Burning Bright

by Melissa Scott

  Chauvelin kept his face impassive with an effort, torn between anger and elation. Ji‑Imbaoa had made it a direct order, one that Chauvelin could not directly disobey, but at the same time he’d made it equally clear that there was something important at stake. “Very well, Sia,” he said aloud. “Na Ransome will remain with the Game a little while longer.”

  “Until he finds what Damian Chrestil wants,” ji‑Imbaoa said.

  “So be it,” Chauvelin said. Behind ji‑Imbaoa’s shoulder, Ransome rolled his eyes.

  “You must do more,” ji‑Imbaoa said, and turned to face the imagist.

  “I do my poor best,” Ransome murmured, and bowed, too deeply for sincerity.

  Ji‑Imbaoa ignored that, and glanced back at Chauvelin. “I expect to be kept informed.”

  “As you wish,” Chauvelin said, and the Visiting Speaker lifted a clawed hand to signal the door. It slid open obediently, and ji‑Imbaoa stalked out, his ribbons flurrying behind him.

  Ransome said, even before the door had fully closed again, “Pity everything else isn’t so docile.”

  “You’d better have meant the door,” Chauvelin said, without heat.

  “What else?” Ransome darted him a suddenly mischievous glance, said, “Am I to keep on with the Game, then? Or would you rather know about the larger nets?”

  “Both,” Chauvelin said. “You heard him. I need you to be visible on the Game nets, to be sure he knows you’re doing what he ordered.”

  “That won’t be too difficult,” Ransome said.

  “You’ve changed your tune.” In spite of himself, Chauvelin felt a stab of jealousy, remembering the way the other had looked at the pilot, Lioe, the night before.

  Ransome gave him a rueful smile. “She’s good,” he said. “And she’s wasted in the Game.”

  Chauvelin said, more abruptly than he’d intended, “Whatever. But I do need you to be seen in the Game.”

  “I’ve said I would,” Ransome said. He pushed himself off the corner of the desk. “But, damn it, Damian Chrestil is up to something that has nothing at all to do with the Game.”

  “I believe you,” Chauvelin said. “I’m doing what I can to find out what.”

  “That would make sense,” Ransome said. He lifted his hand to open the door, paused with the gesture half completed. “Do you want me to keep on the port nets?”

  Chauvelin nodded. “If you can, yes, but the main thing’s the Game. I think you’re right, but ji‑Imbaoa’s forced my hand.”

  Ransome nodded abruptly. “I know, I’m sorry. I’ll do what I can.” He finished his gesture, and the door slid open.

  Chauvelin watched him leave, watched the door slide shut again behind him. As long as you stay on the Game nets, as long as you’re conspicuously doing what ji‑Imbaoa wants, then I’ve got a little time. He reached for the shadowscreen, recalling one of the chronometers, and checked the transmission pattern between Burning Bright and maiHu’an. He had just missed a window: the two planets would not be in phase for another twenty hours. Not until tomorrow, then, he thought, and tomorrow afternoon at that. For a moment, he considered using the more complicated–and expensive–emergency channels, but rejected the thought almost at once. The Remembrancer‑Duke would never sanction the expense. But tomorrow he would send a message to Eriki Haas, and find out if, and how, the je Tsinraan were connected to the Chrestil‑Brisch. He leaned back in his chair, staring at the ocean and the distant cloud bank without really seeing them. There were too many possible connections right now, but with any luck Haas would be able to narrow them down, and then… He smiled slowly. Then ji‑Imbaoa would have to regret the way he had behaved. Maybe, he thought, maybe the old superstitions are right, and my luck will change with Storm. He glanced down at the shadowscreen again, and touched icons to shift to another mode. It was time to start asking questions of his own.

  Day 1

  Storm: Shadows, Face Road, Dock Road

  District Below the Old Dike

  Lioe blinked even in the filtered sunlight that filled the inner courtyard, set her workboard down beside an unoccupied datanode, and turned her attention toward the food bars in the corner. She fed one the last of her free cash, and chose a box of thick rice and seacake from the cheaper half of the menu. She chose a bottle of medium‑priced water as well, and carried the food back to her table. It had been a long session, and a rewarding one; the session leaders had been excited by the scenario, eager to follow her suggestions, and genuinely interested in preserving her intentions for the session. It was a new experience, being taken that seriously: on the whole, she thought, I think I like it.

  She triggered the self‑heating unit, waited the required thirty seconds while the little charge cycled, and opened the box. The steam that rose from the mix of rice and onions and chunks of palmweed and the flower‑shaped seacakes was thick and appetizing, smelling of salt broth and the smoky oil that preserved the fish. There was a tiny dish of sweet mustard as well, but she had learned that it was far more mustard than sweet and should be approached with caution. She spread a pinpoint of the condiment over the first of the seacakes, and tasted warily. It was spicy, cutting the oil, but not so hot that it brought tears to her eyes. She hadn’t realized quite how hungry she had become, caught up in the intricacies of the Game, and she ate with relish, pursuing the last grains of rice around the bottom of the box. Both rice and seacakes were ubiquitous on Burning Bright, the staple of everyone’s diet–the rice grown in the tidal shallows, the seacakes processed at sea from the bits and pieces left over after the more expensive fillets and chunks were set aside–but she had not been on planet long enough to get tired of the salt‑and‑smoke flavors.

  She reached for the datacord then, plugged her workboard into the unoccupied node, touched keys to activate the unit and call up the night’s schedule. Somewhat to her surprise, the session hadn’t filled yet, but then she remembered that it was the first night of Storm, the first night of the Carnival. It wasn’t that surprising, after all, but it was a shame that she wouldn’t be making as much money from the session fees as she had hoped. Unless, of course, she could fill the session herself… She tilted her head to one side, considering. She had reserved Harmsway for Ransome, as he’d asked, and Savian and Beledin had signed up to play Lord Faro and Belfortune again– I’d like a second chance at him, Beledin had said, when she had met him in the hall on her way to the session leaders’ meeting–and a couple of unfamiliar names filled other slots, but no one had signed up for Jack Blue, or Mijja Lyall, or Avellar. Lioe frowned, seeing that. She had expected the unfamiliar names to fill last–and neither Jack Blue nor Lyall was a well‑known template–but she would have assumed that Avellar would go quickly. An inexpert Avellar would throw off the balance of the entire scenario; she needed someone good in that spot, if the session was to work at all.

  “Quinn. I’ve been looking for you.”

  The voice was familiar, but Lioe couldn’t quite place it. She looked up, still frowning, and felt the frown dissolve as she looked up at Roscha. “I’ve been around,” she said. “Are you playing tonight?”

  Roscha’s wide mouth widened further in a grin that showed perfect teeth and heightened the impossible cheekbones. “I hope so. I just got off work, and they told me there were still places left for tonight’s session.”

  Lioe looked down at the little screen, juggling choices. Roscha was good, all right, but volatile; there had been moments in the first session when she’d amply justified Gueremei’s description of her as “difficult.” On the other hand, that volatility might make for a very interesting key character. “How would you feel about playing Avellar?” she said slowly. “The other real option is Jack Blue–Lyall’s open, too, but that doesn’t strike me as your style.”

  “Avellar.” Roscha’s voice caressed the name. “Hell, yes, I’d like to play him–or her, if you’ll let me play the she‑clone.”

  Avellar, by Game convention, was actually a four‑person clone, the survivors
of a larger clone that had been partially destroyed some years before, in the clone’s childhood. It provided an explanation for the character’s limited telepathy; it also gave players who didn’t like crossing gender lines further options. Lioe shrugged. It made no difference in the context of the scenario; she was just a little surprised that Roscha, of all people, would choose not to cross gender. “If you want, sure,” she said. “I don’t have any problem with that.” She touched keys, and watched the program add Roscha’s name to the list of players.

  “Great.” Roscha ran a hand through her hair, dislodging the strip of indigo silk that confined it, and impatiently rewrapped it, tossing the red curls out of her eyes. “I was wondering. I see you’ve eaten, but you’ve got some time before the session starts. Would you like to go down to the Water, and see the Beauties and Beasts?”

  Lioe frowned, knowing she’d heard the term before, and Roscha said, “The Syndics’ parade, I mean. It’s well worth seeing.”

  Lioe looked back down at the screen, at the two slots that remained. Both of them were important–she prided herself on never having written a scenario that included unnecessary characters–and she hated to think she would have to run them from a distance. On Callixte, of course, she had a list of people she could call at short notice, fellow players and session leaders who were glad to fill in in exchange for a rebate on session fees, but here she would have to rely on the club’s resources. She hesitated then, and touched keys on the workboard to find an outgoing communications channel. “I’d like that,” she said, “but there’s one thing I have to do first.”

  “Sure,” Roscha said easily, and seated herself in the chair opposite, where the unfolded screen blocked her view of the other woman’s hands on the keys and controls.

  Lioe nodded her thanks, her attention already back on the Game. When Kichi Desjourdy had been Customs‑and‑Intelligence’s representative on Falconsreach, she’d been known to sit in on Game sessions on a fairly regular basis. Lioe herself had relied on her as a player as well as an arbiter. Maybe, just maybe, Lioe thought, she could help me out now. Desjourdy was good; she’d be an excellent choice either for Jack Blue or Lyall. She touched the final sequence, one of Desjourdy’s private codestrings, letting her know it wasn’t business, and dispatched the package into the communications system.

  Carnival had not taken over ordinary communications yet. A few thin images, a masked face, a dancing, six‑armed figure, drifted across her screen, while the connect codes blinked behind them, and then the screen lit fully, driving out the last of the Carnival ghosts. Kichi Desjourdy looked out of the little screen, the office wall behind her distorted by its limited projection. Desjourdy herself looked normal enough, Lioe thought, but with Desjourdy it was sometimes hard to tell. The Customs‑and‑Intelligence representative had a round, rather ordinary face, with only the silvery disks of two triple datasockets set into the bone at the corner of each eye to set her apart from most net workers. At the moment, none of the sockets were in use, and Lioe, who had seen Desjourdy bristling with cords, was oddly grateful.

  “Quinn,” Desjourdy said. “It’s good to see you. I’ve been hearing a lot of talk about you on the Game nets.” Her voice was clear and true, an elegant soprano, and Lioe was struck again by the mismatch of voice and face.

  “Thanks,” she said. “That was sort of what I was calling you about.”

  “Oh, yes?”

  “I’ve got a session going tonight,” Lioe said, “and I’m short. I need a player I can rely on. Are you free?”

  Desjourdy laughed. “I never know whether I should be flattered or not when somebody asks me like this. Is this for Ixion’s Wheel?”

  “Yes.”

  Desjourdy’s smile widened. “Well, that one I can’t turn down. Who is it, anyway?”

  “There are two slots still open,” Lioe answered. “Jack Blue, the telekinetic, leader of the prison population, and Mijja Lyall, who’s a secret telepath and a member of the research staff at the prison.”

  “Put me down for Jack Blue,” Desjourdy answered promptly. “He–is it he?–sounds interesting. Can you flip me a copy of the template?”

  “Sure.” Lioe touched keys to call the file from storage and duplicate it for transmission. “Are you ready?”

  “Line’s open and ready.”

  “Sending,” Lioe said, and waited while icons formed and shifted at the bottom of the screen.

  “All set,” Desjourdy said, and in the same instant the icons vanished. “What time does the session start?”

  Lioe glanced at her reminders list. “At twenty hours.”

  “I’ll be there,” Desjourdy said. “And thanks, Quinn. I owe you for this.”

  “I think I owe you,” Lioe answered and closed down the connection.

  “Who was that?” Roscha asked.

  Lioe glanced at her warily, wondering if she had heard a possessive note in the other woman’s voice, but Roscha’s expression was merely curious. “A woman I know from Falconsreach, a Gamer. I told you I was short a couple of people.” And I’m still short one player, for Lyall. She touched keys again to call up the list, to add Desjourdy’s name, and was startled to see that someone had already signed up for Lyall. It was not a name she knew, but at least it solved the problem. She added Desjourdy’s name to the list, and closed down the system.

  “Are you still interested in going down to the Water?” Roscha asked, and Lioe shrugged.

  “Why not?” She knew she sounded less than enthusiastic, and added, “I would like to see the procession.”

  “Leave your board,” Roscha said, pushing herself back from the little table. Lioe glanced at her curiously, and Roscha made an embarrassed face. “If there’s going to be any trouble, it’ll be tonight, kids steaming–you know, a gang of them runs through the crowd, grabs at whatever people’re carrying? That doesn’t often happen down here, it’s more something they do up in Dry Cut, or over on Homestead, but you don’t want to take chances.”

  “Right,” Lioe said, allowing the skepticism to color her voice, but she left her Gameboard and most of her credit and cash with Gueremei.

  The streets were already crowded, the sun low on the horizon, so that the buildings cast long shadows and only the open plazas were still bathed in amber light. Nearly everyone was masked, faces obscured by strips or full stiffened ovals of beaded lace, or completely hidden by fantastic, beak‑nosed half‑masks painted in every color of the rainbow. A few, men and women in seemingly equal numbers, simply painted their faces, the aged‑ivory complexion that was common on Burning Bright making a perfect backdrop for the delicate sprays of color. Gold flowers climbed one woman’s neck and cheek, appeared again at her bare shoulder, a golden vine winding languidly down to her wrist and a hand that bloomed like a bouquet, each knuckle sprouting a tiny, perfect rose. Her clothes were otherwise ordinary, a sleeveless vest and docker’s trousers, and Lioe caught herself staring at the brilliant contrast, wishing she had her recorder with her. In one of the plazas, a trio of drummers in black, shapeless robes and grotesque masks like the skulls of birds beat a complex almost‑tune, the high‑pitched hand drum weaving a stuttering, offbeat counterpoint to the steadier, full‑toned notes of the larger drums. A slim man in black– in Avellar’s black and gold, Lioe realized, and felt a thrill of absolute delight run up her spine, Avellar’s black and gold and Avellar’s face for a mask–paused to listen, and then pushed the mask back on his head, reaching for something inside his jacket. He pulled out a slim silvered pipe, began improvising against the beat of the drum. The hand‑drummer nodded to him, beckoned him with a movement of head and chin, and the group–a quartet now, for as long as the spirit seized them–played on. A pair of women, their blank silver masks topped with fantastic turbans, flowers and leaves dripping from braided coils of iridescent fabric, danced with them for a moment, then darted away, the metal and glass that weighted the hems of their enormous skirts flashing in the last of the sunlight.

  “You
should mask,” Roscha said. “I want to mask.”

  Lioe hesitated, uncertain, and Roscha caught her arm.

  “Come on, Gelsomina was tied up in the public cut not more than an hour ago. If we hurry, she might still be there.”

  “I don’t know,” Lioe said, but let herself be towed through the busy streets. Roscha paused at the first canal bridge, looking right and left as though searching for a scent, then started left along the bank. This was a narrow waterway, barely wide enough for two gondas to ride side by side, and the embankment was equally narrow, so that she had to step carefully to keep up with Roscha. She dodged another Avellar–a woman this time, but with the same familiar features shaping the hard‑faced mask, the corners of this one’s mouth drawn down in a frown that was almost tragedy–and nearly ran into a street vendor, his cart folded to its minimum width. She murmured an apology, and saw Roscha beckoning from the bend in the bank ahead of them.

  The streetlights were starting to come on–the sun must be down by now, Lioe realized, though it hardly seemed to make much difference in the shadowed streets–and their light fell into the canal’s dark water. A boat, a small barge with its mast unstepped and laid from bow to stern, lay at the center of one pool of light, and a woman looked up at them from the boat’s low deck. She was dressed as the Viverina, rich purple robe embroidered with dragons, sleek black wig that fell almost to her knees, skulls with bright red eyes braided into that mass, and she was laughing at them from behind the painted mask. Dozens, a hundred masks and piled cloth that must be costumes filled every available centimeter of the deck; masks hung from the horizontal mast, crowded cheek to cheek along its length, and still others dangled from the crossbar of the Viverina’s spear.

  “Gelsomina,” Roscha said. “Are you still selling?”

  “Since you’re here, I suppose so,” the Viverina answered. She was older than Lioe had guessed at first, about sixty, but straight as the spear she carried. “What will it be, something from the Game?”