Burning Bright

“Damn.” Lioe looked around, saw nothing that looked as though it could cover the enormous window. Her hat was still sitting on the folded bed, and she realized that she had left it behind that morning as well. “Can you take care of it, please?”

“Sure,” Roscha said, sounding slightly surprised, and crossed to the window. She ran her hand along the left‑hand side of the frame until she found an all‑but‑invisible panel. She popped that open, studied the controls for a moment, then turned a dial. There was a shriek from outside the window, unoiled metal reluctant to move, and then the shutters began to lower themselves into place, creaking and groaning along their track.

Lioe reached for the room remote, touched keys to bring up the lights, and then turned her attention back to the messages. The first message in the queue was flashing on the screen: more n’jao characters, she thought, but these looked different from the first ones she’d seen. Frowning now, she split the screen, recalled the last message. Sure enough, the characters were different, forming an entirely different pattern. She knew only a few n’jaoglyphs, mostly trade‑related–like most Republicans, her dealings with the hsai were generally done through a jericho‑human broker, and none of these were familiar.

“Do you know any n’jao?” she asked, and Roscha came to look over her shoulder at the screen.

“A little. I can’t read that, though.”

Lioe glanced back at her, saw the delicate eyebrows draw down into a thoughtful frown.

“Wait a minute, though.” Roscha reached out to touch one tripart character in the first message. “I think that’s the ambassador’s name‑sign. And I think these are repeats–message repeats.” She indicated another set of symbols.

“Chauvelin?” Lioe asked.

“I saw it on a crate once, when we handled some diplomatic shipping out,” Roscha answered. “I’m sure that’s what it is.”

“I’m not surprised,” Lioe muttered. She touched more keys, searching for a main directory, and wished she had had more time to learn Ransome’s idiosyncratic systems.

“Why not?” Roscha asked. “Look, what’s going on?”

“I wish I knew,” Lioe answered. She took a deep breath, made herself look away from the screens crowded with useless information. “What I think is happening–what Ransome said was happening–is that Damian Chrestil and the hsaia Visiting Speaker are probably smuggling something, mainly to get Damian Chrestil some political advantage in HsaioiAn, which he could use here.”

Roscha nodded. “That makes sense. He wants to be governor.”

“Chauvelin and the Visiting Speaker are enemies,” Lioe continued, “members of rival factions–and the Visiting Speaker doesn’t much like Ransome, either–so there’s a hsai dimension to this, too.”

“ Sha‑mai.” Roscha shook her head. “It’s a mess, but it does make sense.”

“I’m glad it makes sense to someone,” Lioe said. She fiddled with the shadowscreen again, found the main directory at last, and ran through it hastily, searching for translation programs. There was only one, and it was really only for transliteration. Ransome certainly speaks tradetalk, and probably a couple of modes of hsai, she thought, but copied the two screens to its working memory anyway. The prompt blinked for a few seconds, and spat strings of letters. She recognized Chauvelin’s name, and, in the second message, a string of numbers that looked like routing codes. She studied those numbers, cocking her head to one side. They were certainly routing codes; in fact, they looked like the kind of codes that gave access to commercial data storage. I wonder what Ransome keeps in that kind of safe space, she thought, and copied the codes to a separate working board.

“I think,” Roscha said slowly, “I think that means that Chauvelin’s been looking for him.” She pointed to the first message, her fingertip hovering just above the screen. “And it looks like it’s been repeated–what’s the time check, anyway?”

Lioe touched keys. “That message has been repeated every quarter hour for four hours. The last one arrived about forty minutes ago.” Does that mean he got the message and is with Chauvelin? she wondered. Or did Chauvelin just give up?

“Do you think he got the message?” Roscha said.

Lioe shook her head. “There’s only one way to find out.” Roscha looked at her, and she smiled wryly. “Call Chauvelin and ask.”

“Yeah, but do you think he’d answer?”

Lioe shrugged. “I’ve no idea.” She reached for the workboard, typed in a string of codes, an inquiry first, to Ransome’s own directories, and then into his storage. To her surprise, the codes to contact the hsai ambassador were held in open storage; she copied them to the communications system, but hesitated, wondering if she should send them. What do I say, anyway? “I’m so sorry to bother you, Ambassador, but is Ransome with you?” How do I explain why I’m calling, if he’s there, without getting him into trouble? More important, what do I say if he’s not? She touched the final key before she could change her mind. I can always just say he told me he might be there. I don’t have to tell a jericho‑human–no, not even a jericho‑human, a conscript, chaoi‑mon– anything of what’s going on. The handset chimed softly, from beside the working chair, and at the same time the secondary screen displayed connect symbols.

“What the hell?” Roscha said.

“I’m calling the ambassador,” Lioe answered, and crossed to pick up the handset. The green telltale was lit at the base of the set, indicating a machine on the other end of the connection. “I want to know if Ransome’s there.” She touched the connect button before Roscha could say anything, heard a delicate mechanical voice in her ear.

“Hsaie house. May I help you?” A moment later, the voice repeated the same message in tradetalk.

“I’m trying to contact Illario Ransome,” Lioe said.

“Who may I say is calling?”

So he is there. Lioe felt a sudden surge of relief, a kind of deflation, and said, “Quinn Lioe.” She heard her voice flat and irritable in the handset’s reflection.

“One moment, please.”

“He’s there?” Roscha demanded, and Lioe shrugged.

“He seems to be–” She broke off as the handset clicked, flipping over to the new connection.

“Chauvelin.”

The voice was familiar from the ambassador’s party, low and crisp, with only a hint of the hsai accent. Lioe froze, not knowing what to say, what she should do, and Chauvelin said, “Na Lioe?”

“I’m sorry to have bothered you, Ambassador,” she said. “I–I was looking for Ransome, he said he might be with you.” Maybe that wasn’t the best phrasing, she thought, but it’s the best I could do on short notice. Things must be bad, if Chauvelin himself is talking to me.

“I’ve been looking for Ransome myself,” Chauvelin said. “Are you at his loft?”

There was a certainty in his voice that made Lioe think the call had been traced. “Yes.” No point in lying: even if he hasn’t traced it yet, he will.

“Has he been there, do you know?”

“I don’t know,” Lioe said. It was a safe answer; better still, it was the truth. “Is there anything wrong?”

There was a little pause, just enough to make her sure he was lying. “No, not at all. But I would like to talk to him as soon as he returns.”

“I’ll tell him that,” Lioe said, and waited.

“It’s important,” Chauvelin said. There was another pause, barely more than a hesitation, and then the ambassador went on, “I was expecting a message from him. Did he leave anything for me?”

Lioe shook her head, then remembered it was a voice‑only line. “Not that I’ve seen.” She glanced quickly at the console, double‑checking the messages displayed on the screen. “No, nothing.” She hesitated herself, wondering how much she could say, then said, “I was expecting to find him here. I’m a little–concerned.”

“So am I.” She could almost hear a kind of wry smile in Chauvelin’s voice. “If you hear from him, please tell him to contact me.”

“I’ll do that,” Lioe said, and broke the connection.

“So what happened?” Roscha asked.

Lioe shrugged, looked back at the massive console, at the symbols and codestrings filling the screens. “Ransome isn’t there, as you heard, and Chauvelin badly wants to talk to him.”

“That doesn’t sound good,” Roscha said. “What about hospitals, or the Lockwardens?”

“I bet Chauvelin’s already done that,” Lioe said, “but it couldn’t hurt to check again.” Or could it? What if he wants to keep this quiet? She shoved the thought away. “How are you on the nets?”

Roscha shrugged. “Good enough to find that out, anyway.”

In spite of everything, Lioe grinned. “Can you take care of it? There’s something I want to check.”

Roscha reached for the handset. “All right.”

One screen winked out, slaved to the handset; Lioe ignored its absence, stared at the routing codes displayed on her workboard. She was still learning her way around Burning Bright’s nets, but this sequence looked straightforward enough. The header codes indicated a secure node, but the numbers following should be the owner’s own codes. She ran her hands over the shadowscreen, recalling the main directory, and set the system scanning for a node that matched the header codes. She could hear Roscha’s voice in the background, rising in inquiry, flattening out with each inaudible answer, but she ignored it, her eyes fixed on the screen. If this didn’t work, she would have to try netwalking, personally checking the likely nodes. Then the screen lit, displaying a gaudy logo, a shield banded in blue and gold, with a scarlet dragon coiling over it, and presented her with a list of options: ADD, SUBTRACT, RETRIEVE, NEW FILE, CHARGES. She hit RETRIEVE, and her screen filled with symbols, scrolling past too fast for her to read. She touched the shadowscreen to dump the information to Ransome’s local system–somewhat to her surprise, there was no request for a further password–and waited until the key bar flickered green again. She banished the connection, and turned her attention to the workscreen, scrolling back to the beginning of the file.

“Nothing at any of the hospitals,” Roscha said, and came to peer over her shoulder. “But a friend of mine at C/B Cie. says Na Damian’s gone off with a hsaia–it was somebody important, he said, so it could be the Visiting Speaker–and Almarin Ivie, he’s head of security, has been sent off to look at something at the family’s summer house.”

“Look at this,” Lioe said. She gestured to the screen, heard the repressed excitement in her own voice. “Damn it, how did he get all of this?” The outline was complete– maybe a little iffy in courtroom eyes, especially when so much of it was gathered netwalking, but certainly enough to use. Enough to blackmail Damian Chrestil with, and enough to make Damian Chrestil willing to do–what? Kill him? She pushed the thought away. That seemed the least likely result, if only because a well‑known body would be hard to explain, and Chauvelin would be likely to ask awkward questions. But certainly to keep him out of action for a few days. Especially since Damian seemed to be ready to transfer the lachesi to its new “owners.”

“So Na Damian was smuggling lachesi for clients of ji‑Imbaoa’s,” Roscha said, slowly. “I think I worked that pickup.”

“I brought it in,” Lioe said. “Damn, that’s why we had bungee‑gars on board. I didn’t think red‑carpet was worth that much trouble.”

Roscha laughed softly. “What a fucking mess. Na Damian is going to be really pissed when he realizes we know what’s going on.”

“I think he already is,” Lioe said, and touched the patches of selfheal starring her face. “That has to be what this was all about.” He was willing to kill me, too–not eager, so I suppose I should be grateful, but willing. She shivered, looked over her shoulder in spite of herself toward the shuttered window and the locked door. Which means we need some kind of a defense, and not just physical. “You said Damian Chrestil went off with the Visiting Speaker?”

“It looks like it,” Roscha said. “And if N’Ivie’s at the family summer house, then I bet that’s where Ransome is. It’s remote enough to keep somebody out of circulation for a while. Especially with the storm.”

Lioe nodded, aware for the first time of the steady slap of rain against the shutters. Every so often, a stronger gust smacked against them, a sharp sound like a handful of nails thrown against the metal plates. “All right,” she said. “How safe are we here?”

Roscha shrugged. “Na Damian has plenty of people in the port,” she said. “If he wants–well, if he doesn’t care about publicity, we’re not safe at all.”

“How much do you think he cares about publicity?”

“I don’t know.” Roscha looked back at the screen, at the careful outline. “If that’s what’s been going on, it could mean the governorship. I wouldn’t care a whole lot, in his shoes.”

Lioe nodded at the answer she had expected. “Do me a favor, make sure everything’s locked, as secure as you can make it. And see if Ransome owns any weaponry.”

“All right,” Roscha said, and sounded faintly dubious. “But–”

Lioe looked back at the chair, Ransome’s working space inert, invisible around it. “I’ve got an idea,” she said. “And if it works, we shouldn’t need guns.”

Day 2

Storm: The Chrestil‑Brisch Summer House,

the Barrier Hills

Ransome waited in the sunken main room, staring at the glass of wine that stood untouched on the table beside him. His back ached with the effort of holding himself relaxed and easy against the chair’s thick cushions; he was aware, painfully aware, of the rising noise of the rain and the murmuring conversations among the Chrestil‑Brisch thugs standing by the display console. He was equally aware of the woman who held her palmgun with the comfortable stance of the expert, but kept his eyes away from her. The wind howled outside the shutters, and he wondered when the storm would hit its peak. Not that the storm was much of an advantage, but at least it limited their actions as much as his. And I bet I know what favor ji‑Imbaoa wants. Chauvelin warned me I shouldn’t push him. The only question is, will Damian Chrestil sell me out? Ransome smiled then, put the glass to his lips to cover the expression. And why shouldn’t he? If he wins–and he’s winning so far–he has nothing to lose.

“Na Ransome.”

It was Damian Chrestil’s voice: the younger man moved so quietly that Ransome hadn’t heard him approach. He turned, setting the glass aside, contents untasted, forced a calm smile of greeting. “Na Damian.”

Damian Chrestil snapped his fingers, and one of the heavy chairs trundled over to join them. At another gesture, the woman with the palmgun withdrew a little, resting her back against the shutters that covered the enormous window. Ji‑Imbaoa made a slight, impatient movement of his fingers, but moved away toward the display console and the twin serving carts. Ransome, watching with what he hoped was a convincing show of incurious distaste, saw the other hsaia, ji‑Imbaoa’s secretary, present a plate of food. Cella said something to him, turned him away toward the shuttered windows. She glanced over her shoulder, and met Ransome’s look with a quick, triumphant smile. It was gone almost as soon as he’d seen it, but Ransome felt the chill of it down his spine.

“There are a couple of things we need to get settled,” Damian Chrestil said, and Ransome looked back at him a little too quickly.

“If you let me go, give me a ride back to the city and an apology,” Ransome said, trying to cover his nervousness, “I suppose I’d be willing to ignore all of this.” He gestured with all the grace he could muster to the woman with the gun.

Damian smiled. “That really wasn’t what I had in mind.”

Somehow I didn’t think so. Ransome smiled back, the muscles of his face stiff and unresponsive, felt congestion tugging at his lungs again. He ignored that– maybe it will go away, ease off on its own the way it sometimes does–and said aloud, “It’s a generous offer.”

“So’s mine,” Damian answered, and the smile vanished abruptly. “I understand from my people that you dumped the contents of a datablock into the nets, into storage somewhere. I want that material.”

Ransome spread his hands. “I don’t hear an offer.”

“Ji‑Imbaoa tells me there are still some charges pending in HsaioiAn,” Damian Chrestil said. “He wants you back, to face them. I don’t care either way, but I want that data.”

Ransome froze, felt himself go rigid, as though he’d been turned to stone. He remembered the hsai courts, the hsaia judge–“ insults fromhouta are as the barking of dogs; it’s fortunate you are of no status”–most of all the dreary grey padding, walls and floors and ceiling, that was the hsai prison, months and months of grey cells and grey clothes and grey men, and finally the numbing grey fog of the first bout of white‑sickness. That’s twice the Chrestil‑Brisch have done this to me, he thought, and could see the same fine shape, Bettis Chrestil’s face imposed for an instant on her brother’s features. I can’t go back. I don’t want to die there, in that grey place… “If I give you the data,” he said slowly, despising himself for the concession, “you won’t turn me over to ji‑Imbaoa.”

Damian nodded.

“What, then? You’ll just let me go?” Ransome let his disbelief fill his voice, and caught his breath sharply, just averting a coughing fit. He tasted metal, the tang of it at the back of his throat, and swallowed hard, willing the sickness away.

“Why not?” Damian shrugged with deliberate contempt. “Once the–product–is transferred, there’s nothing you can do.”

“The lachesi, you mean,” Ransome said, and, after a moment, Damian nodded.

“That’s right.”

“Chauvelin won’t be pleased,” Ransome said, and Damian shrugged again.

“Chauvelin won’t be in a position to do anything about his displeasure for very much longer. The tzu Tsinraan are losing face by the day, they won’t be in power much longer. And then Chauvelin won’t be able to do a damn thing to help you.”

Ransome sat very still, kept his face expressionless with an effort. It was true; if the tzu Tsinraan lost their dominant position at the court on Hsiamai, then Chauvelin would go down– and I’ll go with him. I can’t go back to HsaioiAn. I don’t want to die there, I know what that would be like, I saw it happen. He controlled his fear with an effort, made himself reach for the wine. He sipped carefully, but did not really taste the faint sweetness. “So if I tell you where the data is, you won’t turn me over to him.” He nodded to the Visiting Speaker, still standing by the food carts. “What guarantee do I have that you won’t get the data and still hand me over?”

“You don’t. But you don’t have another choice,” Damian Chrestil answered. “I tell you–I’ll give you my word–that if you give me the data, you can go free.”

“Your word,” Ransome said, in spite of himself, remembering Bettis Chrestil. She had given her word, too, and it had been less than useless. Damian Chrestil gave his sister’s humorless smile.

“I don’t care if you believe me or not,” he said. “This is the only deal you’ve got. Tell me where you stashed the data, or I’ll give you to ji‑Imbaoa, now.”

It is the only deal, and worse than no choice at all. Ransome stared at him for a long moment, unable to come up with any alternatives. Whatever I do, I lose, because I don’t believe him for a second when he says he’ll let me go. I’m only prolonging it, and losing any bargaining power I might have–but I can’t give up without some fight. “All right,” he said slowly. “I’ll retrieve it for you.” He hadn’t expected that attempt to work, and was not surprised when Damian shook his head, refusing the gambit.

“Tell me the codes.”

“They’re in my loft, in the mail systems there,” Ransome said. “You’ll find a message in n’jaothere, a string of codes. That accesses the secure storage.” Damian frowned, started to say something, and Ransome held up his hand. “The program I used, I don’t know the access numbers myself, or even where the data ended up. It’s a random dump, to whoever had space open at the time. But the retrieval codes are in my mailbox.”

Damian nodded then, beckoned to one of his people, a thin woman with a pilot’s calluses on her wrists. “Cossi, you’ve done this before. I need to get some information out of his mailbox.”

Cossi shrugged. “Can you give me a key?”

“Well?” Damian said.

Ransome hesitated, then reeled off the string of numbers.

“Right, Na Damian,” Cossi said, and turned away. Ransome watched her walk to the nearest netlink and settle herself at the workstation. For a crazy moment, he hoped that she didn’t know what she was doing–she was a pilot, after all–but then he saw the way her hands moved across the shadowscreens, and that hope died.

He looked away, not wanting to watch, but could still hear the steady click of the machines as Cossi worked her way onto the nets. This was it: there was no hope left, and he could expect to choke to death in a hsai prison… He heard his breath whistling in his lungs, and this time reached for the cylinder of Mist. There was no point in pretending anymore, no point in trying to hide his weakness. He’d played his best hand, and he’d lost. He laid the mask against his face, inhaled the cool vapor. Damian Chrestil watched him, his thin face expressionless. Ransome refolded the mask with deliberate care, and slipped the cylinder back into his pocket.

“Na Damian,” Cossi said. “I’m being blocked.”

“What?” Damian looked up sharply, frowning.

“I’m being blocked,” Cossi said again. “Somebody’s pulled that system off‑line. There’s no way I can access it.”

Damian looked back at Ransome, his thin eyebrows drawn into a scowl. “Well? I thought we had a bargain.”

Ransome spread his hands, did his best to hide his sudden elation. Someone was in the loft, Chauvelin, maybe, or–better still and most likely–Quinn Lioe. And if Lioe was there, and had changed the system settings, then maybe he had a second chance. “Everything was on‑line when I left it. Maybe the storm’s knocked it off.”

Cossi’s hands danced across the multileveled controls. “Nothing else is off, Na Damian. I think someone’s reset.”

“Lioe,” Damian Chrestil said, and Ransome felt the last hope die. “It’s Lioe, isn’t it? You gave her a key to your loft, and told her what was going on.”

Ransome shook his head. “I didn’t tell her anything,” he lied. “She’s a Gamer, and a Republican, at that. She doesn’t give a shit about politics.”

“You brought her to Chauvelin’s party,” Damian said, soft and deadly.

Ransome shook his head again. “Yeah, I tried to get her interested in something outside the Game–she’s good, too good to be stuck in the Game all her life–but she doesn’t care. All she wants to do is play the Game.”

There was another little silence, and then Damian Chrestil shook his head. “No. Nobody ignores politics like that.”

“Gamers do,” Ransome said, desperately.

“Not even Gamers.” Damian Chrestil beckoned to Ivie. “Get in touch with your people up at the port. Send some over to Ransome’s loft and see what they find.” He looked back at Ransome. “I suppose he has security in place, so be careful.”

“Fuck you,” Ransome said. If Lioe was at the loft, if she had the sense to find the key that would let her retrieve the data–and she must have, if she’d blocked access to the mail system–then there was still a chance. If Lioe can figure out what to do. He put that thought aside. There was still nothing he could do but wait, but things were looking fractionally better than they had.

Day 2

Storm: The Hsai Ambassador’s House,

in the Ghetto, Landing Isle Above

Old City North

Chauvelin stood at the only unshuttered window, watching the wind‑driven rain sweep through his garden. The bellflower trees bent until their branches dragged along the ground, stirring the human‑faced pebbles into new patterns, their flowers blown away in gusts with the wind. A few early flowers were flattened, their petals frayed to nothing against the ground. The clouds streamed in, dark overhead, darker still, almost black, to the south, so that the light was dimmed, filled with an odd, underwater quality. Ransome was not at his loft.

Chauvelin grimaced, annoyed with himself, at his inability to concentrate on anything except that useless fact, and turned away from the window to consider the double‑screened workboard that lay on the wide table. Both screens displayed the transcript of the last transmission from Haas, the last that had come in before the transmitter went down for the duration of the storm, a fragmentary, garbled mess that defied the computers. He frowned again, and made himself pick up a stylus, fitting his fingers into the pressure points to change the mode. It was obvious that Haas had found at least some of what he had expected–connections between the je Tsinraan and the Chrestil‑Brisch, clients of the je Tsinraan who did most of their business through C/B Cie.–but the overall sense of the message was so mangled that there was little he could do. Even the standard phrases certifying Haas’s authority and authorizing him to act in her name for the Remembrancer‑Duke had come through poorly, though there, at least, they had the Forms of Protocol to fill in the gaps. At least he could use that authority, if he had to.

And maybe he could do more. Ransome was missing; the inquiries he’d put out on the nets had brought no results, and Lioe seemed–said she knew nothing. Ji‑Imbaoa certainly knew, certainly held some of the keys to this situation. If the transmission could be edited properly, he could force ji‑Imbaoa’s household to cooperate with him. He highlighted one section of the message, deleted the intervening words and nonsense, tilted his head to one side to study the result. The phrasing was a little stilted, but no worse than in many official documents. He finished the rest of it, editing carefully, and studied the result. The document now gave him the temporary rank necessary to resume control of the ambassadorial household, and therefore of ji‑Imbaoa’s household as well, on the grounds that ji‑Imbaoa’s carefully unspecified actions had cast a shadow on the reputation of his superiors. There was only one problem with using it: ji‑Imbaoa would inevitably query it to the Remembrancer‑Duke himself, and not enough of the original message survived for Chauvelin to be sure that his patron would back him in such a drastic action. He set the stylus aside, ran his finger over the glowing characters at the foot of the screen, tracing the stylized n’jaocharacters that symbolized Haas’s authority. He could use this authority successfully, of that he was quite certain, but possibly at the cost of his career. Is Ransome worth it?

Chauvelin sighed, touched controls at the base of the workscreen to produce a paper copy and transfer the original to storage. Is he? It’s taken me most of my life–nearly thirty years–to earn this rank, starting from nothing, as a conscript, less than nothing. Even the strictest hsaia codes acknowledge that it isn’t always possible to protect one’s proteges. Flashes of memory broke through his guard: Ransome newly paroled, all in grey still, the canalli brown of his skin faded to ivory; Ransome in his bed, the unexpected, wiry strength of his thin body; Ransome laughing at a party, a handful of birds, the centerpiece of a story egg, dancing in his palm; Ransome sitting on the garden wall, holding out a handful of carved stones. And Ransome with Lioe, too, the way he watched her. He picked up the printed sheet, rolled it carefully in the prescribed fashion, concentrating on the task so he wouldn’t have to think. If I use this, and I’m wrong–or even if I’m right and it’s inexpedient–I will lose the ambassadorship. And probably my other ranks, too; there will be need to make an example of me. I’m not ready, yet, to make that choice.

He tucked the cylinder of paper, the ends neatly folded over on themselves, into the pocket of his coat, and turned back to the window. It was raining harder now, hard enough that the rain formed a solid curtain, completely concealing the Old City in the distance below the cliffs, veiling the paths of the lower terrace. A few yard lights glowed through the rain, outlining the steps that led from one plateau to the next. He grimaced, thinking of Ransome’s sculptures, and looked away.

“Sia?” Je‑Sou’tsian spoke from the doorway, excitement in her voice, and Chauvelin turned sharply.

“Well, Iameis?”

“Sia, I think we’ve found the Visiting Speaker, or at least traced where he went.”

“Good.” Chauvelin reached for the cylinder of paper, touched it like a talisman. “Where?”

“He was with Damian Chrestil,” je‑Sou’tsian said. “He and his people, ji‑Mao’ana and Magill, went to the C/B Cie. docks, and they left with him in a flyer. They headed southeast, our informant says, but I can’t contact the Speaker at the Chrestil‑Brisch palazze.” She paused, and made a formal gesture of apology. “I regret we haven’t located him more exactly, but I thought you would wish to know.”

“So,” Chauvelin said softly, and nodded. “Yes, I want to know.” This changes everything. He is acting irresponsibly, and he’s dealing with, maybe making a deal with, ahouta– Damian Chrestil is still not a person, in the law’s view–and this can be construed as dishonoring his patron. That will give me just enough claim to the honorable position that Haas and my lord can afford to protect me. He slipped the rolled paper from his pocket, touched it to lips and forehead in the ritual gesture. “As you must know, I received a last transmission from maiHu’an before we lost contact with the satellite. In it, I was granted this commission, which I now execute.”

Je‑Sou’tsian bowed her head, crossed her hands on her chest, spurs downward, claws turned inward to her own body in ritual submission. “I will bear witness, Sia.”

Chauvelin nodded. “In it, I am authorized to act as head of household, lesser father, under the authority of the Father‑Emperor, father of all clans.” The ritual phrases came surprisingly easily to his tongue, for all that it had been years since he had last used them. “This commission supersedes all earlier claims of rank and privilege, and will do so until it is renounced or revoked.”

“I hear, my father,” je‑Sou’tsian said, “and I witness. And I obey even to the price of my life.”

“So be it,” Chauvelin said, and laid the rolled paper ceremoniously on the table. “Now.” He paused, sorting out what needed to be done. “I want you to proclaim this to the household. Take a couple of our security people with you, just in case.”

“I don’t think the Visiting Speaker’s household will cause any trouble,” je‑Sou’tsian said. “Not all of them are fond of him.”

Chauvelin smiled. “I can’t say I blame them. All right, do what you think is best about security. But I want his rooms searched, particularly for papers, disks, datablocks, anything that could prove the link with Damian Chrestil–also for anything that might tell us where he is. Keep your people on that, as well, highest priority.”

“Yes, Sia.” Je‑Sou’tsian paused, seemed about to say something more, then turned and slipped away. Chauvelin stared after her, suddenly aware of the roaring of the wind beyond the window. If he could just find either Ransome or ji‑Imbaoa– when I find them, he corrected silently, not daring to think of the consequences if he did not–he would have the tools he needed to act. But for now, all he could do was wait.

Day 2

Storm: Ransome’s Loft, Old Coast Road,

Newfields, Above Junction Pool

Lioe walked the Game nets, calling files from the libraries, moving from one familiar nonspace to the next. Images flickered in the air in front of her, bright against the dark shutters; below and to her right, where there was no danger of accidentally intruding into that space, hung Ransome’s outline of Damian Chrestil’s plan. From time to time she glanced at it, comparing its form to the Game scenario taking place in the working volume in front of her. The basic shape looked good, and she reached for images to complement it, trawling now through less familiar news nets and more sober datafields. She found the images she wanted after some trouble–Damian Chrestil’s face, a news scan that covered the arrival of the Visiting Speaker, an old still of Chauvelin, looking younger than he had at the party–and dragged them one by one into space occupied by the Face/Bodyprogram. The program considered them and produced a string of numbers; Lioe dragged those numbers into the working volume, and smiled at the result. The images attached to the character templates were not–quite–the original faces, but they were close enough to be recognized, and that was all that mattered. In some ways, it was almost a shame the scenario would never be played, she thought, studying the convolutions that formed a neat, red‑branched tree in front of her eyes. Damian Chrestil’s plot makes for a wonderful Game incident. Too bad it’s only made for blackmail.

“No luck finding guns.”

Roscha’s voice seemed to come from a distance, and Lioe shook her head, refocusing to look through and past the crowding images. She reached into control space to switch off her vocal link, said to Roscha, “Then there’s nothing?”

“Not quite nothing,” Roscha said with a lopsided grin, and slipped a hand into the pocket of her jacket. She brought out a cheap plastic pistol, displayed it with a shrug. “This is mine. On the other hand, it’s only six shots, and it’s not supposed to be reloadable. I’ve had it modified, and I’ve got another magazine, but I don’t know how well it will work.”

“Wonderful,” Lioe said.

“What are you doing?” Roscha asked. She was frowning at the control spaces, as though she was trying to make sense of the carefully focused images.

“My–our–way out,” Lioe said. I hope. “I’ve pulled together a Game scenario, merchant‑adventurers variant, a jeu a clef. I’ve put this whole situation into a Game–and used their faces–and I’m going to put it on the nets. If Damian Chrestil doesn’t back down, leave me alone and let Ransome go, I’m going to let it run. The scenario will show up in four hours–in fact, I think I’ll tell Lia Gueremei to expect it–and it will be sent on the internets as well. He’ll never get rid of it, and he should have a hard time explaining why it fits what’s been going on so extremely closely.”

“He will be pissed,” Roscha said.

She didn’t sound entirely pleased, and Lioe looked sharply at her. “I wasn’t thinking,” she said. “Look, I don’t want to get you into trouble. If you want, you can leave now. I won’t mention you.”

Roscha looked momentarily embarrassed. “No. I’m not leaving. Who’d watch the door? Anyway, the storm’s pretty bad.”

“Not that bad,” Lioe said, reaching for the nearest weather station reports. Air traffic was not recommended, but the roads were still open.

“I don’t want to take the bike, and I’m not leaving it,” Roscha said. Face and tone were abruptly serious. “I don’t want to leave, Quinn. Don’t worry about me.”

Lioe stared at her for a moment longer, then slowly nodded. “I’m trusting you,” she said.

Roscha smiled, and turned away, settling herself against the wall by the door. There was an intercom panel there, Lioe noticed, and for the first time became aware of a rush of street sounds–rain and wind on pavement, once in a great while the slow whine of an engine as a heavy carrier crawled along the street–that formed a counterpoint to the sounds from the net. “I’ve rigged the intercom,” Roscha said. “At least that way we can hear them coming.”

If they come in the front door, Lioe thought. “Great,” she said aloud, and turned her attention back to the images that surrounded her. The scenario was complete, and again, she felt the pang of regret that no one would ever play it. All that remained was to put it on the nets, neatly packaged and ready to unfurl itself four hours from now. She had done this kind of programming before, though only for frivolous reasons, a birthday present, a joke; still, the basic technique remained the same, and the routines she used had proved impervious to the best attempts to corkscrew them open. At least, they were impervious on Callixte. She ignored that thought, and reached into the control space for a new set of tools. Ransome’s gloves were warm against her hands, the wires tingling gently to confirm each movement.

She set a nonsense algorithm to work, let it spin its hash into the working space, then shaped the jumbled nonsense into a solid plate, turned it back in on itself, so that the algorithm constantly rebuilt, reinforced itself. It formed a virtual capsule that sealed the scenario away from the rest of the nets. She prodded at it, testing the system, and when she was satisfied with its solidity, began the trigger mechanism. The timer was easy, a standard commercial program tied to the algorithm; it would cancel the nonsense run in three hours and fifty‑seven minutes. Three minutes later, the last of the nonsense wall would disappear, tidied away by the net’s housekeeper routines. At last she finished, and spun the entire structure in virtual space in front of her, shaping the external presentation. The emerging image glittered as it turned, became a shape like a golden dodecahedron, each hexagonal facet marked with her Gamer’s mark. That would get people’s attention, if nothing else did. If Damian Chrestil didn’t capitulate, it, and her growing reputation, would ensure that Gamers would copy the program to every corner of the nets. If he did give in, and she pulled the scenario– not that hard, since I have the key algorithm; there won’t be too many copies to track down–she would lose a little status, but that was a small price to pay for survival. And maybe not even that, she thought suddenly. Suppose I do what Ransome suggested, float the scenario for Avellar’s Rebellion. No one could say I didn’t live up to the advertising then…

But that was for later. She took a deep breath, reached out with her gloved hand, copied the dodecahedron, and shoved it into the place that was the entrance to the nets. It floated away from her, picking up speed as it went, until it vanished in a flash of black. One away. She copied the program and scenario again and pushed it out onto the nets, did it again and again until there were at least a dozen copies loose on the nets. Only then did she lean back a little, and reach into control space for the communications system.

She opened a space, but did not drag the connect codes into it, staring at the static‑filled volume for a long moment. Then, reluctantly, she reached into the directory, rifling its files for Damian Chrestil, or the family’s summer house. She found a code for the latter, and dragged it into the communications space before she could change her mind. There was a long pause, while codes streamed across the space–unusually long, nearly thirty seconds–and then the codes vanished, to be replaced by a man’s head and shoulders. It was an unfamiliar, ugly face, white‑skinned and broad‑featured, and for a crazy instant Lioe thought of giants in the story tapes she’d viewed as a child.

“Can I help you?” the giant asked, in a voice as heavy as his features, and Lioe dragged herself back to the present.

“I want to talk to Damian Chrestil,” she said. “My name’s Lioe.”

The giant closed his mouth over whatever he had started to say, and looked down at something out of the camera’s vision. “Just a minute, Na Lioe. I’ll see if he’s free.”

“If you’re trying to set up a trace, don’t bother,” Lioe said. “I’ll tell you where I am. I’m in Ransome’s loft, and I’ve found what he found. You can tell Damian Chrestil that, too.”

The giant’s expression did not change. “I’ll do that, Na Lioe,” he said, and his face vanished, to be replaced by what was meant to be a soothing hold pattern.

“You heard that,” Lioe said over her shoulder, and Roscha answered quickly.

“Yeah. But I haven’t heard anybody in the entrance yet.”

“If I take too long–” Lioe began, and stopped abruptly. If he doesn’t come to talk, decides to send his people after us instead, what then? I suppose if he doesn’t show up in a couple of minutes, I can cut the connection, we can head back to the port, try again from there–

The communications space cleared abruptly, and she found herself looking at Damian Chrestil. She’d only seen him once before, at Chauvelin’s party, and was surprised again at how young he was. No older than me, if as old. Let’s hope I can play this as well as he has.

“Na Lioe,” Damian said. “I’m glad to finally get to talk to you.”

“I didn’t think talking was what you had in mind.”

Damian Chrestil shrugged. “If you’d come quietly… But that’s old business. What can I do for you?”

“You’re holding Ransome,” Lioe said bluntly, and hoped she was right. “I want him back.”

“You want him?” Damian’s face creased suddenly into an urchin’s grin. “I didn’t think he was yours, too.”

Lioe sighed, ostentatiously refraining from an answer.

“I’m afraid that’s not possible right away,” Damian went on. “I have business in train which I don’t intend to see interfered with. Na Ransome will stay with me until it’s finished.”

“I don’t think so,” Lioe said. “If he’s not released–and if you don’t call off the goons you’ve got chasing me–I will spread this entire business deal onto the nets, Republican as well as Burning Brighter, and into HsaioiAn if I can manage it.”

There was a little silence, and Damian Chrestil said slowly, “I know the nets. I can kill this before it starts.”

Lioe shook her head. “Not on the Game nets. The Game nets run different protocols, different rules, they serve a different clientele. I’ve put a new scenario in motion, Na Damian. It’s a merchant‑adventurer’s variant, primed for release in four hours, and it’s based on what you’ve been trying to do, from smuggling the lachesi to the high politics.” She reached into her working space, dragged another copy into the communications space, peeled back the shell to reveal the tiny, perfect–and perfectly recognizable–characters contained in its center, held by the red webbing of the scenario’s outline. “All this has to do is come to someone’s attention in C‑and‑I, or, I would imagine, in the Lockwardens or the governor’s office, or even back in HsaioiAn, and you’re screwed. And there are enough Gamers in all those places that it’s bound to happen.”

Damian Chrestil shook his head. “Not necessarily. I admit, we may not be able to break that shell, but my people can contain the scenario as soon as it’s open. It won’t get that far, certainly not far enough to cause me trouble. So let’s talk reasonably.”

“Once the scenario’s opened, you’ll never stop the spread,” Lioe said. “You know how Gamers are, we copy things. We share variants we like, sessions we’ve played, work by people we admire. And my name means something in the Game. Once that shell opens, half the Gamers on the nets will have made a copy for their own use–once they realize it’s a jeu a clefeven more of them will want it. How are you going to stop that, Na Damian?”

There was a little silence, and in it Lioe could hear a kind of choked laughter. Ransome, she realized, and hid her delight.

“All right,” Damian Chrestil said. “I’m prepared to negotiate. You’re not invulnerable, Na Lioe, you crewed the ship that brought the lachesi, and that could be made to look bad for you.”

“Possibly,” Lioe said.

“Easily enough done,” Damian Chrestil said. “But I’m willing to make a deal.” He did something with controls that were out of her line of sight; an instant later, the view within the communications space widened, so that she was looking into a comfortably furnished room. The wall behind him was black–not a wall at all, she realized abruptly, but the same kind of shutter that covered Ransome’s windows. Lioe tugged at the edges of her view, expanded it so that she could see the details more clearly. Half a dozen men and women waited at a polite distance, all in dockers’ clothes, tough‑looking people who looked like older, less beautiful versions of Roscha. The Visiting Speaker stood a little apart from them, feet planted wide apart, arms crossed on his chest, the fingers of the one visible hand working restlessly. A tiny, pretty woman– Cella, she realized–sat on the arm of a chair to the hsaia’s right. Ransome was sitting in a comfortable‑looking chair, just outside the pool of amber light from an overhead lamp, but as she watched, he pushed himself to his feet and came to stand by Damian Chrestil. Damian looked over his shoulder, his fine eyebrows drawing together in a frown, but he did not order the other man away.

“Yes, this concerns you, Ransome. Join the party, why don’t you?”

“Thanks,” Ransome said, and smiled.

Damian Chrestil looked back into the display space. “Since you’re not a political animal, Na Lioe, I would assume you don’t really care whether or not the lachesi gets through to my buyers in HsaioiAn.”

“Or even about your chance of being governor,” Ransome said gently, his eyes fixed on Lioe as though he wanted to convey a message.

Lioe nodded. “All I care about is your goons off my back, a job to go back to, and Ransome’s freedom. That’s pretty simple, Na Damian.”

“I can perhaps do better,” Damian Chrestil said. He paused, not looking back over his shoulder toward the Visiting Speaker, but the hsaia straightened anyway, both hands now poised to display claws and wrist spurs.

“We have an agreement, Damian Chrestil,” ji‑Imbaoa said. “If you fail to honor it–”

Damian turned on him. “You haven’t yet done what you and I agreed. I’ll fulfill my contracts, all right–this time–but you can go to hell.” Behind him, the flat‑faced giant made a gesture, and the dockers shifted position suddenly, so that they encircled the Visiting Speaker and his staff. Cella slipped easily from her place, out of the armed ring. The jericho‑human made an abortive grab for a weapon hidden under his coat, and a thin woman leveled her palmgun at him.

“Enough, Magill,” ji‑Imbaoa said, and looked at Damian. “Very well. I have no choice. But I will ruin you for this. You and yours will never do business in HsaioiAn again–”

Ransome said something then, in hsai, not tradetalk, and the Visiting Speaker was abruptly silent, hunching into himself as though into feathers. Ransome looked back into the communications space. “As I said to him, Chauvelin may be able to offer other connections, Na Damian. You see, I’m willing to negotiate, too.”

“But will Chauvelin?” Damian Chrestil asked.

“Ask him,” Ransome answered.

There was a little silence, and Lioe, still held in the chair’s gentle embrace, the nets wound around her like a cocoon, held her breath. If this could work, if they could come up with a bargain –

“Be my guest,” Damian Chrestil said, and gestured to the controls.

“Traitor,” ji‑Imbaoa said, almost conversationally, and turned his back on them all.

Ransome grinned, and reached for the control spaces. Static fuzzed a tiny circle at the edge of Lioe’s viewing volume. She winced, and looked away from it, but did not adjust her own controls. An image formed, slowly at first, then flicked completely into adjustment. Chauvelin looked out at them, one eyebrow raised in arrogant question, and Lioe tugged at the image until it was as large as the other.

“Na Chauvelin,” Damian Chrestil said, with a fleeting and twisted smile.

“Na Damian,” Chauvelin acknowledged. “What interesting company you keep.” He looked at Ransome. “I’ve been looking for you, I‑Jay. I trust you’re well?”

Ransome nodded. “Well enough.”

Damian Chrestil cleared his throat. “I think we’ve achieved stalemate,” he said. “Each of us has something the others want, and, thanks to you, Na Lioe, we have a time constraint as well.”

“How so?” Both of Chauvelin’s eyebrows rose.

“I’ve put a new Game scenario onto the nets,” Lioe said bluntly. “In four hours–less than that, now–it’ll be released, and every Gamer on the nets will want a copy. It’s a jeu a clef, Ambassador, based on Na Damian’s deal with the Visiting Speaker. If Damian Chrestil doesn’t back off, guarantee my safety and let Ransome go, I’ll let it run.” She paused, couldn’t resist adding, “I do think it will play.”

Chauvelin was silent for a moment, his face expressionless, then looked at Ransome. “Will it work?”

“It’s fucking brilliant,” Ransome answered, and the amusement in his voice had a slight note of hysteria. “Oh, it’ll work, all right, no question.”

A faint expression of distaste flickered across Chauvelin’s face, vanished as he looked back at Lioe. “I wish you had seen fit to trust me with this information, Na Lioe.”

“Why the hell should I?” Lioe retorted. “I’m a Republican, you’re hsaia–and I don’t know you. Why should I trust my neck to you?”

“If I may interrupt,” Damian Chrestil said. “I think I can offer us all a way out.”

“Why not?” Lioe said, and heard Ransome laugh.

Chauvelin said, “Go on.”

“Na Lioe says she wants to be left alone–my goons off your back, you said, and your job to go to. And Ransome back, which is what Na Chauvelin wants, too.” Damian Chrestil looked directly at Chauvelin, his voice gone suddenly deadly cold. “Am I right in thinking you’d also like to see the Visiting Speaker’s influence curbed a little, N’Ambassador?”

Chauvelin nodded once.

“Then this is what I’m offering,” Damian Chrestil said. “You, N’Ambassador, will allow this shipment to proceed. Neither you nor Na Ransome will interfere with it–why should you care what happens to my money and clients, so long as ji‑Imbaoa, and the je Tsinraan, are taken down a few notches? In return, I won’t act for the Visiting Speaker, or ask any awkward questions about his disgrace. As for you, Na Lioe, I want you to withdraw this scenario of yours, and to keep quiet about all of this. And I’d like you to stay away from Republican C‑and‑I at least until the statute of limitations runs out on any possible smuggling charges from that direction.”

I’m a pilot. That’s impossible. Lioe started to protest aloud, but Damian Chrestil held up his hand.

“In return, I’m willing to offer you my sponsorship to remain on Burning Bright, as a citizen. I daresay you can find work as a notable, in the Game clubs, but if you can’t, or if you don’t want to–if you want to follow Ransome’s example–I’ll provide you with a stipend, to continue until the statute runs out.”

To stay on Burning Bright. To live as a notable, as a Gamer, my income guaranteed… Lioe took a deep breath, fighting for calm. This was the last thing she had expected, something outside of all possibility, that she would play this game, and win, and be offered this reward.

“That’s very good, Damian,” Chauvelin said, and there was real admiration in his voice.

“Thank you. I think it serves all our needs,” Damian Chrestil said.

Maybe not mine, Lioe thought, indignant. There’s my piloting–I like my work–and, my God, there’s Kerestel. I can’t just leave him without warning. But there were plenty of pilots in the replacement pool, good ones, too. It was not impossible, not impossible at all. Will he keep his word? Will I find his goons still on my tail, or wake up dead some morning? Do I care? I could stay on Burning Bright, stay in the Game; most of all, if Ransome will teach me–and I think he will–I can see what else there is, beyond the Game. He and I can put an end to the Game, and see what happens then.

“I can agree to this,” Chauvelin said.

Damian nodded. “Na Lioe?”

She nodded, slowly. “I agree. But I want the money.”

“Wise move,” Ransome said. He was smiling again, without amusement. “And I’ll agree, because the rest of you do. But you owe me something for it, Damian.”

Damian Chrestil shook his head. “No. You’re getting something already. You’re getting yourself an apprentice, someone you can pass your skills to before you die. I think that’s reward enough for anyone.”

There was another silence, and Lioe held her breath, sure that Ransome would reject the offer, reject the reminder that he was going to die– reject me. Then, quite slowly, Ransome’s smile changed, became more real. “You are good, Damian,” he said.

“I’m not Bettisa,” Damian Chrestil answered, and there was an odd regret in his voice, as well as certainty. There was a little pause, and Ransome nodded.

“All right. I’ll agree.”

Lioe let out the breath she had been holding, leaned back and let the chair tilt with her, the images moving around her to hold their relative positions. It was done, it would work– and I will stay on Burning Bright, and in the Game. And I’ll have my chance, at last, to do something no one will want to change.

Day 2

Storm: The Chrestil‑Brisch Summer House,

the Barrier Hills

Damian Chrestil watched the net symbols fade and then the flicker of lights and symbols as the communications console shut itself down. It was the best he could do– not very good, he acknowledged silently, but at least he would be able to salvage something from the mess. And I won’t have to deal with ji‑Imbaoa anymore. He turned away from the machine, did his best to ignore Ransome, watching with his sly smile from the sidelines, and beckoned to Ivie. The flat‑faced man came over quickly, his hands still curled in his pockets, caressing at least one weapon.

“Na Damian?”

Ivie was well trained, Damian thought sourly, but no one was well trained enough to keep from sounding just a little uncertain about this situation. “Escort the Visiting Speaker into the game room,” he said. “And take his people with him. Be sure you search the jericho‑human, though.”

“A pleasure,” Ivie answered, and turned away. He sounded confident enough once he’d been given something definite to do, Damian thought, and touched his remote to summon the drinks cart. He busied himself with its contents, careful to keep it and himself out of the way of Ivie’s people, and saw without really looking that Cella and Ransome were being equally cautious. Cella stood well apart from the rest, still with a drink untasted in her hand, her expression remotely interested, as though she were watching someone else’s Game. Damian read disapproval in her face, and looked away from it. On the far wall, the weather screen flickered soundlessly, showing the storm from various perspectives. He could hear the wind even through the heavy shutters, a numbing, constant wail that rose and fell monotonously. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Ivie say something to the Visiting Speaker, too soft and polite to be heard. Ji‑Imbaoa tossed his head angrily, turning away as though he would have preferred to ignore the security specialist, and Damian Chrestil braced himself to intervene. Then, abruptly, ji‑Imbaoa’s resistance vanished; he made a curt gesture of agreement, and followed Ivie toward the door. Two of the guards followed, polite but obtrusive in their armed presence. The rest stayed behind, the thin woman still with her palmgun drawn and leveled at Magill. There was a little pause, and then Magill shook his head, and lifted his hands, surrendering to a search. At the woman’s gesture, he and the hsaia secretary moved slowly toward the door.

“Neatly done,” Ransome said. He was still smiling, but the expression was less sly, more conscious of his own failures.

Damian Chrestil ignored the irony, said, “Thank you.” He was very aware of Cella’s lifted eyebrow, and went on almost at random, “Make yourself comfortable.”

“Consider myself a guest?” Ransome asked.

“If you must.”

“Chauvelin will be grateful.” Ransome pushed himself up off the arm of the chair, moved slowly across the room to stare at the weather screen. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance of getting back into the city.”

“I wouldn’t send my people out in this,” Damian answered with some asperity. “You’ll have to wait it out with the rest of us.”

Ransome nodded, his attention still on the screen. Cella set her drink aside very precisely, and came to stand between Damian and the other man, so close that Damian could smell the faint sweetness of her perfume.

“May we talk, Damiano?”

The very reasonableness of her tone was a warning of sorts. “Of course,” Damian said, and moved back into the corner of the room, far enough away from the screen that an ordinary speaking voice would not be overheard. He leaned against the side of one of the heavy chairs, still not quite willing to turn his back on Ransome, and Cella leaned close, her hip against his knee, one hand on the chair, just brushing against his thigh. They would look intimate from a distance, Damian knew, and wished for a fleeting instant that that was all she wanted.

“Are you going to go through with this?” Cella asked. She kept her voice down, but the anger was perfectly clear under the conversational surface.

Damian Chrestil eyed her for a moment, biting back his answering anger– all the more unreasonable because I know what you’re really saying, that I backed down, that I let Chauvelin win–and said, “It’s the best bet, Cella. Better odds than anything else.”

“Changing horses is never a good bet,” Cella answered. “The Visiting Speaker’s still got power, why not stick with him? Why the hell go with Chauvelin?” She glanced over her shoulder, a quick, betraying tilt of the head toward Ransome, still staring at the screen. “And him?”

“For God’s sake, Cella,” Damian said. “Because ji‑Imbaoa is unreliable, and because Chauvelin’s winning right now.”

“The je Tsinraan have the power at court,” Cella said. “I know that, I did the research for you. They’re going to win in the long term, not the tzu line. You should stick with them.”

“It’s a little late for that.”

“I could persuade him,” Cella said. “I could tell him it was a bluff–”

“ Sha‑mai!” Damian Chrestil pushed her away, pushed himself up off the chair in a single motion, heedless of Ransome’s frankly curious stare. “Look, Cella, I’ve told you what I’m doing, which is more than is really your business. You’re very good at the Game, but this is reality. This is what I am going to do–this is the only thing I can do, the only way I can keep even this much–and I don’t need your baroque variations to complicate it.” He took a deep breath, regained his composure with an effort. “If you want to help out, yes, by all means, keep the Visiting Speaker happy. But stay out of my politics.”

Cella looked at him, her face stiff and hard as a Carnival mask, her careful makeup bright as paint against a sudden angry pallor. “I can–keep him happy–if that’s what you want, yes.”

“I don’t really give a fuck,” Damian Chrestil answered, and turned away.

“Certainly, Na Damian,” Cella said, with the sweet subservience that never failed to infuriate him, and swept away toward the door.

Ransome watched without seeming to do so, all too aware of the tone if not all the words of the conversation. It was the losers who watched and listened like this, prisoners, servants, houta… Well, I’ve been all of those, and born canalli besides. He fixed his attention on the screen as Cella stalked past him and disappeared into the hallway. I can’t say I’m sorry she’s been taken down a peg or two.

In the screen, waves rose and beat against the wet black metal of the storm barriers, the image dimmed and distorted by the blowing rain and the drops that ran down the camera’s hooded lens. It shivered now and then, as the wind shook the shielded emplacement. The first line of barriers was almost engulfed, foam boiling against and over it; the second and third, farther up the channel, were more visible, but a steady swell still pounded against them. Ransome watched impassively, remembering what conditions would be like on the Inland Water. Even with all the barriers up, the water would be rough–the Lockwardens would have to let some of the tides through, or risk damage to the generators that powered the city and, if things got bad enough, to the barriers themselves–and the water level would be rising along the smaller canals. He had grown up on a lowlying edge of the Homestead Island District, could remember struggling with his parents to get the valuables out to higher ground without any of the neighbors finding out that they had anything worth stealing; remembered how they had piled what they couldn’t carry onto the shelves that ran below the ceilings, hoping that the roof would stay intact and the water wouldn’t rise too high. And hoping, too, that the overworked Lockwardens from the local station would remember to keep an eye on the block. He glanced at the controls, touched a key to superimpose the chronometer reading on the screen: still almost an hour to actual sunset, but the image in the screen was already as dark as early evening. The winds were high, but steady for now: all in all, he thought, not a bad time for looting. There would be a few bad boys in the Dry Cut and Homestead who would be risking it.

“Where’s that from, Warden’s East?” Damian Chrestil asked. He had come up so silently that the other hadn’t been aware of his presence until he spoke.

“I think so,” Ransome answered, and found himself glad of the distraction. He glanced sideways, saw the younger man still scowling faintly, not all the marks of ill temper smoothed away. Still pissed at Cella, he thought. And I can’t say I blame him.

Damian Chrestil slipped a hand into his pocket, obviously reaching for a remote, and a moment later the image in the screen vanished, to be replaced by a false‑color overview of the storm itself. Distinct bands of cloud curved across the city, outlined in dotted black lines beneath the flaring reds and yellows of the storm; more bands were visible to the south, but there was still no sign of the eye.

“Heading right for us,” Damian Chrestil said.

“We should be here some hours,” Ransome agreed, and had to raise his voice a little to be heard over the noise of the rain. Something thudded heavily against the shutters, and they both glanced toward the source of the sound, Damian Chrestil vividly alert for a second before he’d identified and dismissed the noise.

“Not too many trees around here, I hope,” Ransome said, with delicate malice, and Damian’s mouth twisted into a wry smile.

“Let’s take a look.” He worked the remote again, and the picture shifted–tapping into the house systems, Ransome realized. At least one camera was useless, its lens completely obscured by the blowing rain, so that it showed only wavering streaks of grey. Damian flicked through three more cameras, so quickly that Ransome barely had time to recognize the images–a rain‑distorted view of the lawn, a camera knocked out of alignment by the wind, so that it showed only the corner of the house and a patch of wind‑blown grass, more rain sweeping in heavy curtains across a stone courtyard–and stopped as abruptly as he’d begun. “Ah.”

The camera was looking away from the wind, Ransome realized, looking inland toward the Barrier Hills and the lowlying trees that grew along their wind‑scoured shoulders. The nearest trees were perhaps thirty meters away, up a gentle slope. They were bent away from the house, into the hillside, their leaves tossing wildly, thick trunks bent into a steady arc. Ransome winced, and even as he watched, one of the trees fell forward, quite slowly, a tangle of roots pulling free of the wet ground. The silent fall was disconcerting, eerie, and he looked away.

“What a lovely place to spend a storm.”

Damian Chrestil shrugged, smiling slightly. “It’s stood worse.”

“It wasn’t the house I was worried about.”

Damian shrugged again, and his smile widened. “The odds look good to me.”

And you’re such a judge of that. The comment was too double‑edged, too easily turned against himself, and Ransome kept silent, though he guessed that the other had read the thought in his eyes. He turned away from the screen, went over to the drinks cart, and poured himself another glass of the sweet amber wine. “Do you want anything?”

Damian Chrestil looked momentarily surprised, but then flipped the screen back to one of the city channels, and came to join him. “Yes, thanks, you can pour me a glass of that.”

Ransome filled another of the long‑stemmed glasses, handed it to Damian Chrestil, and they stood for a moment in an almost companionable silence. Something else fell against the shutters, a lighter thump and then a skittering, as though whatever it was had been dragged across the rough surfaces. Damian Chrestil glanced quickly toward the noise, and looked away again. He was a handsome man, Ransome thought, attractive in the same fine‑boned, long‑nosed way that his sister Bettisa had been, with the same quick response to the unexpected. And it was good to see a man who knew better than to follow an unflattering fashion. And sex is the last weapon of the weak. Not that that’s stopped me before. He looked back at Damian Chrestil, allowed himself a quick and calculated smile, and was not surprised when the other’s smile in return held a certain interest. But I’m bored, and he is–less than fastidious, at least by reputation. Not very flattering, I suppose. But it’s better than doing nothing.

Day 2

Storm: Ransome’s Loft, Old Coast Road,

Newfields, Above Junction Pool

Lioe lay on Ransome’s neatly made bed, one arm thrown over her eyes to block the light from the main room. The walls trembled now and then in the gusts of wind; she could feel the vibration through the mattress, through the heavy wood of the bed frame. The shutter that protected the single narrow window had jammed before it quite closed off the view, and she had left it there rather than risk damaging the mechanism. The glass had seemed heavy enough, and on this side of the building, overlooking the cliff edge, there had seemed little chance that anything would blow through it. Now, feeling the building shake, she was not so sure, and looked sideways under the crook of her elbow, at the hand‑span gap between the shutter and the bottom of the frame. She could see only the sky and the rain, the slate‑colored clouds periodically dimmed by sheets of water blown almost horizontally past the window. She had never seen anything like this before, could not believe how tired she felt, tired of the tension, the dull fear at the pit of her stomach. Storms on Callixte were just as dangerous, maybe more so; but they swept in out of the plains with a few minutes’ warning, and were over almost as quickly. There was none of the anticipation–days of anticipation–that preceded Burning Bright’s storms, and certainly nothing she’d ever been through had prepared her for the steady, numbing fear. And the worst of it was that she had nothing to do–there was nothing she could do to face the storm, and nothing in the Game seemed worthwhile compared to its massive force. Once she had pulled the copies of the jeu a clefoff the nets, there was nothing to distract her.

A noise from the street brought her bolt upright, heart pounding, an enormous ripping sound and then a crash. Roscha’s voice came indistinctly from the main room. “What the hell–?”

Lioe went to join her, found the other woman standing by the main door, her head cocked to one side. The working space was opened, and the air around Ransome’s chair was filled with Game images. “What was it, do you know?”

“Outside,” Roscha answered. She worked the locks. “Only one way to find out.”

Lioe nodded. Roscha slid back the last bolt, and eased back the heavy door. The wind caught them both by surprise, a gust of cold, wet air snapping past them into the room.

“I didn’t hear a window,” Lioe began.

“ Sha‑mai,” Roscha said. “The stairway’s gone.”

“The stairway?” Lioe repeated, foolishly, and Roscha edged back into the loft.

“See for yourself.”

Lioe leaned past her, blinking a little as the full force of the wind hit her. The short hall looked different, wrong somehow, and then she realized that the stairs were indeed gone, ripped away from the side of the building, the door hanging crooked by a single hinge. Even as she watched, another gust of wind set the door swinging, and the groan of the hinge pulling still farther out of the wall was loud even over the noise of the storm.

“The wind must’ve caught it just right,” Roscha said.

“Is there anything we should do?” Lioe asked. She looked up and down the hall as she spoke, wondering if any of the other tenants were around, glanced back to see Roscha shrug.

“I don’t know what. I don’t see any sheet‑board, or anything like that, and I can’t see that a little rain’s going to hurt this floor. There’s probably a maintenance staff around somewhere, anyway.”

“Probably,” Lioe agreed. She was certainly right about the damage: the battered tiles had been peeling away from the floor long before the storm started. She stepped back into the loft, and Roscha pushed the door closed again. She had to work against the weight of the wind, and Lioe leaned against it too, to help the bolts go home.

The Game shapes were still dancing in the air around Ransome’s chair. Lioe glanced idly at them, frowned, and looked more closely. Damian Chrestil’s face seemed to leap out at her from among the busy images. “What’s all this?” she asked, and turned to see Roscha looking at her with a mix of defiance and embarrassment. There was a little pause before the other woman spoke.

“I was trying to remake your scenario, the one you threw together. It was too good to waste–too good to waste on blackmail.”

Lioe ignored the deliberately provocative word. “I made a deal,” she said. “You could get all three of us killed, you, me, and Ransome.”

Roscha looked away. “I wasn’t going to run it as it stood, I was going to make a lot of changes. Enough to make a difference, I think–I know.” She faced Lioe again, scowling now. “You can’t stop me.”

Lioe looked at her for a long moment, weighing her options. No, I probably could stop you. I’ve got the influence on the Game nets, and I’m probably better on the nets than you are–and Ransome will help me–but that only works for a while. I’d have to watch you like a hawk, and I don’t have the time or the inclination to do that. “Maybe not,” she said aloud, “but the scenario shouldn’t run, regardless of my deal. It doesn’t belong in this Game.”

Roscha’s frown deepened, her expression faintly interested as well as suspicious. “Why not?”

“Because this Game is over.”

Roscha opened her mouth to protest, and Lioe lifted an eyebrow at her, daring her to continue. The other woman said nothing, and Lioe felt a thrill of excitement at the small victory, a small, sweet pleasure at a good beginning. Was this what Chauvelin felt, this sure power? She swept on, not wanting to lose her moment.

“Yes, this Game is ending. The scenario I’ve been running is the start of it, a bigger scenario that’s going to tie everything together, all the bits and pieces, and bring this Game to a solid conclusion, all the lines resolved in a single grand structure. And no one, ever, is going to be able to play with it again without knowing that it’s ended.” She had not realized, until then, how important that had become to her, to write one thing, create one scenario, that could never be changed–that no one would want to change. She went on more slowly, speaking now as much to herself as to Roscha, and heard both certainty and seduction in her tone. “It’s gotten stale, it’s too predictable right now. We’ve all felt it. So it’s time to start over, begin a new Game. And that’s where this scenario–” she nodded to the dancing images, to the faces of Chauvelin and Damian Chrestil hanging in the air beside the working chair–“it and lots of others like it–that’s where they come in. We can remake the Game so that it’s something real, not just a distant reflection of reality, but something that changes, comments on, reshapes what’s really going on. That’s the Game your scenario belongs in, don’t you see? Someplace where it will matter.”

Roscha looked warily at her, the frown gone, replaced by a look of uncertainty that made her look suddenly years younger, almost a child again. “I don’t play politics–”

“You could. In this Game, you could.” Lioe smiled, suddenly, fiercely happy, the storm forgotten. “We both can. It won’t be jeu a clefany more, that’s too easy. We can set it up so that it’s an integral part of the Game, so that you can’t escape it–so that no one who plays, and no one who sees the Game, hears about it, can avoid what we’re doing. That’s what we need, to keep us honest. To make it real.”

“That’s what you need, maybe.” Roscha shook her head. “I’m not that good.”

“Then you’d better learn.”

There was a little silence between them, the wind a rough counterpoint, and then Roscha threw back her head and laughed. “You’re right, and I’ll do it. Sha‑mai, what a chance!”

I knew you would. Lioe hid that certainty, looked again at the busy workspace. “Let’s get on with it, then.” She reached for the nearest of Ransome’s gloves, started to draw them on.

Roscha nodded, and moved toward the other controls. “One thing, though.”

Lioe stopped, one hand half into the thin mesh. “What?”

“A favor.”

“If I can.”

“I want to play the last scenarios.” Roscha’s face was utterly serious. “The ones that wrap this up, I mean. I want to be a part of that, too. It’s–I think someone in the new Game should have been part of the old one, that’s all.”

I was part of the old Game. Lioe stopped short, the moment of indignation fading. But not like her. I was looking for something else, something better, even when I didn’t know it. I never was wholly part of it, no matter how hard I tried. She said aloud, “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Roscha looked at her for a long moment, then nodded, appeased. Lioe nodded back, and reached into the control space to turn the images to herself. For a moment, she saw Roscha webbed in the Game shapes, tangled with the visible templates, and then the images sharpened, and she turned her attention to the double task of ending the old Game and creating the new.

Day 2

Storm: The Chrestil‑Brisch Summer House,

the Barrier Hills

The room was dark and chill under the eaves, the roof and walls trembling under the lash of the wind. Damian Chrestil burrowed close to Ransome’s warmth, dragging the found blanket up over his shoulders, and wondered if it was time to leave. In the darkness Ransome’s face was little more than a pale blur, but he could guess at the expression, sleepy and sated, and suspected that it matched his own. Something, not a solid object, just the wind itself, slammed the side of the house with a noise like a great drum. Damian winced, and felt Ransome shift against him, startled by the sound.

“Perhaps a downstairs room would have been wiser.”

Damian shrugged, the coarse cloth of the mattress cover rasping against his shoulders. “But not nearly as private.”

Even in the dark, he could see Ransome’s grin. “Since when did you care about discretion, Na Damian?”

Damian Chrestil sighed. Clearly the brief truce was over– if you could call it a truce, more like a whole different episode, something out of the Game, completely unrelated to the politics downstairs. It had surprised him, how alike they were in bed. But that was finished. He sat up, letting the blanket slide down to his hips, and then made himself stand up, bracing himself for the other’s acid comment. Ransome was watching, but idly, the blanket drawn up over his shoulder. Damian finished dressing– not too undignified, this time, no scrambling into clothes–and glanced back, curious. Ransome was sitting up now, hunched over a little, one hand pressed against his chest. Even as Damian frowned and opened his mouth to speak, the imagist began to cough. Damian winced at the sound, harsh and painful even over the noise of the wind.

Ransome waved him away, got his breathing under control with an effort that seemed even more painful than the cough.

“Are you all right?” Damian asked, and did his best to keep his tone neutral. Of course he’s not all right. But that’s the only thing I can ask.

Ransome nodded, took a careful breath, and when he spoke, his voice sounded almost normal. “I’ll be fine. Your thugs took my medicines, though.”

“You left them,” Damian said, and after a moment Ransome nodded, conceding.

“Whatever.”

“Shall I have someone bring them to you?” Damian asked.

Ransome shook his head. “I’ll be all right.” He still didn’t move, and Damian watched him warily, until at last the other man straightened. Damian Chrestil turned away, heading down the darkened hall to the stairs.

The lights of the main room seemed very bright after the darkened upper level, and he stood for a moment in the doorway to let his eyes adjust. The Visiting Speaker was back, sitting in a chair by the weather screen, a service cart drawn close beside him. Even as Damian saw him, and frowned, ji‑Imbaoa rose to his feet and went to peer into the screen, the false‑color image tinting his grey skin. Ivie said something to one of the men, and came quickly to join his employer.

“I’m sorry, Na Damian, but it seemed best to separate him from his security. And Na Cella’s been keeping an eye on him.”

Damian nodded slowly, accepting the logic of the statement. “Good enough. But watch him.”

“He seems–calmer–now,” Ivie said. “Na Cella’s been talking to him.”

Damian nodded again. Cella was sitting a little apart from the Visiting Speaker, just outside the loose ring of Ivie’s security, but as he caught her eye, she rose to her feet and came to join them, smiling gently. I just hope she’s over her snit. “Thanks, Almarin. He looks–at least resigned.”

Ivie nodded and turned away, accepting his dismissal. Cella said, “He still thinks he has a hand to play.”

“Pity he’s in the wrong game,” Damian said, and was pleased to see Cella’s smile widen briefly.

“Maybe so. But I thought I should tell you.”

“Thanks.” There was a sound in the doorway behind him, and Damian turned to see Ransome making his entrance, jerkin thrown loose over one shoulder. As he moved past into the room, Damian could hear the faint rattle of his breathing. He smiled at Cella, knowing, confident, but his eyes slid away instantly, looking for the red‑painted cylinder.

“Over there?” Cella said, and pointed to a table against the wall just beyond the weather screen.

Ransome nodded, and started toward it, brushing past the nearest of Ivie’s people. He had to pass quite close to the Visiting Speaker, who was still staring at something in the weather screen, and as he did, ji‑Imbaoa turned suddenly into him, uncovered wrist spur striking for his throat. Damian saw the look of shocked surprise on Ransome’s face as he lifted one arm in an instinctive, futile counter, and then the spur sliced into and past the imagist’s wrist, hooking him like a fish through the cords of his neck. Ji‑Imbaoa struck again before the other could pull free, the second spur and the clawed fingers slashing deep into Ransome’s belly, and then he’d freed both spurs and Ransome was falling, still with the look of surprise frozen on his face.

“Kill him,” Damian Chrestil said instinctively, and Cella cried, “No!” Her voice rode through Damian’s, checking security’s immediate response. Ivie glanced back over his shoulder, flat face blank in shock and confusion, and ji‑Imbaoa stepped back from Ransome’s body, holding up his bloody spurs in an oddly fastidious gesture.

“I am not under your jurisdiction. He was min‑hao. This was between my honor and him.”

Damian hesitated, knowing that the moment for action had already passed–had maybe never happened, the Visiting Speaker had been so quick in his attack. “Self‑defense,” he said anyway, and ji‑Imbaoa shook his head.

“Who would believe it? All the witnesses are yours.”

“Na Damian?” Ivie asked.

Ransome was none of mine. I would have sold him before. And I don’t know what to do. Damian said, “Cossi–?” The pilot had some medical training, he remembered.

Cossi slid the useless blackjack–her only weapon, Damian guessed–back into her pocket with a look almost of embarrassment, and went to kneel beside Ransome’s body. She turned him over gently, long fingers probing at the wounds. Damian Chrestil winced and looked away. The pilot shook her head.

“Not a chance. Not even at the city hospitals.”

I didn’t think there was. Damian took a deep breath, looked back at the Visiting Speaker. “No,” he said aloud, “it’s not my jurisdiction. But it is Na Chauvelin’s, and I expect–I’m certain–he will handle this appropriately. In the meantime–” He looked at Ivie. “Find someplace small, secure, no windows. Lock him in there, and keep him there until we hand him over to the ambassador.”

Ivie nodded. “There’s a storeroom that will do.” He gestured to his people, who moved warily toward the Visiting Speaker, guns drawn.

Ji‑Imbaoa looked at them, gestured disdainfully with his bloody hands. “This has nothing to do with you,” he said, and one of Ivie’s men hissed at the contempt in the hsaia’s voice. “I have no quarrel with you.”

“Go with them, then,” Damian Chrestil said, well aware of the edge of fury still in his voice, and ji‑Imbaoa nodded with maddening calm.

“I will do so.”

Ivie’s people still circled the hsaia, and Damian wished, fiercely, futilely, that he would try something, anything, that would give Ivie an excuse to act.

“This way,” Ivie said, and gestured with the muzzle of his palmgun. Ji‑Imbaoa nodded again, and followed him from the room.

Damian looked back at Ransome’s body, sprawled now on its back in a pool of blood– not as much as I’d expected, but then, I guess he died quick–empty eyes staring up at the ceiling. Cossi saw him looking, and reached across to close the imagist’s eyes.

“What do you want me to do with him, Na Damian?” she asked.

I don’t know. Very God, I have to tell Chauvelin. Damian Chrestil took a deep breath, still staring at Ransome’s body. Not an hour ago we were in bed together–not an hour ago he was fucking me. The room smelled of blood and shit. “Leave him for now,” he began, and Cella spoke softly.

“What about one of the upstairs rooms?”

Damian looked at her blankly for a moment, then, in spite of himself, in spite of everything, smiled. “Well, he would’ve appreciated the irony.” He looked at Cossi. “Yes, take him upstairs–get one of Ivie’s people to help you. And then get a housekeeper running, get that cleaned up.”

“Right, Na Damian,” Cossi said.

And I will speak with Chauvelin. Damian took a deep breath, bracing himself. Ransome dead isn’t so bad, it’s how he died, and where–that he died in my house when I’d made a deal with Chauvelin to keep him safe. The question now is, can I persuade Chauvelin that I didn’t do it, that I didn’t break our deal? And is there any way I can persuade him to turn this death to his advantage? He shook his head, sighing. Anyone but Ransome, that might have worked, but not when it was Chauvelin’s lover. Very God, I haven’t even thought of Lioe. He pushed the thought away. One thing at a time, he told himself, and turned to the communications console.

Day 2

Storm: The Hsai Ambassador’s House,

in the Ghetto, Landing Isle Above

Old City North

Chauvelin had come away from the windows when the wind got bad, waited now in one of the smaller rooms that overlooked the gardens, his back to the shuttered windows and the storm. The walls, dark red trimmed with gold, gleamed in the warm light; he could not feel the household generators whirring on standby through the thick carpet, but a glance at the monitor board told him they were ready should city power fail. He glanced away, took a few restless steps toward the door and then back again to the desk, looking down at the files glowing in the display surfaces. The first draft of his formal letter to the Remembrancer‑Duke waited in the main screen, ready to be transcribed into n‑jaoscript, but he could not make himself concentrate on its careful phrases. Damian Chrestil had given him the excuse he had needed to break ji‑Imbaoa’s power. If he and the Remembrancer‑Duke played the game right, the incident could have effects as far away as Hsiamai and the All‑Father’s court itself. At the very least, the je Tsinraan would lose face over this, a Speaker for the court embroiled in common commerce, tripped up by a smuggling scheme: a more than acceptable outcome. And that didn’t take into account the effects on Burning Bright itself. Chauvelin smiled, savoring the double victory. At the very least, Damian Chrestil would not become governor in the next elections, nor the ones after that; at best, he would never be governor, and the tzu Tsinraan would not have to contend with an ally of the je Tsinraan in control of Burning Bright. And I may still be able to keep some hold over Damian Chrestil, even after all of this is over. That would be the best of all.

A chime sounded in the desktop, and he reached to answer it, touching the flashing icons. “Yes?”

“I’m sorry to disturb you, Sia,” je‑Sou’tsian said, “but it’s Na Damian. He says it’s urgent.”

“Put him through,” Chauvelin said, and felt the fear cold in his stomach. Something’s gone wrong–The picture took shape in the desktop, blotting out the open files, and Damian Chrestil looked out at him, his face strained and white.

“N’Ambassador.”

“What’s happened?” Chauvelin asked, suspecting already, dreading the answer. In the screen behind Damian Chrestil, out‑of‑focus shapes bent over another shape crumpled on the floor.

“I’m sorry,” Damian Chrestil said. “Ransome’s dead.”

I knew it. Chauvelin bit back anger, the instinct that would have had him calling out the garrisons on Iaryo, on Hsiamai, to launch the missile strike that would obliterate the summer house and everyone, everything, in it… “How?”

“The Visiting Speaker,” Damian said baldly. He was telling it badly, and he knew it. “He attacked him. Ransome went past him, to get his medicine, and the Speaker attacked him. He was killed almost instantly.”

“Like hell,” Chauvelin said. “I‑Jay wasn’t that stupid, he would never have gone within reach–” But he might have, the cold voice of logic whispered at the back of his mind. Ransome never did fully appreciate just how much that clan line hated him. And he always underestimated ji‑Imbaoa.

“It was none of my doing,” Damian Chrestil said.

Chauvelin looked at him for a long moment, recognizing the truth of his words in the shocked look on the younger man’s face. I‑Jay’s dead. “Where’s ji‑Imbaoa?”

“Locked in the cellar.” Damian Chrestil managed a strained, mirthless grin, gone almost as quickly as it had appeared. “I’m sorry, Chauvelin. He claimed your jurisdiction.”

Chauvelin made a noise that might at another time have been a bark of laughter. “What a fool.” He paused then, considering, the habit of cold calculation carrying him through in spite of himself. There was nothing he could do for Ransome, and nothing more Ransome could do for him, except that in his death he would bring down ji‑Imbaoa and most of the je Tsinraan with him. Ji‑Imbaoa had overstepped himself. Even under the old codes that the je Tsinraan professed to believe in, this killing, this murder, cut across too many kinship lines, impinged on his, Chauvelin’s, rights as Ransome’s patron and lover. “Fool,” he said again, not sure if he was thinking of ji‑Imbaoa or Ransome or himself, and made himself focus on Damian Chrestil, white‑faced in the screen’s projection. “Hold him for me. He claims hsai law, he’ll get it.”

Damian Chrestil nodded. “I’m sorry,” he said again.

Chauvelin said, “I’ll keep our bargain, Damian. But it’s because I want the Visiting Speaker.”

Damian nodded again. “I accept that.” He looked away briefly, made himself look back at the screen. “I’ve not yet spoken to Na Lioe, I don’t know how she’ll take it.”

“I’ll talk to her,” Chauvelin said.

“Are you sure?” Damian asked, involuntarily.

“Our goals were the same,” Chauvelin said. “I think our interests still run parallel.”

Damian Chrestil flinched. “Very well,” he said, and reached for the cut‑off button.

“One more thing,” Chauvelin said, and the younger man stopped, his hand on the key. “I want I‑Jay’s body. I’ll send some of my household for it when the storm lifts.”

“Of course,” Damian answered, almost gently, and it was Chauvelin who cut the connection.

He stood for a long moment staring at the desktop, at the letter that no longer had any significance because Ransome was dead. I knew I would outlive him. I didn’t think it would be so soon. Even bringing down the je Tsinraan isn’t worth this. He turned away from the desktop and went to the drinks cabinet, poured himself a glass of the harsh local rum, not bothering with any of the mixers. He drank deeply, barely tasting the alcohol, put the glass aside before he could be tempted to finish the bottle. Oh, God, I know I can live without him. It’s just–at the very worst, I wish it had been at my choice.

He moved slowly back to the desktop, touched keys to connect himself to the main communications system. He called up the familiar codes– Ransome’s codes, the codes to Ransome’s loft–and swore when the familiar message flickered across the screen: SYSTEMS ENGAGED, PLEASE TRY AGAIN.

“Override,” he said harshly, and a few seconds later the screen cleared. Lioe’s beautiful, strong‑boned face looked out at him.

“What the hell do you want?” she began, and her frown deepened when she recognized the ambassador. “Na Chauvelin?”

“I have bad news,” Chauvelin said, and knew he had not been able to hide the pain in his voice. “I‑Jay–Ransome’s dead.”

“Oh, God.” There was a long silence, Lioe’s face utterly beautiful in its blank shock, and then, quite suddenly, the mask shattered into fury. “What the hell happened, did Damian Chrestil kill him? I’ll murder the son of a bitch myself–”

“No.” Chauvelin did not raise his voice, but she stopped abruptly, the mask reasserting itself.

“So what did happen?” she asked, after a moment.

Chauvelin swallowed hard, suddenly unwilling to speak, as though to tell the story would make it truly real. That was superstition, shock, stupidity, and he put the thought aside, went on, steadily now, “Ji‑Imbaoa–the Visiting Speaker–killed him. They were old enemies, and Ransome got too close to him.”

“The hsaia at your party,” Lioe said.

“That’s right.”

Lioe closed her eyes for a moment, and when she opened them again, Chauvelin could see the tears. “Ah, sa,” she said, her voice breaking. “He wouldn’t‘ve been so careless.”

“Wouldn’t he?” Chauvelin said, in spite of himself, heard the bitter laughter that was close to tears in his own voice.

“Yes,” Lioe said, after a moment. “He would.”

There was another, longer silence between them, broken only by the howl of the wind. Chauvelin wished for an instant that he could wail with it, but hsai training prevailed. He stared at Lioe’s face in the screen, wondering again just what Ransome had seen in her. Not sex, certainly, she’s not his type for that. Surely not just the Game? He meant it when he said the Game was a dead end, useless. He said she was too good for the Game, wasted on it. I wonder if he’s persuaded her of that? I suppose that’s one last thing I can do, give her the chance to do something more.

“What now?” Lioe said, softly. “I–we had a deal, Ambassador, you and I and Damian Chrestil.”

“The deal holds,” Chauvelin said. “At least as far as I’m concerned. Ji‑Imbaoa falls under hsai jurisdiction, my jurisdiction. He asked for it, in fact.”

There was a note of satisfaction in his voice in spite of himself, and Lioe nodded.

“As for the rest of it,” Chauvelin went on, “I’m I‑Jay’s next of kin, the rest of his family’s dead.” He took a quick breath, spoke before the full pain of it could hit him. “I’m willing to let you have the loft and its contents, tapes and equipment. No one else has a claim on them. As part of the deal we made.” He made himself go on without emotion. “He would want that.”

“Ah.” Lioe’s voice held a note of pain that Chauvelin suddenly resented. He frowned, searching for the necessary rebuke, and Lioe went on, her voice under tight control again.

“All right. I’ll keep my end of the bargain.”

Good. “Agreed,” Chauvelin said, and cut the connection. He stood for a moment, staring at the desktop, then touched icons to close the letter that still waited for transcription. There would have to be another letter–another letter that in some ways carried better news to the Remembrancer‑Duke, a bigger scandal, one that would devastate the je Tsinraan–but he couldn’t face that now. He turned away to lean against the shuttered window, feeling the force of the wind even through the spun shielding. The price of this victory is very high. He slammed his hand flat against the shutter, already impatient with his own grief. He was dying anyway. This was quicker, maybe kinder–but I will miss him. That was all the epitaph he could promise anyone, even Ransome. He made a face, and went back to the drinks cabinet, reaching for the rum.

Day 2

Storm: The Chrestil‑Brisch Summer House,

the Barrier Hills

A weather screen was flickering soundlessly in the corner, the display showing the bands of clouds curving now from northeast to southwest. The winds had shifted too, and the clattering of the rain against the house was softer, less insistent. Damian Chrestil sat alone in the tiny office space, the desktop open in front of him, a small black box lying on top of the displays. The lights beneath it, shining up through the clear screen, made it look as though it was floating on a haze of blued light. Damian stared at it, not touching it or the rolled tool kit that lay beside it, too tired to do more than look for a long moment. Then, sighing, he reached for the tool kit, unrolled it, and extracted a slim hook. He worked quickly, prying open the case of the desktop’s datanode–not hooked up at the moment–then fanning the stacked chips until he found the delicate nest of wires. He separated out the ones he wanted, the power feed, the direct‑on‑line lead, the one that fed the data to an implanted data socket, spliced the black box into them. It had been a long time since he’d done that kind of work, but it was easy enough; the skills came back quickly, like running a john‑boat along the Inland Water. He eased everything, wires, box, the stacked chips, back into the cavity, and fitted the cover carefully back into place. There was room and to spare in the old‑fashioned fitting.

Moving more slowly now, he rerolled the tool kit, and slipped it back into his pocket. He glanced then at the chronometer, its numbers discreetly displayed above the open file: almost midnight, and the storm would be ending soon. Already, the winds had dropped enough to allow the Lockwardens to send out the first of the emergency repair crews, heavy‑duty flyers headed for the lighter barriers west of Factory Island and Roche’Ambroise, where the news services reported some minor damage, another team headed for Plug Island to check the generators there. In another hour or two, they could leave the summer house.

He flicked a switch, reconnecting the datanode to the main system, but did not touch the waiting cord. Instead, he ran his finger over icons on the desktop, tying in to the house systems, and touched a private code. A few seconds later, a telltale lit in the monitor bar, and he said, “Cella? I need to talk to you. I’m in my office.”

There was no answer–probably she wasn’t wearing the jewelry that concealed the transmitter–but a moment later the telltale winked out. Damian Chrestil sighed, and settled himself to wait.

At last, the door slid open almost silently, and Cella peered around its edge. “You wanted me, Damiano?”

Damian nodded. “We need to talk,” he said again.

“Certainly.”

Cella moved easily into the room, seated herself at his gesture on the edge of the desktop. She was still wearing the demure, plain shirt and loose trousers, the creamy blouse improbably neat even after hours of wear. And Ransome’s death. Damian looked down at the open files, not really seeing the crowding symbols. “You set this up,” he said quietly.

Cella blinked once, her face utterly still and remote. “Ransome’s death? No.”

Damian Chrestil leaned back in his chair, too tired to feel much anger at the lie. “You’ve never had so much to say to the Visiting Speaker–to any hsaia–in your life. And the cylinders were moved, not by me, not by Ivie or any of his people. That leaves you.”

“Or Ransome himself,” Cella said gently. “Or the Visiting Speaker.”

“The Visiting Speaker didn’t have the chance,” Damian said. “Ivie was watching him too closely, keeping him in that corner. And Ransome was looking for it elsewhere. You had to tell him where it was. That still leaves you, Cella.”

Cella met his eyes steadily, only the note of scorn in her voice betraying any emotion. “Why would I kill Illario Ransome? Do you think I care if you fuck him? What’s that to me, any more than any other of your minor conquests? We have a–more complicated arrangement. I thought you knew me better, Damiano.”

“I think I do.” Damian did not move, still leaning back in his chair, his hands steepled across his chest. “What annoys me, Cella, is your interfering in my business, screwing up a deal I had a hard time salvaging. I told you before that this was the only thing I could do to save the situation. I meant it, and I don’t appreciate your trying to force my hand. You’re not good enough to play politics.”

“Ransome’s death is the best thing that could happen,” Cella said. “For you, for Chauvelin–even for the Visiting Speaker, if you wanted to play it that way; he’d be under obligation to you if you let him go. Ransome’s worth a lot more dead than alive–and don’t try to tell me that Chauvelin loved him so much that he’d rather get revenge than use him to bring down the je Tsinraan. It’s the best thing that could happen, if you’re serious about going over to the tzu line.”

“It’s not your place to make that decision,” Damian Chrestil said. He sighed, looked down at his files again, then spun the first one so that it faced Cella. She looked down at it, her expression first curious, then angry, before she’d gotten herself under control again.

“Our arrangement is over,” Damian Chrestil said. “That’s my assessment of your property, a fair settlement. You can take it or not, I don’t really care. But I don’t want to see you again.” He pushed himself up out of the chair, took a few steps away from the desk.

“Very well,” Cella said, her voice still rigidly controlled. “But you won’t object if I verify some of this?”

“Help yourself,” Damian said, and heard the whisper of the interface cord drawn out of its housing in the side of the datanode. He did not look back, bracing himself, and a moment later heard the fat snap of the current as she plugged herself into the system. There was no cry, no sound except the buzz of the overload box shorting out, and then the sprawling thud as she fell. The room smelled of electricity, and then, insidiously, of scorched hair and skin. Damian Chrestil turned then, without haste, knowing what he would find.

Cella lay contorted by the corner of the desk, limbs tumbled, her face pressed into the carpet. Her dark hair had come out of its crown of braids, lay in disturbed coils over her neck and across the floor, hiding the data socket at the base of her jaw. A thin tendril of smoke was rising from it as the implant housing smoldered. He looked at her for a moment, but did not touch her after all. The end of the data cord dangled over the edge of the desk, inert: the automatics had cut the power instantly after the massive current passed through. He left it there, and reached into his pocket for his thin gloves. He drew them on, ignoring the smell–burned flesh, urine, burned implant plastic, and hot metal–and used the tool kit to pry off the cover of the datanode. The boards and wires had fused, a ragged mess; he stepped over Cella’s body to lean closer, carefully freed the black box from the ruined node. The military does good work, he thought, and gingerly stuffed the ruined components back into the node’s casing, closing it carefully behind him. By the door, where the carpet ended and the tiles began, he stopped, dropped the black box on the hard surface. The casing shattered, spilling fragments; he set his heel on them, methodically grinding them to gravel, then swept them toward the nearest garbage slot. The baseboard hatch slid open, and he swept the fragments into its waiting darkness, running his foot twice over the tiles even after he was sure he had it all. He did not look back–he did not have to look back, would remember Cella’s twisted body in absolute clarity even without a second look–but walked away, letting the door slide closed behind him. Power surges happen during big storms; you shouldn’t go direct‑on‑line when the weather’s bad. Everyone knows that, and everyone does it just the same. Poor Cella, what a shame it caught up with you. But you shouldn’t’ve tried to force my hand. In an hour or two, if no one had found her, he would send Ivie looking for her: until then, let her lie.

Epilogue

« ^

Day 6

Storm: The Barge Gemini, Nazandin

Wharf, the Inland Water by Governor’s

Point District

Lioe stood on the midships deck, one hand on the rail to balance herself against the motion of the barge. Even four days after the storm had passed, the Water was still a little rough; it would be easier out to sea, Roscha had said, where the currents were less constrained by the complex channels. Overhead, the sky was very blue, utterly free of clouds, and the ghost of one of the moons rode the housetops over Roche’Ambroise. The sun was warm: Burning Bright was moving toward summer, Lioe remembered, and she glanced forward, wondering if she should claim a place under the thin canopy. It was crowded there, full of people in white under the white canopy, and she decided not to join them yet. There were more people in white crowding the docks, Gamers mostly, people from Shadows that she recognized, others that she didn’t know, from the nets and the other clubs. White was the color of mourning on Burning Bright, and Ransome had been well respected. She smoothed the front of her own coat self‑consciously, the fabric heavy over a white shirt and her most formal trousers, the breeze cool on her neck and scalp. It felt odd, not to be wearing a hat, but she was no longer a pilot, would have to get used to that. Kerestel had not been pleased, but there were good pilots available through the pools. He would learn to live with it. She glanced over her shoulder, saw Roscha coming toward her, red hair bright in the sun, very vivid against the white coat. Everyone on Burning Bright owns one, Roscha had said. You never know when you’ll need it.

“It’s quite a turnout,” Roscha said, and leaned out over the railing to stare at the crowd on the dock.

Lioe looked with her, saw Medard‑Yasine standing with Aliar Gueremei, a handful of Shadows’ staff clustering around them. She had seen Peter Savian earlier, conspicuous in plain Republican shirt and trousers, a white scarf his only concession to local custom; now he was nowhere in sight, but instead, Kazio Beledin stood talking to a tall woman, LaChacalle, and a slim man with a data socket high on his face that caught the light like a diamond. He saw her looking, and lifted a hand in sober acknowledgment. Lioe waved back, not knowing what else to do. LaChacalle had on a white dress under the sheer white coat, and the others wore wide wraps, Beledin’s covering his head like a hood. “So many Gamers,” she said, and Roscha shrugged.

“Everyone knew Ambidexter. They may not have liked him, but they’d kill to get in his games.”

“Not a bad epitaph,” Lioe said. And it’s not just Gamers who feel that way. She looked back toward the group under the canopy, counting the political notables who’d come to Ransome’s funeral. Governor Berengaria, looking remarkably like her image from the parade, stood talking quietly to a man Ransome had pointed out at Chauvelin’s party as the head of the Five Points Bank, while a detachment from the Merchant Investors Syndicate waited for her attention. There were representatives from all of the Five Points Families, Chauvelin had said, and two of the Chrestil‑Brisch. She scanned the crowd until she found them. The head of the family, Altagracian– dit Chrestillio, she remembered–was a big man, bigger and more leonine than Damian Chrestil, but the sister, Bettisa, had the same sharp face and fine body. It was a little disconcerting, seeing her there, thin white coat wrapped tight around her body, and Lioe looked away. Chauvelin was nowhere in sight. Probably with the ashes, she thought, and still wasn’t sure how she felt about this ritual, the formal consigning of what was left of Ransome’s body to the seas. Death on Callixte was a private thing, and so were funerals. There was a shout from forward, and the beat of the engines strengthened through the deck. Very slowly, the barge began to pull away from the dock.

“Quinn,” Roscha said, just loudly enough to be heard over the sudden rush of wind. “There’s been some talk.”

Lioe glanced back at her, frowned at the grim look on the other woman’s face. “What about?”

“The fucking Visiting Speaker,” Roscha answered. “I’ve been hearing from people I know up at the port–and other places, pretty much all around–that he’s walking around loose. I thought you said the ambassador was going to deal with him.”

“He was,” Lioe answered. “As far as I know, he is. Are your friends sure it’s ji‑Imbaoa?”

She knew it was a stupid question even as she asked, and Roscha grinned. “Not all hsaia look alike. And he’s wearing all the honors. Perii lived on Jericho, she reads hsai ribbons pretty fluently. Oh, it’s him all right.”

“Wonderful,” Lioe said. What the hell is ji‑Imbaoa doing free? Chauvelin should be keeping him under lock and key until the next ship leaves for HsaioiAn –

“It occurred to me,” Roscha said, “that maybe N’Ambassador wasn’t all that sorry Ransome’s dead.”

No. Lioe shook her head, rejecting the thought even before she had fully analyzed it. Not that I’d put it past Chauvelin to kill someone, but not Ransome. Not the way he sounded, looked, when he told me. “There’s bound to be a reason,” she said, “something in hsai law, maybe.”

“Maybe,” Roscha said. “But the thought also occurred to me, Quinn, that maybe something could be done about it. Perii says the Visiting Speaker’s been drinking pretty heavily, drowning his sorrows, she says. It’d be a shame if he didn’t make it home some night–which could be arranged, Quinn. If you think it’s appropriate.”

Lioe stood frozen for a moment, suddenly very aware of the heat of the sun on her back, the movement of the barge under her feet. This was a power she had never expected, a direct and potent strength, the smoldering anger of the canalli channeled through Roscha, ready to hand. That’s exaggerating, sure, I don’t have all the canalli–but she’s offering me a means of direct action that I never dreamed I’d be able to tap. With this to back up the new Game, I’ve got more power than I’d ever expected. She curbed herself sternly, made herself focus on the issue at hand. “I want to talk to Chauvelin.” She pushed herself away from the rail before Roscha could follow.

She found Chauvelin about where she’d expected, toward the forward end of the canopy where a plain, raw‑looking pottery jar stood ready on a white‑draped table. He was wearing a white wrap coat, like everyone else, but had left it open, so that the wind blew it back to reveal the knots and clusters of his honors draped about his shoulders. Berengaria stood beside him, the wrinkles at the corners of her mismatched eyes making her look as though she almost smiled. Lioe sighed, and resigned herself to wait, but to her surprise, Chauvelin nodded to her, and said something to the governor. This time Berengaria did smile, and Chauvelin made his way across the last few meters to stand at Lioe’s side.

“It’s good to see you, Na Lioe. I’m sorry we haven’t had a chance to speak before this.”

At least not today. Lioe said, “I hear that the Visiting Speaker is back in all his old haunts, Ambassador. How does that happen?”

There was a little silence, and then Chauvelin said, “There isn’t a ship to Hsiamai for another four days. He gave his parole–his word, his promise–to give himself up when it arrives.”

“I know what parole means.” Lioe took a deep breath, fighting back her anger.

Chauvelin said, “It doesn’t mean anything. It’s his right under the law, to have this time. He’ll be on the ship to Hsiamai, and the All‑Father will deal with him. He miscalculated badly, it’ll take the je Tsinraan years to recover from this.”

“I can’t say I find that terribly satisfying,” Lioe said.

“You surprise me.” Chauvelin looked at her, his lined face without emotion. “Ji‑Imbaoa is ruined. Not only that, he’s ruined his entire clan. Let him have all the Oblivion he wants, it’s not going to change anything. I think that’s very satisfying.”

Lioe paused for a long moment, considering the ambassador’s words. Yes, it was satisfying to think that ji‑Imbaoa would have to live with whatever hsai law thought was the appropriate punishment for murdering an ambassador’s dependent, and with the fury of his own relatives. Ransome, certainly, would have appreciated it.

“He’s lost any hope of ever gaining position at court,” Chauvelin said, “or of regaining what he’s already lost. He’ll be ostracized, completely.”

“I see.” Lioe looked away from him, toward the railing and the Water beyond. Traffic was heavy, as always, but funeral barges had priority, and the smaller boats gave way grudgingly, sliding to either side of the broad channel. The air smelled of salt and oil. They were coming up on Homestead Island and the end of the Water; she could just make out the blockhouses that controlled the first of the storm barriers, the stubby grey buildings conspicuous against the brighter brick behind them. According to the datastore and to the obituaries, Ransome had been born somewhere in that district, born poor, child of no one at all important. And now his death is bringing down a major faction within HsaioiAn. Yes, he would appreciate that. “All right,” she said, “I won’t do anything.”

Chauvelin lifted an eyebrow, looked genuinely surprised for an instant. Then his eyes slid sideways, and he smiled slightly. “I forgot Roscha. Careless of me. But this is a hsai matter, you can leave it to me.”

“All right,” Lioe said, and to her surprise, Chauvelin bowed to her.

“Thank you,” he said, and turned away.

Lioe looked over her shoulder, and saw, as she’d expected, that Roscha had come up behind her, moving so silently that she hadn’t heard her approach.

“Well?” Roscha asked. “What did he say?”

“We’ll let it go,” Lioe said. “Ji‑Imbaoa will be on the ship to Hsiamai, and he’ll be appropriately dealt with there.”

“Do you believe that?” Roscha asked.

“Yes,” Lioe answered, and managed a tight grin. “He’ll get exactly what he deserves.” Roscha still looked uncertain, and Lioe went on, “It’s what Ransome would’ve wanted, I’m sure of that.”

“If you say so.”

“Look, this brings down an entire government,” Lioe said. “You’ve got to admit that’s Ransome’s–Ambidexter’s–style.”

Roscha laughed softly. “That’s true. Sha‑mai, wouldn’t it make a great Game session?”

It would, Lioe thought. It would make a brilliant one. And it’s one I want to write–maybe put it at the core of the new Game, make it one of the givens, part of the background for everything. That would be a nice memorial, something else he’d approve of. And then no one could play without knowing something about him, remembering his death. She nodded slowly. “Thanks, Roscha,” she said. “I’ll do just that.”

Day 6

Storm: The Hsai Ambassador’s House,

in the Ghetto, Landing Isle Above

Old City North

It was midafternoon by the time Chauvelin returned to his house, and his face stung from the combination of sun and salt spray. Je‑Sou’tsian was waiting in the main hall–like all the household, she wore white ribbons, sprays of them bound around each arm–flanked by a pair of understewards. Chauvelin frowned, surprised to see so formal a delegation, and je‑Sou’tsian bowed deeply.

“Your pardon, Sia, but there has been a transmission from maiHu’an. His grace has been pleased to grant you an award.” She used the more formal word, the one that meant “award‑of‑honor”: she would have seen the message when it came in, Chauvelin knew. She would have prepared the formal package. “It’s waiting in your office.”

“My lord honors me beyond my deserving,” Chauvelin answered, conventionally. “Thanks, Iameis–and thanks for that, too.” He reached out, gently touched the knots of white ribbon.

Je‑Sou’tsian made the quick fluttering gesture, quickly controlled, that meant embarrassment and pleasure. “We–I didn’t want to presume. But we regret your loss.”

“Thank you,” Chauvelin said again, and went up the spiral stairs to his office.

The room was unchanged, the single pane of glass that had cracked during the storm replaced days before. Chauvelin settled himself at the desk, lifted the precisely folded message to his lips in perfunctory acknowledgment, and broke the temporary seal. The message–handwritten in n‑jaocharacter and then copy‑flashed; Haas’s handwriting, not the Duke’s–was clear enough, but he had to read it a second time before the meaning sank in. Then, quite slowly, he began to laugh. He had done well, in the Remembrancer‑Duke’s opinion: this was the reward every chaoi‑monworked for, dreamed of, but few ever achieved. There, set out in the formal, archaic language of court records, were the certificates of posthumous cooptation for his parents and their parents, the necessary two generations that would make him no longer chaoi‑mon, but a full hsaia, indistinguishable in the eyes of the court and the law from any other hsai. He could not quite imagine his mother’s reaction, but suspected it would have been profane.

There was a second note folded up inside the official announcement, also in Haas’s hand, the neat familiar alphabet used for tradetalk. He opened that, skimmed the spiky printing.

CONGRATULATIONS ON YOUR PROMOTION, AND MY SYMPATHIES FOR THE LOSS OF YOUR PROTEGE. MY LORD IS VERY PLEASED WITH THE OUTCOME OF THIS BUSINESS, AND IS PLANNING TO TRAVEL TO HSIAMAI IN PERSON FOR THE TRIALS. A MORE PERSONAL TOKEN OF HIS PLEASURE WILL FOLLOW.

Chauvelin smiled again, rather wryly this time. I don’t think I should count on that. The Remembrancer‑Duke might be less pleased after all, though on balance it shouldn’t affect the ultimate outcome of the trials. He glanced at the chronometer display, gauging the time left until he would hear– not much longer now–and set both messages aside. One of Ransome’s story eggs was sitting on the desk beside him, the case a lacquer‑red sphere that looked as though it had been powdered with gold dust. He picked it up idly, turned it over until he could look through the lens into its depths. Familiar shapes, Apollo and a satyr, shared images from his and Ransome’s shared culture, leaned together in a luminous forest, each with a lyre in his hands. The loop of images showed a brief conversation, a smile– Ransome’s familiar, knowing smile–and then a brief interlude of music, the sound sweetly distant, barely audible half a meter away. Apollo and Marsyas, Chauvelin thought, in the last good days before the contest. He had never noticed it before, but the Apollo had his own eyes, and his trick of the lifted eyebrow. Oh, very like you, I‑Jay. But that’s not how it was. I did everything I could to save you. You died by your own misjudgment, not by mine.

“Sia?” That was je‑Sou’tsian’s voice, sharp and startled in the speakers. “Sia, I’m sorry to disturb you, but there’s been an accident.”

“An accident?” Chauvelin said.

“Yes, Sia.”

Chauvelin did not light the screens, allowed himself a smile, hearing the shock in the steward’s voice.

“I’m sorry, Sia,” je‑Sou’tsian said again, “but it’s the Visiting Speaker. There’s been–the Lockwardens say he fell into one of the canals, he was drunk on Oblivion, and a barge hit him.”

“Is he alive?” Chauvelin demanded, and heard himself sharp and querulous.

“For now, Sia. But he’s not expected to live the night. They’ve taken him to the nearest hospital, Mercy Underface, they said.”

“So.” Chauvelin could not stop his smile from becoming a grin; it was an effort to keep his voice under control. “Do they know what happened?”

“Not for certain, Sia. They think he fell.”

“Or did he kill himself?” Chauvelin asked, and was pleased with the bitterness of his tone. If they can believe it’s suicide, that’s shameful enough on top of everything else that the Remembrancer‑Duke will still gain everything he would have gained through the trial. He heard je‑Sou’tsian’s sharp intake of breath, wished he dared light the screen to watch her gestures.

“It–the Lockwardens asked that also, Sia. It seems possible.”

“Such shame,” Chauvelin said, and knew that this time he did not sound sincere. “Send his house steward to stand by him, and one of us to stay with her. Express my condolences.”

“I’ll go myself, if you want, Sia,” je‑Sou’tsian said.

Chauvelin nodded, then remembered the dark screen. “That would be a gracious gesture, Iameis. I’d be grateful.”

“Then I’ll do it,” je‑Sou’tsian said.

“Keep me informed of his condition,” Chauvelin said, and closed the connection. It was good to have friends on the canals. He leaned back in his chair, reached out to touch the story egg again, but did not pick it up, ran his fingers instead over the warm metal of the case. I told the truth when I told Lioe I’d take care of the Visiting Speaker. It’s not my fault that she assumed I meant that I would let the law take its course. That was something Ransome would’ve appreciated, that double‑edged conversation. And I think he would’ve appreciated my decision. He smiled again, and picked up the story egg, glanced again at the bright images. The loop, triggered by the movement, showed god and satyr leaning shoulder to shoulder, and then the faint clear strain of the music as the satyr played.

–––

Interlude

Game/varRebel.2.04/

subPsi. 1.22/ver22. 1/ses 7.25

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 out onto the center catwalk it would take a miracle to keep from being seen. Galan Africa/VERE CAMINESI winced as an incautious movement jarred his bandaged arm and shoulder, and stopped trying to pry the power pack away from the nonstandard mounting.

“Hazard,” he said, and Gallio Hazard/PETER SAVIAN slipped his own pistol back into his belt and came to study the housing. After a moment, he pried it loose with main force, handed the two parts to Africa. The technician accepted them, prodded dubiously at the bent plugs. Hazard shrugged an apology, and drew his pistol again, his attention already turned outward toward the retreating footsteps of the guards.

Jack Blue/JAFIERA ROSCHA sprawled gasping against the nearest stack of crates, his face drawn into a scowl of pain and anger equally mixed. Mijja Lyall/FERNESA crouched at his side, digging hurriedly through the much‑depleted medical kit. She found the injector at last, applied it to Blue’s forearm. The telekinetic swore under his breath, but a moment later, the pain began to ease from his forehead. Lord Faro/LACHACALLE and Ibelin Belfortune/HALLY VENTURA exchanged glances, and edged a little bit away from the others, where they could exchange whispers unheard.

“What about the contact?” Desir of Harmsway/KAZIO BELEDIN said. “Where is it, Avellar?”

Avellar/AMBIDEXTER looked back at him for a moment, gave a slow, crooked smile. “Something’s gone wrong, obviously. But unless you want to go back…” He let his voice trail off in a mocking invitation, and Harmsway looked away, scowling. Avellar’s smile widened slightly, and he moved to stand beside Jack Blue. “How is it?”

Blue shrugged, made a so‑so gesture with one hand. “I’ll live.” His voice sounded better, and Avellar nodded.

“Maybe he’s losing weight,” Harmsway said, too sweetly.

Blue frowned, and a cracked piece of the floor tiling tore itself loose and flung itself at Harmsway’s face. Avellar plucked it out of the air before it could hit anything, dropped it onto the flooring at Blue’s feet. There was blood on the tile, from where the sharp edges had cut his hand, but Avellar ignored it.

“Try that again,” he said, almost conversationally, “and I’ll leave you.” He was looking at Blue, but Harmsway stiffened.

“Not me, surely,” he said, his voice provocative. “If you leave me here, Royal, all this will have been for nothing.”

“All what?” Avellar said, softly. “All this? Coming here, risking my life, planning this escape for the lot of you? That’s nothing compared to what I’m willing to do to have you back at my side, Desir. But you need me just as much, if you’re going to get off this planet. Don’t forget that, my friend.”

In spite of himself, Harmsway glanced toward the cargo door, only forty meters away across the width of the warehouse. It was even open, 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. And beyond that hatch were Avellar’s people, loyal only to Avellar. His lips thinned, and he looked away.

Avellar nodded. “The ship’s mine,” he said. “Without me, none of you will get aboard. Hell, without me, none of you would have gotten this far.”

“Without you,” Gallio Hazard said, “some of us wouldn’t be here at all.”

“Touche,” Avellar said. “But you shouldn’t‘ve left my service, Gallio.”

“Avellar.” Lyall’s voice was suddenly sharp with fear, and Avellar turned to face her. “They’ve brought in a hunter,” Lyall said. “And the Baron’s with him.”

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

“I can’t tell. There’s–he’s shielded.”

“No one use any psi,” Avellar said. The others murmured agreement, and he looked at Africa. “Is it finished, Galan?”

Africa shrugged his good shoulder. “I’ve got the connection rigged, but there’s no guarantee it’ll work.”

Avellar nodded, and looked at Belfortune. “That leaves you, Bel.”

Faro said, “Let him be.”

Avellar ignored him. “Bel–”

“Avellar,” Lyall said again, real horror in her voice. “He’s found us.”

“What?” Harmsway’s voice scaled up in surprise. “Damn you, Royal–”

“Shut up,” Avellar said, and was obeyed. “Belfortune. Can you stop the hunter?”

Belfortune shook his head. “I have to be close to him, I can’t just reach out and take his power. It’s not that easy–”

“All right,” Avellar said, his voice gentle but firm, and Belfortune was silent. Faro laid a hand on his shoulder, then reached for his pistol.

“Well, Desir,” Avellar said, “it’s up to you and me.”

Harmsway shook his head sharply, and Hazard said, “The last time, you nearly killed him.”

Avellar ignored him. “If we don’t work together, we’ll never get out of here. You and I will both die on this wretched planet. Do you really want that, just to spite me? Or do you just enjoy it too much?”

“Yes,” Harmsway said, “I can admit it. You’re too strong for me, you and your crazy clone‑sibs, and I like it too much.”

“Would you rather be dead?” Avellar asked.

“Desir, don’t,” Hazard said.

Harmsway ignored him. “No, damn you. All right. I’ll do it.”

Avellar held out his hands, carefully not smiling, and Harmsway took them with only the slightest hesitation. There was a little silence, and then a kind of darkness seemed to gather around them. Shapes moved in the darkness, shapes that were Avellar, shapes that wore Avellar’s face and a woman’s body. Avellar closed his eyes, felt his power returning with Harmsway’s presence, Harmsway’s raw electrokinesis bridging the holes left by the deaths of half the clone. He could sense the others’ presence, too: Quarta in her cell, gibbering in darkness; Secunda caught in midstride, dragged away from herself by his insistent demands; Tertius ever silent, great eyes staring at nothing. He pulled them to him, made their power his own, built a ladder with it that carried him out of the prison of his body and let him look down on the warehouse as if from a great height. He saw the world in black and white, the figures of his party and of the Baron’s men clustered at the doorway pale as ghosts against the dark walls and shadows that were the piled crates. The Baron’s group had stopped, huddling together around a grounded airsled. The hunter smells something he doesn’t recognize, Avellar thought, and laughed silently. No, you wouldn’t recognize me. He spun again, looking down from his illusory height for a solution, saw Harmsway on his knees, head bowed with strain, still clinging to his hands. Harmsway was weaker than he’d realized; Avellar allowed himself to look farther afield, saw Jack Blue now standing at Lyall’s side.

Blue, he said, and felt the word fall for what seemed an eternity before it struck air and was heard. “Give me your hand.”

He forced his body to free one hand from Harmsway’s grip, held it out to Blue. The telekinetic took it, reluctantly, and Avellar felt the other’s power join his own. He let himself rise back up the ladder, dragging Blue’s talent with him, hung for a moment beneath the rafters, looking at the piles of crates through the lens of Blue’s talent. Then, almost lazily, he reached out–his hand, Blue’s telekinesis, moving as one, Harmsway still bridging the gaps that let him draw on his clone‑sibs, his other selves–and tipped the first row of crates onto the Baron’s men. He heard screams–close at hand, and more distant, the noise reaching his physical body half a heartbeat later–but he closed his mind, searching for the right point. Blue’s power was fading, stuttering like an underfueled engine, but he ignored it, and toppled a second set of shelves, blocking any advance. Then he let himself slide back down the ladder, feeling it dissolve behind him as he fell, until he was back in his own body, on his knees, Jack Blue’s hand cold in his own. Harmsway was crumpled on the warped tiles, breathing in harsh gasps, his forehead against the floor. Blue lay open eyed, unmoving, his face red and mottled. Lyall crouched beside him, hand on his wrist, and shook her head as Avellar looked at her.

“He’s dead.”

Belfortune laughed softly. “So that’s how the great Avellar’s power works. You’re no more than I am, nothing more than a vampire. At least I don’t use the power I take.”

“You just dine on it,” Hazard said.

Faro said, “This is why I won’t support you, Avellar. No one who can do that should be emperor.”

“But that’s just it,” Avellar said. He reached down almost absently, lifted Harmsway so that the electrokinetic’s head rested on his lap. “This power is exactly why I should be emperor. I’m psi, yes, but it’s unlimited in type, because I can draw on all of it. But only if you let me. I can’t coerce, I can only take what’s given. Jack gave me what he had, he let me use him up, to save the rest of us. He couldn’t‘ve done it alone, and I knew how to use what he gave me. If a psi is going to be emperor–and you know that’s inevitable, there’s no one left who isn’t psi–then it should be me, because I can’t do anything alone, and without consent.”

Hazard nodded slowly, came to crouch at Harmsway’s side, he touched the electrokinetic’s face gently, and looked relieved when Harmsway stirred. Hazard supported him, helped him sit upright. Harmsway’s face was drawn, lines of fatigue sharply etched.

Faro said, “The ship’s waiting.”

Avellar nodded, pushed himself to his feet, fighting back his own exhaustion. “Let’s go.”

Two guards were standing by the cargo door, one with rifle leveled, staring toward the far door where the crates had fallen, the other babbling into a hand‑held com‑unit. He didn’t seem to be getting any satisfactory answers, but Avellar shrank back into the shelter of the nearest stack of crates. “Faro,” he whispered. “Can you take him?”

“I can take him,” Faro said, and nodded to the closer guard. “But that one will spread the alarm the minute he goes down.”

“Leave that to me,” Harmsway whispered.

“Don’t be stupid,” Hazard began, and the electrokinetic shook his head, the ghost of a smile wreathing his mouth.

“The com circuit has to go, or we’re all shot. Lucky you have me.”

“Be ready when he takes out the com,” Avellar said to Faro, and the older man nodded, his eyes fixed over the leveled gun. Africa dropped to his knees beside him, tucked the laser rifle against his shoulder.

Harmsway closed his eyes, drawing on what remained of his power. His whole body seemed for an instant to be stretched to breaking, as though the psionic stress had translated itself to every muscle in his body, and then the pain had passed. He reached along the wires behind the distant wall, searching carefully to avoid anything that was not part of the communications system, and teased his way into the handset. For an instant, he considered the spectacular, blowing all the circuits in a shower of gaudy sparks, but he no longer had the strength for that. He reached for a fuse instead and quietly poured what was left of his power through it. The cylinder melted, and he allowed himself to fall back into his body.

The guard stopped, shook his head and then the handset, and stepped forward to join the other, holding out the suddenly silent com‑unit.

“Now!” Avellar said, and the others fired almost as he spoke. The guards fell without a sound. “Nice shooting. Let’s go.” He started across the narrow space without looking back. The others followed, crowding into the narrow space between the outer door and the ship’s hatch, and Africa fiddled with the controls to close the door behind them. Avellar nodded, and laid his hand against the sensor panel in the center of the hatch. There was a soft click, and then a high‑pitched tone.

“Royal Avellar,” he said, and waited. A heartbeat later, the cargo lock creaked open. Familiar people, familiar faces, were waiting inside the lock, and Avellar smiled with open pleasure.

“Danile,” he said, and a man–greying, thin, a long, heavily embroidered coat thrown open over expensively plain shirt and trousers–looked back at him gravely.

“I’m back, Danile,” Avellar said again, and the greying man nodded.

“You’re here.”

“And I have Harmsway, and the others,” Avellar went on. “We had an agreement, Danile.”

Danile nodded again, more slowly. “Yes.”

“You said,” Avellar said, a note of menace in his voice, “you said you would support me, support my claim to the throne, if I brought Desir of Harmsway out of Ixion’s Wheel. We’re here, Danile. Are you going to keep your part of the bargain?”

“I didn’t think you could do it,” Danile said. “I thought–I thought I’d be rid of you. But if you can do this…” His voice trailed off, and he shook his head. “If you can do this, yes, you’re the best choice for the position. Yes, I’ll support you–Majesty.”

Avellar smiled with wolfish triumph, and one of Danile’s crew said urgently, “Sirs–”

“She’s right,” Danile said. “We have to hurry. We’re cleared for departure; we’d better go while we still can.”

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

Day 16

Storm: Ransome’s Loft, Old Coast Road,

Newfields, Above Junction Pool

Lioe closed down the system for the last time, running her hands over the secondary controls to disconnect the monitors. She already had all the data she needed, stored in spheres until her new space was up and running–a newer building, down in the Dock Road District, closer to the clubs. A haulage company would come for the machines later, or at least for the ones she had decided to keep. It was a generous legacy, maybe too generous, especially since she was still not sure if Ransome would have wanted her to have it. She was better than he had ever been, at both games, politics and the Game itself, and once the novelty had worn off, it might have become awkward between them. But there was no point in might‑have‑beens. She looked around a final time, making sure she hadn’t forgotten anything. There was nothing left, nothing that she wanted, and she let herself out into the sun‑warmed corridor. The elevator was in use, as always; she scrambled down the new stairway, walled in storm‑hardened glass, barely aware of the cityscape spread out below the cliff edge beyond her. Roscha was waiting, with a borrowed denki‑bike, and the new Game began tonight. Lioe smiled, and hurried.