Текст книги "Burning Bright"

Автор книги: Melissa Scott

Соавторы: Melissa Scott
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“I could introduce you,” Cella said. “I’ve met her.”

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

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

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

“I would say so.”

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

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

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

“Sia Chauvelin.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lioe smiled slightly. “Other Gamers.”

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

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

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

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

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

“It did,” Chauvelin said.

“For the better, surely,” Ransome said.

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

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

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

“Ah, the Visiting Speaker’s arrived?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A good evening to you, Governor.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Part Four

« ^ »

Day 1

Storm: Ransome’s Loft, Old Coast Road,

Newfields, Above Junction Pool

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

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