Текст книги "Burning Bright"

Автор книги: Melissa Scott

Соавторы: Melissa Scott
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Текущая страница: 19 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

“In this weather?” Lioe said. The thought of riding one of the unstable little two‑wheeled vehicles in the same winds that had tossed the Lockwardens’ helicab across the sky was not appealing.

Roscha glanced toward the window beside the door, shrugged slightly. “It’s not raining yet.”

“Right,” Lioe said. She looked toward the concierge’s counter, where Laness was pretending to be absorbed in the tourist display‑tapes. No harm in providing a little insurance, she thought, and walked over to join him. “Laness,” she said, and the man looked up in an unconvincing flurry of surprise.

“What can I do for you, Na Lioe? Is everything all right?”

“Yes,” Lioe answered. So far. “I need you to do me a favor,” she went on. “I have to go out, but after what happened earlier, would you–if I’m not back here tonight, or if I don’t call you, would you give the Lockwardens a call?”

“Of course, Na Lioe,” Laness said. His eyes widened slightly, his whole being torn between enjoyment of the Game‑like intrigue and concern for a guest. “But, Na Lioe, if there’s any chance–what I mean is, with the storm predicted for tonight, if anything happens to you, the Lockwardens are going to have enough to do.”

“That’s all right,” Lioe said. Or at least it can’t be helped. “I’m not really worried, not really expecting anything. But if I’m not back, and you don’t hear from me, I want you to call them.”

Laness nodded. “I’ll do that,” he said, and added, awkwardly, “Good luck.”

Roscha’s denki‑bike was parked outside, under the shelter of a news kiosk’s awning instead of in the racks outside the hostel’s door. The wind–a warm wind, unpleasantly warm–sent dust and a few errant pieces of trash whipping along the pavement; across the road, a pair of women struggled with a storefront banner, fighting to fold the heavy cloth. Up and down the street, wooden shutters had been clamped into place across the larger windows, and there was a line out the door of the single grocer’s shop. “It looks bad,” Lioe said, involuntarily, and Roscha shrugged.

“It’s always like this when a storm’s coming. They say it’s only going to be a class two.” She reached into the bike’s security field, expertly touching the release codes. “Let’s get going before the rain starts.”

The streets were all but empty in the port district, most of the workers already heading home to secure their own property. Shutters covered most of the upper‑floor windows, and there were storm bars across the warehouse doors. Lioe leaned close against Roscha’s back, felt the denki‑bike shudder each time they turned a corner. A few drops of rain were falling as they turned the last corner and pulled into the alley beside Ransome’s loft. Lioe winced as the first huge drops hit her face, looked toward the building’s entrance. The red flag was still out, whipping frantically against its stays, and she wondered if its owner had just forgotten to take it in. Still, the stairs weren’t difficult, and at least she knew where they were. She reached into her pocket for the lockbox, and closed her fingers gratefully over its smoothly dented surface. At least I didn’t lose it in the canal. She started toward the stairwell, motioning for Roscha to follow. The other woman straightened from hooking her bike to the recharging bollard, gave the connector a last tug, and came to join her.

“Where away?”

“Upstairs,” Lioe answered, and laid the lockbox against the stairway door. It clicked open, and she stepped into the sudden darkness. It smelled odd, sour and rather yeasty, and Roscha made a small noise of disgust.

“Better watch your step.”

“What is it, anyway?” Lioe turned to secure the door behind them. A tiny light came on as she refastened the latch, casting a sickly glow over the landing.

“Someone’s been chewing strawn,” Roscha answered. “There’ll be a cud around here somewhere.”

“What’s strawn?” Lioe started up the stairs, avoiding the shadows.

“It comes out of hsai space, makes you feel very calm,” Roscha answered. Lioe could hear the sudden smile in her voice as she added, “Not something I indulge in much.”

“I guess not.” Lioe paused outside Ransome’s door, fumbling with the lockbox until she found the depressions that released the lock. The lights were out, just as she’d left it, the big window open to the city view. Dark clouds, almost purple, filled the left side of the window; the sky to the right was still only grey. “Ransome?”

There was no answer, and she hadn’t really expected one, but she called his name once more before crossing to the display space. Lights flashed along the base of the main console, signaling at least a dozen messages waiting. She frowned, puzzled now as well as worried, and touched keys to retrieve the latest. A secondary screen lit, displayed a string of hsai n‑jaocharacters. Chauvelin? she wondered, and touched keys again to scroll back to the first message.

“He hasn’t even gotten the shutters down,” Roscha said, and Lioe looked back at her. “If you were looking for Ransome,” Roscha went on, “he hasn’t been here. He’d‘ve put storm shutters up, the way that sky is looking.”

“Damn.” Lioe looked around, saw nothing that looked as though it could cover the enormous window. Her hat was still sitting on the folded bed, and she realized that she had left it behind that morning as well. “Can you take care of it, please?”

“Sure,” Roscha said, sounding slightly surprised, and crossed to the window. She ran her hand along the left‑hand side of the frame until she found an all‑but‑invisible panel. She popped that open, studied the controls for a moment, then turned a dial. There was a shriek from outside the window, unoiled metal reluctant to move, and then the shutters began to lower themselves into place, creaking and groaning along their track.

Lioe reached for the room remote, touched keys to bring up the lights, and then turned her attention back to the messages. The first message in the queue was flashing on the screen: more n’jao characters, she thought, but these looked different from the first ones she’d seen. Frowning now, she split the screen, recalled the last message. Sure enough, the characters were different, forming an entirely different pattern. She knew only a few n’jaoglyphs, mostly trade‑related–like most Republicans, her dealings with the hsai were generally done through a jericho‑human broker, and none of these were familiar.

“Do you know any n’jao?” she asked, and Roscha came to look over her shoulder at the screen.

“A little. I can’t read that, though.”

Lioe glanced back at her, saw the delicate eyebrows draw down into a thoughtful frown.

“Wait a minute, though.” Roscha reached out to touch one tripart character in the first message. “I think that’s the ambassador’s name‑sign. And I think these are repeats–message repeats.” She indicated another set of symbols.

“Chauvelin?” Lioe asked.

“I saw it on a crate once, when we handled some diplomatic shipping out,” Roscha answered. “I’m sure that’s what it is.”

“I’m not surprised,” Lioe muttered. She touched more keys, searching for a main directory, and wished she had had more time to learn Ransome’s idiosyncratic systems.

“Why not?” Roscha asked. “Look, what’s going on?”

“I wish I knew,” Lioe answered. She took a deep breath, made herself look away from the screens crowded with useless information. “What I think is happening–what Ransome said was happening–is that Damian Chrestil and the hsaia Visiting Speaker are probably smuggling something, mainly to get Damian Chrestil some political advantage in HsaioiAn, which he could use here.”

Roscha nodded. “That makes sense. He wants to be governor.”

“Chauvelin and the Visiting Speaker are enemies,” Lioe continued, “members of rival factions–and the Visiting Speaker doesn’t much like Ransome, either–so there’s a hsai dimension to this, too.”

“ Sha‑mai.” Roscha shook her head. “It’s a mess, but it does make sense.”

“I’m glad it makes sense to someone,” Lioe said. She fiddled with the shadowscreen again, found the main directory at last, and ran through it hastily, searching for translation programs. There was only one, and it was really only for transliteration. Ransome certainly speaks tradetalk, and probably a couple of modes of hsai, she thought, but copied the two screens to its working memory anyway. The prompt blinked for a few seconds, and spat strings of letters. She recognized Chauvelin’s name, and, in the second message, a string of numbers that looked like routing codes. She studied those numbers, cocking her head to one side. They were certainly routing codes; in fact, they looked like the kind of codes that gave access to commercial data storage. I wonder what Ransome keeps in that kind of safe space, she thought, and copied the codes to a separate working board.

“I think,” Roscha said slowly, “I think that means that Chauvelin’s been looking for him.” She pointed to the first message, her fingertip hovering just above the screen. “And it looks like it’s been repeated–what’s the time check, anyway?”

Lioe touched keys. “That message has been repeated every quarter hour for four hours. The last one arrived about forty minutes ago.” Does that mean he got the message and is with Chauvelin? she wondered. Or did Chauvelin just give up?

“Do you think he got the message?” Roscha said.

Lioe shook her head. “There’s only one way to find out.” Roscha looked at her, and she smiled wryly. “Call Chauvelin and ask.”

“Yeah, but do you think he’d answer?”

Lioe shrugged. “I’ve no idea.” She reached for the workboard, typed in a string of codes, an inquiry first, to Ransome’s own directories, and then into his storage. To her surprise, the codes to contact the hsai ambassador were held in open storage; she copied them to the communications system, but hesitated, wondering if she should send them. What do I say, anyway? “I’m so sorry to bother you, Ambassador, but is Ransome with you?” How do I explain why I’m calling, if he’s there, without getting him into trouble? More important, what do I say if he’s not? She touched the final key before she could change her mind. I can always just say he told me he might be there. I don’t have to tell a jericho‑human–no, not even a jericho‑human, a conscript, chaoi‑mon– anything of what’s going on. The handset chimed softly, from beside the working chair, and at the same time the secondary screen displayed connect symbols.

“What the hell?” Roscha said.

“I’m calling the ambassador,” Lioe answered, and crossed to pick up the handset. The green telltale was lit at the base of the set, indicating a machine on the other end of the connection. “I want to know if Ransome’s there.” She touched the connect button before Roscha could say anything, heard a delicate mechanical voice in her ear.

“Hsaie house. May I help you?” A moment later, the voice repeated the same message in tradetalk.

“I’m trying to contact Illario Ransome,” Lioe said.

“Who may I say is calling?”

So he is there. Lioe felt a sudden surge of relief, a kind of deflation, and said, “Quinn Lioe.” She heard her voice flat and irritable in the handset’s reflection.

“One moment, please.”

“He’s there?” Roscha demanded, and Lioe shrugged.

“He seems to be–” She broke off as the handset clicked, flipping over to the new connection.

“Chauvelin.”

The voice was familiar from the ambassador’s party, low and crisp, with only a hint of the hsai accent. Lioe froze, not knowing what to say, what she should do, and Chauvelin said, “Na Lioe?”

“I’m sorry to have bothered you, Ambassador,” she said. “I–I was looking for Ransome, he said he might be with you.” Maybe that wasn’t the best phrasing, she thought, but it’s the best I could do on short notice. Things must be bad, if Chauvelin himself is talking to me.

“I’ve been looking for Ransome myself,” Chauvelin said. “Are you at his loft?”

There was a certainty in his voice that made Lioe think the call had been traced. “Yes.” No point in lying: even if he hasn’t traced it yet, he will.

“Has he been there, do you know?”

“I don’t know,” Lioe said. It was a safe answer; better still, it was the truth. “Is there anything wrong?”

There was a little pause, just enough to make her sure he was lying. “No, not at all. But I would like to talk to him as soon as he returns.”

“I’ll tell him that,” Lioe said, and waited.

“It’s important,” Chauvelin said. There was another pause, barely more than a hesitation, and then the ambassador went on, “I was expecting a message from him. Did he leave anything for me?”

Lioe shook her head, then remembered it was a voice‑only line. “Not that I’ve seen.” She glanced quickly at the console, double‑checking the messages displayed on the screen. “No, nothing.” She hesitated herself, wondering how much she could say, then said, “I was expecting to find him here. I’m a little–concerned.”

“So am I.” She could almost hear a kind of wry smile in Chauvelin’s voice. “If you hear from him, please tell him to contact me.”

“I’ll do that,” Lioe said, and broke the connection.

“So what happened?” Roscha asked.

Lioe shrugged, looked back at the massive console, at the symbols and codestrings filling the screens. “Ransome isn’t there, as you heard, and Chauvelin badly wants to talk to him.”

“That doesn’t sound good,” Roscha said. “What about hospitals, or the Lockwardens?”

“I bet Chauvelin’s already done that,” Lioe said, “but it couldn’t hurt to check again.” Or could it? What if he wants to keep this quiet? She shoved the thought away. “How are you on the nets?”

Roscha shrugged. “Good enough to find that out, anyway.”

In spite of everything, Lioe grinned. “Can you take care of it? There’s something I want to check.”

Roscha reached for the handset. “All right.”

One screen winked out, slaved to the handset; Lioe ignored its absence, stared at the routing codes displayed on her workboard. She was still learning her way around Burning Bright’s nets, but this sequence looked straightforward enough. The header codes indicated a secure node, but the numbers following should be the owner’s own codes. She ran her hands over the shadowscreen, recalling the main directory, and set the system scanning for a node that matched the header codes. She could hear Roscha’s voice in the background, rising in inquiry, flattening out with each inaudible answer, but she ignored it, her eyes fixed on the screen. If this didn’t work, she would have to try netwalking, personally checking the likely nodes. Then the screen lit, displaying a gaudy logo, a shield banded in blue and gold, with a scarlet dragon coiling over it, and presented her with a list of options: ADD, SUBTRACT, RETRIEVE, NEW FILE, CHARGES. She hit RETRIEVE, and her screen filled with symbols, scrolling past too fast for her to read. She touched the shadowscreen to dump the information to Ransome’s local system–somewhat to her surprise, there was no request for a further password–and waited until the key bar flickered green again. She banished the connection, and turned her attention to the workscreen, scrolling back to the beginning of the file.

“Nothing at any of the hospitals,” Roscha said, and came to peer over her shoulder. “But a friend of mine at C/B Cie. says Na Damian’s gone off with a hsaia–it was somebody important, he said, so it could be the Visiting Speaker–and Almarin Ivie, he’s head of security, has been sent off to look at something at the family’s summer house.”

“Look at this,” Lioe said. She gestured to the screen, heard the repressed excitement in her own voice. “Damn it, how did he get all of this?” The outline was complete– maybe a little iffy in courtroom eyes, especially when so much of it was gathered netwalking, but certainly enough to use. Enough to blackmail Damian Chrestil with, and enough to make Damian Chrestil willing to do–what? Kill him? She pushed the thought away. That seemed the least likely result, if only because a well‑known body would be hard to explain, and Chauvelin would be likely to ask awkward questions. But certainly to keep him out of action for a few days. Especially since Damian seemed to be ready to transfer the lachesi to its new “owners.”

“So Na Damian was smuggling lachesi for clients of ji‑Imbaoa’s,” Roscha said, slowly. “I think I worked that pickup.”

“I brought it in,” Lioe said. “Damn, that’s why we had bungee‑gars on board. I didn’t think red‑carpet was worth that much trouble.”

Roscha laughed softly. “What a fucking mess. Na Damian is going to be really pissed when he realizes we know what’s going on.”

“I think he already is,” Lioe said, and touched the patches of selfheal starring her face. “That has to be what this was all about.” He was willing to kill me, too–not eager, so I suppose I should be grateful, but willing. She shivered, looked over her shoulder in spite of herself toward the shuttered window and the locked door. Which means we need some kind of a defense, and not just physical. “You said Damian Chrestil went off with the Visiting Speaker?”

“It looks like it,” Roscha said. “And if N’Ivie’s at the family summer house, then I bet that’s where Ransome is. It’s remote enough to keep somebody out of circulation for a while. Especially with the storm.”

Lioe nodded, aware for the first time of the steady slap of rain against the shutters. Every so often, a stronger gust smacked against them, a sharp sound like a handful of nails thrown against the metal plates. “All right,” she said. “How safe are we here?”

Roscha shrugged. “Na Damian has plenty of people in the port,” she said. “If he wants–well, if he doesn’t care about publicity, we’re not safe at all.”

“How much do you think he cares about publicity?”

“I don’t know.” Roscha looked back at the screen, at the careful outline. “If that’s what’s been going on, it could mean the governorship. I wouldn’t care a whole lot, in his shoes.”

Lioe nodded at the answer she had expected. “Do me a favor, make sure everything’s locked, as secure as you can make it. And see if Ransome owns any weaponry.”

“All right,” Roscha said, and sounded faintly dubious. “But–”

Lioe looked back at the chair, Ransome’s working space inert, invisible around it. “I’ve got an idea,” she said. “And if it works, we shouldn’t need guns.”

Day 2

Storm: The Chrestil‑Brisch Summer House,

the Barrier Hills

Ransome waited in the sunken main room, staring at the glass of wine that stood untouched on the table beside him. His back ached with the effort of holding himself relaxed and easy against the chair’s thick cushions; he was aware, painfully aware, of the rising noise of the rain and the murmuring conversations among the Chrestil‑Brisch thugs standing by the display console. He was equally aware of the woman who held her palmgun with the comfortable stance of the expert, but kept his eyes away from her. The wind howled outside the shutters, and he wondered when the storm would hit its peak. Not that the storm was much of an advantage, but at least it limited their actions as much as his. And I bet I know what favor ji‑Imbaoa wants. Chauvelin warned me I shouldn’t push him. The only question is, will Damian Chrestil sell me out? Ransome smiled then, put the glass to his lips to cover the expression. And why shouldn’t he? If he wins–and he’s winning so far–he has nothing to lose.

“Na Ransome.”

It was Damian Chrestil’s voice: the younger man moved so quietly that Ransome hadn’t heard him approach. He turned, setting the glass aside, contents untasted, forced a calm smile of greeting. “Na Damian.”

Damian Chrestil snapped his fingers, and one of the heavy chairs trundled over to join them. At another gesture, the woman with the palmgun withdrew a little, resting her back against the shutters that covered the enormous window. Ji‑Imbaoa made a slight, impatient movement of his fingers, but moved away toward the display console and the twin serving carts. Ransome, watching with what he hoped was a convincing show of incurious distaste, saw the other hsaia, ji‑Imbaoa’s secretary, present a plate of food. Cella said something to him, turned him away toward the shuttered windows. She glanced over her shoulder, and met Ransome’s look with a quick, triumphant smile. It was gone almost as soon as he’d seen it, but Ransome felt the chill of it down his spine.

“There are a couple of things we need to get settled,” Damian Chrestil said, and Ransome looked back at him a little too quickly.

“If you let me go, give me a ride back to the city and an apology,” Ransome said, trying to cover his nervousness, “I suppose I’d be willing to ignore all of this.” He gestured with all the grace he could muster to the woman with the gun.

Damian smiled. “That really wasn’t what I had in mind.”

Somehow I didn’t think so. Ransome smiled back, the muscles of his face stiff and unresponsive, felt congestion tugging at his lungs again. He ignored that– maybe it will go away, ease off on its own the way it sometimes does–and said aloud, “It’s a generous offer.”

“So’s mine,” Damian answered, and the smile vanished abruptly. “I understand from my people that you dumped the contents of a datablock into the nets, into storage somewhere. I want that material.”

Ransome spread his hands. “I don’t hear an offer.”

“Ji‑Imbaoa tells me there are still some charges pending in HsaioiAn,” Damian Chrestil said. “He wants you back, to face them. I don’t care either way, but I want that data.”

Ransome froze, felt himself go rigid, as though he’d been turned to stone. He remembered the hsai courts, the hsaia judge–“ insults fromhouta are as the barking of dogs; it’s fortunate you are of no status”–most of all the dreary grey padding, walls and floors and ceiling, that was the hsai prison, months and months of grey cells and grey clothes and grey men, and finally the numbing grey fog of the first bout of white‑sickness. That’s twice the Chrestil‑Brisch have done this to me, he thought, and could see the same fine shape, Bettis Chrestil’s face imposed for an instant on her brother’s features. I can’t go back. I don’t want to die there, in that grey place… “If I give you the data,” he said slowly, despising himself for the concession, “you won’t turn me over to ji‑Imbaoa.”

Damian nodded.

“What, then? You’ll just let me go?” Ransome let his disbelief fill his voice, and caught his breath sharply, just averting a coughing fit. He tasted metal, the tang of it at the back of his throat, and swallowed hard, willing the sickness away.

“Why not?” Damian shrugged with deliberate contempt. “Once the–product–is transferred, there’s nothing you can do.”

“The lachesi, you mean,” Ransome said, and, after a moment, Damian nodded.

“That’s right.”

“Chauvelin won’t be pleased,” Ransome said, and Damian shrugged again.

“Chauvelin won’t be in a position to do anything about his displeasure for very much longer. The tzu Tsinraan are losing face by the day, they won’t be in power much longer. And then Chauvelin won’t be able to do a damn thing to help you.”

Ransome sat very still, kept his face expressionless with an effort. It was true; if the tzu Tsinraan lost their dominant position at the court on Hsiamai, then Chauvelin would go down– and I’ll go with him. I can’t go back to HsaioiAn. I don’t want to die there, I know what that would be like, I saw it happen. He controlled his fear with an effort, made himself reach for the wine. He sipped carefully, but did not really taste the faint sweetness. “So if I tell you where the data is, you won’t turn me over to him.” He nodded to the Visiting Speaker, still standing by the food carts. “What guarantee do I have that you won’t get the data and still hand me over?”

“You don’t. But you don’t have another choice,” Damian Chrestil answered. “I tell you–I’ll give you my word–that if you give me the data, you can go free.”

“Your word,” Ransome said, in spite of himself, remembering Bettis Chrestil. She had given her word, too, and it had been less than useless. Damian Chrestil gave his sister’s humorless smile.

“I don’t care if you believe me or not,” he said. “This is the only deal you’ve got. Tell me where you stashed the data, or I’ll give you to ji‑Imbaoa, now.”

It is the only deal, and worse than no choice at all. Ransome stared at him for a long moment, unable to come up with any alternatives. Whatever I do, I lose, because I don’t believe him for a second when he says he’ll let me go. I’m only prolonging it, and losing any bargaining power I might have–but I can’t give up without some fight. “All right,” he said slowly. “I’ll retrieve it for you.” He hadn’t expected that attempt to work, and was not surprised when Damian shook his head, refusing the gambit.

“Tell me the codes.”

“They’re in my loft, in the mail systems there,” Ransome said. “You’ll find a message in n’jaothere, a string of codes. That accesses the secure storage.” Damian frowned, started to say something, and Ransome held up his hand. “The program I used, I don’t know the access numbers myself, or even where the data ended up. It’s a random dump, to whoever had space open at the time. But the retrieval codes are in my mailbox.”

Damian nodded then, beckoned to one of his people, a thin woman with a pilot’s calluses on her wrists. “Cossi, you’ve done this before. I need to get some information out of his mailbox.”

Cossi shrugged. “Can you give me a key?”

“Well?” Damian said.

Ransome hesitated, then reeled off the string of numbers.

“Right, Na Damian,” Cossi said, and turned away. Ransome watched her walk to the nearest netlink and settle herself at the workstation. For a crazy moment, he hoped that she didn’t know what she was doing–she was a pilot, after all–but then he saw the way her hands moved across the shadowscreens, and that hope died.

He looked away, not wanting to watch, but could still hear the steady click of the machines as Cossi worked her way onto the nets. This was it: there was no hope left, and he could expect to choke to death in a hsai prison… He heard his breath whistling in his lungs, and this time reached for the cylinder of Mist. There was no point in pretending anymore, no point in trying to hide his weakness. He’d played his best hand, and he’d lost. He laid the mask against his face, inhaled the cool vapor. Damian Chrestil watched him, his thin face expressionless. Ransome refolded the mask with deliberate care, and slipped the cylinder back into his pocket.

“Na Damian,” Cossi said. “I’m being blocked.”

“What?” Damian looked up sharply, frowning.

“I’m being blocked,” Cossi said again. “Somebody’s pulled that system off‑line. There’s no way I can access it.”

Damian looked back at Ransome, his thin eyebrows drawn into a scowl. “Well? I thought we had a bargain.”

Ransome spread his hands, did his best to hide his sudden elation. Someone was in the loft, Chauvelin, maybe, or–better still and most likely–Quinn Lioe. And if Lioe was there, and had changed the system settings, then maybe he had a second chance. “Everything was on‑line when I left it. Maybe the storm’s knocked it off.”

Cossi’s hands danced across the multileveled controls. “Nothing else is off, Na Damian. I think someone’s reset.”

“Lioe,” Damian Chrestil said, and Ransome felt the last hope die. “It’s Lioe, isn’t it? You gave her a key to your loft, and told her what was going on.”

Ransome shook his head. “I didn’t tell her anything,” he lied. “She’s a Gamer, and a Republican, at that. She doesn’t give a shit about politics.”

“You brought her to Chauvelin’s party,” Damian said, soft and deadly.

Ransome shook his head again. “Yeah, I tried to get her interested in something outside the Game–she’s good, too good to be stuck in the Game all her life–but she doesn’t care. All she wants to do is play the Game.”

There was another little silence, and then Damian Chrestil shook his head. “No. Nobody ignores politics like that.”

“Gamers do,” Ransome said, desperately.

“Not even Gamers.” Damian Chrestil beckoned to Ivie. “Get in touch with your people up at the port. Send some over to Ransome’s loft and see what they find.” He looked back at Ransome. “I suppose he has security in place, so be careful.”

“Fuck you,” Ransome said. If Lioe was at the loft, if she had the sense to find the key that would let her retrieve the data–and she must have, if she’d blocked access to the mail system–then there was still a chance. If Lioe can figure out what to do. He put that thought aside. There was still nothing he could do but wait, but things were looking fractionally better than they had.

Day 2

Storm: The Hsai Ambassador’s House,

in the Ghetto, Landing Isle Above

Old City North

Chauvelin stood at the only unshuttered window, watching the wind‑driven rain sweep through his garden. The bellflower trees bent until their branches dragged along the ground, stirring the human‑faced pebbles into new patterns, their flowers blown away in gusts with the wind. A few early flowers were flattened, their petals frayed to nothing against the ground. The clouds streamed in, dark overhead, darker still, almost black, to the south, so that the light was dimmed, filled with an odd, underwater quality. Ransome was not at his loft.

Chauvelin grimaced, annoyed with himself, at his inability to concentrate on anything except that useless fact, and turned away from the window to consider the double‑screened workboard that lay on the wide table. Both screens displayed the transcript of the last transmission from Haas, the last that had come in before the transmitter went down for the duration of the storm, a fragmentary, garbled mess that defied the computers. He frowned again, and made himself pick up a stylus, fitting his fingers into the pressure points to change the mode. It was obvious that Haas had found at least some of what he had expected–connections between the je Tsinraan and the Chrestil‑Brisch, clients of the je Tsinraan who did most of their business through C/B Cie.–but the overall sense of the message was so mangled that there was little he could do. Even the standard phrases certifying Haas’s authority and authorizing him to act in her name for the Remembrancer‑Duke had come through poorly, though there, at least, they had the Forms of Protocol to fill in the gaps. At least he could use that authority, if he had to.