Burning Bright

by Melissa Scott

  Ji‑Imbaoa suppressed a gesture, seated himself with a kind of heavy dignity. “Ransome, I would imagine, becomes a liability to you once this is over.”

  Damian shook his head. “Not necessarily. He’s a known netwalker, I can prove he’s been stealing information. If he tries to go to the Lockwardens, I can bring an equally strong complaint against him.”

  “Still, Chauvelin will know,” ji‑Imbaoa said.

  “Chauvelin doesn’t like me anyway,” Damian Chrestil said. I wish you’d come to the point.

  Ji‑Imbaoa looked away, said, as though to empty air, “I might be able to help with the situation.”

  I don’t need your help, thank you, Damian thought. He bit his tongue, and waited.

  “And it would be doing me a favor.” Ji‑Imbaoa said the words reluctantly, almost as though they were being pulled out of him. “There is a matter of face between my family and this Ransome, the matter of an insult which could not be acknowledged then, but is lesser treason now. If you will give him into my custody, we–my kin and I–will be able to settle this. And I, and they, will be in your debt.”

  Damian made himself look down at his hands to hide his sudden elation. To have ji‑Imbaoa, and, more than that, his entire family, indebted to me–in exchange for Ransome. Not much of a trade, an arrogant netwalking imagist–or should that be an image‑making netwalker?–for the friendship of an equally arrogant fool. But ji‑Imbaoa has powerful relations, they could be very useful to me. I’ve no illusions, Ransome’s no friend of mine, but can I afford to do it? He’s Chauvelin’s client, after all… But if it means connections in HsaioiAn, a deep connection to the je Tsinraan, can I afford not to? He said, slowly, “I can’t give you an answer now. There are practical considerations involved–”

  “Chauvelin will not be ambassador much longer,” ji‑Imbaoa said. “There is already pressure on the All‑Father to remove him from this post.”

  And that would make an enormous difference, Damian thought, if it’s true. If Chauvelin were no longer a factor, there’d be no reason not to do it. He had a sudden image of Ransome at Chauvelin’s eve‑of‑Storm party, sitting on the wall of the garden he had designed, the paths paved with thousands of delicate faces spread out at his feet, a mocking half‑smile playing on his lips as he watched the other guests recognize what they were walking on. Not a lovable man, certainly. Brave enough–and I do respect that–but this is a risk you take when you play politics. He nodded slowly, looked back at ji‑Imbaoa. “If I can do you this favor,” he said, “I will.”

  Day 2

  Storm: Transient Hostel #31, The Ghetto,

  Landing Isle at the Old City Lift

  The Lockwarden pilot set the cab down on the helipad just beyond the lift complex that ran down the cliff face into the Old City, balancing the light machine against the gusting winds. He was obviously skilled, but the ride was rough, and Lioe was glad to be on the ground. The pilot insisted on escorting her to the door of the hostel. Lioe made only a token protest, grateful for his support, and did her best to ignore the concierge’s smirk at her arrival, clothes torn and under Lockwarden escort. The smile turned to a frown of concern when he saw the white patches of selfheal on her face, and he came out from behind the counter to meet her.

  “Na Lioe? Are you all right?”

  “Na Lioe got mugged,” the Lockwarden said, politely enough, but Lioe found herself wincing a little at the suggestion.

  “I’m all right,” she said. “I just need to change clothes.”

  “You look like death,” the concierge–Laness, his name was–said, and shook his head. “You go on up to your room, and I’ll send a supply cart. Do you need anything in particular?”

  “Something to eat,” Lioe said, and was surprised by the intensity of her hunger. She turned to the Lockwarden. “Thanks for getting me here.”

  “No problem,” the pilot said easily, and let himself out.

  “You go on up,” Laness said again, “and I’ll send a cart.”

  “I’d appreciate it,” Lioe said. She rode the narrow lift up to the third floor–the first time she’d been back to her rented room in three days; most of her spare clothes were at Shadows–and let herself into the narrow room. It was small, but comfortable, and it had its own temperature controls. She turned up the heat to drive away the lingering damp of the canal, and stripped off her crumpled clothing. I need to call Ransome, find out what’s going on, she thought, but I want to be in shape to cope with him. She showered, not too quickly, letting the hot water wash away the fear and stiffness and the last faint green stains from the waterweed. The supply cart was waiting for her when she had finished, one of the covers pushed back slightly to release the steam. She dressed quickly, scrambling into her last spare pair of trousers and a loose, Reannan‑knit pullover, and pushed back the lid of the cart. The food was good, standard local fare, fish cakes and rice and a quick‑fry of vegetables, and Laness had included a bottle of the resinous local wine. She poured herself a glass, and wolfed a couple of the fish cakes straight from the cart, then turned her attention to the communications table. She seated herself in front of it, dragged the supply cart into easy reach. There were three messages from Kerestel waiting in storage. She hesitated, feeling guilty, but none of them were marked urgent. She ignored them, and called up the cheapest of the local communications nets. Its prompt flickered into view, and she punched in Ransome’s mailcode. There was a fractional hesitation, and then the familiar message: TERMINAL IN USE, PLEASE TRY LATER.

  She smiled and reached for the cart again, one unacknowledged worry assuaged. At least Ransome was all right, and could probably explain what was going on, who had tried to kidnap her and why. And in the meantime, she thought, I think I’ll start carrying my work knife again. She pushed herself away from the terminal, went to rummage in her bag for the knife. It was meant to be used as a survival tool, and was classified as such when it passed through customs, but the longer of the two blades made an effective weapon. She slipped it into her pocket, turned back to the terminal. There was a repeat function; she found it after a moment’s search, and hit the codes. This time, the screen stayed dark, codes flickering across its base; after half a minute, a new message appeared: INTENDED RECEIVER NOT RESPONDING, CANCEL YES/NO. Lioe made a face, but hit YES. The screen flickered, and a moment later presented her with the list of charges. She ignored it, staring past the numbers. Someone was on the circuit only a few minutes ago, she thought, so where the hell did he go? Unless it was someone calling him? She hesitated, then tried again. There was no answer except the cancellation prompt.

  She closed the system, wondering if she should wait and try again, or if she should go back to Ransome’s loft and see if there were any messages waiting there. That made the most sense, especially since she had Ransome’s key, but she had to admit that going back out on the streets didn’t particularly appeal to her. Which is silly. There’s no reason to think that these people–whoever they are–will try anything in the port district; more to the point, and more likely, there’s no reason to think the hostel is all that safe. She stood frowning for a moment, and the communications table buzzed, the screen displaying the intercom symbol. Her frown deepened, but she reached across to touch the flashing icon.

  “Yes?”

  “Na Lioe.” Laness sounded oddly hesitant. “There’s a woman to see you. She says her name is Roscha. Shall I send her up?”

  Roscha? What the hell is she doing here? “Is she alone?” Lioe asked. And if she isn’t, she wondered suddenly, are you in a position to warn me?

  “Yes, Na Lioe.”

  “I’ll come down,” Lioe said, and cut the connection before anyone could protest. She made her way down the side stairs rather than the lift, and paused just inside the doorway to scan the lobby. Roscha was standing by the concierge’s counter, her beautiful face looking oddly forlorn as she watched the lift entrance. There was no one else in sight. Feeling rather foolish, Lioe took her hand off the bu
tton of the work knife, and stepped out into the lobby.

  “Quinn!” Roscha turned at the sound of the other woman’s footsteps, her eyes going instantly to the patches of selfheal. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, fine,” Lioe said, irritably, and made herself stop. “It’s just cuts and bruises,” she said. “Listen, did you send someone to tell me you were at someplace called the Mad Monkey?”

  “No.” Roscha shook her head, sending the red hair flying. “No, I didn’t, and the Lockwardens have been talking to me already. What happened?”

  Lioe looked over her shoulder, saw Laness leaning against his counter, listening shamelessly. “Over here,” she said, and drew Roscha away into the shelter of the pillars that defined the common entertainment center. No one was there, the VDIRT consoles empty, and she turned back to face Roscha. “Maybe you can tell me,” she said. “This man came up to me, called me by name, and said you’d given him a message to be passed on, to meet you at this place called the Mad Monkey.”

  “I know it,” Roscha muttered, and waved a hand in apology. “I’m sorry, go on.”

  “When I tried to go there,” Lioe said, and heard her voice tight and angry, “I was followed, and someone stepped out of a doorway carrying a gun. He said somebody wanted to talk to me, and I was to come quietly. Do you have any idea who that somebody might be?”

  “No.” Roscha shook her head, stopped abruptly. “Do you work for C‑and‑I?”

  “What?” Lioe blinked, irrationally offended by the question. “No, I’m a pilot. And I’m a Gamer. I don’t need to work for Customs.”

  “Na Damian–Damian Chrestil thinks you do,” Roscha said, slowly. “And you’ve been hanging out with Ransome, who’s not exactly clean when it comes to politics.” There was a fleeting note of malice in her voice that vanished almost as soon as Lioe recognized it. “And Na Damian went out of his way to make sure I had an alibi for this afternoon.”

  “So you think Damian Chrestil is behind this?” Lioe asked.

  “You don’t sound that surprised,” Roscha answered, bitterly.

  “I’m not, exactly. Ransome–” Lioe stopped abruptly. How the hell do I know who to trust, if I can trust you, or anyone? You work for C/B Cie., which is the same thing as working for Damian Chrestil, and Ransome isn’t answering his calls. What the hell am I supposed to do now? “Why should I tell you?”

  Roscha made an angry sound that was almost laughter. “Because I don’t like being jerked around. Because I don’t like being used to set somebody up–especially you, somebody I’ve been sleeping with, somebody I like. Somebody as good as you are in the Game.” Her voice cracked then, and she looked away, scowling. “Na Damian lied to me, and he used me, and he maybe would’ve murdered you, and it could’ve been my fault. I’ll be damned if I’ll let him do that to me.”

  There was something in her voice, the street kid’s– the canalli’s–ancient, bitter grievance that made Lioe nod in spite of herself. “All right,” she said slowly, “I believe you.”

  Roscha nodded, silent, still scowling.

  “I need your help,” Lioe went on, more slowly still, a voice screaming reproaches inside her head. Are you crazy? She still works for C/B Cie. Even someone as Game‑addicted as Roscha is isn’t going to give up a good job for a total stranger. She could be setting you up again. She shook the thoughts away. I have to have help, and the only other person I can trust is Ransome. And he’s not answering. I have to take a chance, and Roscha’s my best shot. She’s a good actor, but I don’t think anyone’s that good. I think she meant exactly what she said I hope. “I need to find Ransome, he’s the one who really knows what’s going on. Can you get me back to his loft? It’s back at Newfields, where the cliffs overlook the Junction Pools.”

  “I know where it is,” Roscha said. She nodded, her face grim. “Na Damian’s going to be looking for both of us now–I was supposed to stay on the docks until midnight. I guess I don’t need an alibi now.” She smiled wryly, but shrugged the thought away. “I borrowed a denki‑bike, we can take that.”

  “In this weather?” Lioe said. The thought of riding one of the unstable little two‑wheeled vehicles in the same winds that had tossed the Lockwardens’ helicab across the sky was not appealing.

  Roscha glanced toward the window beside the door, shrugged slightly. “It’s not raining yet.”

  “Right,” Lioe said. She looked toward the concierge’s counter, where Laness was pretending to be absorbed in the tourist display‑tapes. No harm in providing a little insurance, she thought, and walked over to join him. “Laness,” she said, and the man looked up in an unconvincing flurry of surprise.

  “What can I do for you, Na Lioe? Is everything all right?”

  “Yes,” Lioe answered. So far. “I need you to do me a favor,” she went on. “I have to go out, but after what happened earlier, would you–if I’m not back here tonight, or if I don’t call you, would you give the Lockwardens a call?”

  “Of course, Na Lioe,” Laness said. His eyes widened slightly, his whole being torn between enjoyment of the Game‑like intrigue and concern for a guest. “But, Na Lioe, if there’s any chance–what I mean is, with the storm predicted for tonight, if anything happens to you, the Lockwardens are going to have enough to do.”

  “That’s all right,” Lioe said. Or at least it can’t be helped. “I’m not really worried, not really expecting anything. But if I’m not back, and you don’t hear from me, I want you to call them.”

  Laness nodded. “I’ll do that,” he said, and added, awkwardly, “Good luck.”

  Roscha’s denki‑bike was parked outside, under the shelter of a news kiosk’s awning instead of in the racks outside the hostel’s door. The wind–a warm wind, unpleasantly warm–sent dust and a few errant pieces of trash whipping along the pavement; across the road, a pair of women struggled with a storefront banner, fighting to fold the heavy cloth. Up and down the street, wooden shutters had been clamped into place across the larger windows, and there was a line out the door of the single grocer’s shop. “It looks bad,” Lioe said, involuntarily, and Roscha shrugged.

  “It’s always like this when a storm’s coming. They say it’s only going to be a class two.” She reached into the bike’s security field, expertly touching the release codes. “Let’s get going before the rain starts.”

  The streets were all but empty in the port district, most of the workers already heading home to secure their own property. Shutters covered most of the upper‑floor windows, and there were storm bars across the warehouse doors. Lioe leaned close against Roscha’s back, felt the denki‑bike shudder each time they turned a corner. A few drops of rain were falling as they turned the last corner and pulled into the alley beside Ransome’s loft. Lioe winced as the first huge drops hit her face, looked toward the building’s entrance. The red flag was still out, whipping frantically against its stays, and she wondered if its owner had just forgotten to take it in. Still, the stairs weren’t difficult, and at least she knew where they were. She reached into her pocket for the lockbox, and closed her fingers gratefully over its smoothly dented surface. At least I didn’t lose it in the canal. She started toward the stairwell, motioning for Roscha to follow. The other woman straightened from hooking her bike to the recharging bollard, gave the connector a last tug, and came to join her.

  “Where away?”

  “Upstairs,” Lioe answered, and laid the lockbox against the stairway door. It clicked open, and she stepped into the sudden darkness. It smelled odd, sour and rather yeasty, and Roscha made a small noise of disgust.

  “Better watch your step.”

  “What is it, anyway?” Lioe turned to secure the door behind them. A tiny light came on as she refastened the latch, casting a sickly glow over the landing.

  “Someone’s been chewing strawn,” Roscha answered. “There’ll be a cud around here somewhere.”

  “What’s strawn?” Lioe started up the stairs, avoiding the shadows.

  “
It comes out of hsai space, makes you feel very calm,” Roscha answered. Lioe could hear the sudden smile in her voice as she added, “Not something I indulge in much.”

  “I guess not.” Lioe paused outside Ransome’s door, fumbling with the lockbox until she found the depressions that released the lock. The lights were out, just as she’d left it, the big window open to the city view. Dark clouds, almost purple, filled the left side of the window; the sky to the right was still only grey. “Ransome?”

  There was no answer, and she hadn’t really expected one, but she called his name once more before crossing to the display space. Lights flashed along the base of the main console, signaling at least a dozen messages waiting. She frowned, puzzled now as well as worried, and touched keys to retrieve the latest. A secondary screen lit, displayed a string of hsai n‑jaocharacters. Chauvelin? she wondered, and touched keys again to scroll back to the first message.

  “He hasn’t even gotten the shutters down,” Roscha said, and Lioe looked back at her. “If you were looking for Ransome,” Roscha went on, “he hasn’t been here. He’d‘ve put storm shutters up, the way that sky is looking.”

  “Damn.” Lioe looked around, saw nothing that looked as though it could cover the enormous window. Her hat was still sitting on the folded bed, and she realized that she had left it behind that morning as well. “Can you take care of it, please?”

  “Sure,” Roscha said, sounding slightly surprised, and crossed to the window. She ran her hand along the left‑hand side of the frame until she found an all‑but‑invisible panel. She popped that open, studied the controls for a moment, then turned a dial. There was a shriek from outside the window, unoiled metal reluctant to move, and then the shutters began to lower themselves into place, creaking and groaning along their track.

  Lioe reached for the room remote, touched keys to bring up the lights, and then turned her attention back to the messages. The first message in the queue was flashing on the screen: more n’jao characters, she thought, but these looked different from the first ones she’d seen. Frowning now, she split the screen, recalled the last message. Sure enough, the characters were different, forming an entirely different pattern. She knew only a few n’jaoglyphs, mostly trade‑related–like most Republicans, her dealings with the hsai were generally done through a jericho‑human broker, and none of these were familiar.