Burning Bright

by Melissa Scott

  Chauvelin lifted an eyebrow, looked genuinely surprised for an instant. Then his eyes slid sideways, and he smiled slightly. “I forgot Roscha. Careless of me. But this is a hsai matter, you can leave it to me.”

  “All right,” Lioe said, and to her surprise, Chauvelin bowed to her.

  “Thank you,” he said, and turned away.

  Lioe looked over her shoulder, and saw, as she’d expected, that Roscha had come up behind her, moving so silently that she hadn’t heard her approach.

  “Well?” Roscha asked. “What did he say?”

  “We’ll let it go,” Lioe said. “Ji‑Imbaoa will be on the ship to Hsiamai, and he’ll be appropriately dealt with there.”

  “Do you believe that?” Roscha asked.

  “Yes,” Lioe answered, and managed a tight grin. “He’ll get exactly what he deserves.” Roscha still looked uncertain, and Lioe went on, “It’s what Ransome would’ve wanted, I’m sure of that.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Look, this brings down an entire government,” Lioe said. “You’ve got to admit that’s Ransome’s–Ambidexter’s–style.”

  Roscha laughed softly. “That’s true. Sha‑mai, wouldn’t it make a great Game session?”

  It would, Lioe thought. It would make a brilliant one. And it’s one I want to write–maybe put it at the core of the new Game, make it one of the givens, part of the background for everything. That would be a nice memorial, something else he’d approve of. And then no one could play without knowing something about him, remembering his death. She nodded slowly. “Thanks, Roscha,” she said. “I’ll do just that.”

  Day 6

  Storm: The Hsai Ambassador’s House,

  in the Ghetto, Landing Isle Above

  Old City North

  It was midafternoon by the time Chauvelin returned to his house, and his face stung from the combination of sun and salt spray. Je‑Sou’tsian was waiting in the main hall–like all the household, she wore white ribbons, sprays of them bound around each arm–flanked by a pair of understewards. Chauvelin frowned, surprised to see so formal a delegation, and je‑Sou’tsian bowed deeply.

  “Your pardon, Sia, but there has been a transmission from maiHu’an. His grace has been pleased to grant you an award.” She used the more formal word, the one that meant “award‑of‑honor”: she would have seen the message when it came in, Chauvelin knew. She would have prepared the formal package. “It’s waiting in your office.”

  “My lord honors me beyond my deserving,” Chauvelin answered, conventionally. “Thanks, Iameis–and thanks for that, too.” He reached out, gently touched the knots of white ribbon.

  Je‑Sou’tsian made the quick fluttering gesture, quickly controlled, that meant embarrassment and pleasure. “We–I didn’t want to presume. But we regret your loss.”

  “Thank you,” Chauvelin said again, and went up the spiral stairs to his office.

  The room was unchanged, the single pane of glass that had cracked during the storm replaced days before. Chauvelin settled himself at the desk, lifted the precisely folded message to his lips in perfunctory acknowledgment, and broke the temporary seal. The message–handwritten in n‑jaocharacter and then copy‑flashed; Haas’s handwriting, not the Duke’s–was clear enough, but he had to read it a second time before the meaning sank in. Then, quite slowly, he began to laugh. He had done well, in the Remembrancer‑Duke’s opinion: this was the reward every chaoi‑monworked for, dreamed of, but few ever achieved. There, set out in the formal, archaic language of court records, were the certificates of posthumous cooptation for his parents and their parents, the necessary two generations that would make him no longer chaoi‑mon, but a full hsaia, indistinguishable in the eyes of the court and the law from any other hsai. He could not quite imagine his mother’s reaction, but suspected it would have been profane.

  There was a second note folded up inside the official announcement, also in Haas’s hand, the neat familiar alphabet used for tradetalk. He opened that, skimmed the spiky printing.

  CONGRATULATIONS ON YOUR PROMOTION, AND MY SYMPATHIES FOR THE LOSS OF YOUR PROTEGE. MY LORD IS VERY PLEASED WITH THE OUTCOME OF THIS BUSINESS, AND IS PLANNING TO TRAVEL TO HSIAMAI IN PERSON FOR THE TRIALS. A MORE PERSONAL TOKEN OF HIS PLEASURE WILL FOLLOW.

  Chauvelin smiled again, rather wryly this time. I don’t think I should count on that. The Remembrancer‑Duke might be less pleased after all, though on balance it shouldn’t affect the ultimate outcome of the trials. He glanced at the chronometer display, gauging the time left until he would hear– not much longer now–and set both messages aside. One of Ransome’s story eggs was sitting on the desk beside him, the case a lacquer‑red sphere that looked as though it had been powdered with gold dust. He picked it up idly, turned it over until he could look through the lens into its depths. Familiar shapes, Apollo and a satyr, shared images from his and Ransome’s shared culture, leaned together in a luminous forest, each with a lyre in his hands. The loop of images showed a brief conversation, a smile– Ransome’s familiar, knowing smile–and then a brief interlude of music, the sound sweetly distant, barely audible half a meter away. Apollo and Marsyas, Chauvelin thought, in the last good days before the contest. He had never noticed it before, but the Apollo had his own eyes, and his trick of the lifted eyebrow. Oh, very like you, I‑Jay. But that’s not how it was. I did everything I could to save you. You died by your own misjudgment, not by mine.

  “Sia?” That was je‑Sou’tsian’s voice, sharp and startled in the speakers. “Sia, I’m sorry to disturb you, but there’s been an accident.”

  “An accident?” Chauvelin said.

  “Yes, Sia.”

  Chauvelin did not light the screens, allowed himself a smile, hearing the shock in the steward’s voice.

  “I’m sorry, Sia,” je‑Sou’tsian said again, “but it’s the Visiting Speaker. There’s been–the Lockwardens say he fell into one of the canals, he was drunk on Oblivion, and a barge hit him.”

  “Is he alive?” Chauvelin demanded, and heard himself sharp and querulous.

  “For now, Sia. But he’s not expected to live the night. They’ve taken him to the nearest hospital, Mercy Underface, they said.”

  “So.” Chauvelin could not stop his smile from becoming a grin; it was an effort to keep his voice under control. “Do they know what happened?”

  “Not for certain, Sia. They think he fell.”

  “Or did he kill himself?” Chauvelin asked, and was pleased with the bitterness of his tone. If they can believe it’s suicide, that’s shameful enough on top of everything else that the Remembrancer‑Duke will still gain everything he would have gained through the trial. He heard je‑Sou’tsian’s sharp intake of breath, wished he dared light the screen to watch her gestures.

  “It–the Lockwardens asked that also, Sia. It seems possible.”

  “Such shame,” Chauvelin said, and knew that this time he did not sound sincere. “Send his house steward to stand by him, and one of us to stay with her. Express my condolences.”

  “I’ll go myself, if you want, Sia,” je‑Sou’tsian said.

  Chauvelin nodded, then remembered the dark screen. “That would be a gracious gesture, Iameis. I’d be grateful.”

  “Then I’ll do it,” je‑Sou’tsian said.

  “Keep me informed of his condition,” Chauvelin said, and closed the connection. It was good to have friends on the canals. He leaned back in his chair, reached out to touch the story egg again, but did not pick it up, ran his fingers instead over the warm metal of the case. I told the truth when I told Lioe I’d take care of the Visiting Speaker. It’s not my fault that she assumed I meant that I would let the law take its course. That was something Ransome would’ve appreciated, that double‑edged conversation. And I think he would’ve appreciated my decision. He smiled again, and picked up the story egg, glanced again at the bright images. The loop, triggered by the movement, showed god and satyr leaning shoulder to shoulder, and then the faint clear str
ain of the music as the satyr played.

  –––

  Interlude

  Game/varRebel.2.04/

  subPsi. 1.22/ver22. 1/ses 7.25

  They crouched in the uncertain shelter of the cargo bay, hearing the clatter of boots recede along the walkways to either side. The overhanging shelves, piled high with crates, gave some cover, but they all knew that if the Baron’s guards came out onto the center catwalk it would take a miracle to keep from being seen. Galan Africa/VERE CAMINESI winced as an incautious movement jarred his bandaged arm and shoulder, and stopped trying to pry the power pack away from the nonstandard mounting.

  “Hazard,” he said, and Gallio Hazard/PETER SAVIAN slipped his own pistol back into his belt and came to study the housing. After a moment, he pried it loose with main force, handed the two parts to Africa. The technician accepted them, prodded dubiously at the bent plugs. Hazard shrugged an apology, and drew his pistol again, his attention already turned outward toward the retreating footsteps of the guards.

  Jack Blue/JAFIERA ROSCHA sprawled gasping against the nearest stack of crates, his face drawn into a scowl of pain and anger equally mixed. Mijja Lyall/FERNESA crouched at his side, digging hurriedly through the much‑depleted medical kit. She found the injector at last, applied it to Blue’s forearm. The telekinetic swore under his breath, but a moment later, the pain began to ease from his forehead. Lord Faro/LACHACALLE and Ibelin Belfortune/HALLY VENTURA exchanged glances, and edged a little bit away from the others, where they could exchange whispers unheard.

  “What about the contact?” Desir of Harmsway/KAZIO BELEDIN said. “Where is it, Avellar?”

  Avellar/AMBIDEXTER looked back at him for a moment, gave a slow, crooked smile. “Something’s gone wrong, obviously. But unless you want to go back…” He let his voice trail off in a mocking invitation, and Harmsway looked away, scowling. Avellar’s smile widened slightly, and he moved to stand beside Jack Blue. “How is it?”

  Blue shrugged, made a so‑so gesture with one hand. “I’ll live.” His voice sounded better, and Avellar nodded.

  “Maybe he’s losing weight,” Harmsway said, too sweetly.

  Blue frowned, and a cracked piece of the floor tiling tore itself loose and flung itself at Harmsway’s face. Avellar plucked it out of the air before it could hit anything, dropped it onto the flooring at Blue’s feet. There was blood on the tile, from where the sharp edges had cut his hand, but Avellar ignored it.

  “Try that again,” he said, almost conversationally, “and I’ll leave you.” He was looking at Blue, but Harmsway stiffened.

  “Not me, surely,” he said, his voice provocative. “If you leave me here, Royal, all this will have been for nothing.”

  “All what?” Avellar said, softly. “All this? Coming here, risking my life, planning this escape for the lot of you? That’s nothing compared to what I’m willing to do to have you back at my side, Desir. But you need me just as much, if you’re going to get off this planet. Don’t forget that, my friend.”

  In spite of himself, Harmsway glanced toward the cargo door, only forty meters away across the width of the warehouse. It was even open, and he could feel that the last barrier was sealed only with a palm lock, the kind of thing he could open in his sleep… if he could reach it. And beyond that hatch were Avellar’s people, loyal only to Avellar. His lips thinned, and he looked away.

  Avellar nodded. “The ship’s mine,” he said. “Without me, none of you will get aboard. Hell, without me, none of you would have gotten this far.”

  “Without you,” Gallio Hazard said, “some of us wouldn’t be here at all.”

  “Touche,” Avellar said. “But you shouldn’t‘ve left my service, Gallio.”

  “Avellar.” Lyall’s voice was suddenly sharp with fear, and Avellar turned to face her. “They’ve brought in a hunter,” Lyall said. “And the Baron’s with him.”

  “How close?” Harmsway demanded, and Lyall shook her head.

  “I can’t tell. There’s–he’s shielded.”

  “No one use any psi,” Avellar said. The others murmured agreement, and he looked at Africa. “Is it finished, Galan?”

  Africa shrugged his good shoulder. “I’ve got the connection rigged, but there’s no guarantee it’ll work.”

  Avellar nodded, and looked at Belfortune. “That leaves you, Bel.”

  Faro said, “Let him be.”

  Avellar ignored him. “Bel–”

  “Avellar,” Lyall said again, real horror in her voice. “He’s found us.”

  “What?” Harmsway’s voice scaled up in surprise. “Damn you, Royal–”

  “Shut up,” Avellar said, and was obeyed. “Belfortune. Can you stop the hunter?”

  Belfortune shook his head. “I have to be close to him, I can’t just reach out and take his power. It’s not that easy–”

  “All right,” Avellar said, his voice gentle but firm, and Belfortune was silent. Faro laid a hand on his shoulder, then reached for his pistol.

  “Well, Desir,” Avellar said, “it’s up to you and me.”

  Harmsway shook his head sharply, and Hazard said, “The last time, you nearly killed him.”

  Avellar ignored him. “If we don’t work together, we’ll never get out of here. You and I will both die on this wretched planet. Do you really want that, just to spite me? Or do you just enjoy it too much?”

  “Yes,” Harmsway said, “I can admit it. You’re too strong for me, you and your crazy clone‑sibs, and I like it too much.”

  “Would you rather be dead?” Avellar asked.

  “Desir, don’t,” Hazard said.

  Harmsway ignored him. “No, damn you. All right. I’ll do it.”

  Avellar held out his hands, carefully not smiling, and Harmsway took them with only the slightest hesitation. There was a little silence, and then a kind of darkness seemed to gather around them. Shapes moved in the darkness, shapes that were Avellar, shapes that wore Avellar’s face and a woman’s body. Avellar closed his eyes, felt his power returning with Harmsway’s presence, Harmsway’s raw electrokinesis bridging the holes left by the deaths of half the clone. He could sense the others’ presence, too: Quarta in her cell, gibbering in darkness; Secunda caught in midstride, dragged away from herself by his insistent demands; Tertius ever silent, great eyes staring at nothing. He pulled them to him, made their power his own, built a ladder with it that carried him out of the prison of his body and let him look down on the warehouse as if from a great height. He saw the world in black and white, the figures of his party and of the Baron’s men clustered at the doorway pale as ghosts against the dark walls and shadows that were the piled crates. The Baron’s group had stopped, huddling together around a grounded airsled. The hunter smells something he doesn’t recognize, Avellar thought, and laughed silently. No, you wouldn’t recognize me. He spun again, looking down from his illusory height for a solution, saw Harmsway on his knees, head bowed with strain, still clinging to his hands. Harmsway was weaker than he’d realized; Avellar allowed himself to look farther afield, saw Jack Blue now standing at Lyall’s side.

  Blue, he said, and felt the word fall for what seemed an eternity before it struck air and was heard. “Give me your hand.”

  He forced his body to free one hand from Harmsway’s grip, held it out to Blue. The telekinetic took it, reluctantly, and Avellar felt the other’s power join his own. He let himself rise back up the ladder, dragging Blue’s talent with him, hung for a moment beneath the rafters, looking at the piles of crates through the lens of Blue’s talent. Then, almost lazily, he reached out–his hand, Blue’s telekinesis, moving as one, Harmsway still bridging the gaps that let him draw on his clone‑sibs, his other selves–and tipped the first row of crates onto the Baron’s men. He heard screams–close at hand, and more distant, the noise reaching his physical body half a heartbeat later–but he closed his mind, searching for the right point. Blue’s power was fading, stuttering like an underfueled engine, but he ignored it, and toppled a seco
nd set of shelves, blocking any advance. Then he let himself slide back down the ladder, feeling it dissolve behind him as he fell, until he was back in his own body, on his knees, Jack Blue’s hand cold in his own. Harmsway was crumpled on the warped tiles, breathing in harsh gasps, his forehead against the floor. Blue lay open eyed, unmoving, his face red and mottled. Lyall crouched beside him, hand on his wrist, and shook her head as Avellar looked at her.

  “He’s dead.”

  Belfortune laughed softly. “So that’s how the great Avellar’s power works. You’re no more than I am, nothing more than a vampire. At least I don’t use the power I take.”

  “You just dine on it,” Hazard said.

  Faro said, “This is why I won’t support you, Avellar. No one who can do that should be emperor.”

  “But that’s just it,” Avellar said. He reached down almost absently, lifted Harmsway so that the electrokinetic’s head rested on his lap. “This power is exactly why I should be emperor. I’m psi, yes, but it’s unlimited in type, because I can draw on all of it. But only if you let me. I can’t coerce, I can only take what’s given. Jack gave me what he had, he let me use him up, to save the rest of us. He couldn’t‘ve done it alone, and I knew how to use what he gave me. If a psi is going to be emperor–and you know that’s inevitable, there’s no one left who isn’t psi–then it should be me, because I can’t do anything alone, and without consent.”

  Hazard nodded slowly, came to crouch at Harmsway’s side, he touched the electrokinetic’s face gently, and looked relieved when Harmsway stirred. Hazard supported him, helped him sit upright. Harmsway’s face was drawn, lines of fatigue sharply etched.

  Faro said, “The ship’s waiting.”

  Avellar nodded, pushed himself to his feet, fighting back his own exhaustion. “Let’s go.”

  Two guards were standing by the cargo door, one with rifle leveled, staring toward the far door where the crates had fallen, the other babbling into a hand‑held com‑unit. He didn’t seem to be getting any satisfactory answers, but Avellar shrank back into the shelter of the nearest stack of crates. “Faro,” he whispered. “Can you take him?”