Текст книги "Burning Bright"

Автор книги: Melissa Scott

Соавторы: Melissa Scott
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“The Visiting Speaker,” Damian said baldly. He was telling it badly, and he knew it. “He attacked him. Ransome went past him, to get his medicine, and the Speaker attacked him. He was killed almost instantly.”

“Like hell,” Chauvelin said. “I‑Jay wasn’t that stupid, he would never have gone within reach–” But he might have, the cold voice of logic whispered at the back of his mind. Ransome never did fully appreciate just how much that clan line hated him. And he always underestimated ji‑Imbaoa.

“It was none of my doing,” Damian Chrestil said.

Chauvelin looked at him for a long moment, recognizing the truth of his words in the shocked look on the younger man’s face. I‑Jay’s dead. “Where’s ji‑Imbaoa?”

“Locked in the cellar.” Damian Chrestil managed a strained, mirthless grin, gone almost as quickly as it had appeared. “I’m sorry, Chauvelin. He claimed your jurisdiction.”

Chauvelin made a noise that might at another time have been a bark of laughter. “What a fool.” He paused then, considering, the habit of cold calculation carrying him through in spite of himself. There was nothing he could do for Ransome, and nothing more Ransome could do for him, except that in his death he would bring down ji‑Imbaoa and most of the je Tsinraan with him. Ji‑Imbaoa had overstepped himself. Even under the old codes that the je Tsinraan professed to believe in, this killing, this murder, cut across too many kinship lines, impinged on his, Chauvelin’s, rights as Ransome’s patron and lover. “Fool,” he said again, not sure if he was thinking of ji‑Imbaoa or Ransome or himself, and made himself focus on Damian Chrestil, white‑faced in the screen’s projection. “Hold him for me. He claims hsai law, he’ll get it.”

Damian Chrestil nodded. “I’m sorry,” he said again.

Chauvelin said, “I’ll keep our bargain, Damian. But it’s because I want the Visiting Speaker.”

Damian nodded again. “I accept that.” He looked away briefly, made himself look back at the screen. “I’ve not yet spoken to Na Lioe, I don’t know how she’ll take it.”

“I’ll talk to her,” Chauvelin said.

“Are you sure?” Damian asked, involuntarily.

“Our goals were the same,” Chauvelin said. “I think our interests still run parallel.”

Damian Chrestil flinched. “Very well,” he said, and reached for the cut‑off button.

“One more thing,” Chauvelin said, and the younger man stopped, his hand on the key. “I want I‑Jay’s body. I’ll send some of my household for it when the storm lifts.”

“Of course,” Damian answered, almost gently, and it was Chauvelin who cut the connection.

He stood for a long moment staring at the desktop, at the letter that no longer had any significance because Ransome was dead. I knew I would outlive him. I didn’t think it would be so soon. Even bringing down the je Tsinraan isn’t worth this. He turned away from the desktop and went to the drinks cabinet, poured himself a glass of the harsh local rum, not bothering with any of the mixers. He drank deeply, barely tasting the alcohol, put the glass aside before he could be tempted to finish the bottle. Oh, God, I know I can live without him. It’s just–at the very worst, I wish it had been at my choice.

He moved slowly back to the desktop, touched keys to connect himself to the main communications system. He called up the familiar codes– Ransome’s codes, the codes to Ransome’s loft–and swore when the familiar message flickered across the screen: SYSTEMS ENGAGED, PLEASE TRY AGAIN.

“Override,” he said harshly, and a few seconds later the screen cleared. Lioe’s beautiful, strong‑boned face looked out at him.

“What the hell do you want?” she began, and her frown deepened when she recognized the ambassador. “Na Chauvelin?”

“I have bad news,” Chauvelin said, and knew he had not been able to hide the pain in his voice. “I‑Jay–Ransome’s dead.”

“Oh, God.” There was a long silence, Lioe’s face utterly beautiful in its blank shock, and then, quite suddenly, the mask shattered into fury. “What the hell happened, did Damian Chrestil kill him? I’ll murder the son of a bitch myself–”

“No.” Chauvelin did not raise his voice, but she stopped abruptly, the mask reasserting itself.

“So what did happen?” she asked, after a moment.

Chauvelin swallowed hard, suddenly unwilling to speak, as though to tell the story would make it truly real. That was superstition, shock, stupidity, and he put the thought aside, went on, steadily now, “Ji‑Imbaoa–the Visiting Speaker–killed him. They were old enemies, and Ransome got too close to him.”

“The hsaia at your party,” Lioe said.

“That’s right.”

Lioe closed her eyes for a moment, and when she opened them again, Chauvelin could see the tears. “Ah, sa,” she said, her voice breaking. “He wouldn’t‘ve been so careless.”

“Wouldn’t he?” Chauvelin said, in spite of himself, heard the bitter laughter that was close to tears in his own voice.

“Yes,” Lioe said, after a moment. “He would.”

There was another, longer silence between them, broken only by the howl of the wind. Chauvelin wished for an instant that he could wail with it, but hsai training prevailed. He stared at Lioe’s face in the screen, wondering again just what Ransome had seen in her. Not sex, certainly, she’s not his type for that. Surely not just the Game? He meant it when he said the Game was a dead end, useless. He said she was too good for the Game, wasted on it. I wonder if he’s persuaded her of that? I suppose that’s one last thing I can do, give her the chance to do something more.

“What now?” Lioe said, softly. “I–we had a deal, Ambassador, you and I and Damian Chrestil.”

“The deal holds,” Chauvelin said. “At least as far as I’m concerned. Ji‑Imbaoa falls under hsai jurisdiction, my jurisdiction. He asked for it, in fact.”

There was a note of satisfaction in his voice in spite of himself, and Lioe nodded.

“As for the rest of it,” Chauvelin went on, “I’m I‑Jay’s next of kin, the rest of his family’s dead.” He took a quick breath, spoke before the full pain of it could hit him. “I’m willing to let you have the loft and its contents, tapes and equipment. No one else has a claim on them. As part of the deal we made.” He made himself go on without emotion. “He would want that.”

“Ah.” Lioe’s voice held a note of pain that Chauvelin suddenly resented. He frowned, searching for the necessary rebuke, and Lioe went on, her voice under tight control again.

“All right. I’ll keep my end of the bargain.”

Good. “Agreed,” Chauvelin said, and cut the connection. He stood for a moment, staring at the desktop, then touched icons to close the letter that still waited for transcription. There would have to be another letter–another letter that in some ways carried better news to the Remembrancer‑Duke, a bigger scandal, one that would devastate the je Tsinraan–but he couldn’t face that now. He turned away to lean against the shuttered window, feeling the force of the wind even through the spun shielding. The price of this victory is very high. He slammed his hand flat against the shutter, already impatient with his own grief. He was dying anyway. This was quicker, maybe kinder–but I will miss him. That was all the epitaph he could promise anyone, even Ransome. He made a face, and went back to the drinks cabinet, reaching for the rum.

Day 2

Storm: The Chrestil‑Brisch Summer House,

the Barrier Hills

A weather screen was flickering soundlessly in the corner, the display showing the bands of clouds curving now from northeast to southwest. The winds had shifted too, and the clattering of the rain against the house was softer, less insistent. Damian Chrestil sat alone in the tiny office space, the desktop open in front of him, a small black box lying on top of the displays. The lights beneath it, shining up through the clear screen, made it look as though it was floating on a haze of blued light. Damian stared at it, not touching it or the rolled tool kit that lay beside it, too tired to do more than look for a long moment. Then, sighing, he reached for the tool kit, unrolled it, and extracted a slim hook. He worked quickly, prying open the case of the desktop’s datanode–not hooked up at the moment–then fanning the stacked chips until he found the delicate nest of wires. He separated out the ones he wanted, the power feed, the direct‑on‑line lead, the one that fed the data to an implanted data socket, spliced the black box into them. It had been a long time since he’d done that kind of work, but it was easy enough; the skills came back quickly, like running a john‑boat along the Inland Water. He eased everything, wires, box, the stacked chips, back into the cavity, and fitted the cover carefully back into place. There was room and to spare in the old‑fashioned fitting.

Moving more slowly now, he rerolled the tool kit, and slipped it back into his pocket. He glanced then at the chronometer, its numbers discreetly displayed above the open file: almost midnight, and the storm would be ending soon. Already, the winds had dropped enough to allow the Lockwardens to send out the first of the emergency repair crews, heavy‑duty flyers headed for the lighter barriers west of Factory Island and Roche’Ambroise, where the news services reported some minor damage, another team headed for Plug Island to check the generators there. In another hour or two, they could leave the summer house.

He flicked a switch, reconnecting the datanode to the main system, but did not touch the waiting cord. Instead, he ran his finger over icons on the desktop, tying in to the house systems, and touched a private code. A few seconds later, a telltale lit in the monitor bar, and he said, “Cella? I need to talk to you. I’m in my office.”

There was no answer–probably she wasn’t wearing the jewelry that concealed the transmitter–but a moment later the telltale winked out. Damian Chrestil sighed, and settled himself to wait.

At last, the door slid open almost silently, and Cella peered around its edge. “You wanted me, Damiano?”

Damian nodded. “We need to talk,” he said again.

“Certainly.”

Cella moved easily into the room, seated herself at his gesture on the edge of the desktop. She was still wearing the demure, plain shirt and loose trousers, the creamy blouse improbably neat even after hours of wear. And Ransome’s death. Damian looked down at the open files, not really seeing the crowding symbols. “You set this up,” he said quietly.

Cella blinked once, her face utterly still and remote. “Ransome’s death? No.”

Damian Chrestil leaned back in his chair, too tired to feel much anger at the lie. “You’ve never had so much to say to the Visiting Speaker–to any hsaia–in your life. And the cylinders were moved, not by me, not by Ivie or any of his people. That leaves you.”

“Or Ransome himself,” Cella said gently. “Or the Visiting Speaker.”

“The Visiting Speaker didn’t have the chance,” Damian said. “Ivie was watching him too closely, keeping him in that corner. And Ransome was looking for it elsewhere. You had to tell him where it was. That still leaves you, Cella.”

Cella met his eyes steadily, only the note of scorn in her voice betraying any emotion. “Why would I kill Illario Ransome? Do you think I care if you fuck him? What’s that to me, any more than any other of your minor conquests? We have a–more complicated arrangement. I thought you knew me better, Damiano.”

“I think I do.” Damian did not move, still leaning back in his chair, his hands steepled across his chest. “What annoys me, Cella, is your interfering in my business, screwing up a deal I had a hard time salvaging. I told you before that this was the only thing I could do to save the situation. I meant it, and I don’t appreciate your trying to force my hand. You’re not good enough to play politics.”

“Ransome’s death is the best thing that could happen,” Cella said. “For you, for Chauvelin–even for the Visiting Speaker, if you wanted to play it that way; he’d be under obligation to you if you let him go. Ransome’s worth a lot more dead than alive–and don’t try to tell me that Chauvelin loved him so much that he’d rather get revenge than use him to bring down the je Tsinraan. It’s the best thing that could happen, if you’re serious about going over to the tzu line.”

“It’s not your place to make that decision,” Damian Chrestil said. He sighed, looked down at his files again, then spun the first one so that it faced Cella. She looked down at it, her expression first curious, then angry, before she’d gotten herself under control again.

“Our arrangement is over,” Damian Chrestil said. “That’s my assessment of your property, a fair settlement. You can take it or not, I don’t really care. But I don’t want to see you again.” He pushed himself up out of the chair, took a few steps away from the desk.

“Very well,” Cella said, her voice still rigidly controlled. “But you won’t object if I verify some of this?”

“Help yourself,” Damian said, and heard the whisper of the interface cord drawn out of its housing in the side of the datanode. He did not look back, bracing himself, and a moment later heard the fat snap of the current as she plugged herself into the system. There was no cry, no sound except the buzz of the overload box shorting out, and then the sprawling thud as she fell. The room smelled of electricity, and then, insidiously, of scorched hair and skin. Damian Chrestil turned then, without haste, knowing what he would find.

Cella lay contorted by the corner of the desk, limbs tumbled, her face pressed into the carpet. Her dark hair had come out of its crown of braids, lay in disturbed coils over her neck and across the floor, hiding the data socket at the base of her jaw. A thin tendril of smoke was rising from it as the implant housing smoldered. He looked at her for a moment, but did not touch her after all. The end of the data cord dangled over the edge of the desk, inert: the automatics had cut the power instantly after the massive current passed through. He left it there, and reached into his pocket for his thin gloves. He drew them on, ignoring the smell–burned flesh, urine, burned implant plastic, and hot metal–and used the tool kit to pry off the cover of the datanode. The boards and wires had fused, a ragged mess; he stepped over Cella’s body to lean closer, carefully freed the black box from the ruined node. The military does good work, he thought, and gingerly stuffed the ruined components back into the node’s casing, closing it carefully behind him. By the door, where the carpet ended and the tiles began, he stopped, dropped the black box on the hard surface. The casing shattered, spilling fragments; he set his heel on them, methodically grinding them to gravel, then swept them toward the nearest garbage slot. The baseboard hatch slid open, and he swept the fragments into its waiting darkness, running his foot twice over the tiles even after he was sure he had it all. He did not look back–he did not have to look back, would remember Cella’s twisted body in absolute clarity even without a second look–but walked away, letting the door slide closed behind him. Power surges happen during big storms; you shouldn’t go direct‑on‑line when the weather’s bad. Everyone knows that, and everyone does it just the same. Poor Cella, what a shame it caught up with you. But you shouldn’t’ve tried to force my hand. In an hour or two, if no one had found her, he would send Ivie looking for her: until then, let her lie.

Epilogue

« ^

Day 6

Storm: The Barge Gemini, Nazandin

Wharf, the Inland Water by Governor’s

Point District

Lioe stood on the midships deck, one hand on the rail to balance herself against the motion of the barge. Even four days after the storm had passed, the Water was still a little rough; it would be easier out to sea, Roscha had said, where the currents were less constrained by the complex channels. Overhead, the sky was very blue, utterly free of clouds, and the ghost of one of the moons rode the housetops over Roche’Ambroise. The sun was warm: Burning Bright was moving toward summer, Lioe remembered, and she glanced forward, wondering if she should claim a place under the thin canopy. It was crowded there, full of people in white under the white canopy, and she decided not to join them yet. There were more people in white crowding the docks, Gamers mostly, people from Shadows that she recognized, others that she didn’t know, from the nets and the other clubs. White was the color of mourning on Burning Bright, and Ransome had been well respected. She smoothed the front of her own coat self‑consciously, the fabric heavy over a white shirt and her most formal trousers, the breeze cool on her neck and scalp. It felt odd, not to be wearing a hat, but she was no longer a pilot, would have to get used to that. Kerestel had not been pleased, but there were good pilots available through the pools. He would learn to live with it. She glanced over her shoulder, saw Roscha coming toward her, red hair bright in the sun, very vivid against the white coat. Everyone on Burning Bright owns one, Roscha had said. You never know when you’ll need it.

“It’s quite a turnout,” Roscha said, and leaned out over the railing to stare at the crowd on the dock.

Lioe looked with her, saw Medard‑Yasine standing with Aliar Gueremei, a handful of Shadows’ staff clustering around them. She had seen Peter Savian earlier, conspicuous in plain Republican shirt and trousers, a white scarf his only concession to local custom; now he was nowhere in sight, but instead, Kazio Beledin stood talking to a tall woman, LaChacalle, and a slim man with a data socket high on his face that caught the light like a diamond. He saw her looking, and lifted a hand in sober acknowledgment. Lioe waved back, not knowing what else to do. LaChacalle had on a white dress under the sheer white coat, and the others wore wide wraps, Beledin’s covering his head like a hood. “So many Gamers,” she said, and Roscha shrugged.

“Everyone knew Ambidexter. They may not have liked him, but they’d kill to get in his games.”

“Not a bad epitaph,” Lioe said. And it’s not just Gamers who feel that way. She looked back toward the group under the canopy, counting the political notables who’d come to Ransome’s funeral. Governor Berengaria, looking remarkably like her image from the parade, stood talking quietly to a man Ransome had pointed out at Chauvelin’s party as the head of the Five Points Bank, while a detachment from the Merchant Investors Syndicate waited for her attention. There were representatives from all of the Five Points Families, Chauvelin had said, and two of the Chrestil‑Brisch. She scanned the crowd until she found them. The head of the family, Altagracian– dit Chrestillio, she remembered–was a big man, bigger and more leonine than Damian Chrestil, but the sister, Bettisa, had the same sharp face and fine body. It was a little disconcerting, seeing her there, thin white coat wrapped tight around her body, and Lioe looked away. Chauvelin was nowhere in sight. Probably with the ashes, she thought, and still wasn’t sure how she felt about this ritual, the formal consigning of what was left of Ransome’s body to the seas. Death on Callixte was a private thing, and so were funerals. There was a shout from forward, and the beat of the engines strengthened through the deck. Very slowly, the barge began to pull away from the dock.

“Quinn,” Roscha said, just loudly enough to be heard over the sudden rush of wind. “There’s been some talk.”

Lioe glanced back at her, frowned at the grim look on the other woman’s face. “What about?”

“The fucking Visiting Speaker,” Roscha answered. “I’ve been hearing from people I know up at the port–and other places, pretty much all around–that he’s walking around loose. I thought you said the ambassador was going to deal with him.”

“He was,” Lioe answered. “As far as I know, he is. Are your friends sure it’s ji‑Imbaoa?”

She knew it was a stupid question even as she asked, and Roscha grinned. “Not all hsaia look alike. And he’s wearing all the honors. Perii lived on Jericho, she reads hsai ribbons pretty fluently. Oh, it’s him all right.”

“Wonderful,” Lioe said. What the hell is ji‑Imbaoa doing free? Chauvelin should be keeping him under lock and key until the next ship leaves for HsaioiAn –

“It occurred to me,” Roscha said, “that maybe N’Ambassador wasn’t all that sorry Ransome’s dead.”

No. Lioe shook her head, rejecting the thought even before she had fully analyzed it. Not that I’d put it past Chauvelin to kill someone, but not Ransome. Not the way he sounded, looked, when he told me. “There’s bound to be a reason,” she said, “something in hsai law, maybe.”

“Maybe,” Roscha said. “But the thought also occurred to me, Quinn, that maybe something could be done about it. Perii says the Visiting Speaker’s been drinking pretty heavily, drowning his sorrows, she says. It’d be a shame if he didn’t make it home some night–which could be arranged, Quinn. If you think it’s appropriate.”

Lioe stood frozen for a moment, suddenly very aware of the heat of the sun on her back, the movement of the barge under her feet. This was a power she had never expected, a direct and potent strength, the smoldering anger of the canalli channeled through Roscha, ready to hand. That’s exaggerating, sure, I don’t have all the canalli–but she’s offering me a means of direct action that I never dreamed I’d be able to tap. With this to back up the new Game, I’ve got more power than I’d ever expected. She curbed herself sternly, made herself focus on the issue at hand. “I want to talk to Chauvelin.” She pushed herself away from the rail before Roscha could follow.

She found Chauvelin about where she’d expected, toward the forward end of the canopy where a plain, raw‑looking pottery jar stood ready on a white‑draped table. He was wearing a white wrap coat, like everyone else, but had left it open, so that the wind blew it back to reveal the knots and clusters of his honors draped about his shoulders. Berengaria stood beside him, the wrinkles at the corners of her mismatched eyes making her look as though she almost smiled. Lioe sighed, and resigned herself to wait, but to her surprise, Chauvelin nodded to her, and said something to the governor. This time Berengaria did smile, and Chauvelin made his way across the last few meters to stand at Lioe’s side.

“It’s good to see you, Na Lioe. I’m sorry we haven’t had a chance to speak before this.”

At least not today. Lioe said, “I hear that the Visiting Speaker is back in all his old haunts, Ambassador. How does that happen?”

There was a little silence, and then Chauvelin said, “There isn’t a ship to Hsiamai for another four days. He gave his parole–his word, his promise–to give himself up when it arrives.”

“I know what parole means.” Lioe took a deep breath, fighting back her anger.

Chauvelin said, “It doesn’t mean anything. It’s his right under the law, to have this time. He’ll be on the ship to Hsiamai, and the All‑Father will deal with him. He miscalculated badly, it’ll take the je Tsinraan years to recover from this.”

“I can’t say I find that terribly satisfying,” Lioe said.

“You surprise me.” Chauvelin looked at her, his lined face without emotion. “Ji‑Imbaoa is ruined. Not only that, he’s ruined his entire clan. Let him have all the Oblivion he wants, it’s not going to change anything. I think that’s very satisfying.”

Lioe paused for a long moment, considering the ambassador’s words. Yes, it was satisfying to think that ji‑Imbaoa would have to live with whatever hsai law thought was the appropriate punishment for murdering an ambassador’s dependent, and with the fury of his own relatives. Ransome, certainly, would have appreciated it.

“He’s lost any hope of ever gaining position at court,” Chauvelin said, “or of regaining what he’s already lost. He’ll be ostracized, completely.”

“I see.” Lioe looked away from him, toward the railing and the Water beyond. Traffic was heavy, as always, but funeral barges had priority, and the smaller boats gave way grudgingly, sliding to either side of the broad channel. The air smelled of salt and oil. They were coming up on Homestead Island and the end of the Water; she could just make out the blockhouses that controlled the first of the storm barriers, the stubby grey buildings conspicuous against the brighter brick behind them. According to the datastore and to the obituaries, Ransome had been born somewhere in that district, born poor, child of no one at all important. And now his death is bringing down a major faction within HsaioiAn. Yes, he would appreciate that. “All right,” she said, “I won’t do anything.”

Chauvelin lifted an eyebrow, looked genuinely surprised for an instant. Then his eyes slid sideways, and he smiled slightly. “I forgot Roscha. Careless of me. But this is a hsai matter, you can leave it to me.”

“All right,” Lioe said, and to her surprise, Chauvelin bowed to her.

“Thank you,” he said, and turned away.

Lioe looked over her shoulder, and saw, as she’d expected, that Roscha had come up behind her, moving so silently that she hadn’t heard her approach.

“Well?” Roscha asked. “What did he say?”

“We’ll let it go,” Lioe said. “Ji‑Imbaoa will be on the ship to Hsiamai, and he’ll be appropriately dealt with there.”

“Do you believe that?” Roscha asked.

“Yes,” Lioe answered, and managed a tight grin. “He’ll get exactly what he deserves.” Roscha still looked uncertain, and Lioe went on, “It’s what Ransome would’ve wanted, I’m sure of that.”

“If you say so.”

“Look, this brings down an entire government,” Lioe said. “You’ve got to admit that’s Ransome’s–Ambidexter’s–style.”

Roscha laughed softly. “That’s true. Sha‑mai, wouldn’t it make a great Game session?”

It would, Lioe thought. It would make a brilliant one. And it’s one I want to write–maybe put it at the core of the new Game, make it one of the givens, part of the background for everything. That would be a nice memorial, something else he’d approve of. And then no one could play without knowing something about him, remembering his death. She nodded slowly. “Thanks, Roscha,” she said. “I’ll do just that.”

Day 6

Storm: The Hsai Ambassador’s House,

in the Ghetto, Landing Isle Above

Old City North

It was midafternoon by the time Chauvelin returned to his house, and his face stung from the combination of sun and salt spray. Je‑Sou’tsian was waiting in the main hall–like all the household, she wore white ribbons, sprays of them bound around each arm–flanked by a pair of understewards. Chauvelin frowned, surprised to see so formal a delegation, and je‑Sou’tsian bowed deeply.

“Your pardon, Sia, but there has been a transmission from maiHu’an. His grace has been pleased to grant you an award.” She used the more formal word, the one that meant “award‑of‑honor”: she would have seen the message when it came in, Chauvelin knew. She would have prepared the formal package. “It’s waiting in your office.”

“My lord honors me beyond my deserving,” Chauvelin answered, conventionally. “Thanks, Iameis–and thanks for that, too.” He reached out, gently touched the knots of white ribbon.

Je‑Sou’tsian made the quick fluttering gesture, quickly controlled, that meant embarrassment and pleasure. “We–I didn’t want to presume. But we regret your loss.”

“Thank you,” Chauvelin said again, and went up the spiral stairs to his office.

The room was unchanged, the single pane of glass that had cracked during the storm replaced days before. Chauvelin settled himself at the desk, lifted the precisely folded message to his lips in perfunctory acknowledgment, and broke the temporary seal. The message–handwritten in n‑jaocharacter and then copy‑flashed; Haas’s handwriting, not the Duke’s–was clear enough, but he had to read it a second time before the meaning sank in. Then, quite slowly, he began to laugh. He had done well, in the Remembrancer‑Duke’s opinion: this was the reward every chaoi‑monworked for, dreamed of, but few ever achieved. There, set out in the formal, archaic language of court records, were the certificates of posthumous cooptation for his parents and their parents, the necessary two generations that would make him no longer chaoi‑mon, but a full hsaia, indistinguishable in the eyes of the court and the law from any other hsai. He could not quite imagine his mother’s reaction, but suspected it would have been profane.

There was a second note folded up inside the official announcement, also in Haas’s hand, the neat familiar alphabet used for tradetalk. He opened that, skimmed the spiky printing.

CONGRATULATIONS ON YOUR PROMOTION, AND MY SYMPATHIES FOR THE LOSS OF YOUR PROTEGE. MY LORD IS VERY PLEASED WITH THE OUTCOME OF THIS BUSINESS, AND IS PLANNING TO TRAVEL TO HSIAMAI IN PERSON FOR THE TRIALS. A MORE PERSONAL TOKEN OF HIS PLEASURE WILL FOLLOW.

Chauvelin smiled again, rather wryly this time. I don’t think I should count on that. The Remembrancer‑Duke might be less pleased after all, though on balance it shouldn’t affect the ultimate outcome of the trials. He glanced at the chronometer display, gauging the time left until he would hear– not much longer now–and set both messages aside. One of Ransome’s story eggs was sitting on the desk beside him, the case a lacquer‑red sphere that looked as though it had been powdered with gold dust. He picked it up idly, turned it over until he could look through the lens into its depths. Familiar shapes, Apollo and a satyr, shared images from his and Ransome’s shared culture, leaned together in a luminous forest, each with a lyre in his hands. The loop of images showed a brief conversation, a smile– Ransome’s familiar, knowing smile–and then a brief interlude of music, the sound sweetly distant, barely audible half a meter away. Apollo and Marsyas, Chauvelin thought, in the last good days before the contest. He had never noticed it before, but the Apollo had his own eyes, and his trick of the lifted eyebrow. Oh, very like you, I‑Jay. But that’s not how it was. I did everything I could to save you. You died by your own misjudgment, not by mine.

“Sia?” That was je‑Sou’tsian’s voice, sharp and startled in the speakers. “Sia, I’m sorry to disturb you, but there’s been an accident.”