Текст книги "Burning Bright"

Автор книги: Melissa Scott

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Melissa Scott Burning Bright

Part One

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Day 30

High Spring: Parking Orbit,

Burning Bright

Quinn Lioe walked the galliot down the sky, using the shaped force fields of the sails as legs, balancing their draw against the depth of gravity here in the planet’s shadow. Stars glowed in the mirror display in front of her; spots of dark haze blocked the brilliance of sun and the limb of the planet, so that she could see and read the patterns that gravity made in the vacuum around her. The low‑sail, under the keel of her ship, vibrated in its cup: the field calibration had slipped badly on the journey from Callixte to Burning Bright, would have to be adjusted before they left orbit. She sighed, automatically easing the field, and widened the cross‑sails’ field to compensate. Numbers flickered across the base of the mirror as the ship’s system noted and approved the changes; she felt the left cross‑sail tremble under her hand, as its draw approached the illusory “depth” of hyperspace, and shortened it even before the warning flashed orange and red across her screen. The galliot continued its easy progress as though there had been no chance of grounding.

“Beacon,” she said to the ship, to traffic control waiting somewhere ahead of her in the parking pattern, and a moment later a marker flared in the mirror’s display, ahead and slightly to the left of the galliot’s course. She sighed, wanting to hurry, wanting to be done and parked and free for the five days or more that it would take to recalibrate the fields, but disciplined herself to safe and steady progress. The galliot crept forward, sails beating slowly against the weak currents of hyperspace that were almost drowned by the local gravity. Her hands rested lightly on the controls; she felt the depth of space in the pressure of the sails, saw the same numbers reflected in the slow swirl of the currents overlaid on the mirror’s mimicking of reality.

At last she brought the galliot to a slow stop almost on top of the unreal marker, and shortened the sails until the system gravity took over, drawing the ship neatly into the designated space. She smiled, pleased with her precision, and kicked the lever that lit the anchor field. Lights flared along the mirror’s base–familiar, but nonetheless satisfying–and the ship said sweetly, “On target. Anchorage confirmed.”

“Nicely done,” a familiar voice said, and Lioe glanced over her shoulder in some surprise. She hadn’t heard Kerestel enter the pilot’s dome, had thought he was still back in cargo space sorting out what had and hadn’t gone on the drop. And, to be fair, cleaning up after the bungee‑gars.

“Thanks,” she said aloud, and ran her hands across the main board, closing and snuffing the sail fields. She set the anchor field then, watched the telltales strengthen to green, and turned away from her station, working her shoulders to free them of the night’s– morning’s, she corrected silently, it was the beginning of the new day on Burning Bright–painstaking work. “How’s it look back there?”

“Bungee‑gars,” Kerestel said. He leaned against the hatchway, folding his arms across his chest. His hands and bare arms were still reddened from the embrace of the servo gloves he used to move the canisters that held the cargo safe during the drop to the planet’s surface. “Gods, they’re a grubby lot.”

Looking at him, Lioe bit back a laugh. As usual, Kerestel was wearing a spacesuit liner, this one more battered even than usual, the long sleeves cut off at the shoulder to make it easier to work the servos. He had stopped shaving two days into the trip– also as usual–and the incipient beard had sprouted in goatish grey tufts. The hat that marked him as a union pilot–this one a beret of gold‑shot grey brocade, pinned up on one side with a cluster of brightly faceted glass–perched, incongruously jaunty, on his balding head.

Kerestel had the grace to grin. “Well, you know what I mean. And Christ, the pair of them couldn’t make up their minds what was to go in the drop–if they had minds.”

Lioe nodded, and turned to the secondary board to begin shutting down the mirror. Bungee‑gars, the hired hands who rode the drop capsules down out of orbit to help protect particularly valuable cargoes from hijacking after landing, were generally a difficult group to work with– you have to be pretty crazy to begin with, or desperate, to take a job like that–and the two who had come aboard on Demeter had been slightly more bizarre than usual. “What I don’t care for,” she said, “is running cargo that needs bungee‑gars.”

“You got a point there,” Kerestel said rather sourly, and Lioe allowed herself a crooked smile. Cargoes that needed bungee‑gars were valuable enough to hijack in transit as well as at the drop point, and the free space between the Republic and the HsaioiAn was loosely patrolled at best, with no one claiming either jurisdiction or responsibility. She shook the thought away–there had been no sign of trouble, from Callixte to Demeter or after–and keyed a final set of codes into the interpreter. Overhead, and across the front of the dome, the tracking overlays began to fade, first the oily swirls that showed the hyperspatial currents, and then the all‑but‑invisible blue‑black lines that showed the depth of realspace. The stars blazed out around them, suns strewn like dust and seed, tossed in prodigal handfuls against the night where the plane of the galaxy intersected the mirror’s curve. Then the shields that cloaked sun and planet vanished, and the brilliance drowned even the bright stars. Lioe blinked, dazzled, and looked away.

“But if they’d only make up their mind,” Kerestel said, and Lioe frowned for a second before she realized he was still talking about the bungee‑gars. “You probably felt it, Quinn, they kept changing which capsules were going, so by the time they’d decided, the whole ship was unbalanced. I’ll bet money that hasn’t helped the low‑sail projector.”

“I didn’t feel we were off alignment,” Lioe said. “She handled fine, and the projector didn’t feel any worse than when we left Demeter. You did a good job, Micky.”

She saw Kerestel’s shoulders relax, subtly, and realized that he had been looking for that reassurance all along. She hid a sigh–she liked Kerestel well enough, liked his ship even better, but his insecurities were wearing–and said, “Speaking of which, have you scheduled the repairs?”

“Yes.” Kerestel’s face brightened. “The yard says they can take us into the airdock tomorrow, and they’ll tear down the projector right away. The whole thing, including recalibration, ought to take about eight days. Not bad, eh?”

“Not bad,” Lioe agreed. Not bad at all, especially when it happens over Burning Bright. “I thought I’d take off, go planetside,” she said, carefully casual. “You’re not going to need me up here.”

Kerestel frowned slightly, said, after a heartbeat’s pause that seemed much longer, “You’re going Gaming, right?”

“That’s right.” Lioe bit her tongue to keep from adding more. This is Burning Bright, heart of the Game, where the best clubs and the best players–the greatest notables–live and work. I’m not missing this chance. Chances like this are only once a lifetime–

“It’s a game, Quinn,” Kerestel said.

“And it’s one I’m very, very good at,” Lioe retorted. She grinned, forced a lighter tone. “Christ, Micky, it’s not like I’m quitting.”

“One of these days, though,” Kerestel muttered, and Lioe reached across to touch his shoulder.

“Not likely, and you know it. Piloting’s a steady living, and I’m not stupid.” I had to work too hard to get the apprenticeship, coming out of Foster Services; I’m not giving that up anytime soon. But that was none of Kerestel’s business; she forced the smile to stay on her lips, said, “All I’m saying is, I think I’m going to spend the repair break planetside. All right?” She could force the issue, she knew–they were both union, and the union gave her the right to move off the ship anytime it was anchored in orbit for more than five days–but she liked Kerestel too well to use that lever unless she had to. And besides, he’s getting old, one foot on the retirement line. I don’t want to hurt his feelings.

Kerestel nodded, reluctantly. “All right,” he said, and then made himself sound more enthusiastic. “And good luck with the Game.”

It was those efforts that made him worth working for, even if he was getting old and querulous. “Thanks,” Lioe said, and retreated to her cabin to collect her belongings.

It didn’t take her long to pack: her jump bag was easily large enough to hold a couple of changes of clothes, plus her Gameboard and the thick plastic case that held the half‑dozen Rulebook disks. She seized a hat at random, this one black, with a wide brim, shrugged on a jacket–her favorite, heavy blue‑black workcloth with a flurry of Game pins across the lapels–and tapped into the local comnet to find a taxi‑shuttle to take her across to the customs station. Kerestel was nowhere in sight when it arrived, and she hesitated, but called her good‑byes into the shipwide intercom. There was no answer; she shrugged again, caught between hurt and annoyance, and pulled herself through the transfer tube to the taxi.

The landing check was strict and time‑consuming. The officer on duty went over her papers with excruciating care, and ran the Rulebooks through a virus scan twice before grudgingly allowing her to carry them onto the surface. She made the orbiter with only minutes to spare, and collapsed into her seat, resolved to sleep for as much of the descent as possible.

She woke to the unfamiliar noise of air against the orbiter’s hull, sat up in her harness to see fire rolling across the viewport. The orbiter bucked and fought the sudden turbulence, and then they were down into the atmosphere. Servos whined underfoot and in the cabin walls, reconfiguring wings and lifting surfaces, and the orbiter became a proper aircraft, banking easily against the heavy air that held it. The engine fired, a coughing explosion at the tail of the taxi, and the craft steadied further, came completely under control. Lioe released the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, and craned her head to look out the viewport again.

“We’ll be landing at Newfields in about fifty minutes,” the steward said, from the front of the cabin. “It’s day thirty of High Spring, the end of High Spring–that’s day ninety‑four of our four‑hundred‑day year. Burning Bright has a twenty‑five‑standard‑hour day, and you should program your chronometers accordingly. If you are keeping Greenwich Republican time, the GRTC factor is eighty‑eight B‑for‑bravo one hundred fifty‑two. Ground temperature is twenty‑three degrees. If you need any assistance, or further information, please feel free to ask. Your call buttons are on the cabin wall above your head.”

No one seemed to respond, and Lioe turned her head back to the window. Clouds flashed past beneath them, thin wisps that only partly obscured the glittering water. Burning Bright was mostly water; the main–the only–landmass was largely artificial, the new land built on the inner edges of the giant atoll’s original islands, guarded from floods by a massive network of dikes and storm barriers. The city of Burning Bright–city and planet shared a name; the two were effectively identical–was one of the great engineering achievements of the nonaligned worlds: even in the Republic, and even in Foster Service schools, Lioe thought, you learn that mantra. And it was pretty much true. In all the time she’d spent in space, piloting ships between the Republic and the nonaligned worlds and HsaioiAn, she’d never been anyplace that was at all like Burning Bright.

“Can I get you anything?”

Lioe looked up to find the steward looking down at her, balancing easily against the movement of the orbiter, one hand resting on the back of the empty couch beside her. She shook her head, but smiled. “I can’t think of anything, thanks.”

The steward nodded, but didn’t move. “I couldn’t help noticing your pins.”

Lioe let her smile widen, grateful she hadn’t had to set up this encounter herself. “I saw yours, too.” She glanced again at the pair of Game pins clipped just below the company icon: one was the triangle‑and‑galaxy of the Old Network, but the other was unfamiliar. “Local club?” she asked, and was not surprised when the steward shook his head.

“Actually, it’s a session souvenir,” he said. “It was a Court Life variant, run by Ambidexter about five years ago.”

“I think I saw tapes of that,” Lioe said, impressed in spite of herself. The steward didn’t look old enough to have been playing at that level five years ago. “That was the one that featured Gallio Hazard and Desir of Harmsway, right? The one that really made Harmsway a Grand Type.”

“That’s right.” The steward glanced quickly around the cabin, then lowered himself into the couch next to her. “I’m Vere–Audovero Caminesi.”

“Quinn Lioe.” They touched hands, awkward because of her safety harness.

“You wouldn’t be the Lioe who wrote the Frederick’s Glory scenario,” Vere said.

“As a matter of fact, I am.”

Vere grinned. “That was a great session. There’s been a lot of talk on the net about it; I’m still trying to find someone at the club who’ll run it. Are you going to be doing any Gaming while you’re here?”

The conversation was going just the way she’d hoped it would. Lioe said, “I was hoping to. I don’t know the clubs, though.”

Vere spread his hands. “I can give you some names, if you’d like.”

“I’d appreciate it.”

“There are really only three clubs that are worth your while,” Vere said, lowering his voice until she could just hear him over the noise of the engines. “Billi’s in the Old City, Shadows under the Old Dike in Dock Road District, and the Two‑Dragon House, in Mainwardens‘.” He grinned suddenly. “I think Shadows is the best of the lot–it’s where I play, so take it for what it’s worth.”

Lioe smiled back. “What’s the setup like?”

“They’re all about the same, really,” Vere answered. A chime sounded from farther forward in the compartment, and he lifted his head to look over the seatbacks for the source. Lioe followed the direction of his gaze, and saw a call light flashing above one of the seats. Vere grimaced, and pushed himself to his feet, but leaned down to finish what he had been saying. “Shadows has newer machines, but they’re not state‑of‑the‑art. Billi’s was that maybe four, five years ago. Two‑Dragon is pretty standard stuff, a little older than Shadows.”

“Thanks,” Lioe said, and Vere smiled down at her.

“Don’t forget me if you run an open session.”

“I’ll keep you in mind,” Lioe said, and meant it. She would be needing good players, if she managed to persuade a club to let her lead sessions, and anyone who could play for Ambidexter was good enough for her. It was just a pity Ambidexter himself was no longer in the Game.

She turned her head to the viewport again, was startled to see how far the orbiter had dropped. The water was no longer just a blue haze, had gained a crumpled texture, and flecks of white dotted the metallic surface. Burning Bright City was just visible in the distance, if she craned her neck, but mostly hidden by the orbiter’s nose. The craft banked sharply then, showing her nothing but the brilliance of the sky, and when it steadied onto the new heading, Burning Bright lay spread out beneath the orbiter’s wing. It seemed very small at first, an island split in three by a forked channel, but then the orbiter banked again, losing altitude, and she began to make out the smaller landformed islands that made up the larger masses. Most of them were thickly settled, furred with brick‑red buildings, light glinting occasionally from solar panels and interior waterways. Only the high ground at the outer edges of the islands remained relatively uncrowded. She frowned idly at that, wondering why, and the speakers crackled at the front of the cabin.

Vere said, “I’ve just been informed that we are starting the descent to Newfields. We should be on the ground in about fifteen minutes.”

The orbiter canted again as he spoke, and when it came level again, Lioe was looking at a scene she recognized. Twin lakes lay to either side of a piece of land like a small mountain, falling steeply to the sea on one side and more gently into settled country on the other. That was Plug Island, where the first‑in settlers had first dammed the shallow lagoon to create more land for their growing city. Double headlands cradled each of the lakes; the desalination complex and the thick white walls of the tidal generating stations that closed each lake off from the sea gleamed in the sunlight. Outside the generating stations’ walls, surf bloomed against the storm barriers that defended the Plug Island lagoons; it frothed as well against the base of the cliffs to either side. They were coming into Newfields. Even as she thought it, the orbiter rolled a final time, then steadied into the familiar approach. They flashed over the clustered houses of the Ghetto where the off‑worlders, and especially the hsai, lived–still on the inner edges of the island, overlooking the land, away from the sea–and then dropped low over the administrative complex. The orbiter touched down easily on stained and tire‑marked pavement, and she leaned back in her couch, no longer watching the blocks of warehouses that flashed past beyond the empty field. Not long now, she thought, not long. I’ll find a room in the Ghetto, and I’ll call some clubs, and I’ll have a Game to run. She smiled, losing herself in a dream.

Day 30

High Spring: The Hsai Ambassador’s

House, in the Ghetto, Burning Bright

The ambassador to Burning Bright knelt in his reception room, facing the hissing screen. A few check‑characters crawled across the blank grey space; the ambassador frowned, seeing them, and glanced over his shoulder at the technician who knelt in front of the control board.

“Sorry, Sia Chauvelin,” the technician murmured, and his hands danced across his controls. The characters vanished, were replaced by a single steady glyph: the link was complete.

Chauvelin glanced one last time around the narrow room, at the plain black silk that lined the walls, at the low table with the prescribed ritual meal–snow‑wine; a tray of tiny red‑stained wafers, each marked in black with the graceful double‑glyph that meant both good fortune and gift; a molded sweet, this one in the shape of the nuao‑pear that stood for duty–laid out in the faint shadow of a single perfect orchid in an equally perfect holder carved from a natural pale‑purple crystal. His own clothes were equally part of the prescribed ritual, plain black silk coat over the pearl‑grey bodysuit that served humans like himself for the hsai’s natural skin, a single knot of formal ribbons tied around his left arm, the folded iron fan set on the bright carpet in front of him. He glanced a final time at his reflection in the single narrow window, checking his appearance, and found it acceptable. It was night out still, the sun not yet risen; he suppressed a certain sense of injustice, and glanced again at the technician. “Is everything ready?”

“Yes, Sia Chauvelin.”

“Then you may go.” Chauvelin looked back at the screen, barely aware of the murmured response and the soft scuffing sound as the technician bowed himself out and closed the door gently behind him. The remote was a sudden weight against his thigh, reminding him of his duty; he reached into the pocket of his coat to touch its controls, triggering the system. The hidden speakers hissed for a moment, singing as the jump‑satellite bridged the interstellar space between the local transmitter and an identical machine on maiHu’an, and then the screen lit on a familiar scene. Chauvelin bowed, back straight, eyes down, hands on the carpet in front of him, heard a light female voice–human female–announcing his name.

“Tal je‑Chauvelin tzu Tsinraan, emissary to and friend‑at‑court for the houtaof Burning Bright.”

Chauvelin kept his eyes on the fan, dark against the glowing red of the carpet, staring at the five n‑jaocharacters of his name carved into the outer guard. There was a little silence, and then a second voice answered the first, this one unmistakably hsaia, inhuman and male.

“I acknowledge je‑Chauvelin.”

Chauvelin leaned back slowly, raising his eyes to the screen. Even expecting it, the illusion was almost perfect, so that for an instant he could almost believe that the wall had dissolved, and a second room identical to his own had opened in front of him. The Remembrancer‑Duke Aorih ja‑Erh’aoa tzu Tsinraan sat facing him in a carved chair‑of‑state, hands posed formally on the heads of the crouching troglodyths that formed the arms of the chair. His wrist spurs curved out and down toward the troglodyths’ eyes, their enameled covers–done in a pattern of twining flowers, Chauvelin saw, without surprise–glowing in the warm lights.

“This person thanks his most honored patron for his acknowledgment,” he said, in the hsai tongue that he prided himself on speaking as well as any jericho‑human, any human born and bred inside the borders of HsaioiAn. “And welcomes him with service.”

Ja‑Erh’aoa made a quick, ambiguous gesture with one hand, at once accepting and dismissing the formal compliments. The stubby fingerclaws, painted a delicate shade between lavender and blue to match the enameled flowers of the spur sheath, clicked once against the carved head, and were still again. Chauvelin read impatience and irritation in the movement, and in the still face of the human woman who stood at ja‑Erh’aoa’s left hand, and braced himself for whatever was to follow.

“I would like to know, je‑Chauvelin, what you meant by this report.”

For a crazy second, Chauvelin considered asking which report the hsaia meant, but suppressed that particularly suicidal notion. The Remembrancer‑Duke had shifted from the formal tones of greeting to the more conversational second mode, and Chauvelin copied him. “My lord, you asked for my interpretation of what the All‑Father and his council should expect from the elections. I gave you that answer.”

“You recommended that we support, or at least acquiesce in, Governor Berengaria’s reelection.” Ja‑Erh’aoa’s hand moved again, the painted claws clicking irritably against the troglodyth’s low forehead. “Am I mad, or do I misremember, that she supports the Republic quite openly?”

Chauvelin winced inwardly at the mention of memory–ja‑Erh’aoa implied that he had implied an insult–and said, “It is so, my lord.” He kept his voice cool and steady only with an effort: he had known that this would become an issue of an’ahoba, the delicate game of status and prestige, but he had counted on ja‑Erh’aoa’s support.

“Then why should we not stand in her way?”

I gave you my reasons in my report, my lord. Chauvelin suppressed that answer, and saw the faintest of rueful smiles cross the human woman’s otherwise impassive face. He said aloud, “My Lord, the other candidates are not safe. They either have no backing among the people who matter”– or among the people in general, but that’s not something a hsaia would understand–“or are too young and untried for me to suggest that HsaioiAn place any trust in them.”

“It is not expedient that we support Berengaria,” ja‑Erh’aoa said flatly.

“Then, my lord, it is as though my report was never made.” Chauvelin sat back slightly, folded his hands in his lap.

“Unfortunately,” ja‑Erh’aoa said, “your report has become common knowledge in the council halls. I have suffered some–diminishment–because of it. It is even being said, je‑Chauvelin, that you are too close to the houtaon Burning Bright, and would perhaps benefit from a different posting.”

“Do you question my loyalties, lord?” Even as he said it, Chauvelin knew that was the wrong question, born from the sudden cold fear twisting his guts. It was too direct, put ja‑Erh’aoa in a position where he could only answer yes–and he himself was too vulnerable to that accusation to risk angering his patron. No chaoi‑mon, citizen by impressment, could risk that, particularly not when he was born on Burning Bright and served now as ambassador to that planet. He silenced those thoughts, kept himself still, hands quiet in his lap, face expressionlessly polite, with an effort that made the muscles along his spine and across his shoulders tremble slightly beneath the heavy coat. He made himself face ja‑Erh’aoa guilelessly, as though no one had touched his one vulnerable spot, pretended he did not see the Remembrancer‑Duke’s fingerclaws close over the troglodyths’ heads.

“No one questions your fealty, je‑Chauvelin,” ja‑Erh’aoa said, after a moment. “However, it is as well not to cause even the hint of a question.”

Bad, very bad, Chauvelin thought. He bowed again, accepting the rebuke, and said, “As my lord wishes.”

“I would also see to your household, je‑Chauvelin,” ja‑Erh’aoa said. “I am concerned that this report has traveled so far outside my knowledge, and yours.”

Chauvelin lifted an eyebrow at him, stung at last into retort. “My household is well known to me, save the guest I entertain at your command, my lord.”

There was another little silence, ja‑Erh’aoa’s hands slowly tightening over the troglodyths’ heads, thumbclaws perilously close to their carved eyes, and Chauvelin braced himself to offer his humblest apologies. Then, quite slowly, ja‑Erh’aoa’s hands loosened again, and he said, with apparent inconsequence, “How is your guest, Chauvelin?”

“The Visiting Speaker is enjoying the pleasures of the planet,” Chauvelin answered, conventionally. In point of fact, the Visiting Speaker Kuguee ji‑Imbao aje Tsinraan, cousin of the Imperial Father, is spending most of his nights attending parties and most days sleeping off the effects of Oblivion. Even so, I may have underestimated him–or at least his household. He made a mental note to make a second investigation of the half‑dozen attendants who had arrived with ji‑Imbaoa.

“You will convey our greetings,” ja‑Erh’aoa said, and Chauvelin bowed again.

“As my lord wishes.”

Ja‑Erh’aoa nodded, pushed himself up out of the chair‑of‑state, at the same time gesturing to the woman behind him. She said, in her clear voice, “The audience is ended.”

Chauvelin bowed again, more deeply, hands on the floor, straightened slowly when the click of the room door was not followed by the static of a broken connection. Eriki Haas tzu Tsinraan, ja‑Erh’aoa’s First Speaker, looked back at him without expression, came slowly forward to kneel on the carpeting in front of ja‑Erh’aoa’s empty chair. Chauvelin lifted an eyebrow at her.

“What’s made this report so different from all the others? My lord knows what I think of Berengaria.” He used tradetalk, the informal creole that was the common language of human beings in HsaioiAn, and Haas’s severity melted into a rueful grin.

“What makes it different is exactly what he said: somebody leaked it before it could be edited for the council. And my lord’s right, you should check on how that happened.”

“I fully intend to,” Chauvelin said. “This is not the most opportune time to have a visitor.”

Haas nodded. “The problem is, the je cousins have been getting a lot of attention at court lately–Norio Mann is a je Tsinraan, and he’s been the All‑Father’s favorite son since the petro strike on Hazuhonae. And the cousins are doing everything they can to consolidate their position.”

Chauvelin nodded back, wishing–not for the first time–that communications between the court on Hsiamai and the worlds outside HsaioiAn were a little more frequent. “If I had known–” he began, and bit off the words. The rivalry between je and tzu lines of the imperial family–between cousin and direct‑line family–was ongoing; if he couldn’t anticipate particular events and shifts in favor, he should at least have made sure nothing in his report could have affected the Remembrancer‑Duke’s position in that struggle. But I didn’t count on his dumping ji‑Imbaoa on me. Or his household.

Haas smiled sourly. “For some reason, Tal, they’ve decided to pick on you–you are in an anomalous position, after all. And my lord is vulnerable through you, don’t forget.”

“I don’t forget,” Chauvelin said.

“Good.”

“Tell me this,” Chauvelin said, and in spite of his best efforts heard the anger in his voice. “Do you want me to retract my report? It’s my best advice–my lord never used to prefer a political lie to common sense, but I am at my lord’s command.”

“No.” Haas waved one hand in a hsaii gesture, negation and apology in one. “What’s done is done. But you might look for some way to reaffirm your loyalties in public, Tal. My lord would find it helpful.”

“I’ll do that,” Chauvelin said, a new, cold fear warring with the anger. He had earned his place on Burning Bright, earned the right to return to his homeworld, a favor almost never granted to chaoi‑mon, and that did leave him open to just this accusation, that he favored his origins over the imperial clan that had adopted him.

Haas looked at him from under lowered lashes. “My lord is vulnerable through you,” she said again.

“The threat was clear the first time,” Chauvelin said.

“I hope so,” Haas murmured, and ran a finger along the elaborate enameling that decorated the cover of her implanted wrist spur. The picture wavered and died. Chauvelin swore, and reached for his own remote, closing down the local connection. Check characters flickered across the screen, and then the wall went dead, a blank grey space at the end of the room.

Chauvelin sat staring at it for a long moment, mastering his anger, and the fear that anger masked. So my lord will throw me to the wolves, he thought, testing the idea, and found he could view it without great surprise. So I will find a reason for him to have to keep me, and I think I will begin with finding something, or something more, to discredit ji‑lmbaoa. Not that that will be that hard, or particularly unpleasant. He pushed himself slowly to his feet, wincing a little at the ache in his knees. Outside the window, the sky had lightened visibly, the sky even to the west, over the city, showing clear signs of dawn. There was no point in going back to bed–the conference had been scheduled at ja‑Erh’aoa’s convenience, and he himself had other appointments later in the day. Better to eat– assuming the kitchen staff is awake, which they had better be–and then take steps to deal with this.