Текст книги "Burning Bright"

Автор книги: Melissa Scott

Соавторы: Melissa Scott
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“Why?”

“You’re running short of time,” the voice murmured, with a note like amusement, and Hazard shook his head.

“Why?” he said again.

“I need telepaths,” the voice said. “Electrokinetics of Harmsway’s talent are rare, to say the least; he may even be unique. You were not badly treated here, and if you cooperate, you can live quite well–you both can live quite well. Is Avellar’s rebellion worth that much to you?”

Hazard hesitated for a moment longer, then, very slowly, laid his laser on the tiles, slid it hard toward the waiting soldiers. “All right,” he said. “We surrender.”

“Excellent,” the voice purred, and changed instantly to a snap of command. “Medics, see to that man. You, guard, search this one properly.”

Hazard lifted his hands, and submitted to the search, watching over the soldiers’ shoulders as a medical team swarmed over Harmsway’s unconscious body, loaded it into a medsled, and sped away. The nearest soldier prodded him, and he forced himself to move, walking back toward the entrance and the long trek back to the prison complex.

–

Game/varRebel.2.04/subPsi.1.22/ver22.1/ses1.28

There were only two guards by the cargo door, both staring nervously toward the sound of Harmsway’s attack. They were sheltered by the hatchway, not an easy shot at all, and Avellar paused in the shelter of the final rack of crates, considering them cautiously. After a moment, he beckoned to Africa. The man frowned, but slipped forward to join the rebel leader.

“You’re the best shot of all of us,” Avellar said, leaning close, his voice an almost soundless whisper. “Can you take them?”

Africa frowned. “Not with a pistol.”

Avellar made a face, but eased back into the shelter of the crates. After a moment, Africa followed, still frowning.

“Let me,” Faro said.

Avellar shook his head. Before he could say anything, Jack Blue interrupted.

“I can draw them out, Avellar. Leave it to me.”

Avellar looked uncertainly at him for a moment–a fat man, wheezing, leaning awkwardly on Lyall’s shoulder–but slowly nodded. “If you can lure them out here…”

“We can take them,” Africa said. “Can’t we, Faro?”

Lord Faro nodded, snapped the last power cell into the butt of his pistol.

“Do it,” Avellar said.

Blue closed his eyes, frowned, and let himself sink cross‑legged onto the tiled floor. Slowly, the frown eased away from his heavy features, and his hands lay lax on his thighs. A few moments later, something stirred in the corridor to their right: it sounded like someone walking, the heavy, uncertain footsteps of a wounded man.

Lyall said, almost in the same moment, “They’re buying it.”

The first of the guards peered out of the hatchway, put up his faceplate to listen more closely. Africa leveled his pistol, but Lord Faro laid a restraining hand on his arm.

“Wait for the other one,” he said, very softly.

Africa nodded, lowered the pistol again.

Blue was sweating lightly now, forehead furrowed in concentration. In the corridor, the footsteps faltered, something metal fell with a clatter, and then the footsteps picked up again, more slowly. The guard cocked his head to one side, listening, then pulled the faceplate down again. Avellar held his breath, afraid to move. Very slowly, Lyall crossed her fingers, closed her eyes, and played out her minimal power the way a fisherman plays a line, easing out a tendril of curiosity to draw the guard toward the strange noises. The guard held up his hand at last, and beckoned to his partner. The second guard came up to the edge of the hatch, but stopped just inside the heavy frame. Africa breathed a curse: the hatchway still blocked their shot.

“Wait for it,” Faro murmured, the words almost a mantra. “Wait for it.”

The guards stood still for a moment longer, visibly conferring via the helmet links. Then the first guard started toward the sound of the footsteps, and the second man moved out of the hatchway to cover him.

“Now!” Avellar said.

The others fired almost as he spoke. The second guard fell without a sound, crumpling back into the hatchway. The first guard spun around, staggered by the shot, but fought to keep his feet and bring his laser to bear. Africa fired again, and this time he went down.

“Did he warn the main party?” Avellar demanded, looking at Lyall.

The telepath shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

“Then let’s go,” Avellar said. He looked down at Blue, who was slowly opening his eyes, extended a hand to help him to his feet. Faro did the same, and together they pulled the telekinetic upright. Belfortune stepped forward without a word, took Avellar’s place. He winced when his share of Blue’s weight hit him, but made no sound.

“Let’s go,” Avellar said again, and started across the open corridor toward the hatch. The others followed, Africa still with his laser at the ready, but nothing moved to stop them.

They crowded into the narrow space, and Avellar laid his hand against the sensor panel that regulated access to the freighter’s cargo lock. There was a soft click, and then a high‑pitched tone.

“Royal Avellar,” he said distinctly, and waited. A heartbeat later, the cargo lock creaked open. Familiar people, familiar faces, were waiting inside the lock, and Avellar allowed himself to relax for the first time since they had left the prison complex.

“Thank God you made it,” a well‑remembered voice said, and Avellar grimaced, relief and chagrin equally mingled in his face.

“Danile. I didn’t get him.”

“I know.” The man–greying, thin, a long, heavily embroidered coat thrown over expensively plain shirt and trousers–looked back at him gravely. “But you’re safe, and alive, and well out of this place. And the rest of you, too.” His eyes swept over the others, stopped when he saw Faro. “So.” The word was little more than a hiss. “You found something you wanted more than your lands, Faro?”

Faro glared back at him, then deliberately reached out to touch Belfortune’s wounded shoulder. “Yes. And I’ve paid, Danile. I can’t go back to the Baron now.”

There was a little silence, broken by one of the crew saying urgently, “Sirs…”

Danile nodded. “All right, Faro. All of you, we have to hurry. We’re cleared for departure, let’s go while we can.”

There was a ragged murmur of agreement, and the group began to move further into the ship, following Danile and Avellar. The cargo door slid shut behind them, closing off their last view of Ixion’s Wheel.

Evening, Day 30

High Spring: Shadows, Face

Road, Dock Road District

Below the Old Dike

There was a little silence after the session ended, the images fading slowly from the VDIRT table, and then a murmur of satisfaction, of pleasure, before the applause began. Ransome joined with the rest, but long before they’d finished, he was pushing his way through the crowd to Medard‑Yasine’s side. “I want to meet her, Davvi.”

Medard‑Yasine looked blank for a moment, then visibly pulled himself out of the Game universe. “So long as you’re not planning to kill her, I‑Jay. I want her working here.”

Ransome gave his crooked smile. “No, I wasn’t planning on it. She did a pretty good job with that scenario.” Better than pretty good; it was her players who held her back. God, wouldn’t I love to play a session, show them all how it should be done… It had been a long time since he had felt that way about any of the Game versions, and his smile widened for an instant.

“Can I quote you?” Medard‑Yasine said.

“Maybe. Once I’ve met her.”

Medard‑Yasine laughed. “Come on, then.”

The players were gathering in one of the larger lounges, where food and drink were already set out for the players–on the house, Gueremei said loudly. Medard‑Yasine nodded his agreement, and moved off with only a quick word of apology to supervise the house staff. Ransome stood just inside the door, content to watch from a distance for now, matching names and real faces to voices that had become oddly familiar. Savian and Beledin he had recognized instantly, despite the new implants glimmering in Beledin’s eyes, and seeing them standing with their arms around each other, he guessed that their old affair might rekindle for the night. A thin, olive‑skinned young man in a steward’s jacket stood blinking for a moment in the doorway, the mark of his shades prominent on his nose, and Beledin detached himself from Savian’s hold to embrace the newcomer. Jack Blue? Ransome wondered, and the steward’s voice confirmed it. Huard he knew also, admitted grudgingly that the man had done a good job within conventional limits, as had Mariche. He searched the crowd for an instant before he found her, was not surprised to find her hooked up to another terminal, waiting to see if her ratings had changed. Imbertine– who did better than I expected, given the others’ conventional play–floated in his chair at her side, rubbing his wrists as though the bracelets chafed him. Ransome allowed himself another quick smile–Mariche had always been overly concerned with rankings. That left Roscha– Galan Africa–and Lioe. He looked again, and realized that the stunning redhead talking to Huard must be one of the players. Roscha, then–and it’s a shame her mouth is that hair too big, or she’d be perfect. So where’s Lioe?

Even as he thought it, the door from the session room opened again, and a tall, lanky woman came into the room. She was dark, her skin the color of old bronze, and her face was made up of stark planes, a severe and sculptural beauty. A pilot’s hat, a small one, just a narrow toque with a knot of spangled fabric wound around it, hugged her close‑cut hair. Then someone called to her, a voice out of the crowd congratulating her on the session, and she turned to face him, her expression breaking into a smile that shattered the stony beauty and gave her instead a vivid plainness. Ransome caught his breath–he hadn’t expected that, had expected a woman with looks like that to use them, to stay always grave and expressionless, to fear the sudden change–and in that moment someone spoke his name.

“Having fun, I‑Jay?”

He looked down and down again, to the upturned face and half‑bared breasts of a tiny, perfect woman. She smiled up at him, well aware of and comfortable with his regard, and Ransome was unable to keep his own smile in return from twisting slightly out of true. “Oh, enormously,” he said. “Are you here professionally, Cella, or are you here to play?”

If the barb touched her, she gave no sign of it. “To play–or to watch, rather. It was nice of you to drop in, I‑Jay, after all this time. But then, somebody was playing with your toys.”

She kept her tone light, masking the insult, but Ransome was not deceived. “Why do you care if I’m out of the Game?”

Cella laughed at him, a lovely, practiced sound. “We’ve missed you, I‑Jay, missed Ambidexter. Though with this Lioe around, that may be less of a problem. She does very well with your templates, don’t you think?”

“Well enough,” Ransome said. But I’m better. He controlled the impulse to boast, said instead, “Have you been playing much lately, Cella?” He knew perfectly well that she had been, that her most recent session had been panned by most of the nets as too political, and that the one before that had gotten an A rating on‑and off‑world– and did she deliberately blow a session, set it up so you couldn ‘t miss the politics, just to try to lure me back on line? It didn’t seem likely–one did not waste a session that way, not if one was serious about the Game–but he couldn’t shake the sudden suspicion.

“Oh, I’ve been running a session or two,” Cella said. “But we’ve all missed your input.”

“I’ll have to see if I can remedy that,” Ransome said slowly, and was not reassured by Cella’s blinding smile. I’m doing what you want, Chauvelin, but I’m not at all happy about it. At least I’ve got an excuse. Except that Lioe’s good, good the way I was, and I don’t think I’d‘ve missed her play.

“I’ll look forward to it.” Cella touched his arm lightly, and slipped away into the crowd. Ransome watched her make her way between the groups of much taller men and women, a tiny, opulent shape in rich violet silk, her blue‑black hair piled in braids interwoven with strands of the same clear color. She paused to speak briefly with one of the other Gamers, and then vanished among the crowd. Ransome stared a moment longer, wondering what she and Damian Chrestil were up to this time, then resolutely looked away.

“I‑Jay!” Beledin was waving to him from across the room. “I should’ve known you’d come.”

Ransome made his way to join the other, allowed himself one genuinely mischievous smile before he smoothed his expression. “Hello, Bel. It was a good session.”

Beledin nodded. “It was.”

“That’s what I always liked about you, Bel,” Ransome murmured. “No false modesty.”

Beledin ignored him, gestured to the two men standing with him. “You know Peter, but I don’t know if you’ve met Vere?”

Ransome started to shake his head, looking at the steward’s jacket, then frowned, a vague memory teasing him.

“Audovero Caminesi, ditVere,” the young man said with prompt courtesy.

“Illario Ransome.” Ransome held out his hand, still frowning. “Have we met?”

“I played a tenth‑run session of yours a few years ago, back when you–when Ambidexter was still working out of Two‑Dragons,” Vere answered, and took the other’s hand.

Ransome nodded, unable to sort him out from the hundreds of other players, and took refuge in present truths. “It was a good session, quality play, tonight. I liked what you did with Jack Blue–did you set the weight, or was it a given?”

“Player’s choice,” Vere answered. He shrugged, trying for nonchalance. “I figured he’d need all the help he could get, playing with Grand Types, and the heavier he was the more powerful he was.”

“Makes sense,” Ransome said. In spite of himself, in spite of everything he’d ever said about the Game, it was too easy to get caught up in the old interests. He shrugged one shoulder, annoyed at himself for no reason, and looked away.

The servers had already been around with the drinks tray. Savian drained the last of his glass, and lifted a hand to wave to someone in the crowd. “Na Lioe! There’s someone here you should meet.”

“Peter.” Beledin frowned quickly at him, at the emptied glass, and looked at Ransome. “I‑Jay. She’s good–”

“Trust me,” Ransome said, and turned to face the woman as she emerged from the crowd.

Lioe looked warily from Savian to the stranger, aware of undercurrents but uncertain of their meanings. The stranger smiled back at her–a gaunt, white‑faced man with deep lines that bracketed his mouth, turning his expression crooked–and said, “I’m pleased to meet you, Na Lioe.”

Lioe nodded, waiting for the name, and the stranger’s smile broadened.

“I’m Illario Ransome.”

“Na Ransome.” Lioe held out her hand, and the stranger took it, his grip neither testing nor condescendingly weak, still with that crooked smile.

“He’s Ambidexter,” Vere said, and for an instant sounded all of twelve years old. Ransome gave him a fleeting, amused glance, and the younger man flushed to the roots of his hair.

“You left some good characters,” Lioe said, mildly annoyed by his treatment of her player. “It’s a shame you quit the Game.”

There was a sudden silence, spreading from her words, and she was aware of Savian’s open grin, daring her to say more. Beledin kicked his friend just above the ankle, not gently, but the Republican ignored him. Ransome stared back at her for a long moment, and then, slowly, the crooked smile widened, became real and unexpectedly appealing. The whole shape of his face changed, gaining sudden lines and hollows; his coarse grey‑streaked hair fell untidily into his eyes. He pushed it back impatiently, as though he were no longer conscious of the movement, said, “I mightn’t‘ve done, if there’d been sessions like this to play in. I enjoyed watching.”

“Thanks,” Lioe said. I will not apologize for playing your characters.

“I’ll be looking forward to seeing more of your work,” Ransome said.

“That’s high praise, from Ambidexter,” Savian murmured.

Ransome cocked an eyebrow at him, but did not answer. Lioe said, with deliberate nonchalance, aiming for exactly the tone she would have used with anyone, “Thanks. You should come and play sometime.”

The expressive eyebrows rose even higher. Lioe met the stare blandly, and, quite suddenly, Ransome laughed. “I might, at that. It was a pleasure to meet you, Na Lioe.”

“And you,” Lioe said, and couldn’t keep a hint of irony out of her voice. She was already speaking to his back, however; she was sure he heard, but he made no response. “I think,” she added, mostly under her breath, and was rewarded by a rather nervous giggle from Vere.

“Would you like some methode?” Beledin said hastily, and Lioe nodded.

“So that’s Ambidexter,” she said, and accepted the glass that Beledin held out to her. The liquor was thick and fizzy, and cheaply sweet. She took a careful swallow, waiting for their answers.

“Indeed it is,” Savian said.

“He’s a good player,” Beledin said. “Nobody’s matched his Court templates, outside the Grand Game.”

“Harmsway’s a great character,” Vere agreed.

Once diverted into the Game, they could go on for hours. Lioe glanced away from the conversation, searching for Ambidexter–Ransome–among the crowding bodies. He was not a tall man, and it took her a minute to find him. He was standing with Gueremei and the man who had been pointed out to her as Davvi Medard‑Yasine, Shadows’ primary owner–standing between the two of them, so that he seemed to be holding court, the other two dancing attendance. Does he do that on purpose? she wondered. It’s obnoxious–but he does do it well. “Why did he quit gaming?” she asked, and the others looked at her in surprise.

“Ransome, you mean?” Beledin asked, and Lioe nodded.

“Sheer pique,” Savian said, with a wicked grin.

“Give it a fucking rest,” Beledin said. He looked back at Lioe, shrugged one shoulder. “He said he was bored. And he’s got his story eggs to keep him busy.”

There was a note of constraint in his voice, the faintest hint of something unspoken. Lioe cocked her head, wondering how to ask, and Savian said, “They’re easier than real people.”

Beledin scowled, opened his mouth to say something, and Savian held up both hands. “I’m not being bitchy, that’s the truth. I think he got tired of trying to bully his players into doing what he wanted.” There was something in his voice–a certainty, maybe–that silenced Beledin.

“So what did Ambidexter want?” That was Roscha, emerging from the crowd like the avenging angel in a popular film. Lioe caught her breath, impressed in spite of herself–in spite of being all too familiar with the type, of having written the template for the type–by the streetwise swagger and the striking figure.

“He said he enjoyed the session,” Vere said.

Roscha whistled softly. “From him, that’s a compliment and a half.”

“So what does he do?” Lioe asked. “Now that he doesn’t play.”

Roscha shrugged–clearly, the world outside the Game meant nothing to her, Lioe thought, not sure if she admired or was annoyed by the attitude–and Beledin said, “He’s an artist, an imagist, actually. He makes story eggs.”

“What are those?” The others looked rather oddly at her, and Lioe smiled broadly to hide her embarrassment. “I don’t know them.” And I dare you to comment, either.

Beledin gestured, shaping a sphere, an ovoid, about twenty centimeters long, miming a size and weight that would be reasonably comfortable in the hand. “It’s… they have these pictures in them, like a holofilm loop, that tells a story–suggests it, more like. You look through a lens at one end to see the display. They’re really neat, the ones I’ve seen, very stylized, so you do a lot of guessing.” He stopped, shrugged. “I’m just a musician, though. I don’t know much about it.” There was frustration in his voice, as though he was still looking for the words to describe what he’d seen.

Savian said, all trace of malice or mischief gone from his tone, “They really are spectacular, some–most of them. I saw one, it was just a plain, black metal case, smaller than usual, something you could put in your pocket, but when you looked into it, it was as though you were looking into a Five Points palazze. It was all golden lights, and carved furniture, and jewels, and velvets, and you could just see two figures moving through that setting, in and out of the clutter of things. You could turn the egg, rotate it, I mean, and you could see more bits and pieces of the scene, but you could never be quite sure what the two were doing, whether it was courtship, seduction, or one of them trying to escape. And you never could see the end of the scene, either, no matter how hard you tried.” He shook his head. “It was very–well, sensual, more than sexy, but ambiguous, too, so you couldn’t be comfortable with it.” He paused, tried a smile that carried at least some of his former detachment. “I don’t think Ransome likes you to be comfortable.”

I can believe that, Lioe thought, glanced again through the crowd. Ransome had moved away from Gueremei and Medard‑Yasine, was standing for that moment a little apart from all the rest, a glass of methodein one hand, the other deep in the pocket of his plain black trousers. For just an instant, his face was without expression, held nothing but its lines and a bone‑deep exhaustion. Then someone spoke to him, and Lioe saw his face change, take on a mask of detached amusement. So that’s where Savian got it, she thought, and had to hide a grin, deliberately turning her back to Ransome.

“That was a great session, Na Lioe.”

Lioe turned to face the speaker, a stocky, dark‑haired man with a horus‑eye tattoo on one cheek, half concealing the delicate data socket.

“Thanks,” she said, and Gueremei, coming up behind the man, cleared her throat gently.

“I don’t think you’ve met Davvi–Davvi Medard‑Yasine, our main owner.”

Lioe murmured something, and Medard‑Yasine grinned, rather sheepishly.

“Sorry, Na Lioe, I’ve seen enough of your work on the intersystems nets that I feel as though I know you. But it was a great session tonight.”

“I enjoyed it,” Lioe said, and waited.

“I wonder,” Medard‑Yasine began, and turned a shoulder to the other players, deftly easing her away from the others, “if you’d consider coming to a temporary agreement with us here at Shadows. I understand from Lia that you’re only on planet for half a week?”

“Five days at minimum,” Lioe said, and then remembered that Burning Bright kept a ten‑day week. “The ship I’m crewing for is in dock for recalibration of the sail projectors, so I’m dependent on the dockyards. They told my boss it would take five to eight days.”

Medard‑Yasine nodded. “Would it be presumptuous to assume you meant to spend most of that time gaming?”

“This is Burning Bright,” Lioe said, with a smile to take the sting out of her words. “I’d call that a reasonable assumption. Yes, I was hoping to get in as many sessions as possible.”

“After tonight’s session,” Medard‑Yasine said, “we’d be interested in anything else you might have ready to run. We’d be willing to offer twenty‑five percent of the fees, and free machine time to prepare any new ideas.”

“That’s very generous,” Lioe said, and meant it. Most Gaming clubs made a good proportion of their income from the fees they charged for use of the club’s equipment. A session could be outlined easily enough on a Gameboard, but fine‑tuning the details took the raw power–and often the more extensive libraries–available through the clubs. It had cost her over a hundred credits to complete just the prison segments of Ixion’s Wheel.

“We’re very interested,” Medard‑Yasine said.

Lioe grinned. “Would this be an exclusive deal?”

“We’d want it that way,” Medard‑Yasine agreed.

“I see.” She hadn’t really meant much by that, was just buying time, but Medard‑Yasine’s thick brows drew together slightly.

“We’d also be prepared to pay an exclusive‑use fee, for Ixion’s Wheel, on a time‑limited basis.”

“You are serious,” Lioe said, smiling, and Medard‑Yasine nodded. His face was completely without expression, and Lioe realized for the first time that he meant to buy her–her presence at the club, as a session leader–and her scenario, whatever it cost him. It was an unfamiliar feeling, and somewhat unsettling; she wondered if she had been selling herself short, back on Callixte. That was an unpleasant thought, and unproductive; she dragged herself back to the business at hand. “What kind of a time period?”

“The length of your stay,” Medard‑Yasine said promptly. “Or, since you’re not sure how long that will be, a week–ten days. We’re prepared to offer you five hundred real, over and above your cut of the session fees, and of course the free machine time, on a second‑priority basis, if you’ll let us have an exclusive license on Ixion’s Wheel for the next ten days. And, of course, if you’ll run at least five sessions for us.”

Lioe hesitated, juggling numbers in her head. She could expect to clear about fifty realper session, if Shadows’ fees were in line with the rest of the club system’s; that plus the five hundred would pay all her bills at the transients’ hostel, and the machine time would let her explore some ideas that had been nagging at her for most of the trip, ideas that sprang directly from Ixion’s Wheel… She curbed her enthusiasm. It also meant that someone else would be running her scenario several times a day, without her having any control at all over how it was handled. But then, most of those players would be household Gamers anyway, people who couldn’t handle the scenario without a highly interventionist session leader, not at all the kind of players she wanted to be bothered with anymore. “What if it turns out that people want to play more than five sessions, and my schedule lets me handle it?” she asked, still playing for time.

Medard‑Yasine said, “From what you’ve told me, I don’t know how likely that is.” He grinned, and looked suddenly years younger. “With Storm coming–the Carnival, that is–I’d expect you to want to see some of the celebration. Frankly, I don’t expect my full‑timers to do much work, this time of year.” Gueremei gave a short bark of laughter, and Medard‑Yasine gave her a conspiratorial glance. “But if you do find time to give us some extra sessions, I’ll match whatever you make from fees.”

Lioe nodded. “All right,” she said. “It sounds like a good deal. I’m willing to try it.”

“Excellent,” Medard‑Yasine said, and smiled again. “I’ll draw up a contract, and you can drop by anytime tomorrow–”

“Anytime?” Gueremei said, and Medard‑Yasine grimaced.

“All right, anytime after noon. I’ll have a voucher for the fees waiting then, too.”

“It sounds good,” Lioe said. “I’ll see you then.”

“It’s good to have you in the house,” Medard‑Yasine said. “Even if it’s only for a few days.” They clasped hands again, and then he and Gueremei moved away.

Left to herself, Lioe took a careful step backward, away from the crowd of Gamers. She was flattered by Medard‑Yasine’s praise, flattered and startled and suspicious in about equal measures, and she wanted time to think. It wasn’t that she disliked the noise and the babble and the flying cross‑talk that surrounded her, compliment and critique and commentary filling the air around her, but it distracted her, made her feel almost too much at home. Her decision wasn’t irrevocable–she could always refuse to sign the contract the next morning–but she felt the sudden need to sit down somewhere quiet and work out what she’d done. Nothing but good, seemingly: a damn good session, a contract, even a compliment from Ambidexter, which, after she’d used his character without permission, was an accomplishment indeed. From what the others had said, Ambidexter had a reputation for being possessive– and I probably wouldn’t ‘ve done it if I’d realized he was still around.

She scanned the groups of players, looking again for Ambidexter– Ransome, she corrected herself, Illario Ransome–but the thin figure had vanished. Out of sight, or gone? she wondered, and the stab of disappointment was unexpectedly keen. Why the hell should I care? Except that he was–is?–Ambidexter, and he complimented my play. That’s reason enough for any Gamer. But… I want to talk to him again.

“So.”

That was Africa’s voice, at her elbow, and Lioe turned, was vaguely startled to see Roscha’s striking face instead of the session’s icon. Roscha went on, apparently unaware of the other’s surprise, or so used to it as to be immune to the effect.

“Did he make you a decent offer?” She held out a glass of methodeas she spoke, added, “I saw you weren’t drinking.”

“Thanks,” Lioe said, and accepted the tall glass. The wine was comfortingly familiar, and she drank with pleasure.

“So will you be working here?” Roscha asked.

Lioe lifted an eyebrow, and the other woman stared back, unimpressed and still curious. “We’re–negotiating,” Lioe said after a moment, and Roscha grinned, not the least abashed.

“Shadows is a good club, and the play’s quality. You ought to think about it.”

“I am thinking about it,” Lioe said, and laid the lightest of stresses on thinking. The party was winding down around her, session participants and observers alike edging toward the door. She glanced sideways to call up the implanted chronometer’s display–one of the minor conveniences that came with a pilot’s job–and saw without surprise that it was past local midnight. Savian and Beledin stood close together near the far wall; even as she watched, Beledin smiled, and touched the other man’s shoulder, easing him toward the door. He caught her eye, and the smile widened to a grin, and then they were gone. Vere was nowhere in sight, nor Imbertine; Mariche was deep in conversation with a handsome, greyhaired man, who leaned close, resting a tentative hand on her waist. Huard stood next to a full‑bodied woman with gold flowers painted on her dark skin and hsaii ribbons woven in her hair. Even as Lioe watched, the woman reached up to touch Huard’s face, the flowers glittering in the cold light.

She looked away politely, feeling vaguely jealous–why should she be the only one going home alone?–and Roscha said, “If you’re interested, I know a good after‑hours bar. After that session, I owe you a drink.”