Burning Bright

“And Rider’s not what you’d call a Beauty,” Gelsomina went on, her voice rising, querulous.

“She’s surely not a Beast,” Roscha answered, and Lioe intervened again.

“What is the rule?”

“There isn’t really a rule,” Gelsomina said, grudgingly. “Not written down, anyway. But the tradition is to alternate the pageant barges, a Beauty and a Beast, and the figures are usually taken from mythology. Not from the Game.”

“The Game’s a kind of mythology,” Lioe said mildly, overriding something Roscha started to say, and after a moment the john‑boat pilot subsided.

“Oh, I know,” Gelsomina answered. “It’s just–oh, very God, I hate getting old. You always end up sounding like your own mother.”

Lioe grinned and saw Roscha relax even further. “Who designs the puppets?” she asked at random, hoping to turn the conversation even further, and saw a fourth barge pull into view.

“Who’s that?” Roscha demanded.

Gelsomina worked her glasses, shook her head. “Can’t tell yet.”

On the distant deck, a figure unfolded, barely rising out of a crouch before the spotlights struck it. A dancing satyr leered back at the crowd, goat‑legged, rude horns jutting from its forehead and implied beneath its gilded fig leaf; it was crowned with oak and ivy, golden acorns– they must be the size of melons, Lioe realized, too big to span in my cupped hands–and carried a double flute. The cheers were less than enthusiastic, to her surprise, and she looked at Roscha.

“It’s been done before,” Roscha said, and Gelsomina shook her head.

“It’s Soresin, too. I expected better, after what I heard they spent this year.”

Then, quite suddenly, the satyr began to move. As though it had heard the comments, it thumbed its nose to each bank in turn, still grinning, then lifted its flute to its thick lips. It began to play, and, seconds later, the sound reached the watching crowd, a thin, seductive melody that carried the urge to dance and weep in the same quick, minor‑keyed strain. A moment later, the puppet began to dance to its own piping, the movements timed so perfectly that for a long moment Lioe forgot the barge, forgot that it was a puppet, and saw only the ghost of an abandoned god dancing against the horizon.

“Now that’s more like it,” Gelsomina said, and her words were nearly drowned by the cheering from the shore. On the seiner next to them, some of the people were dancing, sketching the same quick steps to the satyr’s music. Lioe glanced toward them, saw a young man clasp a woman’s hands and swing her in a sweeping circle. She leaned back, eyes closed, bright skirt flying, her long hair tumbling loose from a Carnival crown of braids, brushing the decks. She came upright laughing, and Lioe looked away from the wild abandon in her face.

“If that doesn’t take all the awards,” Roscha began, and her voice trailed off into nothing.

Gelsomina nodded, but her expression was less certain. “Everything for puppetry, certainly.”

The barge that followed Soresin’s dancing satyr carried another female puppet, this one tall and very slim, dressed in a short, one‑shouldered tunic and carrying a spear nearly as tall as the puppet itself. Light flared from the fingers of her free hand; she touched the spear’s point, and fire ran up and down the shaft. It was impressive, but after the dancing satyr anything would have been an anticlimax.

The next barge carried a stooped and cloaked figure, red lights glowing like eyes from the shadows within its hood–“Imbriac,” Gelsomina said, “one of the Five Points Families”–that received no more than polite applause, and the next was a crowned man, very handsome, sponsored by a fishing cooperative called Tcheirin Sibs. The next barge slid into view, its puppet already outlined against the lights of the distant shore, a stooped and crooked figure, one shoulder higher than the rest. The lights came on, revealing the twisted body, the sneering scowl of one of the Game’s grand villains, the Baron’s henchman Ettanin Hasse. The puppet stood for a long moment, only its head moving as it looked from side to side, mouth still twisted in contemptuous amusement, and then, quite slowly, it lifted a mask to its face. The mask was perfect, ordinary, a man’s face without deformity; the puppet set it into place, and straightened fully, the crooked shoulder and twisted body easing away. There was a murmur, approving and uneasy all at once, before the applause. The puppet lowered the mask again, and sank back into its first character.

“That,” Gelsomina said, “was Chrestil‑Brisch.”

“That takes guts,” Roscha said. “Considering that’s what most people think of them anyway.”

Lioe glanced at her, and Roscha shrugged. “They’ve got a reputation for being, well, chancy. You’re never really sure where you stand with them–or so they say.”

Lioe looked back toward the line of barges to watch the next group of puppets mime their reactions against the starless sky. There were only three more–a female shape with a fan, from a popular video series; something with the head and shoulders of a dragon, beautiful but incomprehensible; and, last and best, neither Beauty nor Beast, a shape that seemed to be made of glass and mirrors, each curve of its body turned to facets and angles. It barely moved–“too fragile to move much,” Gelsomina said–but it threw back the spotlights in a storm of white fire. It was all too much, and Lioe found herself strangely glad when the last of them slid past. Gelsomina sighed, and motioned for Roscha to release the mooring.

They made their way back to Shadows by the quickest route, up the Crooked River to the turnoff below the Old Dike, then back through the maze of canals to the Liander canal just south of Shadows. The streets were quieter here–most people were still on the Water, or in the streets and plazas along its banks–and Lioe was not sure if she was relieved or worried to see a security drone sail past overhead.

“I appreciate your help,” Gelsomina said. “It’s nice to see the parade from a decent viewpoint.” She had pushed the Viverina’s mask back onto her forehead to see while she steered, but the wig was still in place, the skulls clattering against each other.

“Thank you,” Lioe said. “I didn’t–I don’t know what I was expecting, but that was just incredible.”

Gelsomina smiled. “And I owe you masks, too. Roscha, do you want Cor‑Clar?”

“Yes, and thank you,” Roscha answered, and reached with unerring speed for the rich brown‑skinned mask.

“And you, Na Lioe?” Gelsomina asked.

Lioe shook her head. “I can’t decide. They’re all gorgeous, and I don’t know who I want to be.”

“Well, you’re not leaving empty‑handed,” Gelsomina declared. “We had a bargain.” She turned slowly, leaning on the Viverina’s stick, running her gaze along the masks still hanging from the unstepped mast. They looked back at her, their colors mellowed in the amber light from the embankment. She smiled then, and reached out with her staff. “Take that one.”

“If you’re sure, Na Gelsomina,” Lioe began, and the woman nodded.

“Take it. I insist.”

“Thank you,” Lioe said, helplessly, and loosened the mask from the clips that held it. It was made of stiffened lace, roughly formed to the shape of a human face, with a single six‑millimeter stone of clear faceted glass set above the mouth like a beauty mark. The web of lace, black and faintly metallic, looked almost transparent in the light. “Thanks,” she said again, and let Roscha pull her up onto the embankment. She looked back once, to see Gelsomina–the Viverina again, her mask pulled down into place and staff in hand–standing beside the row of masks that looked almost alive in the amber light.

“We’ve got some time,” Roscha said. “Do you want to stop for coffee, or something?”

Lioe looked sideways, found a patch of grey stone that would let her see the chronometer’s numbers. In a little more than an hour she would have to start the night’s session, and she shook her head decisively. “No. I want to get back to Shadows.” She was aware suddenly that Roscha was frowning, added a belated, “Thanks anyway.”

Roscha shrugged one shoulder. “Suit yourself.”

“Some other time,” Lioe said, and got no answer. They kept walking through the patches of light and shadow that filled the streets, pools of light puddling in the intersections, shadow creeping back at the middle of the blocks, where the streetlights did not overlap. Distant music wound through the darkness, fits and snatches that she could almost weave into a tune. She tilted her head to one side to listen–she didn’t even quite recognize the instruments, except for the heavy bass and the thin whine of metal strings from a violo–and started when Roscha’s hand brushed her own.

“Hey, I’m sorry,” Roscha said, in an affronted voice and Lioe shook her head.

“I’m sorry, you just startled me. That’s all.”

There was a moment of silence, and then Roscha looked away. “I’m sorry,” she said again, in an entirely different tone.

“It’s all right,” Lioe said, and did not move away when Roscha reached for her hand again. They walked on hand in hand, their footsteps echoing on the paving, and then Roscha pulled away again. Lioe bit back annoyance–she didn’t need this, not before a session–but said nothing. Whatever’s wrong with her, she’ll have to get over it on her own; I don’t have the time to nursemaid her. Then, in spite of herself, she gave a rueful smile. Why are my one‑night stands always more complicated than they should be?

Evening, Day 1

Storm: The Chrestil‑Brisch

Palazze, Five Points

Damian Chrestil stood on the wide balcony that ran along the base of the palazze’s roof, watching the fireworks that bloomed over the Wet Districts and the Inland Water. Each burst drew a murmur of appreciation from the other guests, watching from the open doorways farther down the roof, but he enjoyed the annual display too much to share it. The bursts of red and gold flared like flowers, drowning the stars and the starlike lights of the distant buildings. He would rather have been watching from the Water itself, where the sky rained golden fire with each explosion, but Chrestillio had asked– and we all agreed, in some perverse fit of compliance–that they all attend the family’s party as a show of solidarity. Customs‑and‑Intelligence was still asking questions about the Demeter shipment, and it was important that they look as though they trusted each other, and weren’t worrying about anything. The fireworks slackened, the breathing space before the finale, and Damian glanced over his shoulder toward the guests who lined the balcony. About half of them were masked, all from the Five Points Families: the Old City did not mask, preferred more refined pastimes, but the real power had never needed refinement. Damian smiled at the thought, nodded to a thin woman– she was something in the bank, he thought–who lifted her glass to him, and looked away.

The finale caught them all by surprise, and there was a collective gasp as the first burst flowered into an enormous spray of red that turned to gold and then fell in streamers of light toward the distant Water. Another shell burst into a flare of purple brightening to pink, and then another, and another, so that the balls of light hung for a moment on a trail of gold fire like flowers on a stem. Even as they fell, dissolving into a shower of sparks, four more shells flew up, trailing thin lines of flame, exploded into flat sheets of light. From the Water, Damian knew, it would be as though the world were frozen for an instant by that crack of light, and he sighed for what he was missing.

In his pocket, the house remote buzzed softly, a tingling vibration against his thigh. He swore under his breath, and reached for it, cupping his fingers over the control points. The message vibrated against his hand: urgent message, come at once. He swore again, but the code was his highest priority. He glanced over his shoulder again, saw no one watching, and turned the remote to touch the control combination that released the gate to the outside stair. It was in shadow, and everyone’s attention would be on the finale for at least half an hour. He looked again toward the Water–red and green halos flared around a golden center–and made himself turn away.

The staircase spiraled down the outside of the palazze, with only a single entrance before the ground level. He twisted the remote again to release that lock, and let himself in past impassive human security to the third floor’s secondary hall. The corridor connected with his own rooms; he made his way there, the lights growing brighter at his approach, dimming as he moved away, let himself into the suite. Lights were blinking on the communications console, but he paused long enough to clear the windows completely before he crossed to the control board and entered the security codes. The little screen sprang to life, but Damian ignored it, tilted the boxy display so that he could see at least some of the fireworks through the window beyond it.

In the screen, ji‑Imbaoa glared at him, claws tapping somewhere out of sight. “Your plans are starting to unravel,” he said, without preamble.

Damian Chrestil lifted an eyebrow at him– how did I come to join forces with him?–said aloud, “Weren’t you able to get the codes?”

Ji‑Imbaoa waved away that question. “They are coming. There has been some trouble with the transmitter; I’ve had to go through the commercial links. But that is not the issue.”

“Forgive me, Na Speaker, but I thought precisely that was the cause of this delay,” Damian said.

“The codes are on their way,” ji‑Imbaoa said again. “Do you doubt me?”

Damian bit back his anger, waved a hand in apology. “No. I don’t doubt they’ll get here.” Eventually.

“I accept the apology.”

It was only a formal phrase, effectively meaningless, but Damian felt his hackles rise. He controlled his temper with an effort, and said, “Then, Na Speaker, what’s happened to upset you?”

“Ransome,” ji‑Imbaoa said. “He has concluded that the Game is a blind, and he is encouraging Chauvelin to look elsewhere.”

Damian frowned at the screen, a cold knot forming in the pit of his stomach. If that was true, if Ransome was back on the port nets, and with Customs‑and‑Intelligence still asking questions about the shipment from Demeter, it would be only too easy to track down what was really going on. Easy for Ransome, anyway. He took a deep breath, trying to banish fear, and ji‑Imbaoa went on.

“I have taken steps to forestall him, but I don’t know how long it will last.”

“Good,” Damian said, and then considered. “What did you do?”

“The only thing I could do,” ji‑Imbaoa answered. “I have made it a matter of honor and prestige that Ransome continue with the Game–I have wagered my name and my fathers’ that there will be something there for him to find. I trust that it’s so.”

Do I care about your fathers’ names? Damian ran his hand through his hair, tried to consider things calmly. “There are things for him to worry about, yes,” he said, “and I can arrange for him to find some more political material.” I think. If Cella can get time. “But under these circumstances, Na Speaker–let me put it plainly, if you don’t get me those codes, tonight or tomorrow, this deal will fall through. At a high cost to both of us, money and prestige alike.”

“Let me remind you,” ji‑Imbaoa said, his hands suddenly as still as Damian had ever seen them, “that you have significantly more to lose than I.”

“I’ve done all that I promised,” Damian answered, and left the rest unsaid.

“I’ll get you the codes,” ji‑Imbaoa said. “But you will have to keep Ransome busier.” He cut the connection before Damian could reply.

Damian swore at the blank screen, slapped the controls with more force than was really necessary. But ji‑Imbaoa was lord and master of Highhopes, and if the jericho‑human colony there was going to trade with Burning Bright without the interference of the brokers backed by the tzu Tsinraan, they had to work through ji‑Imbaoa. And ji‑Imbaoa had to get his share of the profits. The system shut itself off, and he stood for a moment staring at the sky beyond the long windows. The last shells made a curtain of fire, sheets of gold and red that frayed to long streamers against the invisible stars, but he barely saw it, lost in calculations. If Ransome wasn’t distracted by the Game, his own security was probably inadequate: he paid well, employed the best experts, but Ransome was a superb netwalker in his own right, and he knew too many people within the systems. If he couldn’t crack the security wall himself, he would know someone who could give or sell him the keys. Damian tapped his fingers against the case, winced at the echo of ji‑Imbaoa’s gesture. He’d increase security– it’s a good thing I thought to organize a blockade of the port feed already, but I’ll have to do something more. And I can’t transfer the lachesi to the transshipment group without those codes. Still, it would be better if Ransome stayed in the Game.

The door chime sounded then, and the remote buzzed gently against his thigh. He frowned– no one should know I’m here–and touched the code that threw the security feed onto the small display. Cella was waiting in the hall, demure in a sheer overdress. Damian’s frown deepened, and he touched the controls that released the lock.

“They’re starting to wonder where you are,” Cella said, without preamble.

“Damn them,” Damian said, and then, “Which them, anyway?”

“Your siblings, mostly,” Cella answered, and Damian made a face.

“I’d better go up, then.”

“I do need to talk to you,” Cella said.

Damian Chrestil looked at her. “I hope it’s good news. I’ve not been having a pleasant evening.”

Cella smiled wryly. “I’m afraid not.”

Damian sighed. “Well?”

“I suppose it’s good and bad, at that. I stopped in at Shadows before I came here. Lioe–Ransome’s pilot–is running a session tonight, and I wanted to look over the play list. The good news is that Ambidexter himself is back in the Game–he’s even playing Harmsway–but the bad news is that Kichi Desjourdy’s also part of the session. And as best I can discover, it was Lioe herself who asked her to play.”

Damian’s hand closed convulsively on the pocket remote, and there was a squeal of protest from the mechanism. He released it hastily, and Cella went on.

“Desjourdy is known as a Gamer, but I thought you ought to know.”

“Damn,” Damian said softly, as much to himself as to Cella, and he stared into space for a long moment, trying to order his thoughts. The sky beyond the windows was very black, the fireworks over: no inspiration there, he thought, and turned his eyes away. “This Lioe,” he began, “is she still seeing Roscha, or was it a one‑night affair?”

Cella shrugged. “I don’t know. Roscha was slated to play Avellar, but Lioe seems very taken with Ransome. And he with her, for that matter.”

“So.” Damian shoved his hands into his pockets again, running his fingers over the remote’s smoothly indented surface as though it were a talisman. If I can get Roscha to watch Lioe–Roscha’s done that kind of job before, she can certainly handle it–then I can be sure to find out if she contacts Desjourdy again. He touched the remote’s control points again, and the image in the display screens shifted, became a memo board. He leaned over the keyboard, typed a quick message into the wharfingers’ computers–CONTACT JAFIERA ROSCHA 2 STORM AM, SEND HER TO MY OFFICE AS SOON AS SHE ARRIVES–and set it loose on the main systems. And if all else fails, she can deal with Lioe, and I can get Ransome out of the way. “Can you get a transcript of this session for me?”

Cella blinked, startled. “Yes, of course. It’ll be on all the Game nets by three this morning if not before. Why?”

“I just want to see how they behave,” Damian said vaguely. I want to see if Roscha thinks she’s competing with Ransome, and I want to see how good she is at it. Because if she has any grudge against him, I can make good use of it. “Dump it to my private system as soon as you can get a copy, please.”

“I’ll do that,” Cella said.

Damian Chrestil smiled crookedly. “Then let’s rejoin the party.”

–––

Interlude

Game/varRebel.2.04/

subPsi. 1.22/ver22.1/ses4.24

They crouched in the uncertain shelter of the cargo bay, hearing the clatter of boots recede along the walkways to either side. The overhanging shelves, piled high with crates, gave some cover, but they all knew that if the baron’s guards came back out onto the center catwalk it would take a miracle to keep from being seen. Galan Africa/ALEMO TOMSEY frowned over the power pack of their only heavy laser, working methodically to mate a salvaged blaster cell into the nonstandard housing. Jack Blue/KICHI DESJOURDY sprawled gasping against the nearest stack of crates, hand against his chest as though it pained him. Mijja Lyall/LACHACALLE crouched at his side, one hand on his wrist, as though somehow knowing his pulse rate could help. Blue’s great bulk had displaced the lower crates slightly, and Gallio Hazard/HALLY VENTURA edged out of its line of fall, his pistol drawn and ready. He knelt cautiously in the shelter of a second stack of crates, laid a fresh clip on the floor beside him, and settled to wait. Lord Faro/PETER SAVIAN and Ibelin Belfortune/KAZIO BELEDIN crouched as always a little apart from the rest, Faro a little ahead of the wild‑eyed Belfortune, as though he could protect him.

“We’re still waiting for this contact,” Desir of Harmsway/AMBIDEXTER said. “Well, Avellar? What happened this time?”

“How can I know?” Avellar/JAFIERA ROSCHA answered. “Something’s gone wrong, obviously.” She smiled suddenly. “I say we press on, Desir, unless you want to go back.”

Harmsway looked away, made a face of disgust. Avellar’s grin faded, and she went to kneel on the warped flooring beside Jack Blue. “How is it?”

“Not so good.” Blue’s voice was thin and wheezing, and, behind his back, Lyall shook her head. She reached into her much‑depleted kit, came out with a slim injector, but hesitated, and did not lay it against the telekinetic’s arm.

“If you weren’t so damn fat, you wouldn’t be in this bad shape,” Harmsway snapped. “Christ, what a waste.”

Blue frowned, his eyes losing their focus for a moment. A cracked piece of the floor tiling snapped loose and flung itself at Harmsway’s face. He ducked away from it, but too late, and the tile’s sharp edge drew a thin line of blood along one cheekbone. Avellar snatched the tile out of the air before it could strike anything else.

“A waste to bring me,” Blue said, mimicking Harmsway’s precise voice. “You didn’t bring me, little man–”

“Shut up,” Avellar said, and was obeyed. “Save your strength,” she added, and looked at Harmsway. “The ship’s right there, Desir, just waiting for us. Go right ahead.”

Harmsway looked longingly at the cargo door, only forty meters away across the width of the warehouse. It was even open, the ship’s hatch gleaming in the loading lights, and he could feel that the last barrier was sealed only with a palm lock, the kind of thing he could open in his sleep… if he could reach it. His lips thinned, and he looked away.

“Avellar.” Lyall’s voice was suddenly sharp with fear, and Avellar swung to face her.

“I think–” Lyall began, then shook her head. “No, I’m sure. They’ve brought in one of the hunters.”

Harmsway swore, and Hazard looked back over his shoulder at them all.

Africa did not look up from his work, his hands still busy with the laser. “Hunter?”

“Another telepath,” Blue said. “The kind that specializes in hunting down his own kind.”

“How close?” Harmsway demanded, and Lyall shook her head again.

“I can’t tell. He‑she‑it’s shielded.”

“All right,” Avellar said. “No one use anything, telekinesis, telepathy, electrokinesis, anything at all, unless there’s no other choice.” There were murmurs of agreement from the others, and she looked at Africa. “Galan?”

The technician shrugged, his hands never slowing on the balky connection. “I don’t know. Even if I get it hooked up, I can’t make any guarantees.”

Avellar grimaced, and for the first time looked at Belfortune. “Bel.”

Faro shifted his position slightly, putting himself between Avellar and Belfortune. “Let him be.”

“Bel,” Avellar said again.

“I can’t do it,” Belfortune said flatly, without lifting his eyes from the floor.

“Oh, that’s a lie,” Harmsway said, soft and deadly, “a lie and you know it, Belfortune. That’s what bought the Baron’s favor, bought you a lover and almost anything you wanted, just as long as you learned to use your power. Tell me, is it true the Baron liked to watch while you killed them?”

“Jesus, Desir,” Hazard said, and was ignored.

Belfortune looked up slowly, met Harmsway’s glare for the first time unflinching. “Yes. It’s true.”

“Then you can stop the hunter,” Avellar said.

“It won’t do any good,” Belfortune said. “Where else could we be, but in one of the cargo bays? All it’ll do is buy you time.”

“That’ll be enough,” Avellar said.

“But if it isn’t–” Lyall began, and closed her mouth over what she would have said.

Avellar answered her anyway. “If it’s not enough, then we fight.”

“Brilliant,” Harmsway jeered. “How clever of you, Royal.”

“Shut up, Desir,” Hazard said. “Avellar. Belfortune’s right, much as I hate to admit it.”

Avellar nodded. “We need a diversion, I agree. But to make it work, we have to get rid of the hunter.” She looked back at Belfortune. “Well? Will you do it?”

Belfortune closed his eyes for a moment, pain etched deep in his face, then nodded. “Oh, yes. What’s one more?” Lord Faro reached out to touch his shoulder.

“Then we’ll need to distract the rest of the searchers,” Avellar said.

“No, really?” Harmsway murmured.

“Yes, and you’re just the man to do it,” Avellar answered. She smiled briefly, daring him. “This bay is right next to the main computer nexus, Desir. Think what you can do with that.”

Harmsway said, “But why should I, Royal? Give me one reason, after everything you tried to do.”

There was a little silence, and then Avellar looked at him, her face absolutely without emotion. “I told you then. I’m telling you now. I need you, need your talent, to make up for what I lost when my sibs–my twins, the rest of the clone, the rest of me–were killed. I can’t take the throne without you.”

“To hell with you,” Harmsway said, and there was an odd, gloating note in his voice.

“I need you,” Avellar said again. “I came here for you, didn’t I? I did what you couldn’t do, I broke you out of the Baron’s prison because I need you. Isn’t that enough?”

“Maybe if you went down on your knees,” Harmsway said, “but not before.”

“For God’s sake,” Hazard said. He pushed himself to his feet, grabbed Harmsway roughly by the shoulder, and swung him to face the others. “If you don’t do it, Desir, we’re going to die.”

Harmsway lifted an eyebrow at him. “I’m surprised at you–”

“I want out of here,” Hazard said. “We can sort out the rest of it once we’re free, but right now, getting off planet is a hell of a lot more important than Avellar or the goddamn throne.”

“I won’t work with her again,” Harmsway said.

“So what?” That was Jack Blue, hoisting himself to his feet. “It won’t be as good, Avellar, but maybe I can do something if this shit won’t.”

Avellar nodded her thanks, still watching Harmsway, who smiled bitterly.

“All right. I’ll do it–if only to spare your talents, Jack.”

“Too kind,” Blue said, and achieved a passable imitation of Harmsway’s sneer.

“There’s only one thing,” Faro said. “How close do you need to be to a–a subject, Bel?”

“I don’t really know,” Belfortune said. “A few meters, probably closer.” He looked at Lyall. “Any ideas, Doctor?”

Lyall shook her head. “I wasn’t involved in that part of the project. I would think within two meters.”

Belfortune laughed softly to himself. “Do you know who it is? Which hunter?”

“No,” Lyall answered. “I told you, it’s shielded.”

“You’ll need support,” Avellar said.

Belfortune shook his head, and Faro said, “I’ll go with him. One’s enough.”

Avellar nodded. “Good luck, then, both of you.”

Lyall said, “The hunter’s coming closer. Moving along the east wall, toward the entrance there.”

“Careful,” Africa said. “You don’t want to tip him off.”

Lyall shook her head, and Blue said impatiently, “She’s not strong enough. Nobody can hear her, not unless they’re right on top of her.”

“Let’s go, Bel,” Faro said gently, and Belfortune nodded. Faro reached down and pulled the other man to his feet.

“Take an extra power pack,” Hazard said, and handed his last spare to Faro.

“Thanks,” Faro said, and he and Belfortune stepped out into the corridor. They turned left at the first cross corridor, heading east, toward the entrance and the searching hunter.

Avellar looked at the others. “Dr. Lyall, tell me when the hunter’s dead.”

Lyall winced, but nodded.

“And the rest of us?” Harmsway demanded.

“We wait,” Avellar answered, grimly. “Be ready to act when Lyall gives the word.”

–––

Game/varRebel.2.04/subPsi.1.22/ver22.1/ses4.25

Faro and Belfortune moved warily through the corridors, ready to duck under the shelter of the cargo racks at the first sign of patrolling guards. To their surprise, however, the racks and catwalks were empty, and they reached the eastern wall without incident.

“What now, Bel?” Faro began, stopped abruptly at the look on Belfortune’s face.

Belfortune was staring into the middle distance, pale eyes vague, unfixed, pupils dilating. He ran a hand delicately along the bare metal skin of the cargo bay’s exterior wall, a gesture unnervingly like a caress, and began to walk, slowly, a faint smile curving his lips. Faro, who had seen this before, this stalking hunger, shivered convulsively, but kept his place at Belfortune’s shoulder, gun drawn and ready, the spare power pack ready to hand.

“Come to me,” Belfortune whispered. “Come here, you, I feel you walking there, come to me now…” The words trailed off into a hissing murmur, rising and falling with his slow breath. He could feel the hunter’s presence, a vague warmth beyond the cold wall, allowed his own hunger to rise to match that warmth, played out his desire as a fisherman plays a line, a thread of appetite disguised as curiosity. He could feel the hunter’s presence more clearly now, and recognized the man, had considered him a friend, but his unleashed hunger accepted that knowledge only as a way to make the bait more attractive. He leaned against the thin metal of the wall, flattening himself against the cool surface as though he could feel the hunter’s body against his own, and let the tendril of thought unfold. He felt the hunter take the bait, felt him turn his attention toward the faint, stray presence, the oddity that must be investigated, and kept tight control of his own power, letting the hunter’s own curiosity draw him nearer. Belfortune could almost see the slight frown, the familiar lines of his face; he pressed himself harder against the wall, willing the hunter closer. And then, at last, he was close enough. Belfortune smiled, let himself go at last, and felt the hunter’s whole body jerk convulsively as he realized he was no longer free. Belfortune felt him struggle and tightened his grip, felt the sudden terrified release as the hunter’s shields failed, and tasted the hunter’s power, his strength and his cunning and the delicate flavor of his mind. He drained him, not bothering to savor it–there was no time for such niceties, and it had been too long since the last one, anyway–and saw/felt, in the last moment of double vision, the hunter’s body slumping to the ground just on the other side of the wall. He slid down the wall with it, sucking the last dregs of life, and crouched there for a moment, breathing hard.

Faro looked away, swallowing bile, unwilling to watch the sated hunger turn to disgust in Belfortune’s eyes. “Tell them it’s done,” he said, and a whispering voice said, from the end of the corridor, “Tell who what, Faro?”

Faro spun, gun leveled, even as he knew it was useless, and felt as much as heard the snap of a laser bolt. He ducked instinctively, but the shot had been meant as a warning only.

“Hold your fire,” the voice said. It came from the closed cabin of an airsled that blocked the corridor behind them. Soldiers–soldiers in the black uniforms of Baron Vortex’s elite troops–flanked it, their lasers lowered and ready. Belfortune shook his head, trying to drive away the cloying satisfaction, made a small, pained noise of despair. The voice went on, as though no one had spoken. “Faro, you’re not a fool. I think we can come to some agreement.”

Faro hesitated, the muzzle of his gun wavering slightly–to fire was suicide, his and Belfortune’s, but the speaker was Baron Vortex, and the Baron could never be trusted.

“I find you useful,” the voice went on, “just useful enough to salvage from this mess. Put down your gun, and I’ll let you live.”

Faro dredged a laugh from somewhere. “To what end?”

“I told you, I find you useful,” the voice said. “You can return to your previous employment.”

“Not much better off than the prisoners,” Faro muttered, said more loudly, “What about Bel?”

“Ah.” There was a note like amusement in the Baron’s voice. “For him, there is a price.”

“Well?” Faro said.

“I asked you before, tell who what,” the voice said. “But I think I know that. Where are they, Faro? Where are Avellar and the rest?”

“Faro,” Belfortune said, and the word was ambiguous appeal.

Faro glanced down at him, at the renewed sanity in the pale eyes, saw him start to pull himself to his feet, clinging to the wall of the cargo bay, looked back at the Baron’s airsled and the flanking soldiers. He let the gun fall to his side.

“Your lands and your lover,” the voice whispered. “You can still have them both. Is Avellar’s rebellion worth that much to you?”

“I don’t know for sure,” Faro said. “She–they were back toward the middle of the bay, heading for a ship.”

He paused, hoping that would be enough, a large enough betrayal, saw the nearest soldier raise his laser, and waited for the Baron to pronounce the sentence.

“Put down your gun, Faro,” the Baron said at last, and Faro laid the pistol on the floor tiles, kicked it toward the line of soldiers. Two of them came forward, slinging their rifles, and Faro let them drag him forward, stood quite still as they ran their hands roughly over his body, then locked his wrists together behind his back. Another pair dragged Belfortune to his feet, and did the same to him.

Flame flared overhead, bursting from the shattering light fixtures, and raw electricity leaped like lightning from the power nodes. One of the soldiers fired reflexively at the snapping currents, and screamed as the laser’s power pack exploded in a sheet of flame.

“Harmsway,” Belfortune said, and the pale eyes were suddenly alive again.

“Get them out of here,” the Baron ordered. “The rest of you, come with me.”

–––

Game/varRebel.2.O4/subPsi.1.22/ver22.1/ses4.26

“The hunter’s dead,” Lyall said, and in spite of her best efforts the disgust showed in her voice.

Avellar nodded, hiding the same repulsion. “Then let’s get on with it.” She looked at Harmsway. “It’s your show now, Desir.”

Harmsway nodded, allowed himself a smile of pure pleasure. “So we need a diversion,” he said aloud. “And the computer center is right behind these walls.” He turned in a full circle, scanning the racks until he found a power node, and went to crouch beside it, laying one long‑fingered hand gently over the input jack. There was a faint crackling, and then he had matched the current precisely. He closed his eyes, and let his consciousness wander out into the bay’s power grid. There was a faint humming, and a haze of blue light, all but invisible, formed around his hand. He could feel the pattern of the electrical systems, and of the computers and other instruments that fed off it, could almost see their regularity like lines against his eyes. He felt his way into the grid, merging himself with the flow of power until he was all but invisible, a faint surge of current that was still within the tolerances of the port computers. He found the access port, and teased it open, then slipped cautiously into the alien space within the network.

He had the electron’s view, current flashing on or off, and he hung for a moment, disoriented, trying to match that image with what he knew must be hidden in the computers. The lights blinked on and off, too fast to follow even in his heightened state, tuned perfectly to the flow of the currents; he stared a little longer, still trying to analyze the workings, and heard, very distant, Lyall’s cry.

“My God, it’s the Baron. He’s found them.”

At the same moment, someone touched his shoulder, and he opened his eyes to see Hazard bending over him.

“Desir. Blow the system, we’ve got trouble.”

Harmsway was already moving within the distant system, calling power from various nodes. Throughout the building, terminals flickered and died; across the complex, screens wavered, the sudden drain triggering backup power supplies. Harmsway kept pulling, drawing power to himself, letting the minuscule energies collect and build, feeding on themselves.

“Hurry, Desir,” a voice said–Avellar’s voice, he thought, but he could not be sure.

The process could not be hurried, not if he was to do it right. He blocked all thoughts of the Baron, all fear, concentrating on the energy around him, tracing an escape route in his mind. He felt it cross the threshold at last, and released it, let the surge blast through every circuit in the system, and let the same wave of power carry him back into the grid that fed the cargo bay. He felt overloaded systems crash, felt the surging power flare at every node, and in a heartbeat redirected that power, away from the local nodes into everything electrical near the eastern entrance. He opened his eyes, and heard the flat, hard crack of explosions from the far side of the bay.

“The port computers are down,” he said. “They shouldn’t be able to stop lift‑off.”

“And it should give them something else to worry about,” Avellar said. Fire sirens whooped in the next building, underscoring her words. “Let’s go.”

They made their way quickly through the last corridors, dodging between the half‑full cargo racks. At each exposed power node, Harmsway paused to send another wave of power through the building’s systems. He could feel the network overloading under his manipulations, knew that he was literally burning out their defenses as he used them, but the explosions behind them seemed to mean that it was working.

There were still two guards at the door that gave access to the ship’s hatch, both staring nervously toward the sounds of Harmsway’s attack. They were sheltered by the hatchway, not an easy shot at all, and Avellar paused in the shelter of the final stacks of crates, considering them cautiously. After a moment, she beckoned to Hazard. He frowned, but slipped forward to join her.

“You’re our best shot,” Avellar said, her voice an almost soundless whisper. “Can you do it?”

Hazard shook his head. “They’re too well covered. Why the hell didn’t they run for the fighting?”

“Be glad they didn’t just close the access door,” Avellar said with a grin, and eased back into the shelter of the crates.

“You’re going to have to do something quick,” Harmsway said. He was sweating, breathing hard, as though he’d been lifting heavy weights. “I’m draining the grid, and the wiring isn’t going to take this abuse much longer.”

“The Baron’s still back by the door,” Lyall said. Her eyes were closed, and Jack Blue steadied her, guiding her with a hand on her shoulder. “But you’ve only delayed him.”

“I can draw the guards out,” Blue said. “Leave it to me.”

Avellar considered him for a moment–a fat man, still wheezing a little, but no longer leaning on the others–and nodded. “If you can get them out into gunshot, we can take them.”

Hazard nodded, snapped the power pack out of his pistol, checked the power remaining, and snapped it in again. “I’ve got about a dozen shots left. That should be enough.”

“It ought to be,” Harmsway said, and managed a grin.

“It’ll have to be,” Avellar said. She looked at Blue. “Do it.”

Blue closed his eyes, frowning slightly, and a moment later they all heard something stir in the corridor to their right. It was a faint noise, as though someone trying to be careful had brushed against an imperfectly balanced crate, but one of the guards heard it and looked up warily. Blue’s frown deepened, and there was a quick patter of footsteps, as though someone had darted across a corridor into cover. The guard peered out of the doorway, put up his faceplate to listen more closely.

“They’re buying it,” Africa said, and leveled his pistol.

Hazard laid a restraining hand on his arm. “Wait for the other one.”

Africa nodded, lowered the pistol again.

Blue was sweating lightly now, his forehead furrowed in concentration. In the corridor, there was another stirring, and then the distinctive click of a power pack snapping home into a pistol butt. The guard cocked his head to one side, listening, then pulled his faceplate slowly down again. Avellar held her breath, her own pistol ready at her side. There were no more noises from the corridor, a silence that seemed somehow ominous, more dangerous than the sounds had been. The guard held up his hand, and beckoned to his partner. The second guard came up to the edge of the hatch, but stopped just inside the heavy frame. Africa swore under his breath: the hatchway still blocked his shot.

“Come on,” Hazard muttered. “Come on, now.”

The guards stood still for a moment longer, obviously 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 she spoke. The first guard fell without a sound, sprawling on the warped floor tiles, but the second guard fired back blindly, dodged back toward the access door. Africa and Hazard fired at the same moment, and the guard went down.

“Did he get out a warning?” Hazard demanded, looking at Lyall.

“It doesn’t matter,” Avellar said, impatiently. “Let’s go.” She started across the open space without looking back.

Hazard glanced over his shoulder, saw Harmsway reaching across to steady Jack Blue, and smiled in spite of himself. They crowded into the narrow space between the doorway and the ship’s hatch, and Africa fiddled with the controls to bring the door down behind them. Avellar nodded her approval, and laid her hand against the sensor panel that controlled access to the freighter’s cargo lock. There was a soft click, and then a high‑pitched tone.

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

“Thank God you made it,” a well‑remembered voice said, and Avellar sighed.

“Danile.” She smiled then, careful not to look back at the others, particularly Harmsway. She had risked everything to get him back, and she had at least freed him from the Baron’s prison. The rest–his return to her rebellion, his proper place at her side–would come, in time. He owed her that, and he would eventually pay.

“We have to hurry,” Danile went on, “so everybody, get inboard now.” The hatch sealed itself as he spoke, closing off their view of the cargo bay. “It’s chaos back there, there’s nothing they can do to stop us. But we have to go now.”

There was a ragged murmur of agreement, and the group began to move farther into the ship, following Danile and Avellar. Underfoot, the ship’s main power plant trembled, building toward blast‑off and freedom from Ixion’s Wheel.

Part Five

« ^ »

Day 2

Storm: Roscha’s boat, Public Canal #419,

Dock Road District

Lioe woke to the noise of distant traffic and the easy motion of the boat against the sluggish current. She turned her head away from the bars of sunlight that crept in through the gaps in the shutters, lay still for a moment, remembering where she was. She was meanly glad that Roscha was nowhere in sight. Not that it hadn’t been fun–and after Roscha’s performance in the session, especially; it was one of the best character readings Lioe had seen–but in the cold light of morning, she found herself wondering exactly why she’d done it. She shook the thought away–it was a little late for regrets, and anyway, it hadbeen fun–and crawled out of the low bunk. The bathroom was tiny, and smelled of aggressive cleaning; she washed quickly, the water tasting flatly of chemicals, and found her clothes hanging on the bulkhead beside the low stairs that led up onto the deck. She pulled on shirt and trousers and the loose vest, slung the mask that Gelsomina had given her around her neck, and pushed open the double doors. She had left her hat somewhere, she realized, either at Shadows or at Ransome’s loft, and she made a mental note to look for it later.

The sunlight on the deck had an odd cast to it, a sickly, uncertain tone, and Lioe glanced toward the sky. It was almost white, hazed with clouds as it had been for the past two days, but when she looked south, toward the mouth of the Inland Water, darker clouds showed between the housetops. An erratic little wind was blowing fitfully, sending bits of trash skittering along the embankment above the boat, and Lioe felt the hairs rising on the back of her neck.

“Oh, there you are,” Roscha said. She made her way forward, stepping easily over the solar panels set into the decking. “I was just coming to wake you. It looks like that storm’s going to hit us after all, and I’ve got a call from the wharfinger to report at once to the main dock.”

“That’s too bad,” Lioe said.

“I don’t see why I couldn’t make it to Roche’Ambroise for the puppet shows,” Roscha went on. “That is, if you still want to go.”

One of the local artists’ cooperatives was giving its annual free show that afternoon. It was supposed to be a spectacular event, a combination of athletics, mime, and robotics, and Lioe had said she would like to see it. “I don’t want you to go to any trouble,” she began, and Roscha frowned.

“Look, if you don’t want to go, no problem.” Her tone implied the opposite.

“It’s not that,” Lioe said, impatiently. “Yes, I want to see the show, but you’ve got this call–”

“It shouldn’t be anything serious,” Roscha said, and gave a fleeting grin. “I haven’t done anything. They probably just need help securing the barges. I should be able to make the show.”

“Fine,” Lioe said. If you don’t, I can enjoy it by myself. “Where do you want to meet?”

“They do the show in Betani Square, right off the Hartzer Canal,” Roscha answered. “Why don’t we just meet there, midafternoon? By the fountain.”

“Fine,” Lioe said again. The sunlight faded, and she glanced up, to see a thicker strand of cloud turning the sun to a disk of bronze. “How bad is this storm going to be?”

Roscha shrugged. “Not bad, I’d say. The street brokers are saying a category two at most. That’s not anything to worry about.”

By whose standards? Lioe wondered, squinting again at the sky. The sun was back, but the clouds looked darker than before. Still, Roscha was the native; if she said it wasn’t that bad, it shouldn’t be. “I’ll see you at the fountain in Betani Square at fifteenth hour,” she said aloud, and reached for the rope ladder that led up to the embankment.

Roscha nodded. “Will you help me cast off?”

“Sure.” Lioe climbed easily up onto the broad stones, unhooked the ladder, and let it drop. Roscha caught it as it fell, folded it neatly into a well on the deck.

“Ready for the cables?” Lioe asked, and Roscha nodded again.

“I’ve already switched over.”

Lioe unhooked the double‑headed cables from the power nodes at the base of the bollard. Roscha caught those as well, guiding them back into their housings, and took her place in the steering well. Lioe released the bow and stern lines, tossed them onto the deck, and stood watching while Roscha shoved the boat away from the embankment, and fed power to the engine. She was out of earshot before Lioe realized she hadn’t asked how to get to Roche’Ambroise. She laughed, and started back toward Shadows, where food and her mail would be waiting.

The streets were still busy with costumed figures, despite the impending storm. A cloaked trio was visible in the window of a restaurant, masks set aside to let them eat; a bedraggled pair–male and female? no, two women–were obviously on their way home after a long night of revelry, the skirts of their straight gowns hiked up to make walking easier, their feathers drooping. Yet another indistinct shape wrapped in a cloak lay sound asleep under a bench in one of the little parks, mask tucked under its head for a pillow. Others were just starting the day–another Avellar, a striding Baron Vortex, an odd shape like an egg with trousers that everyone else seemed to recognize–and Lioe was suddenly glad of Gelsomina’s mask. It made her feel less alien, among the bright maskers, more as though she belonged on Burning Bright. And I want to belong here, she realized suddenly. I’d like to be a part of this. She shook the thought away as impractical, left her mask hanging around her neck where it couldn’t tempt her, and kept walking.

As she came up on the Underface helipad, she saw the lights flashing to warn of an incoming flight, and then recognized the figure sitting on the bench at the edge of the pad. At least I can ask him about my hat. “Good morning, Ransome,” she called, and the man on the bench lifted a hand in answer. He did not speak, and Lioe wondered if she’d offended him. He looked up as she approached, met her eyes fully, and she was shocked by his pale face and the brown shadows like ugly bruises under his eyes.

“Jesus, you look awful,” she said, and bit her tongue as he managed a wry grin.

“Tactful.”

There was something wrong with Ransome’s voice; even the one word came thin and breathless, as though he had been running. “Are you all right?” she began, and realized in the same instant what it had to be. White‑sickness was most common in HsaioiAn, among jericho‑humans, but it was not unknown in the nonaligned worlds, or in the Republic. And this was white‑sickness, no question about it: like all pilots, she’d had enough basic medical training to recognize the symptoms.

Ransome read that recognition in her face, and his grin skewed even more. “I have what I need at home,” he said, and Lioe had to lean closer to catch the strangled words. “The doctors changed the medication; I’m not as stable as I used to be. So I got caught short again.”

Lioe nodded, wordlessly, hearing the voice of the school’s medical trainer droning in her mind. White‑sickness–pneumatic histopathy, also known as lung‑rot oruhanjao, drown‑yourself, in HsaioiAn–is classified as a dangerous condition less because it is fatal, which it is, than because it is contagious until treated. Once proper treatment is begun, the danger of infection is over, but the damage to the victim is irreversible. Most planets require a certificate of treatment before customs will admit an infected person; pilots are advised to adopt the same precaution. There had been more–details of how death occurred, how and why simple organ transplants inevitably failed, the mechanisms by which the disease altered the lung tissue, slowly dissolving it into a thick white mucus, so that the patient drowned in body fluids even as the lungs themselves stopped working–but she did her best to push that aside. “Do you want me to come with you?” she said cautiously, and did her best to keep her voice normal.

Ransome looked for a moment as though he would refuse, but then made a face. “Yes,” he said, and then, with an effort, “Thank you.”

“No problem,” Lioe said, and seated herself on the bench beside him. But it was a problem, it was a hell of a problem, and she found herself filled with an irrational fury. How could he be sick–how dare he?–just when she’d found–She stopped abruptly, closed off that line of thought. Found what? You barely know him, except through the Game. Just because he showed you the imaging system he uses doesn’t mean that he’d want to teach you–or that you could learn, or even that you want to.

The sound of rotors overhead was a welcome relief, and she squinted up into the hazy clouds. The helicab dropped easily toward the pad, balancing the weight of the machine against the lift of the rotors and the gas in the envelope. The two pods were fully inflated, one to each side of the passenger compartment, so that the cab looked rather like a rodent, both cheeks filled with scavenged food. The unseen pilot brought it down carefully, setting it precisely in the center of the bright‑blue guidelines, and the passenger door opened. Lioe stood, uncertain whether to offer her hand, and Ransome pushed himself to his feet. He climbed into the cab, and Lioe followed him, pulling the door closed behind them.

“You’re going to Warehouse?” the pilot said, and Ransome nodded.

“That’s right,” Lioe said aloud, and wasn’t sure she’d done the right thing until she saw Ransome’s fleeting smile.

The helicab rose slowly, rotors whining, and the whole machine shivered suddenly in a gust of wind. The pilot corrected it instantly, adjusting power and lift, glanced apologetically over his shoulder.

“Sorry, people. It’s going to be a rough ride.”

“‘S all right,” Ransome murmured.

“The storm?” Lioe asked, as much to distract the pilot as anything, and was not surprised when he nodded. The braided wires that connected him to the cab bobbed against his neck.

“Yeah. The dispatcher’s saying we’ll probably have to shut down this afternoon.”

Lioe leaned back in her seat. Through the transparent door panel she could see the Dock Road District spread out beneath her, buildings clustered around tiny spots of green that were the open plazas, and crowding shoulder to shoulder along the banks of the myriad canals. “I think this is the first time I’ve seen this in daylight,” she said, in some surprise, and saw Ransome smile again.

As they rose above the cliff edge, approaching Newfields and the Warehouse helipad, the wind caught them, jolting the cab sideways before the pilot caught it. Lioe braced herself against the safety webbing, watching the muscles of the pilot’s arms tense and relax as his hands moved inside the sheaths of the on‑line controls. His lips were moving, too, and she guessed he was talking to his dispatcher, warning other pilots about the winds. He took the approach to Warehouse very carefully, and Lioe was grateful for it: the helicab shuddered and bounced, but finally dropped the last meter or so onto the hard paving. The credit reader unfolded from the cab wall, beeping for payment.

Ransome reached for his card, but Lioe got there first. “Pay me back,” she said, and ran her own card through the slot. She managed not to wince at the total–about twice what she had expected–and hit the key that confirmed the payment. The pilot opened the passenger door, and they climbed out onto the pad. The helicab started to lift as they crossed the low barrier, and Lioe flinched as grit stung her face and bare arms. Ransome turned away from it, one hand cupped over his mouth and nose, did not move until the cab had lifted out of range.

“Do you want a velocab?” Lioe asked, tentatively, more to make sure he was all right than to get an answer to her question, and was relieved when he shook his head.

“No. It’s not far to the loft.” He sounded a little better, and Lioe let herself relax.

The streets were all but empty of pedestrians here, and only a few heavy carriers rumbled past, stirring the drifted dirt and sand. A fickle wind was blowing, a warm wind that carried an occasional hint of a chill at its heart. Lioe shivered at its touch, glanced again to the sky, but saw only the same hazy clouds, the sun a hot white disk behind them. It felt like the afternoon winds on Callixte, the summer wind that brought the big storms down onto the plains, and she found herself walking warily, as though too quick a movement would trigger lurking thunder. Ransome glanced curiously at her, then looked away.

They turned the last corner onto a street shadowed by the buildings to either side, and Ransome led her past a tangle of denki‑bikes, their security fields humming at an annoying pitch, to the access stair that ran along the side of the building.

“Isn’t there a lift?” Lioe asked involuntarily, but Ransome didn’t seem offended.

“There is, but it’s in use.” He nodded to the main doorway, where a red flag drooped, moving only sluggishly in the breeze.

“Oh.” Lioe followed him up the stairway, past the Carnival debris, broken bottles, a cluster of stained and ragged ribbons at the base of the stairs, another bottle on the landing; the crumpled papers and stained foils from a packet of Oblivion lay on the landing outside Ransome’s door. He stepped over them without looking, and Lioe did her best to follow his example.

The loft was pretty much as it had been when she’d left it, nothing changed except the pile of clothes on the floor outside the bedroom door. Her hat was sitting on the folded bed. Was it only yesterday that I left it? she thought, said aloud, “Can I get you anything?”

Ransome was already heading for the tiny bedroom, said over his shoulder, “Coffee?”

“Right.” Lioe went into the kitchen. She filled the machine and set it running, came back out into the main room just as Ransome emerged from the bedroom. His eyes looked slightly unfocused, and there were two spots of red on his cheeks that spread as she watched, as though he were blushing deeply.

“I appreciate your coming back with me,” Ransome said. His voice already sounded better, less choked. “I wasn’t sure I’d be able to talk the pilot out of taking me to a clinic.”

“Should you have gone to a clinic?” Lioe asked. “Should you go to a clinic?”

Ransome grinned. “No, I told you, I had what I needed here. They couldn’t‘ve given me anything different.”

Lioe nodded, watching him. “Are you all right?” she said slowly, and Ransome looked away.

“For the moment.” He sighed, turned back to face her. “As you probably already figured out, I have white‑sickness–it’s under treatment, so you don’t need to worry–but I’ve had it for a while, and the system’s slipping out of equilibrium.”

Which translates as, you’re starting to die. Lioe said, “I’m sorry,” and cringed at the inadequacy of the words.

Ransome went on as if he hadn’t heard, his tone so matter‑of‑fact that she winced at the unvoiced pain. “I have five to seven years, or so they tell me, so it’s not an emergency.”

Except that you can’t be much more than forty, and you ought to live another forty years. Lioe said again, “I’m sorry.”

“So am I.” There was a little pause, and then Ransome achieved a kind of smile. “Do you want some coffee?”

“Sure, thanks,” Lioe said, glad of the change of subject, and Ransome disappeared into the kitchen. He returned a moment later with two steaming mugs. Lioe took hers with a murmur of thanks, sipped cautiously at the bitter liquid.

“There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you,” Ransome said, and his voice was carefully casual, so that Lioe glanced back at him warily. “Especially since last night’s session.”

“Oh?” Lioe paused, and then shrugged. “Go ahead, I guess.”

“What the hell were your parents thinking of, to let you become a pilot?”

Lioe blinked, completely taken aback by the question. It was not at all what she’d been expecting– though what I was expecting I don’t know –and she didn’t quite know how to answer. She opened her mouth, stopped, closed it again. “I was good at it,” she said at last, and heard the annoyance in her voice.

Ransome spread his hands, almost spilling his coffee. “I didn’t mean to pry. It’s just that you’ve got an artistic sense, a talent for the Game, and for imaging. I’m surprised you didn’t get a chance to pursue it–I’m surprised nobody picked up on it.”

“No, it’s all right,” Lioe said. And after what you’ve told me, I’m not sure I have the right not to answer. She ordered her thoughts with an effort. “I was raised by Foster Services, on Callixte. They steered me toward the union certificate program, and when I won one of the scholarships–well, you know how hard they are to get. I wanted to take it, at least to prove I was as smart as the docents had always said.”

Ransome nodded. “Your parents died?”

Lioe shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t remember much about it–I pretty much don’t remember anything before the Service creche–but what they told me was, a couple of people found me in an abandoned house near the port district, Mont’eranza, it’s called. I was undernourished, but otherwise unhurt, and about six years old, as best the medical people could tell. So I ended up with Foster Services.”

“And the Game,” Ransome said. “Your scenario’s good, near brilliant, in fact.”

“Thanks.” Lioe grinned. “I’d still like to take this situation a little further, though, pull it all together. Can you imagine what that would do to the Game?”

Ransome nodded, his tone quite serious. “It would be enormous fun while it lasted, though, wouldn’t it?”

“I’m not eager to be lynched afterwards,” Lioe said. “Besides, I’d have to set it up now, change this scenario a little.”

“Do it,” Ransome said. Lioe looked at him, startled, and he said again, “Do it. And let me play Avellar.”

“Not Harmsway?”

Ransome shook his head. “Avellar.”

God, Lioe thought, that would be a brilliant bit of casting, and if anybody could pull it off, give me the setup I need for Avellar’s Rebellion–She smiled, realizing that she had already given the scenario a title. “When I run it again,” she said, slowly, “you can have Avellar, if you want him. But I’m not sure about making the changes.”

“If you won’t,” Ransome said, “I will.”

She lifted an eyebrow at him, not sure she believed him, and his smile widened. “I’ll do it, you know,” he said.

“I believe you,” Lioe answered.

“You needn’t sound quite so worried,” Ransome said. He paused, looked back toward the windows. The clouds had thickened a little since they had come in, turning the sky the color of milk, and the shadows had vanished. Lioe moved to join him, staring down into the Junction Pool. It was even more crowded than it had been, seemingly hundreds of barges tied up two deep at the piers, and smaller craft darted like beetles among them. She wondered briefly if Roscha were somewhere among them.

“There was something else I wanted to ask you,” Ransome said. “How did you happen to pick Harmsway for the scenario? Did Cella Minter–or anyone–mention him to you?”

Lioe blinked again, startled, and shook her head. “No. I’d worked up the scenario before I got here. We didn’t expect to spend any time on planet; we lost calibration in one of the sail projectors en route from Demeter, and had to lay over to reset it. I’d kind of forgotten that they were local Types when I showed the scenario.” Ransome nodded, still looking out the window, and Lioe frowned. My turn to ask questions, I think. “Why? Who’s–Cella, did you say?”

“Cella Minter.” Ransome paused. “You may have seen her at Chauvelin’s party the other night, a tiny woman, absolutely a perfect beauty. She’s Damian Chrestil’s mistress, when he isn’t chasing something else.”

Lioe paused, trying to remember, could vaguely recall a tiny woman with copper‑colored braids woven into sleek, jet‑black hair. She had been startlingly beautiful, seen from across the room, and more than a little intimidating. “So who’s Damian Chrestil? Any connection to C/B Cie.?”

There was a little silence, and Ransome looked at her. “He isC/B Cie. Decidamio Chrestil‑Brisch is his full name, he’s head of C/B Cie. Did you, your ship, bring in a cargo for him?”

“It was a C/B Cie. cargo, yes,” Lioe said. “Why?”

“Because Damian Chrestil has been trying to keep me out of the port nets for two days now,” Ransome said, anger and glee mixed in equal measures in his voice. “And maybe, just maybe, you can help me figure out why.”

“I don’t quite see the connection,” Lioe began, and Ransome cut in.

“What were you carrying?”

“I don’t want to be overly delicate about this,” Lioe said, “but why do you want to know? We’re supposed to keep our mouths shut about what we carry. General union rules.”

Ransome nodded. “Sorry.” He took a deep breath, gestured, spilling coffee, and set the mug aside, scowling. “Look, it’s like this. Chauvelin’s my patron. We’ve known each other for years–”

“I remember,” Lioe said. She could still see the little room in Chauvelin’s monumental residence, light gleaming off the story egg, the first one she’d seen. Chauvelin is your patron, and Chauvelin’s rival the Visiting Speaker hates you, quite personally.

“I’ve done various kinds of work for him,” Ransome went on, and there was a distinct note of pride in his voice. “I’m good on the nets, very good, and I occasionally do some research for him.”

“The charge is usually common netwalking,” Lioe murmured, and remembered, too late, that Ransome had been in jail. To her surprise, he laughed.

“True. Anyway, I’ve been–walking the nets for him lately, because the damn Visiting Speaker got it into his head that Damian Chrestil was up to something in the Game. When I checked it out, sure, he wanted me back in the Game, back involved, but there wasn’t anything really happening. It was all just a blind. So I started wondering what Damian Chrestil really wanted, and I haven’t been able to get into the port nets at all. So you see why I’d really like to know what you were carrying.”

Lioe shrugged. “Red‑carpet, according to the manifest. En route to a distillery here. We had a couple of bungee‑gars on board.”

“Is that normal?”

“Depends,” Lioe said. “I wouldn’t think red‑carpet was quite that valuable, but it’s close enough, I guess.”

“Who was the shipper?”

Lioe frowned, pulling names from her mental files. “A company called TMN, I think. They weren’t much.”

“I bet it’s smuggling,” Ransome muttered, as much to himself as to her. “There’s no other reason to keep me out of the port nets, except that he hasn’t rechristened the cargo yet. Damn it, if I could just get in!”

Lioe eyed him warily. It seemed overelaborate to her, a lot more complicated than simple smuggling would need to be– and I’ve seen enough smuggling combines at work to know that simple’s the way to go. “So why should the Visiting Speaker be worried about it?” she asked aloud.

“I wish I knew,” Ransome answered. He stopped suddenly, eyes wild. “But I do know, I just had it backward. Ji‑Imbaoa doesn’t want to know what Damian Chrestil’s up to, he already knows that because he’s involved in it. What he wants is me out of the way, me and Chauvelin, so that he can gain favor with whatever it is they’re smuggling.”

“That sounds a little complicated,” Lioe said when it became clear that some answer was expected of her.

“But that’s it,” Ransome said. “I’m sure of it. Ji‑Imbaoa’s a je Tsinraan, and they need to consolidate their position with the All‑Father. Chauvelin’s a tzu Tsinraan, he’d stop him on principle, regardless of what the cargo is. And Damian Chrestil’s an ambitious little bastard; he’s got lots of friends in the Republic, but not many in HsaioiAn. But if the je Tsinraan owed him a favor, that would give him some substance over the border, and that kind of connection there translates to power here, on Burning Bright. It makes good sense.”

“If you say so,” Lioe said, and didn’t bother to hide her own uncertainty.

“Trust me,” Ransome said. “Look, this has to be what’s going on–Christ, won’t Chauvelin be pleased, it’s the perfect excuse to get rid of ji‑Imbaoa–but I have to talk to some people.”

“Netwalking?”

Ransome shook his head. “I’ve tried that already. But there are some people up at the port who still owe me favors, and I think it’s time I called them in.”

“How are you feeling?” Lioe asked, pointedly. Ransome looked blank for a moment, then laughed.

“Fine. Look, I need to do this now, before it’s too late, but I wanted to know, were you serious about this scenario?”

Lioe hesitated for an instant–it would mean the end of the Game as she knew it–but then nodded firmly. “I’d like to work it out.”

“Do you want to use my systems?” Ransome asked. “It’s a little more private than Shadows would be, and I’ve got most of the library disks you’d need. We could talk about it when I got back, you could show me what you need to have happen to set up the new scenario.”

Lioe thought for a moment. It would be easier, working here–more privacy, fewer interruptions from players and would‑be session leaders who had questions about Ixion’s Wheel–but she’d already made plans for the day. “I’m supposed to meet Roscha. We’re going to see a puppet show in Betani Square.”

“So work here anyway; if I’m not back by the time you have to leave, come back when you’ve finished. I can give you a key, just in case I’m not back by then–though God knows I should be–but if I’m not, let yourself in and make free with the systems.” Ransome grinned. “You should know where things are by now.”

“All right,” Lioe said. “We’ll do this.”

“Great.” Ransome rummaged in a drawer without result, then stood scanning his shelves before he came up with a flat black rectangle about the size of a dice box. He handed it to her, and Lioe took it cautiously, feeling for the almost invisible indentations.

“Upper left is for the stairs,” Ransome said, “upper right is the main entrance, center is the loft door, lower right calls the lift–when it’s free.”

Lioe nodded.

“Then I’m off,” Ransome said. “I probably won’t be back before you have to leave, but I’ll see you after the show, all right?”

“I’ll be here,” Lioe said, and shook her head slowly as the main door slapped shut behind him. How do I get into these situations? she wondered, then grinned. Maybe Burning Bright was the home of the Game precisely because its own politics were as baroque as those of the imaginary Imperium. Let’s see if I can come up with something as complex for Avellar. She found the room remote, and touched its gleaming surface, darkening the windows and bringing up the display space. She pulled on the wire‑bound gloves and settled herself in the massive chair, wriggling a little as the cushions shifted beneath her, accommodating her weight. She reached into control space, touching virtual icons, and found a copy of her scenario waiting in storage. She defined a space, called it into those new confines, and sat for a moment, staring at the tree of symbols. Then she touched the first icon, and began to work.

Day 2

Storm: C/B Cie. Offices, Isard’s Wharf,

Channel 9, Junction Pool 4

Damian Chrestil stood at the back of the plotting shed at the end of Isard’s Wharf, watching the display table. A model of Burning Bright’s oceans, spread to scale on a virtual globe, floated above the tabletop; the shapes that represented C/B Cie.‘s various ships ghosted through the mirrorlike surface, the codes that represented their cargoes and destinations flickering to life at a gesture from some one of the attendants. The coiled shapes of the blossoming storms, a grand procession of them sweeping up the trade winds from the shallows below the equator, marched over the surface, interdicting great sweeps of sea. Most of the company’s ships were already in port, or within a day’s journey, but a few were still well out to sea, and the wharfingers studied them carefully, murmuring to each other. They and their assistants each carried a smaller plotting tablet and a delicate, gold‑tipped wand. As they gestured at the model, circling it like acolytes to adjust symbols and times and weather forecasts in search of the most economical arrangement, they reminded Damian of some mysterious and primitive cult. Behind him, the windows rattled in the rising wind, and one of the assistants glanced nervously toward the cloud‑white sky. On the model, a tight spiral of cloud was poised south and east of the entrance to the Inland Water.

“Have they made any guesses as to when the storm barriers will go up?” Damian asked, and the senior wharfinger, Rosaurin, shook her head.

“They’re hedging.”

“So what else is new?” Damian murmured. He glared at the model as though it could provide answers on its own, then shook his head. “I think we’re cutting it too close with the short‑haul boats. Have them ride it out south of the storm track.” He gestured with his own control wand, highlighted a grid mark on the model.

Rosaurin nodded slowly. “I’d rather get them home, but you’re right, we can’t risk it. Not when they can’t give me an estimate of when they’ll raise the barriers.”

Damian nodded back. The triple line of barriers lay at the bottom of the channel, were raised as the storm approached. They would hold back the worst of the storm surge, and protect the city, but once they were in place, no ships could enter the channel. They had all agreed, himself, the wharfingers, and the short‑haul captains, that it was worth taking one more trip to the seining grounds before Storm set in. Now the captains, at least, would have to live with the consequences. Still, they were experienced people, with good crews, and the boats were solid, well equipped. They should be all right, he thought, and turned his mind away.

“Na Damian?”

He turned, to find one of the younger dockers in the doorway, a thin young man with close‑cut blond hair that almost disappeared against his scalp. “Well?”

“You wanted to be told,” the docker said warily. “Roscha’s called in. She’ll be in the channel in about ten minutes.”

“Right,” Damian said, and couldn’t keep the satisfaction from his voice. “Can you take care of the rest of this, Rosaurin?”

The wharfinger nodded. “I’ll put together a final plot for your approval.”

“Do that,” Damian said, and left the shed.

Because of the approaching storm, there were perhaps twice as many ships tied up to the mooring points as usual, and the dock was littered with lines and spare gear. Damian stepped carefully through the clutter, and let himself into the outer office. The secretary pillar was, for once, clear of messages. He smiled rather bitterly– this once, I would have liked to have something waiting, preferably from ji‑Imbaoa–and went on into the inner room, seated himself behind his desk. The workscreen lit obediently, sensing his presence, but he ignored the flickering prompts, debating whether or not he should call the Visiting Speaker himself. Not just now, he thought, and touched keys to call up his security files. The check files were all in place– or not quite all. He frowned, studying the origination codes that the security programs had preserved for him: Ransome, almost certainly, and that means I’ll have to do something about him. Or about ji‑Imbaoa. He put that thought aside with regret–he’d gone too far to back out now–and the secretary chimed discreetly.

“Na Damian, Roscha is here.”

Damian touched the shadowscreen to hide the security programs. “Send her in.”

Roscha appeared in the doorway almost at once, her perfect figure obscured by a loose jacket knotted at her waist. “You wanted to see me, Na Damian?”

“Yes.” Damian paused for an instant, assessing how best to approach the question. “I hear you’ve been sleeping with this new notable, Lioe.”

Roscha blinked–whatever else she had on her conscience, she hadn’t expected this–and said, cautiously, “We’ve seen each other a couple of times, and I played in a couple of her sessions. I only met her three days ago.”

“You played a session with her last night,” Damian went on.

Roscha nodded.

“The C‑and‑I rep was part of that Game, too, am I right?”

“Yes,” Roscha said again, and waited.

“I gather they knew each other, Lioe and Desjourdy?”

“Yes.” Roscha drew the word out to two syllables, frowning now. “Look, Na Damian–”

“Are they just old friends, fellow Gamers, what?” Damian interrupted her. “Or has Lioe worked for her?”

“Jesus.” For the first time, Roscha looked worried. “I don’t think so, Na Damian. I was there when she–when Quinn invited Na Desjourdy to play this session. Quinn said she was short a player, and all they talked about was the Game. Desjourdy’s on the Game nets a lot, she’s a rated arbiter.”

“And she works for Customs‑and‑Intelligence,” Damian said, but more gently. He paused, studied her from under his lashes. “I’m a little worried, Roscha. This Lioe’s been hanging around with Ransome, too, and Ransome’s no friend of mine.” He saw from the quick, involuntary grimace that Roscha had noticed that attraction, too, and was less than comfortable with it. “Lioe and Desjourdy, Lioe and Ransome–it just doesn’t add up well.”

“I guess not,” Roscha said, slowly.

Damian hid his sudden pleasure. It’s working, she’s starting to think just the way I want her to, to think that maybe Lioe is a C‑and‑I agent. “So what I’m asking is, did you notice anything after the session? Any conversations, anything that might mean she was passing information to Desjourdy?”

Roscha shook her head. “No. They just talked about the session afterwards, and then–then Lioe came back to the boat with me. I dropped her off this morning when I got your message.” She stopped suddenly. “Boss, I ran into Tamia Nikolind on the docks coming in. She said she saw Lioe going off with Ransome this morning, taking a helicab out of Underface.”

“Damn.” Damian scowled, realizing he’d spoken aloud. That was the last unfortunate coincidence–in fact, it was too perfect to be a coincidence. One way or another, the two of them, Lioe and Ransome, had too many pieces of the puzzle to be allowed to go to either Chauvelin or Desjourdy. In fact, that’s probably the only thing I’ve got going for me right now: they’ll have to decide which one to alert first. He touched the shadowscreen to distract himself, making meaningless patterns on its surface. I’ll have to get them out of circulation, one way or another, and it’s too late for niceties. Lioe’s not important enough; security can find me plenty of “friends” who can dump her in a canal, and no one will think twice about it, but Ransome… Ransome’s another matter. But I can deal with that later. “Were you planning to see Lioe again?” he asked.

“Yes. We were going to the puppet shows, over on Roche’Ambroise. I was planning to meet her there.”

Damian took a deep breath, put on his most sincere face. “I need you to do something for me,” he said. “I need–I want you to break your date. I know I’ve no right to ask you to do it, but I need to keep an eye on her. And I don’t want to get you into any trouble.” That was true enough, even if the trouble was bigger than Roscha would think. “But I want some people of mine to watch her, and the puppet show is a good place for them to find her. Can you–will you do this?”

“Ransome and Desjourdy,” Roscha said. She smiled, without humor. “Hells, I told her I might not be able to make it. All right, Na Damian. I told her we’d meet by the fountain, there in Betani Square. She’s been wearing one of Gelsomina’s lace masks. I thought you should know.”

“Thanks, Roscha,” Damian said. Thank you more than I ever intend to tell you. Instinct kept him from offering to pay her fines after all. “I want you to stay here, at the docks–there’s enough work, God knows–but I want you visible the rest of the day. I don’t want you out of call until”–he paused, calculating–“until after midnight.”

Roscha frowned, hesitating over her next question. “You’re not–she won’t be hurt?”

Damian managed a tolerant smile. “This isn’t the Game, Roscha. No, I just don’t want you to be vulnerable if she–or Desjourdy, really–gets pissy about my keeping an eye on her. Because my security is going to be pretty obtrusive this time. You don’t need any extra hassle.”

“Thanks, Na Damian,” Roscha said, low‑voiced, and Damian nodded.

“Get on back out there, and try to stay visible for the next eight or nine hours.”

Roscha nodded, visibly reassured, and backed out of the little office. Left to himself, Damian stared for few moments longer at the empty screens glowing in the desktop, then touched keys to summon his security files. Lioe and Ransome… On balance, it wasn’t very likely that Lioe was actually an agent for Republican Customs‑and‑Intelligence; she was too active a Gamer, and too busy a pilot, too, according to the records he’d obtained from the Pilots’ Union, to be employed by C‑and‑I as well. But she did know Desjourdy rather well, by everyone’s reckoning, and she had gone home this morning with Ransome. It wasn’t a risk he could afford to take.

He had more options in dealing with her than with Ransome. The imagist would have to be handled with care, because he himself couldn’t afford to antagonize Chauvelin– not yet, anyway, but if ji‑Imbaoa does even half of what he’s promised… He made himself concentrate on the immediate problem. Ransome would have to be taken out of circulation temporarily, but couldn’t be killed, or even too badly damaged: that meant kidnapping, and then the question of where to keep him. Damian ran his fingers over the shadowscreen, slaving it temporarily to the household systems in Five Points. The palazze was closing down for the storm, topping up the batteries, workmen ordered to bring the shutters in over the massive windows; the summer house, out in the Barrier Hills behind the Five Points, was shut down completely, all systems on standby, doors and windows sealed against the storm. Damian considered it for a moment, then nodded. The house was reasonably well sheltered, tucked into the side of a hill well above the water, and clear of the stand of trees that topped the ridge. It had stood through worse storms: an ideal place to keep Ransome, he thought. And Lioe, too, I suppose. If nothing else, once the storm starts, they’ll be stuck there until it passes. He nodded to himself, and touched the shadowscreen, detaching himself from the house systems and recalling his security programs. He culled a picture of Ransome–a publicity photo, a recent one, that showed all the lines in the imagist’s thin face–from the main systems, and then used his C/B Cie. ID numbers to gain access to the union files. It was a little galling to think that Ransome could probably get the same information without codes, either netwalking or through one of his friends, but at least he could get Lioe’s photo. He dumped both of the images into a minidisk, the kind that would fit either a pocket system or an implanted reader, and after a moment’s thought added the security codes that would unlock the summer house. He tucked them into his pocket, and went looking for Almarin Ivie.

He found the security chief in his office, a big man who dwarfed his desk and the constantly changing displays on the walls behind him. The tiny space was dark, lit mainly by the blue‑toned flicker of the displays, but Ivie touched controls as the door opened, focusing a faint halo of warmer light on the space before the door.

“Na Damian,” he said, and rose hastily to his feet. “What’s up?”

Damian waved for him to be seated again, found the guest’s chair, and spun it into position opposite the desk. “I need you to do something for me.”

“Whatever,” Ivie said, with a sincerity that Damian always found slightly unsettling. He killed that uncertainty–this was the time to appreciate his subordinates’ fervor–put the thought aside and slid the minidisk across the desk. Ivie caught it easily, the button of plastic disappearing in his thick fingers, and said, “For me?”

Damian nodded, and waited while Ivie slipped the disk into the reader tucked at the base of his left wrist spur. “I need these people taken out of circulation for a while,” he said. “The woman–her name’s Lioe, Quinn Lioe–I don’t really care how you do it as long as we’re not connected with it in any way. Ransome has to be handled with care: I don’t want him killed, or damaged too badly, but I want him out of circulation for at least the next half‑week. The summer house is empty, and I’ve given you the system codes. Can you do it?”

Ivie looked almost offended for an instant, but the expression passed across his flat face almost as fast as it had appeared. His heavy hands moved over a shadowscreen with surprising delicacy, and he said, “It looks as though Ransome is up in Newfields now, talking to people. I don’t find the woman. At least not at first look.” His fingers danced over another set of controls, and he went on, “I’ve got a trace going through the Game nets–she’s the Gamer, right?”

Does everyone know her reputation? Damian wondered, irritably. “That’s right.”

“I’ve got some people in Newfields now, and I’ll put them on him,” Ivie went on, fingers still working. “I’ll send them to the summer house once they’ve secured him.” He stopped then, looked impassively at Damian. “I’d like a little more guidance with Lioe, Na Damian.”

Damian sighed. He had been hoping to avoid this decision, had hoped, even knowing better, that Ivie would make it for him. “If you can secure her without killing her, I’d prefer it. Murder’s messy, even at Carnival. But if you can’t get her to come quietly, I’d rather have her dead.”

Ivie nodded calmly. “All right.”

“There’s one other thing that may help you,” Damian said. “One of my people was supposed to meet Lioe at the puppet show in Betani Square, over on Roche’Ambroise. They were to meet at the fountain, half an hour before the show.”

Ivie nodded again. “Good. That is a help. If we don’t get her before that, we’ll get her there.”

“I leave it in your capable hands,” Damian Chrestil said.

Day 2

Storm: The Hsai Ambassador’s House,

in the Ghetto, Landing Isle Above

Old City North

Chauvelin waited in the transmission room, leaning over the technician’s shoulder to study the hissing screens. The technician, jericho‑human, small and square‑built, looked back at him reproachfully.

“I’m doing the best I can, Sia.”

Chauvelin nodded, gestured an apology. “I’ll leave you to it, then.” He stepped backward, but couldn’t bring himself to leave the little room, stood instead still staring at the static that coursed across the screens. It was awkward enough at the best of times, contacting the Remembrancer‑Duke’s household on maiHu’an, given the time corrections between the two planets; during Storm, when the first link of the long connection, the transmission between the planet and the relay satellite, was notoriously unreliable, it was all but impossible. But I really don’t have much choice. Whatever ji‑Imbaoa is up to, it has roots in HsaioiAn.

“Got it,” the technician said, and hastily corrected himself. “Sia, I’ve established the link. The Speaker Haas will be on‑line directly.”

“How stable is the connection?” Chauvelin asked.

The technician shrugged. “About what you’d expect this time of year, Sia. But I can patch it through to the reception room. That won’t make any difference.”

Chauvelin nodded. “Do that, then. And thank you.”

The technician ducked his head in acknowledgment, not moving from his position in front of the multiple control boards. Chauvelin nodded back, and went on past him into the reception room. There had not been time to make the formal preparations, but then, this was not a formal call. Nonetheless, he laid the thin cushions, black‑on‑black embroidery, the geometric patterns dictated by a thousand years of tradition, in front of the low table, and poured two cups of the harsh snow‑wine. The warning chime sounded as he set the cups on the table, and he knelt on the cushions, settling himself so that he faced the massive screen. The grey static faded as the last of the check characters crossed its surface, and Eriki Haas tzu Tsinraan looked out at him. She knelt on identical cushions in front of an identical table; only the cups that held the wine were different, marked with the n‑jaocharacters of her name. The fan that marked her rank was folded in her hand, and Chauvelin wished for a brief instant that he had changed into hsai dress for this meeting. But it was too late for those regrets, and he bowed his head politely.

“Tal je‑Chauvelin,” Haas said, acknowledging his presence, and Chauvelin looked up.

“Sia Speaker. It’s good of you to speak with me on such short notice.”

Haas gestured quickly, the fluttering of the fingers that meant a hsaii wished to be informal. “I accept that things have gotten complicated. Let’s dispense with ceremony.”

Chauvelin allowed himself a soundless sigh of relief, and went on in tradetalk. “Complicated is a good word. I need your help, Sia–I need information.”

“If I can get it, of course,” Haas said. “What can I do?”

“I want to know what kind of connections there are between ji‑Imbaoa and Damian Chrestil–Decidamio Chresti‑Brisch, head of the import/export company C/B Cie.,” Chauvelin said bluntly. “Or any connections between the je Tsinraan and C/B Cie., particularly if any of C/B Cie.‘s clients are also houtadependents of the je Tsinraan.”

Haas paused, one hand busy with the notepad fastened to her belt, out of sight beneath the loose, semiformal coat. “This could be difficult to do discreetly, Tal. What does it matter?”

“I don’t care about discretion,” Chauvelin began, and bit back the rest of his words. He said, more carefully, “There isn’t time for discretion. I have reason to think that the Visiting Speaker and Damian Chrestil are working together here on Burning Bright, not as enemies, and I think that their real connection is something in HsaioiAn. The last thing my lord would want is to see Damian Chrestil elected governor of Burning Bright.”

“Do you think that’s likely?” Haas asked, but her hand was busy again, transferring notes to the household computers.

“I wouldn’t bother you if I didn’t,” Chauvelin said, and Haas waved her free hand in apology.

“I’m sorry, Tal. It’s just–the je Tsinraan have been making real inroads at court in the last week, and my lord is eager not to antagonize them.”

“My lord’s existence annoys them,” Chauvelin said dryly. “I don’t think he would care to do much about it.”

Haas grinned in spite of herself. “I know.” She looked down at the tabletop, and Chauvelin guessed that there was a screen concealed in its surface. “I’ll see what I can find out for you. C/B Cie. does a lot of business on the jericho‑human worlds, and on Jericho itself, for that matter.”

“Which worlds?” Chauvelin asked.

“I know,” Haas said, with a touch of impatience, “over half of them are client‑bound to the je Tsinraan. I’ll find out.” She looked down again, ran her hand over a control bar hidden in the table’s carved edge. “I’m glad you called me, Tal. This could be something important.”

Certainly it’s important to me, Chauvelin thought. He said, “I’d appreciate an answer as soon as possible.”

“I’ll do what I can,” Haas answered. “Between your weather and my ignorant staff–well, I’ll do my best.”

No one of lesser rank than yours is allowed to blame her staff for failures. Chauvelin bowed again, more deeply. “Thank you for your help, Sia Speaker.”

“Thanks for the information, Tal,” Haas answered, and signaled for her system to break contact.

Chauvelin touched his own remote to close down his end of the transmission, leaned back on his heels to watch the characters cascade across the screen. If there was a connection between the je Tsinraan and the Chrestil‑Brisch–more specifically, between ji‑Imbaoa and Damian Chrestil–and if he could prove it, then it should be possible to parry ji‑Imbaoa’s threats. And if the connection went deep enough, it might be sufficient to discredit the entire je Tsinraan. That was probably too much to hope for, he knew, and he sighed as he pushed himself up off the low cushions. A nice thought, but not to be counted on.

A chime sounded gently from the speaker set into the wall beside the door, the red pinlight flicking on as well, and Chauvelin touched the remote again to establish the connection. “Yes?”

“I beg your pardon, Sia,” je‑Sou’tsian said, “but there’s something that needs your urgent attention.”

Chauvelin lifted his eyebrows at the blank space, but answered the tone as much as the words. “I’ll be in the breakfast room in three minutes.”

“Thank you, Sia,” je‑Sou’tsian answered, and the pinlight faded. Chauvelin sighed– I wonder what new disaster I’ll have to deal with–and let himself out of the reception room.

Je‑Sou’tsian was ahead of him in the breakfast room, the curtains half‑drawn across the long windows. Beyond them, beyond her shoulder, Chauvelin could see the distant wall of cloud, a little higher on the horizon now, dark against the milk‑white sky. The garden looked subdued in the dimmed light, only the stone faces in the paths still reflecting the minimal sunlight.

“Your pardon, Sia,” je‑Sou’tsian said again, and Chauvelin dragged his eyes away from the approaching storm.

“It’s all right,” he said. “What’s happened?”

“The Visiting Speaker has not come home today.” There was a tension in the set of je‑Sou’tsian’s hands and arms that made Chauvelin frown even more deeply.

“It’s later than he usually stays away, certainly, but is it important?”

“Sia, I don’t think his household knows for certain where he’s gone. At least none of the ones left here. And they are worried, if only because they don’t know what’s happening.”

Have I left things too late? Chauvelin suppressed the stabbing fear, said, “So what happened, do you know?”

Je‑Sou’tsian made a quick gesture, one‑handed, the equivalent of a shrug. “As best I can tell–and I’m reading between the lines for much of this, Sia–the Visiting Speaker left the house last night just after dark, saying he wanted to experience the Carnival. His household expected him back sometime this morning, but he hasn’t arrived, and they haven’t had word from him. By midday, his chief of household was worried enough to ask me if I had heard anything.”

“Who does he have with him?” Chauvelin asked.

“That’s what worries me,” je‑Sou’tsian answered. “Only two people, ji‑Mao’ana and that jericho‑human, Magill.”

The Speaker’s secretary and his head‑of‑security. Chauvelin sighed. “And that’s all you know?” It was unfair, he knew, and je‑Sou’tsian gave him a brief, reproachful glance.

“Sia, I’ve only just found this out. The chief of household only just spoke to me. And naturally I was reluctant to pursue things any further without knowing what you wanted me to do.”

Chauvelin gestured an apology. “I’m sorry, Iameis, you were right.” He paused for a moment, fingers tapping nervously against his thigh. “Still, it’s Carnival. Things happen during Carnival. I think you should make discreet inquiries, Iameis, just to make sure nothing’s happened to him. Check his usual haunts, and the Lockwardens. No need to inquire at the clinics and hospitals yet, they’d‘ve notified me if a stray hsaia was brought in.”

“The Lockwardens?” je‑Sou’tsian said.

Chauvelin nodded. “Ask–with discretion, mind you–if there have been any complaints or queries. I just want them to be aware that we are looking for him.” And that way, if I’ve miscalculated, if he’s not working with Damian Chrestil, I’ll have been seen to do my duty in protecting him.

“Very well, Sia, I’ll get on it at once.” Je‑Sou’tsian bowed again, and backed toward the door.

“Thank you, Iameis,” Chauvelin said. “You’ve done well.” There was no formal way to respond, but he saw from the sudden movement of her hands, quickly suppressed, that she had heard, and was pleased.

Chauvelin made his way back through the corridors and coiling stairs to his office at the top of the house. The light that streamed in through the curved windows was as milky as the clouds, heavy with the promise of the coming storm. He ignored it, locking the door behind him, touched the shadowscreen to bring up his communications system even before he’d seated himself at the desk, resolutely turning his back on the clouds to the south. A screen lit beneath the desktop; he touched the shadowscreen again, calling the codes that would connect him with Ransome’s loft, and waited for the screen to clear. If anyone could track ji‑Imbaoa, it would be Ransome.

The screen stayed blank, the call codes scrolling repeatedly across the base of the screen. Chauvelin let them cycle, waiting, long after he was sure Ransome would not answer. Of all the times for Ransome to be away from his loft… Chauvelin killed that thought, burying his fear with it, and tied his system into the Game nets. Half a dozen Harmsways were playing, but none of them was Ransome. Chauvelin swore again, freed himself from the Game, and touched keys to set up a new program. The communications system would access Ransome’s loft every half hour–he hesitated, then changed the numbers, making it every quarter hour–until someone answered. And that is all I can do. I’ve done everything; now I have to wait. It was not a pleasant thought, and, after a moment, he flipped part of his system back to the Game nets. If nothing else, he could distract himself in their baroque conventions.

Day 2

Storm: Old Field Administration Building,

Newfields, on the Landing Isle by Dry Cut

Ransome waited in the narrow reception room, lit by the long windows that ran like stripes from floor to ceiling and by the thin blue glow of the secretary system. Beyond the windows he could see the cliff face, and the cold grey‑green sea beneath it, the strands of foam bright against its choppy surface; he shivered once, and turned his back on the hypnotic waters. The office was on the north side of the building, away from the approaching storm; as he’d come in, a horde of workers had been drawing shutters across the southern windows. It was not like Arduinidi to make him wait. It just proves how hot I am–if I weren’t, Selasa wouldn’t make me wait here like this, while she decides if she can afford to see me. Or, he realized suddenly, while she finds out if I’ve been seen, coming here. That was not a pleasant thought, and he reached into his pocket to touch the datablock that nestled there. It was not a good habit to get into and he took his hand away, fingers tingling. Maybe, just maybe I should’ve quit after I talked to the factors at Bonduri Warehouse, they told me enough to be able to tell Chauvelin what’s going on–He put the thought aside as unprofitable. He was here; it was too late to turn back.

The secretary chirped discreetly on its pedestal, the blue light strengthening slightly. The affected mechanical voice said, “N’Arduinidi will see you now.”

In the same instant the inner door slid open, a soft chime drawing his attention. Ransome rose to his feet, and stepped through the doorway into Arduinidi’s office. It was as if he had stepped from Storm into High Summer, and he stood blinking for a moment, disoriented. Light, the hot sunlight of full summer, poured through the windows, falling from a clear and brassy sky; a faint breeze stirred, bringing with it the smell of the summerweed that choked the cliffs in warm weather and the acrid undertone of the port. Very distantly, he could hear the slow slap of the waves against the cliff face and the screech of metal from the port. It was an illusion, of course–holoimages inside the false frames of the windows, carefully controlled ventilation and a scent mixer, subtle sound effects–but even knowing that, Ransome found himself relaxing in the summer warmth.

“It’s very good,” he said, and Arduinidi smiled at him from behind her desk. She was a big woman, tall and broad‑shouldered, short hair further restrained by a band of metal disks. A single wire fell from it, running down her forehead to the socket at the corner of her left eye; her earrings were in the shape of an owl, her on‑line icon.

“Thanks,” she answered, but her tone was less than enthusiastic. “You’re a very chancy item right now, did you know that?”

Ransome managed a smile, did his best to hide the sudden chill that ran up his spine. “I’d kind of gathered that, yes.”

Arduinidi glanced down at her desktop. “You were followed here, and there’s talk just coming in about a disturbance at the Bonduri Warehouse–somebody beat up a factor, it looks like. That wasn’t you, was it?”

Ransome shook his head. “Not my style.” Not my style at all. It sounds like someone’s getting desperate.

“But I’ll bet it had something to do with you,” Arduinidi said.

Ransome hesitated, but there was little point in lying to her. Arduinidi was not only one of the better network security consultants on planet, she was also one of the more reliable data fences, and a superb netwalker in her own right. Nothing happened on the nets that she didn’t know about. “Something,” he said aloud. “More to do with Damian Chrestil.”

“I told you before,” Arduinidi said. “I don’t know anything about it.”

Meaning he’s put the fear of Retribution into all of you, Ransome thought. “Selasa,” he said, and managed to make his tone faintly teasing. Arduinidi lifted an eyebrow, but said nothing. “I know you,” Ransome went on. “You’re worse than I am about a blocked access. It wouldn’t be like you not to get into the port feeds, especially after someone warned you off. I want that data.”

Arduinidi looked at him. “I’m not that stupid,” she said. “You may do this for fun, I‑Jay, but half my business comes from my reputation. Even if I had the information–if–I wouldn’t sell it. And doubly not to you.”

“I know what it is,” Ransome said, “what it has to be. If I tell you what you found, will you give me a yes or no?”

Arduinidi shook her head. “No dice. How would you know whether to believe me, anyway?”

“Because, as you say, your reputation is your business.” Ransome looked at her, weighing his next words. His only choices were money or a threat, and he would never have enough money to make it worth her while. “I’m prepared to make sure that your legitimate clients find out about your second job, Selasa. If it comes to that.”

“You’re fucking crazy,” Arduinidi said.

Ransome shook his head. “I want that data.”

“You push it, and I won’t deal with you,” Arduinidi said flatly. “I’ll make damn sure you don’t walk my nets again, make sure no one buys from you, make sure no one deals with you at all. Do you really want to risk it?”

Stalemate, Ransome thought, because she can do it. He hid his despair, said, “Can you afford to risk word getting out that you’re the best data fence on planet?”

Arduinidi sat silent, nothing moving on a face gone suddenly like stone.

“I’m willing to settle for a yes or no,” Ransome said again. “That’s all I need, Selasa. That’s all Chauvelin needs.”

“Hah.” Arduinidi’s mouth twisted, as though she’d tasted something sour. “I should’ve guessed he’d be behind this.” She sighed. “All right. What is it you think you know?”

Ransome took a deep breath, felt congestion drag at the bottom of his lungs. Not now, he thought, and knew he should have expected it. He put that fear aside, knowing he could wait a little longer to breathe the Mist, said, “Damian Chrestil is smuggling something–Oblivion, I think–into HsaioiAn, to receivers on Jericho and Highhopes, and he’s doing it for ji‑Imbaoa and the rest of the je Tsinraan, who have the receivers for clients.”

Arduinidi paused for a moment, then, reluctantly, nodded. “Yes. So far as the smuggling goes, that is. I don’t deal in hsai politics.” She gave a short, humorless bark of laughter. “And it’s lachesi, not Oblivion.”

“What’s the difference?” Ransome said.

Arduinidi shook her head. “Lachesi is–mostly–legal, it’s just the spite laws that keep the Republic from exporting it to HsaioiAn. Oblivion is restricted. So Damian Chrestil stays on the good side of general opinion, if not the law.” There was a sneaking note of admiration in her voice.

“I see,” Ransome said, and heard the same note in his own voice. And it would work, too: a lot of the Republican merchants have been lobbying for years to dissolve the spite laws, and wouldn’t feel too bad seeing them broken. “Thanks,” he said, and heard the congestion tightening his voice. “There’s just one more thing–” He pointed to the datanode, eyebrows lifted in question, and was not surprised when Arduinidi shook her head.

“Not from my nodes. I’ve done a lot more than I like, I‑Jay, don’t push it.”

Ransome nodded, gave her a rueful smile. “It was worth a try.”

“I hope you think so tomorrow,” Arduinidi said. Ransome looked sharply at her, and she gave him her sweetest smile. “I’m pissed at you, Ransome. Remember that.”

“I expect I’ll be in no danger of forgetting,” Ransome said, and Arduinidi nodded.

“I’d be careful, if I were you.”

“Thanks a lot,” Ransome said. Behind him, the door slid open; he turned and left the office, aware of her eyes on his back the whole while. He paused for a second in the outer office, glancing wistfully at the secretary pillar, but red lights glowed all around the base of the data drives, warning him from trying to make contact. He made a face, even though he’d expected it, and the outer door swung open, ushering him out of the office.

He made his way back through the hallways toward the main stairs–not the elevator today, not if Damian Chrestil’s people were feeling desperate enough to risk attacking a warehouse factor in broad daylight; there was too much chance of being caught in a closed space, with no room left to run. Which really brings up the next question, he thought. What do I do now? The main thing now was to get the information, his own reconstruction of Damian Chrestil’s plan, to Chauvelin; once that was done, Chauvelin could be counted on to deal with Damian Chrestil. It sounded simple enough, and he paused in a corner to chord the last bit of information, Arduinidi’s confirmation, into his datablock. The little machine chirped softly, confirming the record, and he smiled wryly. However, contacting Chauvelin could prove difficult.

He took the side stairs down to the second floor, paused on the balcony to look down into the building’s open lobby. As he’d feared, a pair of men in docker’s clothes were standing by the main entrance; a woman whom he recognized as belonging to C/B Cie. warehouse security was standing beside the main information kiosk, one hand cupped loosely over the controls. He frowned, narrowed his eyes, but couldn’t see if she was using a tap. All the more reason to hurry, he thought, and turned left, walking along the short end of the building, staying close to the wall where he was less likely to be seen from the lobby floor. There were no public terminals here, and a quick scan of the directories showed no names he knew. That left the general mail system, with its kiosks on every floor at each corner of the building. He lengthened his stride, found the nearest kiosk, luckily unoccupied. It was set into a small alcove, partly screened by a sculpture of panels of sequensa‑covered fabric, and he began to hope that he might have time to contact Chauvelin after all.

He glanced over his shoulder, saw no one except a secretary at the far end of the corridor, and quickly fed cash slips into the system. This was no time to use his money cards: it would be like shouting his presence to everyone who might be watching. He had just enough; the system lit and windowed, and he slid the datablock out of his pocket. The jacks and cords were standard, and he plugged the thin wire into the mail system’s receivers. It wasn’t perfect–for one thing, he had far less control over who would ultimately receive the information than he would if he were able to use the regular networks–but it would have to do. He touched the codes that would connect him with the ambassador’s house, and the system flashed back at him: CONNECTION NOT POSSIBLE, PLEASE TRY AGAIN.

“Fuck it.” Ransome stared for a fraction of a second at the little screen, hit the codes again. The screen went blank, and then the same message flickered into view. He’d been suckered: the woman at the main kiosk wasn’t bothering to tap the mail system; instead, she was interrupting it, blocking any transmission that he tried to make, and she was bound to be tracing his location at the same time. He stared at the screen, feeling the seconds slip away. It was too late to get away, his own mistake had seen to that; the only thing he could hope for was to dump the information somewhere where Chauvelin could find it. Maybe his home systems, if he couldn’t reach Chauvelin himself in time. He killed that sense of panic, forcing himself to think clearly, dredged the emergency codes out of his memory. He had bartered for them almost two weeks ago, eons on the nets, but they were Lockwardens’ codes, and the Lockwardens were notoriously conservative. He typed them in, making himself work carefully: he would only get one chance, if that. The screen went blank again, then lit, presented him with an open channel. He suppressed a cheer, and hit the codes that would dump the entire contents of the datablock to a holding node, one of a thousand secure datastores that laced the nets. The block whined softly to itself, the seconds ticking past, and then the screen cleared. He started to type a mailcode, allowing the datastore itself to transfer the information to Chauvelin, but heard footsteps on the stone floor behind him. Too late. He touched a second series of illegal codes, saw the screen fill with trash, effectively destroying his trail. Lights flickered across the datablock, warning him that its contents had been permanently erased. He sighed, and heard a woman’s voice behind him.

“Na Ransome.”

He turned slowly, not wanting to provoke anything, and found himself facing a wiry woman–not the one who had been working at the kiosk in the lobby. She had a palmgun out and ready, half hidden by her hand and body, invisible to anyone working in the offices along the corridor. A much bigger man stood just behind and to her left, screening her still further from the offices. He wore a bulky coat that could hide a dozen weapons. Ransome looked to his own left in spite of himself, in spite of knowing better, and saw another pair–dockers, this time–moving toward him along the cross corridor.

“Someone wants to talk to you,” the woman went on, her voice low and even.

“Someone like Damian Chrestil?” Ransome asked, but she didn’t flinch.

“Someone.” She beckoned to him with her free hand, the palmgun still leveled. “Someone who prefers to keep this tidy. If you’ll step this way.”

Ransome hesitated, but there was no real choice. I’m too old–and not sick enough yet–for a suicide leap, and I was never good at fighting. He spread his hands, showing empty palms, and stepped carefully away from the mail kiosk.

“Search him,” the woman said to one of the dockers, and Ransome submitted to the rough and efficient search. She stepped past him then, unplugged the datablock, and stood studying the kiosk screen for a moment. Ransome saw her frown over the hash of random characters and touch a few keycodes before she shook her head and pocketed the datablock. At least she wasn’t able to trace the destination codes, he thought, and felt a flicker of hope revive.

“Nothing here,” the docker said, and she nodded.

“I hope you’ll come quietly, Na Ransome.”

“I’m not stupid,” Ransome answered. This is how the game is played; you cut your losses and hope for your connections to save you. Please God, Chauvelin will try to contact me, will sort through the net stores when he can’t–He pushed that thought aside, pushing away panic with it. But this had happened before; he’d done his best, and sacrificed himself, and ended up abandoned. That was Bettis Chrestil, twenty years ago. Chauvelin is different. I can rely on him. I have to rely on him. The fear was a taste of metal in his throat.

“Walk with him,” the woman said to the big man, who nodded unsmiling and took Ransome’s arm. Ransome felt the muzzle of a palmgun touch his side briefly, felt the plastic warm against the inside of his elbow. The big man had a grip like iron; there was no hope of pulling free. All I can do now is wait, Ransome thought, and let them walk him slowly down the stairs and across the lobby. No one looked twice at them, and a part of Ransome’s mind had to admire their efficiency.

“I hope Damian Chrestil pays you what you’re worth,” he said, experimentally, and the big man’s hand closed painfully on his arm, grinding the palmgun into his elbow.

“Do stay quiet,” the woman said, conversationally, and turned her head to murmur something into a hand‑held com‑unit. As they passed through the main doors, a heavy passenger carrier, its rear pod sealed tight, windows darkened, pulled up in front of them. The door of the sealed compartment sighed open, and the woman said, “In there, please.”

There was no point in a struggle, and no chance even if he’d wanted to. The big man leaned into him, putting him off balance, and as Ransome stumbled, the woman tripped him neatly, so that he practically fell into the darkened pod. He righted himself instantly, steadying himself with both hands against the padded seats, but the big man pushed in after him, palmgun now displayed, forcing him back against the pod’s wall. The door closed behind the big man almost as soon as he’d cleared the frame, and the carrier slid away from the curb.

Ransome leaned back against the cushions, knowing better than to move too quickly. The big man settled himself opposite him, moving with the rocking of the carrier, sat comfortably, with the palmgun resting on his knee. Ransome eyed it for a moment, but knew better than to think of attack. He could hear the rasp of his breathing even over the purr of the carrier’s motor, felt the familiar pain tugging at his lungs. “Hey,” he said, and his voice cracked even on the single word. He made a face, hating the weakness, hating to have to ask, said again, “Hey. I need to take some medicine. It’s in my pocket.”

The big man looked at him for a long moment, his face utterly without expression. “All right,” he said at last. “Which pocket?”

“Jacket. Left‑hand side.”

“Go ahead.”

Ransome reached for the cylinder of Mist, making himself move at half the speed he wanted, slid the squat cylinder from his pocket, and started to hold it up even with the big man’s eyes. The man leaned forward instantly, caught Ransome’s wrist before he could finish the movement.

“Don’t make trouble.”

Ransome shook his head, did his best to suppress the cough that threatened to choke him. The big man eyed him warily, then released him, leaned back against his cushion. Ransome unfolded the mask, set it against his mouth and nose, and touched the trigger. The cold mist enfolded him, drove away even the fear for a brief second; he leaned back, eyes closed, and let the drug fill his lungs. He’d betrayed another weakness, he knew, something that they could use against him, and for a moment the fear rose with the thick mucus to choke him. He made himself breathe slowly, until the worst of the fear passed and he was left with the lethargy of the drug. He let himself fall into it, repeating his thoughts like a mantra. He would wait: there was nothing else he could do, and the situation might change. And in the meantime, he would wait.

Day 2

Storm: Betani Square, Roche’Ambroise

Lioe made her way through the fringes of the crowd that filled one end of Betani Square, pressed as close as possible to the stage where the puppeteers would be performing. It was less crowded by the fountain, but not by much; a dozen or more children in varying degrees of costume were playing on the edges of the three‑lobed basin, and several more were splashing in the shallow water, parents–or at least parental‑looking figures–watching from the sidelines. There was no sign of Roscha. Lioe scowled– I knew she wouldn’t be able to get away–but walked around the fountain’s edge until she was certain the other woman had not arrived. She looked sideways, poising the chronometer’s numbers against one of the bands of darker stone that crisscrossed the square’s paving, dividing it into diamonds. There were still a few minutes until the show was supposed to start. She sighed, and resigned herself to wait.

A line of bollards marked the square’s legal limits, twenty or thirty of the low mushroom shapes running along a line of dark paving that seemed to mark the top of the short flight of stairs that led down to the canal. A handful of people were sitting there, mostly in ones and twos, some staring toward the distant stage, more looking out toward the water or toward the smaller canal that formed part of the square’s southern edge. Lioe glanced around again, and seated herself on the bollard nearest the fountain. She could see well enough, could see all the likely approaches, from the waterbus stops on the canals or from the nearest helipad, and at least she could be relatively comfortable. Besides, I don’t think she’s coming.

Lioe tugged her jacket closed against the wind. It wasn’t cold, but it had picked up even in the half hour since she’d left Ransome’s loft, was blowing steadily now, from the south and east. The air smelled odd, of salt and thunder, and the children’s shouts fell flat in the heavy air. She glanced over her shoulder toward the mouth of the Inland Water, saw only the housetops on the far side of the canal. The last forecast she had seen had predicted the storm would strike around midnight, and she looked around again for a street broker. To her surprise–the brokers had seemed to be everywhere for a while–there were none of the bright red‑and‑white umbrellas in sight.

Music sounded from under the stage, distorted by distance and wind and the thick air. Lioe rose to her feet with the others, and saw the first of the puppets move out onto the platform. It was a massive construct, maybe two and a half meters tall, and nearly as broad; fans unfurled from what should have been the shoulders, and a crest of bronze feathers rose from the stylized head. More of the feathers appeared below the fans, and wings parted to reveal several small, white‑painted faces. They were set slightly askew, Lioe saw, and jagged cracks ran down their centers, detouring around the long noses. As she watched, the first of them split open, revealing an animal shape too small to recognize. Intrigued, Lioe moved toward the platform, circling south toward the smaller canal, where the crowd was thinner, to try to get a better view. It was a bird, or something with delicate, arching wings and a glittering, peacock‑blue body. She edged farther into the crowd as the second face split, revealing what seemed to be a model of the local solar system, and the entire assemblage leaned sideways, elevating the fans and turning the feathered crest into an almost architectural arch. There was a person inside that structure, Lioe realized suddenly, a single human being at the center of the spines and wings and the delicately made creatures; each precisely controlled movement set changes flowing through the puppet’s outer layers. But what did it mean? It was not like any puppet she’d ever seen, or even imagined, and she stood staring, trying to puzzle out a story, some purpose, from the complex metamorphosis.

“Na Lioe?”

The voice was unfamiliar, but polite. She turned to face a thin, plainly dressed man with a plain, unmemorable face.

“It is Na Lioe, isn’t it?”

Lioe nodded. “Yes.” She kept her voice and face discouraging, but the man nodded anyway.

“I thought it must be you. Roscha said you’d be here. She asked me to tell you, she’s running late.” He gestured toward the street that led away from the square, running along the edge of the smaller canal. “She said she’d meet you at the Mad Monkey, instead of here.”

Lioe glanced down the street–the sign was there, all right, a grinning, contorted holoimage dancing above a doorway at the far end of the street, where the canal turned left, away from the street itself–and looked back at the stranger. He was dressed like a docker, all right–dressed much like Roscha herself, for that matter, dockers’ trousers and a plain vest under a loose, unbelted jacket. “When?”

The man shrugged, looked sideways as though to call up his chronometer. “She said she’d be there at fifteen‑thirty–by the sixteenth hour at the latest.”

Lioe glanced sideways herself, saw the numbers flash into existence against the dark paving: almost sixteen hundred already. “Thanks a lot,” she said, and the man nodded.

“No problem.” He turned away, already looking for a better vantage point among the crowd.

Lioe watched him go, wondering just who he was. He looked vaguely familiar– maybe someone from Shadows, she thought, and looked back at the stage. The puppet seemed to be melting into the platform, dozens of indistinguishable little mechanisms churning frantically around its edges. The operator was doing the splits within the confining mechanism. The crowd murmured, sounding both awed and approving. I must have missed something, Lioe thought. I don’t understand at all. She looked again toward the Mad Monkey, wondering if Roscha was there yet, and if she could get food and/or drink. The sign looked like a bar’s, the monkey dancing in the air, very bright in the shadowed street. And even if it isn’t, it might be more fun than watching the puppets. Mechanical perfection palls after a few minutes, in my opinion. She eased her way out of the crowd, and started down the narrow street.

She had not traveled more than a dozen meters before she realized that she was being followed by a nondescript man who looked like another docker. She glanced back, wondering if she could turn back toward the square, slip between the back of the stage platform and the storefronts that defined the square, and saw a second person detach himself from the knot of people beside the curtain that screened the back of the stage, effectively cutting off her escape. She swore under her breath, wishing that she were armed–wishing that she’d carried even a pilot’s tool‑knife–and with an effort kept herself from looking around wildly. They were between her and the fringes of the crowd; she could shout, but none of the people watching the puppet show could reach her before the two men did. I’ll pretend I haven’t seen them, she decided, keep walking and hope I can get to the Monkey before them–if that’s safe. The man who said he was from Roscha, he must’ve been one of them, set this up… She shoved her hand into her pocket, closed her fist over thin air so that it made what she hoped would look like a dangerous bulge, and kept walking. I’ll try the Mad Monkey, and then the cross street, and if it comes to it, I’m not carrying much cash and it’s not a good place for rape–

A third man stepped out of a doorway ahead of her, hands deep in the pockets of his jacket. Lioe stopped, took an instinctive step sideways and back, toward the edge of the canal.

“Na Lioe,” the third man said. “There’s someone who wants to see you.”

“Like hell,” Lioe answered. She drew breath to scream, and the man freed his hand from his jacket, displayed a palmgun.

“Yell and I’ll shoot.”

Lioe released her breath cautiously, glanced back toward the square. Sure enough, the two strangers–and a third, the man who had spoken to her about Roscha–were coming toward her, blocking her escape in that direction. She took another step toward the canal, turning so that she could see all of them. “What do you want?”

“There’s someone who wants to talk to you,” the leader said again. “If you come quietly, no one will get hurt.”

Lioe took another slow step backward, toward the canal edge, so that she stood barely half a meter from the bank. She could swim, that had been bullied into her in Foster Services, but the current was fast, and the far bank was not distant enough to offer an escape. “Not likely,” she said aloud, fighting for time. “Come any closer, and I’ll scream–and if you shoot me, nobody’s going to be talking to me.”

There was a little silence, and a quick exchange of glances, and then the leader raised his palmgun. “Last chance. Come quietly, or I will shoot.”

Shit. Lioe froze for a second, frantically weighing her options. If she screamed, the leader would shoot–she had no doubt about it, and at this distance, he could hardly miss. He was too far away to try to jump him, get the gun away from him, and even if he weren’t, there were the others to consider–probably armed, too. That left the canal, her only–and not very good–choice. Unless I want to go with them. She rejected that thought even before it was fully formed. I don’t even know why they want me, who this mysterious someone could be–unless this is Ransome’s doing, his weird intrigue rebounding on me? She pushed that thought aside as irrelevant, said carefully, “Wait a minute, now.”

The leader relaxed slightly, the palmgun’s muzzle wavering just a little. It was all the chance she was going to get. Lioe flung herself blindly backward, into the canal’s murky water. Fleetingly she heard one of the men shout, and she hit the water hard, shoulder and hip, throwing a great plume of spray. She righted herself under the cold surface, risked opening her eyes for just an instant. The water, salt and oil and chemicals, stung miserably, but she saw light above her, and oriented herself against it. The current was strong, as she’d hoped and feared, and she let it take her, sweeping her down toward the junction where the canal turned south, away from the street. Already her lungs hurt her; she let out a little of her air, exerting herself only to keep herself parallel with the surface, and risked another glance into the dirty water. The surface glimmered just above her, tempting her with air and light, but she made herself stay down, trying to put a meter or so of water between her and the palmgun’s projectiles. She let out a little more air, darkness gathering at the edge of her vision, and could hold her breath no longer. Gasping, she broke the surface, flinging her hair out of her eyes, and heard the flat crack of the palmgun from the nearer bank. Someone shouted, but she dove again, striking out strongly across the canal. The current clutched at her, rolling her sideways and down, then back in toward the canal bank. She floundered in momentary panic, eyes opening in spite of the pain, and clawed her way back to the surface. She was at the corner, where the canal narrowed and the water ran the fastest, rolling and folding over itself. She forgot about the gunmen in her struggle to free herself from the current’s pull. For a terrified moment she thought she’d failed, that she would be pulled under and drowned, and then the water flung her with bruising force against the first of a set of pilings. She cried out in spite of herself, choked on a mouthful of the salty water, and struck the pilings again. This time, she grabbed for them, her hands sliding in the slimy mess of waterweeds, and then she worked her fingers into the dripping mat and clung, head above water, the current still dragging at her clothes and body. Her face burned where she had struck the piling, pain like long lines of fire running from cheek to jaw, and the corner of her mouth stung painfully. Her shoulder hurt, too– it was the same shoulder each time, she thought, with a crazy feeling of injustice. She’d fallen hard on her left shoulder when she went into the canal, and now it was her left shoulder that had hit the piling. She caught her breath, flailed her feet against the piling until she found something–it felt like a metal band, or an old mooring ring–and braced herself against it. It had all happened so fast, she hadn’t had time to kick off her shoes.

She looked back down the canalside, saw the four men huddled together, staring along the canal in her direction. She froze for a second, new fear shooting through her, and realized that they couldn’t see her after all. The bend in the bank protected her, at least a little bit, and at this distance she would be no more than a dark dot against the dark water. That was reassuring; she tightened her grip on the piling, and began to look for a way out of the water. This was a one‑bank canal, with a single pedestrian embankment on the opposite side. Above her stretched blank formestone walls, banded with darker blocks of stone; the nearest window was a good ten meters above her head. The current swept past her, tugging her body away from the piling: not a place to try and swim, she thought, and turned her attention to the wall. The pilings stretched the length of the house row, and there seemed to be a break in the walls beyond that. Maybe if I can work my way down to that break, I can just climb out, Lioe thought, or even just get out of the worst of the current, and swim to the embankment. If it weren’t for the current, I could do it, no problem.

She looked back down the canal, ready to duck out of sight if the would‑be kidnappers were looking in her direction, but they were standing close together, one of them with his hand cupped to his head as though he held a portable com‑unit. They seemed to be distracted, or as distracted as they were likely to get, looking back toward the stage. Lioe leaned out cautiously into the current, reached for the coat of waterweed that fringed the next piling. There wasn’t much above the water, and she leaned out a little farther, reaching beneath the surface to grope for the matted weeds. She found them, dug her hand into the slimy surface, the individual strands slipping slack between her fingers. They were covered with a gelatinous coating that made her shiver even as she tightened her grip, pulling back as hard as she could. The weeds stayed fast to the piling. She took a deep breath and released her grip on the first piling, reaching for the second, letting the current toss her against it. She tightened her hold, breathing hard, ignored the new pain where her knee had scraped the formestone wall, and reached for the next piling to try again.

She inched her way down the canal wall, groping from piling to piling, her hands slimed and green from clutching the weeds. Their air sacs burst and oozed a sticky ichor, staining her hands despite the running water; her face burned where the salt hit the cuts, and her waterlogged clothes dragged heavy on her limbs. She hesitated for a moment, wondering if she should finally get rid of her shoes, but she would have to walk once she made the bank, and she was getting close to the open space between the buildings. She started to smile, but winced as the expression jarred her scraped face, and reached for the next piling. She grasped the ring of waterweed–it seemed thinner than the others, but solidly attached–and let go. The waterweed came away in her hand as the current caught her, whirling her away from the bank. She flailed for a moment in panic, then got herself under control. The current was not as strong here on the straight of the canal. She brought herself abreast of it, angled in slowly toward the bank.

The space she had been aiming for turned out to be one of the tiny canalside parks, neatly paved, with low umbrella‑shaped trees growing in tubs and a wide strip of open ground filled with extravagant white flowers. There was a gonda landing as well, three steps leading up out of the water, and a mooring ring on the wall, and Lioe clung to that for a moment, grateful to feel solid land under her feet, before she dragged herself up onto the bank.

A woman was sitting under the nearest umbrella‑tree, on the edge of the tub, a paper parcel open beside her, the remains of a meat pie strewn on the ground for the local cats. Her head came up sharply as Lioe staggered up onto the bank, and Lioe hastily lifted her hands to show them empty of weapons.

“It’s all right, I’m not going to hurt you. Somebody tried to mug me.”

The woman swallowed whatever she was going to say, swept the last crumbs off her lap. She was a big woman, tall and heavyset, dressed in the dark robe that belonged to the Four Judges. Lioe saw the tall headdress and mask of the Prospering Judge set aside on the tub’s edge beside her. “Are you hurt?” the woman asked, and came forward briskly.

Lioe shook her head, was suddenly grateful for the other’s steadying arm. “Not really, just cuts and bruises.” She looked down, saw her knee raw and scraped through the ripped trousers. “I went into the canal, back toward Betani Square.”

“Jesus,” the woman said. “The current’s murder there. You were lucky.” She shifted her grip, taking more of Lioe’s weight, said firmly, “Come on. You’ll want to talk to the Lockwardens.”

“Lockwardens?” Lioe echoed, and then remembered. They were the local police, responsible for the locks and storm barriers as well as the usual laws.

“Our police,” the woman answered. “You’re an off‑worlder, then?”

Lioe nodded.

“The bastards will pick on strangers,” the woman said, with a kind of dour satisfaction. “Come on, it’s not far.”

Lioe let the stranger half lead, half carry her across the courtyard, suddenly too tired, too drained to care if she were part of the group. The woman paused by her tree, stooped with surprising grace to collect her mask, and Lioe realized with a sudden pang that she had lost the mask Gelsomina had given her. It was a strange thing to bother her, but her eyes filled with tears, and she stood shivering for a moment, mouth trembling painfully.

“Easy now,” the big woman said. “Not far.”

The nearest Lockwardens’ station wasn’t far, barely forty meters along a narrow side street. It occupied the corner of one of the larger buildings, and all its windows blazed with light. The door stood open, men and women in uniforms that Lioe didn’t recognize hurrying in and out, clutching workboards and datablocks and even sheafs of paper. Someone exclaimed, seeing their approach, but Lioe was too tired and too cold to care. She let herself be led into the station, and then into a side room, unable to focus on the questioning voices that surrounded her. Someone eased her into a chair–a warm, well‑padded chair–and then wrapped her hands around something warm, held it to her lips. She sipped obediently, and recognized the flat, bitter taste of antishock drugs beneath the sweet tea. In the distance, she heard the soft chirping of a medical scanner, and looked up in confusion.

“Finish the tea,” a new voice said, and she did as she was told. Someone else–she was aware of him only as a pair of long‑fingered, rather beautiful hands–wrapped the edges of a heated cocoon blanket closed around her. She had been sitting in it, she realized, and she huddled into its stiff embrace, letting its creeping warmth seep into her, drying her clothes. The tea was starting to work; she looked up, feeling more alert than she had before, and saw a spare, greyhaired woman sitting on the edge of a table opposite her. She herself was sitting in the only chair.

Even as she realized that, a male voice said, “Let me take a look at your face.”

She turned her head obediently, winced as the long fingers probed the cuts on her cheek and jaw. The man–he wore a medic’s snake‑and‑staff earring–winced in sympathy, and reached for the supply box that lay open at his feet.

“Close your eyes,” he said, and laid a delicate mist of disinfectant over the entire side of her face. The stuff stung for a moment, and then a sensation of coolness seemed to spread across her jaw. She felt an applicator dab quickly at each of the cuts–it hurt, but remotely, the pain reaching her from a distance–and then the medic said, “All right, you can look now.”

Lioe opened her eyes, to see that the woman was still staring at her. Lioe’s identification disks and the contents of her belt purse were spread out on the tabletop beside her.

“So, can you tell me what happened, Na Lioe?” The hard‑boned face was not unfriendly, but Lioe found herself choosing her words with care.

“A bunch of guys tried to kidnap me, pulled a gun on me–this was on the little street that runs away from Betani Square, where the Mad Monkey is. I ended up jumping into the canal to escape, and I got kind of banged up.”

“Kidnap?” The woman’s voice sharpened. “The woman who brought you in said you’d been mugged. Why would someone want to kidnap you?”

“Because–” Lioe stopped abruptly. I’m not fully sure why, but it’s bound to have something to do with Ransome, and Damian Chrestil and the cargo that I helped bring in, and the hsai, or at least hsai politics. And even if I did know what was going on, I don’t know how much I can afford to tell you: Ransome’s in this up to his neck, and he’s a Burning Brighter working for the hsai. She shrugged, feeling more bruises on her arm and shoulder. “I don’t know. It was what they said–”

“Why don’t you tell me about this from the beginning?” the woman said, not ungently. “My name’s Telanin. I’m the chief of the station.” She looked at the medic, who nodded.

“Let me just get you another cup of tea,” he said. “And then I want to look at your knee.”

“Thanks,” Lioe said. Her clothes were drying nicely in the cocoon’s steady warmth; only her shoes stayed cold, squishing slightly when she moved her toes, and she loosened the cocoon’s lower edges to kick them off. She took the mug the medic held out to her, sipped cautiously, and wasn’t surprised to taste more of the bitter restoratives beneath the minty tea. It wasn’t as sweet as the first mug. The medic set her shoes aside to dry under the orange‑red glow of a drying rack, and pulled the cocoon aside to begin working on her leg.

“About what happened?” Telanin said, and Lioe dragged her attention back to the other woman.

“Sorry.” She pulled the cocoon closer around her body, buying time. “I was supposed to meet someone in Betani Square to watch the puppet show, but she didn’t show up. She had to work this morning; I had a feeling she wouldn’t be able to make it. So I stayed to watch the show anyway, and this man came up to me, said he had a message from Roscha–that’s the woman I was supposed to meet. He said she wanted to meet me at the place called the Mad Monkey, and went off. I waited a little bit, but I was getting bored with the show, so I decided to see if she was there, at the Monkey, I mean. A couple of guys followed me away from the square, and there was a third man waiting in the street–he was the one with a gun.” And he said “someone” wanted to talk to me. But if I mention that, she’ll want to know why this mysterious someone would go to this much trouble over me.

“Did any of them say anything, say what they wanted?” Telanin asked. Her hand was resting on the control pad of an ordinary‑looking noteblock, Lioe saw, and she chose her words very carefully.

“Something about coming quietly, I think. It happened pretty quickly.”

Telanin’s fingers shifted almost imperceptibly, recording the answer. “So they didn’t say anything else, nothing about kidnapping?”

Lioe shook her head, contrived to look sheepish. “I guess I overstated it.”

Telanin nodded. “What about this woman you were meeting, this Roscha? Did you see her?”

Lioe shook her head again.

“How well do you know her–what’s her full name?”

“Jafiera Roscha.” Lioe paused. “We met at one of the Game clubs, Shadows, a couple of days ago. I’m only on planet for few days while my ship is in for repairs, but I’m a Gamer, and I’ve been spending my time in the clubs.”

“So you don’t know her well?” Telanin persisted.

“She’s a Gamer,” Lioe said again, and was suddenly aware of how ridiculous she must sound. We’ve played together, I’ve seen her play my characters–yes, I know her very well, and not at all. About like I know Ransome. She shrugged, helplessly, and the other woman nodded.

“Jafiera Roscha’s known to us, though she’s never been involved in the bash‑and‑grab gangs. But it’s worth checking out, see if she set you up. She hasn’t been asking you about your movements, whether you carry cash, anything like that, has she?”

Lioe shook her head.

Telanin nodded again. “We’ll check her out, though. It seems odd they’d use her name, otherwise. How many people knew you were meeting Roscha today?”

“I don’t know,” Lioe said. “We talked about it in the club last night. We weren’t making any secret of it, so probably a lot of people heard.”

“Probably.” Telanin gave a rather sour smile. “Look, I have to say I don’t think this was a kidnap attempt. I hate to admit it, but this kind of bash‑and‑grab isn’t uncommon during Carnival, especially when off‑worlders are involved. A couple of canalli manage to lure a stranger into a dark alley, demand money and movables at gunpoint, and run. We’ll check it out, see if Roscha’s involved, and I’ll ask you to look at our files, see if you can pick anyone out of the visual database–” She smiled again, more genuinely this time. “It’s set up a lot like the Face/Bodybooks. You shouldn’t have any trouble finding them if they’re in there. But I don’t know how much chance we have of finding them. You were lucky.”

There was a little murmur of agreement from the medic, who had finished spreading a film of selfheal over the cuts on her knee. “Lucky twice,” he said aloud. “The current’s dangerous at that corner.”

Telanin nodded in agreement. “We’ll do what we can,” she said again, “but with this storm coming in, frankly, we’ve got to concentrate on that. Our investigation won’t get started properly until it’s past, and by then, the trails will be pretty cold.”

“I understand,” Lioe said. “Hell, I wouldn’t mind seeing these guys in jail, but, as you say, I was lucky. They didn’t get anything, and I’m not hurt.” She managed a quick grin. “I don’t want to push my luck.”

Telanin smiled back, and Lioe thought she looked faintly relieved. “I’ll have you look through our database, then, and sign a complaint, and then I’ll have one of my people fly you back to your hostel. Are you up in the Ghetto?”

“Yes,” Lioe said, “but that’s not necessary–”

Telanin held up a hand, cutting off any further protest. “Just in case I’m wrong, and your first feeling was right,” she said. “Besides, a lot of the helicab companies are going to be shutting down soon, and you don’t want to be taking the buses. Not the way you’re going to be feeling.”

“I’m all right,” Lioe said, but it was only a token protest. She freed herself from the cocoon. Her clothes were all but dry, only a few damp spots remaining, but she was faintly sorry to give up the warm embrace. She followed Telanin out of the little room, the medic close on her heels. The public parts of the station were crowded and noisy, half a dozen men and women leaning over a single console and its harried operator, another group clustered around a display table. Lioe couldn’t see all of the image that floated above the polished surface, but she could see enough to guess that it was a model of the neighborhood. Telanin touched her arm, turning her over to another woman, this one darkly elegant even in the Lockwardens’ bulky uniform, and Lioe let herself be led away to the database.

She looked through the files under the dark woman’s tutelage, and, as she had expected, found nothing. About halfway through, a young man appeared with the complaint form. Lioe skimmed through it–she was mildly surprised to see that it was real paper, not a noteboard and disk–and signed her name in the necessary places. When she had finished, she followed the dark woman back again through the chaos of the main rooms and out onto the helipad, where a helicab stood waiting, the Lockwardens’ markings muted. She looked back once, from the doorway, to see Telanin staring down at the tabletop display. By chance, one of the Lockwardens stepped aside, so that for a brief moment Lioe saw the full display. As she’d guessed, it was a model of the area around the station, but that neighborhood transformed by water and fire. Then another Lockwarden moved in front of her, blocking her view. Lioe shivered– if that’s what could happen, I’ll be glad to be on high ground–and climbed meekly into the helicab. The pilot nodded a sympathetic greeting, and the cab rose easily into the unsettled air.

Day 2

Storm: C/B Cie. Offices, Isard’s Wharf,

Channel 9, Junction Pool 4

Damian Chrestil sat in the serene gold‑tinged light of his office, the plans for a new long‑haul carrier floating in the desktop screens in front of him. It was an elegant design, with ample cargo space, but surprisingly narrow‑beamed, so that it would be half again as efficient as the larger long‑haul craft in the current fleet. Even so, he had trouble forcing himself to concentrate, to keep his mind on the minutely detailed calculations sketched in the margins. Ivie–or at least his people–were somewhere out there, searching for Ransome and Lioe. I should be hearing something soon, he thought, and made himself look down again at the model that hung in the illusory space within the desktop, rotating slowly in response to a command he did not remember giving. He touched another key to stop it, called up the specifications for the power plant, and stared at the numbers for a long moment without really seeing them. Something–sand or gravel, it sounded like–rattled against the wall of the office, carried by the rising wind.

Enough of this, he thought, and touched keys to banish the gleaming images. They disappeared in a flurry of shutdown codes. He pushed himself away from the desk, and walked past the twin secretaries into the darkened warehouse. The large doors were shut, of course, but the side door was wedged open, letting in the rush and the smell of the wind. The door itself vibrated against its clips, jumping a little as each gust hit it. Another two or three hours, Damian thought, and stepped out onto the wharf.

The activity was less frantic than it had been earlier: the barges and john‑boats lay close to the docks, their heaviest fenders in place and double lines securing them to the piers. Damian nodded his approval, glanced up to see the power line that ran from the warehouse to the plotting shed swinging wildly in the wind. Better see to that before it comes down on its own, he thought, and looked around for the nearest docker. A blocky woman was crouched between bollards on the deck of the closest barge, tapline attached to a test node, workboard on her lap, and Damian lifted his hand to get her attention.

“Where’s Rosaurin?” he shouted, raising his voice to be heard over the wind.

“I don’t know, Na Damian,” the woman called back. “In the shed, maybe?”

Damian waved in answer, turned away.

“Na Damian!” That was Rosaurin’s voice, coming from the head of the dock, beyond the plotting shed. Damian waved to get her attention.

“Over here!”

Rosaurin came to join him, the wind whipping her short hair and flinging the skirts of her coat wildly so that they seemed in danger of tripping her. A smaller figure was visible behind her, a tiny woman in loose trousers and a fitted coat, posed so unobtrusively that for a moment he didn’t recognize her. “It’s that hsaia, Na Damian–I’m sorry, the Visiting Speaker. He’s here, and he insists you promised him a tour of the facilities.”

Ji‑Imbaoa. What would he be doing here, except to bring me the codes? And Cella, too. Damian Chrestil suppressed his excitement and said, with what he hoped was convincing asperity, “And at a time like this. Tell him–I’ll see him in my office, you can bring him in there.” Rosaurin looked warily at him, and Damian smiled. “Don’t worry, there won’t be any tours. I’ll deal with him. And secure that cable, will you?”

“Right, Na Damian. I’ll bring him to your office.”

Rosaurin turned away, balancing herself against the unsteady wind, made her way back down the wharf. Damian followed her, more slowly, doing his best to hide his elation. There was no other reason for ji‑Imbaoa to visit the Junction Pool docks, no reason except that he’d finally gotten the codes, and if he had, and Ransome was off‑line, held in the summer house, there would be no one who could stop the transfer. Except–maybe–Lioe, and she was being dealt with, too. He smiled then, unable to stop himself, and Cella smiled back at him.

“He came to the palazze,” she said. “He said it was important, so I brought him here. Your sibs don’t know he was there.” She paused then, still smiling. “Do you want me to wait with him?”

Damian nodded, knowing he did not need to wait for an answer. He ducked through the clamped‑open door into the shadows of the warehouse, and stepped back into his office. He glanced quickly at his reflection–his hair was a mess, blown out of its ties by even that short an exposure to the wind, and he tidied it hurriedly–and then settled himself behind the desk. He lit the screens, calling up the plans he had been studying, and leaned back in his chair to wait, struggling to keep himself from grinning like a fool.

“Na Damian,” the secretary said, after what seemed to be an interminable wait. “You have a visitor. The Visiting Speaker Kuguee ji‑Imbaoa. And Na Cella.” The expensive voice module did a fairly good job with the alien name.

“Show them in,” Damian said, and this time couldn’t keep the satisfaction out of his voice.

He rose to his feet as the Visiting Speaker entered, gesturing for him to take the guest’s chair beneath the painted triptych. “Welcome, Na Speaker, it’s good to see you again.”

Ji‑Imbaoa waved a hand, waving away the need for formality, and Damian did his best to swallow his excitement.

“Your woman was good enough to bring me here. Time is of the essence now,” the Visiting Speaker said. “We can neither of us afford to waste any more time.”

In the background, Cella lifted one precise eyebrow, and said nothing.

“I’ve not been wasting time,” Damian said.

Ji‑Imbaoa waved away the comment. “No matter.”

“No,” Damian Chrestil said. “It does matter.” It was a risk, pushing him at this point, but he could not afford to let ji‑Imbaoa treat him like an employee. “I have been ready to fulfill my part of the bargain. The delays come from your end.”

There was a little silence, ji‑Imbaoa’s hands closing slowly on the arms of his chair. Damian waited, and, as slowly, the hsaia’s hands relaxed.

“It is so,” ji‑Imbaoa said. “However, that delay has ended. I have the codes.”

It’s as much of an apology as I’m likely to get. “Excellent,” Damian Chrestil said, and held out his hand.

Ji‑Imbaoa ignored it. “I have gone to a great deal of trouble to get this information. I had to contact my friends through commercial linkages–at great expense–because Chauvelin refused to allow me the use of the ambassadorial channels. I think I should have some recompense for this.”

Damian swallowed his first response, said, with careful moderation, “Na Speaker, surely that’s one of the ordinary risks of doing business.”

“I am not a business person,” ji‑Imbaoa said.

That’s for certain. Damian said aloud, “You expect me to pay for your connect time to HsaioiAn.”

The fingers of ji‑Imbaoa’s hands curled slightly, a movement Damian had learned to interpret as embarrassment, but the Visiting Speaker nodded. “I think it would be fair.”

Damian hesitated, looked down at his screens to cover his uncertainty. This was part of the hsai power games, one more attempt to jostle for status; he himself couldn’t afford to lose, and so drop lower than ji‑Imbaoa, but he wasn’t sure he was good enough to win. The secretary chimed softly, signaling an incoming message, and he seized gratefully on the excuse. “I’m sorry, Na Speaker, I need to take that.”

“Shall I go?” Cella asked softly, and Damian shook his head before the hsaia could take offense.

Ji‑Imbaoa gestured acceptance, and Damian leaned back in his chair, touched the string of codes that activated the security filter, translating spoken words to a stream of letters across the bottom of the screen. A second set of codes flared, and he touched a second key to cut in the family’s decryption routines. The screen lit at last, and Ivie’s face looked up at him.

NA DAMIAN.

It was disorienting, watching Ivie’s lips move without sound, while the words scrolled past on the bottom of the screen. Damian nodded. “I hope things went well? I’m with a visitor, so you’ll have to make it fast.”

Ivie nodded, in comprehension as well as agreement. I’M AT THE SUMMER HOUSE NOW, he said. THE FIRST GUEST IS WITH ME. WE’VE HAD A LITTLE TROUBLE WITH THE SECOND, BUT I HAVE HOPES THAT WE’LL BE ABLE TO FIND HER AGAIN SOON.

So he’s got Ransome, but not Lioe. Damian said, “It’s a start, anyway.” He looked back at ji‑Imbaoa, the germ of an idea forming in his mind. “I’m coming to join you myself, and I may be bringing a guest of my own–a colleague, rather. How’s the weather?”

Ivie shrugged. DETERIORATING. IF YOU’RE GOING TO BE MORE THAN AN HOUR OR TWO, I WOULDN’T FLY, BUT THEY TELL ME THE ROADS SHOULD STAY OPEN UNTIL DARK.

“Good enough,” Damian said. “I’ll be there directly.” He touched the sign‑off key, and watched the picture dissolve, then looked back at ji‑Imbaoa. “I’ve had to do some improvisations of my own,” he said bluntly, “thanks to your delays. And suffer some inconveniences. Illario Ransome is off the nets right now, but only because I am holding him in my family’s summer house. I think that is equal to your expenses in getting the codes.”

Ji‑Imbaoa nodded slowly. “Ransome is your prisoner.”

“To put it bluntly, yes.” Damian watched him, aware that something had changed, but not certain what it was. It was as though the rules had changed, or even the game itself. Cella was watching him with renewed intensity, as though she’d sensed the change, too.

“I would like to speak with him,” ji‑Imbaoa said. “I will give you the codes there, once we are at this house of yours.”

Damian shrugged. There was no reason not to do it, as far as he could see; the nets were too well shielded for work to be interrupted by any but the worst storms, and he could access them from the summer house as well as anywhere. “All right,” he said. “I’ll call my flyer. I assume you have staff with you?”

Ji‑Imbaoa gestured agreement. “My secretary, and one guard.”

Damian looked at Cella, who was still watching him with that same unnerving fixity of purpose. “Do you want to come, too?” From the look in her eyes, it was a pointless question.

“Yes,” she answered, gently. “If you don’t mind.”

“Fine.” Damian Chrestil opened a working channel, typed in a quick series of commands, and waited half a second for the confirmation. “The flyer will be waiting for us at Commercial Street in ten minutes.”

The wind had eased a bit by the time they reached the Commercial Street helipad, but the first fringes of rain had overspread the city. It fell in huge drops that left wet irregular circles the size of a man’s hand on the dusty pavement. Damian ignored it as he shepherded the others into the heavy flyer, but ji‑Imbaoa hissed irritably to himself, and the other hsaia, ji‑Imbaoa’s secretary, huddled himself into an incongruous plastic overcoat. The jericho‑human Magill, who handled security, flipped up the hood of his coat, but made no comment. Cella followed demurely, moving through the rain as though she didn’t feel it. The passenger compartment would seat only four in comfort, and Damian seized the excuse with some relief.

“I’ll ride with the pilot,” he said, raising his voice over the noise of the engines, and let the compartment’s door fall closed without waiting for an answer.

The pilot didn’t look up as he climbed into the control pod, already deep in her rapport with the machine, hands and feet encased by the controls, but one of Ivie’s men was riding in the copilot’s space. He scrambled to his feet as Damian opened the hatch, moved back to the jumpseat that folded down from the compartment wall.

“Thanks, Loreo,” Damian said, and took his place beside the pilot. “How’s it look, Cossi?”

The pilot shrugged one shoulder, her attention still on the displays that filled the air in front of her, visible only through her links. “Not too bad. The rain’s fading, and on the screens it looks like we’ll have some better air for the next forty minutes or so.” She looked down at her controls again, and Damian hastily fastened himself into the safety webbing. “I have clearance from the tower,” Cossi went on, “so I can lift whenever you’re ready, Na Damian.”

Damian touched the intercom button, opening the channel to the passenger compartment. “We’re ready to lift, Na Speaker. Please be sure you’re strapped in, this could be a rough ride.” He took his hand off the button without waiting for an answer, looked at Cossi. “Ready when you are.”

The flyer lifted easily, jets whining as it rose past the warehouse fronts and through the lower levels of sky traffic. As Cossi had predicted, the winds did not seem to be as strong as they had been, though the flyer dipped and shuddered. Damian clung to the edge of the hatchway, peered out the tiny window toward the Old Dike and the cliffs that marked the edge of Barrier Island. Even in the grey light, it was easy to make out the five projecting bits of cliff face that were the Five Points; he could even see the sparkle of lights behind the rows of windows. The Soresins’ palazze looked busy, a swarm of servants and robohaulers clustered around an ungainly‑looking cargo flyer, unloading supplies for the family’s annual first‑big‑storm party. Behind him, Loreo laughed softly.

“Looks like the party’s on.”

Damian nodded. “Pity we can’t make it.”

The flyer lifted further, looking for a clearer path through the updrafts off the Barrier Hills, and for the first time Damian had a clear view of the sky to the south. Wedges of grey clouds piled over and on top of each other, steel‑colored overhead, shading to purple at the horizon; their edges met and meshed, deforming under the pressure of the wind. The light that came in through the flyer’s forward screen and windows was dull, lifeless, dim as twilight. The flyer banked sharply, heading south past the last of the hills, and Damian caught a quick glimpse of the mouth of the Inland Water. The storm barriers were up at last, three ranks of dark, wet metal closing off the channel, and the waves were starting to break against them, grey‑green walls of water streaked with skeins of foam that were startlingly white in the dim light. Damian shivered, thinking of a childhood visit to Observation Point just before a storm. The low, hemispherical building, set on the southernmost point of Barrier Island, on a spur of land that curved out into the sea, had obviously been built to withstand the worst hurricanes, but he had never forgotten the sight of the surf pounding at the base of the cliffs, throwing spray and stones ten meters high. At the height of a bad storm, the man in charge had said, boasting a little but also stating simple fact, the waves broke completely over the station for hours at a time.

“We’re going to have to land from the southeast,” Cossi said, breaking into his train of thought. “Otherwise we’ll be crosswise to the wind.”

“Go ahead.”

Damian braced himself as the flyer bucked, dropped several meters, but then Cossi had made the turn, and the flyer steadied slightly, riding with the wind instead of against it. They dropped lower, and Damian saw the scrubby trees bent even farther into the hillside by the wind. The family’s landing strip gleamed ahead of them, the rain‑darkened pavement outlined by double rows of tiny blue lights. The flyer fell the last few meters with a roar of jets, and then they were down, Cossi converting the drop smoothly to forward momentum. The braking fans rose to a scream, and died away as the flyer came to a stop, directly on the markers.

“Nicely done,” Damian said, and meant it.

Cossi smiled, in genuine pleasure, then turned her attention to the difficult task of prying herself out of the control links. “Do you want me to wait for you, or do I head back to the city?” she asked, still working herself free of the controls.

“There’s no point in your flying back,” Damian said. “Put the flyer under cover–the hangar’s rated to stand a class three–and then you can either wait it out here or take a groundcar.”

“I’ll wait,” Cossi said.

Damian nodded, and swung himself out of the pilot’s compartment. The others were already standing on the rain‑spattered pavement, ji‑Imbaoa still hissing to himself, his household clustered miserably at his back. Cella was standing a little apart, a little behind them, her eyes downcast, hiding that unnerving smile. Damian managed a smile in return, wondering what she was up to, and waved them on toward the house itself. He could see Ivie waiting in the doorway, light blazing behind him. Shutters covered the windows; he glanced hastily over his shoulder and saw Loreo by the door of the domed hangar, guiding Cossi and the flyer inside.

“No word yet on the second guest,” Ivie said softly as Damian approached, and stood aside from the door.

“You can give me the details later,” Damian answered, and went past him into the house. He could feel the floor trembling under his feet, and knew that the household generators were already at speed, ready to cut in when the power grid went down.

The others were waiting in the main room, the glass that formed the viewing wall now covered by heavy wood and steel shutters. Damian paused at the top of the short stairs, blinking in the unexpectedly warm light of a dozen hastily placed standing lamps. He had never been in the house during Storm, had never seen the shutters from the inside, the almost‑black panels cutting off the view. It was an alien, disorienting sight. One of Ivie’s people had set up a pair of service trays and activated a mobile bar, and most of the group, four men and a pair of women, were clustered either by the food or in front of the communications console. The largest of the screens was tuned to the weather station, and Damian caught a quick glimpse of a redscreen report before one of the women moved, cutting off his view. Ransome sat a little apart from the others in one of the large armchairs, leaning back, a glass of deep amber wine on the table beside him. He seemed very much at his ease, despite the third woman who stood against the far wall, palmgun in hand, and Damian hid a frown. Then he saw the slight, nervous movement of Ransome’s hand, one finger slowly tracing the lines of the carved‑crystal glass, and the way his eyes roved from point to point when he thought no one was looking.

“So,” ji‑Imbaoa said, too loudly. “Ransome is here. And your prisoner?”

Ransome smiled, and lifted the glass of wine in ironic salute. “Not a guest, Na Damian?”

Damian came down the last two stairs, ignoring both of them, snapped his fingers to summon the bar. It rolled over to him, wheels digging into the carpet, and he poured himself a glass of raki. “Help yourself, Na Speaker, we’re informal here. Will you see to him and his household, Cella?” He looked at Ransome, barely aware of Cella’s politely murmured answer. “You were becoming an inconvenience, you know. This seemed a–reasonable–way to handle the situation.”

Ransome’s smile widened, became briefly and genuinely amused. “I suppose I should tell you that you won’t get away with this.”

“I don’t see why not,” Damian said, deliberately brutal. “This isn’t the Game.” He had the satisfaction of seeing Ransome flinch.

“Na Damian.” Ji‑Imbaoa turned away from the mobile bar, a tall cylinder in one hand. “I have the codes for you, but there is a favor you could do me in return.”

A favor? Damian barely managed to keep himself from raising his eyebrows in sheer disbelief. That is a change of tune, from the hsaia who was trying to bully me into a subordinate position not an hour ago. You only ask favors from your superiors. “If I may,” he said, carefully casual, and gestured toward the door behind him. Shall we talk in private?“

“That might be well,” ji‑Imbaoa said.

Damian led the way into the side room, fingering his remote to switch on the lights. Shutters covered the single window, but he could hear the sudden drumming of rain against the walls. He gestured toward the nearest chair–the room was set up as a communications space, with heavy, comfortable chairs and complex machinery lining the walls–and said, “What is this favor?”

Ji‑Imbaoa suppressed a gesture, seated himself with a kind of heavy dignity. “Ransome, I would imagine, becomes a liability to you once this is over.”

Damian shook his head. “Not necessarily. He’s a known netwalker, I can prove he’s been stealing information. If he tries to go to the Lockwardens, I can bring an equally strong complaint against him.”

“Still, Chauvelin will know,” ji‑Imbaoa said.

“Chauvelin doesn’t like me anyway,” Damian Chrestil said. I wish you’d come to the point.

Ji‑Imbaoa looked away, said, as though to empty air, “I might be able to help with the situation.”

I don’t need your help, thank you, Damian thought. He bit his tongue, and waited.

“And it would be doing me a favor.” Ji‑Imbaoa said the words reluctantly, almost as though they were being pulled out of him. “There is a matter of face between my family and this Ransome, the matter of an insult which could not be acknowledged then, but is lesser treason now. If you will give him into my custody, we–my kin and I–will be able to settle this. And I, and they, will be in your debt.”

Damian made himself look down at his hands to hide his sudden elation. To have ji‑Imbaoa, and, more than that, his entire family, indebted to me–in exchange for Ransome. Not much of a trade, an arrogant netwalking imagist–or should that be an image‑making netwalker?–for the friendship of an equally arrogant fool. But ji‑Imbaoa has powerful relations, they could be very useful to me. I’ve no illusions, Ransome’s no friend of mine, but can I afford to do it? He’s Chauvelin’s client, after all… But if it means connections in HsaioiAn, a deep connection to the je Tsinraan, can I afford not to? He said, slowly, “I can’t give you an answer now. There are practical considerations involved–”

“Chauvelin will not be ambassador much longer,” ji‑Imbaoa said. “There is already pressure on the All‑Father to remove him from this post.”

And that would make an enormous difference, Damian thought, if it’s true. If Chauvelin were no longer a factor, there’d be no reason not to do it. He had a sudden image of Ransome at Chauvelin’s eve‑of‑Storm party, sitting on the wall of the garden he had designed, the paths paved with thousands of delicate faces spread out at his feet, a mocking half‑smile playing on his lips as he watched the other guests recognize what they were walking on. Not a lovable man, certainly. Brave enough–and I do respect that–but this is a risk you take when you play politics. He nodded slowly, looked back at ji‑Imbaoa. “If I can do you this favor,” he said, “I will.”

Day 2

Storm: Transient Hostel #31, The Ghetto,

Landing Isle at the Old City Lift

The Lockwarden pilot set the cab down on the helipad just beyond the lift complex that ran down the cliff face into the Old City, balancing the light machine against the gusting winds. He was obviously skilled, but the ride was rough, and Lioe was glad to be on the ground. The pilot insisted on escorting her to the door of the hostel. Lioe made only a token protest, grateful for his support, and did her best to ignore the concierge’s smirk at her arrival, clothes torn and under Lockwarden escort. The smile turned to a frown of concern when he saw the white patches of selfheal on her face, and he came out from behind the counter to meet her.

“Na Lioe? Are you all right?”

“Na Lioe got mugged,” the Lockwarden said, politely enough, but Lioe found herself wincing a little at the suggestion.

“I’m all right,” she said. “I just need to change clothes.”

“You look like death,” the concierge–Laness, his name was–said, and shook his head. “You go on up to your room, and I’ll send a supply cart. Do you need anything in particular?”

“Something to eat,” Lioe said, and was surprised by the intensity of her hunger. She turned to the Lockwarden. “Thanks for getting me here.”

“No problem,” the pilot said easily, and let himself out.

“You go on up,” Laness said again, “and I’ll send a cart.”

“I’d appreciate it,” Lioe said. She rode the narrow lift up to the third floor–the first time she’d been back to her rented room in three days; most of her spare clothes were at Shadows–and let herself into the narrow room. It was small, but comfortable, and it had its own temperature controls. She turned up the heat to drive away the lingering damp of the canal, and stripped off her crumpled clothing. I need to call Ransome, find out what’s going on, she thought, but I want to be in shape to cope with him. She showered, not too quickly, letting the hot water wash away the fear and stiffness and the last faint green stains from the waterweed. The supply cart was waiting for her when she had finished, one of the covers pushed back slightly to release the steam. She dressed quickly, scrambling into her last spare pair of trousers and a loose, Reannan‑knit pullover, and pushed back the lid of the cart. The food was good, standard local fare, fish cakes and rice and a quick‑fry of vegetables, and Laness had included a bottle of the resinous local wine. She poured herself a glass, and wolfed a couple of the fish cakes straight from the cart, then turned her attention to the communications table. She seated herself in front of it, dragged the supply cart into easy reach. There were three messages from Kerestel waiting in storage. She hesitated, feeling guilty, but none of them were marked urgent. She ignored them, and called up the cheapest of the local communications nets. Its prompt flickered into view, and she punched in Ransome’s mailcode. There was a fractional hesitation, and then the familiar message: TERMINAL IN USE, PLEASE TRY LATER.

She smiled and reached for the cart again, one unacknowledged worry assuaged. At least Ransome was all right, and could probably explain what was going on, who had tried to kidnap her and why. And in the meantime, she thought, I think I’ll start carrying my work knife again. She pushed herself away from the terminal, went to rummage in her bag for the knife. It was meant to be used as a survival tool, and was classified as such when it passed through customs, but the longer of the two blades made an effective weapon. She slipped it into her pocket, turned back to the terminal. There was a repeat function; she found it after a moment’s search, and hit the codes. This time, the screen stayed dark, codes flickering across its base; after half a minute, a new message appeared: INTENDED RECEIVER NOT RESPONDING, CANCEL YES/NO. Lioe made a face, but hit YES. The screen flickered, and a moment later presented her with the list of charges. She ignored it, staring past the numbers. Someone was on the circuit only a few minutes ago, she thought, so where the hell did he go? Unless it was someone calling him? She hesitated, then tried again. There was no answer except the cancellation prompt.

She closed the system, wondering if she should wait and try again, or if she should go back to Ransome’s loft and see if there were any messages waiting there. That made the most sense, especially since she had Ransome’s key, but she had to admit that going back out on the streets didn’t particularly appeal to her. Which is silly. There’s no reason to think that these people–whoever they are–will try anything in the port district; more to the point, and more likely, there’s no reason to think the hostel is all that safe. She stood frowning for a moment, and the communications table buzzed, the screen displaying the intercom symbol. Her frown deepened, but she reached across to touch the flashing icon.

“Yes?”

“Na Lioe.” Laness sounded oddly hesitant. “There’s a woman to see you. She says her name is Roscha. Shall I send her up?”

Roscha? What the hell is she doing here? “Is she alone?” Lioe asked. And if she isn’t, she wondered suddenly, are you in a position to warn me?

“Yes, Na Lioe.”

“I’ll come down,” Lioe said, and cut the connection before anyone could protest. She made her way down the side stairs rather than the lift, and paused just inside the doorway to scan the lobby. Roscha was standing by the concierge’s counter, her beautiful face looking oddly forlorn as she watched the lift entrance. There was no one else in sight. Feeling rather foolish, Lioe took her hand off the button of the work knife, and stepped out into the lobby.

“Quinn!” Roscha turned at the sound of the other woman’s footsteps, her eyes going instantly to the patches of selfheal. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, fine,” Lioe said, irritably, and made herself stop. “It’s just cuts and bruises,” she said. “Listen, did you send someone to tell me you were at someplace called the Mad Monkey?”

“No.” Roscha shook her head, sending the red hair flying. “No, I didn’t, and the Lockwardens have been talking to me already. What happened?”

Lioe looked over her shoulder, saw Laness leaning against his counter, listening shamelessly. “Over here,” she said, and drew Roscha away into the shelter of the pillars that defined the common entertainment center. No one was there, the VDIRT consoles empty, and she turned back to face Roscha. “Maybe you can tell me,” she said. “This man came up to me, called me by name, and said you’d given him a message to be passed on, to meet you at this place called the Mad Monkey.”

“I know it,” Roscha muttered, and waved a hand in apology. “I’m sorry, go on.”

“When I tried to go there,” Lioe said, and heard her voice tight and angry, “I was followed, and someone stepped out of a doorway carrying a gun. He said somebody wanted to talk to me, and I was to come quietly. Do you have any idea who that somebody might be?”

“No.” Roscha shook her head, stopped abruptly. “Do you work for C‑and‑I?”

“What?” Lioe blinked, irrationally offended by the question. “No, I’m a pilot. And I’m a Gamer. I don’t need to work for Customs.”

“Na Damian–Damian Chrestil thinks you do,” Roscha said, slowly. “And you’ve been hanging out with Ransome, who’s not exactly clean when it comes to politics.” There was a fleeting note of malice in her voice that vanished almost as soon as Lioe recognized it. “And Na Damian went out of his way to make sure I had an alibi for this afternoon.”

“So you think Damian Chrestil is behind this?” Lioe asked.

“You don’t sound that surprised,” Roscha answered, bitterly.

“I’m not, exactly. Ransome–” Lioe stopped abruptly. How the hell do I know who to trust, if I can trust you, or anyone? You work for C/B Cie., which is the same thing as working for Damian Chrestil, and Ransome isn’t answering his calls. What the hell am I supposed to do now? “Why should I tell you?”

Roscha made an angry sound that was almost laughter. “Because I don’t like being jerked around. Because I don’t like being used to set somebody up–especially you, somebody I’ve been sleeping with, somebody I like. Somebody as good as you are in the Game.” Her voice cracked then, and she looked away, scowling. “Na Damian lied to me, and he used me, and he maybe would’ve murdered you, and it could’ve been my fault. I’ll be damned if I’ll let him do that to me.”

There was something in her voice, the street kid’s– the canalli’s–ancient, bitter grievance that made Lioe nod in spite of herself. “All right,” she said slowly, “I believe you.”

Roscha nodded, silent, still scowling.

“I need your help,” Lioe went on, more slowly still, a voice screaming reproaches inside her head. Are you crazy? She still works for C/B Cie. Even someone as Game‑addicted as Roscha is isn’t going to give up a good job for a total stranger. She could be setting you up again. She shook the thoughts away. I have to have help, and the only other person I can trust is Ransome. And he’s not answering. I have to take a chance, and Roscha’s my best shot. She’s a good actor, but I don’t think anyone’s that good. I think she meant exactly what she said I hope. “I need to find Ransome, he’s the one who really knows what’s going on. Can you get me back to his loft? It’s back at Newfields, where the cliffs overlook the Junction Pools.”

“I know where it is,” Roscha said. She nodded, her face grim. “Na Damian’s going to be looking for both of us now–I was supposed to stay on the docks until midnight. I guess I don’t need an alibi now.” She smiled wryly, but shrugged the thought away. “I borrowed a denki‑bike, we can take that.”

“In this weather?” Lioe said. The thought of riding one of the unstable little two‑wheeled vehicles in the same winds that had tossed the Lockwardens’ helicab across the sky was not appealing.

Roscha glanced toward the window beside the door, shrugged slightly. “It’s not raining yet.”

“Right,” Lioe said. She looked toward the concierge’s counter, where Laness was pretending to be absorbed in the tourist display‑tapes. No harm in providing a little insurance, she thought, and walked over to join him. “Laness,” she said, and the man looked up in an unconvincing flurry of surprise.

“What can I do for you, Na Lioe? Is everything all right?”

“Yes,” Lioe answered. So far. “I need you to do me a favor,” she went on. “I have to go out, but after what happened earlier, would you–if I’m not back here tonight, or if I don’t call you, would you give the Lockwardens a call?”

“Of course, Na Lioe,” Laness said. His eyes widened slightly, his whole being torn between enjoyment of the Game‑like intrigue and concern for a guest. “But, Na Lioe, if there’s any chance–what I mean is, with the storm predicted for tonight, if anything happens to you, the Lockwardens are going to have enough to do.”

“That’s all right,” Lioe said. Or at least it can’t be helped. “I’m not really worried, not really expecting anything. But if I’m not back, and you don’t hear from me, I want you to call them.”

Laness nodded. “I’ll do that,” he said, and added, awkwardly, “Good luck.”

Roscha’s denki‑bike was parked outside, under the shelter of a news kiosk’s awning instead of in the racks outside the hostel’s door. The wind–a warm wind, unpleasantly warm–sent dust and a few errant pieces of trash whipping along the pavement; across the road, a pair of women struggled with a storefront banner, fighting to fold the heavy cloth. Up and down the street, wooden shutters had been clamped into place across the larger windows, and there was a line out the door of the single grocer’s shop. “It looks bad,” Lioe said, involuntarily, and Roscha shrugged.

“It’s always like this when a storm’s coming. They say it’s only going to be a class two.” She reached into the bike’s security field, expertly touching the release codes. “Let’s get going before the rain starts.”

The streets were all but empty in the port district, most of the workers already heading home to secure their own property. Shutters covered most of the upper‑floor windows, and there were storm bars across the warehouse doors. Lioe leaned close against Roscha’s back, felt the denki‑bike shudder each time they turned a corner. A few drops of rain were falling as they turned the last corner and pulled into the alley beside Ransome’s loft. Lioe winced as the first huge drops hit her face, looked toward the building’s entrance. The red flag was still out, whipping frantically against its stays, and she wondered if its owner had just forgotten to take it in. Still, the stairs weren’t difficult, and at least she knew where they were. She reached into her pocket for the lockbox, and closed her fingers gratefully over its smoothly dented surface. At least I didn’t lose it in the canal. She started toward the stairwell, motioning for Roscha to follow. The other woman straightened from hooking her bike to the recharging bollard, gave the connector a last tug, and came to join her.

“Where away?”

“Upstairs,” Lioe answered, and laid the lockbox against the stairway door. It clicked open, and she stepped into the sudden darkness. It smelled odd, sour and rather yeasty, and Roscha made a small noise of disgust.

“Better watch your step.”

“What is it, anyway?” Lioe turned to secure the door behind them. A tiny light came on as she refastened the latch, casting a sickly glow over the landing.

“Someone’s been chewing strawn,” Roscha answered. “There’ll be a cud around here somewhere.”

“What’s strawn?” Lioe started up the stairs, avoiding the shadows.

“It comes out of hsai space, makes you feel very calm,” Roscha answered. Lioe could hear the sudden smile in her voice as she added, “Not something I indulge in much.”

“I guess not.” Lioe paused outside Ransome’s door, fumbling with the lockbox until she found the depressions that released the lock. The lights were out, just as she’d left it, the big window open to the city view. Dark clouds, almost purple, filled the left side of the window; the sky to the right was still only grey. “Ransome?”

There was no answer, and she hadn’t really expected one, but she called his name once more before crossing to the display space. Lights flashed along the base of the main console, signaling at least a dozen messages waiting. She frowned, puzzled now as well as worried, and touched keys to retrieve the latest. A secondary screen lit, displayed a string of hsai n‑jaocharacters. Chauvelin? she wondered, and touched keys again to scroll back to the first message.

“He hasn’t even gotten the shutters down,” Roscha said, and Lioe looked back at her. “If you were looking for Ransome,” Roscha went on, “he hasn’t been here. He’d‘ve put storm shutters up, the way that sky is looking.”