Текст книги "Burning Bright"

Автор книги: Melissa Scott

Соавторы: Melissa Scott
сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

Ivie nodded again. “Good. That is a help. If we don’t get her before that, we’ll get her there.”

“I leave it in your capable hands,” Damian Chrestil said.

Day 2

Storm: The Hsai Ambassador’s House,

in the Ghetto, Landing Isle Above

Old City North

Chauvelin waited in the transmission room, leaning over the technician’s shoulder to study the hissing screens. The technician, jericho‑human, small and square‑built, looked back at him reproachfully.

“I’m doing the best I can, Sia.”

Chauvelin nodded, gestured an apology. “I’ll leave you to it, then.” He stepped backward, but couldn’t bring himself to leave the little room, stood instead still staring at the static that coursed across the screens. It was awkward enough at the best of times, contacting the Remembrancer‑Duke’s household on maiHu’an, given the time corrections between the two planets; during Storm, when the first link of the long connection, the transmission between the planet and the relay satellite, was notoriously unreliable, it was all but impossible. But I really don’t have much choice. Whatever ji‑Imbaoa is up to, it has roots in HsaioiAn.

“Got it,” the technician said, and hastily corrected himself. “Sia, I’ve established the link. The Speaker Haas will be on‑line directly.”

“How stable is the connection?” Chauvelin asked.

The technician shrugged. “About what you’d expect this time of year, Sia. But I can patch it through to the reception room. That won’t make any difference.”

Chauvelin nodded. “Do that, then. And thank you.”

The technician ducked his head in acknowledgment, not moving from his position in front of the multiple control boards. Chauvelin nodded back, and went on past him into the reception room. There had not been time to make the formal preparations, but then, this was not a formal call. Nonetheless, he laid the thin cushions, black‑on‑black embroidery, the geometric patterns dictated by a thousand years of tradition, in front of the low table, and poured two cups of the harsh snow‑wine. The warning chime sounded as he set the cups on the table, and he knelt on the cushions, settling himself so that he faced the massive screen. The grey static faded as the last of the check characters crossed its surface, and Eriki Haas tzu Tsinraan looked out at him. She knelt on identical cushions in front of an identical table; only the cups that held the wine were different, marked with the n‑jaocharacters of her name. The fan that marked her rank was folded in her hand, and Chauvelin wished for a brief instant that he had changed into hsai dress for this meeting. But it was too late for those regrets, and he bowed his head politely.

“Tal je‑Chauvelin,” Haas said, acknowledging his presence, and Chauvelin looked up.

“Sia Speaker. It’s good of you to speak with me on such short notice.”

Haas gestured quickly, the fluttering of the fingers that meant a hsaii wished to be informal. “I accept that things have gotten complicated. Let’s dispense with ceremony.”

Chauvelin allowed himself a soundless sigh of relief, and went on in tradetalk. “Complicated is a good word. I need your help, Sia–I need information.”

“If I can get it, of course,” Haas said. “What can I do?”

“I want to know what kind of connections there are between ji‑Imbaoa and Damian Chrestil–Decidamio Chresti‑Brisch, head of the import/export company C/B Cie.,” Chauvelin said bluntly. “Or any connections between the je Tsinraan and C/B Cie., particularly if any of C/B Cie.‘s clients are also houtadependents of the je Tsinraan.”

Haas paused, one hand busy with the notepad fastened to her belt, out of sight beneath the loose, semiformal coat. “This could be difficult to do discreetly, Tal. What does it matter?”

“I don’t care about discretion,” Chauvelin began, and bit back the rest of his words. He said, more carefully, “There isn’t time for discretion. I have reason to think that the Visiting Speaker and Damian Chrestil are working together here on Burning Bright, not as enemies, and I think that their real connection is something in HsaioiAn. The last thing my lord would want is to see Damian Chrestil elected governor of Burning Bright.”

“Do you think that’s likely?” Haas asked, but her hand was busy again, transferring notes to the household computers.

“I wouldn’t bother you if I didn’t,” Chauvelin said, and Haas waved her free hand in apology.

“I’m sorry, Tal. It’s just–the je Tsinraan have been making real inroads at court in the last week, and my lord is eager not to antagonize them.”

“My lord’s existence annoys them,” Chauvelin said dryly. “I don’t think he would care to do much about it.”

Haas grinned in spite of herself. “I know.” She looked down at the tabletop, and Chauvelin guessed that there was a screen concealed in its surface. “I’ll see what I can find out for you. C/B Cie. does a lot of business on the jericho‑human worlds, and on Jericho itself, for that matter.”

“Which worlds?” Chauvelin asked.

“I know,” Haas said, with a touch of impatience, “over half of them are client‑bound to the je Tsinraan. I’ll find out.” She looked down again, ran her hand over a control bar hidden in the table’s carved edge. “I’m glad you called me, Tal. This could be something important.”

Certainly it’s important to me, Chauvelin thought. He said, “I’d appreciate an answer as soon as possible.”

“I’ll do what I can,” Haas answered. “Between your weather and my ignorant staff–well, I’ll do my best.”

No one of lesser rank than yours is allowed to blame her staff for failures. Chauvelin bowed again, more deeply. “Thank you for your help, Sia Speaker.”

“Thanks for the information, Tal,” Haas answered, and signaled for her system to break contact.

Chauvelin touched his own remote to close down his end of the transmission, leaned back on his heels to watch the characters cascade across the screen. If there was a connection between the je Tsinraan and the Chrestil‑Brisch–more specifically, between ji‑Imbaoa and Damian Chrestil–and if he could prove it, then it should be possible to parry ji‑Imbaoa’s threats. And if the connection went deep enough, it might be sufficient to discredit the entire je Tsinraan. That was probably too much to hope for, he knew, and he sighed as he pushed himself up off the low cushions. A nice thought, but not to be counted on.

A chime sounded gently from the speaker set into the wall beside the door, the red pinlight flicking on as well, and Chauvelin touched the remote again to establish the connection. “Yes?”

“I beg your pardon, Sia,” je‑Sou’tsian said, “but there’s something that needs your urgent attention.”

Chauvelin lifted his eyebrows at the blank space, but answered the tone as much as the words. “I’ll be in the breakfast room in three minutes.”

“Thank you, Sia,” je‑Sou’tsian answered, and the pinlight faded. Chauvelin sighed– I wonder what new disaster I’ll have to deal with–and let himself out of the reception room.

Je‑Sou’tsian was ahead of him in the breakfast room, the curtains half‑drawn across the long windows. Beyond them, beyond her shoulder, Chauvelin could see the distant wall of cloud, a little higher on the horizon now, dark against the milk‑white sky. The garden looked subdued in the dimmed light, only the stone faces in the paths still reflecting the minimal sunlight.

“Your pardon, Sia,” je‑Sou’tsian said again, and Chauvelin dragged his eyes away from the approaching storm.

“It’s all right,” he said. “What’s happened?”

“The Visiting Speaker has not come home today.” There was a tension in the set of je‑Sou’tsian’s hands and arms that made Chauvelin frown even more deeply.

“It’s later than he usually stays away, certainly, but is it important?”

“Sia, I don’t think his household knows for certain where he’s gone. At least none of the ones left here. And they are worried, if only because they don’t know what’s happening.”

Have I left things too late? Chauvelin suppressed the stabbing fear, said, “So what happened, do you know?”

Je‑Sou’tsian made a quick gesture, one‑handed, the equivalent of a shrug. “As best I can tell–and I’m reading between the lines for much of this, Sia–the Visiting Speaker left the house last night just after dark, saying he wanted to experience the Carnival. His household expected him back sometime this morning, but he hasn’t arrived, and they haven’t had word from him. By midday, his chief of household was worried enough to ask me if I had heard anything.”

“Who does he have with him?” Chauvelin asked.

“That’s what worries me,” je‑Sou’tsian answered. “Only two people, ji‑Mao’ana and that jericho‑human, Magill.”

The Speaker’s secretary and his head‑of‑security. Chauvelin sighed. “And that’s all you know?” It was unfair, he knew, and je‑Sou’tsian gave him a brief, reproachful glance.

“Sia, I’ve only just found this out. The chief of household only just spoke to me. And naturally I was reluctant to pursue things any further without knowing what you wanted me to do.”

Chauvelin gestured an apology. “I’m sorry, Iameis, you were right.” He paused for a moment, fingers tapping nervously against his thigh. “Still, it’s Carnival. Things happen during Carnival. I think you should make discreet inquiries, Iameis, just to make sure nothing’s happened to him. Check his usual haunts, and the Lockwardens. No need to inquire at the clinics and hospitals yet, they’d‘ve notified me if a stray hsaia was brought in.”

“The Lockwardens?” je‑Sou’tsian said.

Chauvelin nodded. “Ask–with discretion, mind you–if there have been any complaints or queries. I just want them to be aware that we are looking for him.” And that way, if I’ve miscalculated, if he’s not working with Damian Chrestil, I’ll have been seen to do my duty in protecting him.

“Very well, Sia, I’ll get on it at once.” Je‑Sou’tsian bowed again, and backed toward the door.

“Thank you, Iameis,” Chauvelin said. “You’ve done well.” There was no formal way to respond, but he saw from the sudden movement of her hands, quickly suppressed, that she had heard, and was pleased.

Chauvelin made his way back through the corridors and coiling stairs to his office at the top of the house. The light that streamed in through the curved windows was as milky as the clouds, heavy with the promise of the coming storm. He ignored it, locking the door behind him, touched the shadowscreen to bring up his communications system even before he’d seated himself at the desk, resolutely turning his back on the clouds to the south. A screen lit beneath the desktop; he touched the shadowscreen again, calling the codes that would connect him with Ransome’s loft, and waited for the screen to clear. If anyone could track ji‑Imbaoa, it would be Ransome.

The screen stayed blank, the call codes scrolling repeatedly across the base of the screen. Chauvelin let them cycle, waiting, long after he was sure Ransome would not answer. Of all the times for Ransome to be away from his loft… Chauvelin killed that thought, burying his fear with it, and tied his system into the Game nets. Half a dozen Harmsways were playing, but none of them was Ransome. Chauvelin swore again, freed himself from the Game, and touched keys to set up a new program. The communications system would access Ransome’s loft every half hour–he hesitated, then changed the numbers, making it every quarter hour–until someone answered. And that is all I can do. I’ve done everything; now I have to wait. It was not a pleasant thought, and, after a moment, he flipped part of his system back to the Game nets. If nothing else, he could distract himself in their baroque conventions.

Day 2

Storm: Old Field Administration Building,

Newfields, on the Landing Isle by Dry Cut

Ransome waited in the narrow reception room, lit by the long windows that ran like stripes from floor to ceiling and by the thin blue glow of the secretary system. Beyond the windows he could see the cliff face, and the cold grey‑green sea beneath it, the strands of foam bright against its choppy surface; he shivered once, and turned his back on the hypnotic waters. The office was on the north side of the building, away from the approaching storm; as he’d come in, a horde of workers had been drawing shutters across the southern windows. It was not like Arduinidi to make him wait. It just proves how hot I am–if I weren’t, Selasa wouldn’t make me wait here like this, while she decides if she can afford to see me. Or, he realized suddenly, while she finds out if I’ve been seen, coming here. That was not a pleasant thought, and he reached into his pocket to touch the datablock that nestled there. It was not a good habit to get into and he took his hand away, fingers tingling. Maybe, just maybe I should’ve quit after I talked to the factors at Bonduri Warehouse, they told me enough to be able to tell Chauvelin what’s going on–He put the thought aside as unprofitable. He was here; it was too late to turn back.

The secretary chirped discreetly on its pedestal, the blue light strengthening slightly. The affected mechanical voice said, “N’Arduinidi will see you now.”

In the same instant the inner door slid open, a soft chime drawing his attention. Ransome rose to his feet, and stepped through the doorway into Arduinidi’s office. It was as if he had stepped from Storm into High Summer, and he stood blinking for a moment, disoriented. Light, the hot sunlight of full summer, poured through the windows, falling from a clear and brassy sky; a faint breeze stirred, bringing with it the smell of the summerweed that choked the cliffs in warm weather and the acrid undertone of the port. Very distantly, he could hear the slow slap of the waves against the cliff face and the screech of metal from the port. It was an illusion, of course–holoimages inside the false frames of the windows, carefully controlled ventilation and a scent mixer, subtle sound effects–but even knowing that, Ransome found himself relaxing in the summer warmth.

“It’s very good,” he said, and Arduinidi smiled at him from behind her desk. She was a big woman, tall and broad‑shouldered, short hair further restrained by a band of metal disks. A single wire fell from it, running down her forehead to the socket at the corner of her left eye; her earrings were in the shape of an owl, her on‑line icon.

“Thanks,” she answered, but her tone was less than enthusiastic. “You’re a very chancy item right now, did you know that?”

Ransome managed a smile, did his best to hide the sudden chill that ran up his spine. “I’d kind of gathered that, yes.”

Arduinidi glanced down at her desktop. “You were followed here, and there’s talk just coming in about a disturbance at the Bonduri Warehouse–somebody beat up a factor, it looks like. That wasn’t you, was it?”

Ransome shook his head. “Not my style.” Not my style at all. It sounds like someone’s getting desperate.

“But I’ll bet it had something to do with you,” Arduinidi said.

Ransome hesitated, but there was little point in lying to her. Arduinidi was not only one of the better network security consultants on planet, she was also one of the more reliable data fences, and a superb netwalker in her own right. Nothing happened on the nets that she didn’t know about. “Something,” he said aloud. “More to do with Damian Chrestil.”

“I told you before,” Arduinidi said. “I don’t know anything about it.”

Meaning he’s put the fear of Retribution into all of you, Ransome thought. “Selasa,” he said, and managed to make his tone faintly teasing. Arduinidi lifted an eyebrow, but said nothing. “I know you,” Ransome went on. “You’re worse than I am about a blocked access. It wouldn’t be like you not to get into the port feeds, especially after someone warned you off. I want that data.”

Arduinidi looked at him. “I’m not that stupid,” she said. “You may do this for fun, I‑Jay, but half my business comes from my reputation. Even if I had the information–if–I wouldn’t sell it. And doubly not to you.”

“I know what it is,” Ransome said, “what it has to be. If I tell you what you found, will you give me a yes or no?”

Arduinidi shook her head. “No dice. How would you know whether to believe me, anyway?”

“Because, as you say, your reputation is your business.” Ransome looked at her, weighing his next words. His only choices were money or a threat, and he would never have enough money to make it worth her while. “I’m prepared to make sure that your legitimate clients find out about your second job, Selasa. If it comes to that.”

“You’re fucking crazy,” Arduinidi said.

Ransome shook his head. “I want that data.”

“You push it, and I won’t deal with you,” Arduinidi said flatly. “I’ll make damn sure you don’t walk my nets again, make sure no one buys from you, make sure no one deals with you at all. Do you really want to risk it?”

Stalemate, Ransome thought, because she can do it. He hid his despair, said, “Can you afford to risk word getting out that you’re the best data fence on planet?”

Arduinidi sat silent, nothing moving on a face gone suddenly like stone.

“I’m willing to settle for a yes or no,” Ransome said again. “That’s all I need, Selasa. That’s all Chauvelin needs.”

“Hah.” Arduinidi’s mouth twisted, as though she’d tasted something sour. “I should’ve guessed he’d be behind this.” She sighed. “All right. What is it you think you know?”

Ransome took a deep breath, felt congestion drag at the bottom of his lungs. Not now, he thought, and knew he should have expected it. He put that fear aside, knowing he could wait a little longer to breathe the Mist, said, “Damian Chrestil is smuggling something–Oblivion, I think–into HsaioiAn, to receivers on Jericho and Highhopes, and he’s doing it for ji‑Imbaoa and the rest of the je Tsinraan, who have the receivers for clients.”

Arduinidi paused for a moment, then, reluctantly, nodded. “Yes. So far as the smuggling goes, that is. I don’t deal in hsai politics.” She gave a short, humorless bark of laughter. “And it’s lachesi, not Oblivion.”

“What’s the difference?” Ransome said.

Arduinidi shook her head. “Lachesi is–mostly–legal, it’s just the spite laws that keep the Republic from exporting it to HsaioiAn. Oblivion is restricted. So Damian Chrestil stays on the good side of general opinion, if not the law.” There was a sneaking note of admiration in her voice.

“I see,” Ransome said, and heard the same note in his own voice. And it would work, too: a lot of the Republican merchants have been lobbying for years to dissolve the spite laws, and wouldn’t feel too bad seeing them broken. “Thanks,” he said, and heard the congestion tightening his voice. “There’s just one more thing–” He pointed to the datanode, eyebrows lifted in question, and was not surprised when Arduinidi shook her head.

“Not from my nodes. I’ve done a lot more than I like, I‑Jay, don’t push it.”

Ransome nodded, gave her a rueful smile. “It was worth a try.”

“I hope you think so tomorrow,” Arduinidi said. Ransome looked sharply at her, and she gave him her sweetest smile. “I’m pissed at you, Ransome. Remember that.”

“I expect I’ll be in no danger of forgetting,” Ransome said, and Arduinidi nodded.

“I’d be careful, if I were you.”

“Thanks a lot,” Ransome said. Behind him, the door slid open; he turned and left the office, aware of her eyes on his back the whole while. He paused for a second in the outer office, glancing wistfully at the secretary pillar, but red lights glowed all around the base of the data drives, warning him from trying to make contact. He made a face, even though he’d expected it, and the outer door swung open, ushering him out of the office.

He made his way back through the hallways toward the main stairs–not the elevator today, not if Damian Chrestil’s people were feeling desperate enough to risk attacking a warehouse factor in broad daylight; there was too much chance of being caught in a closed space, with no room left to run. Which really brings up the next question, he thought. What do I do now? The main thing now was to get the information, his own reconstruction of Damian Chrestil’s plan, to Chauvelin; once that was done, Chauvelin could be counted on to deal with Damian Chrestil. It sounded simple enough, and he paused in a corner to chord the last bit of information, Arduinidi’s confirmation, into his datablock. The little machine chirped softly, confirming the record, and he smiled wryly. However, contacting Chauvelin could prove difficult.

He took the side stairs down to the second floor, paused on the balcony to look down into the building’s open lobby. As he’d feared, a pair of men in docker’s clothes were standing by the main entrance; a woman whom he recognized as belonging to C/B Cie. warehouse security was standing beside the main information kiosk, one hand cupped loosely over the controls. He frowned, narrowed his eyes, but couldn’t see if she was using a tap. All the more reason to hurry, he thought, and turned left, walking along the short end of the building, staying close to the wall where he was less likely to be seen from the lobby floor. There were no public terminals here, and a quick scan of the directories showed no names he knew. That left the general mail system, with its kiosks on every floor at each corner of the building. He lengthened his stride, found the nearest kiosk, luckily unoccupied. It was set into a small alcove, partly screened by a sculpture of panels of sequensa‑covered fabric, and he began to hope that he might have time to contact Chauvelin after all.

He glanced over his shoulder, saw no one except a secretary at the far end of the corridor, and quickly fed cash slips into the system. This was no time to use his money cards: it would be like shouting his presence to everyone who might be watching. He had just enough; the system lit and windowed, and he slid the datablock out of his pocket. The jacks and cords were standard, and he plugged the thin wire into the mail system’s receivers. It wasn’t perfect–for one thing, he had far less control over who would ultimately receive the information than he would if he were able to use the regular networks–but it would have to do. He touched the codes that would connect him with the ambassador’s house, and the system flashed back at him: CONNECTION NOT POSSIBLE, PLEASE TRY AGAIN.

“Fuck it.” Ransome stared for a fraction of a second at the little screen, hit the codes again. The screen went blank, and then the same message flickered into view. He’d been suckered: the woman at the main kiosk wasn’t bothering to tap the mail system; instead, she was interrupting it, blocking any transmission that he tried to make, and she was bound to be tracing his location at the same time. He stared at the screen, feeling the seconds slip away. It was too late to get away, his own mistake had seen to that; the only thing he could hope for was to dump the information somewhere where Chauvelin could find it. Maybe his home systems, if he couldn’t reach Chauvelin himself in time. He killed that sense of panic, forcing himself to think clearly, dredged the emergency codes out of his memory. He had bartered for them almost two weeks ago, eons on the nets, but they were Lockwardens’ codes, and the Lockwardens were notoriously conservative. He typed them in, making himself work carefully: he would only get one chance, if that. The screen went blank again, then lit, presented him with an open channel. He suppressed a cheer, and hit the codes that would dump the entire contents of the datablock to a holding node, one of a thousand secure datastores that laced the nets. The block whined softly to itself, the seconds ticking past, and then the screen cleared. He started to type a mailcode, allowing the datastore itself to transfer the information to Chauvelin, but heard footsteps on the stone floor behind him. Too late. He touched a second series of illegal codes, saw the screen fill with trash, effectively destroying his trail. Lights flickered across the datablock, warning him that its contents had been permanently erased. He sighed, and heard a woman’s voice behind him.

“Na Ransome.”

He turned slowly, not wanting to provoke anything, and found himself facing a wiry woman–not the one who had been working at the kiosk in the lobby. She had a palmgun out and ready, half hidden by her hand and body, invisible to anyone working in the offices along the corridor. A much bigger man stood just behind and to her left, screening her still further from the offices. He wore a bulky coat that could hide a dozen weapons. Ransome looked to his own left in spite of himself, in spite of knowing better, and saw another pair–dockers, this time–moving toward him along the cross corridor.

“Someone wants to talk to you,” the woman went on, her voice low and even.

“Someone like Damian Chrestil?” Ransome asked, but she didn’t flinch.

“Someone.” She beckoned to him with her free hand, the palmgun still leveled. “Someone who prefers to keep this tidy. If you’ll step this way.”

Ransome hesitated, but there was no real choice. I’m too old–and not sick enough yet–for a suicide leap, and I was never good at fighting. He spread his hands, showing empty palms, and stepped carefully away from the mail kiosk.

“Search him,” the woman said to one of the dockers, and Ransome submitted to the rough and efficient search. She stepped past him then, unplugged the datablock, and stood studying the kiosk screen for a moment. Ransome saw her frown over the hash of random characters and touch a few keycodes before she shook her head and pocketed the datablock. At least she wasn’t able to trace the destination codes, he thought, and felt a flicker of hope revive.

“Nothing here,” the docker said, and she nodded.

“I hope you’ll come quietly, Na Ransome.”

“I’m not stupid,” Ransome answered. This is how the game is played; you cut your losses and hope for your connections to save you. Please God, Chauvelin will try to contact me, will sort through the net stores when he can’t–He pushed that thought aside, pushing away panic with it. But this had happened before; he’d done his best, and sacrificed himself, and ended up abandoned. That was Bettis Chrestil, twenty years ago. Chauvelin is different. I can rely on him. I have to rely on him. The fear was a taste of metal in his throat.

“Walk with him,” the woman said to the big man, who nodded unsmiling and took Ransome’s arm. Ransome felt the muzzle of a palmgun touch his side briefly, felt the plastic warm against the inside of his elbow. The big man had a grip like iron; there was no hope of pulling free. All I can do now is wait, Ransome thought, and let them walk him slowly down the stairs and across the lobby. No one looked twice at them, and a part of Ransome’s mind had to admire their efficiency.

“I hope Damian Chrestil pays you what you’re worth,” he said, experimentally, and the big man’s hand closed painfully on his arm, grinding the palmgun into his elbow.

“Do stay quiet,” the woman said, conversationally, and turned her head to murmur something into a hand‑held com‑unit. As they passed through the main doors, a heavy passenger carrier, its rear pod sealed tight, windows darkened, pulled up in front of them. The door of the sealed compartment sighed open, and the woman said, “In there, please.”

There was no point in a struggle, and no chance even if he’d wanted to. The big man leaned into him, putting him off balance, and as Ransome stumbled, the woman tripped him neatly, so that he practically fell into the darkened pod. He righted himself instantly, steadying himself with both hands against the padded seats, but the big man pushed in after him, palmgun now displayed, forcing him back against the pod’s wall. The door closed behind the big man almost as soon as he’d cleared the frame, and the carrier slid away from the curb.

Ransome leaned back against the cushions, knowing better than to move too quickly. The big man settled himself opposite him, moving with the rocking of the carrier, sat comfortably, with the palmgun resting on his knee. Ransome eyed it for a moment, but knew better than to think of attack. He could hear the rasp of his breathing even over the purr of the carrier’s motor, felt the familiar pain tugging at his lungs. “Hey,” he said, and his voice cracked even on the single word. He made a face, hating the weakness, hating to have to ask, said again, “Hey. I need to take some medicine. It’s in my pocket.”

The big man looked at him for a long moment, his face utterly without expression. “All right,” he said at last. “Which pocket?”

“Jacket. Left‑hand side.”

“Go ahead.”

Ransome reached for the cylinder of Mist, making himself move at half the speed he wanted, slid the squat cylinder from his pocket, and started to hold it up even with the big man’s eyes. The man leaned forward instantly, caught Ransome’s wrist before he could finish the movement.

“Don’t make trouble.”

Ransome shook his head, did his best to suppress the cough that threatened to choke him. The big man eyed him warily, then released him, leaned back against his cushion. Ransome unfolded the mask, set it against his mouth and nose, and touched the trigger. The cold mist enfolded him, drove away even the fear for a brief second; he leaned back, eyes closed, and let the drug fill his lungs. He’d betrayed another weakness, he knew, something that they could use against him, and for a moment the fear rose with the thick mucus to choke him. He made himself breathe slowly, until the worst of the fear passed and he was left with the lethargy of the drug. He let himself fall into it, repeating his thoughts like a mantra. He would wait: there was nothing else he could do, and the situation might change. And in the meantime, he would wait.

Day 2

Storm: Betani Square, Roche’Ambroise

Lioe made her way through the fringes of the crowd that filled one end of Betani Square, pressed as close as possible to the stage where the puppeteers would be performing. It was less crowded by the fountain, but not by much; a dozen or more children in varying degrees of costume were playing on the edges of the three‑lobed basin, and several more were splashing in the shallow water, parents–or at least parental‑looking figures–watching from the sidelines. There was no sign of Roscha. Lioe scowled– I knew she wouldn’t be able to get away–but walked around the fountain’s edge until she was certain the other woman had not arrived. She looked sideways, poising the chronometer’s numbers against one of the bands of darker stone that crisscrossed the square’s paving, dividing it into diamonds. There were still a few minutes until the show was supposed to start. She sighed, and resigned herself to wait.