Текст книги "Burning Bright"

Автор книги: Melissa Scott

Соавторы: Melissa Scott
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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

A line of bollards marked the square’s legal limits, twenty or thirty of the low mushroom shapes running along a line of dark paving that seemed to mark the top of the short flight of stairs that led down to the canal. A handful of people were sitting there, mostly in ones and twos, some staring toward the distant stage, more looking out toward the water or toward the smaller canal that formed part of the square’s southern edge. Lioe glanced around again, and seated herself on the bollard nearest the fountain. She could see well enough, could see all the likely approaches, from the waterbus stops on the canals or from the nearest helipad, and at least she could be relatively comfortable. Besides, I don’t think she’s coming.

Lioe tugged her jacket closed against the wind. It wasn’t cold, but it had picked up even in the half hour since she’d left Ransome’s loft, was blowing steadily now, from the south and east. The air smelled odd, of salt and thunder, and the children’s shouts fell flat in the heavy air. She glanced over her shoulder toward the mouth of the Inland Water, saw only the housetops on the far side of the canal. The last forecast she had seen had predicted the storm would strike around midnight, and she looked around again for a street broker. To her surprise–the brokers had seemed to be everywhere for a while–there were none of the bright red‑and‑white umbrellas in sight.

Music sounded from under the stage, distorted by distance and wind and the thick air. Lioe rose to her feet with the others, and saw the first of the puppets move out onto the platform. It was a massive construct, maybe two and a half meters tall, and nearly as broad; fans unfurled from what should have been the shoulders, and a crest of bronze feathers rose from the stylized head. More of the feathers appeared below the fans, and wings parted to reveal several small, white‑painted faces. They were set slightly askew, Lioe saw, and jagged cracks ran down their centers, detouring around the long noses. As she watched, the first of them split open, revealing an animal shape too small to recognize. Intrigued, Lioe moved toward the platform, circling south toward the smaller canal, where the crowd was thinner, to try to get a better view. It was a bird, or something with delicate, arching wings and a glittering, peacock‑blue body. She edged farther into the crowd as the second face split, revealing what seemed to be a model of the local solar system, and the entire assemblage leaned sideways, elevating the fans and turning the feathered crest into an almost architectural arch. There was a person inside that structure, Lioe realized suddenly, a single human being at the center of the spines and wings and the delicately made creatures; each precisely controlled movement set changes flowing through the puppet’s outer layers. But what did it mean? It was not like any puppet she’d ever seen, or even imagined, and she stood staring, trying to puzzle out a story, some purpose, from the complex metamorphosis.

“Na Lioe?”

The voice was unfamiliar, but polite. She turned to face a thin, plainly dressed man with a plain, unmemorable face.

“It is Na Lioe, isn’t it?”

Lioe nodded. “Yes.” She kept her voice and face discouraging, but the man nodded anyway.

“I thought it must be you. Roscha said you’d be here. She asked me to tell you, she’s running late.” He gestured toward the street that led away from the square, running along the edge of the smaller canal. “She said she’d meet you at the Mad Monkey, instead of here.”

Lioe glanced down the street–the sign was there, all right, a grinning, contorted holoimage dancing above a doorway at the far end of the street, where the canal turned left, away from the street itself–and looked back at the stranger. He was dressed like a docker, all right–dressed much like Roscha herself, for that matter, dockers’ trousers and a plain vest under a loose, unbelted jacket. “When?”

The man shrugged, looked sideways as though to call up his chronometer. “She said she’d be there at fifteen‑thirty–by the sixteenth hour at the latest.”

Lioe glanced sideways herself, saw the numbers flash into existence against the dark paving: almost sixteen hundred already. “Thanks a lot,” she said, and the man nodded.

“No problem.” He turned away, already looking for a better vantage point among the crowd.

Lioe watched him go, wondering just who he was. He looked vaguely familiar– maybe someone from Shadows, she thought, and looked back at the stage. The puppet seemed to be melting into the platform, dozens of indistinguishable little mechanisms churning frantically around its edges. The operator was doing the splits within the confining mechanism. The crowd murmured, sounding both awed and approving. I must have missed something, Lioe thought. I don’t understand at all. She looked again toward the Mad Monkey, wondering if Roscha was there yet, and if she could get food and/or drink. The sign looked like a bar’s, the monkey dancing in the air, very bright in the shadowed street. And even if it isn’t, it might be more fun than watching the puppets. Mechanical perfection palls after a few minutes, in my opinion. She eased her way out of the crowd, and started down the narrow street.

She had not traveled more than a dozen meters before she realized that she was being followed by a nondescript man who looked like another docker. She glanced back, wondering if she could turn back toward the square, slip between the back of the stage platform and the storefronts that defined the square, and saw a second person detach himself from the knot of people beside the curtain that screened the back of the stage, effectively cutting off her escape. She swore under her breath, wishing that she were armed–wishing that she’d carried even a pilot’s tool‑knife–and with an effort kept herself from looking around wildly. They were between her and the fringes of the crowd; she could shout, but none of the people watching the puppet show could reach her before the two men did. I’ll pretend I haven’t seen them, she decided, keep walking and hope I can get to the Monkey before them–if that’s safe. The man who said he was from Roscha, he must’ve been one of them, set this up… She shoved her hand into her pocket, closed her fist over thin air so that it made what she hoped would look like a dangerous bulge, and kept walking. I’ll try the Mad Monkey, and then the cross street, and if it comes to it, I’m not carrying much cash and it’s not a good place for rape–

A third man stepped out of a doorway ahead of her, hands deep in the pockets of his jacket. Lioe stopped, took an instinctive step sideways and back, toward the edge of the canal.

“Na Lioe,” the third man said. “There’s someone who wants to see you.”

“Like hell,” Lioe answered. She drew breath to scream, and the man freed his hand from his jacket, displayed a palmgun.

“Yell and I’ll shoot.”

Lioe released her breath cautiously, glanced back toward the square. Sure enough, the two strangers–and a third, the man who had spoken to her about Roscha–were coming toward her, blocking her escape in that direction. She took another step toward the canal, turning so that she could see all of them. “What do you want?”

“There’s someone who wants to talk to you,” the leader said again. “If you come quietly, no one will get hurt.”

Lioe took another slow step backward, toward the canal edge, so that she stood barely half a meter from the bank. She could swim, that had been bullied into her in Foster Services, but the current was fast, and the far bank was not distant enough to offer an escape. “Not likely,” she said aloud, fighting for time. “Come any closer, and I’ll scream–and if you shoot me, nobody’s going to be talking to me.”

There was a little silence, and a quick exchange of glances, and then the leader raised his palmgun. “Last chance. Come quietly, or I will shoot.”

Shit. Lioe froze for a second, frantically weighing her options. If she screamed, the leader would shoot–she had no doubt about it, and at this distance, he could hardly miss. He was too far away to try to jump him, get the gun away from him, and even if he weren’t, there were the others to consider–probably armed, too. That left the canal, her only–and not very good–choice. Unless I want to go with them. She rejected that thought even before it was fully formed. I don’t even know why they want me, who this mysterious someone could be–unless this is Ransome’s doing, his weird intrigue rebounding on me? She pushed that thought aside as irrelevant, said carefully, “Wait a minute, now.”

The leader relaxed slightly, the palmgun’s muzzle wavering just a little. It was all the chance she was going to get. Lioe flung herself blindly backward, into the canal’s murky water. Fleetingly she heard one of the men shout, and she hit the water hard, shoulder and hip, throwing a great plume of spray. She righted herself under the cold surface, risked opening her eyes for just an instant. The water, salt and oil and chemicals, stung miserably, but she saw light above her, and oriented herself against it. The current was strong, as she’d hoped and feared, and she let it take her, sweeping her down toward the junction where the canal turned south, away from the street. Already her lungs hurt her; she let out a little of her air, exerting herself only to keep herself parallel with the surface, and risked another glance into the dirty water. The surface glimmered just above her, tempting her with air and light, but she made herself stay down, trying to put a meter or so of water between her and the palmgun’s projectiles. She let out a little more air, darkness gathering at the edge of her vision, and could hold her breath no longer. Gasping, she broke the surface, flinging her hair out of her eyes, and heard the flat crack of the palmgun from the nearer bank. Someone shouted, but she dove again, striking out strongly across the canal. The current clutched at her, rolling her sideways and down, then back in toward the canal bank. She floundered in momentary panic, eyes opening in spite of the pain, and clawed her way back to the surface. She was at the corner, where the canal narrowed and the water ran the fastest, rolling and folding over itself. She forgot about the gunmen in her struggle to free herself from the current’s pull. For a terrified moment she thought she’d failed, that she would be pulled under and drowned, and then the water flung her with bruising force against the first of a set of pilings. She cried out in spite of herself, choked on a mouthful of the salty water, and struck the pilings again. This time, she grabbed for them, her hands sliding in the slimy mess of waterweeds, and then she worked her fingers into the dripping mat and clung, head above water, the current still dragging at her clothes and body. Her face burned where she had struck the piling, pain like long lines of fire running from cheek to jaw, and the corner of her mouth stung painfully. Her shoulder hurt, too– it was the same shoulder each time, she thought, with a crazy feeling of injustice. She’d fallen hard on her left shoulder when she went into the canal, and now it was her left shoulder that had hit the piling. She caught her breath, flailed her feet against the piling until she found something–it felt like a metal band, or an old mooring ring–and braced herself against it. It had all happened so fast, she hadn’t had time to kick off her shoes.

She looked back down the canalside, saw the four men huddled together, staring along the canal in her direction. She froze for a second, new fear shooting through her, and realized that they couldn’t see her after all. The bend in the bank protected her, at least a little bit, and at this distance she would be no more than a dark dot against the dark water. That was reassuring; she tightened her grip on the piling, and began to look for a way out of the water. This was a one‑bank canal, with a single pedestrian embankment on the opposite side. Above her stretched blank formestone walls, banded with darker blocks of stone; the nearest window was a good ten meters above her head. The current swept past her, tugging her body away from the piling: not a place to try and swim, she thought, and turned her attention to the wall. The pilings stretched the length of the house row, and there seemed to be a break in the walls beyond that. Maybe if I can work my way down to that break, I can just climb out, Lioe thought, or even just get out of the worst of the current, and swim to the embankment. If it weren’t for the current, I could do it, no problem.

She looked back down the canal, ready to duck out of sight if the would‑be kidnappers were looking in her direction, but they were standing close together, one of them with his hand cupped to his head as though he held a portable com‑unit. They seemed to be distracted, or as distracted as they were likely to get, looking back toward the stage. Lioe leaned out cautiously into the current, reached for the coat of waterweed that fringed the next piling. There wasn’t much above the water, and she leaned out a little farther, reaching beneath the surface to grope for the matted weeds. She found them, dug her hand into the slimy surface, the individual strands slipping slack between her fingers. They were covered with a gelatinous coating that made her shiver even as she tightened her grip, pulling back as hard as she could. The weeds stayed fast to the piling. She took a deep breath and released her grip on the first piling, reaching for the second, letting the current toss her against it. She tightened her hold, breathing hard, ignored the new pain where her knee had scraped the formestone wall, and reached for the next piling to try again.

She inched her way down the canal wall, groping from piling to piling, her hands slimed and green from clutching the weeds. Their air sacs burst and oozed a sticky ichor, staining her hands despite the running water; her face burned where the salt hit the cuts, and her waterlogged clothes dragged heavy on her limbs. She hesitated for a moment, wondering if she should finally get rid of her shoes, but she would have to walk once she made the bank, and she was getting close to the open space between the buildings. She started to smile, but winced as the expression jarred her scraped face, and reached for the next piling. She grasped the ring of waterweed–it seemed thinner than the others, but solidly attached–and let go. The waterweed came away in her hand as the current caught her, whirling her away from the bank. She flailed for a moment in panic, then got herself under control. The current was not as strong here on the straight of the canal. She brought herself abreast of it, angled in slowly toward the bank.

The space she had been aiming for turned out to be one of the tiny canalside parks, neatly paved, with low umbrella‑shaped trees growing in tubs and a wide strip of open ground filled with extravagant white flowers. There was a gonda landing as well, three steps leading up out of the water, and a mooring ring on the wall, and Lioe clung to that for a moment, grateful to feel solid land under her feet, before she dragged herself up onto the bank.

A woman was sitting under the nearest umbrella‑tree, on the edge of the tub, a paper parcel open beside her, the remains of a meat pie strewn on the ground for the local cats. Her head came up sharply as Lioe staggered up onto the bank, and Lioe hastily lifted her hands to show them empty of weapons.

“It’s all right, I’m not going to hurt you. Somebody tried to mug me.”

The woman swallowed whatever she was going to say, swept the last crumbs off her lap. She was a big woman, tall and heavyset, dressed in the dark robe that belonged to the Four Judges. Lioe saw the tall headdress and mask of the Prospering Judge set aside on the tub’s edge beside her. “Are you hurt?” the woman asked, and came forward briskly.

Lioe shook her head, was suddenly grateful for the other’s steadying arm. “Not really, just cuts and bruises.” She looked down, saw her knee raw and scraped through the ripped trousers. “I went into the canal, back toward Betani Square.”

“Jesus,” the woman said. “The current’s murder there. You were lucky.” She shifted her grip, taking more of Lioe’s weight, said firmly, “Come on. You’ll want to talk to the Lockwardens.”

“Lockwardens?” Lioe echoed, and then remembered. They were the local police, responsible for the locks and storm barriers as well as the usual laws.

“Our police,” the woman answered. “You’re an off‑worlder, then?”

Lioe nodded.

“The bastards will pick on strangers,” the woman said, with a kind of dour satisfaction. “Come on, it’s not far.”

Lioe let the stranger half lead, half carry her across the courtyard, suddenly too tired, too drained to care if she were part of the group. The woman paused by her tree, stooped with surprising grace to collect her mask, and Lioe realized with a sudden pang that she had lost the mask Gelsomina had given her. It was a strange thing to bother her, but her eyes filled with tears, and she stood shivering for a moment, mouth trembling painfully.

“Easy now,” the big woman said. “Not far.”

The nearest Lockwardens’ station wasn’t far, barely forty meters along a narrow side street. It occupied the corner of one of the larger buildings, and all its windows blazed with light. The door stood open, men and women in uniforms that Lioe didn’t recognize hurrying in and out, clutching workboards and datablocks and even sheafs of paper. Someone exclaimed, seeing their approach, but Lioe was too tired and too cold to care. She let herself be led into the station, and then into a side room, unable to focus on the questioning voices that surrounded her. Someone eased her into a chair–a warm, well‑padded chair–and then wrapped her hands around something warm, held it to her lips. She sipped obediently, and recognized the flat, bitter taste of antishock drugs beneath the sweet tea. In the distance, she heard the soft chirping of a medical scanner, and looked up in confusion.

“Finish the tea,” a new voice said, and she did as she was told. Someone else–she was aware of him only as a pair of long‑fingered, rather beautiful hands–wrapped the edges of a heated cocoon blanket closed around her. She had been sitting in it, she realized, and she huddled into its stiff embrace, letting its creeping warmth seep into her, drying her clothes. The tea was starting to work; she looked up, feeling more alert than she had before, and saw a spare, greyhaired woman sitting on the edge of a table opposite her. She herself was sitting in the only chair.

Even as she realized that, a male voice said, “Let me take a look at your face.”

She turned her head obediently, winced as the long fingers probed the cuts on her cheek and jaw. The man–he wore a medic’s snake‑and‑staff earring–winced in sympathy, and reached for the supply box that lay open at his feet.

“Close your eyes,” he said, and laid a delicate mist of disinfectant over the entire side of her face. The stuff stung for a moment, and then a sensation of coolness seemed to spread across her jaw. She felt an applicator dab quickly at each of the cuts–it hurt, but remotely, the pain reaching her from a distance–and then the medic said, “All right, you can look now.”

Lioe opened her eyes, to see that the woman was still staring at her. Lioe’s identification disks and the contents of her belt purse were spread out on the tabletop beside her.

“So, can you tell me what happened, Na Lioe?” The hard‑boned face was not unfriendly, but Lioe found herself choosing her words with care.

“A bunch of guys tried to kidnap me, pulled a gun on me–this was on the little street that runs away from Betani Square, where the Mad Monkey is. I ended up jumping into the canal to escape, and I got kind of banged up.”

“Kidnap?” The woman’s voice sharpened. “The woman who brought you in said you’d been mugged. Why would someone want to kidnap you?”

“Because–” Lioe stopped abruptly. I’m not fully sure why, but it’s bound to have something to do with Ransome, and Damian Chrestil and the cargo that I helped bring in, and the hsai, or at least hsai politics. And even if I did know what was going on, I don’t know how much I can afford to tell you: Ransome’s in this up to his neck, and he’s a Burning Brighter working for the hsai. She shrugged, feeling more bruises on her arm and shoulder. “I don’t know. It was what they said–”

“Why don’t you tell me about this from the beginning?” the woman said, not ungently. “My name’s Telanin. I’m the chief of the station.” She looked at the medic, who nodded.

“Let me just get you another cup of tea,” he said. “And then I want to look at your knee.”

“Thanks,” Lioe said. Her clothes were drying nicely in the cocoon’s steady warmth; only her shoes stayed cold, squishing slightly when she moved her toes, and she loosened the cocoon’s lower edges to kick them off. She took the mug the medic held out to her, sipped cautiously, and wasn’t surprised to taste more of the bitter restoratives beneath the minty tea. It wasn’t as sweet as the first mug. The medic set her shoes aside to dry under the orange‑red glow of a drying rack, and pulled the cocoon aside to begin working on her leg.

“About what happened?” Telanin said, and Lioe dragged her attention back to the other woman.

“Sorry.” She pulled the cocoon closer around her body, buying time. “I was supposed to meet someone in Betani Square to watch the puppet show, but she didn’t show up. She had to work this morning; I had a feeling she wouldn’t be able to make it. So I stayed to watch the show anyway, and this man came up to me, said he had a message from Roscha–that’s the woman I was supposed to meet. He said she wanted to meet me at the place called the Mad Monkey, and went off. I waited a little bit, but I was getting bored with the show, so I decided to see if she was there, at the Monkey, I mean. A couple of guys followed me away from the square, and there was a third man waiting in the street–he was the one with a gun.” And he said “someone” wanted to talk to me. But if I mention that, she’ll want to know why this mysterious someone would go to this much trouble over me.

“Did any of them say anything, say what they wanted?” Telanin asked. Her hand was resting on the control pad of an ordinary‑looking noteblock, Lioe saw, and she chose her words very carefully.

“Something about coming quietly, I think. It happened pretty quickly.”

Telanin’s fingers shifted almost imperceptibly, recording the answer. “So they didn’t say anything else, nothing about kidnapping?”

Lioe shook her head, contrived to look sheepish. “I guess I overstated it.”

Telanin nodded. “What about this woman you were meeting, this Roscha? Did you see her?”

Lioe shook her head again.

“How well do you know her–what’s her full name?”

“Jafiera Roscha.” Lioe paused. “We met at one of the Game clubs, Shadows, a couple of days ago. I’m only on planet for few days while my ship is in for repairs, but I’m a Gamer, and I’ve been spending my time in the clubs.”

“So you don’t know her well?” Telanin persisted.

“She’s a Gamer,” Lioe said again, and was suddenly aware of how ridiculous she must sound. We’ve played together, I’ve seen her play my characters–yes, I know her very well, and not at all. About like I know Ransome. She shrugged, helplessly, and the other woman nodded.

“Jafiera Roscha’s known to us, though she’s never been involved in the bash‑and‑grab gangs. But it’s worth checking out, see if she set you up. She hasn’t been asking you about your movements, whether you carry cash, anything like that, has she?”

Lioe shook her head.

Telanin nodded again. “We’ll check her out, though. It seems odd they’d use her name, otherwise. How many people knew you were meeting Roscha today?”

“I don’t know,” Lioe said. “We talked about it in the club last night. We weren’t making any secret of it, so probably a lot of people heard.”

“Probably.” Telanin gave a rather sour smile. “Look, I have to say I don’t think this was a kidnap attempt. I hate to admit it, but this kind of bash‑and‑grab isn’t uncommon during Carnival, especially when off‑worlders are involved. A couple of canalli manage to lure a stranger into a dark alley, demand money and movables at gunpoint, and run. We’ll check it out, see if Roscha’s involved, and I’ll ask you to look at our files, see if you can pick anyone out of the visual database–” She smiled again, more genuinely this time. “It’s set up a lot like the Face/Bodybooks. You shouldn’t have any trouble finding them if they’re in there. But I don’t know how much chance we have of finding them. You were lucky.”

There was a little murmur of agreement from the medic, who had finished spreading a film of selfheal over the cuts on her knee. “Lucky twice,” he said aloud. “The current’s dangerous at that corner.”

Telanin nodded in agreement. “We’ll do what we can,” she said again, “but with this storm coming in, frankly, we’ve got to concentrate on that. Our investigation won’t get started properly until it’s past, and by then, the trails will be pretty cold.”

“I understand,” Lioe said. “Hell, I wouldn’t mind seeing these guys in jail, but, as you say, I was lucky. They didn’t get anything, and I’m not hurt.” She managed a quick grin. “I don’t want to push my luck.”

Telanin smiled back, and Lioe thought she looked faintly relieved. “I’ll have you look through our database, then, and sign a complaint, and then I’ll have one of my people fly you back to your hostel. Are you up in the Ghetto?”

“Yes,” Lioe said, “but that’s not necessary–”

Telanin held up a hand, cutting off any further protest. “Just in case I’m wrong, and your first feeling was right,” she said. “Besides, a lot of the helicab companies are going to be shutting down soon, and you don’t want to be taking the buses. Not the way you’re going to be feeling.”

“I’m all right,” Lioe said, but it was only a token protest. She freed herself from the cocoon. Her clothes were all but dry, only a few damp spots remaining, but she was faintly sorry to give up the warm embrace. She followed Telanin out of the little room, the medic close on her heels. The public parts of the station were crowded and noisy, half a dozen men and women leaning over a single console and its harried operator, another group clustered around a display table. Lioe couldn’t see all of the image that floated above the polished surface, but she could see enough to guess that it was a model of the neighborhood. Telanin touched her arm, turning her over to another woman, this one darkly elegant even in the Lockwardens’ bulky uniform, and Lioe let herself be led away to the database.

She looked through the files under the dark woman’s tutelage, and, as she had expected, found nothing. About halfway through, a young man appeared with the complaint form. Lioe skimmed through it–she was mildly surprised to see that it was real paper, not a noteboard and disk–and signed her name in the necessary places. When she had finished, she followed the dark woman back again through the chaos of the main rooms and out onto the helipad, where a helicab stood waiting, the Lockwardens’ markings muted. She looked back once, from the doorway, to see Telanin staring down at the tabletop display. By chance, one of the Lockwardens stepped aside, so that for a brief moment Lioe saw the full display. As she’d guessed, it was a model of the area around the station, but that neighborhood transformed by water and fire. Then another Lockwarden moved in front of her, blocking her view. Lioe shivered– if that’s what could happen, I’ll be glad to be on high ground–and climbed meekly into the helicab. The pilot nodded a sympathetic greeting, and the cab rose easily into the unsettled air.

Day 2

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

Channel 9, Junction Pool 4

Damian Chrestil sat in the serene gold‑tinged light of his office, the plans for a new long‑haul carrier floating in the desktop screens in front of him. It was an elegant design, with ample cargo space, but surprisingly narrow‑beamed, so that it would be half again as efficient as the larger long‑haul craft in the current fleet. Even so, he had trouble forcing himself to concentrate, to keep his mind on the minutely detailed calculations sketched in the margins. Ivie–or at least his people–were somewhere out there, searching for Ransome and Lioe. I should be hearing something soon, he thought, and made himself look down again at the model that hung in the illusory space within the desktop, rotating slowly in response to a command he did not remember giving. He touched another key to stop it, called up the specifications for the power plant, and stared at the numbers for a long moment without really seeing them. Something–sand or gravel, it sounded like–rattled against the wall of the office, carried by the rising wind.

Enough of this, he thought, and touched keys to banish the gleaming images. They disappeared in a flurry of shutdown codes. He pushed himself away from the desk, and walked past the twin secretaries into the darkened warehouse. The large doors were shut, of course, but the side door was wedged open, letting in the rush and the smell of the wind. The door itself vibrated against its clips, jumping a little as each gust hit it. Another two or three hours, Damian thought, and stepped out onto the wharf.

The activity was less frantic than it had been earlier: the barges and john‑boats lay close to the docks, their heaviest fenders in place and double lines securing them to the piers. Damian nodded his approval, glanced up to see the power line that ran from the warehouse to the plotting shed swinging wildly in the wind. Better see to that before it comes down on its own, he thought, and looked around for the nearest docker. A blocky woman was crouched between bollards on the deck of the closest barge, tapline attached to a test node, workboard on her lap, and Damian lifted his hand to get her attention.