Текст книги "Carnival"

Автор книги: Elizabeth Bear

Соавторы: Elizabeth Bear
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Kusanagi‑Jones wasn’t surprised to discover that Vincent wasn’t sanguine as to Lesa’s involvement. Robert certainly wasn’t the only double in Pretoria house, and neither Vincent nor Kusanagi‑Jones wanted to trust Lesa more than necessary.

Which was somewhat ridiculous, given how much Kusanagi‑Jones was trusting Vincent. But at this point, if he wasn’t going to choose to trust Vincent he might as well go home, hand in his commission, and wait to be surplused. For the first time in his life, political and personal ideals were aligning, and if that wasn’t worth dying for, he was in the wrong line of work.

And so as they left the side street graced by Pretoria house, he dropped the camouflage function on his wardrobe as he stepped into a shadow, and stepped out again dressed to blend with the Carnival crowd. His wardrobe had no license of a mask, but it could provide something that would pass for a street license, barring inspection–and, it being Carnival, there were a lot of men on the thoroughfares. Though Kusanagi‑Jones didn’t think he’d have cared to try it any other time of year.

The moderately illegal modifications to the cosmetics subroutine he carried–under Cabinet seal, as patching a wardrobe was beyond even Vincent’s skills–made it easy to change his skin tone and alter his facial features. Programs for haircut, color, style, length, and texture came standard.

He couldn’t do much about his height–beyond heeled shoes–or his build, and those were distinctive enough to cause him worry. Fortunately, Lesa Pretoria was either stringing along any potential tail, or she just wasn’t very good at spotting one. She knew what she was supposed to do–the techniques were there–but the application was crude. And even had she been more accomplished, she was hampered by the animal that accompanied her. An animal that was going somewhere.

The streets filled as sunset approached, the air growing heavy with perfume, food smells, and the slightly rancid aroma of flowers fermenting in their garlands. Kusanagi‑Jones saw khir other than Walter, some of them accompanied and some of them alone, all moving with a sense of purpose that reminded him of footage he’d seen of Earth predators. Moreover, all of them seemed to be treated with a casual respect that surprised him. People and vehicles granted the khir the right of way, to such a degree that Lesa made better time jogging through the crowd beside the animal than she would have on her own. Kusanagi‑Jones was hard‑pressed to keep up.

The game of follow‑the‑leader ended when Lesa and the khir turned off the main road down a curved, narrow, unpopulated street that Kusanagi‑Jones couldn’t enter without becoming obvious. He hung back, waiting for Lesa to round the corner, and didn’t step into the mouth of the street until her silhouette slipped out of sight.

If he were her, he’d have paused then, on the chance that he might get a glimpse of anyone following. So he didn’t race after. Instead, he chose a sedate path along the inside curve of the street, maintaining the wall’s cover for as long as possible. He paused to listen at the most extreme point of the arc–one of the drawbacks of New Amazonian architecture was the lack of useful reflective surfaces at street level–and mused briefly that eyes on the back of his head were all very nice, but he really wished that one of the tricks his wardrobe could perform was generating a periscope. For the space of three heartbeats, he listened, but heard nothing, not even the patter of a woman’s boots and a khir’s paws.

And then voices, softly, but too low for him to make anything useful of, given the echoes off tight walls. With careful steps, he rounded the corner. Lesa was not in sight, but the street ended in a T‑intersection, and a pedestrian was moving toward him on hurried steps, her eyes fixed on the street as if she needed to pay close attention to where she was putting her feet. She walked steadily, though–no trace of staggering.

It was reassuring to encounter other traffic. He nodded deferentially as she passed, even stepping aside to provide her a comfortable margin, but she paid him no notice. He continued on, allowing himself to hurry now, and paused before entering the intersection.

Another patch of ground where a couple of nice, big, street‑level windows would come in very handy. Kusanagi‑Jones frowned and stared at his feet. “House,” he murmured, “which way did Miss Pretoria go?”

He was not answered, not even by a flicker of color absorbed from the deepening sky overhead.

He licensed a hand mirror and used it to check both ends of the cross street, crouching so when he extended it, his arm lay parallel to and near the ground. There was movement to the east, but the mirror was too small to reveal more.

His fisheye, however, showed him that the pedestrian was safely out of sight. He released the mirror and touched his wrist, keying the wardrobe back into camouflage mode. Then he stepped forward.

Lesa Pretoria was there. Back against a wall, her hands spread wide but not raised, exactly, so much as hovering, and Walter beside her, balanced on his hind legs like a miniature kangaroo, with his forelegs drawn under his chest and the feathers on his long, heavy tail fanned wide. They were surrounded by five armed women, and a man Michelangelo knew from the reception the first night: Stefan, a light‑complected fellow with unusually fair hair, more so even than Vincent’s.

The man had his back to the alley and his bulk hid part of the scene. Beyond him, what Kusanagi‑Jones had taken to be two attackers was revealed as an attacker and a hostage with her arm twisted behind her back, her own confiscated weapon by her ear.

The hostage was Katya Pretoria. Which explained Lesa’s careful, motionless poise.

Vincent would have known the instant he saw the bystander hurrying away. He would have read it in her gait, the guilty downcast of her eyes, the haste.

Kusanagi‑Jones wouldhave to walk in on a mugging blind.

Or maybe not a mugging. Having Katya as a hostage–miserable, trying with pride not to flinch away from the muzzle of her own weapon–would tend to indicate that something more complex was occurring. Lesa had made casual comment about people kidnapped by pirates, after all, and not in a sense that indicated she was, entirely, joking. And there was the incident with Vincent–

As Kusanagi‑Jones moved, he obtained a more complete perspective. The stranger was holding the weapon cocked beside Katya’s head. Not actually in contact, but close enough to make the point in a professional manner.

Lesa’s weapon was still holstered, but the other women were all armed, and only one of them hadn’t drawn. Kusanagi‑Jones didn’t take her for the ringleader, though. More likely a scout.

A poorly trained scout. She repeatedly glanced over her shoulder at the confrontation, rather than facing the approach, weapon ready.

Actually, her right hand was bandaged and splinted, and though her weapon was rigged for left‑hand use, he thought that hand flexed awkwardly over the holster.

Sometimes you got a lucky break.

Well,Michelangelo thought, at least I’m invisible.

For now. He thought he could rely on the New Amazonians to figure things out once he acted. And while his wardrobe couldstop bullets, it couldn’t do it forever. It cost in power and in foglets, and the technology needed time to recharge and repair.

He wasn’t without assets, though. She might be female, but Lesa was deadly enough with a sidearm to win Vincent’s respect, as Vincent had impressed on him after the discussion in Lesa’s office. Katya was another factor. Duelist or not, Kusanagi‑Jones didn’t think she was the sort to just stand there and weep. And, of course, the khir. Kusanagi‑Jones could only guess from old media how useful it might be in a fight, but he knew police and military had used dogs as attack animals before Assessment, and the khir was bigger than any image of a dog he’d seen.

He hoped they hadn’t overstated the case.

If Lesa was the…gunslinger…Vincent had intimated, she’d initiate something when she saw an opening. Which meant Kusanagi‑Jones needed to giveher that opening, while being alert for any moves she might make on her own, and standing ready to abort and follow her lead. He just hoped she didn’t do anything hysterical, or freeze up because of the gun to her daughter’s head.

He was getting blasted tired of trying to second‑guess people smarter than he was. And it wasn’t made any easier when they were women.

If this was the same crew that had attempted to abduct Vincent–as the lousy perimeter guard’s bandaged hand tended to indicate–they might be armed chiefly with nonlethal weapons. They would want everyone alive.

Which would be why the woman controlling Katya was using Katya’s weapon. Because itwould be loaded with lethal rounds, and Lesa would know that. If one meant to threaten, it never hurt to reinforce your intention with a little evidence.

If one meant to act, however, sometimes the element of total surprise came in handy.

Kusanagi‑Jones moved forward. The wardrobe’s camouflage function was designed to bypass automated security. Mere human senses never stood a chance as he picked his route between the attackers. The target was of average height, for a New Amazonian. Her dark brown hair was cropped short and brushed forward into a coxcomb, dyed cherry‑red at the tips. She held Katya’s weapon with confidence, and her voice carried.

“Please place your hands on your head, Miss Pretoria, and turn to face the wall.”

Lesa seemed to be obeying, slowly and with deliberation. Her hands rose, her eyes unswerving on the gunwoman’s face. Walter’s leash still slid looped around her left wrist, and the khir hissed as she turned, its nostrils flaring. Michelangelo wondered how long it could balance on its hind legs–it showed no signs of strain yet–and he wondered also why the cherry‑haired woman didn’t just drop it. Whatever need kept them from harming Lesa, he couldn’t imagine it applied to her pet.

That was, he hoped, secondary. He found a position behind the gunwoman before Lesa finished her hesitation‑march pirouette. His moment would come when Lesa’s back was fully turned. The target’s attention should shift, momentarily, from controlling Lesa and Katya to ordering her troops.

That would be the moment when Katya would be at the least risk from his intervention. And he saw it coming in the shifting of the target’s weight, the instant when she drew a deeper breath, preparatory to speaking.

New Amazonia had specified that the negotiators come unarmed, all security to be provided by Penthesilean forces. And so Vincent and Kusanagi‑Jones had carried no obvious weapons. But a utility fog was, by its very nature, adaptable technology, and they carried data under diplomatic seal. And among those data were licenses for weapons banned on every Coalition world.

The cutting wire that formed between Kusanagi‑Jones’s hands as he raised them wasn’t actually a monofilament. It was composed of a single chain of hand‑linked foglets, and it was neither as strong nor as sharp as a monomolecular wire.

It didn’t need to be.

He formed his arms into an interrupted loop, as if to capture her in a surprise embrace, and brought the wire down.

It caught the target below the elbows. Slight resistance shivered up the invisibly thin wire as it made contact, and Michelangelo jerked down.

The target made no sound. For a hopelessly long time–a third of a second, longer–she stared in shock at the abrupt termination of her arms. Both her hands fell, and Michelangelo had just enough time to hope the pistol didn’t discharge from the shock when they hit.

And then the target’s heart beat and blood sprayed from her stumps, soaking Katya and spattering Lesa, Walter, and the wall. A thin moan filtered through her teeth, cut off abruptly as Michelangelo slit her throat, passing the wire through flesh with a quick, sliding tug that didn’t sever her spine because he snapped the filament off before it pulled completely through.

He stepped clear as she fell. Shock would buy him split seconds, but there were five more enemies to account for. With any luck, Katya would reclaim her weapon and help even the odds.

Michelangelo surrendered to the mercy of trained reflexes. He spun, moved to the next target, slipping in blood. Its pewter stink and the reek of urine rose as he took a second woman down, striking nerve clusters in the neck and solar plexus. A bullet sank into his wardrobe, the sting unbalancing, but he recovered as she fell. Lesa’s gun spoke; the fair‑haired man grunted as Walter plowed into his chest.

It would be good to have at least two for questioning. Michelangelo used feet and fists and elbows, gouged and kicked. A tangler splashed against a wall, shunted aside by his wardrobe. He heard a second one discharge, but it wasn’t close. He didn’t see where; it was a blur of motion in his fisheye, and he was distracted by the passage of blows with a gap‑toothed woman whose hair lay in flat braids behind each ear.

She couldn’t see him, but she could fight. Air compression or instinct, she parried six blows, each one flowering blue sparks as his wardrobe shocked her. She gave ground as he advanced. She would have caught the seventh on the cross of her arms if she hadn’t slipped in blood.

The grin was a rictus as she raised her hands, seared patches showing on her forearms, one foot coming up, bracing to roll her over and aside. Too slow. Michelangelo stepped forward between her knees and kicked her hard, in the crotch.

Her expression as she coiled around the pain was almost worth three very long New Amazonian days of being treated like a child‑eating monster, and a not very bright one at that.

Lesa’s gun was silent, and as Michelangelo kicked his latest target in the temple to keep her quiet, he saw her snared in webbing, writhing against the strands in an effort to free her weapon hand. Walter was down, too, sprawled on his side with a gash through feathers and scales across his ribs. Katya pushed herself to her feet, so drenched in blood as to be barely recognizable, but with her sidearm clutched in one sticky hand. The last two assailants left standing were casting left and right for any sign of their invisible attacker.

Katya lifted clotted hair from her eyes left‑handed as she brought her weapon up. “Stand down,” she said.

The women stepped forward. Michelangelo kicked the one on the left under the chin; they ducked sideways as the other woman discharged a chemical firearm. The three‑shot burst stuttered against his wardrobe, transferred shock emptying his lungs.

“Stand down!” Katya yelled, before he regained his balance, but the other woman didn’t lower her weapon. He turned, moved toward her–

–and Katya shot her through the heart. Michelangelo didn’t even see an impact. Flechette rounds, maybe. She went down anyway, looking shocked, and hit with a liquid thud.

“Shit,” Katya said, wiping her bloody mouth on a hand that wasn’t any better. “Shit.”

Kusanagi‑Jones spared a glance around the battlefield. “Nice shooting for a girl who doesn’t duel.”

Katya put a hand down and pushed herself to her feet, then planted both hands on her knees and stood doubled over, panting, for a moment. “Mom made sure I knew what I was doing with weapons. It isn’t her fault I think shooting people for points of honor is stupid. Michelangelo?”

“It’s me,” he said, snapping off his wardrobe’s filters as she came upright.

She blinked, looked down at the weapon in her hands, and back up at him. “Wow.”

“Good trick, huh?”

She swallowed and didn’t nod. Instead she came toward him, pistol hanging from half‑curled fingers, shaking so hard her shoulders trembled. He looked down, frowned, checked one more time for enemies in a position to do damage, and uncomfortably dialed his wardrobe down to offer the girl a hug.

Not even shaking, shuddering,from the nape of her neck to the soles of her feet, and the only reason her teeth weren’t clacking was because her jaw was clenched so tightly the muscles stood out under her ears. “Never killed anybody before?”

She shook her head.

He squeezed her roughly and backed away, pushing her in the direction of the downed khir. “Gets easier. I’ll untangle Miss Pretoria.”

She went, silently. He checked the casualties one more time while picking his way between them to get to Miss Pretoria. It never hurt to be sure.

And Katya was a good kid, for a girl. He was even more impressed if this was her first fight.

He left the wardrobe dialed down. He’d need to touch Lesa to get the tangler off. “This won’t take long,” he said, picking through licenses as he crouched beside her, looking for the right antiadhesive formula.

He was loading it when Katya shot him in the back.

18

AT DINNERTIME, THE HOUSEHOLD DISCOVERED MICHELANGELO was missing, and Vincent was subjected to a brief, cursorily polite interview with Elena on a wicker‑furnished sun porch overlooking the central courtyard.

“He left with Lesa,” Vincent said, shading the truth.

Elena, seated with her back to the courtyard, the evening’s balmy air blowing the scents of fireworks and wilted flowers around her, frowned over her datapad.

“Lesa’s not answering her com,” she said with the air of one bestowing state secrets. “And Walter, one of the household khir, is missing.”

“Let me guess,” Vincent said, unable to keep the dryness out of his voice. “Lesa’s especial pet.”

“It would be a mistake to think of khir as pets, exactly.”

She had kept him standing, and he consciously arranged himself at parade rest, weight on his heels, body relaxed, spine hanging from his skull like a string of beads straightened by gravity. “Though you collar them?”

“We identify who the responsible humans are. But the khir are perfectly capable of resettling if conditions don’t suit them. They have their own packs and family arrangements. It’s considered unwise to intervene.” She pushed idly at the iced drink resting on the low table before her, tracing fingertips down the glass‑beaded side. “This was their city first. In any case, in the light of yesterday, we must consider foul play.”

Vincent folded his arms, firming his mouth. Nothing as daunting as Michelangelo’s frictionless mask, but he wouldn’t be much of a diplomat if he couldn’t lie with a straight face. “I find it surprising they would have left without security.”

“They didn’t make you aware of their destination, then?” The furrow between Elena’s eyebrows creased deeper. She sat back abruptly, flicking moisture off her fingers like a cat. “I assumed the lack of security meant it had something to do with”–a dancing gesture, back and forth–“private matters.”

“Between you and me?”

She nodded.

“It might have,” he said. “I presume Lesa passed along the substance of our conversation last night.”

“She said you were unforthcoming enough about your partner’s politics to make her curious.”

“I was,” he said.

Elena sat forward. “I’ll have contact codes for your mother, documents, a timetable. Coordination is going to require discretion and effort.”

“Elder Pretoria,” he said, leveling his voice with far more effort than he allowed to show in it, “what about Angelo and your daughter?”

“Katya and Agnes have taken out search parties,” she said. “I’ve informed Miss Delhi and the rest of her security team, and no doubt they are scouring the city as well. In the meantime, it’s not as if our other business will wait.”

“In the meantime,” he replied, “I don’t suppose you’ve made any progress in locating the missing statue.”

“Phoenix Abased?”She studied her fingernails. “I believe security directorate is looking into it.”

“If it’s not located,” he said, “I may have some difficulty convincing the Coalition Cabinet that it’s wise to repatriate the rest of the liberated art. To a city that can’t manage to keep track of the jewel of the collection for twelve hours, once it’s released to their authority.”

“That would be unfortunate,” she said. “Because New Amazonia would no doubt interpret that as further evidence of the Coalition’s perfidy. And I think even Claude would find it challenging maintaining generalized acceptance of neutrality or appeasement under those circumstances.”

“The Christ,” he said, biting his lip to keep the grin under control. “That’s worthy of my mother.”

Elena tipped her head. “It’s hard to imagine a higher compliment.”

Lesa had said it. Only a member of Parliament could have pulled off the theft. One such as Elena Pretoria, the Opposition leader. “So you have a plan to foment revolution. Convenient. What do you plan to do about Robert?”

She spread her fingers wide. “He’s just a stud male. An unusual male, but a male. His chances of successfully accusing three well‑placed women are slim. Unless he had hard evidence–which I don’t believe–his testimony is easily discredited. It’s a minor scandal how much Lesa spoils him, anyway.”

The chill that crawled across his shoulders might have been the sunburn. “So you’re unconcerned.”

“Honestly,” she said, “given Claude’s blunder in challenging Miss Kusanagi‑Jones, I find it hard to see how our situation could be better. Assuming, of course, that they are located quickly.”

“Assuming.” He took it as leave to go when she lifted her drink and turned to the window. She could mask her worry from her family, but not from him, and it made them both uncomfortable.

Still, he managed to avoid panic until after nightfall, when a commotion in the courtyard roused him from unprofitable ceiling staring, watching the reproduced image of the Gorgon slowly color the darkening periwinkle of a crepuscular sky. He rolled off the bed quickly and hurried to the arch, his injured leg lagging. The pain medication helped, but couldn’t obscure ongoing twinges.

He came out under the real sky, washed by city lights until it shone less bright than the reproduction inside, and paused with his hands on the balcony railing. A stem of carpetplant stuck between his toes, and he momentarily forgot the ache of his knee and the seared shivers crossing his tender back. Below, several dark heads gathered, women rushing barefoot from the house, and a doorway in the courtyard wall–a sort of garden gate without a garden–stood open on the street beyond, two girls observing through the crack with gamine eyes.

He spotted Elena easily as she strode into the courtyard, the others giving way before her, except for one. Katya Pretoria stayed crouched beside an exhausted, bedraggled khir. The animal’s head curled up on a long neck, trembling, but otherwise it lay spread on its side, and Vincent could see the white glare of bandages against scaled, feathered hide.

“Dammit,” he said, stepping back. “Dammit, dammit, dammit.”

A few limping steps brought him inside, into the gentler light projected from the ceiling. He stopped, stared up at the pale colors of the nebula, and forced himself to breathe slowly.

The door irised open at his approach. An alert and concerned‑looking guard met him, setting aside the datapad she was reading to rise from her bench. “Miss Katherinessen?”

“Why wasn’t I informed?” he snarled. She stepped back, arms crossed, and he sighed and modulated his tone. “I’m sorry,” he said, through the taste of gall. “I need to speak to Elder Pretoria immediately.”

“I’ll see what I can do. If you’ll return to your room…”

“No. I’m going with you.”

She stared, but he refused to glance down. She wasn’t wearing a weapon, unlike most women, and he was glad. Otherwise, he thought she might shoot him if he stepped any closer. At least he had height and age on her. He lifted his chin and folded his arms, feeling like the heroine in a Victorian drama.

Her arms dropped to her sides. “This way.”

He followed meekly, rubbing grit from the corners of his eyes. He was notlosing Michelangelo. Not with long‑elusive dreams about to settle on his hand like butterflies. War, revolution, treason–these seemed minor considerations now.

He almost didn’t recognize the emotion. It was hope. And it was also hope settling into his gut with a painful chill. He’d forgotten what it was like having something to lose. But apparently he hadn’t forgotten how much it hurt to lose it.

Along the walk, he learned that the guard’s name was Alys, and that she wasn’t a member of Elena’s family, but was raised in a less wealthy household and working in service until she could afford her own citizenship stake. She led him down stairs and along another curved corridor tiled in faux terra‑cotta, which combined with the thicketed landscape of the walls to suggest a jungle path. At least the movement eased the ache in a knee further strained in descending the stairs.

“Your culture believes in the beneficial power of walking,” he said as they paused for Alys to consult her datacart and locate Elder Pretoria.

“Saves on chemical antidepressants,” she quipped, and frowned slightly when he didn’t laugh.

“And I would have guessed the jungle was rich in useful pharmaceuticals.” He knew he should have bitten his tongue, and couldn’t be bothered. Michelangelo was still missing, he was being kept deliberately in the dark, and she had the nerve to look disappointed at his lack of attention to her jokes.

“I believe you should discuss that with Elder Singapore,” she said coolly. “Elder Pretoria is on the porch, Miss Katherinessen. She’ll see you.”

Her pique amused him, and it might have been impolitic to let her see it, but he was beyond caring. So he nodded and smiled as he walked past her down the short corridor to the veranda, through an open archway and into the still‑warm night.

Elena waited as promised. She placed a rough pottery cup in his hand before he spoke a word. The shape clung to his fingers, and the contents perfumed the air above with the fermented tang of alcohol. He set it down without tasting it, brushing garlands off the ledge to make room, and drummed his fingers beside it.

“Katya must have checked in, mustn’t she? Before she brought the khir in for medical treatment.”

“We didn’t want to distress you with imperfect data.”

“Of course not.” The ledge was very smooth, and lattice laced with flowers and sticks of incense stretched above it to the veranda’s overhanging roof, so he had to peer through the chinks as if through a veil to see the courtyard beyond. The khir had been brought inside. Neither Katya nor any of the household staff and family members who had descended to assist her were present. “I understand that you wouldn’t want to disturb my fragile emotional equilibrium.”

The finger drumming was unlikely to convince her that he was calm. With an effort, he smoothed his hands and curled them around the base of the cup. The pottery wasn’t cool, but compared to the sun‑retained warmth of the ledge, it seemed so.

“My apologies, Miss Katherinessen. It was thoughtless.”

He licked his lips, lifted the cup, and turned back. She stood as he had left her, hands folded around a similar cup–he couldn’t be sure of the color in the dark–and her face half shadowed, half picked out in pinpricks from nebula and courtyard light filtering through the lattice. “Tell me now,” he said.

“Katya found Walter in a street about six kilometers from here. In Cascade, which is not the best neighborhood. He was wounded, unconscious, and there were signs of a fight.”

Vincent realized the cup was at his lips only when it clicked against his teeth. “What signs?”

Elena rocked back on her heels. “Blood. A great deal of it. Marks of bullet ricochets and tangler fire.”

“Bodies?”

“None.”

He closed his eyes, breathed out, and breathed in across the liquor. The sting brought tears to his eyes. “What now?”

“There may be a ransom note,” she said. “Or an extortion demand. Security directorate is investigating. A house‑to‑house search has been authorized–”

“Unacceptable.”

“Miss Katherinessen,” she said, her dignity unmoderated by the interruption, “my daughter is missing as well.”

“Yes,” he said. “You haven’t even been able to find one ‘stud male’ in a city where he can’t legally walk the streets without a woman’s permission. And I’m supposed to take your efforts to ensure Angelo’s safety seriously?”

“It’s Carnival,Miss Katherinessen. You’ve seen what the streets are like this time of year.”

“And yet nobody witnessed anything? I want to see the scene.”

“And expose yourself further?”

“You had no qualms about exposing me when I was shot at–”

“Now we do,” she said. She looked down at the surface of her beverage. He wondered what she saw reflected. “Relax,” she said. “Not only is Elder Kyoto very interested in getting Miss Kusanagi‑Jones back, but Saide Austin has become involved. And she is verywell connected. If anybody in Penthesilea can find Lesa and your partner, it’s the pair of them.”

Of course Saide Austin wants him back,he thought. It’d be a crying shame if her time bomb died on New Amazonian soil, far from the people he was meant to infect.What he said was, “I wish to return to the government center. I will feel safer there, under proper security.”

“I’ll see to it tonight,” she said. “Go make your farewells to the house, if you have any.”

He went quietly. The guard Alys was not waiting in the hall. He glanced left and right, but saw no trace. She must have expected Elder Pretoria to send for her when she was required.

Or Elena had sent him out intentionally unescorted for some purpose of her own. He paused in the hall, recalling the route back to his borrowed rooms unerringly. He could retrace it…or he could do a little unofficial wandering under the guise of being lost.

Don’t be silly,he told himself, following the corridor back the way he’d come. You’re inventing busywork to keep your brain off Michelangelo. It’s as likely an oversight; she’s a crafty old creature, but not everything is conspiracy, not even on this planet, and not even everything in Pretoria household happens to Elena’s plan.

Lesa Pretoria was proof enough of that.

He paused at the foot of the stair, one hand raised to rub at his nose, and froze that way. Of course. Elena couldn’t arrange for him to visit the scene of the kidnapping, if it were a kidnapping and not a murder–and the Christ damn this outpost of hell for its archaic technology anyway. If they could manage an engineered retrovirus, they ought to be able to swing a twelve‑hour DNA type. But she could buy Vincent a sliver of time in which to speak to Katya in private about what she’d seen. And Katya would doubtless be with the injured khir.