Текст книги "Burning Bright"

Автор книги: Melissa Scott

Соавторы: Melissa Scott
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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

The city stretched out below her, a breathtaking view over the housetops toward the Inland Water. The sky above the city was milky white, sunlight filtered by clouds, but light still glinted from the solar panels and on the murky water of the Junction Pool at her feet. It was busy, barges and lighters of all sizes snugged up to the multiple docking points that lined the Pool’s edges. One of the largest ships, broad‑beamed, its deck piled high with the familiar scarred‑silver shapes of drop capsules, was moored at the foot of a cargo elevator. As she watched, fascinated–pilots rarely got to see where their cargoes ended up–a crane swooped down, delicately picked up two of the capsules, and added them to the neat pile growing in the elevator’s open car.

She finished the coffee before the crane operator finished loading the elevator, and looked sideways again, checking the time. Past noon, and it would take almost an hour to reach Shadows–more, if she understood right, and the Storm celebrations had already begun. She looked again toward Ransome’s door, blinking away the chronometer’s numbers, wondering what she should do. It seemed rude just to leave, but it might well be worse to wake him. Of course, she could always leave a note. She looked around, searching for a notepad/printer or pen and paper, and the door to the bedroom opened.

“Good morning,” Ransome said. He looked tired, Lioe thought, more tired than she would have expected. “I see you found the coffee.”

“Yes, thanks,” Lioe answered. “I made a second pot.”

“Thank you,” Ransome said, and stepped into the kitchen. “I’m glad you found the makings, most people I know drink tea.” He came back out into the loft’s main room, mug of coffee in one hand, a polished spherical remote in the other. His hand moved easily over the steel‑bright surface, and the display space in the center of the room flashed into life. Lioe looked away, vaguely embarrassed, from the loop she had compiled the night before.

“That’s really quite good,” Ransome said.

“Beginner’s work,” Lioe said, more roughly than she had intended. In the display space, a metal‑skinned woman transformed herself into a bird, the fingers elongating into feathers, hair into the crest of a hawk, body melting and shrinking into a compact and vicious form, rose and turned and swooped on something invisible, then landed, body beginning to turn again into a woman’s even as she fell the last few meters, until the silverskinned woman sat again on a bench in the sun, inspecting her long, bony feet. Even in the light from the window, the forms were clear and vivid.

“Certainly,” Ransome said. “Everybody starts off with this kind of thing. But it’s got promise. You could do something with it.”

Lioe looked suspiciously at him, but he was staring at the images, watching the loop run its course one more time. It wasn’t often one heard judgment and praise so neatly balanced; there was something in his tone that let her believe his words. “Thanks,” she said. She sounded stilted, even to herself, and added, “And thanks for letting me play with your equipment. I really enjoyed it.”

Ransome touched the remote again, and glyphs flashed in the air around him. From where she stood, Lioe could only see enough to recognize the drop‑to‑storage sequence. “You should try it again. I’m serious, you have a knack.”

“Thanks.” Lioe looked at the chair, the wire gloves discarded on the stand beside it, but made herself look away. “I’ve got to be at Shadows, though. I’m committed to a training group for their session leaders.”

“For Ixion’s Wheel?” Ransome asked, and Lioe nodded.

“They’re paying me,” she said, and didn’t know quite why she felt so defensive.

Ransome grinned. “Well, that’s a good reason, there. But don’t you ever get sick of the Game?”

“No,” Lioe said, automatically, and then, because Ransome had been honest with her, added, “It’s not like I do it for a living.”

“You could,” Ransome murmured.

Lioe made a face. “I suppose. But I like piloting, which is a steady income, unlike Gaming, and–” She stopped abruptly, acknowledging what he had said. “And, yes, I think I’d be bored–well, not bored, exactly, but the Game, the scenarios never seem to resolve anything.”

Ransome nodded. “Ixion’s Wheel comes pretty close, from what I saw.”

Lioe smiled, and didn’t bother to deny it. “It could be the start of something. I think Avellar could pull the whole Game together into one really big scenario, but I know damn well no one’s going to want to play that.”

She stopped then, knowing how she sounded, but Ransome nodded again, more slowly, his expression remote. “A scenario that concentrated on Avellar’s bid for the throne–you’re right, that would pull everything in, wouldn’t it? Rebellion, Psionics, Court Life… it would be worth playing. And Ixion’s Wheel really sets it up. Have you started work on it?”

“No one wants to change the Game,” Lioe repeated. “Not that drastically, anyway.”

Ransome sighed. “You’re probably right, which is why I stopped playing. It’s a pity, though.”

It’s the nature of the Game. Lioe said instead, “I suppose. But, listen, I do have to leave, if I’m going to make this meeting on time. Thanks again.”

“My pleasure,” Ransome said, automatically. “You know where the helipad is?”

“I know where the tourist‑trolley stops,” Lioe answered. “I can’t afford helicabs.”

“All right,” Ransome said. “Are you running any sessions yourself today?”

“Tonight,” Lioe answered. She looked back, her hand on the main latch. “Why?”

“I thought–” Ransome paused, then gave a wry smile. “I thought I might see if there were any places left. Like I said the other night, it’s been a long time since I’ve seen a scenario that made me want to play.”

“Shall I hold Harmsway for you?” Lioe asked.

“Why not?” Ransome’s smile changed, became openly mischievous. “I don’t think that part was played to its potential.”

Lioe smiled back, flattered and apprehensive at the same time. Ambidexter in the scenario, playing his own template: it was a thought to conjure with, and to strike terror into the souls of lesser players. It was also a challenge, and she did not turn down a challenge. “I’ll do that. And thank you again for a fascinating evening.” She let herself out into the hallway, not quite hearing his murmured reply.

Left to himself, Ransome went back into the narrow kitchen, rummaged in the cold storage until he found a package that promised to cook in three minutes. He fitted it into the wall‑mounted cooker, and made himself open the container once the timer sounded. The spicy pastry smelled good, but his appetite did not return; he forced himself to finish it anyway, standing at the counter, and turned his attention back to the main room and the empty display space. Lioe’s hat was sitting on the folded bed, forgotten in her hurry. He sighed, and hoped he would remember to return it that night.

The hawk‑woman had been a good image, for someone who’d never worked with more than the Game’s more limited editors, and Lioe had been quick to sense the difference in form between the Game images and the image loops that filled a story egg. It was just too bad she was so caught up in the Game… He crossed to the windows, staring down on the city. It would be Carnival already in the Wet Districts, the streets and canals busy with costumed figures. It would be Carnival on the nets as well, and that might be the best time to look into just why Damian Chrestil wanted him back in the Game.

He turned back to the display space, spun his chair into place at its center, but hesitated, slipping on the wire‑bound gloves. It would be Carnival, all right, but that didn’t mean that his usual net projection wouldn’t be recognized. He crossed to the shelves where he kept the shells of the unfinished eggs, searched among the clutter until he found the mask he had bought two years before, for a party he could no longer clearly remember. It was a plain white mask, of the three‑quarters size that left only mouth and chin free, a standard form, eyebrows and cheekbones and nose all coarsely modeled from the dead white plastic. He contemplated it for a moment–it had always been an affectation of his not to mask, to walk the streets and nets at Carnival as himself–but this was not the time for that. He set the mask carefully on one of the imaging tables, and switched on the cameras. Lights flared, crisscrossed, catching the mask in a web of stark white beams. He turned back to the display space, and saw the mask’s image floating in the air above his chair, waiting to be remade.

He fingered the remote to dim the windows, and the image grew correspondingly stronger as the competing daylight faded. He set the remote aside, pulled on the remaining glove, and settled himself in his chair. The servos whirred softly, tilting it and him to the most comfortable position; the image moved with him, floating in the air within easy reach. He studied it for a moment longer, then reached tentatively into another image bank to pull out a series of other faces. He found one with a mouth he liked, bleached that image to match the mask’s absolute lack of color, then patched the two together, bringing the mouth and chin from the new image to cover the missing parts of the original mask. He studied the result for a moment, then ran his hand over the compound image, deepening the modeling of mouth and chin so that it matched the mask. He cocked his head to one side, then drew the corners of the mouth down into a parody of tragedy’s mask. He tilted the eyes down as well, filled the empty holes with absolute black, and dumped the resulting image to main memory. It was not at all his usual style: no one on the nets should recognize it as him.

He reached into control space to change modes, rewriting his usual identification‑and‑projection package to display the newly created mask, and flipped the whole system to Carnival mode. Now all identification inquiries would automatically be ignored–this was the only time of year when that routine would not get one dumped from the nets in short order–and a secondary program would deflect any attempt to trace the point of origin. He smiled then–he was going to enjoy this after all–and flipped himself out onto the nets.

The nets were crowded with ghostly shapes, a cheerful anarchy overriding the narrowcast lines and filling the unreal echo of the city with light and sound and sheets of brilliant color. Scenes like the loops of a story egg filled a number of nodes: rather than simply projecting an image, many of the maskers had chosen to create a brief repeating scene, and let that represent them to the world. Ransome let himself drift for a while, slipping from one system to the next with the ebb and flow of the crowds. A few groups and systems still tried to keep to business‑as‑usual, pale geometrics and strings of symbols competing with the gaudy loop‑displays of the revelers, but they were easily overwhelmed. Some of the Carnival displays were elaborate, a sphere of scenery enclosing a character or two–often Grand Types from the Game–so that Ransome had either to bypass that particular node or move through the ongoing scenario. Near the Game nets, it was easier to go through than to try to find a way around the miniature worlds; he let himself slide through like a ghost, ignoring the spray of words and images that greeted any stranger, idly tracking the Grand Types that appeared. There were quite a few Avellars, as well as the inevitable Barons and Ladies: Lioe should be pleased, he thought, and turned his attention toward the port systems.

If Damian Chrestil wanted him back in the Game, it was all but certain that the Game was not really important, was only a blind–and certainly he’d found nothing during his time on the Game nets to indicate otherwise–which made it well worth his time to see what was happening on the various nets that served the port and the traders who depended on the port for their living. He dimmed his own image further, so that he saw his mask floating ghostly through a Bower of Love that currently filled a transfer node. It was a striking image, the death‑white mask drifting expressionless, incurious, through the flower‑draped temple where an improbably well‑endowed man and woman were locked in vigorous and detailed sex, and he touched the capture sequence to record the moment. It would make an interesting story egg, someday, but he made himself turn away once the capture was complete and follow the multiple channels into the port systems.

There were fewer Carnival images here: more off‑worlders used the port nets, and there weren’t many Burning Brighters who dealt with them who could afford to give up a day’s trade. Still, an Avellar walked through a segment of corridor, striding hard as though it was work to keep up with the moving tiles; another Grand Type, the Viverina, braided tiny human skulls into her long hair. Ransome frowned, trying to remember the scenario that had spawned the image, but couldn’t place it. The Judge Directing presided over a node that gave entrance to a merchant bank. The serene face was semitransparent, and Ransome recognized familiar features behind the cloaking Carnival image. He adjusted his own projection, allowing his familiar on‑line presence to show behind the floating mask, and slipped into the node.

The Judge Directing turned to face him, the ster serenity melting to a more familiar grin, and codes flashed through the display space, weaving a private link‑in‑realtime. “Ransome. I didn’t expect to see you masking.”

“Neither did I,” Ransome answered, truthfully. Guyonet Merede was a Gamer as well as a banker, and a former patron who owned several of his earlier story eggs. “But it seems to have worked out well.”

“It’s a nice image,” Merede said. He was older than he looked behind the Judge’s face: the projection’s stony beauty reminded Ransome for an instant of Lioe’s face in repose.

“Thanks,” he said. “I wonder if you could do me a favor, Guy. I need access to the raw feed from the port computers–the unsorted line, the one that carries the general traffic.” If Damian Chrestil wanted him on the Game nets, it could only be to keep him away from some other part of the greater system. C/B Cie. was an import/export firm, and that most likely meant smuggling. And the best way to track that down was to sift the day‑to‑day chatter and hope that, despite the sheer volume, he could find some hint of an irregular shipment, something that didn’t match the more public records. And if I can’t find it, well, there are other places to look, political games he could be playing, and I won’t have wasted much time. But I’m betting it’s a doctored cargo.

Merede was silent for an instant, his face gone very still, and then he said, cautiously, “You know I can’t do that, I‑Jay.”

You’ve done it before. Ransome said aloud, “I just need to pull some numbers for a piece I’m working on. It’s a commission for the MIS, and I need some strings for background. I thought I’d tie part of the loop to the trade balance.”

It was an easy lie, and plausible, but to his surprise Merede shook his head. “I’m sorry, I‑Jay. If it weren’t Carnival–but we’ve had some complaints recently, people saying stuffs been pulled out of the raw feed that should’ve stayed confidential. I just can’t do it.”

Ransome nodded. “I can see that. I guess I can rig what I need some other way.” He did his best to look thoughtful, glad of the mask that screened his features. “Who’s been complaining, anyway?”

Merede glanced down at something out of camera range. “The Five Points Bank’s merchant division–you know, the exchange‑rate people?–and a couple of importers, Ionel Factor and C/B Cie., and one of the private captains.”

Who I just bet is connected to the Chrestil‑Brisch, too. Ionel Factor was closely tied to the Chrestil‑Brisch–Ionel dealt in off‑world spirits, and therefore, inevitably, was tied to the Chrestil‑Brisch distillery and their various wholesalers–and Bettis Chrestil was head of the merchant division’s steering group. “You think there’s anything in it?” he said aloud, and Merede shrugged.

“We haven’t seen anything on our screens, and we tap pretty carefully. I suppose it could be a very directed probe, but–between you and me only, Ransome–I think they’re overreacting.”

“I’ll keep it quiet,” Ransome said. “Thanks anyway.” He touched the key sequence that released the private linkage, and let himself drift deeper into the port nets. He adjusted his presence, making the mask opaque again, so that his identity was completely hidden except to the most determined probe, and shifted the scale slightly. To a cursory scan, he should look like a bounce‑echo from the chaos on the public nets, a common enough phenomenon at this time of year. Satisfied, he let himself slide further into the system, looking for an interface of commercial and customs data.

It took him over an hour to find that node–it shifted, as did the codes that guarded it–and another hour to prove to himself that it was unusually well guarded. None of the usual sources would provide a key, and that left Selasa Arduinidi, who was one of the better security consultants in the business and, on the shadow nets, a reliable data fence. She had a name as a netwalker, too, prided herself on knowing how to access any part of the net, but when he finally tracked her down, she shook her head in disgust.

“I’ve been fighting with that one for two days now, I‑Jay. I haven’t cracked it yet. You’ll have to get legit codes for that one, I’m afraid.”

“Nobody’s telling–or selling,” Ransome answered. He stared at her icon floating in the air in front of him, a huge‑eyed owl perched in a glowing tree branch that seemed to grow directly out of the lines of the net itself. “What’s going on, Selasa?”

“I don’t know,” Arduinidi answered, but there was something in her voice, a subtle admiration that belied her words. “Somebody’s up to something, that’s for sure.” She broke the connection before he could ask anything more.

Somebody like Damian Chrestil, Ransome thought, sourly. The deeper he tried to probe, the more likely it seemed that the Game was just a blind, and that Damian Chrestil was hiding something. From the way his own probes were being blocked, it seemed to have something to do with run cargoes. But if that’s all, why is ji‑Imbaoa involved? Politics and smuggling: the two did not often overlap, but when they did, it was a particularly volatile mix. Which is what I will tell Chauvelin myself, he thought, and began to extricate himself from the maze of the port’s multinet. It would be easy enough simply to shut down his system, but then the automatics would take over the shutdown procedures and leave a clear trail back to his loft. Better to do things slowly, and make sure he wasn’t followed.

Day 1

Storm: The Hsai Ambassador’s House,

in the Ghetto, Landing Isle Above

Old City North

Chauvelin sat in his office at the top of the ambassador’s residence, staring into the desktop displays without really seeing the multiple screens. The hazy sunlight poured in through the slightly curved windows, dulling the displays; he hit the key that brought the glyphs and numbers and the harsh strokes of hsai demiscript to their greatest brightness, but did not dim the window glass. He could see the first signs of the approaching storm on the horizon beyond Plug Island, a thicker bank of clouds like fog or a distant landfall. The weather service still said that bank was only an outrider, and the real storm behind it would not arrive for days, but Chauvelin could feel it waiting, a brooding, distant presence. The street brokers had it at twenty‑to‑one to hit within the next five days, though the pessimists were hedging their bets by excluding lower‑category storms. Chauvelin sighed, and leaned back in his chair. If nothing else, the storm was already starting to interfere with the connection to the jump transmitter orbiting the planet, the one that carried the communications link with HsaioiAn. On the one hand, the erratic reception was a good excuse to keep ji‑Imbaoa from using the house transmitters without one of Chauvelin’s own household present, ostensibly to monitor the machinery. On the other, he was under no illusion that this would keep ji‑Imbaoa from finding some way to contact his patrons in HsaioiAn, nor would it prevent the Visiting Speaker from dealing with someone on planet. And it annoyed the Visiting Speaker. Chauvelin allowed himself a quick, private smile. That also had disadvantages, but it did give him a certain sense of satisfaction.

A chime sounded in his desktop, a discreet, two‑toned noise, and Chauvelin glanced down in some surprise. He had left instructions that he was not to be disturbed, and je‑Sou’tsian was usually scrupulous about obeying him. He touched the icon, and the tiny projector hidden in a disk of carved and lacquered iaon wood lit, forming a cylindrical image. JeSou’tsian bowed to him from the center of that column of light.

“I’m very sorry to interrupt you, Sia, but Na Ransome is here, and says he needs urgently to speak with you.”

Chauvelin lifted his eyebrows, but nodded. “All right, show him into–no, bring him up here. Without any of the Visiting Speaker’s people seeing him, if you can.” If Ransome had come in person, and not on the nets, it was bound to be something important.

“Yes, Sia,” je‑Sou’tsian said. “I’m sorry, but I’m not sure that some of the Speaker’s household didn’t meet him as he came in.” Her voice trailed off, and she gestured apology.

“That’s all right, it can’t be helped,” Chauvelin said. “But bring him up here.”

“At once, Sia,” je‑Sou’tsian said, and her image vanished from the cylinder. The empty rod of light retreated into its base, and a string of lights played across a secondary screen: the steward and Ransome were on their way. Chauvelin ran his hands across the shadowscreen, closing down some programs and putting others to sleep, watched as the multiple screens beneath the desktop copied his movements. A few moments later, the door slid open, and je‑Sou’tsian appeared in the arched opening.

“Sia, Na Ransome is here.”

“Thanks,” Chauvelin said, and gestured for the other man to come in. Ransome did as he was told, settled himself comfortably on the corner of the desk. Chauvelin smiled slightly, but said nothing: the seat would prove its own punishment.

“What is it?” he asked, and Ransome smiled back at him.

“You’ve been suckered,” he said bluntly– and with entirely too much enjoyment, Chauvelin thought. But that was his own fear speaking, not his intellect.

“How so?”

“I did exactly what you wanted,” Ransome said. “I’ve gone back into the Game, I’ve trawled the Game nets, every one of them at least twice, and there’s nothing going on–except Lioe’s scenario, of course. But nothing, absolutely nothing, that involves Damian Chrestil. But when I went onto the port nets, into the commercial systems, I found a lot of blocks that didn’t used to be there.”

“Such as?” Chauvelin kept his tone strictly neutral, buying time. He had been half expecting something like this, some new revelation of wheels within wheels, but not from the port district. He frowned slightly, readjusting his thoughts to add money and shipping to the already volatile political mix. It didn’t make sense, not yet–the Chrestil‑Brisch were supposed to favor the Republic, not HsaioiAn–but if Ransome was being shut out of the port computers, then there had to be an economic motive.

“For one thing–” Ransome paused, laughed shortly. “This is at best unethical, by the way, if not actively illegal.”

“I’m not surprised,” Chauvelin murmured.

Ransome nodded again, conceding the point. “It’s not usually very hard to get someone to give you an address and an access code for the raw datafeed from the port computers–you know, the ones that control the warehouse records for individual firms, scheduling, all that sort of thing.” He shrugged. “Too many people know about it, and there are always plausible reasons to want access. And of course, a lot of people owe me favors.”

“Of course.”

“But today, when I tried to get those codes, first of all no one was selling them–and I’ve never seen that happen, somebody’s put the fear of Retribution into the shadow‑walkers like I’ve never seen–and then no one I know would give me anything. Now, that’s happened before, especially after someone’s scored a coup, but no one has, that I’ve heard, and I hear these things.” Ransome paused, all the humor gone from his voice. “What I did find out was that some companies complained that information had been copied from those feeds, and used against them. And when I got names, they were all tied to Damian Chrestil.”

“Who were they?” Chauvelin asked.

“C/B Cie. itself, Ionel Factor–they import wines and spirits, and they’ve got ties to the Chrestil‑Brisch distillery business–and one of the FPB’s steering groups.”

“Let me guess,” Chauvelin said. “The merchant division, the one that Bettis Chrestil heads?”

“Got it in one.” Ransome smiled sourly. “But what exactly it all means is beyond me.”

And me, Chauvelin thought. At least for the moment. He looked down at the empty screens under the surface of the desktop, debating whom to query– Eriki Haas, certainly, once we’re in phase and if the transmitter is reliable enough, just to see what connections ji‑Imbaoa has with Damian Chrestil or C/B Cie. The chime sounded again beneath the desktop. He frowned, more deeply this time, and touched the icon flashing in the shadowscreen. The projector lit, and je‑Sou’tsian bowed from within the cylinder of light.

“I apologize again for disturbing you, Sia, but the Visiting Speaker is on his way to your office.”

That’s all I need. Chauvelin said, “All right, Iameis, thank you.”

“Wonderful,” Ransome murmured, a crooked smile on his face.

“Quite.” Chauvelin leaned back in his chair, deliberately closed the last of the sleeping files. There was nothing he could do to stop ji‑Imbaoa–the Visiting Speaker was technically head of the ambassadorial household during his visit, and no doors could be shut to him–but he did not have to welcome him. The shutdown codes were still flickering across the screens when the door slid back and ji‑Imbaoa strode into the room.

“So, Chauvelin,” he said, “your agent’s here. I want to talk to him.”

“As you wish,” Chauvelin said, spread his hands in a deliberate gesture of innocence. “I didn’t want to trouble you until I was sure it was worth your time.”

Ji‑Imbaoa’s fingers twitched– annoyance? Chauvelin thought, or fear? He did not move, but felt himself suddenly, painfully tense, waiting for the Visiting Speaker’s next move.

“What have you found? Have you gone back to the Game?”

Ransome hesitated, visibly choosing his words with care, and Chauvelin wondered for a moment if the other might have learned discretion. He need not have worried, however. Ransome said, “Yes, Na Speaker, I’ve been back to the Game, and found very little of interest.”

“Then surely you haven’t looked very hard, or very long,” ji‑Imbaoa snapped. “Particularly since you have only been looking for two days.”

“I don’t need any more than that to tell you there’s nothing there,” Ransome said.

Chauvelin said, “If Na Ransome says he’s found nothing in the Game, then there’s nothing to be found.”

Ji‑Imbaoa glanced back at him, fingers still twitching with unreadable emotion. “Then why should Damian Chrestil go to so much trouble to get him back into those nets? It must have to do with the Game.”

“Na Ransome thinks it’s a distraction,” Chauvelin said. “That Damian Chrestil’s real interests lie elsewhere.”

“Don’t you think you’re being overelaborate?” ji‑Imbaoa interrupted rudely.

“Perhaps the Visiting Speaker is being underelaborate,” Ransome murmured. “After all, he isn’t used to the complex dishonesties of our local politics.”

He had used the hsai word that linked dishonesty and foreignness, so that the statement hovered delicately between compliment and insult. Chauvelin said, “I think Na Ransome’s assessment is plausible, Sia.”

“And I tell you it is unlikely,” ji‑Imbaoa said. “I tell you, on my name and my fathers‘, this must be pursued, and pursued through the Game.”

Chauvelin kept his face impassive with an effort, torn between anger and elation. Ji‑Imbaoa had made it a direct order, one that Chauvelin could not directly disobey, but at the same time he’d made it equally clear that there was something important at stake. “Very well, Sia,” he said aloud. “Na Ransome will remain with the Game a little while longer.”

“Until he finds what Damian Chrestil wants,” ji‑Imbaoa said.

“So be it,” Chauvelin said. Behind ji‑Imbaoa’s shoulder, Ransome rolled his eyes.

“You must do more,” ji‑Imbaoa said, and turned to face the imagist.

“I do my poor best,” Ransome murmured, and bowed, too deeply for sincerity.

Ji‑Imbaoa ignored that, and glanced back at Chauvelin. “I expect to be kept informed.”

“As you wish,” Chauvelin said, and the Visiting Speaker lifted a clawed hand to signal the door. It slid open obediently, and ji‑Imbaoa stalked out, his ribbons flurrying behind him.

Ransome said, even before the door had fully closed again, “Pity everything else isn’t so docile.”

“You’d better have meant the door,” Chauvelin said, without heat.

“What else?” Ransome darted him a suddenly mischievous glance, said, “Am I to keep on with the Game, then? Or would you rather know about the larger nets?”

“Both,” Chauvelin said. “You heard him. I need you to be visible on the Game nets, to be sure he knows you’re doing what he ordered.”

“That won’t be too difficult,” Ransome said.

“You’ve changed your tune.” In spite of himself, Chauvelin felt a stab of jealousy, remembering the way the other had looked at the pilot, Lioe, the night before.

Ransome gave him a rueful smile. “She’s good,” he said. “And she’s wasted in the Game.”

Chauvelin said, more abruptly than he’d intended, “Whatever. But I do need you to be seen in the Game.”