Текст книги "Burning Bright"

Автор книги: Melissa Scott

Соавторы: Melissa Scott
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“Do you want a velocab?” Lioe asked, tentatively, more to make sure he was all right than to get an answer to her question, and was relieved when he shook his head.

“No. It’s not far to the loft.” He sounded a little better, and Lioe let herself relax.

The streets were all but empty of pedestrians here, and only a few heavy carriers rumbled past, stirring the drifted dirt and sand. A fickle wind was blowing, a warm wind that carried an occasional hint of a chill at its heart. Lioe shivered at its touch, glanced again to the sky, but saw only the same hazy clouds, the sun a hot white disk behind them. It felt like the afternoon winds on Callixte, the summer wind that brought the big storms down onto the plains, and she found herself walking warily, as though too quick a movement would trigger lurking thunder. Ransome glanced curiously at her, then looked away.

They turned the last corner onto a street shadowed by the buildings to either side, and Ransome led her past a tangle of denki‑bikes, their security fields humming at an annoying pitch, to the access stair that ran along the side of the building.

“Isn’t there a lift?” Lioe asked involuntarily, but Ransome didn’t seem offended.

“There is, but it’s in use.” He nodded to the main doorway, where a red flag drooped, moving only sluggishly in the breeze.

“Oh.” Lioe followed him up the stairway, past the Carnival debris, broken bottles, a cluster of stained and ragged ribbons at the base of the stairs, another bottle on the landing; the crumpled papers and stained foils from a packet of Oblivion lay on the landing outside Ransome’s door. He stepped over them without looking, and Lioe did her best to follow his example.

The loft was pretty much as it had been when she’d left it, nothing changed except the pile of clothes on the floor outside the bedroom door. Her hat was sitting on the folded bed. Was it only yesterday that I left it? she thought, said aloud, “Can I get you anything?”

Ransome was already heading for the tiny bedroom, said over his shoulder, “Coffee?”

“Right.” Lioe went into the kitchen. She filled the machine and set it running, came back out into the main room just as Ransome emerged from the bedroom. His eyes looked slightly unfocused, and there were two spots of red on his cheeks that spread as she watched, as though he were blushing deeply.

“I appreciate your coming back with me,” Ransome said. His voice already sounded better, less choked. “I wasn’t sure I’d be able to talk the pilot out of taking me to a clinic.”

“Should you have gone to a clinic?” Lioe asked. “Should you go to a clinic?”

Ransome grinned. “No, I told you, I had what I needed here. They couldn’t‘ve given me anything different.”

Lioe nodded, watching him. “Are you all right?” she said slowly, and Ransome looked away.

“For the moment.” He sighed, turned back to face her. “As you probably already figured out, I have white‑sickness–it’s under treatment, so you don’t need to worry–but I’ve had it for a while, and the system’s slipping out of equilibrium.”

Which translates as, you’re starting to die. Lioe said, “I’m sorry,” and cringed at the inadequacy of the words.

Ransome went on as if he hadn’t heard, his tone so matter‑of‑fact that she winced at the unvoiced pain. “I have five to seven years, or so they tell me, so it’s not an emergency.”

Except that you can’t be much more than forty, and you ought to live another forty years. Lioe said again, “I’m sorry.”

“So am I.” There was a little pause, and then Ransome achieved a kind of smile. “Do you want some coffee?”

“Sure, thanks,” Lioe said, glad of the change of subject, and Ransome disappeared into the kitchen. He returned a moment later with two steaming mugs. Lioe took hers with a murmur of thanks, sipped cautiously at the bitter liquid.

“There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you,” Ransome said, and his voice was carefully casual, so that Lioe glanced back at him warily. “Especially since last night’s session.”

“Oh?” Lioe paused, and then shrugged. “Go ahead, I guess.”

“What the hell were your parents thinking of, to let you become a pilot?”

Lioe blinked, completely taken aback by the question. It was not at all what she’d been expecting– though what I was expecting I don’t know –and she didn’t quite know how to answer. She opened her mouth, stopped, closed it again. “I was good at it,” she said at last, and heard the annoyance in her voice.

Ransome spread his hands, almost spilling his coffee. “I didn’t mean to pry. It’s just that you’ve got an artistic sense, a talent for the Game, and for imaging. I’m surprised you didn’t get a chance to pursue it–I’m surprised nobody picked up on it.”

“No, it’s all right,” Lioe said. And after what you’ve told me, I’m not sure I have the right not to answer. She ordered her thoughts with an effort. “I was raised by Foster Services, on Callixte. They steered me toward the union certificate program, and when I won one of the scholarships–well, you know how hard they are to get. I wanted to take it, at least to prove I was as smart as the docents had always said.”

Ransome nodded. “Your parents died?”

Lioe shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t remember much about it–I pretty much don’t remember anything before the Service creche–but what they told me was, a couple of people found me in an abandoned house near the port district, Mont’eranza, it’s called. I was undernourished, but otherwise unhurt, and about six years old, as best the medical people could tell. So I ended up with Foster Services.”

“And the Game,” Ransome said. “Your scenario’s good, near brilliant, in fact.”

“Thanks.” Lioe grinned. “I’d still like to take this situation a little further, though, pull it all together. Can you imagine what that would do to the Game?”

Ransome nodded, his tone quite serious. “It would be enormous fun while it lasted, though, wouldn’t it?”

“I’m not eager to be lynched afterwards,” Lioe said. “Besides, I’d have to set it up now, change this scenario a little.”

“Do it,” Ransome said. Lioe looked at him, startled, and he said again, “Do it. And let me play Avellar.”

“Not Harmsway?”

Ransome shook his head. “Avellar.”

God, Lioe thought, that would be a brilliant bit of casting, and if anybody could pull it off, give me the setup I need for Avellar’s Rebellion–She smiled, realizing that she had already given the scenario a title. “When I run it again,” she said, slowly, “you can have Avellar, if you want him. But I’m not sure about making the changes.”

“If you won’t,” Ransome said, “I will.”

She lifted an eyebrow at him, not sure she believed him, and his smile widened. “I’ll do it, you know,” he said.

“I believe you,” Lioe answered.

“You needn’t sound quite so worried,” Ransome said. He paused, looked back toward the windows. The clouds had thickened a little since they had come in, turning the sky the color of milk, and the shadows had vanished. Lioe moved to join him, staring down into the Junction Pool. It was even more crowded than it had been, seemingly hundreds of barges tied up two deep at the piers, and smaller craft darted like beetles among them. She wondered briefly if Roscha were somewhere among them.

“There was something else I wanted to ask you,” Ransome said. “How did you happen to pick Harmsway for the scenario? Did Cella Minter–or anyone–mention him to you?”

Lioe blinked again, startled, and shook her head. “No. I’d worked up the scenario before I got here. We didn’t expect to spend any time on planet; we lost calibration in one of the sail projectors en route from Demeter, and had to lay over to reset it. I’d kind of forgotten that they were local Types when I showed the scenario.” Ransome nodded, still looking out the window, and Lioe frowned. My turn to ask questions, I think. “Why? Who’s–Cella, did you say?”

“Cella Minter.” Ransome paused. “You may have seen her at Chauvelin’s party the other night, a tiny woman, absolutely a perfect beauty. She’s Damian Chrestil’s mistress, when he isn’t chasing something else.”

Lioe paused, trying to remember, could vaguely recall a tiny woman with copper‑colored braids woven into sleek, jet‑black hair. She had been startlingly beautiful, seen from across the room, and more than a little intimidating. “So who’s Damian Chrestil? Any connection to C/B Cie.?”

There was a little silence, and Ransome looked at her. “He isC/B Cie. Decidamio Chrestil‑Brisch is his full name, he’s head of C/B Cie. Did you, your ship, bring in a cargo for him?”

“It was a C/B Cie. cargo, yes,” Lioe said. “Why?”

“Because Damian Chrestil has been trying to keep me out of the port nets for two days now,” Ransome said, anger and glee mixed in equal measures in his voice. “And maybe, just maybe, you can help me figure out why.”

“I don’t quite see the connection,” Lioe began, and Ransome cut in.

“What were you carrying?”

“I don’t want to be overly delicate about this,” Lioe said, “but why do you want to know? We’re supposed to keep our mouths shut about what we carry. General union rules.”

Ransome nodded. “Sorry.” He took a deep breath, gestured, spilling coffee, and set the mug aside, scowling. “Look, it’s like this. Chauvelin’s my patron. We’ve known each other for years–”

“I remember,” Lioe said. She could still see the little room in Chauvelin’s monumental residence, light gleaming off the story egg, the first one she’d seen. Chauvelin is your patron, and Chauvelin’s rival the Visiting Speaker hates you, quite personally.

“I’ve done various kinds of work for him,” Ransome went on, and there was a distinct note of pride in his voice. “I’m good on the nets, very good, and I occasionally do some research for him.”

“The charge is usually common netwalking,” Lioe murmured, and remembered, too late, that Ransome had been in jail. To her surprise, he laughed.

“True. Anyway, I’ve been–walking the nets for him lately, because the damn Visiting Speaker got it into his head that Damian Chrestil was up to something in the Game. When I checked it out, sure, he wanted me back in the Game, back involved, but there wasn’t anything really happening. It was all just a blind. So I started wondering what Damian Chrestil really wanted, and I haven’t been able to get into the port nets at all. So you see why I’d really like to know what you were carrying.”

Lioe shrugged. “Red‑carpet, according to the manifest. En route to a distillery here. We had a couple of bungee‑gars on board.”

“Is that normal?”

“Depends,” Lioe said. “I wouldn’t think red‑carpet was quite that valuable, but it’s close enough, I guess.”

“Who was the shipper?”

Lioe frowned, pulling names from her mental files. “A company called TMN, I think. They weren’t much.”

“I bet it’s smuggling,” Ransome muttered, as much to himself as to her. “There’s no other reason to keep me out of the port nets, except that he hasn’t rechristened the cargo yet. Damn it, if I could just get in!”

Lioe eyed him warily. It seemed overelaborate to her, a lot more complicated than simple smuggling would need to be– and I’ve seen enough smuggling combines at work to know that simple’s the way to go. “So why should the Visiting Speaker be worried about it?” she asked aloud.

“I wish I knew,” Ransome answered. He stopped suddenly, eyes wild. “But I do know, I just had it backward. Ji‑Imbaoa doesn’t want to know what Damian Chrestil’s up to, he already knows that because he’s involved in it. What he wants is me out of the way, me and Chauvelin, so that he can gain favor with whatever it is they’re smuggling.”

“That sounds a little complicated,” Lioe said when it became clear that some answer was expected of her.

“But that’s it,” Ransome said. “I’m sure of it. Ji‑Imbaoa’s a je Tsinraan, and they need to consolidate their position with the All‑Father. Chauvelin’s a tzu Tsinraan, he’d stop him on principle, regardless of what the cargo is. And Damian Chrestil’s an ambitious little bastard; he’s got lots of friends in the Republic, but not many in HsaioiAn. But if the je Tsinraan owed him a favor, that would give him some substance over the border, and that kind of connection there translates to power here, on Burning Bright. It makes good sense.”

“If you say so,” Lioe said, and didn’t bother to hide her own uncertainty.

“Trust me,” Ransome said. “Look, this has to be what’s going on–Christ, won’t Chauvelin be pleased, it’s the perfect excuse to get rid of ji‑Imbaoa–but I have to talk to some people.”

“Netwalking?”

Ransome shook his head. “I’ve tried that already. But there are some people up at the port who still owe me favors, and I think it’s time I called them in.”

“How are you feeling?” Lioe asked, pointedly. Ransome looked blank for a moment, then laughed.

“Fine. Look, I need to do this now, before it’s too late, but I wanted to know, were you serious about this scenario?”

Lioe hesitated for an instant–it would mean the end of the Game as she knew it–but then nodded firmly. “I’d like to work it out.”

“Do you want to use my systems?” Ransome asked. “It’s a little more private than Shadows would be, and I’ve got most of the library disks you’d need. We could talk about it when I got back, you could show me what you need to have happen to set up the new scenario.”

Lioe thought for a moment. It would be easier, working here–more privacy, fewer interruptions from players and would‑be session leaders who had questions about Ixion’s Wheel–but she’d already made plans for the day. “I’m supposed to meet Roscha. We’re going to see a puppet show in Betani Square.”

“So work here anyway; if I’m not back by the time you have to leave, come back when you’ve finished. I can give you a key, just in case I’m not back by then–though God knows I should be–but if I’m not, let yourself in and make free with the systems.” Ransome grinned. “You should know where things are by now.”

“All right,” Lioe said. “We’ll do this.”

“Great.” Ransome rummaged in a drawer without result, then stood scanning his shelves before he came up with a flat black rectangle about the size of a dice box. He handed it to her, and Lioe took it cautiously, feeling for the almost invisible indentations.

“Upper left is for the stairs,” Ransome said, “upper right is the main entrance, center is the loft door, lower right calls the lift–when it’s free.”

Lioe nodded.

“Then I’m off,” Ransome said. “I probably won’t be back before you have to leave, but I’ll see you after the show, all right?”

“I’ll be here,” Lioe said, and shook her head slowly as the main door slapped shut behind him. How do I get into these situations? she wondered, then grinned. Maybe Burning Bright was the home of the Game precisely because its own politics were as baroque as those of the imaginary Imperium. Let’s see if I can come up with something as complex for Avellar. She found the room remote, and touched its gleaming surface, darkening the windows and bringing up the display space. She pulled on the wire‑bound gloves and settled herself in the massive chair, wriggling a little as the cushions shifted beneath her, accommodating her weight. She reached into control space, touching virtual icons, and found a copy of her scenario waiting in storage. She defined a space, called it into those new confines, and sat for a moment, staring at the tree of symbols. Then she touched the first icon, and began to work.

Day 2

Storm: C/B Cie. Offices, Isard’s Wharf,

Channel 9, Junction Pool 4

Damian Chrestil stood at the back of the plotting shed at the end of Isard’s Wharf, watching the display table. A model of Burning Bright’s oceans, spread to scale on a virtual globe, floated above the tabletop; the shapes that represented C/B Cie.‘s various ships ghosted through the mirrorlike surface, the codes that represented their cargoes and destinations flickering to life at a gesture from some one of the attendants. The coiled shapes of the blossoming storms, a grand procession of them sweeping up the trade winds from the shallows below the equator, marched over the surface, interdicting great sweeps of sea. Most of the company’s ships were already in port, or within a day’s journey, but a few were still well out to sea, and the wharfingers studied them carefully, murmuring to each other. They and their assistants each carried a smaller plotting tablet and a delicate, gold‑tipped wand. As they gestured at the model, circling it like acolytes to adjust symbols and times and weather forecasts in search of the most economical arrangement, they reminded Damian of some mysterious and primitive cult. Behind him, the windows rattled in the rising wind, and one of the assistants glanced nervously toward the cloud‑white sky. On the model, a tight spiral of cloud was poised south and east of the entrance to the Inland Water.

“Have they made any guesses as to when the storm barriers will go up?” Damian asked, and the senior wharfinger, Rosaurin, shook her head.

“They’re hedging.”

“So what else is new?” Damian murmured. He glared at the model as though it could provide answers on its own, then shook his head. “I think we’re cutting it too close with the short‑haul boats. Have them ride it out south of the storm track.” He gestured with his own control wand, highlighted a grid mark on the model.

Rosaurin nodded slowly. “I’d rather get them home, but you’re right, we can’t risk it. Not when they can’t give me an estimate of when they’ll raise the barriers.”

Damian nodded back. The triple line of barriers lay at the bottom of the channel, were raised as the storm approached. They would hold back the worst of the storm surge, and protect the city, but once they were in place, no ships could enter the channel. They had all agreed, himself, the wharfingers, and the short‑haul captains, that it was worth taking one more trip to the seining grounds before Storm set in. Now the captains, at least, would have to live with the consequences. Still, they were experienced people, with good crews, and the boats were solid, well equipped. They should be all right, he thought, and turned his mind away.

“Na Damian?”

He turned, to find one of the younger dockers in the doorway, a thin young man with close‑cut blond hair that almost disappeared against his scalp. “Well?”

“You wanted to be told,” the docker said warily. “Roscha’s called in. She’ll be in the channel in about ten minutes.”

“Right,” Damian said, and couldn’t keep the satisfaction from his voice. “Can you take care of the rest of this, Rosaurin?”

The wharfinger nodded. “I’ll put together a final plot for your approval.”

“Do that,” Damian said, and left the shed.

Because of the approaching storm, there were perhaps twice as many ships tied up to the mooring points as usual, and the dock was littered with lines and spare gear. Damian stepped carefully through the clutter, and let himself into the outer office. The secretary pillar was, for once, clear of messages. He smiled rather bitterly– this once, I would have liked to have something waiting, preferably from ji‑Imbaoa–and went on into the inner room, seated himself behind his desk. The workscreen lit obediently, sensing his presence, but he ignored the flickering prompts, debating whether or not he should call the Visiting Speaker himself. Not just now, he thought, and touched keys to call up his security files. The check files were all in place– or not quite all. He frowned, studying the origination codes that the security programs had preserved for him: Ransome, almost certainly, and that means I’ll have to do something about him. Or about ji‑Imbaoa. He put that thought aside with regret–he’d gone too far to back out now–and the secretary chimed discreetly.

“Na Damian, Roscha is here.”

Damian touched the shadowscreen to hide the security programs. “Send her in.”

Roscha appeared in the doorway almost at once, her perfect figure obscured by a loose jacket knotted at her waist. “You wanted to see me, Na Damian?”

“Yes.” Damian paused for an instant, assessing how best to approach the question. “I hear you’ve been sleeping with this new notable, Lioe.”

Roscha blinked–whatever else she had on her conscience, she hadn’t expected this–and said, cautiously, “We’ve seen each other a couple of times, and I played in a couple of her sessions. I only met her three days ago.”

“You played a session with her last night,” Damian went on.

Roscha nodded.

“The C‑and‑I rep was part of that Game, too, am I right?”

“Yes,” Roscha said again, and waited.

“I gather they knew each other, Lioe and Desjourdy?”

“Yes.” Roscha drew the word out to two syllables, frowning now. “Look, Na Damian–”

“Are they just old friends, fellow Gamers, what?” Damian interrupted her. “Or has Lioe worked for her?”

“Jesus.” For the first time, Roscha looked worried. “I don’t think so, Na Damian. I was there when she–when Quinn invited Na Desjourdy to play this session. Quinn said she was short a player, and all they talked about was the Game. Desjourdy’s on the Game nets a lot, she’s a rated arbiter.”

“And she works for Customs‑and‑Intelligence,” Damian said, but more gently. He paused, studied her from under his lashes. “I’m a little worried, Roscha. This Lioe’s been hanging around with Ransome, too, and Ransome’s no friend of mine.” He saw from the quick, involuntary grimace that Roscha had noticed that attraction, too, and was less than comfortable with it. “Lioe and Desjourdy, Lioe and Ransome–it just doesn’t add up well.”

“I guess not,” Roscha said, slowly.

Damian hid his sudden pleasure. It’s working, she’s starting to think just the way I want her to, to think that maybe Lioe is a C‑and‑I agent. “So what I’m asking is, did you notice anything after the session? Any conversations, anything that might mean she was passing information to Desjourdy?”

Roscha shook her head. “No. They just talked about the session afterwards, and then–then Lioe came back to the boat with me. I dropped her off this morning when I got your message.” She stopped suddenly. “Boss, I ran into Tamia Nikolind on the docks coming in. She said she saw Lioe going off with Ransome this morning, taking a helicab out of Underface.”

“Damn.” Damian scowled, realizing he’d spoken aloud. That was the last unfortunate coincidence–in fact, it was too perfect to be a coincidence. One way or another, the two of them, Lioe and Ransome, had too many pieces of the puzzle to be allowed to go to either Chauvelin or Desjourdy. In fact, that’s probably the only thing I’ve got going for me right now: they’ll have to decide which one to alert first. He touched the shadowscreen to distract himself, making meaningless patterns on its surface. I’ll have to get them out of circulation, one way or another, and it’s too late for niceties. Lioe’s not important enough; security can find me plenty of “friends” who can dump her in a canal, and no one will think twice about it, but Ransome… Ransome’s another matter. But I can deal with that later. “Were you planning to see Lioe again?” he asked.

“Yes. We were going to the puppet shows, over on Roche’Ambroise. I was planning to meet her there.”

Damian took a deep breath, put on his most sincere face. “I need you to do something for me,” he said. “I need–I want you to break your date. I know I’ve no right to ask you to do it, but I need to keep an eye on her. And I don’t want to get you into any trouble.” That was true enough, even if the trouble was bigger than Roscha would think. “But I want some people of mine to watch her, and the puppet show is a good place for them to find her. Can you–will you do this?”

“Ransome and Desjourdy,” Roscha said. She smiled, without humor. “Hells, I told her I might not be able to make it. All right, Na Damian. I told her we’d meet by the fountain, there in Betani Square. She’s been wearing one of Gelsomina’s lace masks. I thought you should know.”

“Thanks, Roscha,” Damian said. Thank you more than I ever intend to tell you. Instinct kept him from offering to pay her fines after all. “I want you to stay here, at the docks–there’s enough work, God knows–but I want you visible the rest of the day. I don’t want you out of call until”–he paused, calculating–“until after midnight.”

Roscha frowned, hesitating over her next question. “You’re not–she won’t be hurt?”

Damian managed a tolerant smile. “This isn’t the Game, Roscha. No, I just don’t want you to be vulnerable if she–or Desjourdy, really–gets pissy about my keeping an eye on her. Because my security is going to be pretty obtrusive this time. You don’t need any extra hassle.”

“Thanks, Na Damian,” Roscha said, low‑voiced, and Damian nodded.

“Get on back out there, and try to stay visible for the next eight or nine hours.”

Roscha nodded, visibly reassured, and backed out of the little office. Left to himself, Damian stared for few moments longer at the empty screens glowing in the desktop, then touched keys to summon his security files. Lioe and Ransome… On balance, it wasn’t very likely that Lioe was actually an agent for Republican Customs‑and‑Intelligence; she was too active a Gamer, and too busy a pilot, too, according to the records he’d obtained from the Pilots’ Union, to be employed by C‑and‑I as well. But she did know Desjourdy rather well, by everyone’s reckoning, and she had gone home this morning with Ransome. It wasn’t a risk he could afford to take.

He had more options in dealing with her than with Ransome. The imagist would have to be handled with care, because he himself couldn’t afford to antagonize Chauvelin– not yet, anyway, but if ji‑Imbaoa does even half of what he’s promised… He made himself concentrate on the immediate problem. Ransome would have to be taken out of circulation temporarily, but couldn’t be killed, or even too badly damaged: that meant kidnapping, and then the question of where to keep him. Damian ran his fingers over the shadowscreen, slaving it temporarily to the household systems in Five Points. The palazze was closing down for the storm, topping up the batteries, workmen ordered to bring the shutters in over the massive windows; the summer house, out in the Barrier Hills behind the Five Points, was shut down completely, all systems on standby, doors and windows sealed against the storm. Damian considered it for a moment, then nodded. The house was reasonably well sheltered, tucked into the side of a hill well above the water, and clear of the stand of trees that topped the ridge. It had stood through worse storms: an ideal place to keep Ransome, he thought. And Lioe, too, I suppose. If nothing else, once the storm starts, they’ll be stuck there until it passes. He nodded to himself, and touched the shadowscreen, detaching himself from the house systems and recalling his security programs. He culled a picture of Ransome–a publicity photo, a recent one, that showed all the lines in the imagist’s thin face–from the main systems, and then used his C/B Cie. ID numbers to gain access to the union files. It was a little galling to think that Ransome could probably get the same information without codes, either netwalking or through one of his friends, but at least he could get Lioe’s photo. He dumped both of the images into a minidisk, the kind that would fit either a pocket system or an implanted reader, and after a moment’s thought added the security codes that would unlock the summer house. He tucked them into his pocket, and went looking for Almarin Ivie.

He found the security chief in his office, a big man who dwarfed his desk and the constantly changing displays on the walls behind him. The tiny space was dark, lit mainly by the blue‑toned flicker of the displays, but Ivie touched controls as the door opened, focusing a faint halo of warmer light on the space before the door.

“Na Damian,” he said, and rose hastily to his feet. “What’s up?”

Damian waved for him to be seated again, found the guest’s chair, and spun it into position opposite the desk. “I need you to do something for me.”

“Whatever,” Ivie said, with a sincerity that Damian always found slightly unsettling. He killed that uncertainty–this was the time to appreciate his subordinates’ fervor–put the thought aside and slid the minidisk across the desk. Ivie caught it easily, the button of plastic disappearing in his thick fingers, and said, “For me?”

Damian nodded, and waited while Ivie slipped the disk into the reader tucked at the base of his left wrist spur. “I need these people taken out of circulation for a while,” he said. “The woman–her name’s Lioe, Quinn Lioe–I don’t really care how you do it as long as we’re not connected with it in any way. Ransome has to be handled with care: I don’t want him killed, or damaged too badly, but I want him out of circulation for at least the next half‑week. The summer house is empty, and I’ve given you the system codes. Can you do it?”

Ivie looked almost offended for an instant, but the expression passed across his flat face almost as fast as it had appeared. His heavy hands moved over a shadowscreen with surprising delicacy, and he said, “It looks as though Ransome is up in Newfields now, talking to people. I don’t find the woman. At least not at first look.” His fingers danced over another set of controls, and he went on, “I’ve got a trace going through the Game nets–she’s the Gamer, right?”

Does everyone know her reputation? Damian wondered, irritably. “That’s right.”

“I’ve got some people in Newfields now, and I’ll put them on him,” Ivie went on, fingers still working. “I’ll send them to the summer house once they’ve secured him.” He stopped then, looked impassively at Damian. “I’d like a little more guidance with Lioe, Na Damian.”

Damian sighed. He had been hoping to avoid this decision, had hoped, even knowing better, that Ivie would make it for him. “If you can secure her without killing her, I’d prefer it. Murder’s messy, even at Carnival. But if you can’t get her to come quietly, I’d rather have her dead.”

Ivie nodded calmly. “All right.”

“There’s one other thing that may help you,” Damian said. “One of my people was supposed to meet Lioe at the puppet show in Betani Square, over on Roche’Ambroise. They were to meet at the fountain, half an hour before the show.”