?”

Gelsomina adjusted her glasses again, focusing on the third barge that was just coming into view its deck still empty of its puppet. “MIS.”

Merchant Investors’ Syndicate, Lioe translated, and leaned forward a little. On the distant deck, a dark figure lifted its head, rose forward as though to its knees, and hung there for a moment, an indistinct shadow against the thin bank of light that was the far bank of the Water. Lioe caught her breath, heard a shocked murmur from the people filling the seiner to her right, and the same questioning noises from the crowd on the bank behind her. Gelsomina smiled faintly, said nothing. Then the figure straightened fully, and the lights came on, revealing a shape in a nipwaisted coat and the blood‑red shoulder‑cape‑and‑hood of Captain Rider. She was a familiar template in the Game, one of the heroic almost‑pirates who defended the Scattered Worlds against the Imperium, and Lioe waited eagerly for her to lower her hood. The puppet lifted both hands–light glinted from the ring, Captain Rider’s seal, worn on its right forefinger, and Lioe smiled at the careful detail–and slipped the hood back. There was something not quite right about the face, though, something unfamiliar, added or taken away from the template. Lioe frowned, puzzled, and realized that the puppet’s eyes didn’t match, one blue, one brown. Behind her, the crowd cheered.

“Holy shit,” Roscha said, “that’s Berengaria.”

“More politics,” Gelsomina said, but did not sound particularly displeased this time.

“The governor?” Lioe said.

Roscha nodded, grinning, and raised her voice to carry over the cheers and shrill whistles from the crowd. “She’s one of theirs, the MIS’s, I mean. And they’re proud of her.”

“She’s favored them enough, you mean,” Gelsomina said.

For all she hates politics, Lioe thought, she knows a lot about what’s going on. Still, it was a clever move, associating Governor Berengaria–who from all accounts supported Burning Bright’s freedom from both the metagovernments, and leaned to the Republic, her friends said, only because they were less of a threat than the HsaioiAn–with Captain Rider, protector of the Scattered Worlds. Not subtle, admittedly, but clever.