“Have they made any guesses as to when the storm barriers will go up?” Damian asked, and the senior wharfinger, Rosaurin, shook her head.
“They’re hedging.”
“So what else is new?” Damian murmured. He glared at the model as though it could provide answers on its own, then shook his head. “I think we’re cutting it too close with the short‑haul boats. Have them ride it out south of the storm track.” He gestured with his own control wand, highlighted a grid mark on the model.
Rosaurin nodded slowly. “I’d rather get them home, but you’re right, we can’t risk it. Not when they can’t give me an estimate of when they’ll raise the barriers.”
Damian nodded back. The triple line of barriers lay at the bottom of the channel, were raised as the storm approached. They would hold back the worst of the storm surge, and protect the city, but once they were in place, no ships could enter the channel. They had all agreed, himself, the wharfingers, and the short‑haul captains, that it was worth taking one more trip to the seining grounds before Storm set in. Now the captains, at least, would have to live with the consequences. Still, they were experienced people, with good crews, and the boats were solid, well equipped. They should be all right, he thought, and turned his mind away.
“Na Damian?”
He turned, to find one of the younger dockers in the doorway, a thin young man with close‑cut blond hair that almost disappeared against his scalp. “Well?”
“You wanted to be told,” the docker said warily. “Roscha’s called in. She’ll be in the channel in about ten minutes.”
“Right,” Damian said, and couldn’t keep the satisfaction from his voice. “Can you take care of the rest of this, Rosaurin?”
The wharfinger nodded. “I’ll put together a final plot for your approval.”
“Do that,” Damian said, and left the shed.
Because of the approaching storm, there were perhaps twice as many ships tied up to the mooring points as usual, and the dock was littered with lines and spare gear. Damian stepped carefully through the clutter, and let himself into the outer office. The secretary pillar was, for once, clear of messages. He smiled rather bitterly– this once, I would have liked to have something waiting, preferably from ji‑Imbaoa–and went on into the inner room, seated himself behind his desk. The workscreen lit obediently, sensing his presence, but he ignored the flickering prompts, debating whether or not he should call the Visiting Speaker himself. Not just now, he thought, and touched keys to call up his security files. The check files were all in place– or not quite all. He frowned, studying the origination codes that the security programs had preserved for him: Ransome, almost certainly, and that means I’ll have to do something about him. Or about ji‑Imbaoa. He put that thought aside with regret–he’d gone too far to back out now–and the secretary chimed discreetly.
“Na Damian, Roscha is here.”
Damian touched the shadowscreen to hide the security programs. “Send her in.”
Roscha appeared in the doorway almost at once, her perfect figure obscured by a loose jacket knotted at her waist. “You wanted to see me, Na Damian?”
“Yes.” Damian paused for an instant, assessing how best to approach the question. “I hear you’ve been sleeping with this new notable, Lioe.”
Roscha blinked–whatever else she had on her conscience, she hadn’t expected this–and said, cautiously, “We’ve seen each other a couple of times, and I played in a couple of her sessions. I only met her three days ago.”
“You played a session with her last night,” Damian went on.
Roscha nodded.
“The C‑and‑I rep was part of that Game, too, am I right?”
“Yes,” Roscha said again, and waited.
“I gather they knew each other, Lioe and Desjourdy?”
“Yes.” Roscha drew the word out to two syllables, frowning now. “Look, Na Damian–”
“Are they just old friends, fellow Gamers, what?” Damian interrupted her. “Or has Lioe worked for her?”
“Jesus.” For the first time, Roscha looked worried. “I don’t think so, Na Damian. I was there when she–when Quinn invited Na Desjourdy to play this session. Quinn said she was short a player, and all they talked about was the Game. Desjourdy’s on the Game nets a lot, she’s a rated arbiter.”
“And she works for Customs‑and‑Intelligence,” Damian said, but more gently. He paused, studied her from under his lashes. “I’m a little worried, Roscha. This Lioe’s been hanging around with Ransome, too, and Ransome’s no friend of mine.” He saw from the quick, involuntary grimace that Roscha had noticed that attraction, too, and was less than comfortable with it. “Lioe and Desjourdy, Lioe and Ransome–it just doesn’t add up well.”
“I guess not,” Roscha said, slowly.
Damian hid his sudden pleasure. It’s working, she’s starting to think just the way I want her to, to think that maybe Lioe is a C‑and‑I agent. “So what I’m asking is, did you notice anything after the session? Any conversations, anything that might mean she was passing information to Desjourdy?”
Roscha shook her head. “No. They just talked about the session afterwards, and then–then Lioe came back to the boat with me. I dropped her off this morning when I got your message.” She stopped suddenly. “Boss, I ran into Tamia Nikolind on the docks coming in. She said she saw Lioe going off with Ransome this morning, taking a helicab out of Underface.”
“Damn.” Damian scowled, realizing he’d spoken aloud. That was the last unfortunate coincidence–in fact, it was too perfect to be a coincidence. One way or another, the two of them, Lioe and Ransome, had too many pieces of the puzzle to be allowed to go to either Chauvelin or Desjourdy. In fact, that’s probably the only thing I’ve got going for me right now: they’ll have to decide which one to alert first. He touched the shadowscreen to distract himself, making meaningless patterns on its surface. I’ll have to get them out of circulation, one way or another, and it’s too late for niceties. Lioe’s not important enough; security can find me plenty of “friends” who can dump her in a canal, and no one will think twice about it, but Ransome… Ransome’s another matter. But I can deal with that later. “Were you planning to see Lioe again?” he asked.
“Yes. We were going to the puppet shows, over on Roche’Ambroise. I was planning to meet her there.”
Damian took a deep breath, put on his most sincere face. “I need you to do something for me,” he said. “I need–I want you to break your date. I know I’ve no right to ask you to do it, but I need to keep an eye on her. And I don’t want to get you into any trouble.” That was true enough, even if the trouble was bigger than Roscha would think. “But I want some people of mine to watch her, and the puppet show is a good place for them to find her. Can you–will you do this?”
“Ransome and Desjourdy,” Roscha said. She smiled, without humor. “Hells, I told her I might not be able to make it. All right, Na Damian. I told her we’d meet by the fountain, there in Betani Square. She’s been wearing one of Gelsomina’s lace masks. I thought you should know.”
“Thanks, Roscha,” Damian said. Thank you more than I ever intend to tell you. Instinct kept him from offering to pay her fines after all. “I want you to stay here, at the docks–there’s enough work, God knows–but I want you visible the rest of the day. I don’t want you out of call until”–he paused, calculating–“until after midnight.”
Roscha frowned, hesitating over her next question. “You’re not–she won’t be hurt?”
Damian managed a tolerant smile. “This isn’t the Game, Roscha. No, I just don’t want you to be vulnerable if she–or Desjourdy, really–gets pissy about my keeping an eye on her. Because my security is going to be pretty obtrusive this time. You don’t need any extra hassle.”
“Thanks, Na Damian,” Roscha said, low‑voiced, and Damian nodded.
“Get on back out there, and try to stay visible for the next eight or nine hours.”
Roscha nodded, vi
sibly reassured, and backed out of the little office. Left to himself, Damian stared for few moments longer at the empty screens glowing in the desktop, then touched keys to summon his security files. Lioe and Ransome… On balance, it wasn’t very likely that Lioe was actually an agent for Republican Customs‑and‑Intelligence; she was too active a Gamer, and too busy a pilot, too, according to the records he’d obtained from the Pilots’ Union, to be employed by C‑and‑I as well. But she did know Desjourdy rather well, by everyone’s reckoning, and she had gone home this morning with Ransome. It wasn’t a risk he could afford to take.
He had more options in dealing with her than with Ransome. The imagist would have to be handled with care, because he himself couldn’t afford to antagonize Chauvelin– not yet, anyway, but if ji‑Imbaoa does even half of what he’s promised… He made himself concentrate on the immediate problem. Ransome would have to be taken out of circulation temporarily, but couldn’t be killed, or even too badly damaged: that meant kidnapping, and then the question of where to keep him. Damian ran his fingers over the shadowscreen, slaving it temporarily to the household systems in Five Points. The palazze was closing down for the storm, topping up the batteries, workmen ordered to bring the shutters in over the massive windows; the summer house, out in the Barrier Hills behind the Five Points, was shut down completely, all systems on standby, doors and windows sealed against the storm. Damian considered it for a moment, then nodded. The house was reasonably well sheltered, tucked into the side of a hill well above the water, and clear of the stand of trees that topped the ridge. It had stood through worse storms: an ideal place to keep Ransome, he thought. And Lioe, too, I suppose. If nothing else, once the storm starts, they’ll be stuck there until it passes. He nodded to himself, and touched the shadowscreen, detaching himself from the house systems and recalling his security programs. He culled a picture of Ransome–a publicity photo, a recent one, that showed all the lines in the imagist’s thin face–from the main systems, and then used his C/B Cie. ID numbers to gain access to the union files. It was a little galling to think that Ransome could probably get the same information without codes, either netwalking or through one of his friends, but at least he could get Lioe’s photo. He dumped both of the images into a minidisk, the kind that would fit either a pocket system or an implanted reader, and after a moment’s thought added the security codes that would unlock the summer house. He tucked them into his pocket, and went looking for Almarin Ivie.
He found the security chief in his office, a big man who dwarfed his desk and the constantly changing displays on the walls behind him. The tiny space was dark, lit mainly by the blue‑toned flicker of the displays, but Ivie touched controls as the door opened, focusing a faint halo of warmer light on the space before the door.
“Na Damian,” he said, and rose hastily to his feet. “What’s up?”
Damian waved for him to be seated again, found the guest’s chair, and spun it into position opposite the desk. “I need you to do something for me.”
“Whatever,” Ivie said, with a sincerity that Damian always found slightly unsettling. He killed that uncertainty–this was the time to appreciate his subordinates’ fervor–put the thought aside and slid the minidisk across the desk. Ivie caught it easily, the button of plastic disappearing in his thick fingers, and said, “For me?”
Damian nodded, and waited while Ivie slipped the disk into the reader tucked at the base of his left wrist spur. “I need these people taken out of circulation for a while,” he said. “The woman–her name’s Lioe, Quinn Lioe–I don’t really care how you do it as long as we’re not connected with it in any way. Ransome has to be handled with care: I don’t want him killed, or damaged too badly, but I want him out of circulation for at least the next half‑week. The summer house is empty, and I’ve given you the system codes. Can you do it?”
Ivie looked almost offended for an instant, but the expression passed across his flat face almost as fast as it had appeared. His heavy hands moved over a shadowscreen with surprising delicacy, and he said, “It looks as though Ransome is up in Newfields now, talking to people. I don’t find the woman. At least not at first look.” His fingers danced over another set of controls, and he went on, “I’ve got a trace going through the Game nets–she’s the Gamer, right?”
Does everyone know her reputation? Damian wondered, irritably. “That’s right.”
“I’ve got some people in Newfields now, and I’ll put them on him,” Ivie went on, fingers still working. “I’ll send them to the summer house once they’ve secured him.” He stopped then, looked impassively at Damian. “I’d like a little more guidance with Lioe, Na Damian.”
Damian sighed. He had been hoping to avoid this decision, had hoped, even knowing better, that Ivie would make it for him. “If you can secure her without killing her, I’d prefer it. Murder’s messy, even at Carnival. But if you can’t get her to come quietly, I’d rather have her dead.”
Ivie nodded calmly. “All right.”
“There’s one other thing that may help you,” Damian said. “One of my people was supposed to meet Lioe at the puppet show in Betani Square, over on Roche’Ambroise. They were to meet at the fountain, half an hour before the show.”
Ivie nodded again. “Good. That is a help. If we don’t get her before that, we’ll get her there.”
“I leave it in your capable hands,” Damian Chrestil said.
Day 2
Storm: The Hsai Ambassador’s House,
in the Ghetto, Landing Isle Above
Old City North
Chauvelin waited in the transmission room, leaning over the technician’s shoulder to study the hissing screens. The technician, jericho‑human, small and square‑built, looked back at him reproachfully.
“I’m doing the best I can, Sia.”
Chauvelin nodded, gestured an apology. “I’ll leave you to it, then.” He stepped backward, but couldn’t bring himself to leave the little room, stood instead still staring at the static that coursed across the screens. It was awkward enough at the best of times, contacting the Remembrancer‑Duke’s household on maiHu’an, given the time corrections between the two planets; during Storm, when the first link of the long connection, the transmission between the planet and the relay satellite, was notoriously unreliable, it was all but impossible. But I really don’t have much choice. Whatever ji‑Imbaoa is up to, it has roots in HsaioiAn.
“Got it,” the technician said, and hastily corrected himself. “Sia, I’ve established the link. The Speaker Haas will be on‑line directly.”
“How stable is the connection?” Chauvelin asked.
The technician shrugged. “About what you’d expect this time of year, Sia. But I can patch it through to the reception room. That won’t make any difference.”
Chauvelin nodded. “Do that, then. And thank you.”
The technician ducked his head in acknowledgment, not moving from his position in front of the multiple control boards. Chauvelin nodded back, and went on past him into the reception room. There had not been time to make the formal preparations, but then, this was not a formal call. Nonetheless, he laid the thin cushions, black‑on‑black embroidery, the geometric patterns dictated by a thousand years of tradition, in front of the low table, and poured two cups of the harsh snow‑wine. The warning chime sounded as he set the cups on the table, and he knelt on the cushions, settling himself so that he faced the massive screen. The grey static faded as the last of the check characters crossed its surface, and Eriki Haas tzu Tsinraan looked out at him. She knelt on identical cushions in front of an identical table; only the cups that held the wine were different, marked with the n‑jaocharacters of her name. The fan that marked her rank was folded in her hand, and Chauvelin wished for a brief instant that he had changed into hsai dress for this meeting. But it was too late for those regrets, and he bowed his head politely.
“Tal je‑Chauvelin,” Haas said, acknowledging his presence, and Chauvelin looked up.
“Sia Speaker. It’s good of you to speak with me on such short notice.”
Haas gestured quickly, the fluttering of the fingers that meant a hsaii wished to be informal. “I accept that things have gotten complicated. Let’s dispense with ceremony.”
Chauvelin allowed himself a soundless sigh of relief, and went on in tradetalk. “Complicated is a good word. I need your help, Sia–I need information.”
“If I can get it, of course,” Haas said. “What can I do?”
“I want to know what kind of connections there are between ji‑Imbaoa and Damian Chrestil–Decidamio Chresti‑Brisch, head of the import/export company C/B Cie.,” Chauvelin said bluntly. “Or any connections between the je Tsinraan and C/B Cie., particularly if any of C/B Cie.‘s clients are also houtadependents of the je Tsinraan.”
Haas paused, one hand busy with the notepad fastened to her belt, out of sight beneath the loose, semiformal coat. “This could be difficult to do discreetly, Tal. What does it matter?”
“I don’t care about discretion,” Chauvelin began, and bit back the rest of his words. He said, more carefully, “There isn’t time for discretion. I have reason to think that the Visiting Speaker and Damian Chrestil are working together here on Burning Bright, not as enemies, and I think that their real connection is something in HsaioiAn. The last thing my lord would want is to see Damian Chrestil elected governor of Burning Bright.”
“Do you think that’s likely?” Haas asked, but her hand was busy again, transferring notes to the household computers.
“I wouldn’t bother you if I didn’t,” Chauvelin said, and Haas waved her free hand in apology.
“I’m sorry, Tal. It’s just–the je Tsinraan have been making real inroads at court in the last week, and my lord is eager not to antagonize them.”
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