He slipped one of the stones out of his pocket, fingering the delicate features without really looking at them. His eyes traveled instead beyond the lower terrace, beyond the Straight River, where he thought he could see the bow of the Crooked River, dividing the Old City from the Five Points District. It was a trick of the light, he knew that, of the hazy sunlight and the water‑heavy air, that turned all distances vague and soft‑edged, drowned in a blue‑grey haze like a watercolor wash. Even so, his mind filled in the outlines, drew a second steely curve beyond the more solid line of the Straight. Five Points proper, the five projecting pieces of cliff edge where the descendants of the city founders lived, lay beyond that curve, invisible, tantalizing, and the third of the points belonged to the Chrestil‑Brisch. He had been there once, years ago–before Chauvelin, before Jericho, before he’d even thought of leaving Burning Bright, when he had still thought he could play certain games without penalty even though he’d been born poor canalli, child of a Syncretist Observant, playing games on equal terms with the second child of Chrestil‑Brisch…
He put that thought aside. Cella Minter was nudging him back into the Game, and the hand behind her was Damian Chrestil’s: that was what mattered now, that and whatever hsai politics Chauvelin was tangled in. Chauvelin had been adopted into the tzu Tsinraan, and was relatively a modernist and a moderate even within the moderate faction that dominated the court. But where he stood in the greater conflict that lay behind the factional quarrel, Ransome had never been completely sure. HsaioiAn wanted to control settled space–the hsai needed to control settled space, because their culture could not admit that other species equalled their own; the whole elaborate fiction of adoptions and legal kin‑species had been set up to allow the hsai to pretend that other beings were really a part of their own species. Chauvelin had embraced that fiction, heart and soul, or he wouldn’t be here.
But he had been careful, all the years Ransome had known him, never to say whether he supported the wider definition of kinship, one that would eliminate the concept of houtaand replace it with an acknowledgment of a basic kinship between all intelligent species, or the older, more conservative version. Most conscripts Ransome had known supported the old, narrow definition: why should others get for nothing what they had worked so hard to win? That sort of selfish self‑aggrandizement wasn’t Chauvelin’s style–but then, it was equally unlike Chauvelin to keep silent even about risky political beliefs. More likely, Chauvelin had thought of himself as hsaie for so long that it no longer occured to him to think of himself as involved in that debate. Chauvelin had made one thing very clear. If Ransome didn’t serve Chauvelin’s interests, Chauvelin would no longer be able to protect him. That knowledge had a sour taste, and he looked away, stared over his shoulder toward the shimmering towers of Newfields. Even at this distance, he heard a rumble like distant thunder, and squinted skyward in spite of knowing better, looking for the pinpoint light of an orbiter already long out of sight. He looked back, dazzled–the sun was starting the decline over the highlands, turning the sky to a white haze–and saw Chauvelin looking at him.
“The sound of money,” Ransome said, and deliberately turned his back on the port. Chauvelin lifted an eyebrow, visibly decided the comment did not deserve an answer, and returned his attention to the data manager that rested on his lap. The subject was clearly closed, or else, Ransome thought, even Chauvelin was a little ashamed of himself for this one. He watched Chauvelin work for a little longer, the long hands busy on the input strip, the grey‑brown hair fading even more in the afternoon light, the slight, faintly quizzical hint of a frown as he studied something on the screen. Ransome did not like being ignored, did not like being ignored after being threatened, said, not quite at random, “Do you think it’s wise to annoy Damian Chrestil?”
“Why not?” Chauvelin’s voice sounded bored, his eyes still on the screen in front of him, but Ransome got what he was looking for, the subtle shift of expression that meant the ambassador was listening closely.
“He’s not a fool,” Ransome said. “Or a child. They say he’ll be coopted to the Select next year.”
“Is that what they say?” Chauvelin did not move, but Ransome smiled to himself, hearing the slight change in tone. He had confirmed something that Chauvelin had suspected–and a seat among the Select, the elite advisory council that handled much of Burning Bright’s foreign policy, was the first step toward becoming governor.
“Among other things.” Ransome lowered his eyes to look at the carved head, pinching it between his fingers, glanced up through his lashes to watch Chauvelin’s response.
“Well, that’s what I pay you for,” Chauvelin said. “And for finding out what in all hells Damian Chrestil wants.” He leaned back in his chair, stretching long legs in front of him, and touched the manager’s screen. The machine shut itself down obediently, its chime muted in the heavy air. He was wearing a hsaie greatcoat over plain shirt and trousers, a sweep of unshaped river‑green brocade that set off the weathered ivory of his skin. His hands were starting to betray his age. Ransome looked down at his own fingers, saw the same lines and shadows starting, tendons and bones starkly outlined under the roughened skin. Not that he was likely to see the end of the process: by the time he reached Chauvelin’s age–and there were not ten years between them–he was likely to be dead.
“Among other things,” he said again, putting aside the familiar recognition, and tilted his head toward the terrace, toward the hardscaping he himself had designed. Chauvelin nodded, acknowledging the point, and by coincidence a breath of wind shook the bellflower tree beside him, bathing them both in its musky perfume. It would have been a nice effect, Ransome thought, if I could’ve planned it.
Chauvelin set the data manager aside on the stones of the wall, leaned back in his chair, taking his time. The sunlight cast a delicate pattern of shadow over him, pouring down through the bellflower’s fan‑shaped leaves and striking deep sparks of color from the draped greatcoat. Even in the shadow, the lines that bracketed his mouth and fanned from the corners of his eyes were very visible. The crows‘‑feet tightened slightly, a movement that might become either a smile or a frown, and Ransome bit his tongue to try to copy the other’s silence, to keep from speaking too soon. The bellflower’s leaves rustled gently, and another orbiter rumbled skyward.
“I have to know what he’s up to,” Chauvelin said at last. “You’re the best chance I have for that.”
Do you mean ji‑Imbaoa, or Damian Chrestil? Ransome wondered. Or both? He sighed, looked down at the sculpted head that still rested in the palm of his hand. I would have done this anyway, regardless of threat or flattery–or love or whatever it is that’s between you and me, Tal Chauvelin. For the love of this game that’s better than anything the Game has ever produced. “All right,” he said, easing himself off the terrace wall, and reached into his pocket for the rest of the handful of carved stones. Chauvelin looked up, one eyebrow rising slightly.
“You said you had something to show me?”
Ransome nodded. “Hold out your hand.”
Chauvelin extended one long hand, both eyebrows lifting now, and Ransome opened his fist, letting the stones–grey‑silver, a shower of frozen mercury–fall into the other’s palm. Several of them bounced away before Chauvelin could catch them, but he made no move to gather them, sat staring at the four that remained in his hand. Ransome watched him turn the carvings, roll them curiously beneath one probing finger, then lean to pick up the ones that had fallen, one by one, until he had them all. The delicate faces, some white as the hazy sky, one dark as slate, the others grey and silver, stared at nothing with knowing, provocative eyes. Chauvelin nodded once, silent approval, looked up at the other man.
“I thought I’d pave your paths with them,” Ransome said, and, slowly, smiled.
There was another little silence, and then Chauvelin nodded again, this time in agreement. “How soon can you have it done?”
“And in place?” Ransom
e paused, thinking. The idea of paving the paths was new, had come to him on the denki‑bike ride from his loft; he hadn’t even begun to work out the quantities he would need, or the time it would take for an automated workshop to fabricate them from his models. “A week, probably–no, Storm’s coming, everyone will be working on Carnival stuff. A week and a half, two weeks, probably. Give or take a couple of days.”
“I want them in place by my party,” Chauvelin said.
Ransome frowned for an instant; he had forgotten how late it was, that tomorrow was the last day of High Spring, and the date of Chauvelin’s annual grand reception. “I don’t know,” he said involuntarily, and Chauvelin nodded.
“I know. But I’m willing to pay double costs, and a rush bonus on top of it, if you can find a way to get it done.”
“I can try,” Ransome said, absurdly pleased by the demand. There were a few places that might be able to do the production run on this kind of notice–stonecrafters didn’t get too much extra business for Storm, unlike most artisans–and Chauvelin’s own gardeners could handle the installation… This was one of the things he liked without reservation about Chauvelin: when he played patron, he did it in grand style. And the money wouldn’t hurt, either.
“I mean it,” Chauvelin said. “Post the costs on the house net, I’ll authorize the draft.”
“I’ll do it,” Ransome said, and added, knowing the workshops, “if I can.”
Chauvelin nodded, smiling slightly, and Ransome turned away, not waiting for the steward to take him back out through the maze, walking up through the garden toward the house and the well‑watched passage to the street.
Part Two
« ^ »
Evening, Day 30
High Spring: Shadows, Face
Road, Dock Road District
Below the Old Dike
Lioe started for Shadows just after sundown, riding the tourist‑trolley to the elevators at Governor’s Point, then one of the massive cars down the cliff face to Governor’s Point Below. The cab stand was empty; when she consulted the information kiosk, fingering worn keys while her other hand rolled the old‑fashioned ball that grated in its socket, she estimated Shadows was about twenty kilometers away. She hesitated, wondering if she should try one of the other clubs the steward– Vere, his name was, Vere Caminesi–had mentioned, but when she checked the kiosk again Shadows was the closest. She sighed, punched in the codes that would alert the velocab companies to a waiting fare, and lowered herself onto a stone bollard that seemed to exist to keep the cabs from getting too close to their prospective passengers. It was getting cool, would be a chill night, by her standards, and the breeze that swept up from the southeast raised goosebumps even under her jacket. It carried the faint tang, damp and salty, of the sea that was never far from anyplace in Burning Bright; brought with it too a whiff of heavy foliage from household gardens, the delicate mustiness that rose from basements, and even a momentary sharp taste of the oil that tainted the Inland Water, gone as quickly as it had come. She cocked her head, listening, but could not hear the dull polyphony of the bell buoys that tolled to mark the channel. She knew she should not be surprised–at this point she was almost as far inland as one could be and still stay on the Wet side of the Old Dike–but she was oddly, vaguely, disappointed.
The cab appeared a few minutes later, the whine of its motor audible well before it turned the corner. Lioe rose to her feet, slinging the bag that held her Rulebooks and Gameboard more securely over her shoulder, was aware of the driver’s frank stare as he keyed open the door to the passenger compartment.
“Evening, pilot.” He had a young voice, a cheerful voice, that went oddly with the lined and weathered face. “Where you bound?”
Lioe had almost forgotten she was wearing the hat, this one a small toque, suitable for Gaming, that marked her as a pilot of the Republic. “A place called Shadows,” she said. “I’m told it’s on Face Road, at the center of the Dike in Dock Road District?”
She was reciting the address from memory–no house numbers here, but all the buildings had names and were then placed within the district according to the nearest landmarks–and was relieved when the driver nodded.
“You’re a Gamer, then.”
“That’s right.” Lioe levered herself into the narrow pod. It smelled of smoke and fish, an odd, unfamiliar combination, stronger as the low door closed behind her.
“It’s a good club, Shadows,” the driver said. “Or so they tell me. I’m a home Gamer, myself.” The engine whined as he stood on his pedals to get the cab moving again.
Lioe leaned back cautiously against the thin padding, feeling the vibrations of the little motor through the soles of her feet. The cab swung left in a gentle arc that brought them out into a larger trafficway–not a busy street, only a few other vehicles, velocabs and pushcarts, moving between the bollards that marked the edges of the road. They swung left again, the driver hesitating for an instant to gauge the faster stream of traffic on the wider street, and then standing hard on his pedals to bring the cab up to their speed. The cab slid neatly into a gap between another velocab and an empty flatbed carrier belching steam, but Lioe was looking at the shape that soared above the street, cutting off the sky. The Old Dike was festooned with lights, strings and streamers of them flashing in sequence to warn off wandering helio pilots, but they only seemed to intensify the black mass of the wall itself. More light like fog flowed along its top, fading into the sky at least a hundred and fifty meters above them. Lioe shook her head, amazed and wondering, and the driver shot her a look of triumph.
“It’s something, isn’t it? That’s the Old Dike. The first‑in people built it to reclaim the Old City.”
Lioe nodded, still staring, barely aware of the other vehicles now crowding the road. “What’s that on top?” she asked, after a moment. “Another road?”
“That’s Warden Street,” the driver answered. “Runs all the way along the Dike, from Lockwarden Point to the Governor’s House. There’s good shopping up there, the best shops in town for fashion, if you’re interested.”
“Maybe,” Lioe answered. It must’ve been one hell of a project, building that, she thought, even if Burning Bright’s first‑ins were a different breed from the usual first settlers. Burning Bright had never been intended to be anything but an entrepot–could never have been anything else, at least under human settlement, given the minuscule landmass–and the first settlers had all been merchants and bankers, bent on turning the planet’s favorable position astride the main hyperspace channel between the Republic and HsaioiAn into solid profit. And they’d certainly done that: despite the best attempts of worlds like Ky and Attis/Euphrosyne, Burning Bright remained the busiest transshipment point for goods going from one metagovernment to the other. Even in the first years, the settlers would have had the capital to bring in the best technicians to build the Dike.
Traffic was picking up, more and more vehicles cramming the road, and crowds flowed along the walkways outside the brightly lit shops. Only the foodshops seemed to be open, but light and bright snatches of music spilled from their doorways, clear notes like plucked metal strings. She heard laughter as well, over the constant rumble of the crowd and the traffic, looked instinctively to see a woman caught in the blue‑white light of a store’s display window, her head thrown back, hair spilling in untidy curls around a lined, handsome face. Her skirt–no one wore skirts in the Republic, except for ethnic festivals–was starred with little mirrors, reflecting the store’s lights like chips of diamond. And then the cab was past her, and Lioe resettled herself against the padding, wondering what she had seen. A shape flashed through the pedestrians, a man’s head and shoulders moving with unnatural quickness above the people surrounding him, and then he shot between two men and a bollard, darting into the traffic stream on a battered bicycle. No one used bicycles much in the Republic, either.
The road rose ahead of them, and Lioe was suddenly aware, over the noise of the crowds and th
e snarling rush of the assorted vehicles, of the dulled, steady tolling of a buoy bell. She leaned forward a little, and the driver said, before she could ask, “We’re coming up on the Straight now.”
There were more bicycles in evidence on this stretch of road, and on the high‑arched bridge, as well as cabs and three‑wheeled cycles and a handful of the motorized denki‑bikes. Most of the cabs and human‑powered vehicles turned right or left onto the street that paralleled the as‑yet‑invisible river. As the driver stood on his pedals again to coax the cab up the steep rise, Lioe began to understand the reason. She could guess why there didn’t seem to be many fully motorized craft on Burning Bright–fossil resources were scarce and inaccessible, electrics were still impractical for heavy loads, and solar was even less practical on something as small as a velocab–but it was still strange to feel the cab wavering from side to side as the driver added his muscle power to the engine’s whining output. Strange, and somehow improper. Lioe was glad when the cab reached the top of the arch, and started the long glide down.
Across the bridge, the streets were quieter. The buildings turned blind faces to the road, and there were few pedestrians. Once or twice the cab crossed a wider street, both times with trees or flowers growing in a center island, framed by soft lights, and Lioe caught a glimpse of figures moving in that pastel radiance. More often, the cab flashed over the low hump of a bridge, and she saw shards of light reflected from the canal water less than two meters below. The driver–he had caught his breath, after the bridge–said, “This is Dock Road–Dock Road District, that is.”
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