Текст книги "Burning Bright"

Автор книги: Melissa Scott

Соавторы: Melissa Scott
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“Consider myself a guest?” Ransome asked.

“If you must.”

“Chauvelin will be grateful.” Ransome pushed himself up off the arm of the chair, moved slowly across the room to stare at the weather screen. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance of getting back into the city.”

“I wouldn’t send my people out in this,” Damian answered with some asperity. “You’ll have to wait it out with the rest of us.”

Ransome nodded, his attention still on the screen. Cella set her drink aside very precisely, and came to stand between Damian and the other man, so close that Damian could smell the faint sweetness of her perfume.

“May we talk, Damiano?”

The very reasonableness of her tone was a warning of sorts. “Of course,” Damian said, and moved back into the corner of the room, far enough away from the screen that an ordinary speaking voice would not be overheard. He leaned against the side of one of the heavy chairs, still not quite willing to turn his back on Ransome, and Cella leaned close, her hip against his knee, one hand on the chair, just brushing against his thigh. They would look intimate from a distance, Damian knew, and wished for a fleeting instant that that was all she wanted.

“Are you going to go through with this?” Cella asked. She kept her voice down, but the anger was perfectly clear under the conversational surface.

Damian Chrestil eyed her for a moment, biting back his answering anger– all the more unreasonable because I know what you’re really saying, that I backed down, that I let Chauvelin win–and said, “It’s the best bet, Cella. Better odds than anything else.”

“Changing horses is never a good bet,” Cella answered. “The Visiting Speaker’s still got power, why not stick with him? Why the hell go with Chauvelin?” She glanced over her shoulder, a quick, betraying tilt of the head toward Ransome, still staring at the screen. “And him?”

“For God’s sake, Cella,” Damian said. “Because ji‑Imbaoa is unreliable, and because Chauvelin’s winning right now.”

“The je Tsinraan have the power at court,” Cella said. “I know that, I did the research for you. They’re going to win in the long term, not the tzu line. You should stick with them.”

“It’s a little late for that.”

“I could persuade him,” Cella said. “I could tell him it was a bluff–”

“ Sha‑mai!” Damian Chrestil pushed her away, pushed himself up off the chair in a single motion, heedless of Ransome’s frankly curious stare. “Look, Cella, I’ve told you what I’m doing, which is more than is really your business. You’re very good at the Game, but this is reality. This is what I am going to do–this is the only thing I can do, the only way I can keep even this much–and I don’t need your baroque variations to complicate it.” He took a deep breath, regained his composure with an effort. “If you want to help out, yes, by all means, keep the Visiting Speaker happy. But stay out of my politics.”

Cella looked at him, her face stiff and hard as a Carnival mask, her careful makeup bright as paint against a sudden angry pallor. “I can–keep him happy–if that’s what you want, yes.”

“I don’t really give a fuck,” Damian Chrestil answered, and turned away.

“Certainly, Na Damian,” Cella said, with the sweet subservience that never failed to infuriate him, and swept away toward the door.

Ransome watched without seeming to do so, all too aware of the tone if not all the words of the conversation. It was the losers who watched and listened like this, prisoners, servants, houta… Well, I’ve been all of those, and born canalli besides. He fixed his attention on the screen as Cella stalked past him and disappeared into the hallway. I can’t say I’m sorry she’s been taken down a peg or two.

In the screen, waves rose and beat against the wet black metal of the storm barriers, the image dimmed and distorted by the blowing rain and the drops that ran down the camera’s hooded lens. It shivered now and then, as the wind shook the shielded emplacement. The first line of barriers was almost engulfed, foam boiling against and over it; the second and third, farther up the channel, were more visible, but a steady swell still pounded against them. Ransome watched impassively, remembering what conditions would be like on the Inland Water. Even with all the barriers up, the water would be rough–the Lockwardens would have to let some of the tides through, or risk damage to the generators that powered the city and, if things got bad enough, to the barriers themselves–and the water level would be rising along the smaller canals. He had grown up on a lowlying edge of the Homestead Island District, could remember struggling with his parents to get the valuables out to higher ground without any of the neighbors finding out that they had anything worth stealing; remembered how they had piled what they couldn’t carry onto the shelves that ran below the ceilings, hoping that the roof would stay intact and the water wouldn’t rise too high. And hoping, too, that the overworked Lockwardens from the local station would remember to keep an eye on the block. He glanced at the controls, touched a key to superimpose the chronometer reading on the screen: still almost an hour to actual sunset, but the image in the screen was already as dark as early evening. The winds were high, but steady for now: all in all, he thought, not a bad time for looting. There would be a few bad boys in the Dry Cut and Homestead who would be risking it.

“Where’s that from, Warden’s East?” Damian Chrestil asked. He had come up so silently that the other hadn’t been aware of his presence until he spoke.

“I think so,” Ransome answered, and found himself glad of the distraction. He glanced sideways, saw the younger man still scowling faintly, not all the marks of ill temper smoothed away. Still pissed at Cella, he thought. And I can’t say I blame him.

Damian Chrestil slipped a hand into his pocket, obviously reaching for a remote, and a moment later the image in the screen vanished, to be replaced by a false‑color overview of the storm itself. Distinct bands of cloud curved across the city, outlined in dotted black lines beneath the flaring reds and yellows of the storm; more bands were visible to the south, but there was still no sign of the eye.

“Heading right for us,” Damian Chrestil said.

“We should be here some hours,” Ransome agreed, and had to raise his voice a little to be heard over the noise of the rain. Something thudded heavily against the shutters, and they both glanced toward the source of the sound, Damian Chrestil vividly alert for a second before he’d identified and dismissed the noise.

“Not too many trees around here, I hope,” Ransome said, with delicate malice, and Damian’s mouth twisted into a wry smile.

“Let’s take a look.” He worked the remote again, and the picture shifted–tapping into the house systems, Ransome realized. At least one camera was useless, its lens completely obscured by the blowing rain, so that it showed only wavering streaks of grey. Damian flicked through three more cameras, so quickly that Ransome barely had time to recognize the images–a rain‑distorted view of the lawn, a camera knocked out of alignment by the wind, so that it showed only the corner of the house and a patch of wind‑blown grass, more rain sweeping in heavy curtains across a stone courtyard–and stopped as abruptly as he’d begun. “Ah.”

The camera was looking away from the wind, Ransome realized, looking inland toward the Barrier Hills and the lowlying trees that grew along their wind‑scoured shoulders. The nearest trees were perhaps thirty meters away, up a gentle slope. They were bent away from the house, into the hillside, their leaves tossing wildly, thick trunks bent into a steady arc. Ransome winced, and even as he watched, one of the trees fell forward, quite slowly, a tangle of roots pulling free of the wet ground. The silent fall was disconcerting, eerie, and he looked away.

“What a lovely place to spend a storm.”

Damian Chrestil shrugged, smiling slightly. “It’s stood worse.”

“It wasn’t the house I was worried about.”

Damian shrugged again, and his smile widened. “The odds look good to me.”

And you’re such a judge of that. The comment was too double‑edged, too easily turned against himself, and Ransome kept silent, though he guessed that the other had read the thought in his eyes. He turned away from the screen, went over to the drinks cart, and poured himself another glass of the sweet amber wine. “Do you want anything?”

Damian Chrestil looked momentarily surprised, but then flipped the screen back to one of the city channels, and came to join him. “Yes, thanks, you can pour me a glass of that.”

Ransome filled another of the long‑stemmed glasses, handed it to Damian Chrestil, and they stood for a moment in an almost companionable silence. Something else fell against the shutters, a lighter thump and then a skittering, as though whatever it was had been dragged across the rough surfaces. Damian Chrestil glanced quickly toward the noise, and looked away again. He was a handsome man, Ransome thought, attractive in the same fine‑boned, long‑nosed way that his sister Bettisa had been, with the same quick response to the unexpected. And it was good to see a man who knew better than to follow an unflattering fashion. And sex is the last weapon of the weak. Not that that’s stopped me before. He looked back at Damian Chrestil, allowed himself a quick and calculated smile, and was not surprised when the other’s smile in return held a certain interest. But I’m bored, and he is–less than fastidious, at least by reputation. Not very flattering, I suppose. But it’s better than doing nothing.

Day 2

Storm: Ransome’s Loft, Old Coast Road,

Newfields, Above Junction Pool

Lioe lay on Ransome’s neatly made bed, one arm thrown over her eyes to block the light from the main room. The walls trembled now and then in the gusts of wind; she could feel the vibration through the mattress, through the heavy wood of the bed frame. The shutter that protected the single narrow window had jammed before it quite closed off the view, and she had left it there rather than risk damaging the mechanism. The glass had seemed heavy enough, and on this side of the building, overlooking the cliff edge, there had seemed little chance that anything would blow through it. Now, feeling the building shake, she was not so sure, and looked sideways under the crook of her elbow, at the hand‑span gap between the shutter and the bottom of the frame. She could see only the sky and the rain, the slate‑colored clouds periodically dimmed by sheets of water blown almost horizontally past the window. She had never seen anything like this before, could not believe how tired she felt, tired of the tension, the dull fear at the pit of her stomach. Storms on Callixte were just as dangerous, maybe more so; but they swept in out of the plains with a few minutes’ warning, and were over almost as quickly. There was none of the anticipation–days of anticipation–that preceded Burning Bright’s storms, and certainly nothing she’d ever been through had prepared her for the steady, numbing fear. And the worst of it was that she had nothing to do–there was nothing she could do to face the storm, and nothing in the Game seemed worthwhile compared to its massive force. Once she had pulled the copies of the jeu a clefoff the nets, there was nothing to distract her.

A noise from the street brought her bolt upright, heart pounding, an enormous ripping sound and then a crash. Roscha’s voice came indistinctly from the main room. “What the hell–?”

Lioe went to join her, found the other woman standing by the main door, her head cocked to one side. The working space was opened, and the air around Ransome’s chair was filled with Game images. “What was it, do you know?”

“Outside,” Roscha answered. She worked the locks. “Only one way to find out.”

Lioe nodded. Roscha slid back the last bolt, and eased back the heavy door. The wind caught them both by surprise, a gust of cold, wet air snapping past them into the room.

“I didn’t hear a window,” Lioe began.

“ Sha‑mai,” Roscha said. “The stairway’s gone.”

“The stairway?” Lioe repeated, foolishly, and Roscha edged back into the loft.

“See for yourself.”

Lioe leaned past her, blinking a little as the full force of the wind hit her. The short hall looked different, wrong somehow, and then she realized that the stairs were indeed gone, ripped away from the side of the building, the door hanging crooked by a single hinge. Even as she watched, another gust of wind set the door swinging, and the groan of the hinge pulling still farther out of the wall was loud even over the noise of the storm.

“The wind must’ve caught it just right,” Roscha said.

“Is there anything we should do?” Lioe asked. She looked up and down the hall as she spoke, wondering if any of the other tenants were around, glanced back to see Roscha shrug.

“I don’t know what. I don’t see any sheet‑board, or anything like that, and I can’t see that a little rain’s going to hurt this floor. There’s probably a maintenance staff around somewhere, anyway.”

“Probably,” Lioe agreed. She was certainly right about the damage: the battered tiles had been peeling away from the floor long before the storm started. She stepped back into the loft, and Roscha pushed the door closed again. She had to work against the weight of the wind, and Lioe leaned against it too, to help the bolts go home.

The Game shapes were still dancing in the air around Ransome’s chair. Lioe glanced idly at them, frowned, and looked more closely. Damian Chrestil’s face seemed to leap out at her from among the busy images. “What’s all this?” she asked, and turned to see Roscha looking at her with a mix of defiance and embarrassment. There was a little pause before the other woman spoke.

“I was trying to remake your scenario, the one you threw together. It was too good to waste–too good to waste on blackmail.”

Lioe ignored the deliberately provocative word. “I made a deal,” she said. “You could get all three of us killed, you, me, and Ransome.”

Roscha looked away. “I wasn’t going to run it as it stood, I was going to make a lot of changes. Enough to make a difference, I think–I know.” She faced Lioe again, scowling now. “You can’t stop me.”

Lioe looked at her for a long moment, weighing her options. No, I probably could stop you. I’ve got the influence on the Game nets, and I’m probably better on the nets than you are–and Ransome will help me–but that only works for a while. I’d have to watch you like a hawk, and I don’t have the time or the inclination to do that. “Maybe not,” she said aloud, “but the scenario shouldn’t run, regardless of my deal. It doesn’t belong in this Game.”

Roscha’s frown deepened, her expression faintly interested as well as suspicious. “Why not?”

“Because this Game is over.”

Roscha opened her mouth to protest, and Lioe lifted an eyebrow at her, daring her to continue. The other woman said nothing, and Lioe felt a thrill of excitement at the small victory, a small, sweet pleasure at a good beginning. Was this what Chauvelin felt, this sure power? She swept on, not wanting to lose her moment.

“Yes, this Game is ending. The scenario I’ve been running is the start of it, a bigger scenario that’s going to tie everything together, all the bits and pieces, and bring this Game to a solid conclusion, all the lines resolved in a single grand structure. And no one, ever, is going to be able to play with it again without knowing that it’s ended.” She had not realized, until then, how important that had become to her, to write one thing, create one scenario, that could never be changed–that no one would want to change. She went on more slowly, speaking now as much to herself as to Roscha, and heard both certainty and seduction in her tone. “It’s gotten stale, it’s too predictable right now. We’ve all felt it. So it’s time to start over, begin a new Game. And that’s where this scenario–” she nodded to the dancing images, to the faces of Chauvelin and Damian Chrestil hanging in the air beside the working chair–“it and lots of others like it–that’s where they come in. We can remake the Game so that it’s something real, not just a distant reflection of reality, but something that changes, comments on, reshapes what’s really going on. That’s the Game your scenario belongs in, don’t you see? Someplace where it will matter.”

Roscha looked warily at her, the frown gone, replaced by a look of uncertainty that made her look suddenly years younger, almost a child again. “I don’t play politics–”

“You could. In this Game, you could.” Lioe smiled, suddenly, fiercely happy, the storm forgotten. “We both can. It won’t be jeu a clefany more, that’s too easy. We can set it up so that it’s an integral part of the Game, so that you can’t escape it–so that no one who plays, and no one who sees the Game, hears about it, can avoid what we’re doing. That’s what we need, to keep us honest. To make it real.”

“That’s what you need, maybe.” Roscha shook her head. “I’m not that good.”

“Then you’d better learn.”

There was a little silence between them, the wind a rough counterpoint, and then Roscha threw back her head and laughed. “You’re right, and I’ll do it. Sha‑mai, what a chance!”

I knew you would. Lioe hid that certainty, looked again at the busy workspace. “Let’s get on with it, then.” She reached for the nearest of Ransome’s gloves, started to draw them on.

Roscha nodded, and moved toward the other controls. “One thing, though.”

Lioe stopped, one hand half into the thin mesh. “What?”

“A favor.”

“If I can.”

“I want to play the last scenarios.” Roscha’s face was utterly serious. “The ones that wrap this up, I mean. I want to be a part of that, too. It’s–I think someone in the new Game should have been part of the old one, that’s all.”

I was part of the old Game. Lioe stopped short, the moment of indignation fading. But not like her. I was looking for something else, something better, even when I didn’t know it. I never was wholly part of it, no matter how hard I tried. She said aloud, “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Roscha looked at her for a long moment, then nodded, appeased. Lioe nodded back, and reached into the control space to turn the images to herself. For a moment, she saw Roscha webbed in the Game shapes, tangled with the visible templates, and then the images sharpened, and she turned her attention to the double task of ending the old Game and creating the new.

Day 2

Storm: The Chrestil‑Brisch Summer House,

the Barrier Hills

The room was dark and chill under the eaves, the roof and walls trembling under the lash of the wind. Damian Chrestil burrowed close to Ransome’s warmth, dragging the found blanket up over his shoulders, and wondered if it was time to leave. In the darkness Ransome’s face was little more than a pale blur, but he could guess at the expression, sleepy and sated, and suspected that it matched his own. Something, not a solid object, just the wind itself, slammed the side of the house with a noise like a great drum. Damian winced, and felt Ransome shift against him, startled by the sound.

“Perhaps a downstairs room would have been wiser.”

Damian shrugged, the coarse cloth of the mattress cover rasping against his shoulders. “But not nearly as private.”

Even in the dark, he could see Ransome’s grin. “Since when did you care about discretion, Na Damian?”

Damian Chrestil sighed. Clearly the brief truce was over– if you could call it a truce, more like a whole different episode, something out of the Game, completely unrelated to the politics downstairs. It had surprised him, how alike they were in bed. But that was finished. He sat up, letting the blanket slide down to his hips, and then made himself stand up, bracing himself for the other’s acid comment. Ransome was watching, but idly, the blanket drawn up over his shoulder. Damian finished dressing– not too undignified, this time, no scrambling into clothes–and glanced back, curious. Ransome was sitting up now, hunched over a little, one hand pressed against his chest. Even as Damian frowned and opened his mouth to speak, the imagist began to cough. Damian winced at the sound, harsh and painful even over the noise of the wind.

Ransome waved him away, got his breathing under control with an effort that seemed even more painful than the cough.

“Are you all right?” Damian asked, and did his best to keep his tone neutral. Of course he’s not all right. But that’s the only thing I can ask.

Ransome nodded, took a careful breath, and when he spoke, his voice sounded almost normal. “I’ll be fine. Your thugs took my medicines, though.”

“You left them,” Damian said, and after a moment Ransome nodded, conceding.

“Whatever.”

“Shall I have someone bring them to you?” Damian asked.

Ransome shook his head. “I’ll be all right.” He still didn’t move, and Damian watched him warily, until at last the other man straightened. Damian Chrestil turned away, heading down the darkened hall to the stairs.

The lights of the main room seemed very bright after the darkened upper level, and he stood for a moment in the doorway to let his eyes adjust. The Visiting Speaker was back, sitting in a chair by the weather screen, a service cart drawn close beside him. Even as Damian saw him, and frowned, ji‑Imbaoa rose to his feet and went to peer into the screen, the false‑color image tinting his grey skin. Ivie said something to one of the men, and came quickly to join his employer.

“I’m sorry, Na Damian, but it seemed best to separate him from his security. And Na Cella’s been keeping an eye on him.”

Damian nodded slowly, accepting the logic of the statement. “Good enough. But watch him.”

“He seems–calmer–now,” Ivie said. “Na Cella’s been talking to him.”

Damian nodded again. Cella was sitting a little apart from the Visiting Speaker, just outside the loose ring of Ivie’s security, but as he caught her eye, she rose to her feet and came to join them, smiling gently. I just hope she’s over her snit. “Thanks, Almarin. He looks–at least resigned.”

Ivie nodded and turned away, accepting his dismissal. Cella said, “He still thinks he has a hand to play.”

“Pity he’s in the wrong game,” Damian said, and was pleased to see Cella’s smile widen briefly.

“Maybe so. But I thought I should tell you.”

“Thanks.” There was a sound in the doorway behind him, and Damian turned to see Ransome making his entrance, jerkin thrown loose over one shoulder. As he moved past into the room, Damian could hear the faint rattle of his breathing. He smiled at Cella, knowing, confident, but his eyes slid away instantly, looking for the red‑painted cylinder.

“Over there?” Cella said, and pointed to a table against the wall just beyond the weather screen.

Ransome nodded, and started toward it, brushing past the nearest of Ivie’s people. He had to pass quite close to the Visiting Speaker, who was still staring at something in the weather screen, and as he did, ji‑Imbaoa turned suddenly into him, uncovered wrist spur striking for his throat. Damian saw the look of shocked surprise on Ransome’s face as he lifted one arm in an instinctive, futile counter, and then the spur sliced into and past the imagist’s wrist, hooking him like a fish through the cords of his neck. Ji‑Imbaoa struck again before the other could pull free, the second spur and the clawed fingers slashing deep into Ransome’s belly, and then he’d freed both spurs and Ransome was falling, still with the look of surprise frozen on his face.

“Kill him,” Damian Chrestil said instinctively, and Cella cried, “No!” Her voice rode through Damian’s, checking security’s immediate response. Ivie glanced back over his shoulder, flat face blank in shock and confusion, and ji‑Imbaoa stepped back from Ransome’s body, holding up his bloody spurs in an oddly fastidious gesture.

“I am not under your jurisdiction. He was min‑hao. This was between my honor and him.”

Damian hesitated, knowing that the moment for action had already passed–had maybe never happened, the Visiting Speaker had been so quick in his attack. “Self‑defense,” he said anyway, and ji‑Imbaoa shook his head.

“Who would believe it? All the witnesses are yours.”

“Na Damian?” Ivie asked.

Ransome was none of mine. I would have sold him before. And I don’t know what to do. Damian said, “Cossi–?” The pilot had some medical training, he remembered.

Cossi slid the useless blackjack–her only weapon, Damian guessed–back into her pocket with a look almost of embarrassment, and went to kneel beside Ransome’s body. She turned him over gently, long fingers probing at the wounds. Damian Chrestil winced and looked away. The pilot shook her head.

“Not a chance. Not even at the city hospitals.”

I didn’t think there was. Damian took a deep breath, looked back at the Visiting Speaker. “No,” he said aloud, “it’s not my jurisdiction. But it is Na Chauvelin’s, and I expect–I’m certain–he will handle this appropriately. In the meantime–” He looked at Ivie. “Find someplace small, secure, no windows. Lock him in there, and keep him there until we hand him over to the ambassador.”

Ivie nodded. “There’s a storeroom that will do.” He gestured to his people, who moved warily toward the Visiting Speaker, guns drawn.

Ji‑Imbaoa looked at them, gestured disdainfully with his bloody hands. “This has nothing to do with you,” he said, and one of Ivie’s men hissed at the contempt in the hsaia’s voice. “I have no quarrel with you.”

“Go with them, then,” Damian Chrestil said, well aware of the edge of fury still in his voice, and ji‑Imbaoa nodded with maddening calm.

“I will do so.”

Ivie’s people still circled the hsaia, and Damian wished, fiercely, futilely, that he would try something, anything, that would give Ivie an excuse to act.

“This way,” Ivie said, and gestured with the muzzle of his palmgun. Ji‑Imbaoa nodded again, and followed him from the room.

Damian looked back at Ransome’s body, sprawled now on its back in a pool of blood– not as much as I’d expected, but then, I guess he died quick–empty eyes staring up at the ceiling. Cossi saw him looking, and reached across to close the imagist’s eyes.

“What do you want me to do with him, Na Damian?” she asked.

I don’t know. Very God, I have to tell Chauvelin. Damian Chrestil took a deep breath, still staring at Ransome’s body. Not an hour ago we were in bed together–not an hour ago he was fucking me. The room smelled of blood and shit. “Leave him for now,” he began, and Cella spoke softly.

“What about one of the upstairs rooms?”

Damian looked at her blankly for a moment, then, in spite of himself, in spite of everything, smiled. “Well, he would’ve appreciated the irony.” He looked at Cossi. “Yes, take him upstairs–get one of Ivie’s people to help you. And then get a housekeeper running, get that cleaned up.”

“Right, Na Damian,” Cossi said.

And I will speak with Chauvelin. Damian took a deep breath, bracing himself. Ransome dead isn’t so bad, it’s how he died, and where–that he died in my house when I’d made a deal with Chauvelin to keep him safe. The question now is, can I persuade Chauvelin that I didn’t do it, that I didn’t break our deal? And is there any way I can persuade him to turn this death to his advantage? He shook his head, sighing. Anyone but Ransome, that might have worked, but not when it was Chauvelin’s lover. Very God, I haven’t even thought of Lioe. He pushed the thought away. One thing at a time, he told himself, and turned to the communications console.

Day 2

Storm: The Hsai Ambassador’s House,

in the Ghetto, Landing Isle Above

Old City North

Chauvelin had come away from the windows when the wind got bad, waited now in one of the smaller rooms that overlooked the gardens, his back to the shuttered windows and the storm. The walls, dark red trimmed with gold, gleamed in the warm light; he could not feel the household generators whirring on standby through the thick carpet, but a glance at the monitor board told him they were ready should city power fail. He glanced away, took a few restless steps toward the door and then back again to the desk, looking down at the files glowing in the display surfaces. The first draft of his formal letter to the Remembrancer‑Duke waited in the main screen, ready to be transcribed into n‑jaoscript, but he could not make himself concentrate on its careful phrases. Damian Chrestil had given him the excuse he had needed to break ji‑Imbaoa’s power. If he and the Remembrancer‑Duke played the game right, the incident could have effects as far away as Hsiamai and the All‑Father’s court itself. At the very least, the je Tsinraan would lose face over this, a Speaker for the court embroiled in common commerce, tripped up by a smuggling scheme: a more than acceptable outcome. And that didn’t take into account the effects on Burning Bright itself. Chauvelin smiled, savoring the double victory. At the very least, Damian Chrestil would not become governor in the next elections, nor the ones after that; at best, he would never be governor, and the tzu Tsinraan would not have to contend with an ally of the je Tsinraan in control of Burning Bright. And I may still be able to keep some hold over Damian Chrestil, even after all of this is over. That would be the best of all.

A chime sounded in the desktop, and he reached to answer it, touching the flashing icons. “Yes?”

“I’m sorry to disturb you, Sia,” je‑Sou’tsian said, “but it’s Na Damian. He says it’s urgent.”

“Put him through,” Chauvelin said, and felt the fear cold in his stomach. Something’s gone wrong–The picture took shape in the desktop, blotting out the open files, and Damian Chrestil looked out at him, his face strained and white.

“N’Ambassador.”

“What’s happened?” Chauvelin asked, suspecting already, dreading the answer. In the screen behind Damian Chrestil, out‑of‑focus shapes bent over another shape crumpled on the floor.

“I’m sorry,” Damian Chrestil said. “Ransome’s dead.”

I knew it. Chauvelin bit back anger, the instinct that would have had him calling out the garrisons on Iaryo, on Hsiamai, to launch the missile strike that would obliterate the summer house and everyone, everything, in it… “How?”