Текст книги "Burning Bright"

Автор книги: Melissa Scott

Соавторы: Melissa Scott
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And maybe he could do more. Ransome was missing; the inquiries he’d put out on the nets had brought no results, and Lioe seemed–said she knew nothing. Ji‑Imbaoa certainly knew, certainly held some of the keys to this situation. If the transmission could be edited properly, he could force ji‑Imbaoa’s household to cooperate with him. He highlighted one section of the message, deleted the intervening words and nonsense, tilted his head to one side to study the result. The phrasing was a little stilted, but no worse than in many official documents. He finished the rest of it, editing carefully, and studied the result. The document now gave him the temporary rank necessary to resume control of the ambassadorial household, and therefore of ji‑Imbaoa’s household as well, on the grounds that ji‑Imbaoa’s carefully unspecified actions had cast a shadow on the reputation of his superiors. There was only one problem with using it: ji‑Imbaoa would inevitably query it to the Remembrancer‑Duke himself, and not enough of the original message survived for Chauvelin to be sure that his patron would back him in such a drastic action. He set the stylus aside, ran his finger over the glowing characters at the foot of the screen, tracing the stylized n’jaocharacters that symbolized Haas’s authority. He could use this authority successfully, of that he was quite certain, but possibly at the cost of his career. Is Ransome worth it?

Chauvelin sighed, touched controls at the base of the workscreen to produce a paper copy and transfer the original to storage. Is he? It’s taken me most of my life–nearly thirty years–to earn this rank, starting from nothing, as a conscript, less than nothing. Even the strictest hsaia codes acknowledge that it isn’t always possible to protect one’s proteges. Flashes of memory broke through his guard: Ransome newly paroled, all in grey still, the canalli brown of his skin faded to ivory; Ransome in his bed, the unexpected, wiry strength of his thin body; Ransome laughing at a party, a handful of birds, the centerpiece of a story egg, dancing in his palm; Ransome sitting on the garden wall, holding out a handful of carved stones. And Ransome with Lioe, too, the way he watched her. He picked up the printed sheet, rolled it carefully in the prescribed fashion, concentrating on the task so he wouldn’t have to think. If I use this, and I’m wrong–or even if I’m right and it’s inexpedient–I will lose the ambassadorship. And probably my other ranks, too; there will be need to make an example of me. I’m not ready, yet, to make that choice.

He tucked the cylinder of paper, the ends neatly folded over on themselves, into the pocket of his coat, and turned back to the window. It was raining harder now, hard enough that the rain formed a solid curtain, completely concealing the Old City in the distance below the cliffs, veiling the paths of the lower terrace. A few yard lights glowed through the rain, outlining the steps that led from one plateau to the next. He grimaced, thinking of Ransome’s sculptures, and looked away.

“Sia?” Je‑Sou’tsian spoke from the doorway, excitement in her voice, and Chauvelin turned sharply.

“Well, Iameis?”

“Sia, I think we’ve found the Visiting Speaker, or at least traced where he went.”

“Good.” Chauvelin reached for the cylinder of paper, touched it like a talisman. “Where?”

“He was with Damian Chrestil,” je‑Sou’tsian said. “He and his people, ji‑Mao’ana and Magill, went to the C/B Cie. docks, and they left with him in a flyer. They headed southeast, our informant says, but I can’t contact the Speaker at the Chrestil‑Brisch palazze.” She paused, and made a formal gesture of apology. “I regret we haven’t located him more exactly, but I thought you would wish to know.”

“So,” Chauvelin said softly, and nodded. “Yes, I want to know.” This changes everything. He is acting irresponsibly, and he’s dealing with, maybe making a deal with, ahouta– Damian Chrestil is still not a person, in the law’s view–and this can be construed as dishonoring his patron. That will give me just enough claim to the honorable position that Haas and my lord can afford to protect me. He slipped the rolled paper from his pocket, touched it to lips and forehead in the ritual gesture. “As you must know, I received a last transmission from maiHu’an before we lost contact with the satellite. In it, I was granted this commission, which I now execute.”

Je‑Sou’tsian bowed her head, crossed her hands on her chest, spurs downward, claws turned inward to her own body in ritual submission. “I will bear witness, Sia.”

Chauvelin nodded. “In it, I am authorized to act as head of household, lesser father, under the authority of the Father‑Emperor, father of all clans.” The ritual phrases came surprisingly easily to his tongue, for all that it had been years since he had last used them. “This commission supersedes all earlier claims of rank and privilege, and will do so until it is renounced or revoked.”

“I hear, my father,” je‑Sou’tsian said, “and I witness. And I obey even to the price of my life.”

“So be it,” Chauvelin said, and laid the rolled paper ceremoniously on the table. “Now.” He paused, sorting out what needed to be done. “I want you to proclaim this to the household. Take a couple of our security people with you, just in case.”

“I don’t think the Visiting Speaker’s household will cause any trouble,” je‑Sou’tsian said. “Not all of them are fond of him.”

Chauvelin smiled. “I can’t say I blame them. All right, do what you think is best about security. But I want his rooms searched, particularly for papers, disks, datablocks, anything that could prove the link with Damian Chrestil–also for anything that might tell us where he is. Keep your people on that, as well, highest priority.”

“Yes, Sia.” Je‑Sou’tsian paused, seemed about to say something more, then turned and slipped away. Chauvelin stared after her, suddenly aware of the roaring of the wind beyond the window. If he could just find either Ransome or ji‑Imbaoa– when I find them, he corrected silently, not daring to think of the consequences if he did not–he would have the tools he needed to act. But for now, all he could do was wait.

Day 2

Storm: Ransome’s Loft, Old Coast Road,

Newfields, Above Junction Pool

Lioe walked the Game nets, calling files from the libraries, moving from one familiar nonspace to the next. Images flickered in the air in front of her, bright against the dark shutters; below and to her right, where there was no danger of accidentally intruding into that space, hung Ransome’s outline of Damian Chrestil’s plan. From time to time she glanced at it, comparing its form to the Game scenario taking place in the working volume in front of her. The basic shape looked good, and she reached for images to complement it, trawling now through less familiar news nets and more sober datafields. She found the images she wanted after some trouble–Damian Chrestil’s face, a news scan that covered the arrival of the Visiting Speaker, an old still of Chauvelin, looking younger than he had at the party–and dragged them one by one into space occupied by the Face/Bodyprogram. The program considered them and produced a string of numbers; Lioe dragged those numbers into the working volume, and smiled at the result. The images attached to the character templates were not–quite–the original faces, but they were close enough to be recognized, and that was all that mattered. In some ways, it was almost a shame the scenario would never be played, she thought, studying the convolutions that formed a neat, red‑branched tree in front of her eyes. Damian Chrestil’s plot makes for a wonderful Game incident. Too bad it’s only made for blackmail.

“No luck finding guns.”

Roscha’s voice seemed to come from a distance, and Lioe shook her head, refocusing to look through and past the crowding images. She reached into control space to switch off her vocal link, said to Roscha, “Then there’s nothing?”

“Not quite nothing,” Roscha said with a lopsided grin, and slipped a hand into the pocket of her jacket. She brought out a cheap plastic pistol, displayed it with a shrug. “This is mine. On the other hand, it’s only six shots, and it’s not supposed to be reloadable. I’ve had it modified, and I’ve got another magazine, but I don’t know how well it will work.”

“Wonderful,” Lioe said.

“What are you doing?” Roscha asked. She was frowning at the control spaces, as though she was trying to make sense of the carefully focused images.

“My–our–way out,” Lioe said. I hope. “I’ve pulled together a Game scenario, merchant‑adventurers variant, a jeu a clef. I’ve put this whole situation into a Game–and used their faces–and I’m going to put it on the nets. If Damian Chrestil doesn’t back down, leave me alone and let Ransome go, I’m going to let it run. The scenario will show up in four hours–in fact, I think I’ll tell Lia Gueremei to expect it–and it will be sent on the internets as well. He’ll never get rid of it, and he should have a hard time explaining why it fits what’s been going on so extremely closely.”

“He will be pissed,” Roscha said.

She didn’t sound entirely pleased, and Lioe looked sharply at her. “I wasn’t thinking,” she said. “Look, I don’t want to get you into trouble. If you want, you can leave now. I won’t mention you.”

Roscha looked momentarily embarrassed. “No. I’m not leaving. Who’d watch the door? Anyway, the storm’s pretty bad.”

“Not that bad,” Lioe said, reaching for the nearest weather station reports. Air traffic was not recommended, but the roads were still open.

“I don’t want to take the bike, and I’m not leaving it,” Roscha said. Face and tone were abruptly serious. “I don’t want to leave, Quinn. Don’t worry about me.”

Lioe stared at her for a moment longer, then slowly nodded. “I’m trusting you,” she said.

Roscha smiled, and turned away, settling herself against the wall by the door. There was an intercom panel there, Lioe noticed, and for the first time became aware of a rush of street sounds–rain and wind on pavement, once in a great while the slow whine of an engine as a heavy carrier crawled along the street–that formed a counterpoint to the sounds from the net. “I’ve rigged the intercom,” Roscha said. “At least that way we can hear them coming.”

If they come in the front door, Lioe thought. “Great,” she said aloud, and turned her attention back to the images that surrounded her. The scenario was complete, and again, she felt the pang of regret that no one would ever play it. All that remained was to put it on the nets, neatly packaged and ready to unfurl itself four hours from now. She had done this kind of programming before, though only for frivolous reasons, a birthday present, a joke; still, the basic technique remained the same, and the routines she used had proved impervious to the best attempts to corkscrew them open. At least, they were impervious on Callixte. She ignored that thought, and reached into the control space for a new set of tools. Ransome’s gloves were warm against her hands, the wires tingling gently to confirm each movement.

She set a nonsense algorithm to work, let it spin its hash into the working space, then shaped the jumbled nonsense into a solid plate, turned it back in on itself, so that the algorithm constantly rebuilt, reinforced itself. It formed a virtual capsule that sealed the scenario away from the rest of the nets. She prodded at it, testing the system, and when she was satisfied with its solidity, began the trigger mechanism. The timer was easy, a standard commercial program tied to the algorithm; it would cancel the nonsense run in three hours and fifty‑seven minutes. Three minutes later, the last of the nonsense wall would disappear, tidied away by the net’s housekeeper routines. At last she finished, and spun the entire structure in virtual space in front of her, shaping the external presentation. The emerging image glittered as it turned, became a shape like a golden dodecahedron, each hexagonal facet marked with her Gamer’s mark. That would get people’s attention, if nothing else did. If Damian Chrestil didn’t capitulate, it, and her growing reputation, would ensure that Gamers would copy the program to every corner of the nets. If he did give in, and she pulled the scenario– not that hard, since I have the key algorithm; there won’t be too many copies to track down–she would lose a little status, but that was a small price to pay for survival. And maybe not even that, she thought suddenly. Suppose I do what Ransome suggested, float the scenario for Avellar’s Rebellion. No one could say I didn’t live up to the advertising then…

But that was for later. She took a deep breath, reached out with her gloved hand, copied the dodecahedron, and shoved it into the place that was the entrance to the nets. It floated away from her, picking up speed as it went, until it vanished in a flash of black. One away. She copied the program and scenario again and pushed it out onto the nets, did it again and again until there were at least a dozen copies loose on the nets. Only then did she lean back a little, and reach into control space for the communications system.

She opened a space, but did not drag the connect codes into it, staring at the static‑filled volume for a long moment. Then, reluctantly, she reached into the directory, rifling its files for Damian Chrestil, or the family’s summer house. She found a code for the latter, and dragged it into the communications space before she could change her mind. There was a long pause, while codes streamed across the space–unusually long, nearly thirty seconds–and then the codes vanished, to be replaced by a man’s head and shoulders. It was an unfamiliar, ugly face, white‑skinned and broad‑featured, and for a crazy instant Lioe thought of giants in the story tapes she’d viewed as a child.

“Can I help you?” the giant asked, in a voice as heavy as his features, and Lioe dragged herself back to the present.

“I want to talk to Damian Chrestil,” she said. “My name’s Lioe.”

The giant closed his mouth over whatever he had started to say, and looked down at something out of the camera’s vision. “Just a minute, Na Lioe. I’ll see if he’s free.”

“If you’re trying to set up a trace, don’t bother,” Lioe said. “I’ll tell you where I am. I’m in Ransome’s loft, and I’ve found what he found. You can tell Damian Chrestil that, too.”

The giant’s expression did not change. “I’ll do that, Na Lioe,” he said, and his face vanished, to be replaced by what was meant to be a soothing hold pattern.

“You heard that,” Lioe said over her shoulder, and Roscha answered quickly.

“Yeah. But I haven’t heard anybody in the entrance yet.”

“If I take too long–” Lioe began, and stopped abruptly. If he doesn’t come to talk, decides to send his people after us instead, what then? I suppose if he doesn’t show up in a couple of minutes, I can cut the connection, we can head back to the port, try again from there–

The communications space cleared abruptly, and she found herself looking at Damian Chrestil. She’d only seen him once before, at Chauvelin’s party, and was surprised again at how young he was. No older than me, if as old. Let’s hope I can play this as well as he has.

“Na Lioe,” Damian said. “I’m glad to finally get to talk to you.”

“I didn’t think talking was what you had in mind.”

Damian Chrestil shrugged. “If you’d come quietly… But that’s old business. What can I do for you?”

“You’re holding Ransome,” Lioe said bluntly, and hoped she was right. “I want him back.”

“You want him?” Damian’s face creased suddenly into an urchin’s grin. “I didn’t think he was yours, too.”

Lioe sighed, ostentatiously refraining from an answer.

“I’m afraid that’s not possible right away,” Damian went on. “I have business in train which I don’t intend to see interfered with. Na Ransome will stay with me until it’s finished.”

“I don’t think so,” Lioe said. “If he’s not released–and if you don’t call off the goons you’ve got chasing me–I will spread this entire business deal onto the nets, Republican as well as Burning Brighter, and into HsaioiAn if I can manage it.”

There was a little silence, and Damian Chrestil said slowly, “I know the nets. I can kill this before it starts.”

Lioe shook her head. “Not on the Game nets. The Game nets run different protocols, different rules, they serve a different clientele. I’ve put a new scenario in motion, Na Damian. It’s a merchant‑adventurer’s variant, primed for release in four hours, and it’s based on what you’ve been trying to do, from smuggling the lachesi to the high politics.” She reached into her working space, dragged another copy into the communications space, peeled back the shell to reveal the tiny, perfect–and perfectly recognizable–characters contained in its center, held by the red webbing of the scenario’s outline. “All this has to do is come to someone’s attention in C‑and‑I, or, I would imagine, in the Lockwardens or the governor’s office, or even back in HsaioiAn, and you’re screwed. And there are enough Gamers in all those places that it’s bound to happen.”

Damian Chrestil shook his head. “Not necessarily. I admit, we may not be able to break that shell, but my people can contain the scenario as soon as it’s open. It won’t get that far, certainly not far enough to cause me trouble. So let’s talk reasonably.”

“Once the scenario’s opened, you’ll never stop the spread,” Lioe said. “You know how Gamers are, we copy things. We share variants we like, sessions we’ve played, work by people we admire. And my name means something in the Game. Once that shell opens, half the Gamers on the nets will have made a copy for their own use–once they realize it’s a jeu a clefeven more of them will want it. How are you going to stop that, Na Damian?”

There was a little silence, and in it Lioe could hear a kind of choked laughter. Ransome, she realized, and hid her delight.

“All right,” Damian Chrestil said. “I’m prepared to negotiate. You’re not invulnerable, Na Lioe, you crewed the ship that brought the lachesi, and that could be made to look bad for you.”

“Possibly,” Lioe said.

“Easily enough done,” Damian Chrestil said. “But I’m willing to make a deal.” He did something with controls that were out of her line of sight; an instant later, the view within the communications space widened, so that she was looking into a comfortably furnished room. The wall behind him was black–not a wall at all, she realized abruptly, but the same kind of shutter that covered Ransome’s windows. Lioe tugged at the edges of her view, expanded it so that she could see the details more clearly. Half a dozen men and women waited at a polite distance, all in dockers’ clothes, tough‑looking people who looked like older, less beautiful versions of Roscha. The Visiting Speaker stood a little apart from them, feet planted wide apart, arms crossed on his chest, the fingers of the one visible hand working restlessly. A tiny, pretty woman– Cella, she realized–sat on the arm of a chair to the hsaia’s right. Ransome was sitting in a comfortable‑looking chair, just outside the pool of amber light from an overhead lamp, but as she watched, he pushed himself to his feet and came to stand by Damian Chrestil. Damian looked over his shoulder, his fine eyebrows drawing together in a frown, but he did not order the other man away.

“Yes, this concerns you, Ransome. Join the party, why don’t you?”

“Thanks,” Ransome said, and smiled.

Damian Chrestil looked back into the display space. “Since you’re not a political animal, Na Lioe, I would assume you don’t really care whether or not the lachesi gets through to my buyers in HsaioiAn.”

“Or even about your chance of being governor,” Ransome said gently, his eyes fixed on Lioe as though he wanted to convey a message.

Lioe nodded. “All I care about is your goons off my back, a job to go back to, and Ransome’s freedom. That’s pretty simple, Na Damian.”

“I can perhaps do better,” Damian Chrestil said. He paused, not looking back over his shoulder toward the Visiting Speaker, but the hsaia straightened anyway, both hands now poised to display claws and wrist spurs.

“We have an agreement, Damian Chrestil,” ji‑Imbaoa said. “If you fail to honor it–”

Damian turned on him. “You haven’t yet done what you and I agreed. I’ll fulfill my contracts, all right–this time–but you can go to hell.” Behind him, the flat‑faced giant made a gesture, and the dockers shifted position suddenly, so that they encircled the Visiting Speaker and his staff. Cella slipped easily from her place, out of the armed ring. The jericho‑human made an abortive grab for a weapon hidden under his coat, and a thin woman leveled her palmgun at him.

“Enough, Magill,” ji‑Imbaoa said, and looked at Damian. “Very well. I have no choice. But I will ruin you for this. You and yours will never do business in HsaioiAn again–”

Ransome said something then, in hsai, not tradetalk, and the Visiting Speaker was abruptly silent, hunching into himself as though into feathers. Ransome looked back into the communications space. “As I said to him, Chauvelin may be able to offer other connections, Na Damian. You see, I’m willing to negotiate, too.”

“But will Chauvelin?” Damian Chrestil asked.

“Ask him,” Ransome answered.

There was a little silence, and Lioe, still held in the chair’s gentle embrace, the nets wound around her like a cocoon, held her breath. If this could work, if they could come up with a bargain –

“Be my guest,” Damian Chrestil said, and gestured to the controls.

“Traitor,” ji‑Imbaoa said, almost conversationally, and turned his back on them all.

Ransome grinned, and reached for the control spaces. Static fuzzed a tiny circle at the edge of Lioe’s viewing volume. She winced, and looked away from it, but did not adjust her own controls. An image formed, slowly at first, then flicked completely into adjustment. Chauvelin looked out at them, one eyebrow raised in arrogant question, and Lioe tugged at the image until it was as large as the other.

“Na Chauvelin,” Damian Chrestil said, with a fleeting and twisted smile.

“Na Damian,” Chauvelin acknowledged. “What interesting company you keep.” He looked at Ransome. “I’ve been looking for you, I‑Jay. I trust you’re well?”

Ransome nodded. “Well enough.”

Damian Chrestil cleared his throat. “I think we’ve achieved stalemate,” he said. “Each of us has something the others want, and, thanks to you, Na Lioe, we have a time constraint as well.”

“How so?” Both of Chauvelin’s eyebrows rose.

“I’ve put a new Game scenario onto the nets,” Lioe said bluntly. “In four hours–less than that, now–it’ll be released, and every Gamer on the nets will want a copy. It’s a jeu a clef, Ambassador, based on Na Damian’s deal with the Visiting Speaker. If Damian Chrestil doesn’t back off, guarantee my safety and let Ransome go, I’ll let it run.” She paused, couldn’t resist adding, “I do think it will play.”

Chauvelin was silent for a moment, his face expressionless, then looked at Ransome. “Will it work?”

“It’s fucking brilliant,” Ransome answered, and the amusement in his voice had a slight note of hysteria. “Oh, it’ll work, all right, no question.”

A faint expression of distaste flickered across Chauvelin’s face, vanished as he looked back at Lioe. “I wish you had seen fit to trust me with this information, Na Lioe.”

“Why the hell should I?” Lioe retorted. “I’m a Republican, you’re hsaia–and I don’t know you. Why should I trust my neck to you?”

“If I may interrupt,” Damian Chrestil said. “I think I can offer us all a way out.”

“Why not?” Lioe said, and heard Ransome laugh.

Chauvelin said, “Go on.”

“Na Lioe says she wants to be left alone–my goons off your back, you said, and your job to go to. And Ransome back, which is what Na Chauvelin wants, too.” Damian Chrestil looked directly at Chauvelin, his voice gone suddenly deadly cold. “Am I right in thinking you’d also like to see the Visiting Speaker’s influence curbed a little, N’Ambassador?”

Chauvelin nodded once.

“Then this is what I’m offering,” Damian Chrestil said. “You, N’Ambassador, will allow this shipment to proceed. Neither you nor Na Ransome will interfere with it–why should you care what happens to my money and clients, so long as ji‑Imbaoa, and the je Tsinraan, are taken down a few notches? In return, I won’t act for the Visiting Speaker, or ask any awkward questions about his disgrace. As for you, Na Lioe, I want you to withdraw this scenario of yours, and to keep quiet about all of this. And I’d like you to stay away from Republican C‑and‑I at least until the statute of limitations runs out on any possible smuggling charges from that direction.”

I’m a pilot. That’s impossible. Lioe started to protest aloud, but Damian Chrestil held up his hand.

“In return, I’m willing to offer you my sponsorship to remain on Burning Bright, as a citizen. I daresay you can find work as a notable, in the Game clubs, but if you can’t, or if you don’t want to–if you want to follow Ransome’s example–I’ll provide you with a stipend, to continue until the statute runs out.”

To stay on Burning Bright. To live as a notable, as a Gamer, my income guaranteed… Lioe took a deep breath, fighting for calm. This was the last thing she had expected, something outside of all possibility, that she would play this game, and win, and be offered this reward.

“That’s very good, Damian,” Chauvelin said, and there was real admiration in his voice.

“Thank you. I think it serves all our needs,” Damian Chrestil said.

Maybe not mine, Lioe thought, indignant. There’s my piloting–I like my work–and, my God, there’s Kerestel. I can’t just leave him without warning. But there were plenty of pilots in the replacement pool, good ones, too. It was not impossible, not impossible at all. Will he keep his word? Will I find his goons still on my tail, or wake up dead some morning? Do I care? I could stay on Burning Bright, stay in the Game; most of all, if Ransome will teach me–and I think he will–I can see what else there is, beyond the Game. He and I can put an end to the Game, and see what happens then.

“I can agree to this,” Chauvelin said.

Damian nodded. “Na Lioe?”

She nodded, slowly. “I agree. But I want the money.”

“Wise move,” Ransome said. He was smiling again, without amusement. “And I’ll agree, because the rest of you do. But you owe me something for it, Damian.”

Damian Chrestil shook his head. “No. You’re getting something already. You’re getting yourself an apprentice, someone you can pass your skills to before you die. I think that’s reward enough for anyone.”

There was another silence, and Lioe held her breath, sure that Ransome would reject the offer, reject the reminder that he was going to die– reject me. Then, quite slowly, Ransome’s smile changed, became more real. “You are good, Damian,” he said.

“I’m not Bettisa,” Damian Chrestil answered, and there was an odd regret in his voice, as well as certainty. There was a little pause, and Ransome nodded.

“All right. I’ll agree.”

Lioe let out the breath she had been holding, leaned back and let the chair tilt with her, the images moving around her to hold their relative positions. It was done, it would work– and I will stay on Burning Bright, and in the Game. And I’ll have my chance, at last, to do something no one will want to change.

Day 2

Storm: The Chrestil‑Brisch Summer House,

the Barrier Hills

Damian Chrestil watched the net symbols fade and then the flicker of lights and symbols as the communications console shut itself down. It was the best he could do– not very good, he acknowledged silently, but at least he would be able to salvage something from the mess. And I won’t have to deal with ji‑Imbaoa anymore. He turned away from the machine, did his best to ignore Ransome, watching with his sly smile from the sidelines, and beckoned to Ivie. The flat‑faced man came over quickly, his hands still curled in his pockets, caressing at least one weapon.

“Na Damian?”

Ivie was well trained, Damian thought sourly, but no one was well trained enough to keep from sounding just a little uncertain about this situation. “Escort the Visiting Speaker into the game room,” he said. “And take his people with him. Be sure you search the jericho‑human, though.”

“A pleasure,” Ivie answered, and turned away. He sounded confident enough once he’d been given something definite to do, Damian thought, and touched his remote to summon the drinks cart. He busied himself with its contents, careful to keep it and himself out of the way of Ivie’s people, and saw without really looking that Cella and Ransome were being equally cautious. Cella stood well apart from the rest, still with a drink untasted in her hand, her expression remotely interested, as though she were watching someone else’s Game. Damian read disapproval in her face, and looked away from it. On the far wall, the weather screen flickered soundlessly, showing the storm from various perspectives. He could hear the wind even through the heavy shutters, a numbing, constant wail that rose and fell monotonously. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Ivie say something to the Visiting Speaker, too soft and polite to be heard. Ji‑Imbaoa tossed his head angrily, turning away as though he would have preferred to ignore the security specialist, and Damian Chrestil braced himself to intervene. Then, abruptly, ji‑Imbaoa’s resistance vanished; he made a curt gesture of agreement, and followed Ivie toward the door. Two of the guards followed, polite but obtrusive in their armed presence. The rest stayed behind, the thin woman still with her palmgun drawn and leveled at Magill. There was a little pause, and then Magill shook his head, and lifted his hands, surrendering to a search. At the woman’s gesture, he and the hsaia secretary moved slowly toward the door.

“Neatly done,” Ransome said. He was still smiling, but the expression was less sly, more conscious of his own failures.

Damian Chrestil ignored the irony, said, “Thank you.” He was very aware of Cella’s lifted eyebrow, and went on almost at random, “Make yourself comfortable.”