Burning Bright

by Melissa Scott

  “Ah.” Lioe’s voice held a note of pain that Chauvelin suddenly resented. He frowned, searching for the necessary rebuke, and Lioe went on, her voice under tight control again.

  “All right. I’ll keep my end of the bargain.”

  Good. “Agreed,” Chauvelin said, and cut the connection. He stood for a moment, staring at the desktop, then touched icons to close the letter that still waited for transcription. There would have to be another letter–another letter that in some ways carried better news to the Remembrancer‑Duke, a bigger scandal, one that would devastate the je Tsinraan–but he couldn’t face that now. He turned away to lean against the shuttered window, feeling the force of the wind even through the spun shielding. The price of this victory is very high. He slammed his hand flat against the shutter, already impatient with his own grief. He was dying anyway. This was quicker, maybe kinder–but I will miss him. That was all the epitaph he could promise anyone, even Ransome. He made a face, and went back to the drinks cabinet, reaching for the rum.

  Day 2

  Storm: The Chrestil‑Brisch Summer House,

  the Barrier Hills

  A weather screen was flickering soundlessly in the corner, the display showing the bands of clouds curving now from northeast to southwest. The winds had shifted too, and the clattering of the rain against the house was softer, less insistent. Damian Chrestil sat alone in the tiny office space, the desktop open in front of him, a small black box lying on top of the displays. The lights beneath it, shining up through the clear screen, made it look as though it was floating on a haze of blued light. Damian stared at it, not touching it or the rolled tool kit that lay beside it, too tired to do more than look for a long moment. Then, sighing, he reached for the tool kit, unrolled it, and extracted a slim hook. He worked quickly, prying open the case of the desktop’s datanode–not hooked up at the moment–then fanning the stacked chips until he found the delicate nest of wires. He separated out the ones he wanted, the power feed, the direct‑on‑line lead, the one that fed the data to an implanted data socket, spliced the black box into them. It had been a long time since he’d done that kind of work, but it was easy enough; the skills came back quickly, like running a john‑boat along the Inland Water. He eased everything, wires, box, the stacked chips, back into the cavity, and fitted the cover carefully back into place. There was room and to spare in the old‑fashioned fitting.

  Moving more slowly now, he rerolled the tool kit, and slipped it back into his pocket. He glanced then at the chronometer, its numbers discreetly displayed above the open file: almost midnight, and the storm would be ending soon. Already, the winds had dropped enough to allow the Lockwardens to send out the first of the emergency repair crews, heavy‑duty flyers headed for the lighter barriers west of Factory Island and Roche’Ambroise, where the news services reported some minor damage, another team headed for Plug Island to check the generators there. In another hour or two, they could leave the summer house.

  He flicked a switch, reconnecting the datanode to the main system, but did not touch the waiting cord. Instead, he ran his finger over icons on the desktop, tying in to the house systems, and touched a private code. A few seconds later, a telltale lit in the monitor bar, and he said, “Cella? I need to talk to you. I’m in my office.”

  There was no answer–probably she wasn’t wearing the jewelry that concealed the transmitter–but a moment later the telltale winked out. Damian Chrestil sighed, and settled himself to wait.

  At last, the door slid open almost silently, and Cella peered around its edge. “You wanted me, Damiano?”

  Damian nodded. “We need to talk,” he said again.

  “Certainly.”

  Cella moved easily into the room, seated herself at his gesture on the edge of the desktop. She was still wearing the demure, plain shirt and loose trousers, the creamy blouse improbably neat even after hours of wear. And Ransome’s death. Damian looked down at the open files, not really seeing the crowding symbols. “You set this up,” he said quietly.

  Cella blinked once, her face utterly still and remote. “Ransome’s death? No.”

  Damian Chrestil leaned back in his chair, too tired to feel much anger at the lie. “You’ve never had so much to say to the Visiting Speaker–to any hsaia–in your life. And the cylinders were moved, not by me, not by Ivie or any of his people. That leaves you.”

  “Or Ransome himself,” Cella said gently. “Or the Visiting Speaker.”

  “The Visiting Speaker didn’t have the chance,” Damian said. “Ivie was watching him too closely, keeping him in that corner. And Ransome was looking for it elsewhere. You had to tell him where it was. That still leaves you, Cella.”

  Cella met his eyes steadily, only the note of scorn in her voice betraying any emotion. “Why would I kill Illario Ransome? Do you think I care if you fuck him? What’s that to me, any more than any other of your minor conquests? We have a–more complicated arrangement. I thought you knew me better, Damiano.”

  “I think I do.” Damian did not move, still leaning back in his chair, his hands steepled across his chest. “What annoys me, Cella, is your interfering in my business, screwing up a deal I had a hard time salvaging. I told you before that this was the only thing I could do to save the situation. I meant it, and I don’t appreciate your trying to force my hand. You’re not good enough to play politics.”

  “Ransome’s death is the best thing that could happen,” Cella said. “For you, for Chauvelin–even for the Visiting Speaker, if you wanted to play it that way; he’d be under obligation to you if you let him go. Ransome’s worth a lot more dead than alive–and don’t try to tell me that Chauvelin loved him so much that he’d rather get revenge than use him to bring down the je Tsinraan. It’s the best thing that could happen, if you’re serious about going over to the tzu line.”

  “It’s not your place to make that decision,” Damian Chrestil said. He sighed, looked down at his files again, then spun the first one so that it faced Cella. She looked down at it, her expression first curious, then angry, before she’d gotten herself under control again.

  “Our arrangement is over,” Damian Chrestil said. “That’s my assessment of your property, a fair settlement. You can take it or not, I don’t really care. But I don’t want to see you again.” He pushed himself up out of the chair, took a few steps away from the desk.

  “Very well,” Cella said, her voice still rigidly controlled. “But you won’t object if I verify some of this?”

  “Help yourself,” Damian said, and heard the whisper of the interface cord drawn out of its housing in the side of the datanode. He did not look back, bracing himself, and a moment later heard the fat snap of the current as she plugged herself into the system. There was no cry, no sound except the buzz of the overload box shorting out, and then the sprawling thud as she fell. The room smelled of electricity, and then, insidiously, of scorched hair and skin. Damian Chrestil turned then, without haste, knowing what he would find.

  Cella lay contorted by the corner of the desk, limbs tumbled, her face pressed into the carpet. Her dark hair had come out of its crown of braids, lay in disturbed coils over her neck and across the floor, hiding the data socket at the base of her jaw. A thin tendril of smoke was rising from it as the implant housing smoldered. He looked at her for a moment, but did not touch her after all. The end of the data cord dangled over the edge of the desk, inert: the automatics had cut the power instantly after the massive current passed through. He left it there, and reached into his pocket for his thin gloves. He drew them on, ignoring the smell–burned flesh, urine, burned implant plastic, and hot metal–and used the tool kit to pry off the cover of the datanode. The boards and wires had fused, a ragged mess; he stepped over Cella’s body to lean closer, carefully freed the black box from the ruined node. The military does good work, he thought, and gingerly stuffed the ruined components back into the node’s casing, closing it carefully behind him. By the door, where the carpet ended and the tiles began, he stopp
ed, dropped the black box on the hard surface. The casing shattered, spilling fragments; he set his heel on them, methodically grinding them to gravel, then swept them toward the nearest garbage slot. The baseboard hatch slid open, and he swept the fragments into its waiting darkness, running his foot twice over the tiles even after he was sure he had it all. He did not look back–he did not have to look back, would remember Cella’s twisted body in absolute clarity even without a second look–but walked away, letting the door slide closed behind him. Power surges happen during big storms; you shouldn’t go direct‑on‑line when the weather’s bad. Everyone knows that, and everyone does it just the same. Poor Cella, what a shame it caught up with you. But you shouldn’t’ve tried to force my hand. In an hour or two, if no one had found her, he would send Ivie looking for her: until then, let her lie.

  Epilogue

  « ^

  Day 6

  Storm: The Barge Gemini, Nazandin

  Wharf, the Inland Water by Governor’s

  Point District

  Lioe stood on the midships deck, one hand on the rail to balance herself against the motion of the barge. Even four days after the storm had passed, the Water was still a little rough; it would be easier out to sea, Roscha had said, where the currents were less constrained by the complex channels. Overhead, the sky was very blue, utterly free of clouds, and the ghost of one of the moons rode the housetops over Roche’Ambroise. The sun was warm: Burning Bright was moving toward summer, Lioe remembered, and she glanced forward, wondering if she should claim a place under the thin canopy. It was crowded there, full of people in white under the white canopy, and she decided not to join them yet. There were more people in white crowding the docks, Gamers mostly, people from Shadows that she recognized, others that she didn’t know, from the nets and the other clubs. White was the color of mourning on Burning Bright, and Ransome had been well respected. She smoothed the front of her own coat self‑consciously, the fabric heavy over a white shirt and her most formal trousers, the breeze cool on her neck and scalp. It felt odd, not to be wearing a hat, but she was no longer a pilot, would have to get used to that. Kerestel had not been pleased, but there were good pilots available through the pools. He would learn to live with it. She glanced over her shoulder, saw Roscha coming toward her, red hair bright in the sun, very vivid against the white coat. Everyone on Burning Bright owns one, Roscha had said. You never know when you’ll need it.

  “It’s quite a turnout,” Roscha said, and leaned out over the railing to stare at the crowd on the dock.

  Lioe looked with her, saw Medard‑Yasine standing with Aliar Gueremei, a handful of Shadows’ staff clustering around them. She had seen Peter Savian earlier, conspicuous in plain Republican shirt and trousers, a white scarf his only concession to local custom; now he was nowhere in sight, but instead, Kazio Beledin stood talking to a tall woman, LaChacalle, and a slim man with a data socket high on his face that caught the light like a diamond. He saw her looking, and lifted a hand in sober acknowledgment. Lioe waved back, not knowing what else to do. LaChacalle had on a white dress under the sheer white coat, and the others wore wide wraps, Beledin’s covering his head like a hood. “So many Gamers,” she said, and Roscha shrugged.

  “Everyone knew Ambidexter. They may not have liked him, but they’d kill to get in his games.”

  “Not a bad epitaph,” Lioe said. And it’s not just Gamers who feel that way. She looked back toward the group under the canopy, counting the political notables who’d come to Ransome’s funeral. Governor Berengaria, looking remarkably like her image from the parade, stood talking quietly to a man Ransome had pointed out at Chauvelin’s party as the head of the Five Points Bank, while a detachment from the Merchant Investors Syndicate waited for her attention. There were representatives from all of the Five Points Families, Chauvelin had said, and two of the Chrestil‑Brisch. She scanned the crowd until she found them. The head of the family, Altagracian– dit Chrestillio, she remembered–was a big man, bigger and more leonine than Damian Chrestil, but the sister, Bettisa, had the same sharp face and fine body. It was a little disconcerting, seeing her there, thin white coat wrapped tight around her body, and Lioe looked away. Chauvelin was nowhere in sight. Probably with the ashes, she thought, and still wasn’t sure how she felt about this ritual, the formal consigning of what was left of Ransome’s body to the seas. Death on Callixte was a private thing, and so were funerals. There was a shout from forward, and the beat of the engines strengthened through the deck. Very slowly, the barge began to pull away from the dock.

  “Quinn,” Roscha said, just loudly enough to be heard over the sudden rush of wind. “There’s been some talk.”

  Lioe glanced back at her, frowned at the grim look on the other woman’s face. “What about?”

  “The fucking Visiting Speaker,” Roscha answered. “I’ve been hearing from people I know up at the port–and other places, pretty much all around–that he’s walking around loose. I thought you said the ambassador was going to deal with him.”

  “He was,” Lioe answered. “As far as I know, he is. Are your friends sure it’s ji‑Imbaoa?”

  She knew it was a stupid question even as she asked, and Roscha grinned. “Not all hsaia look alike. And he’s wearing all the honors. Perii lived on Jericho, she reads hsai ribbons pretty fluently. Oh, it’s him all right.”

  “Wonderful,” Lioe said. What the hell is ji‑Imbaoa doing free? Chauvelin should be keeping him under lock and key until the next ship leaves for HsaioiAn –

  “It occurred to me,” Roscha said, “that maybe N’Ambassador wasn’t all that sorry Ransome’s dead.”

  No. Lioe shook her head, rejecting the thought even before she had fully analyzed it. Not that I’d put it past Chauvelin to kill someone, but not Ransome. Not the way he sounded, looked, when he told me. “There’s bound to be a reason,” she said, “something in hsai law, maybe.”

  “Maybe,” Roscha said. “But the thought also occurred to me, Quinn, that maybe something could be done about it. Perii says the Visiting Speaker’s been drinking pretty heavily, drowning his sorrows, she says. It’d be a shame if he didn’t make it home some night–which could be arranged, Quinn. If you think it’s appropriate.”

  Lioe stood frozen for a moment, suddenly very aware of the heat of the sun on her back, the movement of the barge under her feet. This was a power she had never expected, a direct and potent strength, the smoldering anger of the canalli channeled through Roscha, ready to hand. That’s exaggerating, sure, I don’t have all the canalli–but she’s offering me a means of direct action that I never dreamed I’d be able to tap. With this to back up the new Game, I’ve got more power than I’d ever expected. She curbed herself sternly, made herself focus on the issue at hand. “I want to talk to Chauvelin.” She pushed herself away from the rail before Roscha could follow.

  She found Chauvelin about where she’d expected, toward the forward end of the canopy where a plain, raw‑looking pottery jar stood ready on a white‑draped table. He was wearing a white wrap coat, like everyone else, but had left it open, so that the wind blew it back to reveal the knots and clusters of his honors draped about his shoulders. Berengaria stood beside him, the wrinkles at the corners of her mismatched eyes making her look as though she almost smiled. Lioe sighed, and resigned herself to wait, but to her surprise, Chauvelin nodded to her, and said something to the governor. This time Berengaria did smile, and Chauvelin made his way across the last few meters to stand at Lioe’s side.

  “It’s good to see you, Na Lioe. I’m sorry we haven’t had a chance to speak before this.”

  At least not today. Lioe said, “I hear that the Visiting Speaker is back in all his old haunts, Ambassador. How does that happen?”

  There was a little silence, and then Chauvelin said, “There isn’t a ship to Hsiamai for another four days. He gave his parole–his word, his promise–to give himself up when it arrives.”

  “I know what parole means.” Lioe took a deep breath,
fighting back her anger.

  Chauvelin said, “It doesn’t mean anything. It’s his right under the law, to have this time. He’ll be on the ship to Hsiamai, and the All‑Father will deal with him. He miscalculated badly, it’ll take the je Tsinraan years to recover from this.”

  “I can’t say I find that terribly satisfying,” Lioe said.

  “You surprise me.” Chauvelin looked at her, his lined face without emotion. “Ji‑Imbaoa is ruined. Not only that, he’s ruined his entire clan. Let him have all the Oblivion he wants, it’s not going to change anything. I think that’s very satisfying.”

  Lioe paused for a long moment, considering the ambassador’s words. Yes, it was satisfying to think that ji‑Imbaoa would have to live with whatever hsai law thought was the appropriate punishment for murdering an ambassador’s dependent, and with the fury of his own relatives. Ransome, certainly, would have appreciated it.

  “He’s lost any hope of ever gaining position at court,” Chauvelin said, “or of regaining what he’s already lost. He’ll be ostracized, completely.”

  “I see.” Lioe looked away from him, toward the railing and the Water beyond. Traffic was heavy, as always, but funeral barges had priority, and the smaller boats gave way grudgingly, sliding to either side of the broad channel. The air smelled of salt and oil. They were coming up on Homestead Island and the end of the Water; she could just make out the blockhouses that controlled the first of the storm barriers, the stubby grey buildings conspicuous against the brighter brick behind them. According to the datastore and to the obituaries, Ransome had been born somewhere in that district, born poor, child of no one at all important. And now his death is bringing down a major faction within HsaioiAn. Yes, he would appreciate that. “All right,” she said, “I won’t do anything.”