====================== 
Burning Bright 
by Melissa Scott 
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Copyright (c)1993 by Melissa Scott 
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*Part One* 
*Day 30* 
_High Spring: Parking Orbit,_ 
_Burning Bright_ 
Quinn Lioe walked the galliot down the sky, using the 
shaped force fields of the sails as legs, balancing their draw 
against the depth of gravity here in the planet's shadow. Stars 
glowed in the mirror display in front of her; spots of dark haze 
blocked the brilliance of sun and the limb of the planet, so that 
she could see and read the patterns that gravity made in the 
vacuum around her. The low-sail, under the keel of her ship, 
vibrated in its cup: the field calibration had slipped badly on 
the journey from Callixte to Burning Bright, would have to be 
adjusted before they left orbit. She sighed, automatically easing 
the field, and widened the cross-sails' field to compensate. 
Numbers flickered across the base of the mirror as the ship's 
system noted and approved the changes; she felt the left cross

sail tremble under her hand, as its draw approached the illusory 
"depth" of hyperspace, and shortened it even before the warning 
flashed orange and red across her screen. The galliot continued 
its easy progress as though there had been no chance of grounding. 
"Beacon," she said to the ship, to traffic control waiting 
somewhere ahead of her in the parking pattern, and a moment later 
a marker flared in the mirror's display, ahead and slightly to the 
left of the galliot's course. She sighed, wanting to hurry, 
wanting to be done and parked and free for the five days or more 
that it would take to recalibrate the fields, but disciplined 
herself to safe and steady progress. The galliot crept forward, 
sails beating slowly against the weak currents of hyperspace that 
were almost drowned by the local gravity. Her hands rested lightly 
on the controls; she felt the depth of space in the pressure of 
the sails, saw the same numbers reflected in the slow swirl of the 
currents overlaid on the mirror's mimicking of reality. 
At last she brought the galliot to a slow stop almost on 
top of the unreal marker, and shortened the sails until the system 
gravity took over, drawing the ship neatly into the designated 
space. She smiled, pleased with her precision, and kicked the 
lever that lit the anchor field. Lights flared along the mirror's 
base -- familiar, but nonetheless satisfying -- and the ship said 
sweetly, "On target. Anchorage confirmed." 
"Nicely done," a familiar voice said, and Lioe glanced over 
her shoulder in some surprise. She hadn't heard Kerestel enter the 
pilot's dome, had thought he was still back in cargo space sorting 
out what had and hadn't gone on the drop. _And, to be fair, 
cleaning up after the bungee-gars_. 
"Thanks," she said aloud, and ran her hands across the main 
board, closing and snuffing the sail fields. She set the anchor 
field then, watched the telltales strengthen to green, and turned 
away from her station, working her shoulders to free them of the 
night's -- _morning's_, she corrected silently, _it was the 
beginning of the new day on Burning Bright_ -- painstaking work. 
"How's it look back there?" 
"Bungee-gars," Kerestel said. He leaned against the 
hatchway, folding his arms across his chest. His hands and bare 
arms were still reddened from the embrace of the servo gloves he 
used to move the canisters that held the cargo safe during the 
drop to the planet's surface. "Gods, they're a grubby lot." 

 Looking at him, Lioe bit back a laugh. As usual, Kerestel 
was wearing a spacesuit liner, this one more battered even than 
usual, the long sleeves cut off at the shoulder to make it easier 
to work the servos. He had stopped shaving two days into the trip - 
- _also as usual_ -- and the incipient beard had sprouted in 
goatish grey tufts. The hat that marked him as a union pilot -- 
this one a beret of gold-shot grey brocade, pinned up on one side 
with a cluster of brightly faceted glass -- perched, incongruously 
jaunty, on his balding head. 
Kerestel had the grace to grin. "Well, you know what I 
mean. And Christ, the pair of them couldn't make up their minds 
what was to go in the drop -- if they had minds." 
Lioe nodded, and turned to the secondary board to begin 
shutting down the mirror. Bungee-gars, the hired hands who rode 
the drop capsules down out of orbit to help protect particularly 
valuable cargoes from hijacking after landing, were generally a 
difficult group to work with -- _you have to be pretty crazy to 
begin with, or desperate, to take a job like that_ -- and the two 
who had come aboard on Demeter had been slightly more bizarre than 
usual. "What I don't care for," she said, "is running cargo that 
needs bungee-gars." 
"You got a point there," Kerestel said rather sourly, and 
Lioe allowed herself a crooked smile. Cargoes that needed bungeegars 
were valuable enough to hijack in transit as well as at the 
drop point, and the free space between the Republic and the Hsaioi- 
An was loosely patrolled at best, with no one claiming either 
jurisdiction or responsibility. She shook the thought away -- 
there had been no sign of trouble, from Callixte to Demeter or 
after -- and keyed a final set of codes into the interpreter. 
Overhead, and across the front of the dome, the tracking overlays 
began to fade, first the oily swirls that showed the hyperspatial 
currents, and then the all-but-invisible blue-black lines that 
showed the depth of realspace. The stars blazed out around them, 
suns strewn like dust and seed, tossed in prodigal handfuls 
against the night where the plane of the galaxy intersected the 
mirror's curve. Then the shields that cloaked sun and planet 
vanished, and the brilliance drowned even the bright stars. Lioe 
blinked, dazzled, and looked away. 
"But if they'd only make up their mind," Kerestel said, and 
Lioe frowned for a second before she realized he was still talking 

about the bungee-gars. "You probably felt it, Quinn, they kept 
changing which capsules were going, so by the time they'd decided, 
the whole ship was unbalanced. I'll bet money that hasn't helped 
the low-sail projector." 
"I didn't feel we were off alignment," Lioe said. "She 
handled fine, and the projector didn't feel any worse than when we 
left Demeter. You did a good job, Micky." 
She saw Kerestel's shoulders relax, subtly, and realized 
that he had been looking for that reassurance all along. She hid a 
sigh -- she liked Kerestel well enough, liked his ship even 
better, but his insecurities were wearing -- and said, "Speaking 
of which, have you scheduled the repairs?" 
"Yes." Kerestel's face brightened. "The yard says they can 
take us into the airdock tomorrow, and they'll tear down the 
projector right away. The whole thing, including recalibration, 
ought to take about eight days. Not bad, eh?" 
"Not bad," Lioe agreed. _Not bad at all, especially when it 
happens over Burning Bright_. "I thought I'd take off, go 
planetside," she said, carefully casual. "You're not going to need 
me up here." 
Kerestel frowned slightly, said, after a heartbeat's pause 
that seemed much longer, "You're going Gaming, right?" 
"That's right." Lioe bit her tongue to keep from adding 
more. _This is Burning Bright, heart of the Game, where the best 
clubs and the best players -- the greatest notables -- live and 
work. I'm not missing this chance. Chances like this are only once 
a lifetime_ -- 
"It's a game, Quinn," Kerestel said. 
"And it's one I'm very, very good at," Lioe retorted. She 
grinned, forced a lighter tone. "Christ, Micky, it's not like I'm 
quitting." 
"One of these days, though," Kerestel muttered, and Lioe 
reached across to touch his shoulder. 
"Not likely, and you know it. Piloting's a steady living, 
and I'm not stupid." _I had to work too hard to get the 
apprenticeship, coming out of Foster Services; I'm not giving that 
up anytime soon_. But that was none of Kerestel's business; she 
forced the smile to stay on her lips, said, "All I'm saying is, I 
think I'm going to spend the repair break planetside. All right?" 
She could force the issue, she knew -- they were both union, and 

the union gave her the right to move off the ship anytime it was 
anchored in orbit for more than five days -- but she liked 
Kerestel too well to use that lever unless she had to. _And 
besides, he's getting old, one foot on the retirement line. I 
don't want to hurt his feelings_. 
Kerestel nodded, reluctantly. "All right," he said, and 
then made himself sound more enthusiastic. "And good luck with the 
Game." 
It was those efforts that made him worth working for, even 
if he was getting old and querulous. "Thanks," Lioe said, and 
retreated to her cabin to collect her belongings. 
It didn't take her long to pack: her jump bag was easily 
large enough to hold a couple of changes of clothes, plus her 
Gameboard and the thick plastic case that held the half-dozen 
Rulebook disks. She seized a hat at random, this one black, with a 
wide brim, shrugged on a jacket -- her favorite, heavy blue-black 
workcloth with a flurry of Game pins across the lapels -- and 
tapped into the local comnet to find a taxi-shuttle to take her 
across to the customs station. Kerestel was nowhere in sight when 
it arrived, and she hesitated, but called her good-byes into the 
shipwide intercom. There was no answer; she shrugged again, caught 
between hurt and annoyance, and pulled herself through the 
transfer tube to the taxi. 
The landing check was strict and time-consuming. The 
officer on duty went over her papers with excruciating care, and 
ran the Rulebooks through a virus scan twice before grudgingly 
allowing her to carry them onto the surface. She made the orbiter 
with only minutes to spare, and collapsed into her seat, resolved 
to sleep for as much of the descent as possible. 
She woke to the unfamiliar noise of air against the 
orbiter's hull, sat up in her harness to see fire rolling across 
the viewport. The orbiter bucked and fought the sudden turbulence, 
and then they were down into the atmosphere. Servos whined 
underfoot and in the cabin walls, reconfiguring wings and lifting 
surfaces, and the orbiter became a proper aircraft, banking easily 
against the heavy air that held it. The engine fired, a coughing 
explosion at the tail of the taxi, and the craft steadied further, 
came completely under control. Lioe released the breath she hadn't 
realized she'd been holding, and craned her head to look out the 
viewport again. 

 "We'll be landing at Newfields in about fifty minutes," the 
steward said, from the front of the cabin. "It's day thirty of 
High Spring, the end of High Spring -- that's day ninety-four of 
our four-hundred-day year. Burning Bright has a twenty-fivestandard-
hour day, and you should program your chronometers 
accordingly. If you are keeping Greenwich Republican time, the 
GRTC factor is eighty-eight B-for-bravo one hundred fifty-two. 
Ground temperature is twenty-three degrees. If you need any 
assistance, or further information, please feel free to ask. Your 
call buttons are on the cabin wall above your head." 
No one seemed to respond, and Lioe turned her head back to 
the window. Clouds flashed past beneath them, thin wisps that only 
partly obscured the glittering water. Burning Bright was mostly 
water; the main -- the only -- landmass was largely artificial, 
the new land built on the inner edges of the giant atoll's 
original islands, guarded from floods by a massive network of 
dikes and storm barriers. The city of Burning Bright -- city and 
planet shared a name; the two were effectively identical -- was 
one of the great engineering achievements of the nonaligned 
worlds: _even in the Republic, and even in Foster Service 
schools_, Lioe thought, _you learn that mantra_. And it was pretty 
much true. In all the time she'd spent in space, piloting ships 
between the Republic and the nonaligned worlds and Hsaioi-An, 
she'd never been anyplace that was at all like Burning Bright. 
"Can I get you anything?" 
Lioe looked up to find the steward looking down at her, 
balancing easily against the movement of the orbiter, one hand 
resting on the back of the empty couch beside her. She shook her 
head, but smiled. "I can't think of anything, thanks." 
The steward nodded, but didn't move. "I couldn't help 
noticing your pins." 
Lioe let her smile widen, grateful she hadn't had to set up 
this encounter herself. "I saw yours, too." She glanced again at 
the pair of Game pins clipped just below the company icon: one was 
the triangle-and-galaxy of the Old Network, but the other was 
unfamiliar. "Local club?" she asked, and was not surprised when 
the steward shook his head. 
"Actually, it's a session souvenir," he said. "It was a 
Court Life variant, run by Ambidexter about five years ago." 
"I think I saw tapes of that," Lioe said, impressed in 

spite of herself. The steward didn't look old enough to have been 
playing at that level five years ago. "That was the one that 
featured Gallio Hazard and Desir of Harmsway, right? The one that 
really made Harmsway a Grand Type." 
"That's right." The steward glanced quickly around the 
cabin, then lowered himself into the couch next to her. "I'm Vere - 
- Audovero Caminesi." 
"Quinn Lioe." They touched hands, awkward because of her 
safety harness. 
"You wouldn't be the Lioe who wrote the Frederick's Glory 
scenario," Vere said. 
"As a matter of fact, I am." 
Vere grinned. "That was a great session. There's been a lot 
of talk on the net about it; I'm still trying to find someone at 
the club who'll run it. Are you going to be doing any Gaming while 
you're here?" 
The conversation was going just the way she'd hoped it 
would. Lioe said, "I was hoping to. I don't know the clubs, 
though." 
Vere spread his hands. "I can give you some names, if you'd 
like." 
"I'd appreciate it." 
"There are really only three clubs that are worth your 
while," Vere said, lowering his voice until she could just hear 
him over the noise of the engines. "Billi's in the Old City, 
Shadows under the Old Dike in Dock Road District, and the Two- 
Dragon House, in Mainwardens'." He grinned suddenly. "I think 
Shadows is the best of the lot -- it's where I play, so take it 
for what it's worth." 
Lioe smiled back. "What's the setup like?" 
"They're all about the same, really," Vere answered. A 
chime sounded from farther forward in the compartment, and he 
lifted his head to look over the seatbacks for the source. Lioe 
followed the direction of his gaze, and saw a call light flashing 
above one of the seats. Vere grimaced, and pushed himself to his 
feet, but leaned down to finish what he had been saying. "Shadows 
has newer machines, but they're not state-of-the-art. Billi's was 
that maybe four, five years ago. Two-Dragon is pretty standard 
stuff, a little older than Shadows." 
"Thanks," Lioe said, and Vere smiled down at her. 

 "Don't forget me if you run an open session." 
"I'll keep you in mind," Lioe said, and meant it. She would 
be needing good players, if she managed to persuade a club to let 
her lead sessions, and anyone who could play for Ambidexter was 
good enough for her. It was just a pity Ambidexter himself was no 
longer in the Game. 
She turned her head to the viewport again, was startled to 
see how far the orbiter had dropped. The water was no longer just 
a blue haze, had gained a crumpled texture, and flecks of white 
dotted the metallic surface. Burning Bright City was just visible 
in the distance, if she craned her neck, but mostly hidden by the 
orbiter's nose. The craft banked sharply then, showing her nothing 
but the brilliance of the sky, and when it steadied onto the new 
heading, Burning Bright lay spread out beneath the orbiter's wing. 
It seemed very small at first, an island split in three by a 
forked channel, but then the orbiter banked again, losing 
altitude, and she began to make out the smaller landformed islands 
that made up the larger masses. Most of them were thickly settled, 
furred with brick-red buildings, light glinting occasionally from 
solar panels and interior waterways. Only the high ground at the 
outer edges of the islands remained relatively uncrowded. She 
frowned idly at that, wondering why, and the speakers crackled at 
the front of the cabin. 
Vere said, "I've just been informed that we are starting 
the descent to Newfields. We should be on the ground in about 
fifteen minutes." 
The orbiter canted again as he spoke, and when it came 
level again, Lioe was looking at a scene she recognized. Twin 
lakes lay to either side of a piece of land like a small mountain, 
falling steeply to the sea on one side and more gently into 
settled country on the other. That was Plug Island, where the 
first-in settlers had first dammed the shallow lagoon to create 
more land for their growing city. Double headlands cradled each of 
the lakes; the desalination complex and the thick white walls of 
the tidal generating stations that closed each lake off from the 
sea gleamed in the sunlight. Outside the generating stations' 
walls, surf bloomed against the storm barriers that defended the 
Plug Island lagoons; it frothed as well against the base of the 
cliffs to either side. They were coming into Newfields. Even as 
she thought it, the orbiter rolled a final time, then steadied 

into the familiar approach. They flashed over the clustered houses 
of the Ghetto where the off-worlders, and especially the hsai, 
lived -- still on the inner edges of the island, overlooking the 
land, away from the sea -- and then dropped low over the 
administrative complex. The orbiter touched down easily on stained 
and tire-marked pavement, and she leaned back in her couch, no 
longer watching the blocks of warehouses that flashed past beyond 
the empty field. _Not long now_, she thought, _not long. I'll find 
a room in the Ghetto, and I'll call some clubs, and I'll have a 
Game to run_. She smiled, losing herself in a dream. 
-------- 
*Day 30* 
_High Spring: The Hsai Ambassador's_ 
_House, in the Ghetto, Burning Bright_ 
The ambassador to Burning Bright knelt in his reception 
room, facing the hissing screen. A few check-characters crawled 
across the blank grey space; the ambassador frowned, seeing them, 
and glanced over his shoulder at the technician who knelt in front 
of the control board. 
"Sorry, Sia Chauvelin," the technician murmured, and his 
hands danced across his controls. The characters vanished, were 
replaced by a single steady glyph: the link was complete. 
Chauvelin glanced one last time around the narrow room, at 
the plain black silk that lined the walls, at the low table with 
the prescribed ritual meal -- snow-wine; a tray of tiny redstained 
wafers, each marked in black with the graceful doubleglyph 
that meant both good fortune and gift; a molded sweet, this 
one in the shape of the _nuao_-pear that stood for duty -- laid 
out in the faint shadow of a single perfect orchid in an equally 
perfect holder carved from a natural pale-purple crystal. His own 
clothes were equally part of the prescribed ritual, plain black 
silk coat over the pearl-grey bodysuit that served humans like 
himself for the hsai's natural skin, a single knot of formal 
ribbons tied around his left arm, the folded iron fan set on the 
bright carpet in front of him. He glanced a final time at his 
reflection in the single narrow window, checking his appearance, 
and found it acceptable. It was night out still, the sun not yet 
risen; he suppressed a certain sense of injustice, and glanced 
again at the technician. "Is everything ready?" 
"Yes, Sia Chauvelin." 

 "Then you may go." Chauvelin looked back at the screen, 
barely aware of the murmured response and the soft scuffing sound 
as the technician bowed himself out and closed the door gently 
behind him. The remote was a sudden weight against his thigh, 
reminding him of his duty; he reached into the pocket of his coat 
to touch its controls, triggering the system. The hidden speakers 
hissed for a moment, singing as the jump-satellite bridged the 
interstellar space between the local transmitter and an identical 
machine on maiHu'an, and then the screen lit on a familiar scene. 
Chauvelin bowed, back straight, eyes down, hands on the carpet in 
front of him, heard a light female voice -- human female -- 
announcing his name. 
"Tal je-Chauvelin tzu Tsinra-an, emissary to and friend-atcourt 
for the _houta_ of Burning Bright." 
Chauvelin kept his eyes on the fan, dark against the 
glowing red of the carpet, staring at the five _n-jao_ characters 
of his name carved into the outer guard. There was a little 
silence, and then a second voice answered the first, this one 
unmistakably hsaia, inhuman and male. 
"I acknowledge je-Chauvelin." 
Chauvelin leaned back slowly, raising his eyes to the 
screen. Even expecting it, the illusion was almost perfect, so 
that for an instant he could almost believe that the wall had 
dissolved, and a second room identical to his own had opened in 
front of him. The Remembrancer-Duke Aorih ja-Erh'aoa tzu Tsinra-an 
sat facing him in a carved chair-of-state, hands posed formally on 
the heads of the crouching troglodyths that formed the arms of the 
chair. His wrist spurs curved out and down toward the troglodyths' 
eyes, their enameled covers -- done in a pattern of twining 
flowers, Chauvelin saw, without surprise -- glowing in the warm 
lights. 
"This person thanks his most honored patron for his 
acknowledgment," he said, in the hsai tongue that he prided 
himself on speaking as well as any jericho-human, any human born 
and bred inside the borders of Hsaioi-An. "And welcomes him with 
service." 
Ja-Erh'aoa made a quick, ambiguous gesture with one hand, 
at once accepting and dismissing the formal compliments. The 
stubby fingerclaws, painted a delicate shade between lavender and 
blue to match the enameled flowers of the spur sheath, clicked 

once against the carved head, and were still again. Chauvelin read 
impatience and irritation in the movement, and in the still face 
of the human woman who stood at ja-Erh'aoa's left hand, and braced 
himself for whatever was to follow. 
"I would like to know, je-Chauvelin, what you meant by this 
report." 
For a crazy second, Chauvelin considered asking which 
report the hsaia meant, but suppressed that particularly suicidal 
notion. The Remembrancer-Duke had shifted from the formal tones of 
greeting to the more conversational second mode, and Chauvelin 
copied him. "My lord, you asked for my interpretation of what the 
All-Father and his council should expect from the elections. I 
gave you that answer." 
"You recommended that we support, or at least acquiesce in, 
Governor Berengaria's reelection." Ja-Erh'aoa's hand moved again, 
the painted claws clicking irritably against the troglodyth's low 
forehead. "Am I mad, or do I misremember, that she supports the 
Republic quite openly?" 
Chauvelin winced inwardly at the mention of memory -- ja- 
Erh'aoa implied that he had implied an insult -- and said, "It is 
so, my lord." He kept his voice cool and steady only with an 
effort: he had known that this would become an issue of 
_an'ahoba_, the delicate game of status and prestige, but he had 
counted on ja-Erh'aoa's support. 
"Then why should we not stand in her way?" 
_I gave you my reasons in my report, my lord_. Chauvelin 
suppressed that answer, and saw the faintest of rueful smiles 
cross the human woman's otherwise impassive face. He said aloud, 
"My Lord, the other candidates are not safe. They either have no 
backing among the people who matter" -- _or among the people in 
general, but that's not something a hsaia would understand_ -- "or 
are too young and untried for me to suggest that Hsaioi-An place 
any trust in them." 
"It is not expedient that we support Berengaria," ja- 
Erh'aoa said flatly. 
"Then, my lord, it is as though my report was never made." 
Chauvelin sat back slightly, folded his hands in his lap. 
"Unfortunately," ja-Erh'aoa said, "your report has become 
common knowledge in the council halls. I have suffered some -- 
diminishment -- because of it. It is even being said, je

Chauvelin, that you are too close to the _houta_ on Burning 
Bright, and would perhaps benefit from a different posting." 
"Do you question my loyalties, lord?" Even as he said it, 
Chauvelin knew that was the wrong question, born from the sudden 
cold fear twisting his guts. It was too direct, put ja-Erh'aoa in 
a position where he could only answer yes -- and he himself was 
too vulnerable to that accusation to risk angering his patron. No 
_chaoi-mon_, citizen by impressment, could risk that, particularly 
not when he was born on Burning Bright and served now as 
ambassador to that planet. He silenced those thoughts, kept 
himself still, hands quiet in his lap, face expressionlessly 
polite, with an effort that made the muscles along his spine and 
across his shoulders tremble slightly beneath the heavy coat. He 
made himself face ja-Erh'aoa guilelessly, as though no one had 
touched his one vulnerable spot, pretended he did not see the 
Remembrancer-Duke's fingerclaws close over the troglodyths' heads. 
"No one questions your fealty, je-Chauvelin," ja-Erh'aoa 
said, after a moment. "However, it is as well not to cause even 
the hint of a question." 
_Bad, very bad_, Chauvelin thought. He bowed again, 
accepting the rebuke, and said, "As my lord wishes." 
"I would also see to your household, je-Chauvelin," ja- 
Erh'aoa said. "I am concerned that this report has traveled so far 
outside my knowledge, and yours." 
Chauvelin lifted an eyebrow at him, stung at last into 
retort. "My household is well known to me, save the guest I 
entertain at your command, my lord." 
There was another little silence, ja-Erh'aoa's hands slowly 
tightening over the troglodyths' heads, thumbclaws perilously 
close to their carved eyes, and Chauvelin braced himself to offer 
his humblest apologies. Then, quite slowly, ja-Erh'aoa's hands 
loosened again, and he said, with apparent inconsequence, "How is 
your guest, Chauvelin?" 
"The Visiting Speaker is enjoying the pleasures of the 
planet," Chauvelin answered, conventionally. _In point of fact, 
the Visiting Speaker Kuguee ji-Imbao aje Tsinra-an, cousin of the 
Imperial Father, is spending most of his nights attending parties 
and most days sleeping off the effects of Oblivion. Even so, I may 
have underestimated him -- or at least his household_. He made a 
mental note to make a second investigation of the half-dozen 

attendants who had arrived with ji-Imbaoa. 
"You will convey our greetings," ja-Erh'aoa said, and 
Chauvelin bowed again. 
"As my lord wishes." 
Ja-Erh'aoa nodded, pushed himself up out of the chair-ofstate, 
at the same time gesturing to the woman behind him. She 
said, in her clear voice, "The audience is ended." 
Chauvelin bowed again, more deeply, hands on the floor, 
straightened slowly when the click of the room door was not 
followed by the static of a broken connection. Eriki Haas tzu 
Tsinra-an, ja-Erh'aoa's First Speaker, looked back at him without 
expression, came slowly forward to kneel on the carpeting in front 
of ja-Erh'aoa's empty chair. Chauvelin lifted an eyebrow at her. 
"What's made this report so different from all the others? 
My lord knows what I think of Berengaria." He used tradetalk, the 
informal creole that was the common language of human beings in 
Hsaioi-An, and Haas's severity melted into a rueful grin. 
"What makes it different is exactly what he said: somebody 
leaked it before it could be edited for the council. And my lord's 
right, you should check on how that happened." 
"I fully intend to," Chauvelin said. "This is not the most 
opportune time to have a visitor." 
Haas nodded. "The problem is, the je cousins have been 
getting a lot of attention at court lately -- Norio Mann is a je 
Tsinra-an, and he's been the All-Father's favorite son since the 
petro strike on Hazuhonae. And the cousins are doing everything 
they can to consolidate their position." 
Chauvelin nodded back, wishing -- not for the first time -- 
that communications between the court on Hsiamai and the worlds 
outside Hsaioi-An were a little more frequent. "If I had known -- 
" he began, and bit off the words. The rivalry between je and tzu 
lines of the imperial family -- between cousin and direct-line 
family -- was ongoing; if he couldn't anticipate particular events 
and shifts in favor, he should at least have made sure nothing in 
his report could have affected the Remembrancer-Duke's position in 
that struggle. _But I didn't count on his dumping ji-Imbaoa on me. 
Or his household_. 
Haas smiled sourly. "For some reason, Tal, they've decided 
to pick on you -- you are in an anomalous position, after all. And 
my lord is vulnerable through you, don't forget." 

 "I don't forget," Chauvelin said. 
"Good." 
"Tell me this," Chauvelin said, and in spite of his best 
efforts heard the anger in his voice. "Do you want me to retract 
my report? It's my best advice -- my lord never used to prefer a 
political lie to common sense, but I am at my lord's command." 
"No." Haas waved one hand in a hsaii gesture, negation and 
apology in one. "What's done is done. But you might look for some 
way to reaffirm your loyalties in public, Tal. My lord would find 
it helpful." 
"I'll do that," Chauvelin said, a new, cold fear warring 
with the anger. He had earned his place on Burning Bright, earned 
the right to return to his homeworld, a favor almost never granted 
to _chaoi-mon_, and that did leave him open to just this 
accusation, that he favored his origins over the imperial clan 
that had adopted him. 
Haas looked at him from under lowered lashes. "My lord is 
vulnerable through you," she said again. 
"The threat was clear the first time," Chauvelin said. 
"I hope so," Haas murmured, and ran a finger along the 
elaborate enameling that decorated the cover of her implanted 
wrist spur. The picture wavered and died. Chauvelin swore, and 
reached for his own remote, closing down the local connection. 
Check characters flickered across the screen, and then the wall 
went dead, a blank grey space at the end of the room. 
Chauvelin sat staring at it for a long moment, mastering 
his anger, and the fear that anger masked. _So my lord will throw 
me to the wolves_, he thought, testing the idea, and found he 
could view it without great surprise. _So I will find a reason for 
him to have to keep me, and I think I will begin with finding 
something, or something more, to discredit ji-lmbaoa. Not that 
that will be that hard, or particularly unpleasant_. He pushed 
himself slowly to his feet, wincing a little at the ache in his 
knees. Outside the window, the sky had lightened visibly, the sky 
even to the west, over the city, showing clear signs of dawn. 
There was no point in going back to bed -- the conference had been 
scheduled at ja-Erh'aoa's convenience, and he himself had other 
appointments later in the day. Better to eat -- _assuming the 
kitchen staff is awake, which they had better be_ -- and then take 
steps to deal with this. 

 He returned to his own rooms to change clothes, discarding 
the unflattering bodysuit and heavy coat with a sigh of relief. 
One of the servants -- the hsai preferred living beings to 
mechanicals; service given and received in kinship was the glue of 
their society, and this morning Chauvelin was oddly comforted by 
his place in the hierarchy -- had laid out everyday clothing, 
shirt and plain trousers, and a less formal coat of green brocade. 
The fabric was of Burning Bright weave, shot through with strands 
of the iridescent pearl-silk rendered from the discarded shells of 
the sequensa after the more expensive paillettes had been cut, and 
he hesitated for a moment, wondering if it would be more tactful 
to wear something less obviously identified with his world of 
origin, but then shrugged the thought aside. The damage was done; 
it was better to pretend he hadn't heard about the rumors. And 
besides, the cool drape of the fabric was a reassuring luxury. He 
slipped it on, running one hand down the unshaped lapel just for 
the feeling of the heavy silk under his touch, and left the room. 
The sun was fully up now, the rising light pouring in 
through the seaward windows, casting long shadows toward the city 
below the Ghetto cliff. The breakfast room, overlooking the 
gardens that dropped in terraces toward the cliff edge and the Old 
City, was pleasantly shadowed, only the food tables softly lit by 
the stasis fields. Chauvelin smiled with real enjoyment for the 
first time that day, and crossed to the tables to pour himself a 
cup of flower-scented tea. 
"Sia Chauvelin." 
He turned to face the speaker, recognizing his steward's 
voice, and saw a second person, jericho-human rather than hsaii, 
standing beside the steward, so close and so exactly even in the 
doorway that their shoulders touched. The woman was part of ji- 
Imbaoa's household, and Chauvelin set the tea aside untouched. 
"Yes?" 
"My lord wishes to speak with you," ji-Imbaoa's servant 
said, her voice completely without expression. 
"The Visiting Speaker has only just returned from the 
city," the steward murmured, under lowered lashes. Her fingers 
curled with demure humor as she spoke. 
Chauvelin lifted an eyebrow, his mind racing. _What the 
ninth hell could ji-Imbaoa want, at this hour, when he's bound to 
be hung over, or still drunk, if I'm particularly unlucky? I 

should change to wait on him, but I'll be damned if he deserves 
the honor_ -- "The Visiting Speaker will have to pardon the 
delay," he said, and indicated the informal coat. 
"My lord will excuse," ji-Imbaoa's servant said, still 
without expression. 
"As the Visiting Speaker wishes," Chauvelin said, and could 
not quite keep the irony from his voice. "Iameis" -- that was his 
steward, who bowed her head in acknowledgment -- "you'll join me 
for breakfast after this. We have some things to discuss." 
"Yes, Sia," the steward murmured, and stepped aside. 
Chauvelin looked at the other woman. "Lead on." 
He let her conduct him through the ambassadorial palace, as 
was proper, for all that he knew the building far better than she 
ever would. She stayed the prescribed two paces ahead of him and 
slightly to his right, unspeaking, and Chauvelin watched her back, 
rigid under the black tunic, and the short swing of her left arm. 
A conscript's mark was tattooed into her biceps, just below the 
fall of the cap sleeve. Chauvelin felt his eyebrows rise, 
controlled his expression instantly. _Why would anyone be stupid 
enough to trust ji-Imbaoa with pressed servants? Loyalty can only 
be created by favor, not by fear -- though some of my own first 
masters were no joy to serve, but nothing like him_. He filed the 
observation for later use, and braced himself as the woman came to 
a stop outside the door of ji-Imbaoa's suite. They were 
technically Chauvelin's own rooms, by virtue of his rank as head 
of the ambassadorial household, but Chauvelin himself rarely used 
them, since any visitor of higher rank could usurp them. Ji-lmbaoa 
had taken particular pleasure in moving his household into the 
rooms, and Chauvelin had had to keep a sharp grip on his temper to 
keep from betraying the existence of a second group of rooms. Ji- 
Imbaoa would have been happy to move in there, at the expense of 
his own comfort, just to win a few points in _an'ahoba_. 
"The ambassador Chauvelin," ji-Imbaoa's servant announced 
to the invisible security system, and the carved and lacquered 
doors swung open. 
The Visiting Speaker Kuguee ji-Imbaoa je Tsinra-an stood in 
the center of the suite's reception room, feet firmly planted on 
the silk-weave carpet that lay before the chair-of-state. _At 
least he hasn't chosen to take the chair_, Chauvelin thought, and 
suppressed his anger as he saw the mud on ji-Imbaoa's feet, caked 

between the claws and trampled into the carpet. It was a familiar 
way of showing power, but Chauvelin added it to the Visiting 
Speaker's account: the carpet was too beautiful to be treated as 
part of _an'ahoba_. 
"_Ts'taa_." The word was untranslatable, carrying contempt 
and impatience and a concise statement of relationship, superior 
to inferior. Chauvelin raised his eyebrows, hoping that ji-Imbaoa 
had finally made a mistake -- he and the Visiting Speaker were too 
close in the hierarchy for that to be anything but a deliberate 
and deadly insult -- and realized with regret that ji-Imbaoa was 
addressing the woman servant. 
"You are careless, and slow, and I am diminished by your 
habits." Ji-Imbaoa glanced sideways then, toward Chauvelin, and 
added, "_Chaoi_ have so much to learn." 
He had used the shortened term, the one that had once meant 
"slave." The woman's shoulders twitched once, but she mastered 
herself, and bowed deeply. "I abase myself. I beg my lord's 
forgiveness." 
Ji-Imbaoa waved a hand in dismissal, and the woman turned 
away, but not before Chauvelin saw the bright spots of color 
flaring on her cheekbones. _It's not wise -- it's downright stupid 
-- to abuse your servants to get back at your enemies_. He said, 
in his most neutral voice, "And yet the All-Father commends the 
practice." 
Ji-Imbaoa's head lowered, suspiciously, but he said 
nothing. Chauvelin waited, running a quick and appraising glance 
down the Visiting Speaker's mostly humanoid body. Fingerclaws and 
spurs were painted a vivid red, the spurs protected only by a 
small cap of filigree-work. The bright ribbon clusters that flowed 
from bands around his upper arms, forming his only clothing, were 
badly crumpled, and Chauvelin glanced lower. The salmon-pink tip 
of ji-Imbaoa's penis was only just visible at the opening of the 
genital sheath: still drunk enough to relax some inhibitions, but 
sobering. 
"I've summoned you because I've been hearing worrisome 
news," ji-Imbaoa said abruptly. _News you should already know 
about_, his tone implied. 
Chauvelin murmured, "Indeed?" They were close enough in 
rank to omit honorifics in informal speech, and ji-Imbaoa had used 
the common forms. 

 Ji-Imbaoa's hands twitched, as though he regretted his 
choice, but he could not change modes without losing face. "You 
have an agent in the city, a _houta_, Ransome, it's called." 
"Ransome is under my patronage, yes," Chauvelin answered. 
"He's been _min-hao_ for some years." The gap between _houta_, 
nonperson, and client-kinsman was vast; Ransome needed the respect 
and protection of _min-hao_ status. 
Ji-Imbaoa flicked his fingers, dismissing the difference. 
"Decidamio Chrestil-Brisch is showing a great deal of interest in 
him. I wonder why." 
_And so do I_, Chauvelin thought. He said aloud, "There are 
a number of reasons that Damian Chrestil might be interested in 
Ransome, not least that Ransome's an imagist of some note in the 
city." 
"That may be," ji-Imbaoa said, "but what I have seen is 
that Damian Chrestil -- or that woman, his whore -- wants very 
much to lure your agent back into the Game. Why would that be?" 
"I don't know," Chauvelin said. 
"Such pressure against an agent of yours, I'd think you'd 
want to know what's going on. They leave lures on all the nets, 
hints and pressures. It's not like Damian Chrestil to care about 
the Game -- " 
"Cella, his mistress" -- Chauvelin laid the lightest of 
stresses on the word -- "is a well-known Gamer, however, and 
Ransome was a notable for a long time." 
Ji-Imbaoa flicked his fingers again. "I think it's worth 
investigation." 
Chauvelin sighed. "So do I." 
"And I also think," ji-Imbaoa went on, as if the other 
hadn't spoken, "that it would be worth doing what Damian Chrestil 
wants, if only to find out what's going on." 
"If it seems a reasonable risk," Chauvelin said softly. "I 
don't send my people into difficult situations unprepared." 
"Of course, if he can tell you what they want," ji-Imbaoa 
said, equally softly, "it wouldn't be necessary." 
"As you say." Chauvelin got a grip on his temper with an 
effort, knowing his anger was sharpened by fear. "Will that be 
all? I have business this morning -- " 
Ji-Imbaoa cut him off with a gesture. "There is one other 
matter. This Ransome: you say he's not _houta_ but _min-hao?_" 

 "Yes." Chauvelin gave no other explanation, uncertain where 
this would lead. 
"Then there is a matter of charges lodged against him on 
Jericho, which are actionable if he is _min-hao_." 
"At the time, he was _houta_, and served sentence on 
appropriate charges," Chauvelin said. _Not now_, he thought, _not 
now, of all times, to bring that up. Christ, it was fifteen years 
ago, and he spent time in jail; that ought to be over and done 
with_. But it had been a matter of _an'ahoba_, a game that Ransome 
played with regrettable skill and no status to match it -- _and I 
should have known this would come up at the worst possible time. I 
can deal with it_. 
"The larger matters still stand, in court record." Ji- 
Imbaoa made a small gesture, almost of satisfaction. "But I trust 
you will handle these matters appropriately." 
"Of course," Chauvelin said, in his most colorless voice. 
_Twice in one day -- that's twice someone's threatened me, and 
it's not yet midmorning. Not one of my better days_. 
"I am sure," ji-Imbaoa said, and gestured polite dismissal. 
Chauvelin bowed his thanks, and let himself out into the hallway. 
He made his way back to the breakfast room through 
corridors that were slowly filling with people, responding 
mechanically to the respectful greetings of his household. _Three 
things_, he thought, _three things I have to do. Find the 
weaknesses in ji-Imbaoa's household so that I can counter his 
threats, find out who leaked this report of mine, and then find 
out why Damian Chrestil wants Ransome back in the Game. And why it 
should worry ji-Imbaoa so much. Which means I will have to talk to 
Ransome: it doesn't do to have him keeping secrets from me_. He 
paused in the door of the breakfast room, mentally reordering his 
list, then went in to give orders to the waiting steward. 
-------- 
*Day 30* 
_High Spring: Canal #291, Fisher's_ 
_Isle District, Burning Bright_ 
Damian Chrestil woke to sunlight and the steady sway of the 
john-boat against the forward mooring. The stern tie had parted in 
the night. He was certain of it even before he stopped blinking, 
and moved his head out of the thin bar of sunlight that shone in 
through the gap between the snuggery's canvas top and the side of 

the boat. He was angry even before he remembered what lay next to 
him in the bunk. It was his fault, the stranger's -- he had been 
the one to place the stern tie -- and he propped himself up on one 
elbow to study the situation, and the body beside his. He couldn't 
remember the stranger's name, nor very clearly why he had picked 
him up the night before; whatever had been interesting or 
endearing had vanished with his clothes. _Slumming, certainly_ -- 
and the stranger turned over onto his side, dragging the thin 
sheet with him. That was quite enough, especially now that the 
inevitable headache was starting behind his eyes. Damian kicked 
away the rest of the sheet and reached for his discarded clothes, 
wriggling awkwardly into briefs and shirt and trousers. The 
stranger -- _whoever he is_ -- was lying on top of the storage 
compartments. There was nothing useful in them, not in a borrowed 
boat, but Damian added the extra inconvenience to his account 
anyway, and crawled out of the snuggery to deal with the stern 
tie. 
Luckily, he had had the sense to pick a quiet lay-by. The 
john-boat was swinging only sluggishly, the soggy impact of the 
hull against the piling barely audible over the gentle slap of the 
water, not even enough to bruise the paint. He made his way aft 
along the sun-warming decking, and as the boat swung in against 
the pilings, caught the dangling ring and made the tie fast. He 
stood there for a moment, balancing automatically against the 
deck's gentle heave, and blinked up at the sky and the white-hot 
light. The john-boat lay at the bottom of a blue-toned canyon. 
Shadowed factory buildings rose six stories high along either bank 
of the canal, their unlit windows showing only blank glass. This 
was not a deliveryway; there were no lesser docks or vertical line 
of gaping doors beneath an overhanging cranehead. It was just a 
traffic alley, not much used -- it might even once have been a 
natural stream, by the gentle curve of its banks. The rising sun 
was pouring down from the near end of the channel, a wedge of 
almost solid light that turned the murky water to liquid agate. No 
one was moving on the narrow walkways that ran alongside the 
factories; no one else was tied up to the mossy pilings, or tucked 
under the cool shadow of the piers. He made a face -- the heavy 
sun was doing nothing for his headache -- and went forward again, 
shielding his eyes from the shards of light that glinted off the 
water. 

 The stranger was still asleep in the snuggery, face now 
turned to the empty pillow beside him. Damian Chrestil squatted in 
the entrance to the cavelike space, staring into air turned honeygold 
by the worn cover, and felt a detached malevolence steal over 
him. Why should _he_ sleep, when Damian himself was awake, and 
feeling unpleasing? There was nothing in the round face and 
showily muscled body that aroused the least compassion; his thin 
mustache was intolerable. _I must give up slumming_, he thought, 
and leaned sideways to release the lock that held the cover's 
frame erect. He caught the nearest hoop as the wind took it, 
guiding it down onto the deck. The frame folded neatly, as it was 
supposed to, with only a soft creak from the well-oiled mechanism, 
and the cover collapsed into a rumpled U-shape at his feet. The 
stranger slept on. 
Damian stood for a moment longer, glaring down at him, 
automatically tugging his own thick hair into a neat queue. He 
remembered perfectly well _how_ he'd acquired the stranger -- he 
was a bungee-gar, and C/B Cie., the holding group that managed the 
Chrestil-Brisch import/export interests, had successfully received 
a shipment of red-carpet, the fungus that fed the family 
distilleries. Red-carpet was expensive enough on its own, 
especially on a world that had few native sources of alcohol, 
valuable enough to justify employing bungee-gars, but it had also 
served to cover the two capsules of lachesi that had traveled with 
the declared cargo. Oblivion was made from lachesi, and Oblivion 
was legal inside the Republic, but the Republican export taxes on 
drugs were deliberately high. Evading those duties not only 
increased his own profits, but allowed him to do favors for two 
important parties, one in the Republic, the other in Hsaioi-An. 
And that was how Burning Bright had survived free of control by 
either of the metagovernments: the web of favors given and 
received that made it entirely too dangerous for strangers to 
interfere in Burning Bright's internal politics. It was never too 
early to start collecting favors, either, not when he intended to 
be governor in five years. 
The stranger shifted uneasily against the mattress, drawing 
Damian out of the pleasant daydream. His head was really throbbing 
now -- _Oblivion and bai-red rum, not a wise combination_ -- and 
he wondered again why he'd invited the stranger aboard. He was 
decent-enough looking -- a dark man, young, canalli dark, with 

coarse waves in his too-long hair, heavy muscles under the skin, 
and buttocks Damian could vaguely remember describing as "cute" -- 
but not cute enough, not with that silly mustache shadowing his 
full mouth. He hadn't been that good a fuck, either: if the 
previous night's performance had represented his sexual peak, his 
future partners were in for some serious disappointment. Damian 
slipped his foot under the sheet, flipped it nearly away. The 
stranger rolled over, groping blindly for it, mumbling something 
that sounded regrettably like _darling_, and fetched up with his 
shoulder resting on the edge of the boat. Damian Chrestil smiled 
slowly, and stepped onto the bunk beside him, his feet sinking 
only a little way into the hard foam of the mattress. He dug his 
foot under the stranger's rib cage, saw him start to roll away 
automatically. The stranger's eyes opened then, a sleepy and 
entirely too cocksure smile changing to alarm as Damian tipped him 
neatly out of the boat. Instinct kept him from yelling until he 
surfaced again. 
"What the hell -- ?" 
"Rise and shine." Damian smiled, some of his temper 
restored, and turned his attention to the mess in the snuggery. 
The stranger trod water easily, shaking his hair out of his 
eyes, but knew better than to try to climb back aboard. "What'd I 
do?" he asked plaintively, and pushed himself a few strokes 
farther down the channel, out of reach of the cargo-hooks racked 
along the gunwales. 
Damian paused, the stranger's clothes in one hand. He had 
them all now, except for one crumpled shoe, and he found that 
almost in the instant he realized it was missing, tucked in 
between the mattress and the bulkhead. He rolled them all together 
into a compact ball, and tossed it, not into the canal as he'd 
intended, but up onto the walkway between the pilings. It was not, 
after all, entirely the stranger's fault. 
"I have work to do," Damian said. 
For an instant it looked as though the stranger might 
protest, but Damian scowled, and the other lifted both hands in 
dripping apology, the water drawing him down for an instant. 
"Fine." The stranger stopped treading water, lay back, and 
let the current take him, exerting himself only when he spotted 
the splintering ladder nailed to one of the piers. 
Damian turned away, his mood lifting, and stepped out onto 

the narrow bow platform to loosen the tie there. His headache was 
fading now, in the morning air, was just an occasional pang behind 
his eyebrows. He could hear splashing as the stranger hauled 
himself up out of the canal, but did not bother to watch, walked 
aft instead and loosed the stern tie. He pushed hard against the 
piling, edging the stern toward the main current, and stepped down 
into the shallow steering well to hit the start sequence. The 
engine whined, then strengthened as the solar panels striping the 
deck woke to sunlight and began feeding power to the system, 
supplementing the batteries. The john-boat had already caught the 
main current, was drifting stern first toward the shadow of the 
factories. He swung the wheel, felt the rudder bite, tentative at 
first, then more solid as the propellers came up to speed, and 
eased open the throttle. The john-boat slowed even as the stern, 
the steering well, slipped into the wall of shadow. He felt the 
sudden chill on his shoulders, was blinded, looking out into the 
light, and then the propellers hit the speed that counteracted the 
current. The boat surged back into the sunlight, the water churned 
to foam in its wake. On the walkway, the stranger was shivering 
even in the sunlight, stamping his feet to let the worst of the 
water run off before he pulled on his clothes. Damian Chrestil 
wondered again, briefly, precisely who he was, and opened the 
throttle further, letting the pulse of the engine reverberate 
between the factory walls. 
It was good to be back on the canals again, if only for a 
few hours, and he gave himself up to the pulse of the steering bar 
and the kick of the deck beneath his feet. You never really lost 
the skill, once learned; would always be able to run a john-boat, 
but it was good to feel the old ease returning. He grinned, and 
gave his full attention to the delicate job of bringing the boat 
out of the alley and into the feeder canal that led down to the 
Factory Lane and the Inland Water. There wasn't much traffic yet, 
none of the swarming mob of gondas that would fill the lane and 
the service canals in an hour or so, carrying midrank workers to 
their supervisory jobs. The water buses that carried the ordinary 
workers to the assembly lines had been and gone, were tied up in 
the parking pools along the edge of Dry Cut to wait for the 
evening shift change. He reversed the propellers, cutting speed, 
and slipped the john-boat into the buoyed channel, bringing it 
neatly into line behind a barge piled high with shell scrap. 

 A light was blinking amber in the center of the control 
panel, had been for a few minutes, since before he left the feeder 
canal. He eyed it irritably, but knew he could not ignore it any 
longer. "Check-in," he said, and the screen lit, the compressed inhouse 
iconage skittering into place in the tiny display. He 
scanned it quickly, still with half an eye on the traffic in the 
channel, saw nothing that required his instant attention. He was 
about to switch off when the string of messages vanished, and a 
second message replaced them: _Jafiera Roscha received third 
endangerment citation; please instruct_. 
Damian Chrestil stared at the message for a long moment, 
all his attention focused on the tiny characters, and had to 
swerve sharply to avoid a channel buoy. He knew Roscha, all right: 
one of C/B Cie.'s better john-boat drivers, competent, aggressive, 
not one to ask awkward questions when she had a job to do. She was 
also what the canalli politely called accident-prone, except that 
she usually caused the accidents. He shook his head, said to the 
speaker mounted just below the screen, "Check in, direct patch to 
the wharfinger. Authorization: Damian Chrestil." 
There was a moment of silence as the system hunted for an 
unused uplink, the hissing static barely audible over the engine 
and the rush of water along the hull, and then the day dispatcher 
said, "I'm sorry, Na Damian, but Na Rosaurin's on another line. 
Can I give her a message, or will you hold?" 
"Give her a message," Damian said. "Tell her to find Roscha 
and bring her in. I want to talk to her. And get me a copy of this 
endangerment complaint." 
"Absolutely, Na Damian." The dispatcher's sharp voice did 
not change, but Damian could imagine the lifted eyebrows. "I'll 
pass those messages to Na Rosaurin, and put out a call for 
Roscha." 
"Thanks, Moreo," Damian said, and added, to the system, 
"Close down." 
The system chimed obediently, and a string of icons 
flickered across the screen, their transit too fast to be read. 
Damian glared at the now-empty screen for a moment longer, then 
made himself concentrate on the increasing traffic as he came up 
on the buoy that marked the turn onto the Inland Water. He would 
deal with Roscha later. 
The Water, the massive deep-water channel that bisected 

Burning Bright, was as crowded as ever. Enormous cargo barges 
wallowed along in the main channel, warned away from the faster, 
lighter john-boat traffic by lines of bright-orange buoys. Dozens 
of tiny, brightly painted gondas flashed in and out of the double 
channels, day lights glittering from their upturned tails. Damian 
swore at the first to cross his path, matching his words to the 
jolting rhythm of the swells, and felt the john-boat kick as it 
crossed the gonda's wake. He lifted his fist at the gonda driver, 
and got a flip of the hand in return. He swore again, and swung 
into the lane behind a seiner, its nets drawn up like skirts 
around the double boom. It wallowed against the heavy chop -- 
Storm was only two days away, and the winds had already shifted, 
were driving against the current, setting up an unusual swell. The 
seiner's holds were obviously full: on its way back from the 
sequensa dredging grounds off the Water's Homestead Island 
entrance, Damian guessed, and throttled back still further to 
clear its heavy wake. It was likely to be the last cargo they'd 
see for a few weeks, until Storm was past. 
Even at the slower pace, it didn't take long to come 
opposite the mouth of the Straight River, and he slowed again to 
thread his way sedately through the bevy of smaller craft that 
swarmed around the entrance. The main wharfs loomed beyond that, 
massive structures filling in the bend in the bank between the 
Straight and the channel that led to the Junction Pool and the 
warehouse districts beyond. He felt a distinct pang of regret as 
he edged the john-boat into the channel that led to his own docks - 
- _if not for business, and if not for Roscha in particular, he 
could have spent more of the day on the Water_ -- and transformed 
it instantly into anger. It was time Roscha learned her lesson: 
that was all. He edged the john-boat between the barges tied up at 
MADCo.'s end-of-dock terminal, and let himself drift down easily, 
nudging the boat along with short bursts of power, to fetch up 
against the worn padding almost directly beneath C/B Cie.'s 
antique ship poised against a flaring sun. A familiar face looked 
down at him -- Talaina Rosaurin, one of the wharfingers -- and a 
couple of dockers ran to catch the lines. 
"Morning, Na Damian. I've the day's plot set up, and 
Roscha's on her way in," Rosaurin said. 
Damian nodded in acknowledgment, and leaned sideways to 
catch the webbing that covered the fenders. He held the john-boat 

steady with one hand and tossed the stern rope up onto the dock. 
The nearest docker caught it, began automatically looping it 
around the nearest bollard. "Thanks, Rosaurin. Finish the tie-up, 
will you?" 
It was not a request. The wharfinger nodded, and dropped 
onto the bow. 
"I'll take a look at the plot as soon as I've seen Roscha," 
Damian went on, and swung himself easily up onto the dock. "Send 
her in as soon as she gets here." 
"Right, Na Damian," Rosaurin said, but Damian was already 
walking away. 
His office was in a corner of the main warehouse, insulated 
from the noise and smell of the moving cargoes by a shell of 
quilted foam-board, and well away from the wharfingers' station at 
the end of the pier. He threaded his way past the gang of dockers 
busy at the cranes unloading the barge that had brought the drop 
capsules in from the Zone, and glanced sharply into the open cargo 
space. He was moderately pleased to see that only two capsules 
remained to be brought onto the dock, and made his way past a 
whining carrier into the shadows of the warehouse. A pair of 
factors looked up at his entrance, and the taller of the two 
touched his forehead and came to intercept him, leaving the other 
to preside over the newly opened drop capsule. 
"I'm sorry, Na Damian, but there's some minor spoilage in 
this shipment." 
"How lovely." Damian bit back the rest of his response, 
said instead, "Finish checking it and give me a report. Is it TMN 
again?" 
The factor nodded. "I'm afraid so." 
"I need to talk to them," Damian said, and continued on 
toward the office. The door opened to his touch, reading his 
palmprint on the latch, and admitted him to the narrow lobby, 
empty except for the secretary pillar that guarded the inner 
doorway. The sphere that balanced on the truncated point of its 
slender pyramid glowed pale blue, tinged with green at the edges; 
threads of darker blue danced in its center, shaping a series of 
brief messages. At least two of the code-strings signaled longer 
messages backed up in the system -- probably from his siblings, if 
they were sent here -- but he stepped past the pillar into the 
inner office. 

 Behind him, the secretary said, in its cultured artificial 
voice, "Na Damian, you have messages waiting." 
"Oh, shut up," Damian Chrestil said, and closed the door 
behind him. 
He kept clean clothes in storage here, and there was a 
small but comfortable bath suite tucked into one corner of the 
space. He showered and shaved, washing away salt and sweat and 
with it the last holiday feeling of freedom, took two hangover 
capsules, and dressed quickly in the shirt and trousers and short 
jacket that he found in the storage cell. He spent a little extra 
time coaxing his thick mane of hair into a kind of careful 
disorder; he was vain about his hair, thick and naturally goldstreaked 
brown, and the fact that it looked good long did 
something to make up for the way the fashionable long coats sat 
lumpishly on his thin body. Willowy was good, scrawny was not, and 
he was forced to dress accordingly. 
He returned to the inner office, and settled himself at the 
apex of the chevron-shaped desk. The smaller secretary globe -- 
really just an extension of the larger machine in the lobby -- 
chirped softly at him, and he swung to face it. 
"Well?" 
"You have mail in your urgent file." 
"Well, isn't that pleasant," Damian said. "How many items?" 
"Two." 
"Print them." Damian Chrestil ran his hand over the 
shadowscreen to light the various displays set on and in the 
desktop, then leaned back in his chair as the tiny mail printer 
whirred to life. It buzzed twice, chuckled briefly to itself, and 
spat a sheet of paper with an all-too-familiar pattern. Damian 
took it, scowling down at the dark-blue border marks of a formal 
Lockwarden complaint sheet, and scanned the sharp printing. 
Roscha, it seemed, had excelled herself -- or had she? He read the 
complaint a second time, more carefully, then set the sheet aside, 
frowning. The complainant's name was unfamiliar, but he was a 
journeyman member of the Merchant Investors' Syndicate, and the 
MIS was particularly hostile to C/B Cie. It would be nice to know 
just what, or even who, had persuaded the man to file a formal 
complaint: the threat to throw him off the cliff face was not, on 
balance, a likely cause, at least not in a bungee-gar bar like the 
Last Drop. He fingered the shadowscreen again, putting the 

complainant's name into a basic inquiry program, and glanced at 
another screen, this one filled with the running reports from the 
factors working on the cargo they'd collected the night before. 
Roscha would have to learn better, however; for a start, she could 
pay her own fines. 
"Na Damian," the secretary said. "Jafiera Roscha is here." 
Damian paused, flicked a spot on the shadowscreen to mute 
the various displays. "Send her in." 
The door opened almost at once, and a woman stood for an 
instant outlined against the lobby's buttery light. She was tall, 
and exquisitely built, her waist narrow between perfectly 
proportioned breasts and hips. Snug trousers and a dock-worker's 
singlet only emphasized that perfection; the light jacket that 
trailed from one hand was a shade of indigo that matched her eyes. 
Damian had forgotten -- he always forgot, remembered again each 
time he saw her -- just how striking she was, and despite the 
previous night felt a stirring of interest in his groin. Roscha 
came forward into the light, the corners of her wide mouth drawn 
down in an attempt neither to smile nor frown, and Damian slid the 
complaint across the desktop at her. 
"What the hell was this?" 
Roscha took it warily, studied the printed message, her 
eyes flicking back and forth between the paper and the other's 
face. Somehow, despite the hours she spent on the Water, she had 
kept her skin dazzlingly fair, the color of coffee cream; her red 
hair flamed against her shoulders, held out of her eyes by a strip 
of black ribbon. More black bands -- braided ribbons or strips of 
leather -- circled each wrist, and Damian recalled himself sternly 
to the business at hand. 
Roscha set the paper carefully back on the edge of the 
desk. "I guess I had too much to drink last night." 
"I guess you should be more careful where you drink," 
Damian answered. 
Roscha shrugged, looking rather sullen. "There were a bunch 
of us, celebrating, and enough of us making noise. I don't know 
why they picked on me." 
"Just accident-prone, I guess," Damian said. 
Roscha looked away, not quickly enough to hide the flash of 
anger. "I just got carried away. I'm sorry." 
"I don't pay my people to get carried away," Damian 

Chrestil said. "I pay you to do your job, and do what I tell you. 
Not to go around collecting complaint sheets." He glanced down at 
the slip of paper again. "Do you even know this man?" 
Roscha looked at the intricately patterned carpet, visibly 
mastering her temper. "By sight, mostly, and I know the name -- 
he's in the Game, I've seen him playing on the nets. I did know he 
works for the MIS." 
"Do you know what he does for them?" 
"Works for one of the factors, I think," Roscha answered. 
"Computer jockey." 
"Ah." 
In spite of his best efforts, there was enough satisfaction 
in Damian's voice that the wary look in Roscha's eyes faded to 
something more like curiosity. Damian glared at her, and she met 
his stare with a stony face. 
"They give you a choice," he said, after a moment. "Pay the 
fine, a hundred and fifty _real_, or take it to court. You'll 
pay." 
There was another little silence, Roscha's too-large mouth 
thinning slightly, and then she said, without inflection, "I don't 
have that much in my account." 
Damian looked at her for a long moment, and she returned 
the stare unflinching. A little color might have touched her wide 
cheekbones, but it was hard to tell. "All right," he said, and ran 
his hand over the shadowscreen. The second printer, the one loaded 
with draft forms, chirred softly under the desktop, and spat a 
slip of soft paper. "Here, give this to Rosaurin, she'll give you 
a voucher -- and I'll stop you twenty-five _real_ a paycheck to 
cover it. Agreed?" 
"Agreed." Roscha still looked grim, but the tight set of 
her mouth eased a little. 
Damian nodded, and slid the draft across the desktop toward 
her. Roscha took it, pocketed it without looking at the faint 
printing. "Right, then," Damian said, and the woman turned away, 
accepting that dismissal. Even before the door had closed behind 
her, Damian reached for the shadowscreen, raising the priority of 
his inquiry about the MIS complainant. A member of the Merchant 
Investors, even a low-ranking one, who was also a computer jockey 
and who was around his warehouses often enough for Roscha to 
recognize him by sight, was a man who would bear watching. It just 

might explain how local Customs had come to question a shipment of 
his last month. On the whole, he thought, it was worth paying 
Roscha's fine -- he might not even bother taking all of it out of 
her check. 
He sighed then, and turned his attention back to the 
waiting messages. As he'd expected, his eldest sibling, 
Altagracian, the Chrestil-Brisch Pensionary, was at the top of the 
list. Damian scanned the curt message -- _call at once_ -- but 
dumped it into a holding file without answering. Chrestillio 
always overreacted; he could wait a little longer. 
The secretary chimed again, and said, "There is an incoming 
message under your private and urgent code. Do you wish to 
accept?" 
Damian frowned, but none of his siblings had that set of 
numbers. "Yes. Put it on the main board." 
The central panel of the unimpressive triptych on the far 
wall -- _I should commission something better_, he thought, not 
for the first time -- slid apart to reveal the main screen, and a 
moment later the connect codes streamed across the black glass. 
The Visiting Speaker Kuguee ji-Imbaoa looked out at him, heavy 
body framed by the curtains of an enormous bed. 
_Ambassador Chauvelin does well for himself_, Damian 
thought, and hid a grin. He said aloud, "Good morning, Na Speaker. 
I trust everything's well with you." 
"Na Damian." The Visiting Speaker was making an effort to 
be polite, unusual for him. Damian Chrestil waited warily. 
"You had some concerns about one of the ambassador's 
agents," ji-Imbaoa said abruptly, and Damian glanced involuntarily 
at the security telltales embedded in the desktop. 
"Na Speaker, our conversation was rather more secure -- " 
"I have taken precautions," ji-Imbaoa interrupted. "My end 
of this transmission is safe." 
The hissing accent made the words even more of a rebuke, 
and Damian frowned, looking again at the security readout. "So is 
mine, but it's not a chance I like taking." 
"You had been concerned about this agent, this Ransome," ji- 
Imbaoa went on, and Damian resigned himself. 
"Yes. I was and am." _And I've been trying my damnedest to 
get him back into the Game and off the main nets. The bastard 
spends too much time on the nets, he's bound to see what I've done 

to move the lachesi_ -- 
"I have told Chauvelin that you want Ransome back in the 
Game," ji-Imbaoa went on, "and that I believe Ransome should do 
what you want -- so that we can find out what you are up to, of 
course." 
"Christ." Damian controlled himself with an effort, said 
only, "Don't you think that's a little obvious, Na Speaker?" _And 
what if he actually does find out?_ 
"I rely on your bait to be good enough." Ji-Imbaoa 
inspected his fingerclaws, a smug and satisfied gesture. 
"As I relied on you to get him off the nets," Damian 
snapped. "Na Speaker, if you want this cargo that you've invested 
so heavily in to get where it's supposed to be going, Illario 
Ransome has to be distracted." 
"I do not understand why he is so important." Ji-Imbaoa sat 
down abruptly on the bed, flicked claws in impatient dismissal. 
_Because he's the best netwalker I've ever seen. And he 
plays politics_. Damian said aloud, keeping a tight rein on his 
temper, "Illario Ransome is brilliant on the nets. He is also an 
imagist, he taps all the nets, all of them, he goes trawling for 
images for his story eggs, and he remembers everything. He's the 
only person who would be at the right place at the right time to 
spot the paper trail, and the only one who has enough outside 
information to put the pieces together. Does that make it clear?" 
There was a little silence, and then ji-Imbaoa looked away. 
"Still, you should have what you want. He should be distracted, 
investigating your Game." 
"I hope so." Damian paused, considering. It might work, at 
that, might give him the time he needed to -- adjust -- the 
customs nets to accept his new cargo. If Ransome did as he was 
told, of course, and if Cella's scenarios were enough to catch his 
eye ... But Storm was coming, too, and the first few days of 
Carnival were celebrated on the nets, as well as on the streets. 
The two things together might be enough to let him get away with 
it. "Have you gotten the destination codes?" 
"I am still waiting," ji-Imbaoa said. "I will pass them on 
to you as soon as I have them, you need not worry." 
_I always worry_, Damian thought, but said, "All right. The 
sooner the better, though, Na Speaker, because without them I 
can't get this cargo into Hsaioi-An." He paused, seeing annoyance 

in the sudden clenching of ji-Imbaoa's hands, made himself add, 
"Thanks for dealing with Ransome, though." 
Ji-Imbaoa's hands relaxed. "We are in this together, Na 
Chrestil. Now, I have had an active night, and wish to sleep." 
"Sleep well, then," Damian answered, and cut the 
connection. He leaned back in his chair, ran his hand across the 
shadowscreen to close down the link. The triptych slid slowly back 
into place over the now-empty screen, and he stared at it for a 
moment. _I wonder what it would cost me to commission Ransome to 
do a piece to replace it?_ he wondered, and grinned at the 
thought. _It might keep him busy for a while, and he'd be furious: 
it's an insultingly minor job. Hell, it might be worth asking just 
to see the look on his face_. He fiddled with the shadowscreen, 
filing the thought for later consideration, and touched another 
icon to bring up the rest of his mail. The secretary, programmed 
to be helpful, appended a to-do list as well. Damian considered it 
for a moment, and succumbed to temptation. Rosaurin wanted him to 
approve the next week's shipping plot, and that was much more fun 
than the painstaking records-melding that needed to be done. He 
pushed himself away from his desk and out the door before he could 
change his mind. 
-------- 
*Day 30* 
_High Spring: Ransome's Loft,_ 
_Old Coast Road, Newfields,_ 
_Above Junction Pool_ 
Ransome half sat, half lay in the chair that conformed 
itself to his thin body, barely aware of the shifting cushions 
that held him exactly where he wanted to be. Images filled the air 
around him, ghostly yet substantial-seeming, all but blocking out 
the cityscape spread out below the loft windows. The windows 
dimmed again, cutting out the sunlight -- they had been dimming 
steadily since sunrise, following the house programming -- but 
Ransome did not notice, lost in the flickering narrowcasts that 
held and surrounded him. The implants set into the bones at the 
outer edges of his eye sockets caught and amplified the 
conflicting signals; his wire gloves, thin and flexible and warm 
as blood, let him sculpt the space around him, defining each 
unreal volume according to his whim. The offerings of half a dozen 
different narrownets danced in the air around him: Gamers to his 

left, four different sessions played out in as many different 
venues, three old, pretaped, the fourth a late-night session that 
had dragged on into the morning. Faces and streets and shadows, 
culled illegally from the Lockwardens' security systems, wove in 
and through the other images, overlaying them with a bizarre 
patchwork of morning light and shade. The matching audio murmured 
on a dozen channels from the speakers at the base of the room's 
walls, backing the images with the solidity of sound. His 
attention was fixed on a single image, floating overhead, at the 
apex of the cone of light and noise: flickering market glyphs from 
the port computers spun in delicate linkage, legitimate public 
numbers and private taps combined into a single database, strings 
of numbers combined into a dazzling three-dimensional shape that 
had a weird organic beauty all its own. 
He let the shapes wash over and around him, put out his 
hand to draw in another narrowcast band. The air glowed briefly 
amber, control icons sparking in the system space that he had 
placed within easy reach, and then cleared again. A woman's face 
appeared, a mask of white paint and strong black lines and the 
vivid red of her mouth; he watched for a moment and pushed it 
away, to one side of the dancing market numbers. For a brief 
instant, his hand seemed to sink into the image, marring its edge, 
and then it moved, obedient to his touch. He reached again into 
the control space, found the symbols and the tool he wanted, and a 
second image, identical to the delicate, complex shape that was 
the graphic representation of the elaborate transformational 
database overhead, appeared in the air in front of him. He chose 
another tool, the wires of his gloves growing faintly warmer 
around his hands in confirmation of the choice, and then reached 
for the shape. He wrapped his hands around it, squeezed gently, 
compressing it, until it hung in a space no more than a dozen 
centimeters in diameter. Some of the delicacy had vanished in the 
compression, become little more than texture. He frowned, and 
reached for a second tool, used its all-but-invisible point to pry 
the numbers apart, untangling the channels, until the various 
strands were distinct again. 
He lay back against the shifting cushions, studying the 
image, set it slowly rotating in front of him. The shape derived 
from those twining numbers would be the main focus of one of his 
story eggs, a commission for a Syndic of the Merchant Investors, a 

woman who lived and died by the movements of the trade that 
created the numbers coiling in the air in front of him. He reached 
for the face that hung in the air beside it, brought it down, 
until the strands of numbers slowly writhed behind the mask, like 
DNA beneath the skin. It was interesting, but not, he thought, 
what was needed now; it detracted from the bizarre beauty of the 
shifting numbers. He banished the face with a wave of his hand, 
leaving only the intertwining numbers, bronze and green and all 
the shades of metal, floating in unreal space. He smiled, 
contemplating it, and reached into the control space to preserve 
the image in one of the dataspheres waiting linked to the main 
consoles. The sphere would store both the algorithm that 
transformed the numbers to this graphic and the formulae for the 
connections to the financial nets -- even the private ones, one of 
which had been donated by the client -- that provided the raw 
data. All that remained was to set the image into a proper casing, 
and that was already waiting, ready on the shelf: a smooth, pale 
green egg the color of old, well-weathered copper, with streaks 
and spills of stronger green, and the ghost of the metal showing 
through. He smiled, savoring the satisfaction of a job well done, 
and closed the particular volume. 
A voice that had been speaking from one of the floormounted 
receivers for some time now, he realized belatedly, was 
calling his name. 
" -- Ransome, I know you're there. I can see your taps." 
There was a brief pause, and then, reluctantly, "It's important, IJay." 
Ransome sighed, suddenly aware that it was morning and that 
he had been awake most of the night, and that it was Chauvelin 
himself who was making this connection, not one of the apparently 
numberless ambassadorial servants. He muted the remaining images 
with a wave of his hand, and reached into control space to connect 
himself with the communications channel. "I'm here." 
"About time." 
The familiar face, elegant and worn and lined beneath the 
brown hair just going cloudy with grey, bloomed in the air above 
him. Ransome winced, and moved it to a less dominating position. 
"I was working," he said, and winced again at the defensive note 
in his voice. "What is it?" 
Chauvelin smiled slightly, sourly, a faint quirk of one 

corner of his long mouth. "I need to talk to you -- not on the 
nets. The Visiting Speaker has come up with some interesting 
information you and I need to discuss." 
"Fuck the Visiting Speaker," Ransome said, and Chauvelin's 
smile widened into something approaching humor. 
"A privilege not likely to be granted." Chauvelin's smile 
vanished as quickly as it had appeared. "Tell me something, why 
would Cella Minter want you back in the Game?" 
Ransome blinked, wondering where this question had come 
from, and what it really meant. Cella he knew, both as Damian 
Chrestil's mistress and as an accomplished Gamer, but only from a 
distance. "I've no idea," he said, and then, because it was 
usually best to tell Chauvelin the truth, "I didn't know she 
wanted me back Gaming." 
"So ji-Imbaoa says," Chauvelin said, and held up a hand, 
forestalling any answer from the other. Ransome grinned, and let 
him continue. "And so it looks to me, too, looking at the nets. I 
tied in to some of the club gossip boards. There's a lot of talk 
about Ambidexter, and usually Cella hinting in the background that 
he ought to come back to show people how his templates are 
supposed to be played." 
Ransome shrugged, felt his face go wooden. "Ambidexter's 
dead -- " 
In spite of himself, the words came out bitter, and it was 
the bitterness that Chauvelin answered. "You're not dead yet. I 
don't have time for self-pity, I-Jay, I need your help." 
Ransome lifted both eyebrows, a deliberate imitation of 
Chauvelin's gesture. "You must be desperate." He paused then, 
shook his head, shaking away the bad temper that was becoming a 
habit with him. "I'm sorry. I don't know why Cella would want me 
on the Game," he said again. "Unless it's something Damian 
Chrestil wants?" 
"I'd say that was highly likely," Chauvelin murmured. 
"Which raises the question of why he would want it. And that is 
something I don't want to discuss on the nets." 
Ransome made another face, though he had to admit the 
wisdom of it. He himself was not the only netwalker on Burning 
Bright, or the only imagist who tapped unlikely lines looking for 
good sources. "I suppose you'll want me to come to you." 
"Yes." Chauvelin's tone blended forbearance and the 

resignation of an adult dealing with a child. "I think that would 
be best." 
Ransome laughed, gestured apology, miming the hsai gesture 
that linked wrist spurs. The scars where his implanted spurs had 
been removed touched briefly, an odd, unpleasant feeling; he 
jerked his hands apart without finishing the movement. Chauvelin 
said nothing, did not move at all, as though nothing had happened, 
and Ransome said, "I'll be there in an hour." He knew he sounded 
curt, made himself add, by way of further apology, "It'll take me 
a while to pull myself together. I was up all night working on a 
commission." 
Chauvelin nodded. "May I see?" 
"It's a private commission," Ransome said, with genuine 
regret -- Chauvelin was one of the very few whose opinions 
mattered to him -- then grinned suddenly. "But I've done something 
for you, I'll show you when I get there." 
"That will be the first good thing that's happened all 
day," Chauvelin said. He gave a twisted smile, as though he 
regretted the admission, and said, in an entirely different voice, 
"In an hour, then." He cut the connection before Ransome could 
respond. 
Ransome sighed, staring at the still-busy images without 
really seeing them, then brought his chair upright. The net taps 
whirled around him, readjusting themselves to his position, but he 
waved them away, then closed both fists to shut down the system. 
Glyphs and code-strings flickered past, too fast to be understood 
at more than the subliminal level, and then the pictures vanished. 
Ransome sighed again, stretching, feeling the long night's work 
claw at his back, the old familiar ache in the bones and tendons 
of his hands. He peeled off the tight gloves, wincing a little, 
and set them aside. His chest was tight, catching in his ribs; he 
could hear the fluids at the base of his lungs, a harsh rasp that 
cut each breath too short for comfort. He reached instinctively 
for the cylinder of Mist, flipping it backwards to unfold the 
facemask, but stopped abruptly. The red light glowed under the 
trigger button, warning him that he had taken a dose within the 
last two hours. He stared at it for a second, his mind forming a 
curse to override the fear, then made himself set it aside. 
"Input," he said aloud. "Housekeeper systems." The words 
caught in his chest, the lack of air catching him by surprise. He 

coughed, hard, the spasm driving painfully deep. His mouth filled 
with phlegm that tasted like bitter copper; he spat it into a 
sheet of tissue, and saw the familiar thick white laced with a 
froth of red. That was answer enough. "Cancel," he whispered, 
voice harsh and strange to his own ears, but the room responded 
calmly. 
"Input canceled." 
Ransome scowled, hating the sickness, hating the fact that 
his systems remembered that choked voice as his own, and pushed 
himself up out of the chair. The injector lay on the shelf where 
he kept the story eggs' shells. He went to get it, feeling the toofamiliar 
giddiness, laid the cold tip against the veins of his 
neck as he had been taught, where the skin was more or less 
permanently reddened from the injections, and pressed the trigger. 
The machine stung once, painfully, and he imagined he could feel 
the drug spreading like cold fire under his skin. The doctors 
swore it was a hallucination, a common side effect. It felt real 
enough, and he stood for a long moment, waiting, eyes fixed on 
nothing, as the chill spread through his chest and down his right 
arm, and the pain eased and his breath came easier, the rattling 
in his lungs fading slightly. It had been three years since the 
maintenance drugs, the ones that had kept the white-sickness at 
bay, had failed him, as he had known they would: five to seven 
years, he could expect the injections to work, and then he was 
dead. 
Ransome stuffed the injector into his pocket, made himself 
shower and shave and find a clean shirt and jerkin, going through 
the motions until the fear and anger had retreated again. Whitesickness 
was common in hsai space, a common killer of jerichohumans; 
it was also incurable, though onset and death could be 
delayed for decades with the right drugs. It was just his bad luck 
to have shared a cell with a carrier, back on Jericho. _My mistake 
to have been on Jericho at all, to have worked for the Chrestil- 
Brisch in the first place_... He shook the thought away, and 
glanced for a final time in his mirror. He was looking haggard -- 
_too little sleep; nothing new_ -- but the hectic flush from the 
injection still burned on his cheeks, two ugly, fake-looking spots 
of red. The black jerkin and trousers and the loose white shirt 
had been meant to complement his usual bone-white pallor. He 
suppressed the instinct to rub his face, to scrub the red away, 

and reached instead for the handful of carved stones waiting on 
his workbench. He slipped those into his pocket, and left the 
loft, double-sealing the palmprint lock behind him out of habit. 
His flat was one of a dozen in a converted warehouse, 
purchased cheap by one of the artists' cooperatives now that most 
cargoes moved through the new Junction Pool cargo lifts rather 
than the long way around, from the ramps at Dry Cut along the Old 
Coast Road that skimmed the cliff edge. The old warehouse 
districts were no longer convenient, or profitable; the buildings 
that had not been converted to other uses -- ght manufacture, 
particularly, and in this district the embroiderers' shops that 
made the embellished fabrics that were Burning Bright's primary 
export product -- stood empty, their windows cracked, frames 
emptied by last year's Storm. The lift was occupied, as usual -- 
there were enough heavy-materials workers in the building to 
ensure that the single lift was always in use or out of order -- 
and Ransome made his way down the side stairs. It had been a fire 
access once, running along the outside of the building, and the 
outer wall was pierced at intervals by narrow panels of wire mesh. 
The air that flowed in was soft and heavy with the salt smell of 
the canals, and warm with the promise of Storm. There were more 
signs of approaching Storm in the corners of the stair, or at 
least of the Carnival that took up most of the two-week period: a 
raki bottle stood empty on each landing, and the lowest level, 
where the walls were solid to prevent unauthorized access, stank 
of urine. Ransome made a face, and stepped carefully over the 
puddles to unlock the gate. 
The alleyway was crowded with denki-bikes and two- and 
three-wheeled velocks, the latter chained to anything substantial 
enough to defeat a standard wirecutter, the denki-bikes clustered 
around the charging bollards, a blue haze showing where the 
security fields intersected. Ransome reached cautiously into the 
tangle of cables and locks to free his own machine, and winced as 
the fizzing security stung his fingers. Then he backed the bike 
out of the tangle -- for once without setting off someone else's 
security system -- checked the power reserve, and climbed aboard. 
The machine was woefully underpowered, for his taste, but it was 
serviceable, and better than the tourist-trolleys. He edged the 
throttle forward -- the bike whined and shivered -- and let it 
carry him sedately into the traffic stream. 

 He took the short road to the Ghetto where Chauvelin lived 
with most of the rest of Burning Bright's noncitizen residents, 
skirting the cliff edge above the delivery basins of Junction 
Pool, then cutting straight through the industrial zone past the 
spaceport at Newfields. A column of smoke and steam hung in the 
distance, the winds slowly bending and fraying it to nothing: 
someone was saving money on launch costs, flying chemical rockets. 
The pilots who ran the orbital shuttle would be cursing, Ransome 
thought, and smiled. 
The ambassadorial residence stood on one of the highest 
points in the Ghetto -- on all of the Landing Isle, the largest 
piece of the original landmass: the hsai liked heights, and most 
of Burning Bright's inhabitants didn't care. The household staff 
had been told to expect him. Ransome paused at the gate only long 
enough to identify himself -- most of Chauvelin's household knew 
him by sight, after nearly fifteen years in the ambassador's 
service -- and then a pair of hsai servants came out of the main 
house to meet him. The male took the denki-bike, and the hsaii -- 
Chauvelin's steward Iameis je-Sou'tsian, Ransome realized with 
some surprise -- bowed politely. 
"Sia Chauvelin has asked me to bring you directly to the 
garden," she said, in tradetalk, and Ransome answered in low mianhsai. 
"I'm honored by the courtesy." _And very surprised by it_, 
he added silently. _What the hells is going on, to make me rate 
this treatment?_ He followed without question, however -- he knew 
better than to ask that question -- and je-Sou'tsian brought him 
through the sudden cool of a service passageway, bypassing the 
main house, and led him out as suddenly onto a path that ran 
between tall walls of flowering hedge. Ransome blinked, 
momentarily confused, then oriented himself. This was the maze, a 
part of the garden derived from hsai tradition, and one that 
Chauvelin rarely used. Je-Sou'tsian followed the turns without 
hesitation, however -- _maybe it is true_, Ransome thought, _that 
there really is only one pattern in use on all the worlds of 
Hsaioi-An_ -- and let them out through a red-lacquered gate onto 
the carefully landscaped lawn of the upper terrace. Chauvelin was 
waiting a few meters away, seated comfortably in the shade of a 
bellflower tree, a luncheon tray beside him and a data manager 
resting in his lap. 

 "Na Ransome is here," je-Sou'tsian said, and the ambassador 
looked up with an abstracted smile. 
"Ransome. Join me, why don't you?" To je-Sou'tsian, he 
added, "Thank you. That'll be all." 
"Yes, sia," the steward answered, bowing, and backed away. 
Ransome made his way down the terraced slope, stepping 
carefully around the elaborately casual plantings. He was very 
aware of the ambassador's residence looming behind him, the 
sunlight polishing the white-stone walls and glinting off the long 
windows. It felt unpleasantly as though someone were watching him, 
and he seated himself deliberately on the wall that overlooked the 
lower terrace. Chauvelin glanced up at him, gave a quick smile, 
and Ransome smiled rather wryly in return. If it had been the 
cliff wall, overlooking the hundred-meter drop to the Old City, he 
would never in a thousand years have settled himself there, 
especially with Chauvelin sitting less than two meters from him, 
and they both knew it. 
"So good of you to come," Chauvelin said, with only the 
lightest note of irony. 
Ransome let his smile widen. "I was working," he said. 
"What is this about Cella, and the Game?" 
"That's the very question I'd like you to answer," 
Chauvelin said. 
Ransome spread his hands -- a human gesture, not hsai, and 
deliberately so. "I don't know. I've been out of the Game for 
three years, I barely pay attention to the Game nets except when 
I'm trolling for images. I don't know what Cella wants -- except 
that if she wants it, Damian Chrestil probably wants it, too." 
Chauvelin nodded slightly, though Ransome could not be sure 
if the movement was a response to his words or to something on his 
screen. "I need to know why. Ji-Imbaoa came in this morning -- " 
"Sober?" Ransome murmured, with just the right note of 
shock, and allowed himself a brief smile when the word surprised a 
laugh from Chauvelin. 
"Mostly so. At any rate, he came to me complaining that 
Damian Chrestil is interested in you, via Cella -- he knows you as 
my agent, so don't ask -- and demanding to know why. When I 
checked him out, I found the same thing: lots of agitation to get 
you back into the Game, and usually Cella's at the back of it. I 
want to know what's going on." 

 "I told you," Ransome began, and Chauvelin nodded. 
"I know you've been working. A commission for Syndic 
Leonerdes, and that big installation for the governor. But I need 
to know what's going on, I-Jay. Ji-Imbaoa -- well, I won't bore 
you with hsai politics." 
"Bore me," Ransome said. 
Chauvelin grinned, sobered instantly. "Suffice it to say 
that ji-Imbaoa has more influence than he should, and he wants 
this done. And that's the other thing I want to find out: why the 
hell should he be so worried about Damian Chrestil?" 
Ransome shrugged one shoulder. "Maybe they had a bar fight, 
their tastes seem similar enough. Though I don't think Damian 
Chrestil drinks quite so much." 
"Let me put it this way," Chauvelin said, and his voice was 
suddenly devoid of all expression. "Ji-Imbaoa is worried enough to 
remind me that, since I made you _min-hao_, you could still face 
charges in Hsaioi-An, for lese majesty." 
"Lesser treason," Ransome murmured, through lips grown 
suddenly stiff and unresponsive, "but still treason." 
"Just so." 
They sat in silence for a long moment, the only sounds the 
faint whistle of the seabirds and the whine of a denki-bike 
passing in the street. Ransome slipped his hand into his pocket, 
found the handful of carved stones he had collected, turned them 
over one by one. He had been glad to be tried as _houta_ back on 
Jericho; insults up the social scale, from person to person or 
from _min-hao_ to a person, could be construed as a kind of 
treason, and the sentences for that were more severe than they 
were for theft. Insults by _houta_, on the other hand, were "no 
more than the barking of dogs," or so the hsaii judge had said 
through the human translator, and therefore didn't count against 
him. Unfortunately, the hsai had a very long memory for insults. 
He slipped one of the stones out of his pocket, fingering 
the delicate features without really looking at them. His eyes 
traveled instead beyond the lower terrace, beyond the Straight 
River, where he thought he could see the bow of the Crooked River, 
dividing the Old City from the Five Points District. It was a 
trick of the light, he knew that, of the hazy sunlight and the 
water-heavy air, that turned all distances vague and soft-edged, 
drowned in a blue-grey haze like a watercolor wash. Even so, his 

mind filled in the outlines, drew a second steely curve beyond the 
more solid line of the Straight. Five Points proper, the five 
projecting pieces of cliff edge where the descendants of the city 
founders lived, lay beyond that curve, invisible, tantalizing, and 
the third of the points belonged to the Chrestil-Brisch. He had 
been there once, years ago -- before Chauvelin, before Jericho, 
before he'd even thought of leaving Burning Bright, when he had 
still thought he could play certain games without penalty even 
though he'd been born poor canalli, child of a Syncretist 
Observant, playing games on equal terms with the second child of 
Chrestil-Brisch.... 
He put that thought aside. Cella Minter was nudging him 
back into the Game, and the hand behind her was Damian Chrestil's: 
that was what mattered now, that and whatever hsai politics 
Chauvelin was tangled in. Chauvelin had been adopted into the tzu 
Tsinra-an, and was relatively a modernist and a moderate even 
within the moderate faction that dominated the court. But where he 
stood in the greater conflict that lay behind the factional 
quarrel, Ransome had never been completely sure. Hsaioi-An wanted 
to control settled space -- the hsai needed to control settled 
space, because their culture could not admit that other species 
equalled their own; the whole elaborate fiction of adoptions and 
legal kin-species had been set up to allow the hsai to pretend 
that other beings were really a part of their own species. 
Chauvelin had embraced that fiction, heart and soul, or he 
wouldn't be here. 
But he had been careful, all the years Ransome had known 
him, never to say whether he supported the wider definition of 
kinship, one that would eliminate the concept of _houta_ and 
replace it with an acknowledgment of a basic kinship between all 
intelligent species, or the older, more conservative version. Most 
conscripts Ransome had known supported the old, narrow definition: 
why should others get for nothing what they had worked so hard to 
win? That sort of selfish self-aggrandizement wasn't Chauvelin's 
style -- but then, it was equally unlike Chauvelin to keep silent 
even about risky political beliefs. More likely, Chauvelin had 
thought of himself as hsaie for so long that it no longer occured 
to him to think of himself as involved in that debate. Chauvelin 
had made one thing very clear. If Ransome didn't serve Chauvelin's 
interests, Chauvelin would no longer be able to protect him. That 

knowledge had a sour taste, and he looked away, stared over his 
shoulder toward the shimmering towers of Newfields. Even at this 
distance, he heard a rumble like distant thunder, and squinted 
skyward in spite of knowing better, looking for the pinpoint light 
of an orbiter already long out of sight. He looked back, dazzled -- 
the sun was starting the decline over the highlands, turning the 
sky to a white haze -- and saw Chauvelin looking at him. 
"The sound of money," Ransome said, and deliberately turned 
his back on the port. Chauvelin lifted an eyebrow, visibly decided 
the comment did not deserve an answer, and returned his attention 
to the data manager that rested on his lap. The subject was 
clearly closed, or else, Ransome thought, even Chauvelin was a 
little ashamed of himself for this one. He watched Chauvelin work 
for a little longer, the long hands busy on the input strip, the 
grey-brown hair fading even more in the afternoon light, the 
slight, faintly quizzical hint of a frown as he studied something 
on the screen. Ransome did not like being ignored, did not like 
being ignored after being threatened, said, not quite at random, 
"Do you think it's wise to annoy Damian Chrestil?" 
"Why not?" Chauvelin's voice sounded bored, his eyes still 
on the screen in front of him, but Ransome got what he was looking 
for, the subtle shift of expression that meant the ambassador was 
listening closely. 
"He's not a fool," Ransome said. "Or a child. They say 
he'll be coopted to the Select next year." 
"Is that what they say?" Chauvelin did not move, but 
Ransome smiled to himself, hearing the slight change in tone. He 
had confirmed something that Chauvelin had suspected -- and a seat 
among the Select, the elite advisory council that handled much of 
Burning Bright's foreign policy, was the first step toward 
becoming governor. 
"Among other things." Ransome lowered his eyes to look at 
the carved head, pinching it between his fingers, glanced up 
through his lashes to watch Chauvelin's response. 
"Well, that's what I pay you for," Chauvelin said. "And for 
finding out what in all hells Damian Chrestil wants." He leaned 
back in his chair, stretching long legs in front of him, and 
touched the manager's screen. The machine shut itself down 
obediently, its chime muted in the heavy air. He was wearing a 
hsaie greatcoat over plain shirt and trousers, a sweep of unshaped 

river-green brocade that set off the weathered ivory of his skin. 
His hands were starting to betray his age. Ransome looked down at 
his own fingers, saw the same lines and shadows starting, tendons 
and bones starkly outlined under the roughened skin. Not that he 
was likely to see the end of the process: by the time he reached 
Chauvelin's age -- and there were not ten years between them -- he 
was likely to be dead. 
"Among other things," he said again, putting aside the 
familiar recognition, and tilted his head toward the terrace, 
toward the hardscaping he himself had designed. Chauvelin nodded, 
acknowledging the point, and by coincidence a breath of wind shook 
the bellflower tree beside him, bathing them both in its musky 
perfume. _It would have been a nice effect_, Ransome thought, _if 
I could've planned it_. 
Chauvelin set the data manager aside on the stones of the 
wall, leaned back in his chair, taking his time. The sunlight cast 
a delicate pattern of shadow over him, pouring down through the 
bellflower's fan-shaped leaves and striking deep sparks of color 
from the draped greatcoat. Even in the shadow, the lines that 
bracketed his mouth and fanned from the corners of his eyes were 
very visible. The crows'-feet tightened slightly, a movement that 
might become either a smile or a frown, and Ransome bit his tongue 
to try to copy the other's silence, to keep from speaking too 
soon. The bellflower's leaves rustled gently, and another orbiter 
rumbled skyward. 
"I have to know what he's up to," Chauvelin said at last. 
"You're the best chance I have for that." 
_Do you mean ji-Imbaoa, or Damian Chrestil?_ Ransome 
wondered. _Or both?_ He sighed, looked down at the sculpted head 
that still rested in the palm of his hand. _I would have done this 
anyway, regardless of threat or flattery -- or love or whatever it 
is that's between you and me, Tal Chauvelin. For the love of this 
game that's better than anything the Game has ever produced_. "All 
right," he said, easing himself off the terrace wall, and reached 
into his pocket for the rest of the handful of carved stones. 
Chauvelin looked up, one eyebrow rising slightly. 
"You said you had something to show me?" 
Ransome nodded. "Hold out your hand." 
Chauvelin extended one long hand, both eyebrows lifting 
now, and Ransome opened his fist, letting the stones -- grey

silver, a shower of frozen mercury -- fall into the other's palm. 
Several of them bounced away before Chauvelin could catch them, 
but he made no move to gather them, sat staring at the four that 
remained in his hand. Ransome watched him turn the carvings, roll 
them curiously beneath one probing finger, then lean to pick up 
the ones that had fallen, one by one, until he had them all. The 
delicate faces, some white as the hazy sky, one dark as slate, the 
others grey and silver, stared at nothing with knowing, 
provocative eyes. Chauvelin nodded once, silent approval, looked 
up at the other man. 
"I thought I'd pave your paths with them," Ransome said, 
and, slowly, smiled. 
There was another little silence, and then Chauvelin nodded 
again, this time in agreement. "How soon can you have it done?" 
"And in place?" Ransome paused, thinking. The idea of 
paving the paths was new, had come to him on the denki-bike ride 
from his loft; he hadn't even begun to work out the quantities he 
would need, or the time it would take for an automated workshop to 
fabricate them from his models. "A week, probably -- no, Storm's 
coming, everyone will be working on Carnival stuff. A week and a 
half, two weeks, probably. Give or take a couple of days." 
"I want them in place by my party," Chauvelin said. 
Ransome frowned for an instant; he had forgotten how late 
it was, that tomorrow was the last day of High Spring, and the 
date of Chauvelin's annual grand reception. "I don't know," he 
said involuntarily, and Chauvelin nodded. 
"I know. But I'm willing to pay double costs, and a rush 
bonus on top of it, if you can find a way to get it done." 
"I can try," Ransome said, absurdly pleased by the demand. 
There were a few places that might be able to do the production 
run on this kind of notice -- stonecrafters didn't get too much 
extra business for Storm, unlike most artisans -- and Chauvelin's 
own gardeners could handle the installation.... This was one of 
the things he liked without reservation about Chauvelin: when he 
played patron, he did it in grand style. _And the money wouldn't 
hurt, either_. 
"I mean it," Chauvelin said. "Post the costs on the house 
net, I'll authorize the draft." 
"I'll do it," Ransome said, and added, knowing the 
workshops, "if I can." 

 Chauvelin nodded, smiling slightly, and Ransome turned 
away, not waiting for the steward to take him back out through the 
maze, walking up through the garden toward the house and the wellwatched 
passage to the street. 
-------- 
*Part Two* 
*Evening, Day 30* 
_High Spring: Shadows, Face_ 
_Road, Dock Road District_ 
_Below the Old Dike_ 
Lioe started for Shadows just after sundown, riding the 
tourist-trolley to the elevators at Governor's Point, then one of 
the massive cars down the cliff face to Governor's Point Below. 
The cab stand was empty; when she consulted the information kiosk, 
fingering worn keys while her other hand rolled the old-fashioned 
ball that grated in its socket, she estimated Shadows was about 
twenty kilometers away. She hesitated, wondering if she should try 
one of the other clubs the steward -- _Vere, his name was, Vere 
Caminesi_ -- had mentioned, but when she checked the kiosk again 
Shadows was the closest. She sighed, punched in the codes that 
would alert the velocab companies to a waiting fare, and lowered 
herself onto a stone bollard that seemed to exist to keep the cabs 
from getting too close to their prospective passengers. It was 
getting cool, would be a chill night, by her standards, and the 
breeze that swept up from the southeast raised goosebumps even 
under her jacket. It carried the faint tang, damp and salty, of 
the sea that was never far from anyplace in Burning Bright; 
brought with it too a whiff of heavy foliage from household 
gardens, the delicate mustiness that rose from basements, and even 
a momentary sharp taste of the oil that tainted the Inland Water, 
gone as quickly as it had come. She cocked her head, listening, 
but could not hear the dull polyphony of the bell buoys that 
tolled to mark the channel. She knew she should not be surprised -- 
at this point she was almost as far inland as one could be and 
still stay on the Wet side of the Old Dike -- but she was oddly, 
vaguely, disappointed. 
The cab appeared a few minutes later, the whine of its 
motor audible well before it turned the corner. Lioe rose to her 
feet, slinging the bag that held her Rulebooks and Gameboard more 
securely over her shoulder, was aware of the driver's frank stare 

as he keyed open the door to the passenger compartment. 
"Evening, pilot." He had a young voice, a cheerful voice, 
that went oddly with the lined and weathered face. "Where you 
bound?" 
Lioe had almost forgotten she was wearing the hat, this one 
a small toque, suitable for Gaming, that marked her as a pilot of 
the Republic. "A place called Shadows," she said. "I'm told it's 
on Face Road, at the center of the Dike in Dock Road District?" 
She was reciting the address from memory -- no house 
numbers here, but all the buildings had names and were then placed 
within the district according to the nearest landmarks -- and was 
relieved when the driver nodded. 
"You're a Gamer, then." 
"That's right." Lioe levered herself into the narrow pod. 
It smelled of smoke and fish, an odd, unfamiliar combination, 
stronger as the low door closed behind her. 
"It's a good club, Shadows," the driver said. "Or so they 
tell me. I'm a home Gamer, myself." The engine whined as he stood 
on his pedals to get the cab moving again. 
Lioe leaned back cautiously against the thin padding, 
feeling the vibrations of the little motor through the soles of 
her feet. The cab swung left in a gentle arc that brought them out 
into a larger trafficway -- not a busy street, only a few other 
vehicles, velocabs and pushcarts, moving between the bollards that 
marked the edges of the road. They swung left again, the driver 
hesitating for an instant to gauge the faster stream of traffic on 
the wider street, and then standing hard on his pedals to bring 
the cab up to their speed. The cab slid neatly into a gap between 
another velocab and an empty flatbed carrier belching steam, but 
Lioe was looking at the shape that soared above the street, 
cutting off the sky. The Old Dike was festooned with lights, 
strings and streamers of them flashing in sequence to warn off 
wandering helio pilots, but they only seemed to intensify the 
black mass of the wall itself. More light like fog flowed along 
its top, fading into the sky at least a hundred and fifty meters 
above them. Lioe shook her head, amazed and wondering, and the 
driver shot her a look of triumph. 
"It's something, isn't it? That's the Old Dike. The firstin 
people built it to reclaim the Old City." 
Lioe nodded, still staring, barely aware of the other 

vehicles now crowding the road. "What's that on top?" she asked, 
after a moment. "Another road?" 
"That's Warden Street," the driver answered. "Runs all the 
way along the Dike, from Lockwarden Point to the Governor's House. 
There's good shopping up there, the best shops in town for 
fashion, if you're interested." 
"Maybe," Lioe answered. It must've been one hell of a 
project, building that, she thought, even if Burning Bright's 
first-ins were a different breed from the usual first settlers. 
Burning Bright had never been intended to be anything but an 
entrepot -- could never have been anything else, at least under 
human settlement, given the minuscule landmass -- and the first 
settlers had all been merchants and bankers, bent on turning the 
planet's favorable position astride the main hyperspace channel 
between the Republic and Hsaioi-An into solid profit. And they'd 
certainly done that: despite the best attempts of worlds like Ky 
and Attis/Euphrosyne, Burning Bright remained the busiest 
transshipment point for goods going from one metagovernment to the 
other. Even in the first years, the settlers would have had the 
capital to bring in the best technicians to build the Dike. 
Traffic was picking up, more and more vehicles cramming the 
road, and crowds flowed along the walkways outside the brightly 
lit shops. Only the foodshops seemed to be open, but light and 
bright snatches of music spilled from their doorways, clear notes 
like plucked metal strings. She heard laughter as well, over the 
constant rumble of the crowd and the traffic, looked instinctively 
to see a woman caught in the blue-white light of a store's display 
window, her head thrown back, hair spilling in untidy curls around 
a lined, handsome face. Her skirt -- no one wore skirts in the 
Republic, except for ethnic festivals -- was starred with little 
mirrors, reflecting the store's lights like chips of diamond. And 
then the cab was past her, and Lioe resettled herself against the 
padding, wondering what she had seen. A shape flashed through the 
pedestrians, a man's head and shoulders moving with unnatural 
quickness above the people surrounding him, and then he shot 
between two men and a bollard, darting into the traffic stream on 
a battered bicycle. No one used bicycles much in the Republic, 
either. 
The road rose ahead of them, and Lioe was suddenly aware, 
over the noise of the crowds and the snarling rush of the assorted 

vehicles, of the dulled, steady tolling of a buoy bell. She leaned 
forward a little, and the driver said, before she could ask, 
"We're coming up on the Straight now." 
There were more bicycles in evidence on this stretch of 
road, and on the high-arched bridge, as well as cabs and threewheeled 
cycles and a handful of the motorized denki-bikes. Most of 
the cabs and human-powered vehicles turned right or left onto the 
street that paralleled the as-yet-invisible river. As the driver 
stood on his pedals again to coax the cab up the steep rise, Lioe 
began to understand the reason. She could guess why there didn't 
seem to be many fully motorized craft on Burning Bright -- fossil 
resources were scarce and inaccessible, electrics were still 
impractical for heavy loads, and solar was even less practical on 
something as small as a velocab -- but it was still strange to 
feel the cab wavering from side to side as the driver added his 
muscle power to the engine's whining output. Strange, and somehow 
improper. Lioe was glad when the cab reached the top of the arch, 
and started the long glide down. 
Across the bridge, the streets were quieter. The buildings 
turned blind faces to the road, and there were few pedestrians. 
Once or twice the cab crossed a wider street, both times with 
trees or flowers growing in a center island, framed by soft 
lights, and Lioe caught a glimpse of figures moving in that pastel 
radiance. More often, the cab flashed over the low hump of a 
bridge, and she saw shards of light reflected from the canal water 
less than two meters below. The driver -- he had caught his 
breath, after the bridge -- said, "This is Dock Road -- Dock Road 
District, that is." 
"Mmm." Lioe glanced from side to side, staring at the blankwalled 
buildings. Most of them seemed to be four or five stories 
high, made of something dark that might have been poured stone. 
Nearly all of them had lighter inclusions: a band across the 
front, or outlining a door, or defining the corners of the 
building, but there were no windows, or at least nothing she 
recognized as a window. She had thought the on-line guides had 
said that Dock Road was primarily a residential district, but 
these looked more like factories or warehouses than any house she 
had ever seen. And then the cab swept past a building with all its 
windows open, shutters folded back against the empty dark stone of 
the facade, a gate open too into a courtyard where people swarmed 

around a blue-lit fountain, and music spilled out into the quiet 
street. She craned her head as they slid past, and out of the 
corner of her eye saw the driver smile briefly over his shoulder. 
They pulled up outside Shadows a little before the 
nineteenth hour. The club was a more ordinary building, three 
stories high with bricked-in windows and a brightly lit sign over 
the door, in a neighborhood full of buildings that had visible 
windows and doors that locked with metal grills. There was a food 
bar on the nearest corner -- and a heavyset bouncer leaning his 
chair against the wall outside the entrance, so she shouldn't have 
to worry too much -- and some kind of shop across the street, its 
display windows shut down for the night. She paid the driver what 
he asked and added the tip the guides had said was appropriate, 
then turned toward the club's well-marked door. The cab's motor 
whined behind her as the driver pulled away, but she did not look 
back. 
After the glittering strangeness of the rest of the city, 
Shadows was refreshingly ordinary, another Gaming club like a 
hundred others she'd seen on other worlds. The door was painted 
with the images from hundreds of Gaming pins -- conferences, 
competitions, specific sessions and scenarios, most of the Grand 
Types and even a few faces that had to be local favorites -- but 
before Lioe could study them more closely, the door swung open 
onto a narrow hall. 
The carpet was worn, with a few squares of a brighter shade 
of moss to show where the worst damage had been replaced. The 
white-painted walls were mostly empty, except for a few display 
boards and a Gameboard under glass. The displays were of sessions 
that had attracted attention on the intersystems nets, and Lioe 
gave a mental nod of approval. There weren't many -- there 
couldn't be many, if Shadows was as new as the steward Vere had 
said, and it was a good sign that the club hadn't tried to inflate 
its reputation by adding displays of merely local interest. The 
Gameboard, the gleaming screen below it said, had belonged to the 
club's founder, Davvi Medard-Yasine. Lioe didn't recognize the 
name. 
The hallway ended abruptly in a softly lit lobby, walled on 
three sides with multiscreen virtual-display-in-real-time 
wallboards. Only four of the screens were displaying the broadcast 
bands, and two of those showed the same session, but telltales 

glowed green on a few of the others, and the couches opposite 
those boards were occupied by people whose faces were hidden 
behind the mirrored mask of their shades. Telltales flickered on 
the temples of the shades, too, indicating that they were tuned to 
a narrowcast from one or more of the wallboards. There were 
smaller, lower-resolution VDIRT tables scattered around the rest 
of the lobby, but not many of them were occupied yet. They would 
be busy later, Lioe knew, when the main tanks filled up and Gamers 
needed to kill a few hours between sessions. That is, if Shadows 
was like every other club in human-settled space. She glanced one 
last time at the session playing on the screen overhead -- it was 
a Court Life variant, familiar iconography identifying Count 
Danile and the Lady Hannabahn, but it was impossible to follow the 
scene without the direct-line voice feed -- and turned her 
attention to the checkroom that controlled access to the club's 
session rooms. A young man was sitting behind its counter, 
Gameboard balanced in front of him, but he looked up quickly as 
Lioe approached. 
"Can I help you, pilot?" 
"I hope so. Do you do temporary memberships?" 
"We do." The young man touched keys on a terminal tucked 
out of sight below the lip of the counter. "It's forty _real_ a 
week -- we have a ten-day week, you know -- and you get all 
privileges except priority for limited-access sessions." 
"So I can run sessions, if anyone's interested," Lioe said. 
"Yes, no problem." The young man consulted his terminal 
again. "Can I get your name?" 
"Quinn Lioe." 
The young man looked up sharply. "The Lioe from Callixte?" 
"That's right." 
"I admire your sessions a lot." His clear complexion was 
slowly turning a delicate pink, and Lioe watched in fascination. 
"We just got a good tape of the Frederick's Glory session, 
downloaded from MI-Net a couple of days ago. It looks wonderful." 
"Thanks," Lioe said. 
"Are you going to be running any sessions while you're 
here?" the young man went on. 
"I hope so," Lioe answered. "I was wondering who I should 
talk to about it." 
"The night manager," the young man said, and touched keys 

on a different machine. "She can help you -- and we're having a 
slow week right now, with Storm coming up." 
"Storm?" Lioe had heard the term half a dozen times since 
landing, hadn't had the chance to ask what was meant. 
"Yeah. It's our fifth season, lasts twenty days, about. 
There're so many big storms every year about this time that it 
makes more sense for things to shut down. So we hold Carnival." A 
tone sounded softly under the counter, and the young man turned 
away to touch some hidden control. The door to the inner rooms 
swung open. 
Lioe turned, her idle question already forgotten, and found 
herself facing a tall, grey-haired woman, who held out her hand in 
greeting. 
"Na Lioe? I'm Aliar Gueremei, _dit_ Lia." 
Lioe murmured a greeting, and clasped the fingers extended 
to her. Gueremei was weather-beaten, as though she'd been in 
space, but more so, her brown skin crossed with a web of fine 
lines and faint, bleached freckles. She wore coarse workman's 
trousers, but with an expensive-looking and impractically widesleeved 
jacket over it, clasped at the waist with a circle that 
glittered with tiny iridescent disks. Even if sequensa were less 
expensive on Burning Bright, where the shells were seined and cut 
into tiny perfect shapes, they would never be cheap, and Lioe 
found herself revising her assumptions about Shadows and Burning 
Bright's Gamers. 
"Come on into the back," Gueremei went on. "I know your 
work, from the nets, and I'm delighted you thought of coming here. 
Can I ask where you heard the name?" She palmed open the door as 
she spoke, and gestured for Lioe to precede her into the inner 
hallways. 
"The steward on the inbound shuttle -- orbiter, I mean -- 
recommended you," Lioe said, "and then of course your name is good 
on the Game nets." 
Gueremei nodded, though whether in agreement or thanks Lioe 
could not be sure. "Were you looking to run sessions while you 
were here -- how long are you staying, anyway?" 
"Probably about five days," Lioe answered. "The ship I was 
piloting for is down for repairs, recalibration of the sail 
fields. And, yes, I would like to run a session or two." 
Gueremei nodded again. "I'll be frank with you," she said, 

as she led the way quickly through a maze of corridors. "We'd be 
very interested in your running something here. I've seen your 
Frederick's Glory scenario -- and the Callixte board summaries, of 
course, the ones that went with the award -- and a couple of 
others, and I'm very impressed." 
"Thanks," Lioe said again, and waited. This was familiar 
territory, like the white-painted walls filled with quick-print 
sheets of network downloads, the padded doors and one-way glass 
windows that gave onto the session rooms, the banks of food-anddrink 
vendors tucked into every available alcove. Gueremei, or 
Shadows through Gueremei, wanted something, and the praise was 
just a prelude. 
Gueremei touched another doorplate, this one badged with 
the Gameops glyph, and ushered Lioe into a crowded and comfortable 
office. The air smelled faintly of cinnamon, and there was a thin, 
dark-red stick smoldering in a holder on top of the VDIRT table 
that served as a desk. The chairs were Gamer's chairs, designed 
for long hours of relative immobility, and when Lioe lowered 
herself into the nearest one at Gueremei's absent invitation, she 
felt more at home than she had since she'd come to Burning Bright. 
Gueremei settled herself on the other side of the VDIRT 
console, and unearthed a workboard from the mess of faxsheets, 
quick-prints, Rulebooks and supplements, and a couple of expensivelooking 
Gameboards. She touched keys, peering down at the tiny 
screen, then looked back up at Lioe. "As I said, Shadows would be 
very interested in hosting you. There was word on the Callixte 
nets you had a new scenario in the works." 
_So that is the way things are going_. Lioe smiled, and 
said, "Yes, I've been working on a new scenario -- Rebellion 
variant with Psionics overtones, set on Ixion's Wheel." 
"Baron Vortex's prison planet," Gueremei said, testing the 
words. "That sounds hard to pull off." 
Lioe shrugged. "I'm using one of the rival claimants as a 
primary focus. I think that gives them enough firepower to stand a 
chance." 
"Interesting." Gueremei glanced down at her workboard 
again. "If you were willing to give us an exclusive deal for the 
duration of your stay -- and copies for later use, of course -- 
we'd be willing to offer you twenty percent of the special-session 
fees." 

 "That's a generous offer," Lioe said automatically, 
temporizing while she sorted out the implications. It wasn't a bad 
deal at all, but twenty percent of fees was the standard rate, and 
if Shadows wanted to buy a copy of the scenario, they ought to pay 
more. "Still, I'd like a little more if you want to keep the 
scenario for your own use -- either a higher percentage, or, 
better still, a flat purchase fee." 
"That's hard to come up with when we haven't seen the 
scenario," Gueremei said. "We might be able to offer a slightly 
higher percentage, though, maybe as much as twenty-five percent." 
"That really doesn't cover what I'd make from the nets," 
Lioe answered. "I'd need at least thirty-five." 
Gueremei glanced down at her board again, shook her head 
with what looked like genuine regret. "I don't have the authority 
for that. What if you run the session here first, we'll give you 
twenty percent of the fees, and you'll be under no obligation to 
stay with us beyond tonight. If it's good, I'm sure Davvi -- Davvi 
Medard-Yasine, our principal owner -- will want to purchase more 
rights." 
_And you'll have the prestige of having run the first 
session, whatever happens_, Lioe thought. Still, it seemed 
worthwhile; it would be a nice bit of extra money, and there was a 
good chance she could sell the scenario afterwards. She nodded, 
and said, "What about players?" 
Gueremei consulted her board, then touched the input strip 
to light a second screen under the surface of the VDIRT table. 
"Actually, we've a very respectable crowd in tonight. How many 
slots will you have?" 
"Eight. Six-player minimum." 
Gueremei nodded. "I can get you eight players, all rated A 
or higher. That's MI-Net rated, by the way." 
Lioe nodded back, impressed in spite of herself. MI-Net was 
the toughest of all the Game nets, demanded the most from its 
players. "Then I'm willing. Twenty percent of the take, up front, 
and no strings." 
"Agreed," Gueremei said, and, quite suddenly, smiled. "I'm 
looking forward to this, Na Lioe." 
"So am I." 
Gueremei fingered the workboard's input strip again, 
studied the results. "Room five is free for the night. It's a 

standard tech setup, Gerrish table, standard Rulebooks already in 
place, and we've got all six editions of _Face and Body_ backed up 
on a separate datalink, so you get instant access when you need 
it." 
"That sounds good," Lioe answered. She could feel the edges 
of her disks through the thin fabric of the carryall, wanted 
suddenly to get to work again. "When can I load in?" 
"Anytime," Gueremei said, and pushed herself back from the 
table. "I'll get you started, then I'll see who's free to play." 
"Excellent," Lioe said, and followed the other woman from 
the room. 
Gueremei led her through a second set of hallways, and then 
out into a wider corridor where one wall opened onto a central 
courtyard. There were more VDIRT tables set out under the 
carefully tended trees. Lioe tilted her head, curious, and saw 
light reflecting from a glass dome that enclosed the courtyard. A 
group of players, perhaps half a dozen, were clustered around a 
bank of food-and-drink vendors: probably on intermission, she 
thought, and turned her attention to her own scenario. It was 
solid; if the players were halfway competent, it would go well. If 
they weren't -- well, she would have to trust to luck and her own 
improvisational talents. 
Gueremei stopped in front of a door marked with horizontal 
silver bands on a deep, brick-colored background, and laid her 
hand on the touchpad beside the lock. The mechanism hissed softly, 
and the door popped out from the frame. She tugged it open, and 
motioned for Lioe to precede her into the dimness. Lioe did as she 
was told, and swung her carryall onto the massive VDIRT table that 
dominated the space. She found the room controls, set into a 
dropboard at the session leader's seat, and touched the keys that 
brought up the lights. The room was just as it should be, banks of 
blank-faced processors, telltales red or unlit, and she settled 
herself in the heavily padded chair. The chair shifted under her 
weight, squirming against her as the oilcushions adjusted 
themselves to her body, but she was only dimly aware of the 
movement, concentrating instead on the panels that opened to her 
touch. She checked the air and temperature -- _comfortable and 
stable_ -- and folded that board away, reaching for the table 
controls. The VDIRT display came to life under her fingers, the 
tree of lights that defined the library and display connections 

slowly changing from red to orange to yellow, and for a moment a 
faint haze of static filled the air above the center of the table. 
Lioe smiled, seeing that, imagining it filled with her own images, 
and touched keys to tune the system to her own specifications. A 
red light flashed instead, and glyphs filled the smaller, monitor 
screen. 
"I need a password," she said. 
"Sorry." Gueremei pulled herself away from the doorframe 
where she had been leaning, came around the table to lean over 
Lioe's shoulder. She touched keys; the screen, as usual, showed 
nothing but placeholders, but Lioe looked aside anyway, out of old 
habits of politeness. "I'm setting up a temp account for you," 
Gueremei went on. She worked one-handed, like a lot of older 
Gamers, using chord-keys to speed her input. "You can set your 
password now." 
Lioe hesitated for a moment, then typed a single word: 
_hellequin_. The letters hung on the screen for a moment, and 
Gueremei lifted an eyebrow. 
"What's it mean? If you don't mind my asking." 
Lioe shrugged one shoulder, already regretting the impulse. 
It was no more than superstition that made her use that name; she 
should have known better. "It's my full name. Quinn's the short 
form." _It was the only name I could remember when the Foster 
Services people found me, the only thing I have that isn't 
theirs_. 
"So." Gueremei nodded, and touched another sequence of 
keys. "Like Harlequin, right? You're all in," she added, and 
stepped aside. 
"Thanks," Lioe said, and was glad to concentrate on the 
larger screen that windowed under the tabletop. Familiar glyphs 
and query codes filled the blank space, laid out in an outline 
form as familiar to her as the hyperspatial maps of a star 
system's deeps and shallows. She spilled the rest of her disks out 
onto the table's smooth, slightly spongy surface, and began 
slotting Rulebooks and databoards into the waiting readers. On the 
screen, glyphs changed shape, queries smoothing into 
acknowledgment as the VDIRT systems found the data they required 
and forged the links between them. More lights flared on the wall 
systems, the machines whirring slightly as they came on-line. 
Faces and shapes, familiar icons, began to appear in the haze of 

static. 
"That's Desir of Harmsway," Gueremei said abruptly, and 
Lioe looked up in some surprise. "And Gallio Hazard. You did know 
they were local Types?" 
"Yes," Lioe said, and wondered why it mattered. Notables 
generally didn't mind other people using their character templates 
-- that was one of the definitions of a notable, someone whose 
characters were played by a lot of different people. 
Gueremei's smile widened. "I think I'll definitely sit in 
on this session." Lioe looked at her questioningly, and Gueremei 
turned away. "Oh, don't worry, there's no problem. It's just 
they're Ambidexter's templates, and he hasn't played in years." 
_And in a situation like that_, Lioe thought, _I bet 
there's one hell of a debate about how to play those characters. 
Oh, well, too late to change now_. She looked back at the screen, 
saw the stand-by symbol fade, indicating that file transfer was 
complete. The planning form for session parameters was flashing in 
the screen, and she touched a key to submit the various 
supplemental rules she preferred to use. Those slots lit, and 
vanished from the screen, leaving her with the bare bones of the 
situation. It was a convention of the Game that Baron Vortex, the 
villain who opposed the Rebellion and wanted to make himself 
Emperor, was involved in secret psionics research; it was also a 
convention that he controlled the prison world of Ixion's Wheel, 
from which no prisoner had ever escaped. She had combined the two, 
made Ixion's Wheel the center of the Baron's illegal research 
project -- aside from the ethics involved, psions were illegal on 
the worlds of the Imperium -- and then given the Golden claimant 
to the Imperial throne, Royal Avellar, a good reason to get 
himself sent to Ixion's Wheel. Avellar was a secret telepath, one 
of the last four survivors of a clone-group who had shared a 
telepathic link; and the one person who could restore his power, 
the electrokinetic Desir of Harmsway, was a prisoner in the 
research sections there. 
"It looks good," Gueremei said, and Lioe jumped at the 
sound of her voice. An instant later, one of the printers whirred 
to life, spat a piece of paper, and Gueremei retrieved it. "I'll 
get you some players, then." 
"Thanks," Lioe said. Her eyes were on her screens before 
the door closed behind the other woman. 

 Most of the relationships in the Game were familiar, 
formalized; everyone who played knew the characters and their 
backgrounds, and the pleasure of a session came from seeing how 
well a player could perform within those constraints. About half 
the characters on Ixion's Wheel were drawn from someone else's 
scenarios: Harmsway and Gallio Hazard from Ambidexter's sessions 
of five years ago; Avellar from an old, old session that everyone 
had said was wonderful, but no one had used; Lord Faro and Ibelin 
Belfortune from a session she herself had played on Demeter a few 
months before, whom she had salvaged from certain death because 
their templates were more interesting than her players had been 
capable of making them. The rest -- the telekinetic Jack Blue, 
unofficial leader of the prison population; the Rebel technician 
Galan Africa, who hated blood telepaths, with good reason; the 
research scientist Mijja Lyall, part of the prison staff, living 
in fear that someone would discover her own low-level talent and 
transfer her to the experiment -- were her own creations, but she 
had been careful to tie them to familiar places and characters 
within the larger Game. She studied the numbers for a moment 
longer, balancing skills and quirks and basic numbers, then 
touched the keys that dumped the templates to the system. A light 
flashed, confirming her choice, and she turned her attention to 
the setting. 
She had a good library with her, settings she'd laboriously 
compiled through her years of travel, walking through the various 
cities on all the worlds she visited with her palmcorder in her 
pocket, waiting for just the right combination of light and space, 
of architecture and atmosphere and attitude, that would make a 
perfect place in some Game. Ixion's Wheel had been harder to find 
than most, and she had had to transform her stored images more 
than usual, to get the harsh world suggested by the planetary 
statistics. 
Frowning a little, she pulled her shades from the carryall, 
plugged the datacord into the socket on the temple, and touched 
the keys that opaqued the heavy lenses and displayed the image 
directly in front of her eyes. She touched more keys, and the 
statistics for Ixion's Wheel hung in blank space: a hot planet, 
desert-dry except for sparse bands of grassland to the north and 
south. The prison complex lay just south of the dry line, in the 
softer desert; the port lay to its north, just far enough away 

from the complex to seem unreachable. She had already pulled 
images for the prison -- mostly from government buildings on 
Ardinee, a cheerless place if she'd ever seen one -- but the port 
was less defined. And there wasn't much time; she would have to 
fall back on her old standby for hot planets, images taken on 
Callixte itself, her home base. 
She pulled that file, let it open, the images blossoming in 
front of her eyes. Plain, flat-fronted buildings painted in sweeps 
of shocking pastels floated against a multitude of skies. She 
picked a dozen buildings at random, pulled a port-and-city blank 
from a general pattern file, and began fitting the buildings into 
the open spaces of the map. A town, a port town, took shape behind 
the shades, outlines only at first, as she moved the buildings 
like the pieces on a chessboard, shuffling them for maximum 
effect. She rotated the image until she was seeing it edge-on, to 
view the skyline; then, as satisfied as she would be with this set 
of images, touched the controls to fill in the rest of the 
buildings. She chose a sky as well, the hot, thunder-hazed blue of 
Callixte's summer, and was pleased with the vivid splash of the 
painted walls against that metallic background. She replaced that 
sky with a storm, and watched the light bleed away into an ominous 
luminosity, the ramparts of cloud looming over the low roofs. It 
was good, an effect to be stored for later, but the first sky was 
the one she wanted now. She recalled it, and filled the empty 
space around the town with a generic grassland. It would do -- 
nothing unique, and maybe not as good as some of her efforts, but 
it would do. 
"That's very nice," Gueremei said, and Lioe jumped. 
"I didn't hear you come in." She worked the toggle that 
cleared her shades, then dumped the cityscape to the main library. 
"Sorry," Gueremei said, not sounding particularly 
repentant. "I've got a cast for you." 
"Thanks," Lioe said, and held out her hand for the disk. 
Gueremei slid it across the table, and Lioe slipped it deftly into 
the last reader. 
"You should be pleased," Gueremei went on. "I had to turn 
some people away. I've pulled you a good group, though, if I do 
say so myself. Roscha's a handful, sometimes, but she's a damn 
fine player, and she likes the scenario outline. I think she'll 
behave. Savian's a Republican, of course -- " She stopped 

abruptly, bit off a laugh. "But so are you. I'd forgotten." 
"That's all right." Lioe smiled, and did her best to hide 
the excitement welling up in her, making her movements too quick 
and clumsy. 
"So you'll be used to the style," Gueremei went on, as 
though the other woman hadn't spoken. She came around the curved 
side of the table, leaned over Lioe's shoulder to strike a chord 
of keys. "This is what I've done." 
A secondary window bloomed in front of the main datatree, 
displayed a double list of names. Lioe stared at it blankly, 
matching unknown names to the characters opposite. Roscha -- 
Jafiera Roscha, who could be a "handful," according to Gueremei -- 
would be playing Galan Africa: _not a bad part for a 
troublemaker_, Lioe thought. _At least there should be enough meat 
in it to keep her happy_. Savian, Peter Savian, the other 
Republican, would play Lord Faro -- and a name seemed to leap out 
at her from the foot of the list: Audovero Caminesi, cast as the 
telekinetic Jack Blue. 
She highlighted the name with a touch, and looked up to see 
Gueremei nod. 
"He volunteered," she said, "and I like his style. You said 
you'd met." She paused, and when she spoke again, her voice was 
oddly formal. "Does this meet with your approval, Na Lioe?" 
"It looks fine to me," Lioe answered, and swept the disks 
she had prepared for the players into an untidy stack. "Bring them 
in." 
Gueremei nodded, stepped back to work the door controls. 
The door sagged open, and at her gesture the players filed into 
the room, carryalls and cased Gameboards in hand. Lioe looked up 
from her screen to watch them file in and take their places at the 
players' seats around the curved side of the table. A big bearded 
man came first, followed closely by a slimmer, hard-faced man with 
the silver disks of implant lenses gleaming in both eyes. They sat 
side by side, the bearded man grinning at something, and a young 
man in a supportchair followed them in. His thin wrists were heavy 
with jeweled bracelets, and there were more jewels in his ears. 
The silver-eyed man pushed one of the chairs away from the table, 
and the other eased his supportchair into the new space, murmuring 
thanks under his breath. A handsome, hook-nosed woman with an 
expensive Gameboard followed him, and then Vere, still in his 

steward's uniform, as though he'd come directly from Newfields. He 
glanced at Lioe with a smile that hoped for recognition, and Lioe 
grinned back at him, grateful for something like a familiar face. 
The striking red-haired woman behind him raised an eyebrow at the 
sight, her dark blue eyes, the color of the sea seen from near 
orbit, flicking up and down in insolent assessment. Lioe cocked an 
eyebrow at her, still smiling, and was rewarded by a faint, 
betraying flush of color: _not used to someone taking up her 
challenge_, Lioe thought, and filed the notion for later use. A 
slim man, with Asian eyes and implanted hsai spurs on both wrists, 
followed her, bony face expressionless. Lioe's attention was 
caught by the spurs -- _is he hsaia, jericho-human, or adopted, or 
does he just admire the hsai principle of kinship?_ -- but pulled 
her thoughts sternly away. Politics had no place in the Game. That 
was only seven, and Lioe frowned. It would be hard to eliminate 
any of the characters -- easier to be rid of two than one -- and 
she glanced sharply at Gueremei, then back at the cast list. All 
the names were filled, so they were still one short. 
"I've decided to sit in myself," Gueremei said. "I play 
under Fernesa -- Gameop's privilege." 
_A mixed favor_, Lioe thought. Gueremei would be good -- 
you didn't get to be a Gameop without being at least a double-A 
player -- but it was also a little unnerving, having her on-line 
for the first session. "Suit yourself," she said aloud, and 
Gueremei settled herself in the remaining chair. 
"All right," Gueremei said, not loudly, but all attention 
shifted instantly to her. "This is Quinn Lioe, everyone, who wrote 
the Frederick's Glory scenario some of you played last week. Na 
Lioe, let me introduce your players. Peter Savian -- " 
That was the bearded man, sitting so close on her right 
that he could extend a hand, Republican-fashion. Lioe murmured a 
greeting, met and matched the pressure of his grip, and saw a new 
amusement gleam for an instant in his dark eyes. 
" -- Kazio Beledin -- " 
The man with the implant lenses touched his forehead, a 
formal gesture that went badly with his crumpled, brightly dyed 
and patched shirt and dock-worker's trousers. 
" -- Alazais Mariche -- " 
The hook-nosed woman nodded very seriously, her fingers 
playing over the controls of her expensive equipment. 

 " -- Vere you know, and Serenn Imbertin -- " 
"_Dit_ -- everyone calls me Imbertine," the young man in 
the supportchair said. Lioe nodded in acknowledgment, wondering if 
the chair were a permanent necessity. It was hard to tell -- he 
was thin, certainly, but not wasted -- and it was none of her 
business, in any case. 
" -- Garet Huard -- " 
The man with the hsai spurs looked up from his Gameboard to 
nod a greeting. He didn't have a hsai name -- most adoptees used 
some hsai forms -- and Lioe wondered again what the connection 
was. 
"And Jafiera Roscha," Gueremei finished. 
Lioe nodded to the redhead, startled again by the contrast 
between the woman's striking beauty and the aggression in her 
face. 
"It's good to meet you," Roscha said, her voice low and 
unexpectedly musical. 
"Thanks," Lioe said. She looked around the table, feeling 
the familiar excitement building in her, and said, "Na Gueremei 
has outlined the scenario to you, I assume?" Most of them nodded, 
but she continued anyway. "This is a Rebellion/Psionics variant, 
set on the prison planet of Ixion's Wheel. Baron Vortex has, 
unknown to anyone until now, been running a secret research 
project in the prison complex, trying to find a way to bring psis 
of all types under his personal control. You are all part of that 
project, either as prisoners or as part of the prison staff. One 
of you, however, has an ulterior motive: you have come to rescue 
an old friend and antagonist, now a prisoner, and in order to 
escape yourself you will all have to work together." She smiled 
then, and most of the players grinned back, even Roscha softening 
slightly, caught up in the preliminaries of the Game. "Assuming no 
one wants to back out, I have casting disks and the scenario 
supplements." 
No one did. Lioe felt her smile widen even as she tried to 
control it, and looked down at the display to check the cast list 
a final time. She dealt the disks around the table, and slid the 
session supplements after them. Huard, with his hsai spurs, would 
play the key role, Royal Avellar, potential if distant claimant to 
the Imperial throne; she wondered for a moment if he were really 
jericho-human, and if he was, what it would do to his play. Savian 

would play Lord Faro, Beledin the half-mad vampire Ibelin 
Belfortune -- a good choice, given the visible chemistry between 
the two men -- and Vere would play Jack Blue. Imbertine and the 
hook-nosed woman, Mariche, would play Gallio Hazard and Desir of 
Harmsway -- not easy parts, requiring a lot of coordination, and 
Lioe hoped they had played together before. Roscha would play the 
technician Africa, and Gueremei would play Mijja Lyall. That was 
an interesting choice -- Lyall was superficially a minor 
character, but could become pivotal if played right -- and Lioe 
gave a little nod of approval. She fiddled with her own controls 
as the players slid disks and supplement boxes into their 
Gameboards, and linked the boards to the VDIRT table's main 
systems, bringing the prison complex into focus just above the 
tabletop. She kept it dim, the outlines vague and colors dulled, 
but she saw her players glance warily at it, assessing the 
setting. Savian ran a fingertip along the ridge of bone below one 
eye -- there was a scar there, Lioe saw, faint as a thread against 
his brown skin -- and studied the displays on his screen. Mariche 
busied herself with a pull-out input strip, typing something into 
her Gameboard, her face still and intent as she studied the 
shifting numbers. 
"Is everything clear?" Lioe said at last, when the first 
flourish of activity slowed, and there were nods and mumbled 
agreement from the players. Even Roscha looked almost eager. Lioe 
glanced at her main boards a final time -- everything was ready to 
go, all the linkages in place and the libraries on line -- and 
looked back at her players, excitement coursing through her. This 
was what made the Game worthwhile, all of them gathered for the 
one purpose of playing her scenario -- She put the thought aside 
and said, "Then let's go." 
She reached for her own shades, settled the temples on her 
ears. The broad double screen, dipping almost below her 
cheekbones, stayed black for a moment, and then she adjusted the 
controls so that she was watching her players through one 
completely transparent lens and watching the Game they would 
create in the other, darkened lens. Savian lifted a half-helmet, 
settled it very deliberately on his head. The matte silver backing 
hid eyes and nose, but his mouth, framed by the neatly trimmed 
beard, remained visible and expressive. Most of the others wore 
shades similar to her own; bands of black or grey plastic covered 

half their face, turning them into icons of justice. Imbertine 
leaned back in his chair, hands caressing the bright stones of his 
bracelets. Looking more closely, Lioe could see the thin cables 
that connected each one to the sockets of his Gameboard. She 
smiled to herself, unable to resist prolonging the moment, then 
touched her controls to bring a scene slowly into shape in the 
players' view. The buildings of the prison complex, blank grey 
walls, a single row of slit-windows visible just below the tops of 
the buildings, grew more solid in the air above the tabletop. The 
same image was reflected in her shades. She touched controls 
again, and wind swirled around the buildings, driving great sheets 
of sand against the prison's force dome. 
"Welcome to Ixion's Wheel." 
-------- 
*Evening, Day 30* 
_High Spring: Ransome's Loft,_ 
_Old Coast Road, Newfields,_ 
_Above Junction Pool_ 
Ransome sprawled in his chair, caught in his web of images 
that all but blocked out the cityscape spread out below the loft 
windows. A solitary firework burst into a flower of golden rain -- 
someone on the far side of the Water getting a head start on Storm 
-- and he watched it fall and fade into a last trail of sparks, 
ignoring the dancing images. Most of them were Game nets -- he was 
trying to do what Chauvelin wanted -- but his heart wasn't in it. 
There was nothing new in the Game, had been nothing new for years, 
only the same sterile repetitions, theme and variations all gone 
stale with overuse. His eyes stole to the image sitting alone to 
the left of his chair, a direct feed from one of his dataspheres. 
The last of the tiny stone heads looked back at him, a faint, sly 
smile on its carved mouth. Idly, he reached into a secondary 
control space, flicked on the controls that would allow the Imani 
Formstone Works to produce copies of his originals. The head 
looked back at him, caught now in a maze of numbers and 
guidelines. It had taken him most of the morning to find a 
workshop that would admit it could do the job in the time required 
-- and the hefty surcharge, twice what the job should actually 
cost, was the only reason the shop manager had agreed at all. But 
the ambassadorial accounting system had accepted the charges, and 
he was left to deal with the Game. Voices babbled from the floor 

speakers, no channel given priority; Ransome made a face at the 
noise, but did not bother to adjust the tuning. 
A light flashed in communications space, and at the same 
time an identifying glyph crackled in the air overhead. Ransome 
sighed, recognizing the image -- knowing too well that the caller 
was the kind who did not give up -- and muted his images with a 
wave of a gloved hand. With the other hand, he reached into the 
main control space to connect himself with the communications 
channel. "What the hell do you want, Sanci?" 
"About fucking time, Ransome." 
There had been no delay. Ransome sighed again, shoved the 
familiar face -- sharp chin framed by a short and tidy beard, eyes 
always slightly narrowed, as though he were looking into a bright 
light -- to one side of the Game net images. "What do you want?" 
"Have you been tracking the Game nets -- the Old Network, 
by any chance?" Sanci smiled. "You might want to tune in." 
"I doubt it," Ransome said. 
Sanci's smile widened, and Ransome realized the other man 
was tracking his net hookups. "Someone's playing with your toys." 
"What channel?" 
"The mainline feed out of Shadows." 
Ransome shoved Sanci's image farther to his left, reached 
into control space to fiddle with the icons hanging there. He 
opened a connection to the Old Network, not even thinking of the 
costs. Shadows was easy to find, its distinctive icon flashing to 
signal an interesting session in progress, and he brought it online, 
feeding the image into a small space directly in front of 
his eyes. Figures moved in an unfamiliar, cell-like room, 
altogether too like Jericho's prison system. He reached for the 
session precis even as he recognized two of the templates. Lord 
Faro was an old favorite, and so was Ibelin Belfortune, and if 
they both were there ... He flicked the precis into prominence, 
skimmed quickly through the screen. Desir of Harmsway's name 
seemed to leap out at him. 
"Who's running this?" he said aloud, and felt rather than 
saw the malice in Sanci's look. 
"I knew you'd be interested in this one. And it's not a 
fill-in-the-background session, either. That's Ixion's Wheel 
you're looking at." 
_I put those characters on Ixion's Wheel to keep them out 

of other people's hands. And Desir of Harmsway is my character, my 
property -- more than that, my creation. Who the hell does this 
session leader think s/he is, using my persona in a session?_ 
Ransome bit back his instinctive reaction -- Sanci didn't deserve 
the satisfaction -- and said again, "Who is it?" 
Sanci sighed, rather theatrically. "Woman named Lioe, out 
of the Republic. She did the Frederick's Glory scenario everyone 
was so hot about." 
Ransome said, "She's good, or so I hear." His hands were 
busy in the control space, expanding the picture, so that handhigh 
figures moved in a cube of space half a meter square. 
"Good enough?" Sanci murmured, still with that knowing 
smile, and Ransome managed a shrug. 
"It's possible, I suppose. I don't follow the Game that 
closely these days." 
Sanci sneered, but said nothing. Ransome hesitated, wanting 
to lie, to deny that he would follow this scenario now that it had 
been brought to his attention, but knew that Sanci would recognize 
the truth -- knew too that Sanci would probably try to trace the 
taps, and blocking him was hardly worth the trouble. _But I'll be 
damned if I'll thank him for this_. "Good-bye, Sanci," he said 
instead, and flicked away the other man's image. The movement cut 
the communications channel as it sent the bearded face spinning, 
so that it turned end over end three times before it disappeared. 
The gesture had done something to soothe his feelings, but 
Ransome was still frowning when he sat up fully. The image-shell 
shifted with him, so that he looked down at the narrowcast from 
Shadows as though it were a desktop screen. He banished the rest 
of the images with a quick gesture, brought up the sound until he 
could follow the dialogue in the little world that hung in the air 
in front of him. One did not forget the Game, not when one had 
spent as much time in its worlds as he had done, but one did get 
out of practice. He scowled at the characters, reading the 
iconography of clothing and _Face/Body_ numbers, and reached into 
control space to tap the session leader's display bar. In the 
Game, Belfortune and Lord Faro whispered together, fearful of 
interruption, and a familiar figure moved through the hall behind 
them, deliberately eavesdropping. _Avellar_... 
He studied the string of glyphs and numbers that bloomed 
along the base of the main image, skimmed quickly through the 

overlapping screens to confirm what he suspected. The overall 
shape of the Game was almost as familiar to him as the layout of 
his studio, and it was easy to see where this scenario would fit 
into the whole. It was ostensibly a Rebel scenario, but it was 
tied both to the Psionics variant and the Rival Claimants offshoot 
of the Court Life Game -- _and all of that done through Avellar 
and Desir of Harmsway, who was my character, and the situation 
between them was my invention_ -- Ransome reached out to expand 
the image, drawing out the details. Some of the players were old 
friends, old rivals in the Game -- Peter Savian he'd known for 
years, and Kazio Beledin; Imbertine was another familiar name, as 
was Roscha, though he'd never met the latter off-line. But they 
were players, not session leaders: it was the leader who'd chosen 
to play with these characters -- _my characters, and it should 
have been my Game. This Lioe's got nerve_.... He rolled the name 
over in his mind, recalling the little he'd heard. She was a 
notable-in-the-making, or so everybody said, a pilot out of the 
Republic, off Callixte, which was a good introduction in the Game 
... and her first name was Quinn, Quinn Lioe. He hesitated for a 
moment, running down the list of friends who still followed the 
Game and who would give information, and reached into control 
space to open another line. The Game session still swam in front 
of him, the characters murmuring to each other, and he pushed it 
aside to make room for the new image. 
A disk of static appeared, a hazy oval that flickered 
through so many colors so quickly that the eye could only read it 
as grey: the system had made contact. "Hally?" 
A face took shape, forming from the disk itself, so that it 
became a mask hanging in space, a face thin and rather fine 
beneath the canalli weathering. Earrings gleamed in both ears, and 
a fine chain -- a datawire, Ransome guessed -- ran from one 
particularly elaborate stud to a jewel-rimmed socket at the inner 
corner of his right eye. The iridescent strand seemed to glow 
against his pale brown skin. "Ransome?" Thin, delicately arched 
eyebrows rose in surprise, then contracted into a frown. "I'm 
watching a Game," Hally Ventura said, and broke off, seeing the 
face in his own screens. 
"From Shadows?" Ransome asked, and was answered by a brief, 
lopsided smile. 
"That's right. So what do you want to know about her, I

Jay?" 
"What do you know?" 
"About what everyone does. She's been a name on Callixte, 
everyone says a notable-to-be. And she's a pilot, union pilot, 
also works out of Callixte for that. Angele up at the port says 
her ship's in for repairs, and she's come to play. People've been 
at her to quit space, go into the Game full time, but she's not 
been interested." 
"Piloting's a good job," Ransome said. "I'd think twice 
before I quit." 
Hally shrugged. "She's very, very good at the Game." His 
eyes shifted, looking at something outside his own display. "Look, 
I-Jay, I want to watch this session. Was that all?" 
"I just thought, if anyone knew anything, it would be you," 
Ransome said, and was rewarded by a quick smile: the apology was 
acceptable. "Thanks, Hally." 
"Not at all," Hally answered, and the hanging mask 
dissolved into the oval of static. Ransome cut the connection. 
The Game session floated back in front of him, expanded at 
a gesture to display its full detail. Belfortune sat with his head 
in his hands, answered, low-voiced, Lord Faro's questions. The 
tension between them was palpable: the players' affair had been 
over for years, but its memory still informed their play. Mijja 
Lyall, the scientist/technician, watched uneasily, her gaze 
flickering between the two men and the metal face that hung on the 
wall overhead. Baron Vortex, the Game's great villain, was 
overseeing this himself. 
Ransome frowned, reached for the library icons, and had to 
shuffle access spaces until he found dead storage. It had been a 
long time since he had gone looking for his template libraries. He 
flicked them back into the working volume, searched the most 
recent issues until he found Lord Faro's listing. He had forgotten 
that Faro had become one of the Baron's henchmen -- that had 
happened almost two years ago, just after he'd quit the Game. He 
leaned back in his chair, the images tilting around him, and saw 
another firework flare through the pattern of the Game. _You 
couldn't ask for better_, he thought, and reached for a hand-held 
remote to summon the drinks tray. 
The machine trundled over, the lid sliding back to give 
access to the freezer compartment. Ransome chose abstractedly, 

opened the container, his eyes still on the session unfolding in 
front of him. Faro was clearly torn between his loyalty to Baron 
Vortex -- a loyalty bought with fear and the promise that Faro's 
lost estates would someday be returned -- and his -- _love? 
desire?_ -- for Belfortune. Belfortune clearly shared both passion 
and fear, and Baron Vortex watched from the wall. Lioe was 
handling him well, he admitted grudgingly. Too many leaders made 
the Baron too villainous right from the start; Lioe was keeping 
him just reasonable enough -- though still with that edge of 
madness -- that it seemed suicidal to oppose him. 
Abruptly, he wanted to be there, at Shadows, watching 
firsthand -- or, better still, to be in the control booth with 
Medard-Yasine. It was the first time in three years that he'd 
actually wanted to attend a Game, and his lips quirked upward as 
he realized that at least he now had an excuse for doing what 
Chauvelin wanted. He closed both fists, shutting down the system -- 
in the corner of his eye, glyphs tumbled headlong as the slaved 
machines ran through their shutdown procedures -- and reached for 
a stand-alone com-unit and punched codes that would cycle through 
the helicab companies until he found one that could respond. It 
took perhaps two minutes, the bar of light flashing in front of 
him, not quite blocking his sight, and he spent the time searching 
for his jacket and the cylinder of Mist he was forced to carry. 
The com-unit beeped at him before he found the red-banded tube, 
and he scrabbled impatiently for the hand-held unit. 
"How can we be of service?" 
It was a machine voice, or so the telltale at the base of 
the unit said -- it would have been impossible to tell from the 
sound alone. Ransome curbed his impatience, and smoothed his tone 
to be as emotionless as possible. "I need transport to the helipad 
closest to Shadows -- Face Road, by the center of the Dike in the 
Dock Road District. I think that's Underface." 
"Just a moment, please." There was a little silence, not 
even the hiss of static, while Ransome scanned the cluttered space 
of his loft for the missing cylinder, and then the machine said, 
"Yes, Underface is closest. Your location code is Warehouse?" 
"That's right." The cylinder was lying on the shelf beside 
the shell for the Syndic's egg. 
"Thank you. Your helicab will arrive at the Warehouse 
helipad in fifteen minutes." 

 "Thanks," Ransome said, in spite of himself, in spite of 
knowing it was a machine, and broke the connection. He collected 
the cylinder, shoved it and his credimeters into the pocket of his 
jacket, and left the loft. 
It took him almost fifteen minutes to reach the helipad -- 
the computers were scrupulous in their calculations -- and he 
barely had time to catch his breath before he heard the soft beat 
of the muted rotors. Somewhat to his surprise, there was a live 
pilot, who grinned cheerfully at him as she popped the passenger 
hatch. 
"To Underface, right? Going to Shadows?" 
_Does everyone on the planet know about this fucking game?_ 
Ransome wondered. "Yes, to Underface -- and, yes, to Shadows, 
too." 
The pilot nodded, closing the hatch behind him. "I hear 
there's one hell of a session in progress there. You're like the 
fifth person I've dropped there in the last two hours." 
"Really." Ransome settled into the center seat, the most 
comfortable of the three, and adjusted the door controls so that 
the whole panel went transparent, an enormous curved window on the 
city spread out below the cliff face. 
"Yeah." The pilot manipulated her controls, and the helicab 
lifted easily, pivoting toward the cliff edge and the descent to 
Underface. She was on-line, Ransome saw, bound into the cab's 
systems so that her arms and legs seemed to end in the black boxes 
of the control consoles; more wires, a complex, braided band of 
them, fell from the junction box at the base of her skull. Her 
hair was shaved around that connection, but the rest of it fell in 
a scarlet tail from an untidy topknot. "I wish I wasn't working." 
"You're a Gamer, then?" Ransome asked, and saw, too late, 
the pins studding her left sleeve. MI-Net, Court Life V, Vimar 
Nessen's Game, RedApple, Old Network, and dozens of others: she 
was a Gamer, all right, and a committed one. 
She didn't seem offended, however, just shrugged that 
shoulder to make the pins glitter in the light from the instrument 
panel. "That's right." 
"So what have you heard about this Lioe?" Ransome asked. 
This wasn't his style at all -- this was the kind of information 
he preferred to find on the nets -- but the chance was too good to 
pass up. 

 The pilot shrugged again, both shoulders this time. "What 
haven't I heard, really? Frederick's Glory got an A-double-star on 
Callixte, which those judges don't hand out like candy, and she 
wrote it. She's supposed to just be running a sample session for 
Davvi tonight, but what everyone's saying is that it's turning out 
to be something kind of special." She looked sideways, into the 
space that showed her the passenger camera view. "What I heard 
from one woman was, she's pulled one of Ambidexter's characters 
out of storage, playing him as a major character." 
Ransome nodded, caught up in spite of himself in the old 
habits of the Game. "Desir of Harmsway. I was watching for a while 
on the nets." 
"_Sha-mai_." The pilot's curse was more admiring than 
anything. "Ambidexter's going to murder her. Very God, I wish I 
wasn't working." 
Ransome gave her a bitter grin. If he'd ever wanted 
confirmation of how the white-sickness had changed him in the past 
three years, he had it now -- not that he'd really needed it. Even 
a year ago, before the disease really took hold, she would have 
recognized him as Ambidexter, even if he hadn't been in the clubs 
for a year or so before that.... He shook the thought away, 
annoyed that he'd even acknowledged it, made himself pay attention 
to the pilot. 
"That's assuming Ambidexter's still around, of course," she 
went on, quite cheerfully. "There was talk he was dead, not long 
back." 
"I don't think so," Ransome said, with involuntary pique, 
and the pilot shrugged again. The helicab banked sideways into the 
airpath that paralleled the Old Dike; its lights, and the glow of 
the shops on Warden Street, filled the cab's interior with patches 
of bright color. 
"The work on the nets under that name hasn't been very like 
him, that's for sure." 
Ransome drew breath for an indignant response -- _how dare 
she accuse me of not being myself?_ -- and stopped suddenly, 
wondering if this was Cella's doing. It wouldn't be unlike her, to 
whisper that he was dead, that his work was not his own. He opened 
his mouth, trying to figure out how to phrase the question, but 
the helicab tilted again, and he realized that the pilot's 
attention was once again on her craft. After a moment, his mouth 

twisted into a wry smile. That would be very like Cella, to assume 
that the rumor of his death would bring him back onto the nets -- 
_and it would have worked, too, if I hadn't been so busy with 
other things_. 
The helicab tipped again, responding to wind or air 
currents or an unseen traffic signal, and the door panel was 
filled with the city lights. Ransome stared, caught once again by 
the breathtaking beauty: the tidy geometry of the well-lit squares 
and canals of Dock Road, bounded by the twin lines of the Straight 
to the north and the Crooked to the south. In the distance, the 
broad triangle that was the landformed extension of Mainwarden 
Island jutted into the Water, dividing the massive stream into two 
channels. A line of light ran from apex to base, broke slightly at 
the edge of the low cliff that rose to Mainwarden Island proper: 
Compass Road, where the Lockwarden Society had their main offices. 
The Society's certification officers, the elite of the Wet 
Districts around the Water, generally lived in the tidy, decent 
neighborhoods to either side of that main thoroughfare. The Great 
Island light blazed at steady intervals from the tip of the 
Extension, directing the all-but-invisible traffic that filled the 
Water even at this hour. 
"Coming down," the pilot said, her voice distant and 
professional again. The helicab straightened and slowed to hover, 
almost motionless. Ransome craned his neck to see through the 
lower curve of the door, and could just make out the blue 
concentric lines of the helipad below them. One band of light 
blinked, as though something had moved across it, and a moment 
later another one did the same. _Kids, probably_, Ransome thought, 
and in the same instant a strong white light flashed from the 
cab's underbelly, all but drowning out the landing lines. Ransome 
saw a last small figure scramble over the low barrier. The pilot 
smiled, and the helicab began to sink delicately toward the 
ground. They touched down almost without a thud, and the credit 
reader unfolded itself from the wall of the passenger compartment, 
beeping politely but insistently. Ransome fed his card through the 
reader, winced slightly when the total was presented, but touched 
the confirmation code without further protest. The door opened, 
and Ransome swung himself out onto the brightly lit pavement. The 
cab lifted away as soon as he was clear, trailing a diminishing 
cone of light. 

 It was not a long walk from the Underface helipad to 
Shadows, but Ransome felt his lungs clog and falter, stopped in 
the mouth of a half-enclosed courtyard to breathe from the 
cylinder of Mist. He grimaced at the bitter taste, grimaced again 
as the drug took hold, the cold pain clearing his lungs. He waited 
a moment longer, listening to a strand of distant music, a single 
violo drawn against the night, that floated down from somewhere 
above him, closer to the base of the Dike. The pain faded, and he 
kept walking. Shadows appeared out of the darkness a few minutes 
later, all its windows unshuttered and blazing with light, a 
suppressed excitement humming in the air around it. Even the food 
shop across the intersection seemed quiet by comparison, both the 
bouncers, conspicuous in their rusty black jerkins and studded 
wristbands, sitting comfortably in chairs just outside the 
doorway, a thermoflask on the ground between them. 
There was no trouble gaining admission to the club, despite 
the crowd that overflowed from the main lobby into the access 
hall. Most of them wanted only to maintain their view of the large 
display screens, and were perfectly willing to let Ransome past as 
long as he showed no desire to linger. He fetched up against the 
far wall, beside the little office. The dreamy-eyed woman behind 
the counter only reluctantly took her attention from the display 
board balanced in her lap. 
"What can I do for you?" 
"Is Davvi here?" 
The abrupt request raised her eyebrows, and then she 
frowned, visibly searching her memory to match the face in front 
of her. Ransome smiled, unable to keep the expression from turning 
sour, and said, "Tell him Ambidexter's here." 
The dreamy eyes widened almost comically. "At once, 
N'Ambidexter. It's good to see you back again." 
A few of the Gamers close to the desk heard the name even 
over the direct-input sound from the room systems, and turned to 
look. Ransome met the stares blandly, and turned his attention to 
the displays overhead. In the screens, Gallio Hazard confronted a 
figure he didn't recognize, an enormously fat man in prison 
clothes. Bricks and stones, a halo of debris, floated in the air 
around him, and Ransome realized that the fat man was a 
telekinetic. 
"She is good, isn't she?" Davvi Medard-Yasine had come 

quietly through the door that led to the session rooms, and smiled 
at Ransome's shrug. 
"So far, yes," Ransome answered. "Look, Davvi, I need a 
favor." 
"You can ask," Medard-Yasine answered, but his smile 
widened. 
"I want to watch, up close. Can you get me into the control 
room?" 
"I figured," Medard-Yasine said. "Come on." 
He led the way through the door and into the depths of the 
club. These hallways were less crowded, but in nearly every side 
room a group had gathered around the VDIRT tables, and the same 
tiny figures moved in each tabletop display. The central courtyard 
was busier than Ransome had ever seen it, groups standing three 
deep at the larger tables there. Security was standing outside the 
control room, a thin unsmiling woman with specialists' badges on 
her shoulders, and the Gamers who had ventured into this area gave 
her a wide berth. They clustered at the far end of the hall, where 
someone had hooked a trio of series-linked Gameboards into a 
datanode, dividing their attention between the display screens and 
the door that led to the control areas. Medard-Yasine ignored 
them, said something quietly to Security, who nodded and stood 
back from the door controls. Ransome waited while Medard-Yasine 
keyed the entrance codes, looking politely down the hall away from 
the keypad. The people on the edges of the group looked back at 
him, frankly curious, and a couple of them put their heads 
together, murmuring to each other. Ransome smiled then, and a 
woman in the front row nudged the man next to her. Her voice 
carried quite clearly: "That's Ambidexter, I'm sure of it." 
"You've been found out," Medard-Yasine said cheerfully, and 
pushed open the door. 
Ransome followed him into the control room, crowded with 
Gamers and display equipment. A massive VDIRT table, twice as 
large as most club models, dominated the room; the scenario played 
in the air above the tabletop, the images almost solid enough to 
block out the real objects behind them, and the virtual screens in 
the tabletop itself glimmered with technical displays. Ransome 
glanced quickly at them, skimming the lines of symbols, looked 
away again to scan the crowd. Most of the Dock Road notables were 
here, all right -- and there were maybe a dozen of them; Dock Road 

was a Gamer's ghetto, especially around Underface -- and the 
flickering tie-in lights on the wall consoles meant that a lot 
more people were tapping in through MI-Net. He looked sideways, at 
Medard-Yasine, and saw a faint, feline smile of satisfaction on 
the other man's face. Ransome touched his forehead in 
acknowledgment, and turned his attention to the Game. 
-------- 
*Interlude* 
_Game/varRebel.2. 04/_ 
_subPsi. 1.22/ver22. 1/ses 1.26_ 
They crouched in the uncertain shelter of the cargo bay, 
hearing the clatter of boots on 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/JAFIERA ROSCHA worked frantically at the powerpack of their 
only heavy laser, trying to mate a salvaged blaster cell into the 
nonstandard housing. Mijja Lyall/FERNESA crouched at his side, 
unable to concentrate on either the gun or on Jack Blue/VERE 
CAMINESI, who sprawled gasping against the nearest stack of 
crates. His bulk had displaced the lowest one slightly, and Gallio 
Hazard/IMBERTINE gave the whole stack a wide berth, kneeling well 
clear of its line of fall, his pistol drawn and cocked. He had 
laid the fresh clip on the decking beside him, ready for use. Lord 
Faro/PETER SAVIAN and Ibelin Belfortune/KAZIO BELEDIN crouched as 
always a little apart from the rest, Faro a little ahead of the 
wild-eyed Belfortune, as though he could somehow protect him. 
"Where the hell is this contact?" Desir of Harmsway/ALAZAIS 
MARICHE hissed, his light pistol already drawn and ready. "Come 
on, Avellar, you can explain this one, too." 
Avellar/GARET HUARD ignored him, went to kneel on the 
warped flooring beside Jack Blue. "How is it?" he said, as much to 
Lyall as to Blue, but it was the telekinetic who answered. 
"Not so good." Blue's voice was thin and wheezy, and Lyall 
shook her head, reaching into the much-depleted medical kit. 
"If you weren't so damn fat," Harmsway sneered, and Blue 
frowned sharply. A cracked piece of the floor tiling snapped loose 
and flung itself at Harmsway's face. He ducked away from it, but 
it still struck him a grazing blow along one cheekbone, raising a 
thin line of blood. Avellar snatched the falling tile before it 

could hit anything else. 
"That's why I'm so damn fat," Blue said. The mass a 
telekinetic could move was directly related to his/her body 
weight; that he could throw even a kilogram, exhausted as he was, 
was the direct result of his obesity. 
"Save your strength," Avellar said to Blue, and looked at 
Harmsway. "The ship is there, Desir, and my contact's waiting. Go 
right ahead." 
Harmsway looked longingly at the cargo door, just twenty 
meters away across the width of the warehouse. It was even open, 
the ship's hatch gleaming in the loading lights, and he could feel 
that the last barrier was sealed only with a simple palm lock, the 
kind of thing he could open in his sleep ... if he could only get 
there. His lips thinned, and he looked away. 
"Avellar." Lyall's voice was suddenly sharp with fear, and 
Avellar swung to face her. 
"I think -- " Lyall began, then shook her head. "No, I'm 
sure. They've brought in a hunter." 
Harmsway swore, and Hazard looked back over his shoulder at 
him. 
Africa said, as if he didn't really want to know, "Hunter?" 
"Another telepath," Blue said. "One who specializes in 
sensing out his own kind." 
"How close?" Harmsway demanded, and Lyall shook her head 
again. 
"I can't tell. He -- she -- it's shielded." 
Avellar's lips tightened, and he looked at the two men who 
stood apart from the rest. Faro shifted his position slightly, 
almost in spite of himself, putting himself between Avellar and 
Belfortune. Belfortune did not seem to notice, but his free hand 
rose to the stained bandage on his left shoulder, pressed hard as 
though that would ease the pain. Avellar lifted a hand and looked 
instead at Africa. "How's it coming, Galan?" 
The technician shrugged, his hands never slowing on the 
balky connection. "We won't know until I try to use it. I think 
I've got it." 
Avellar grimaced, looked back at Belfortune. "Bel." 
"Let him be," Faro said. Belfortune passed his hand over 
his face, then reached for the gun he had laid beside him on the 
tiles. He still would not meet Avellar's eyes. 

 "Bel," Avellar said again. "We need you." 
"There's nothing I can do." Belfortune spoke flatly, 
without lifting his eyes from the floor. His useless left hand was 
tucked into the front of his jacket, held as if in a crude sling. 
"Bullshit," Harmsway said. "That's fucking bullshit, and 
you know it. Just because you don't like thinking you're one of 
us, just because you and him" -- his free hand swept out to 
indicate Lord Faro, who lifted an arrogant eyebrow in response -- 
"have had the Baron's favor, you don't want to admit what you are. 
You could get us all killed, or you could save us. You're a 
vampire, damn you, and right now that could save all our lives." 
Belfortune's good hand closed convulsively over the gun, 
and he brought it up in a single smooth motion, leveling it at 
Harmsway. Harmsway stared back at him unmoving, handsome face set 
in his mask of habitual contempt. Avellar stirred, but said 
nothing after all. 
"I'm not a vampire," Belfortune said after a moment, and 
the gun's muzzle wavered and fell. "Yes, I'm psi, I've never 
denied it -- " 
"Like hell," Harmsway said. 
Belfortune swept on as though he hadn't spoken. " -- but 
I'm only an interference maker. All I can do is fuck up somebody 
trying to use their psi. I can't stop them. I can't take their 
power away." 
"But you can." Lyall's voice was very soft, but they all 
heard her. "The tests were conclusive, I was there, I ran them. 
When you want to, you can stop all psi use cold." 
"And then what?" Belfortune asked. He smiled bitterly, 
without a trace of humor. "That's the part no one ever asks about, 
do they, Mijja? Because what happens is they die. I take their 
power, and they die without it." 
"Bel." Faro's voice was gentle, as though there was no one 
else near them, and all the time in the world. 
"You know what happens." Belfortune's voice scaled upward, 
toward hysteria. "You know how they die. Oh, God, the taste of it 
in my mind -- " 
Faro reached out to him, but Harmsway cut him off. "Jesus 
Christ. It's a hunter. And if you don't kill him, we're dead." 
"Shut up, Desir," Avellar said. He looked at Belfortune. 
"Bel -- " 

 Belfortune shook his head. "I can't, Avellar. Not won't. I 
can't do it." 
"Let it be," Faro said, with unexpected authority. He and 
Avellar locked stares for a moment, and then Avellar turned away. 
"Ready," Africa said, and held out the laser. Hazard took 
it warily, slipped his pistol and its spare clip back onto his 
belt. 
"What do we do now, Avellar?" he said. 
"Without Belfortune -- " Lyall began, and broke off with a 
gasp. 
Avellar took a deep breath. "We have to get on board the 
ship. And if the Baron's brought in a hunter, they'll know where 
we are any minute now. We'll have to fight." 
"What a wonderful plan," Harmsway jeered. "And how typical 
of your planning. Damn you, Royal, why didn't you leave me here?" 
Avellar looked at him, face absolutely without emotion. "I 
told you once, I need you, need your talent. I can't take the 
throne without your help." 
Africa looked up as though he'd been stung, and Hazard 
spoke quickly, cutting off anything the technician might have 
said. "But to fight, Royal?" 
Jack Blue said, "He's right, Avellar. The odds aren't in 
our favor." 
Avellar looked at Belfortune. "You hear them, Belfortune. 
It's your choice." 
"I can't," Belfortune said, his voice little louder than a 
whisper. "I can't." 
"He's found us," Lyall said. Her eyes were closed, face 
furrowed with concentration as she brought her minimal telepathy 
to bear on the problem. "He's at the east entrance, and the chase 
squads are joining him." 
"Oh, shit," Harmsway said. "Shit, shit, shit." He flung 
himself out from under the shelter of the shelves, started down 
the corridor toward the eastern entrance. Overhead, a light 
fixture exploded in a shower of sparks; to his left, a cargo robot 
spun awkwardly on its treads, and started toward the entrance as 
well. Fat sparks gathered around him, snapped from his fingers and 
flickered away from him across the metal shelves and the walkways 
overhead as he tapped into and overloaded the cargo bay's 
electrical systems. He turned down the first side corridor, and 

vanished. 
"Desir -- !" Avellar began, closed his mouth over whatever 
he would have said. "Hazard, get after him, get him back if you 
can." 
Hazard nodded. "But not for you, Royal," he said, and 
started after the electrokinetic, the laser still gripped in his 
hands. 
Avellar looked down at Belfortune, who still crouched 
against the cases. "Damn you to hell, Belfortune," he whispered. 
"Give me a reason I shouldn't kill you now." 
Belfortune did not answer, did not even seem to hear, and 
Faro said, "You pushed him too hard, Avellar, you and Harmsway. If 
you'd given me time -- " 
Avellar stared at him for an instant, but then nodded, 
acknowledging the rebuke. "All right," he said, "get moving, all 
of you. Head for the hatch." 
"We can still back him up," Africa said. 
Blue shook his head, said, in a voice suddenly as old and 
tired as he looked, "He's dead, man. They're both dead. They'll be 
on him in a minute." 
As if to underscore his words, the whine of laser fire 
sounded from somewhere near the east entrance, followed a moment 
later by the distinctive crack as an electrokinetically induced 
overload destroyed a laser's powerpack. 
Avellar winced. "All we can do now," he said, "is get to 
the ship." 
"He's right," Blue said, and hauled himself to his feet, 
steadied by Lyall and Africa. "Let's go." 
-------- 
*Game/VarRebel.2.04/subPsi.1.22/ver22.1/ses1.27* 
Harmsway moved through the corridors in a hailstorm of 
electricity, glorying in a strength and skill he hadn't known he 
possessed. Lights exploded overhead, spilled streamers of fire 
from the open circuits; he caught and shaped that inchoate power 
into bolts, and flung them in the faces of the Baron's troops as 
they moved to engage him. Outside the sphere of his influence, 
lights flickered, control panels flashing yellow and red as he 
overloaded the system. He felt it, reached out to compensate, 
groping for access to the main power grid. 
The first laser bolt spun him sideways into a stack of 

crates. He caught himself against their metal sides, electricity 
crackling unheeded from his hands, turned to point at the soldier, 
using his finger as focus and guide for his power. Stored 
electricity leaped from the nearest output node, flashed along his 
arm and across the intervening meters to strike the laser's 
powerpack. It blew in a sheet of flame, and the soldier fell, 
screaming. Harmsway caught his breath, aware of a new pain in his 
chest, tried to flex his shoulder and failed, and shrugged the 
other shoulder and kept walking, back toward the east entrance 
where the hunter had been waiting. 
There were more of the Baron's guard waiting around the 
next corner, crouched behind the shield of a heavy gatling. 
Harmsway took a deep breath that burned in his lungs, 
concentrated, and reached out for the gun's control circuits. The 
guards fired in the same instant, a brief hail of lead before 
Harmsway found the gatling's electronics and destroyed the system. 
They had barely had time to aim, but two of the bullets struck his 
hip and leg. He staggered against the nearest stack of crates, 
tried to take a step, and fell, sliding against the bare metal 
until he was barely sitting, propped up against the crates. The 
first of the two surviving soldiers leveled his laser. Harmsway 
fought back the pain, and reached for the nearest output node. He 
drew power from it, but his side and leg burned and throbbed, and 
the electricity streamed out uncontrolled, writhed across the 
intervening metal of the floor like a fiery snake. The soldiers 
fell back for a moment, but then the second man, better protected 
by the gatling's smoking carcass, raised his laser again. There 
were more soldiers coming up the corridor behind him, and an 
airsled rode in their midst: the Baron himself was coming to see 
the end of the hunt. Harmsway braced himself to die. 
Hazard rounded the last corner at that moment, and the 
soldiers swung instinctively to cover him. He took in the 
situation at a glance -- Harmsway down, blood and burned flesh 
everywhere, the soldiers with leveled lasers and the rest of the 
troop coming up behind them -- and started to raise his heavy 
laser for the last time. 
"Don't shoot," a whispering voice said from the airsled's 
closed cabin, and Hazard froze. Harmsway made a small, painful 
sound, but the voice went on anyway, as though no one had spoken. 
"Hazard, you're not a fool. Put down your gun, and I'm sure we can 

come to some agreement." 
Hazard hesitated, the muzzle of the gun wavering slightly -- 
to fire was suicide, his and Harmsway's, but the speaker was Baron 
Vortex, and his word could never be trusted. 
"Your friend is badly hurt, maybe dying," the voice went 
on. "But he could be saved. Put down your gun, Gallio Hazard, and 
I'll see that he lives." 
"And me?" Hazard asked, with a short laugh. 
"And you," the voice agreed. "Both of you will live." 
"Why?" 
"You're running short of time," the voice murmured, with a 
note like amusement, and Hazard shook his head. 
"Why?" he said again. 
"I need telepaths," the voice said. "Electrokinetics of 
Harmsway's talent are rare, to say the least; he may even be 
unique. You were not badly treated here, and if you cooperate, you 
can live quite well -- you both can live quite well. Is Avellar's 
rebellion worth that much to you?" 
Hazard hesitated for a moment longer, then, very slowly, 
laid his laser on the tiles, slid it hard toward the waiting 
soldiers. "All right," he said. "We surrender." 
"Excellent," the voice purred, and changed instantly to a 
snap of command. "Medics, see to that man. You, guard, search this 
one properly." 
Hazard lifted his hands, and submitted to the search, 
watching over the soldiers' shoulders as a medical team swarmed 
over Harmsway's unconscious body, loaded it into a medsled, and 
sped away. The nearest soldier prodded him, and he forced himself 
to move, walking back toward the entrance and the long trek back 
to the prison complex. 
-------- 
*Game/varRebel.2.04/subPsi.1.22/ver22.1/ses1.28* 
There were only two guards by the cargo door, both staring 
nervously toward the sound of Harmsway's attack. They were 
sheltered by the hatchway, not an easy shot at all, and Avellar 
paused in the shelter of the final rack of crates, considering 
them cautiously. After a moment, he beckoned to Africa. The man 
frowned, but slipped forward to join the rebel leader. 
"You're the best shot of all of us," Avellar said, leaning 
close, his voice an almost soundless whisper. "Can you take them?" 

 Africa frowned. "Not with a pistol." 
Avellar made a face, but eased back into the shelter of the 
crates. After a moment, Africa followed, still frowning. 
"Let me," Faro said. 
Avellar shook his head. Before he could say anything, Jack 
Blue interrupted. 
"I can draw them out, Avellar. Leave it to me." 
Avellar looked uncertainly at him for a moment -- a fat 
man, wheezing, leaning awkwardly on Lyall's shoulder -- but slowly 
nodded. "If you can lure them out here..." 
"We can take them," Africa said. "Can't we, Faro?" 
Lord Faro nodded, snapped the last power cell into the butt 
of his pistol. 
"Do it," Avellar said. 
Blue closed his eyes, frowned, and let himself sink crosslegged 
onto the tiled floor. Slowly, the frown eased away from his 
heavy features, and his hands lay lax on his thighs. A few moments 
later, something stirred in the corridor to their right: it 
sounded like someone walking, the heavy, uncertain footsteps of a 
wounded man. 
Lyall said, almost in the same moment, "They're buying it." 
The first of the guards peered out of the hatchway, put up 
his faceplate to listen more closely. Africa leveled his pistol, 
but Lord Faro laid a restraining hand on his arm. 
"Wait for the other one," he said, very softly. 
Africa nodded, lowered the pistol again. 
Blue was sweating lightly now, forehead furrowed in 
concentration. In the corridor, the footsteps faltered, something 
metal fell with a clatter, and then the footsteps picked up again, 
more slowly. The guard cocked his head to one side, listening, 
then pulled the faceplate down again. Avellar held his breath, 
afraid to move. Very slowly, Lyall crossed her fingers, closed her 
eyes, and played out her minimal power the way a fisherman plays a 
line, easing out a tendril of curiosity to draw the guard toward 
the strange noises. The guard held up his hand at last, and 
beckoned to his partner. The second guard came up to the edge of 
the hatch, but stopped just inside the heavy frame. Africa 
breathed a curse: the hatchway still blocked their shot. 
"Wait for it," Faro murmured, the words almost a mantra. 
"Wait for it." 

 The guards stood still for a moment longer, visibly 
conferring via the helmet links. Then the first guard started 
toward the sound of the footsteps, and the second man moved out of 
the hatchway to cover him. 
"Now!" Avellar said. 
The others fired almost as he spoke. The second guard fell 
without a sound, crumpling back into the hatchway. The first guard 
spun around, staggered by the shot, but fought to keep his feet 
and bring his laser to bear. Africa fired again, and this time he 
went down. 
"Did he warn the main party?" Avellar demanded, looking at 
Lyall. 
The telepath shook her head. "I don't think so." 
"Then let's go," Avellar said. He looked down at Blue, who 
was slowly opening his eyes, extended a hand to help him to his 
feet. Faro did the same, and together they pulled the telekinetic 
upright. Belfortune stepped forward without a word, took Avellar's 
place. He winced when his share of Blue's weight hit him, but made 
no sound. 
"Let's go," Avellar said again, and started across the open 
corridor toward the hatch. The others followed, Africa still with 
his laser at the ready, but nothing moved to stop them. 
They crowded into the narrow space, and Avellar laid his 
hand against the sensor panel that regulated access to the 
freighter's cargo lock. There was a soft click, and then a highpitched 
tone. 
"Royal Avellar," he said distinctly, and waited. A 
heartbeat later, the cargo lock creaked open. Familiar people, 
familiar faces, were waiting inside the lock, and Avellar allowed 
himself to relax for the first time since they had left the prison 
complex. 
"Thank God you made it," a well-remembered voice said, and 
Avellar grimaced, relief and chagrin equally mingled in his face. 
"Danile. I didn't get him." 
"I know." The man -- greying, thin, a long, heavily 
embroidered coat thrown over expensively plain shirt and trousers - 
- looked back at him gravely. "But you're safe, and alive, and 
well out of this place. And the rest of you, too." His eyes swept 
over the others, stopped when he saw Faro. "So." The word was 
little more than a hiss. "You found something you wanted more than 

your lands, Faro?" 
Faro glared back at him, then deliberately reached out to 
touch Belfortune's wounded shoulder. "Yes. And I've paid, Danile. 
I can't go back to the Baron now." 
There was a little silence, broken by one of the crew 
saying urgently, "Sirs..." 
Danile nodded. "All right, Faro. All of you, we have to 
hurry. We're cleared for departure, let's go while we can." 
There was a ragged murmur of agreement, and the group began 
to move further into the ship, following Danile and Avellar. The 
cargo door slid shut behind them, closing off their last view of 
Ixion's Wheel. 
-------- 
*Evening, Day 30* 
_High Spring: Shadows, Face_ 
_Road, Dock Road District_ 
_Below the Old Dike_ 
There was a little silence after the session ended, the 
images fading slowly from the VDIRT table, and then a murmur of 
satisfaction, of pleasure, before the applause began. Ransome 
joined with the rest, but long before they'd finished, he was 
pushing his way through the crowd to Medard-Yasine's side. "I want 
to meet her, Davvi." 
Medard-Yasine looked blank for a moment, then visibly 
pulled himself out of the Game universe. "So long as you're not 
planning to kill her, I-Jay. I want her working here." 
Ransome gave his crooked smile. "No, I wasn't planning on 
it. She did a pretty good job with that scenario." _Better than 
pretty good; it was her players who held her back. God, wouldn't I 
love to play a session, show them all how it should be done_... It 
had been a long time since he had felt that way about any of the 
Game versions, and his smile widened for an instant. 
"Can I quote you?" Medard-Yasine said. 
"Maybe. Once I've met her." 
Medard-Yasine laughed. "Come on, then." 
The players were gathering in one of the larger lounges, 
where food and drink were already set out for the players -- on 
the house, Gueremei said loudly. Medard-Yasine nodded his 
agreement, and moved off with only a quick word of apology to 
supervise the house staff. Ransome stood just inside the door, 

content to watch from a distance for now, matching names and real 
faces to voices that had become oddly familiar. Savian and Beledin 
he had recognized instantly, despite the new implants glimmering 
in Beledin's eyes, and seeing them standing with their arms around 
each other, he guessed that their old affair might rekindle for 
the night. A thin, olive-skinned young man in a steward's jacket 
stood blinking for a moment in the doorway, the mark of his shades 
prominent on his nose, and Beledin detached himself from Savian's 
hold to embrace the newcomer. _Jack Blue?_ Ransome wondered, and 
the steward's voice confirmed it. Huard he knew also, admitted 
grudgingly that the man had done a good job within conventional 
limits, as had Mariche. He searched the crowd for an instant 
before he found her, was not surprised to find her hooked up to 
another terminal, waiting to see if her ratings had changed. 
Imbertine -- _who did better than I expected, given the others' 
conventional play_ -- floated in his chair at her side, rubbing 
his wrists as though the bracelets chafed him. Ransome allowed 
himself another quick smile -- Mariche had always been overly 
concerned with rankings. That left Roscha -- _Galan Africa_ -- and 
Lioe. He looked again, and realized that the stunning redhead 
talking to Huard must be one of the players. _Roscha, then -- and 
it's a shame her mouth is that hair too big, or she'd be perfect. 
So where's Lioe?_ 
Even as he thought it, the door from the session room 
opened again, and a tall, lanky woman came into the room. She was 
dark, her skin the color of old bronze, and her face was made up 
of stark planes, a severe and sculptural beauty. A pilot's hat, a 
small one, just a narrow toque with a knot of spangled fabric 
wound around it, hugged her close-cut hair. Then someone called to 
her, a voice out of the crowd congratulating her on the session, 
and she turned to face him, her expression breaking into a smile 
that shattered the stony beauty and gave her instead a vivid 
plainness. Ransome caught his breath -- he hadn't expected that, 
had expected a woman with looks like that to use them, to stay 
always grave and expressionless, to fear the sudden change -- and 
in that moment someone spoke his name. 
"Having fun, I-Jay?" 
He looked down and down again, to the upturned face and 
half-bared breasts of a tiny, perfect woman. She smiled up at him, 
well aware of and comfortable with his regard, and Ransome was 

unable to keep his own smile in return from twisting slightly out 
of true. "Oh, enormously," he said. "Are you here professionally, 
Cella, or are you here to play?" 
If the barb touched her, she gave no sign of it. "To play -- 
or to watch, rather. It was nice of you to drop in, I-Jay, after 
all this time. But then, somebody was playing with your toys." 
She kept her tone light, masking the insult, but Ransome 
was not deceived. "Why do you care if I'm out of the Game?" 
Cella laughed at him, a lovely, practiced sound. "We've 
missed you, I-Jay, missed Ambidexter. Though with this Lioe 
around, that may be less of a problem. She does very well with 
your templates, don't you think?" 
"Well enough," Ransome said. _But I'm better_. He 
controlled the impulse to boast, said instead, "Have you been 
playing much lately, Cella?" He knew perfectly well that she had 
been, that her most recent session had been panned by most of the 
nets as too political, and that the one before that had gotten an 
A rating on- and off-world -- _and did she deliberately blow a 
session, set it up so you couldn 't miss the politics, just to try 
to lure me back on line?_ It didn't seem likely -- one did not 
waste a session that way, not if one was serious about the Game -- 
but he couldn't shake the sudden suspicion. 
"Oh, I've been running a session or two," Cella said. "But 
we've all missed your input." 
"I'll have to see if I can remedy that," Ransome said 
slowly, and was not reassured by Cella's blinding smile. _I'm 
doing what you want, Chauvelin, but I'm not at all happy about it. 
At least I've got an excuse. Except that Lioe's good, good the way 
I was, and I don't think I'd've missed her play_. 
"I'll look forward to it." Cella touched his arm lightly, 
and slipped away into the crowd. Ransome watched her make her way 
between the groups of much taller men and women, a tiny, opulent 
shape in rich violet silk, her blue-black hair piled in braids 
interwoven with strands of the same clear color. She paused to 
speak briefly with one of the other Gamers, and then vanished 
among the crowd. Ransome stared a moment longer, wondering what 
she and Damian Chrestil were up to this time, then resolutely 
looked away. 
"I-Jay!" Beledin was waving to him from across the room. "I 
should've known you'd come." 

 Ransome made his way to join the other, allowed himself one 
genuinely mischievous smile before he smoothed his expression. 
"Hello, Bel. It was a good session." 
Beledin nodded. "It was." 
"That's what I always liked about you, Bel," Ransome 
murmured. "No false modesty." 
Beledin ignored him, gestured to the two men standing with 
him. "You know Peter, but I don't know if you've met Vere?" 
Ransome started to shake his head, looking at the steward's 
jacket, then frowned, a vague memory teasing him. 
"Audovero Caminesi, _dit_ Vere," the young man said with 
prompt courtesy. 
"Illario Ransome." Ransome held out his hand, still 
frowning. "Have we met?" 
"I played a tenth-run session of yours a few years ago, 
back when you -- when Ambidexter was still working out of Two- 
Dragons," Vere answered, and took the other's hand. 
Ransome nodded, unable to sort him out from the hundreds of 
other players, and took refuge in present truths. "It was a good 
session, quality play, tonight. I liked what you did with Jack 
Blue -- did you set the weight, or was it a given?" 
"Player's choice," Vere answered. He shrugged, trying for 
nonchalance. "I figured he'd need all the help he could get, 
playing with Grand Types, and the heavier he was the more powerful 
he was." 
"Makes sense," Ransome said. In spite of himself, in spite 
of everything he'd ever said about the Game, it was too easy to 
get caught up in the old interests. He shrugged one shoulder, 
annoyed at himself for no reason, and looked away. 
The servers had already been around with the drinks tray. 
Savian drained the last of his glass, and lifted a hand to wave to 
someone in the crowd. "Na Lioe! There's someone here you should 
meet." 
"Peter." Beledin frowned quickly at him, at the emptied 
glass, and looked at Ransome. "I-Jay. She's good -- " 
"Trust me," Ransome said, and turned to face the woman as 
she emerged from the crowd. 
Lioe looked warily from Savian to the stranger, aware of 
undercurrents but uncertain of their meanings. The stranger smiled 
back at her -- a gaunt, white-faced man with deep lines that 

bracketed his mouth, turning his expression crooked -- and said, 
"I'm pleased to meet you, Na Lioe." 
Lioe nodded, waiting for the name, and the stranger's smile 
broadened. 
"I'm Illario Ransome." 
"Na Ransome." Lioe held out her hand, and the stranger took 
it, his grip neither testing nor condescendingly weak, still with 
that crooked smile. 
"He's Ambidexter," Vere said, and for an instant sounded 
all of twelve years old. Ransome gave him a fleeting, amused 
glance, and the younger man flushed to the roots of his hair. 
"You left some good characters," Lioe said, mildly annoyed 
by his treatment of her player. "It's a shame you quit the Game." 
There was a sudden silence, spreading from her words, and 
she was aware of Savian's open grin, daring her to say more. 
Beledin kicked his friend just above the ankle, not gently, but 
the Republican ignored him. Ransome stared back at her for a long 
moment, and then, slowly, the crooked smile widened, became real 
and unexpectedly appealing. The whole shape of his face changed, 
gaining sudden lines and hollows; his coarse grey-streaked hair 
fell untidily into his eyes. He pushed it back impatiently, as 
though he were no longer conscious of the movement, said, "I 
mightn't've done, if there'd been sessions like this to play in. I 
enjoyed watching." 
"Thanks," Lioe said. _I will not apologize for playing your 
characters_. 
"I'll be looking forward to seeing more of your work," 
Ransome said. 
"That's high praise, from Ambidexter," Savian murmured. 
Ransome cocked an eyebrow at him, but did not answer. Lioe 
said, with deliberate nonchalance, aiming for exactly the tone she 
would have used with anyone, "Thanks. You should come and play 
sometime." 
The expressive eyebrows rose even higher. Lioe met the 
stare blandly, and, quite suddenly, Ransome laughed. "I might, at 
that. It was a pleasure to meet you, Na Lioe." 
"And you," Lioe said, and couldn't keep a hint of irony out 
of her voice. She was already speaking to his back, however; she 
was sure he heard, but he made no response. "I think," she added, 
mostly under her breath, and was rewarded by a rather nervous 

giggle from Vere. 
"Would you like some _methode?_" Beledin said hastily, and 
Lioe nodded. 
"So that's Ambidexter," she said, and accepted the glass 
that Beledin held out to her. The liquor was thick and fizzy, and 
cheaply sweet. She took a careful swallow, waiting for their 
answers. 
"Indeed it is," Savian said. 
"He's a good player," Beledin said. "Nobody's matched his 
Court templates, outside the Grand Game." 
"Harmsway's a great character," Vere agreed. 
Once diverted into the Game, they could go on for hours. 
Lioe glanced away from the conversation, searching for Ambidexter - 
- Ransome -- among the crowding bodies. He was not a tall man, and 
it took her a minute to find him. He was standing with Gueremei 
and the man who had been pointed out to her as Davvi Medard- 
Yasine, Shadows' primary owner -- standing between the two of 
them, so that he seemed to be holding court, the other two dancing 
attendance. _Does he do that on purpose?_ she wondered. _It's 
obnoxious -- but he does do it well_. "Why did he quit gaming?" 
she asked, and the others looked at her in surprise. 
"Ransome, you mean?" Beledin asked, and Lioe nodded. 
"Sheer pique," Savian said, with a wicked grin. 
"Give it a fucking rest," Beledin said. He looked back at 
Lioe, shrugged one shoulder. "He said he was bored. And he's got 
his story eggs to keep him busy." 
There was a note of constraint in his voice, the faintest 
hint of something unspoken. Lioe cocked her head, wondering how to 
ask, and Savian said, "They're easier than real people." 
Beledin scowled, opened his mouth to say something, and 
Savian held up both hands. "I'm not being bitchy, that's the 
truth. I think he got tired of trying to bully his players into 
doing what he wanted." There was something in his voice -- a 
certainty, maybe -- that silenced Beledin. 
"So what did Ambidexter want?" That was Roscha, emerging 
from the crowd like the avenging angel in a popular film. Lioe 
caught her breath, impressed in spite of herself -- in spite of 
being all too familiar with the type, of having written the 
template for the type -- by the streetwise swagger and the 
striking figure. 

 "He said he enjoyed the session," Vere said. 
Roscha whistled softly. "From him, that's a compliment and 
a half." 
"So what does he do?" Lioe asked. "Now that he doesn't 
play." 
Roscha shrugged -- clearly, the world outside the Game 
meant nothing to her, Lioe thought, not sure if she admired or was 
annoyed by the attitude -- and Beledin said, "He's an artist, an 
imagist, actually. He makes story eggs." 
"What are those?" The others looked rather oddly at her, 
and Lioe smiled broadly to hide her embarrassment. "I don't know 
them." _And I dare you to comment, either_. 
Beledin gestured, shaping a sphere, an ovoid, about twenty 
centimeters long, miming a size and weight that would be 
reasonably comfortable in the hand. "It's ... they have these 
pictures in them, like a holofilm loop, that tells a story -- 
suggests it, more like. You look through a lens at one end to see 
the display. They're really neat, the ones I've seen, very 
stylized, so you do a lot of guessing." He stopped, shrugged. "I'm 
just a musician, though. I don't know much about it." There was 
frustration in his voice, as though he was still looking for the 
words to describe what he'd seen. 
Savian said, all trace of malice or mischief gone from his 
tone, "They really are spectacular, some -- most of them. I saw 
one, it was just a plain, black metal case, smaller than usual, 
something you could put in your pocket, but when you looked into 
it, it was as though you were looking into a Five Points palazze. 
It was all golden lights, and carved furniture, and jewels, and 
velvets, and you could just see two figures moving through that 
setting, in and out of the clutter of things. You could turn the 
egg, rotate it, I mean, and you could see more bits and pieces of 
the scene, but you could never be quite sure what the two were 
doing, whether it was courtship, seduction, or one of them trying 
to escape. And you never could see the end of the scene, either, 
no matter how hard you tried." He shook his head. "It was very -- 
well, sensual, more than sexy, but ambiguous, too, so you couldn't 
be comfortable with it." He paused, tried a smile that carried at 
least some of his former detachment. "I don't think Ransome likes 
you to be comfortable." 
_I can believe that_, Lioe thought, glanced again through 

the crowd. Ransome had moved away from Gueremei and Medard-Yasine, 
was standing for that moment a little apart from all the rest, a 
glass of _methode_ in one hand, the other deep in the pocket of 
his plain black trousers. For just an instant, his face was 
without expression, held nothing but its lines and a bone-deep 
exhaustion. Then someone spoke to him, and Lioe saw his face 
change, take on a mask of detached amusement. _So that's where 
Savian got it_, she thought, and had to hide a grin, deliberately 
turning her back to Ransome. 
"That was a great session, Na Lioe." 
Lioe turned to face the speaker, a stocky, dark-haired man 
with a horus-eye tattoo on one cheek, half concealing the delicate 
data socket. 
"Thanks," she said, and Gueremei, coming up behind the man, 
cleared her throat gently. 
"I don't think you've met Davvi -- Davvi Medard-Yasine, our 
main owner." 
Lioe murmured something, and Medard-Yasine grinned, rather 
sheepishly. 
"Sorry, Na Lioe, I've seen enough of your work on the 
intersystems nets that I feel as though I know you. But it was a 
great session tonight." 
"I enjoyed it," Lioe said, and waited. 
"I wonder," Medard-Yasine began, and turned a shoulder to 
the other players, deftly easing her away from the others, "if 
you'd consider coming to a temporary agreement with us here at 
Shadows. I understand from Lia that you're only on planet for half 
a week?" 
"Five days at minimum," Lioe said, and then remembered that 
Burning Bright kept a ten-day week. "The ship I'm crewing for is 
in dock for recalibration of the sail projectors, so I'm dependent 
on the dockyards. They told my boss it would take five to eight 
days." 
Medard-Yasine nodded. "Would it be presumptuous to assume 
you meant to spend most of that time gaming?" 
"This is Burning Bright," Lioe said, with a smile to take 
the sting out of her words. "I'd call that a reasonable 
assumption. Yes, I was hoping to get in as many sessions as 
possible." 
"After tonight's session," Medard-Yasine said, "we'd be 

interested in anything else you might have ready to run. We'd be 
willing to offer twenty-five percent of the fees, and free machine 
time to prepare any new ideas." 
"That's very generous," Lioe said, and meant it. Most 
Gaming clubs made a good proportion of their income from the fees 
they charged for use of the club's equipment. A session could be 
outlined easily enough on a Gameboard, but fine-tuning the details 
took the raw power -- and often the more extensive libraries -- 
available through the clubs. It had cost her over a hundred 
credits to complete just the prison segments of Ixion's Wheel. 
"We're very interested," Medard-Yasine said. 
Lioe grinned. "Would this be an exclusive deal?" 
"We'd want it that way," Medard-Yasine agreed. 
"I see." She hadn't really meant much by that, was just 
buying time, but Medard-Yasine's thick brows drew together 
slightly. 
"We'd also be prepared to pay an exclusive-use fee, for 
Ixion's Wheel, on a time-limited basis." 
"You are serious," Lioe said, smiling, and Medard-Yasine 
nodded. His face was completely without expression, and Lioe 
realized for the first time that he meant to buy her -- her 
presence at the club, as a session leader -- and her scenario, 
whatever it cost him. It was an unfamiliar feeling, and somewhat 
unsettling; she wondered if she had been selling herself short, 
back on Callixte. That was an unpleasant thought, and 
unproductive; she dragged herself back to the business at hand. 
"What kind of a time period?" 
"The length of your stay," Medard-Yasine said promptly. 
"Or, since you're not sure how long that will be, a week -- ten 
days. We're prepared to offer you five hundred _real_, over and 
above your cut of the session fees, and of course the free machine 
time, on a second-priority basis, if you'll let us have an 
exclusive license on Ixion's Wheel for the next ten days. And, of 
course, if you'll run at least five sessions for us." 
Lioe hesitated, juggling numbers in her head. She could 
expect to clear about fifty _real_ per session, if Shadows' fees 
were in line with the rest of the club system's; that plus the 
five hundred would pay all her bills at the transients' hostel, 
and the machine time would let her explore some ideas that had 
been nagging at her for most of the trip, ideas that sprang 

directly from Ixion's Wheel.... She curbed her enthusiasm. It also 
meant that someone else would be running her scenario several 
times a day, without her having any control at all over how it was 
handled. But then, most of those players would be household Gamers 
anyway, people who couldn't handle the scenario without a highly 
interventionist session leader, not at all the kind of players she 
wanted to be bothered with anymore. "What if it turns out that 
people want to play more than five sessions, and my schedule lets 
me handle it?" she asked, still playing for time. 
Medard-Yasine said, "From what you've told me, I don't know 
how likely that is." He grinned, and looked suddenly years 
younger. "With Storm coming -- the Carnival, that is -- I'd expect 
you to want to see some of the celebration. Frankly, I don't 
expect my full-timers to do much work, this time of year." 
Gueremei gave a short bark of laughter, and Medard-Yasine gave her 
a conspiratorial glance. "But if you do find time to give us some 
extra sessions, I'll match whatever you make from fees." 
Lioe nodded. "All right," she said. "It sounds like a good 
deal. I'm willing to try it." 
"Excellent," Medard-Yasine said, and smiled again. "I'll 
draw up a contract, and you can drop by anytime tomorrow -- " 
"Anytime?" Gueremei said, and Medard-Yasine grimaced. 
"All right, anytime after noon. I'll have a voucher for the 
fees waiting then, too." 
"It sounds good," Lioe said. "I'll see you then." 
"It's good to have you in the house," Medard-Yasine said. 
"Even if it's only for a few days." They clasped hands again, and 
then he and Gueremei moved away. 
Left to herself, Lioe took a careful step backward, away 
from the crowd of Gamers. She was flattered by Medard-Yasine's 
praise, flattered and startled and suspicious in about equal 
measures, and she wanted time to think. It wasn't that she 
disliked the noise and the babble and the flying cross-talk that 
surrounded her, compliment and critique and commentary filling the 
air around her, but it distracted her, made her feel almost too 
much at home. Her decision wasn't irrevocable -- she could always 
refuse to sign the contract the next morning -- but she felt the 
sudden need to sit down somewhere quiet and work out what she'd 
done. Nothing but good, seemingly: a damn good session, a 
contract, even a compliment from Ambidexter, which, after she'd 

used his character without permission, was an accomplishment 
indeed. From what the others had said, Ambidexter had a reputation 
for being possessive -- _and I probably wouldn't 've done it if 
I'd realized he was still around_. 
She scanned the groups of players, looking again for 
Ambidexter -- _Ransome_, she corrected herself, _Illario Ransome_ - 
- but the thin figure had vanished. _Out of sight, or gone?_ she 
wondered, and the stab of disappointment was unexpectedly keen. 
_Why the hell should I care? Except that he was -- is? -- 
Ambidexter, and he complimented my play. That's reason enough for 
any Gamer. But ... I want to talk to him again_. 
"So." 
That was Africa's voice, at her elbow, and Lioe turned, was 
vaguely startled to see Roscha's striking face instead of the 
session's icon. Roscha went on, apparently unaware of the other's 
surprise, or so used to it as to be immune to the effect. 
"Did he make you a decent offer?" She held out a glass of 
_methode_ as she spoke, added, "I saw you weren't drinking." 
"Thanks," Lioe said, and accepted the tall glass. The wine 
was comfortingly familiar, and she drank with pleasure. 
"So will you be working here?" Roscha asked. 
Lioe lifted an eyebrow, and the other woman stared back, 
unimpressed and still curious. "We're -- negotiating," Lioe said 
after a moment, and Roscha grinned, not the least abashed. 
"Shadows is a good club, and the play's quality. You ought 
to think about it." 
"I am thinking about it," Lioe said, and laid the lightest 
of stresses on _thinking_. The party was winding down around her, 
session participants and observers alike edging toward the door. 
She glanced sideways to call up the implanted chronometer's 
display -- one of the minor conveniences that came with a pilot's 
job -- and saw without surprise that it was past local midnight. 
Savian and Beledin stood close together near the far wall; even as 
she watched, Beledin smiled, and touched the other man's shoulder, 
easing him toward the door. He caught her eye, and the smile 
widened to a grin, and then they were gone. Vere was nowhere in 
sight, nor Imbertine; Mariche was deep in conversation with a 
handsome, greyhaired man, who leaned close, resting a tentative 
hand on her waist. Huard stood next to a full-bodied woman with 
gold flowers painted on her dark skin and hsaii ribbons woven in 

her hair. Even as Lioe watched, the woman reached up to touch 
Huard's face, the flowers glittering in the cold light. 
She looked away politely, feeling vaguely jealous -- why 
should she be the only one going home alone? -- and Roscha said, 
"If you're interested, I know a good after-hours bar. After that 
session, I owe you a drink." 
Lioe glanced curiously at her, wondering if she really had 
heard a double invitation, and what she would do about it if she 
had. Roscha was a striking woman, there was no doubt about it, the 
strong sexy curves well displayed by the plain workcloth trousers 
and the thin knit shirt beneath the worn jerkin. More than that, 
though, she was something familiar, a kind of Gamer Lioe knew and 
understood, and all of a sudden she was hungry for just that 
familiarity. "Thanks," she said. "I'll take you up on that." 
Roscha's smile in return was dazzling. "It's the least I 
can do. You gave me a great character." 
_I didn't choose you, unfortunately_, Lioe thought, _and 
Africa's pretty conventional_. She mumbled something in answer, 
and looked around for Aliar Gueremei. The older woman was standing 
with a group of Gamers on the far side of the room. Lioe lifted a 
hand to catch her eye, and started toward her, but Gueremei waved 
her away, her expression at once amused and approving. Lioe waved 
back, and turned toward the door. Roscha followed her from the 
room. 
The hallways were less crowded than they had been, but 
players still clustered in the courtyard, busy at the food bars 
and in the lobby. A few of them called congratulations; Lioe 
nodded back, called polite responses, and felt the sense of 
satisfaction growing in her. She had done well, and she deserved 
the praise. Outside Shadows, the street was quiet, only dimly lit 
by the cool spheres at each intersection, and Lioe checked in 
spite of herself. The food shop seemed all but deserted, the 
orange light behind its open door like the glow of a banked fire. 
Music no longer spilled into the street, and even the bouncers had 
disappeared. 
"The club's down toward the Straight," Roscha said, and 
Lioe jumped a little. 
"How are the streets, this late?" she asked. 
Roscha shrugged, looking rather surprised at the question. 
"Not bad -- not in this quarter, anyway." She tossed her head to 

send her thick hair tumbling back over her shoulders. "Come Storm, 
of course, everybody will be out all night, but I don't know if 
that makes you any safer." 
_True enough_, Lioe thought, _true on any planet. But I 
wonder if your definition of "safe" matches mine_. "That's the 
Carnival, right?" _Keep her talking, and see what it is she wants. 
Since I think I could want her too_. 
"Yeah. The winds have already shifted, you can feel it, but 
the weather people aren't predicting anything yet. There'll be 
fireworks tomorrow night -- the Syncretist Congregations are 
sponsoring that -- and a big display on Storm One, that's day 
after tomorrow. There's a lot going on -- people have scheduled 
stuff for the whole three weeks." 
There was an amusement in her voice that Lioe couldn't 
translate. Was it because the city had scheduled events for the 
whole period, as though there was a chance that nothing would 
happen? Or was it just that she thought Storm was funny? Vaguely, 
she remembered reading stories of floods and damage, docks and 
whole waterfront neighborhoods washed away. Burning Bright City 
nestled inside the circling islands as if it lay in the bottom of 
a bowl; let a storm into that confined space, and wind and water 
would wreak havoc. She shivered, thinking of Callixte's summer 
storms, the blue-black clouds marching along the horizon, 
lightning striking fires to scour the central plains. She couldn't 
quite imagine that force unleashed on a city -- a crowded city -- 
or with the force of the sea behind it. _Maybe all you can do is 
laugh_. 
"The Syndics parade is tomorrow night," Roscha went on, and 
Lioe dragged her attention back to the conversation. "That's on 
the Water." 
"Parade?" Lioe asked. 
"Yeah. They run barges -- the big, flat-bodied ones, set up 
pageants on them." She grinned again, a look of pure mischief, and 
Lioe wondered just how young she was. "They do all the fittings 
outside of Mainwarden Island -- that's the big island, sits 
astride the southern end of the Water?" 
Lioe nodded. 
"They try to keep the presentations a big secret," Roscha 
said. "When I was a kid, we used to sneak out there, try and see 
them ahead of time. It's Beauties and Beasts this year -- that's 

the theme. You should get yourself a costume, if you go." 
"I'm not much one for dressing up," Lioe said doubtfully, 
and Roscha sounded a little subdued when she answered. 
"I could recommend a good costumer." 
Lioe looked sideways at her, and Roscha looked away, as 
though she'd said something wrong. "Thanks," Lioe said, but the 
other didn't answer. Lioe sighed slightly. She wasn't much one for 
costume, had never really learned how to play those games: 
Carnival wasn't part of Callixte's heritage, and Foster Services 
hadn't wanted to offend the Neo-pagans by encouraging its clientchildren 
to mask at Samhain. 
They walked on in silence, through the dimly lit streets, 
passing from the pool of light that marked each intersection to 
the brief edge of almost-dark where the first light ended and the 
next did not quite reach, then into the light again. The 
neighborhood was not very different from the one where Shadows 
lay, the same flat-fronted, oddly decorated, anonymous buildings 
that could be shops or houses or factories; the same tiny parks 
and gardens, half hidden behind grillwork and brick walls; the 
same sudden bridges arching over an all-but-invisible canal. Lioe 
found herself concentrating on them anyway, trying to drown her 
sudden awareness of Roscha walking next to her. The cold, blank 
walls with their cryptic patterns, bands of lighter stone against 
the dark main body, were no help at all; she imagined she could 
feel the heat of the other woman's body, a subtle radiance in the 
night air. She looked up, looking for the stars, for that 
distraction, but the star field was drowned in the city lights. A 
moon showed briefly over her right shoulder, an imperfect oval 
just past or not quite full; ahead -- to the north, beyond the 
Straight and the Junction Pools -- a shuttle rose like a firework 
from Newfields, a familiar and comforting flare of light and 
almost invisible cloud. She was not surprised when Roscha's hand 
brushed her own. 
She closed her hand around Roscha's fingers, felt calluses 
under her touch, calluses across Roscha's palm and on three of the 
fingertips, all sensed in a single rush of sensation, and then she 
slipped her hand, still awkwardly twined with Roscha's, into the 
pocket of her trousers. Roscha's knuckles rested against her 
thigh; the sudden movement pulled Roscha sideways a little, so 
that she stumbled, and made a small noise like a laugh, and their 

shoulders touched. Lioe smiled, said nothing, too aware of the 
warmth and weight of the other's touch to speak. Then Roscha's 
hand wriggled in hers, loosened and shifted its grip to shape a 
familiar code. _Sex?_ the shifting fingers asked, and Lioe moved 
her own hand to answer, _Yes_. 
_Plain or fancy?_ 
Either. 
Latex? 
_Nothing oral without it_. Lioe felt Roscha pull away 
slightly, knew her own answer had come too quickly, and looked 
sideways to see Roscha looking at her with an expression that 
hovered between amusement and irritation. "Well, you don't know 
where I've been, either," she said aloud, and Roscha's anger 
dissolved in a shout of laughter. She flung her head back, the 
light from the intersection gleaming in her hair, and Lioe 
couldn't help laughing with her. 
"Your place or mine?" Roscha asked, after a moment, and 
Lioe shrugged. 
"I'm staying in a hostel in the Ghetto," she said. "You're 
welcome, but it's a long way." 
Roscha laughed again, more quietly. "I live on my boat. I 
drive a john-boat for C/B Cie., deliveries and stuff. The tie-up's 
not far -- as long as you don't mind a boat." 
"Your place, then," Lioe said, and they walked on. Roscha 
freed her hand from Lioe's pocket, slipped it around the other 
woman's waist; a heartbeat later, Lioe did the same. She was very 
aware of the gentle pressure of Roscha's hand against her skin, 
and at the same time the texture of Roscha's stiff jerkin under 
her hand. It felt a little like thick leather, but the surface was 
oddly patterned, like scales. She squeezed Roscha's waist, trying 
to feel her body under the jerkin, and felt Roscha's fingers 
tighten in answer against her shirt. It was not satisfactory, to 
be touched, and to feel so little in return; she squeezed Roscha's 
waist again, and then released her, sliding her hand and arm up 
under the skirts of the jerkin so that her hand now rested 
directly against the thin shirt. Its weave was loose; she prodded 
experimentally at it, working one finger into the fabric so that 
she could feel warm skin, and Roscha jerked and gave a stifled 
giggle. 
"That tickles." 

 "Sorry," Lioe said, and stopped poking, but she did not 
take her hand away. 
They reached the edge of the Straight at last, a broad 
stretch of road, quiet now, only a few bicycles and a single 
flatbed carrier visible along its length. The Old Dike loomed in 
the distance, towering over the housetops. The noise of the 
carrier's engine echoed oddly between the housefronts and the 
water; a bicycle whispered past, tires singing against the 
pavement. Lioe caught a glimpse of the rider's face stern with 
concentration as he flashed under the nearest streetlamp. They 
crossed the trafficway cautiously, mindful of bicycles, and Roscha 
stepped up onto the wide poured-stone ledge that edged the river. 
Lioe copied her, more cautiously, and looked down to see the water 
black beneath her, shadowed from any glint of light by the stone 
wall that was its bank. Bollards, low iron things with rounded 
tops like fantastic mushrooms, sprang up at regular intervals 
along the wall, one or two with a coil of bright yellow safety 
line looped around them. Roscha led the way along the ledge, Lioe 
following a little more slowly -- the wall was broad, but the 
black emptiness beside and beneath her, and the low rush of the 
water, were enough to encourage caution -- and stopped beside a 
bollard that carried a double loop of safety line around its base. 
"Here we are," Roscha said, and nodded at a rope ladder 
that was hooked into two of the holes drilled into the bank. Lioe 
looked down rather dubiously, was reassured to see the soft glow 
of a steering lamp. In its dim light, she could see most of 
Roscha's boat, a long, narrow shape, blunt at both ends, with an 
arched section at the bow that vanished into the shadows. The deck 
glowed gold directly under the lamp, and a solar strip glittered 
softly. Roscha frowned absently down at the boat, one hand buried 
in a pocket, and a few seconds later Lioe heard the faint double 
chime of a security system disarming itself. "I'll go first," 
Roscha said, and let herself down the ladder without waiting for 
Lioe to agree. 
Lioe lifted an eyebrow at that, but waited until the other 
woman had reached the deck before easing herself onto the unsteady 
ladder. It took her a moment to find her balance, but then she had 
it, and lowered herself cautiously onto the deck. Roscha was 
waiting to steady her, and Lioe accepted the support for a few 
seconds, until she caught the rhythm of the boat in her feet and 

legs. She nodded to Roscha -- the boat moved less than she had 
expected, but it was a jerky movement, unpredictable -- and Roscha 
released her, moved forward to the shelter and crouched on the 
deck to release a hidden latch. A section of the deck came up in 
her hand, revealing a short ladder and a dim, red-toned light. 
Lioe grinned, even though she knew perfectly well why any boatman - 
- _or pilot, for that matter_ -- kept red lights in the sleeping 
quarters, and came forward to join her. Roscha smiled and said, 
"After you." 
The cabin space was mostly bed, a thin mattress on top of a 
good-sized platform that probably concealed storage space. Lioe 
sat on the edge of the mattress -- there was no room for two to 
stand in the narrow stairwell, and the arched ceiling kept her 
from standing upright except in the very center of the cabin -- 
while Roscha secured the double-doored hatch behind them, and 
turned at last to face her. One hand was in her pocket still: the 
security system chimed again, resetting itself, and the red light 
strengthened slightly. In the comparative brightness, Lioe could 
see more details, the crumpled blankets and the cases of disks, 
Rulebooks and session supplements, mounted on the bulkhead just 
above the bed. Roscha slipped out of her jerkin, hung it on a hook 
mounted beside the hatch, and seated herself on the mattress 
beside the other woman. Lioe smiled and reached for her, and 
Roscha reached back. They kissed, lips meeting and parting, slow 
and awkward until they'd settled on who would lead. Lioe leaned 
into Roscha's strong embrace, let herself be held and touched, 
Roscha's callused fingers fumbling under her clothes to free her 
breasts, pinching her nipples into stiffness. And then they were 
scrambling with clasps and zippers and catchtape, struggling to 
get all the way onto the bed without letting go, either one of the 
other, until they were lying nearly face to face, legs tangled, 
thigh to crotch. Lioe leaned back a little to let Roscha's hand 
between her legs, to let the deft fingers slide between her labia, 
circling and searching and teasing in the thick wetness until she 
found the right stroke. Lioe buried her face against the other 
woman's shoulder, riding her hand and the rhythm of the boat until 
she came. Roscha came a few minutes later, driving her crotch 
against Lioe's thigh, and they lay tangled, breathing hard, until 
finally Lioe shifted her shoulders so that she could lie flat, 
displacing most of Roscha's weight sideways onto the mattress. 

Roscha mumbled something, already half asleep. Lioe craned her 
neck awkwardly to look at her, caught between amusement and 
chagrin -- _no particular sense of prowess, I didn't_ do 
_anything_ -- but it was late, and there was no place she needed 
to be. She shifted again, freeing herself from the uncomfortable 
parts of Roscha's embrace, and let herself relax toward sleep. 
-------- 
*Part Three* 
*Early Morning, Day 31* 
_High Spring: The_ 
_Chrestil-Brisch_ 
_Palazze, Five Points_ 
It was very late by the time Damian Chrestil came home to 
bed, a bored helio pilot lifting him from the Junction Pool 
helipad up and over the light-streaked mass of the Old Dike to the 
Chrestil-Brisch compound on the headland that was the third of the 
original Five Points. Most of the lights were out in the narrow 
buildings, only faint security lights glowing behind the arches of 
the first floor. The second and third stories, solid walls of dark 
stone broken by unlit slit windows, looked ungainly, top-heavy, 
without light to give them balance. Only the ring-and-cross of the 
landing pad glowed blue through the darkness, and the helio pilot 
landed them with the rotors barely moving, balancing the weight of 
the passenger pod against the gas in the lifting cells. Damian 
nodded his approval -- _no need to wake everyone in the house_ -- 
and let himself in through the security ring, raising his hand in 
greeting to the single human being sitting sleepily at the center 
of the glowing banks of controls. Like all the Five Points 
families, and most of the other groups that dominated Burning 
Bright's commerce, the Chrestil-Brisch had good reason to employ a 
private police force. It was a matter of pride that theirs was 
smaller than many. The guard nodded back, and said, "Na Damian, 
there's a visitor waiting in your suite. She's on your admit 
list." 
Damian lifted an eyebrow at him. The only woman the guard 
would describe as a visitor whom he would let into his rooms was 
Cella, and he couldn't imagine what she would be doing here. Her 
regular nights were the fourth, fourteenth, and twenty-fourth. "Is 
there a message?" he asked, and the guard shook his head. 
"No, sir. She just asked to be let in." 

 "How charming." 
Damian turned away, made his way down the echoing corridors 
toward his own suite of rooms. The palazze's floors were 
seamarble, quarried from the uninhabited, and uninhabitable, 
Midseas Islands; his footsteps sounded hollow on the green-veined 
stone, and he found himself stepping lightly, trying not to wake 
the distant echoes. The automatic lamps lit at his approach, 
fretted globes held in fantastic sconces, and closed down again 
after he had passed, so that he walked in the center of a moving 
tunnel of light. His private rooms were at the northwestern corner 
of the palazze, where short domed towers sprouted like mushrooms, 
looking out over the old city toward the rising mass of the 
Landing Isle and Newfields. As he approached them, the security 
board outside the main door lit, and chimed softly for his 
attention. The lights glowed green and yellow among the wide 
leaves and thick clustered fruit of the frieze of sea grape carved 
around the doorway, spelling out a familiar pattern. Even so, 
Damian Chrestil slid his hand into his pocket, curled his fingers 
around the familiar shape of his household remote, feeling for the 
control points by instinct. He trusted Cella as much as he trusted 
anyone, but it was as well to be prepared. He palmed the device, 
cutting off the system's programmed announcement of his presence, 
and let himself into the suite. 
Cella was waiting in the reception room, as he'd known she 
would be, in the corner of the room under the arches that held up 
the main tower. Moonlight poured in through the window on her 
left, draping her with the shadow of the fretwork tracery outside 
the window, drawing blue fire from the seabrights scatter-sewn 
across her fractal-lace overskirt. Behind her, the Old City was 
spread like a faded carpet, the regular lights of square and 
street broken by the darkness of the distant reservoirs and the 
unlit lines of the Straight and the Crooked rivers and the velvet 
texture of the parklands. She was wearing a violet bodice above 
the lavender and silver lace, dyed raw silk cut close to her full 
breasts, rising and sweeping outward to expose her shoulders; 
braids of the same clear violet were woven into the glossy black 
of her hair. The double light, the moonlight and the city lights 
behind her, rounded even further the lavish curves of her body. 
Damian Chrestil caught his breath as she turned to smile at him, 
and saw the faint pulsing light of an orbiter rising over her 

shoulder from the pens at Newfields. It was perfectly timed, it 
had to have been timed, and he knew he should laugh, tease her for 
it, but the effect was too perfect, good enough to convince even 
him. Then she took a step forward, and he saw from the look on her 
face, the uncalculated, crooked grin so different from her usual 
cool smile, that effect was the last thing on her mind. He 
blinked, but touched the remote to light the wall lamps and opaque 
the windows, and said aloud, "What brings you here, Cella?" 
Her grin widened. "You told me," she said, "you told me you 
wanted Ransome back on the nets, and by the very God, he's back." 
"So?" Damian was suddenly very tired, not in the mood for 
games or the Game. "So you're good. I knew that, it's what I pay 
you for." 
Cella tilted her head at him, still smiling, but turned 
away toward the sideboard bar. She ran her hands across the carved 
border of lions and deer, fingers working deftly on the disguised 
controls, and then extracted bottles and two ice-lined tumblers. 
She poured two drinks, _ardente_ cut with the sweet-and-sour syrup 
distilled from sugarwort, and brought one across to him. The ice 
in the tumblers cracked sharply as the warmed _ardente_ hit it. 
She said, over the random noises, "But I didn't do it, Damiano. He 
came back on his own." 
Damian lifted an eyebrow at her, and settled himself on the 
long, low chaise, deliberately stretching out his legs to keep her 
from sitting beside him. Cella smiled, not the least put out, and 
seated herself demurely in a willow-work chair opposite him. She 
might, from her expression, have been the perfect salarywife 
greeting her corporate husband. 
"I've been trying to lure him in, get him interested -- I 
even botched a scenario on his account -- but he's been too damn 
careful." She grinned suddenly, lopsidedly, an expression as 
unexpected as her attempts at respectability. "Or at least too 
busy with those story eggs of his. I was beginning to think you'd 
do better to commission one, Damiano." 
"But he came back," Damian said. "Do stick to the point, 
Cella, I'm tired." 
One eyebrow flickered up in mute but pointed question, but 
Cella said only, "That's right. He came back because there's a new 
notable in town, and she had the temerity to play one of his Grand 
Types. And she did it well, too. So I think Na Ransome will have 

his mind on the Game for at least a week -- that's how long this 
woman is going to be here. Or maybe longer. When I left, he was 
buying Rulebooks, and I haven't heard of him doing that in years." 
"So." Damian sipped at his drink, considering her news, and 
slowly allowed himself to smile. The Game, or at least the new 
notable, would keep Ransome busy in the Game nets, and he could 
slip the lachesi quietly into the system, and ship without 
interference from the Republic, local Customs, or Chauvelin. It 
seemed that ji-Imbaoa's interference hadn't roused anyone's 
suspicions after all. "Tell me about this new notable." 
Cella shrugged, a calculated indifference. "I don't know 
much. She's a Republican, union pilot -- from Callixte, or at 
least she plays out of Callixte's nets. Her ship's supposed to be 
in dock-orbit for repairs, and she's planning to spend the time 
gaming. Decent-looking woman, if you like them thin and stern. And 
a damn good session leader." 
"Find out about her," Damian said. "Politics, background -- 
whatever." 
Cella nodded. "Ransome was really interested," she said. "I 
haven't seen him in a club in years, he won't let it rest at just 
one session. He'll be busy with this scenario for the rest of 
Storm, at least." 
"Not bad," Damian Chrestil said, and allowed his approval 
to color his voice. He considered the invitation that he knew was 
waiting in his files, added, "Are you working tomorrow -- I mean, 
tonight?" 
Cella frowned slightly, slipped a hand into the folds of 
her skirt to consult a scheduler hidden somewhere out of sight. 
"Tonight, no. Why?" 
"Chauvelin is having his annual night-before-Storm party," 
Damian said. "I'd like you to accompany me." 
Cella paused, shrugged slightly. "All right. Our usual 
arrangement, I assume?" 
"Of course." 
"All right, then." 
"Excellent," Damian said. 
"Not bad," Cella answered, "not bad at all." She set her 
now-empty tumbler aside, and came to sit next to him, pushing his 
legs out of her way. "All things considered, I think I have every 
right to be pleased." 

 "For whatever it was you did," Damian said. He eyed her 
almost warily, recognizing the mood. It was neither drink nor 
drugs, but the solid high of an unexpected success, and he would 
reap the benefits of it, whether he liked it or not. She smiled 
down at him, well aware of her own excitement and his lack of 
immediate response, and ran two fingers up the inside of his 
thigh. It was a touch that rarely failed to rouse him; he laid one 
hand flat against her breast, and felt her nipple already stiff 
against the palm of his hand, easily discernible through the rough 
silk. She had done the job he wanted, however she'd done it, and 
her choice of coin was sex: sex of her choice, for her pleasure, 
at her whim. He caught his breath as her hand moved higher, 
brushed past his groin, and came to rest flat against his lower 
belly, a steady, urgent pressure. Not that it was a difficult 
payback -- _a hard one, maybe_ -- but it was unavoidable, if he 
wanted to keep their tacit agreement. Cella's smile widened, as 
though she'd read his thoughts, and she slid an expert hand under 
his clothes, ending all possibility of protest. 
He woke in his own bed the next morning, to sunlight and 
the steady shrilling of an alarm. He swore, wondering for a bleary 
instant why Cella let it sound, then reached across the empty bed 
for the remote. The time was flashing on the far wall, the red 
numbers almost drowned by the bright sunlight: almost the ninth 
hour. He had slept through at least two earlier wake-ups. _No 
wonder Cella hadn't waited_. He sat up, wincing -- he wasn't hung 
over, but he functioned badly on fewer than six hours' sleep -- 
and touched the remote again. His fingers slid clumsily over the 
rounded surface. It was a pretty thing, shaped like a wide-web 
node with a single broad leaf wrapped around it, carved from a 
brown stone so dark that it looked almost black except in direct 
sunlight, but this morning the carving distracted him. He found 
the proper control points at last, launched the program that 
displayed his schedule on the far wall below the chronometer's 
numbers. The ninth hour was given over to the weekly breakfast 
meeting with his siblings. 
He swore again, checked the time -- less than a quarter 
hour, barely enough time to shower and shave and dress, much less 
find a wake-up pill -- and forced himself out of bed. Neither the 
shower nor the pill Cella had kindly left for him helped much, but 
he managed to dress with reasonable care, and made his way to join 

the others. He was not the last to arrive, and Chrestillio -- 
Altagracian Chrestil-Brisch, the family pensionary and titular 
head of the family by virtue of being firstborn -- nodded at him 
from his place at the head of the long table. Bettisa Chrestil- 
Brisch, known as Bettis Chrestil, the family's representative to 
the Five Points Bank, did not look up from the workboard where the 
night's downloaded trade figures were playing. 
"Good morning," Damian Chrestil said, keeping his voice 
suitably subdued, and crossed to the sideboard to pour himself a 
cup of coffee from the intricate silver brewer. The coffee was cut 
half-and-half with milk from the Homestead Island farms -- even 
the Chrestil-Brisch couldn't afford to import coffee in bulk -- 
and he added a toffee-colored crystal the size of his little 
fingernail from the sugar bowl. Sugar was expensive, too -- most 
of the sugarwort crop went to the distilleries -- but there was no 
point in being stingy this morning. He collected breakfast as 
well, a wedge of soft, mild cheese, a few thin, chewy slabs of 
docker's bread, and a spoonful of sour preserved fruit. There was 
fish sausage as well, and a bowl filled with half a dozen hardboiled 
eggs, their shells painted with swirls of dye, but he 
ignored them both, and seated himself opposite Bettis Chrestil. 
The sunlight, mercifully, was behind him; it streamed into the 
room, casting shadows across the polished and inlaid tabletop and 
onto the olive-and-gold paneling. The carnival scenes that filled 
the central medallion of each panel looked bleached in the strong 
light. 
"Has anyone seen the weather?" Damian asked. 
Bettis looked up from her board. "About what you'd expect, 
this time of year. There's a depression to the southeast, but 
there's no saying if it'll strengthen, or come this way." 
Chrestillio said, "The street bookmakers are saying it's at 
forty-to-one to hit at all, at any strength, but I hear that's 
dropping." 
_And the street bookies would know_, Damian thought. _They 
know as much and more than the weathermen, but then, they have 
more to lose_. The canalli bet on the weather with the same 
passion that he himself played politics. 
"I'm sorry I'm late," a new voice said, and Damian looked 
up to see the last of his siblings standing in the doorway. She 
came fully into the room, a broad-shouldered, broad-hipped woman 

in the grey-green coveralls that anyone wore to visit the 
distillery, and a whiff of the mash came with her, a sour odor 
almost thick enough to taste. Damian winced, and Calligenia 
Chrestil-Brisch finished stripping out of the heavy coveralls and 
dropped them in the hallway outside the door. She closed the door 
behind her, leaving the clothes for a household cleaner, said, "I 
got caught up in some stuff at the plant." 
"Problems?" Chrestillio said, and Calligan Brisch shook her 
head. 
"Not really. We were doing preliminary slow-down for Storm, 
and there was a minor hassle with one of the big vats. About what 
you'd expect, this time of year." 
Chrestillio nodded, satisfied, and Damian took a cautious 
sip of his coffee, trying to drown the last of the smell. 
"Did you get that shipment in, Damiano?" Calligan went on, 
and turned to the sideboard. She filled a plate -- a little of 
everything, cheese, sausage, bread, a couple of the eggs, a 
healthy spoonful of the preserved fruits -- and came to take the 
final place at the table. Looking at her, at all of them, Damian 
was struck again by the resemblances between them. Not that they 
precisely looked alike, beyond a general similarity of coloring -- 
Chrestillio and Calligan Brisch had both gotten their mother's 
build, big, broad-shouldered people, while he and Bettis Chrestil 
took more after their slimmer, fine-boned father -- but there was 
a certain something, the shape of the long nose and the quirk of 
the wide mouth, that marked them unmistakably as siblings. He 
shook himself out of the reverie, and made himself answer her 
question. 
"Yes. There was some minor spoilage in one of the batches 
of red-carpet -- TMN again." 
"I think we ought to cut ties with them," Calligan Brisch 
said, and reached for a saltcellar. Bettis Chrestil slid one 
across to her, still not taking her eyes from the workboard. 
"We probably should," Damian agreed. "Unless they give us a 
real break on the next few batches." _And anyway_, he added 
silently, _they've served their purpose. I've got enough 
information on their codes to fake a shipment from them, and that 
will help the lachesi get through_. 
"What I'd like to know," Chrestillio said, "is why the 
Republicans have been sniffing around our warehouses again." 

 "Not here, surely," Bettis said. 
"No," Chrestillio said. 
"On Demeter, right?" Damian said, with all the innocence he 
could muster. "I think it was TMN they were after -- another 
reason to drop them, I guess." 
"You heard about it, then?" Chrestillio asked. 
"I got your message yesterday," Damian said. "I'm sorry I 
didn't get back to you, but I did have time to look into the 
matter, and from what our factor tells me, they were looking for 
something in the TMN shipment that came through yesterday." _Was 
it only yesterday? It feels as if it were years ago_. He shook the 
thought away. Republican Customs-and-Intelligence had certainly 
been tipped off to the lachesi that had traveled with the redcarpet; 
the only real question was, by whom, and the factor would 
deal with that. But C-and-I had no proof; it would be safe enough 
to begin the next stage of the transfer. In fact, the sooner the 
better. 
"As you say," Bettis murmured, "another good reason to 
sever ties with TMN. I've never understood why you dealt with them 
in the first place, Damiano. They've got a reputation for shady 
dealing, buying smuggled goods and the like." 
_That was why I started dealing with them_. Damian curbed 
his tongue, said mildly, "They were cheap, and they're brokers for 
a growers' union that -- until last year, anyway -- was reliable, 
gave us a quality product. I agree, I think they've outlived their 
usefulness." 
Chrestillio said, "I'm still concerned that C-and-I was 
down on one of our houses, Damiano." 
"It wasn't us they were after, but I agree," Damian said. 
"I'll make sure it doesn't happen again." 
Chrestillio shook his head. "Not good enough. Are you 
running shadow cargoes, Damiano?" 
Damian hesitated, not sure how he wanted to answer this -- 
_of course I am, but I'm not sure you want to hear that_ -- and 
Chrestillio went on, "We do a lot of business with the Republic. I 
don't want to screw up our good relations there." 
"We do a lot of business in Hsaioi-An, too," Damian said, 
sure of his ground in this well-worn argument. "We need to keep on 
good terms with them, too." 
"But I don't want to do it at the expense of our Republican 

connections," Chrestillio said. 
"They could make it pretty difficult to get the red-carpet 
if they wanted to," Calligan Brisch said. "We have stockpiles, of 
course, and they will get us through Storm, but they won't last 
long after that. And the distillery will need a few weeks to get 
back up to speed." 
"To put it bluntly," Chrestillio said, "what do we get out 
of this, in return for this risk?" 
"What risk?" Damian asked, and suddenly realized that his 
siblings knew, or guessed, more than he'd intended. _Not that it 
should surprise me. But I didn't expect them to challenge me quite 
so soon_. "What I'm hoping to get is permission to trade directly 
with Highhopes and the human settlement on Nan-pianmar. I'm doing 
a favor for certain persons, and those worlds lie within his 
sphere of influence." 
"It would be nice not to go through the Jericho brokers," 
Bettis said, "but do you really think they'll allow it?" 
Damian grinned. "Frankly, I think it's a long shot, but the 
-- the main person with whom I'm dealing has invested status in 
the question, and it'll be worth his while to buy us off. And 
ours, too. And he will be indebted to us." 
"Well?" Chrestillio looked at the others. 
"As long as it doesn't screw up my production schedules," 
Calligan Brisch said. "Otherwise, it sounds like a chance worth 
taking." 
Bettis nodded. "I agree. Our investments in the Republic 
can stand a little scandal." 
Chrestillio nodded. "All right. But I don't want trouble on 
Demeter." 
"There won't be," Damian answered, and kept himself from 
crossing his fingers under the tabletop, as though he were a child 
again. _And there shouldn't be any trouble, not if ji-Imbaoa gets 
me the codes he's promised. With Ransome off the nets, or at least 
busy with the Game, there's no one else on the hsai side who can 
spot what's happening, and I know there aren't any traces on 
Demeter that will lead to me. TMN can fend for itself. And if I 
win -- never mind the trading rights, there will be people on both 
sides deep in debt to me_. He smiled to himself, and reached for 
the dish of preserves. 
-------- 

 *Day 31* 
_High Spring: Shadows, Face Road,_ 
_Dock Road District Below the Old Dike_ 
Lioe settled herself at a console in one of the club's 
workrooms, her fingers moving easily over the controls, probing 
the club's extensive libraries for ideas for a new scenario. It 
would be nice to pursue some of the ideas from Ixion's Wheel -- 
particularly Avellar's bid for the throne, dependent as it was on 
the same psionics that had been banned throughout the Imperium. 
Avellar, tied to his surviving clone-siblings by a telepathic 
link, was potentially a fascinating character, though she would 
have to find a player who could be relied on to avoid Gamer angst. 
_Ambidexter could do it_, she thought, _if he was still playing_. 
She shook that thought away. Ambidexter was no longer a player; 
there was no use pining over what might have been. Avellar's bid 
for the throne would provide the most interesting resolution to 
the unstable political and emotional balance within the Game 
itself; his plot had ties to all the other versions and variants 
of the Game, could pull it all together into one final, complete 
scenario that would take years to run. She could see how it could 
be structured, how to use Avellar to bring in each strand of the 
Game, all the plots that had evolved and mutated from the original 
scenario -- they were linked anyway, so intermingled that a 
schematic of the Game looked more like a snarled web of string 
than a normal variant tree. But Avellar, or, more precisely, 
Avellar's bid to take the throne, could untangle it all, and bring 
the situation to a final resolution. 
And that, of course, was the problem, and the main reason 
she would never float that grand scenario. To follow that line 
would mean coming dangerously close to the end of the Game. About 
the only convention that was held sacrosanct by every Gamer was 
that no scenario could be allowed to tip the balance between 
Rebellion and Imperium: to change that would be to change the Game 
itself. _It wouldn't be the end, not really_, a voice whispered, 
_just the start of a new Game_, but that was almost as 
unacceptable. She had been told, years ago, when she was just 
starting out in the Game, that she had too much of a taste for 
endings. She sighed, and touched the key sequence that would load 
another file into her Gameboard -- Shadows had given her unlimited 
copy privileges -- and got the double beep that warned her that 

the datasphere was reaching capacity. She sighed again, released 
it from the read/write slot, and fumbled in her carryall until she 
found the case of disks she had bought that morning. She fitted a 
new one into place, touched keys again, and saw the monitor screen 
shift to the familiar transmission pattern. 
She leaned back in her chair, watching the patterns change, 
and wondered what she would do for another scenario. Ixion's Wheel 
was fun, but neither last night's session nor any of the off-line 
test sessions back on Callixte had been quite what she wanted. 
There was always somebody who wouldn't play the templates the way 
they were written, or something to throw off the balance she had 
imagined. Maybe a different set of players would do better, or 
maybe a different scenario -- something in the Court Life variant, 
say, secret rebels working at court -- would give her what she was 
looking for, would give her the perfect session that no one would 
ever want to rewrite. 
She turned her thoughts away from that impossibility -- the 
point of the Game was that everything could be rewritten, that the 
main points of the evolving story could only be arrived at by 
concensus, the acceptance of large numbers of one's peers -- and 
flipped a secondary screen to the in-house narrowcast. One of the 
house notables was running Ixion's Wheel already, and she paused 
for a moment, touched keys to bring up the audio feed. 
" -- but can you be trusted to support the Rebellion, my 
lord?" a voice said, and she winced, and flipped the screen away. 
She hadn't expected the players to be very good, playing in a lowlevel 
session like this one, but that was the kind of Gamer 
dialogue that she particularly disliked. 
She called up another set of menus, but let them sit 
untouched, staring at the complex symbol strings. Just at the 
moment, none of them were terribly interesting. She sighed again, 
and touched keys to move out of the Game systems and into the 
regular communications net. It was probably past time to check her 
temporary mailbox; it would be just like Kerestel to call to see 
how she was doing, and to worry if he received no answer. She 
touched codes, frowned for a moment at the mailbox prompt, and 
then searched her bag until she found the slip of foil with the 
account numbers printed on it. She typed them in, followed it with 
her password, and the screen went blank for an instant before 
obediently presenting her with a list of messages. As expected, 

Kerestel had called -- twice -- but at least the second message 
confirmed that they would be staying on Burning Bright for a full 
ten days. She dispatched a quick acknowledgment -- _at least he'll 
know I'm all right, and checking my mail_ -- and called up the 
third message. The sender's code was unfamiliar. She wondered for 
an instant if Roscha had sent some kind of note -- that sort of 
gesture didn't seem to be at all her style -- and then the screen 
windowed again on the short printed message: 
I ENJOYED YOUR SCENARIO, AND WOULD LIKE TO TALK MORE ABOUT 
IT. WOULD YOU BE INTERESTED IN COMING TO A PARTY TONIGHT AT THE 
HSAI AMBASSADOR'S WITH ME? I THINK YOU MIGHT FIND IT INSTRUCTIVE. 
RANSOME. 
Lioe studied the note for a moment, trying to work out the 
implications. It was flattering that Ransome/Ambidexter had 
thought enough of the scenario to extend this invitation, and if 
sex was intended, she wasn't entirely sure she'd say no -- _but I 
really don't think I like the word "instructive." And why is the 
hsai ambassador inviting him to parties, anyway?_ She left the 
message hanging on that screen, touched her keyboard to move onto 
a general data net. A chime sounded and glyphs flashed, warning 
her that any charges from this node were her personal 
responsibility. She sighed, and hit the accept button, though she 
touched a second series of keys to post a running total at the 
base of the screen. The screen went dark for a moment, then 
presented her with another series of menus. 
Burning Bright's datastore was indexed according to an 
unfamiliar system. She wasted perhaps five minutes and ten _real_ 
learning how to phrase her questions, but at last found the hsai 
ambassador's public file. He was human -- _and I probably oughtn't 
be surprised at that; the hsai do tend to staff their embassies 
with adopted members of the local species_ -- but not jerichohuman, 
not born inside the borders of Hsaioi-An. What was unusual 
was that he had been born on Burning Bright, one of the select few 
who had been coopted for adoption into the hsai kinship system. 
Lioe stared at that information for a moment, wondering how it 
must feel to come back to your homeworld after all this time -- 
over thirty years, if his age was correct, and he had been coopted 
in his twenties, like most _chaoi-mon_. She shook herself then, 
seeing the list of honors that followed his name: membership in 
the imperial family, half a dozen different awards for merit, 

including a personal letter from the Father-Emperor himself. 
Whatever he had felt about cooption at the time, Tal Chauvelin had 
adapted, and flourished. And there were reasons to accept 
cooption, after all. Lioe frowned slightly, remembering the last 
big series of hsai cooption raids. She had just begun piloting 
then, and the risk had been real enough, even on the fringes of 
the Republic, that she had had to consider what she would do if 
she were faced with that choice. The hsai wanted to join the 
entire galaxy in kinship, according to their own phrase, and, 
however you felt about it personally, they did live up to their 
side of that philosophy. _Chaoi-mon_ were, by law and custom, full 
members of hsai society, fully part of the elaborate system. Given 
a choice between that and death, or at best a few years in a 
holding pen while the metagovernments squabbled over repatriation, 
becoming _chaoi-mon_ was not that bad an option. And if you came 
from a poor world, either in the Free Zone or on the fringes of 
the Republic, or even from a poor sector of a good world, it was a 
definite step forward. 
However, Chauvelin's background didn't tell her why Ransome 
was invited to his party, or why Ransome would invite her. She 
skimmed through the rest of the file, and found nothing useful. 
Ransome's public file was short, and heavily edited: it made no 
mention of his Gaming career, and concentrated on a list of the 
awards he had won for his story eggs and other image 
installations. He had been born on Burning Bright, held Burning 
Bright citizenship, but the only remotely personal piece of 
information in the file was the note that his parents had been 
Syncretist Observants, minister/administrators of Burning Bright's 
peculiar religion. She hesitated, wondering if it was worth her 
while to try to hack the system -- there had to be other records 
available somewhere -- but then smiled, slowly. There was, of 
course, an even simpler way to answer her question: ask him 
directly. 
She flipped herself out of the datastore -- the charges 
read fifty _real_, and she made a face at the total -- and back 
onto the main communications net, transferring Ransome's mailcode 
from the message that still waited on the secondary screen. There 
was another brief pause, and then the communications screen lit 
and windowed. 
"Na Lioe. I see you got my message." 

 Lioe leaned back in her chair to look at the face in the 
screen. Ransome was looking even paler than he had the night 
before, and a hectic flush stained his high cheekbones. _But then, 
I probably don't look so great myself, after last night_. She had 
not slept well on Roscha's boat. She put that thought aside, said 
aloud, "I did. I was wondering why." 
There was a little pause, and Ransome said, "Why what?" 
"Why you invited me," Lioe answered. _And why you were 
invited in the first place_. 
Ransome grinned. "I told you, I like your play, and I think 
you might find hsai politics amusing -- maybe even useful. Are you 
committed to a session tonight?" 
"No." Lioe hesitated, unsure of the right move. _But I want 
to go, she realized abruptly. I've never seen real hsai society, 
just the jericho-humans who broker for them. And most of all, I 
want to find out more about Ransome_. "Yes," she said slowly. 
"Yes, I'd like to come. How do I get there -- and how formal is 
this, anyway?" 
"Moderately," Ransome said. "I'll meet you at the 
Governor's Point lift station at eighteen-thirty, and we can ride 
together -- if that's agreeable to you." 
"Thanks," Lioe said. "I'll be there." 
"Until tonight, then," Ransome said, and cut the 
connection. 
Lioe stared at the empty screen for a moment longer, then 
made herself begin closing down the systems. From what she had 
seen of Burning Bright, "moderately formal" here should probably 
be translated as "strictly formal" in Republican terms. Nothing in 
her carryall -- nothing in the storage cells back on the ship, or 
indeed left behind in her one-room flat on Callixte -- fit that 
description; she would have to find the local shop district, and 
hope she could pick up something appropriate. She hesitated then, 
her fingers poised for the final sequence. The cab driver had said 
something about Warden Street, the street that ran along the top 
of the Old Dike, being a center for fashion. Why not go there, 
especially when she had money to spend? Less than she had before 
she'd gone into the datastores, but still enough to afford a few 
more indulgences. She smiled to herself, and finished closing down 
the system. 
She paid her fee at the main desk in the lobby, and found 

her way to the nearest waterbus stop. Roscha had tried to explain 
the local transit system before she'd dropped Lioe off on the 
canalside south of Shadows, and so far the hurried explanation 
seemed to make sense. She bought a regular ticket -- she didn't 
want to indulge in express buses, not when she was planning to buy 
clothing -- and when the bus arrived, seated herself in the stern, 
under the faded brick-red awning. The bus was crowded, and slow, 
stopping every two hundred meters or so to take on more passengers 
or to drop someone off, and for once Lioe let herself enjoy the 
scenery. 
The canal was filled with traffic, from covered barges half 
again as long as the waterbus to the narrow, high-tailed passenger 
boats that Roscha had called gondas, to one- and two-person skids. 
Most of the people riding skids were young, standing barefoot on 
the platform, skimming in and out of the traffic trailing a plume 
of spray. One bright-red craft cut close enough to the bus to send 
water spraying across the open passenger compartment, and Lioe 
joined in the general shout of anger. A woman at the head of the 
bus pitched a piece of fruit after the skid's driver, hitting him 
neatly in the back of the head, and the other passengers 
applauded. The woman stood and bowed, like an actor, and Lioe saw 
the mask sitting on the bench beside her, a grinning devil-face, 
the gold and black vivid against the faded grey of the seats. 
At the next stop, a gaggle of children in school uniforms, 
black high-collared smocks open over a variety of shirts and 
trousers, climbed aboard; they vanished one by one as the bus 
wound its way up the canal toward the Crooked River. At last the 
bus turned onto a much broader canal, this one paralleling the Old 
Dike, so that they moved between a narrow embankment, and the 
houses shouldering each other for place beyond it, and the immense 
bulk of the Dike itself. Even in the daylight, with the sunlight 
to soften it, it was an impressive sight, towering over the 
traffic, bicycles and three-wheeled carts and denki-bikes and the 
occasional heavy carrier, that moved along the embankment at its 
foot. The stone of its face had faded from its original nearblack, 
and the salt stains had all but vanished, replaced by the 
softer faded lavender and grey-green of rock-rust. Lioe leaned 
back, trying to see Warden Street at the top of the wall, but she 
could only hear it, the traffic moving in counterpoint to the 
noise of the street at its base. 

 The canal widened perceptibly, and the banks were crowded 
with low-slung barges, their open decks piled high with crates and 
boxes. Shoppers, men and women alike in loose shirts and trousers, 
many of them barefoot on the sun-warmed stones, moved along the 
banks with string sacks balanced on each shoulder, calling to each 
other and to the merchants on the barges. The barge tenders seemed 
to sell anything, Lioe saw with amazement. There was one stocked 
with food, set up like any land-bound store with neat aisles and 
display cases; tied to its stern was a much smaller boat that 
seemed to be filled with rags. A couple of adolescents were pawing 
through the piles. As Lioe watched, one of them straightened with 
a crow of delight, and slung a salvaged cape around his thin 
shoulders, striking a dramatic attitude. Farther on, a closed 
barge sold custom masks, a white, unpainted face peering from each 
of the tiny portholes. It was an unsettling effect, and Lioe 
looked away quickly. 
The bus stopped three times in the market basin -- Warden 
Mecomber's Market, the signs read, in Burning Bright's oldfashioned, 
legible script -- and the passengers climbed out in 
droves, calling to the driver as they went. As the bus pulled away 
from the final stop, only Lioe and a trio of musicians, two 
towheaded young men who looked like siblings and a stocky, flatfaced 
woman, remained. The musicians huddled together, talking in 
low voices, their cased instruments tucked between their feet. The 
woman, sketching phrasing and tempo in the air, had beautiful 
hands. 
The bus moved more slowly now, and the tone of its engine 
deepened, as though it were fighting a new current. Lioe glanced 
over the side, curious, but the oily water slid past, apparently 
unchanged. Then she heard a new rushing noise -- not so new, she 
realized; she had been hearing it since the market, but the babble 
of voices had kept her from realizing what it was. The bus slanted 
in toward the left-hand bank, the embankment side, and the 
driver's voice crackled in the speakers. 
"Crooked Underpass, people. End of the line." 
Lioe followed the musicians up onto the bank, and stopped 
short, staring at the Dike. Directly ahead of her, the embankment 
ended in a woven iron railing; beyond that, water spurted from a 
hole in the Dike, a short, meter-long fall to the river below -- 
not a hole, she realized instantly, but a tunnel. The Crooked 

River had to pass through the Dike -- she had known that, but it 
hadn't quite sunk in to her consciousness -- and this was the 
mouth of the tunnel that carried it. _The tunnel probably has 
hydro generators in it, too_, she thought, striving for some kind 
of perspective. _Burning Brighters don't seem to waste power_. 
Beyond the railing, the water roared, and a segment of the 
spectrum danced in the spray. She stared for a moment longer, then 
made herself look away. 
She rode the elevator up the face of the Dike -- it was a 
closed car, and she wasn't entirely sure if she was glad or sorry - 
- and passed through the elevator station and into a blaze of 
noise and color. She blinked, startled, checked instinctively, and 
nearly ran into someone. Warden Street was mobbed, people jostling 
shoulder to shoulder along the walkways and spilling out into the 
street, so that the trolley sounded its two-toned whistle almost 
continually, and still barely moved more than a few meters at a 
time. A group of musicians -- not the trio from the bus -- were 
playing on a wooden platform that looked temporary, the stinging 
sound of steel strings ringing over the crowd, but the singer's 
words were lost in the general uproar. Lioe blinked again, 
realized that she was becoming a traffic hazard, and made herself 
start walking. 
The crowds here were better dressed than they had been on 
the streets below. Here most of the people, men and women, wore 
either the full-skirted, nip-waisted coats or loose, unshaped 
wraps of some silky fabric that seemed to float in the air around 
them, trailing strange perfumes. Quite a few wore strands of 
bells, silver or gold or enameled in many colors, slung from 
shoulder to hip, and Lioe found herself eyeing them curiously, 
wondering if the style would suit her. The shop windows were 
enticing, holograms revolving in the thick display glass, showing 
off clothes more improbable even than the Republic's highest 
fashion, the prices flickering discreetly just below the items. A 
few of the older buildings had real windows, with real goods in 
the boxes behind them. Lioe slowed her step to stare, not caring 
if that betrayed her as a foreigner -- the neat hat would do that 
anyway, marked her as a pilot and a Republican on any humansettled 
world -- and realized that the prices in these windows 
were sandwiched in the glass itself, faint opalescent numbers 
visible only from a certain angle. She couldn't begin to guess how 

much such a display would cost, but she suspected the shops made 
more than enough to cover their expenses. Still, one of them was 
bound to have what she needed. 
She found what she was looking for at last, in a smaller 
store toward the center of the Dike, a place crammed with racks of 
the full-skirted coats and the silky wraps, and a pile of skirts 
made of reembroidered lace, each pattern in the lace itself 
redefined by an overlay of colored shapes cut from sequensa 
shells. She fingered that fabric cautiously, admiring its 
elaborate beauty, but knew better than to buy. She wouldn't know 
how to wear a skirt, how to make herself look good in it, but even 
so, she sighed for the lost possibility. She bought a coat 
instead, this one straight-bodied, a rich gold-on-gold brocade 
embroidered at the neck and shoulders with gold beads and leafshaped 
paillettes of gold-dyed sequensas. It looked good, she had 
to admit as she looked at herself in the shop mirror, the 
counterwoman hovering in the background, good enough to make her 
reckless. She bought a shirt as well, a loose tunic of the 
floating silk dyed a darker mustard color, and a thin scarf 
bordered with more sequensas and gold embroidery. It took 
everything that was left of the voucher from Shadows to pay for it 
all, but she shrugged away the thought that she was doing it to 
impress Ransome. This was easy money, easy come and easy go, to be 
spent on indulgences like this. _And if I want to impress somebody 
with it, well, I'll just call Roscha. I might do that anyway_. She 
passed the last of the vouchers over the countertop, watched the 
woman feed them one by one into the bank machine. _I think I'll do 
just that -- and if I need money, there's always Republican C-and- 
I. Kichi Desjourdy's station chief here, and she always paid well 
for information. There's bound to be enough stuff going on here 
that would interest her_. She watched the counterwoman wrap the 
clothes into a tidy bundle, accepted it with thanks. Certainly 
there should be enough happening at this party of Ransome's. She 
tucked the bundle under her arm, and stepped out of the shop to 
catch the trolley back toward Governor's Point and her hostel in 
the Ghetto beyond. 
-------- 
*Evening, Day 31* 
_High Spring: The Hsai_ 
_Ambassador's House, in the_ 

_Ghetto, Landing Isle Above_ 
_Old City North_ 
It was evening in Chauvelin's garden, and Damian Chrestil 
stood with his back to the terrace wall, looking inward toward the 
house. It was almost as large as a midsize palazze, the sort that 
cousins of Five Points families built in the districts below the 
Five Points cliffs. The white stone glowed in the twilight, very 
bright against the purpling haze of the sky; the open windows were 
filled with golden light, spilling a distant music into the 
cooling air. In the gap between the southern wing and the main 
house, he could just see a blue-black expanse of ocean, reflecting 
a rising moon in a scattering of light like foam. He looked away 
from that, made uneasy by the sight of open water -- the sea 
should be viewed from the security of the barrier hills, or from 
an open deck, not glimpsed like this across a garden -- and found 
the lesser moon, just rising, riding low beneath a bank of cloud. 
The larger moon was well up, and all but invisible, just a faint 
glow of pewter light behind the thickening clouds. The street 
brokers were saying it was thirty-to-one that the storm that was 
building to the south would hit the city, but no one was taking 
odds on strength. 
The distant rumble of an orbiter, lifting from Newfields, 
caught his attention, drew his eyes west just in time to see the 
spark of light dwindle into a pinpoint no brighter than a star, 
and vanish in the twilight. The sky behind it was streaked with 
cloud and layered with the orange and reds of the sunset, the 
distant housetops outlined against it as though against a sheet of 
flame. The sound of the takeoff hung in the air, undercutting the 
drifting music. It was nothing special, and he looked away, back 
toward the crowd of people filling the terrace. One of them -- a 
woman, tall, face thin and sculpturally beautiful, the lines of 
her bones drawn hard and pure under skin like old honey -- had 
heard the orbiter too, was still staring upward as though she 
could pick out the light of its passage from among the scudding 
clouds. There was some expression behind that still face, 
knowledge, perhaps, that was no longer hunger, and Damian caught 
his breath in spite of himself, watching her watch the orbiter's 
flight. Then there was a movement in the crowd beside her, and she 
turned away, her face breaking into movement, the stone-hard 
beauty shattering into a sort of vivid ugliness. Ransome smiled 

crookedly at her -- they were of a height -- and drew her away 
with him toward the house. As she turned, Damian saw the hat slung 
over her shoulder, dangling from a spangled scarf that from this 
distance looked as though it had been woven from the sunset sky. A 
short grey plume flowed like a cloud from the hat's crown. _So 
that's the pilot_, he thought. _She'll certainly bear watching_. 
"I see you've spotted her. That's Lioe." 
Damian looked down and down again, smiled in spite of 
himself at Cella's delicate face turned up to him. She was a tiny 
woman, barely tall enough to reach his shoulder; even her eightcentimeter 
heels did not bring her chin above his armpit. She was 
beautifully dressed, as always, this time in a sleeveless bodice 
the color of bitter chocolate that hugged breasts and hips and 
gave way to a swirling skirt embroidered at the hem with a band of 
pale copper apples. The almost-sheer fabric emphasized perfect 
calves and elegant ankles. Her breasts swelled distractingly above 
the jerkin's square neckline. 
"Have you found out anything more?" Damian asked. 
Cella smiled. She had painted her lips and cheeks and nails 
to match the new-copper apples on her skirt, a cool metallic pink 
barely paler than her skin. "Not much. She's from Callixte -- born 
there, apparently, not just works from there. She's a notable by 
anyone's reckoning, and the people on the intersystems nets like 
her a lot. If she's political, she's a Republican, but that's a 
big if. Between piloting and the Game, I can't see that she's had 
much time for politics. She did know Kichi Desjourdy when 
Desjourdy was on Falconsreach, but I can't trace anything more 
than just knowing each other. Desjourdy's a Gamer, after all, and 
a class-four arbiter." 
Damian nodded thoughtfully. Kichi Desjourdy was the new 
Customs-and-Intelligence representative to Burning Bright, a 
clever woman, and therefore dangerous. And that made any 
connection between her and this Lioe a dangerous one. "Do you 
think this -- this whole thing, meeting with Ransome and all -- 
could be some kind of setup?" 
Cella shook her head. "Not with his consent, anyway. I'm 
quite certain they met at the club -- that that was their first 
meeting, and that it wasn't staged in any way." She paused then, 
and her smile took on a new edge. "I did find out one thing 
interesting, though. She spent last night with one of yours, 

Damiano. A john-boat girl called Roscha." 
"Did she, now?" Damian said, softly. _Trust Roscha to be 
more trouble_. "Why didn't I hear about it?" 
"No one knew you were interested," Cella said. "I didn't 
know you were interested, until last night." 
"They're sleeping together?" 
"I would say so." Cella shrugged. "I would." 
"Charming." Damian stared out into the crowd, did not find 
the pilot, turned slowly so that he faced back toward the cliff 
and the Old City spread out beyond the lower terrace. Most of the 
lights were on now, the sky faded to a thick and dusty purple, and 
the pattern of the lights in the lower garden echoed the play of 
light from the city below, disrupted only by the figures moving 
along the silvered stones of the pathways. Neither Ransome nor 
Lioe was anywhere to be seen. 
"I could introduce you," Cella said. "I've met her." 
Damian glanced down at her, surprised less by the offer 
than by its timing, and she nodded to the window above them. A 
woman stood silhouetted in the golden light, a newly familiar, 
broad-shouldered shape with a hat slung across her back. She was 
looking in at the party, standing quite still, and Damian 
hesitated, tempted. _It would be interesting to speak to her 
directly, get some feel for what she was like_ -- He shook his 
head, not without regret. It was much safer to keep his distance, 
just in case she did turn out to have some connection with C-and- 
I. "No, not right now, I think. But keep an eye on her, Cella. I 
want to know exactly what she's doing." 
"All right," Cella said, and sounded faintly surprised. 
Damian looked away from her curiosity, back toward the 
lower terrace, and his eyes were caught again by the grey-andsilver 
stones that covered the paths. The more distant paths 
seemed to glow in the last of the light, and the nearer ones, 
closer to the cool standard-lamps, caught the blue-toned light and 
held it, odd shadows playing over their surfaces. He frowned, 
curious now, and walked away, down the steps to the graveled paths 
of the lower terrace. Cella followed a few steps behind, but he 
ignored her, stooped to examine the stones. A dozen, a hundred 
tiny faces looked back at him, all smiling slightly, as if they 
were amused by his surprise. He caught his breath, controlled his 
instinctive revulsion -- _how could anyone stand to walk here, if 

they saw those looking back at them?_ -- and said, "Ransome's 
work, I take it?" His voice sounded strange to him, strained and 
taut, but Cella didn't seem to notice. 
"I would say so." 
"They are," Damian said, with precision, "very strange men, 
he and Chauvelin." He paused, and shook his head. "I suppose I had 
better pay my respects to the ambassador." He did not wait for her 
response, but started back across the terraces toward the 
ambassador's house. 
Chauvelin greeted his guests in the main hall. The long 
room was lit as though by a thousand candles, light like melted 
butter, like curry, pouring from the edges of the ceiling across 
the polished bronzewood floor, gilding everything it touched. It 
turned the ice statue on the buffet -- a sleek needle-ship poised 
on the points of its sailfields -- to topaz, set deeper red-gold 
lights dancing in its heart like the glow of invisible reactors. 
Chauvelin smiled, seeing it, and made a mental note to thank his 
staff. They had done well in other things, too: the heavy bunches 
of red-streaked flowers that flamed against the ochre walls, the 
food, the junior staff -- jericho-human, _chaoi-mon_ and hsai 
alike -- circulating among the guests to diffuse tension and keep 
the conversation and the wine flowing with equal ease. Je- 
Sou'tsian had the unenviable task of keeping an eye on ji-Imbaoa, 
but she seemed to be handling it without undue strain. She had 
chosen to wear her full honors, and the clusters of ribbon flowed 
from her shoulders almost to the floor. Perhaps it was not the 
most tactful of gestures, Chauvelin conceded -- _ji-Imbaoa has 
fewer hereditary honors than she_ -- but he couldn't bring himself 
to reprove her. In any case, ji-Imbaoa seemed unaccountably sober, 
and in control of himself. There should be no trouble until later, 
if at all. 
Satisfied that everything was at least temporarily secure 
in that quarter, Chauvelin looked away, searching the crowd for 
Ransome. He owed him thanks, as well as money, for the stones that 
paved the garden paths, and he was more than a little surprised 
that the imagist hadn't already collected. He found him at last, 
standing by the arched hallway that led in from the garden, and 
lifted a hand to beckon him over. Ransome raised a hand in answer, 
but glanced back over his shoulder, toward the tall woman who 
followed at his heels. Chauvelin lifted an eyebrow -- he had 

thought that he knew most of Ransome's friends and proteges -- but 
made no comment as the two made their way across the crowded room. 
The woman was striking, not at all in Ransome's usual line -- his 
taste in women, such as it was, ran to flamboyant Amazons like 
LaChacalle -- and she wore her clothes, Burning Brighter clothes, 
by the familiar cut and fabric, with the bravado born of 
unfamiliarity. Then he saw the way Ransome was watching her -- she 
was even with him now, moving shoulder to shoulder with him 
through the room -- and felt the touch of an unfamiliar pain. That 
intensity of gaze should be for him, not this stranger, and he 
resented the shift in Ransome's attention. He put that thought 
aside, frowning slightly at himself, as Ransome approached. 
"Sia Chauvelin." 
The tone even more than the choice of title was a warning 
that Ransome was in one of his more playful moods, capable of 
almost any mischief. Chauvelin nodded warily, said, "Good evening, 
I-Jay." 
"I'd like to introduce someone to you," Ransome went on, 
still in the light tone that Chauvelin had learned to distrust, 
and motioned to the woman at his side, not quite touching her 
shoulder. "This is Quinn Lioe, one of the better Gamers I've seen 
in years. I'm enjoying my return to the Game much more than I'd 
expected." 
"Na Lioe," Chauvelin murmured, and the woman answered, 
"Ambassador Chauvelin." Her voice was deep, soft and rather 
pleasant, the clipped Republican vowels adding a tang to her 
words. 
Ransome smiled, but it did not quite match the expression 
in his eyes. _Anger?_ Chauvelin wondered. _Or triumph?_ "I'm very 
grateful to you, Sia," the imagist went on. _Look what I found in 
the Game_, his expression implied. 
Chauvelin made himself keep his expression neutral, though 
his mouth wanted to twist as though he'd bitten something sour. 
The woman Lioe -- _the pilot Lioe_, he realized abruptly, seeing 
the hat hanging at her shoulder -- recognized that there was some 
undertone of passion here; she was watchful, but uninvolved, her 
face set in a serene and stony calm. _Whatever Ransome thinks he's 
doing_, Chauvelin thought, _Lioe will have her own ideas_. The 
recognition steadied him; he said, "I still owe you part of your 
fee." 

 Lioe lifted an eyebrow in mute question, glancing from one 
to the other, and Chauvelin said, "I-Jay was good enough to hurry 
a commission for me -- the stones on the paths in the lower 
gardens." He took a petty pleasure in emphasizing Ransome's 
subordinate position. 
"Was that your work?" Lioe said, and Ransome nodded, still 
grinning. Lioe nodded back, her expression still serene. "Yes, I 
can see you don't like people to be comfortable." 
There was a little silence, and Chauvelin wanted suddenly 
to cheer. Ransome said, "Why should they be? I'm not." He paused 
again, and added, striving for the earlier lightness, "Who have 
you been talking to, anyway?" 
Lioe smiled slightly. "Other Gamers." 
"I should've expected that," Ransome murmured. 
"I still owe you money, I-Jay," Chauvelin said, riding over 
whatever else either one of them might have said. "You must have 
had workshop fees." 
Ransome nodded. "Oh, I've submitted the bills, have no 
fear. But I think the result was worth it." 
"It is spectacular," Chauvelin agreed, and, to his 
surprise, Lioe nodded. 
"The faces are very beautiful," she said. "It must have 
changed your garden completely, Ambassador." 
"It did," Chauvelin said. 
"For the better, surely," Ransome said. 
"I think so," Chauvelin said, and smiled. "Certainly it was 
a change." 
His eye was caught by a sudden movement, a subtle gesture 
from across the room. He looked toward it, past Ransome's 
shoulder, and saw je-Sou'tsian standing a little apart, one hand 
lifted in mute appeal. Ransome saw his eyes move, controlled the 
impulse to look, said instead, "I don't want to monopolize you, 
Sia." 
"Not at all," Chauvelin said. "But something seems to have 
come up." He nodded toward je-Sou'tsian, and Ransome glanced over 
his shoulder. 
"Ah, the Visiting Speaker's arrived?" 
"My honored guest the Speaker has been here since the first 
arrivals," Chauvelin said, not without irony. "Na Lioe, it was a 
pleasure to meet you. I hope I'll have the pleasure again." 

 She murmured something inaudible in response, but there was 
an amusement lurking in her gold-flecked eyes. Chauvelin bowed 
over his clasped hands, hsai fashion, and moved away. 
Je-Sou'tsian bowed slightly at his approach, but her hands 
were still, suppressing whatever she was feeling. 
"What is it, Iameis?" Chauvelin said, and kept a smile on 
his face with an effort of will. 
The steward's hands moved slightly, shaping anger and 
apology. Her fingerclaws, gilded for the occasion, glowed in the 
buttery light. "I'm sorry to have troubled you," she said, her 
tradetalk even more precise than usual, "and indeed I wouldn't 
have if it hadn't been Sia Ransome you were speaking with, but 
several members of the Visiting Speaker's household have asked 
permission to use the intersystems link. They've also asked that 
our technicians not oversee the linkage." 
Chauvelin bit back his first response, knowing he was on 
firm ground here. "I'm hurt that the Speaker's people should imply 
distrust of my household, knowing as I do the Speaker's respect 
and friendship. You may tell them that, word for word." 
Je-Sou'tsian bowed again. "I will do so, with pleasure." 
She started to back away, but Chauvelin said, "Iameis. Is 
there anything else?" 
The steward hesitated for a heartbeat, then gestured 
negation, the movement solid and decisive. "No, Sia. But I thought 
that should be nipped in the bud." 
Chauvelin nodded. "I agree. Keep an eye on them, Iameis." 
"Of course, Sia." Je-Sou'tsian bowed again, and backed 
away. 
Chauvelin stared after her, furious at ji-Imbaoa for trying 
such an obvious and infantile trick. _What can he think he'll gain 
from that? And why in all hells does he have to do it now, when I 
can't do anything about it?_ The answer was too obvious to be 
considered, and he made himself put it out of his mind, turning 
away to greet a stocky man who served on the board of the Five 
Points Bank. He answered mechanically, his mind on ji-Imbaoa, and 
on Ransome and his new friend, and was not sorry when the banker 
excused himself, heading for the buffet. He stood alone for a 
moment, found himself scanning the crowd for Ransome. The imagist 
was standing near one of the windows that overlooked the garden, 
Lioe beside him, tall against the glass. Her coat blended with the 

golden light caught in the mirrorlike panes, drawing her into the 
reflections like a ghost; in contrast, Ransome was looking pale 
and interesting. It was hard to tell, these days, if it was 
deliberate or inevitable. Chauvelin suppressed the worry, 
reminding himself that he could always query the medsystems 
records if he really wanted to know. But whatever the cause, the 
look worked: Ransome had dressed with millimetrically calculated 
disorder, plain-slashed jerkin hanging open over equally plain 
shirt and narrow trousers, his unbrushed boots a well-planned 
disgrace. He made a perfect foil for Lioe's severe elegance, and 
Chauvelin felt again a stab of jealousy. _Who in all hells is she, 
that Ransome should behave like this?_ 
"Good evening, Chauvelin," a familiar voice said, and 
Chauvelin turned without haste to bow to Burning Bright's 
governor. 
"A good evening to you, Governor." 
Kasiel Berengaria nodded back, the gesture as much of a 
concession as she would ever make to hsai etiquette. She was a 
stocky, broad-bodied woman, comfortable in a heavily embroidered 
coat and trousers; a massive necklace of Homestead Island pearls 
made a collar around her neck, and held a seabright pendant 
suspended just at the divide of her full breasts. The skin exposed 
there was weathered, like her coarse, salt-and-pepper hair, and 
the short hands with their broken nails. "I haven't seen the 
Visiting Speaker tonight, Chauvelin." 
Chauvelin picked his words carefully, well aware of the 
amusement in her mismatched eyes. One was almost blue, the other 
green-flecked brown: a disconcerting effect, and one he was 
certain she enjoyed. "The Visiting Speaker has been holding court 
in the inner room, Governor. I'm sure he'd be glad to see you." 
Berengaria made a face. "I doubt it. Or at best, no happier 
to see me than I am to see him." 
Chauvelin smiled in spite of himself. "Quite possibly." 
"You have had an interesting time of it, with him in your 
household." 
"Interesting is a good word," Chauvelin said. He and 
Berengaria were old adversaries, almost friends by now; she 
preferred the Republic to Hsaioi-An, but Burning Bright before 
both of them. It was a position he understood perfectly, and he 
had always admired her skill. 

 "One hears that the je Tsinra-an are rising in favor at 
court," Berengaria went on. 
"One of them made a decent profit for the All-Father on 
Hazuhone," Chauvelin said. She would already know at least that 
much; there was no point in denying it. He shrugged, carefully 
casual. "I must say, I doubt it will last." 
"One hopes not," Berengaria said. "And not just for your 
sake." 
She didn't have to say more, and Chauvelin nodded in 
agreement. The je Tsinra-an, having been out of favor for years, 
were attempting to rally other groups who had stood aloof from 
court politics by advocating a return to the old, hard-line, 
imperialistic policies of two generations ago. Unfortunately, now 
that Hsaioi-An and the Republic were trading freely, or at least 
relatively freely, through the merchants on entrepot worlds like 
Burning Bright, both sides would suffer from a change in attitude. 
And Burning Bright and her fellow entrepots would suffer most of 
all. 
"The All-Father knows perfectly well where his bread is 
baked," Chauvelin said aloud, and hoped it was true. 
"I hope so," Berengaria said, in unpleasant, unintended 
echo. "Whatever else happens, Chauvelin, I'd be very sorry if you 
were a casualty." 
"I don't intend to be," Chauvelin answered. His mouth was 
dry, and he smiled to hide the sudden fear. 
"Good," Berengaria said. She smiled back, but the 
expression did not touch the lines around her mismatched eyes. "It 
would be very dull without you." She nodded, and turned away into 
the crowd. 
Chauvelin watched her go, turning her words over in his 
mind. It was not a good sign that Berengaria had heard rumors of 
power shifts between the factions in Hsaioi-An, and even less good 
that she was expressing concern for his future. _And I wonder, did 
I hear a hint that she might offer sanctuary, if things get bad?_ 
There would be a price, of course -- _and probably a high one_ -- 
but it was an option to keep in mind. At least Ransome was, for 
once, doing what he was told: that might buy enough time to deal 
with ji-Imbaoa. They said, on Burning Bright, that Storm brought a 
change in luck -- he could remember, dimly, his mother buying 
lottery chances on the first day of Storm, hoping to bring money 

into the household. _I have to hope that's true_. 
Ransome made his way through the maze of smaller rooms off 
the main hall. Chauvelin's household had thrown them open as well, 
knowing the space would be needed. Ji-Imbaoa was holding court in 
the largest of these, and Ransome paused at the door for a brief 
moment, glancing in past the crowding guests. He had lost Lioe 
some while back, to a conversation with the novelist LaChacalle, 
and hoped to find her -- _though probably not here_. The Visiting 
Speaker was popular with certain groups on Burning Bright, most 
notably and most obviously the ones who traded heavily with Hsaioi- 
An, and he was surrounded by their representatives, but Ransome 
hardly thought that a Republican pilot would be likely to join 
them. The members of ji-Imbaoa's own household stood watchfully at 
the Speaker's shoulder, and at the edges of the room. Their 
ribbons, short strands of red that fell barely to their waists, 
were vivid against the sea-green panels. It was an elegant 
display, and one that deliberately overshadowed Chauvelin's less 
formal presence. 
He had looked too long. Across the room, the Visiting 
Speaker lifted his hand in acknowledgment, and beckoned for 
Ransome to approach. It was not a request. Ransome hid a scowl, 
and started toward ji-Imbaoa. The crowd made way for him, a few 
people murmuring his name. Overhead, false lightning flickered 
through holographic clouds, and Ransome couldn't resist a quick 
look to see how the installation was doing. He had made the image 
canopy for Chauvelin a few years before; so far, he thought, it 
seemed to be holding up well. 
"_Tso-eh_, Ransome," the Visiting Speaker said, granting 
the courtesy of a formal greeting. He continued in tradetalk, 
however, lifting his voice a little to be sure that the fringes of 
the group could hear. Conversations faded at that signal, and 
Ransome was suddenly aware of all eyes intent on him. Ji-Imbaoa 
was making this a matter of prestige, and for Chauvelin's sake -- 
_and my pride, too_ -- he could not afford to make mistakes. 
"I'm told you made this display?" Ji-Imbaoa gestured to the 
image in the dome overhead, where half-hawk, half-human figures 
now swirled through the gaps in the clouds, riding the illusory 
lightning. 
"That's right," Ransome answered, and forced himself not to 
mimic the hissing accent, the heavy emphasis on terminal 

sibilants. 
"It's very striking," ji-Imbaoa said, without looking up. 
"But when will you come back to Hsaioi-An and show your talents 
there?" 
Ransome pretended to glance up at the dome, not really 
seeing the roiling clouds, controlled his anger with an effort. Ji- 
Imbaoa had threatened him with prosecution if he returned to 
Hsaioi-An; this was a particularly clumsy maneuver. He looked back 
at the Visiting Speaker, said politely enough, "Probably when such 
a generous commission is offered me. Do you think your _t'ueanao_ 
would be interested, Na Speaker?" He deliberately used the word 
that meant more than just family or household unit, that carried 
connotations of political rank and power as well, and saw from the 
sudden convulsive clenching of ji-Imbaoa's hand that the 
implications had struck home. Chauvelin was still a member of the 
tzu line; Ransome carried some of the same prestige by virtue of 
his patronage. 
Ji-Imbaoa mastered his annoyance instantly, though the 
fingers of his free hand were still crooked slightly, and the redpainted 
fingerclaws rapped gently against his thigh. "Perhaps we 
shall," he said. "I am sure such a -- thing -- would please my 
dependents. You would come if we asked?" 
Ransome bowed slightly, perfectly aware of where this game 
could lead if not precisely judged. He could not let himself be 
trapped into a commission, even if it meant seeming to back down. 
"If the price were right, and the time were convenient, and I were 
committed to no other business, yes, of course, Speaker." He 
paused, then added, "And, of course, assuming that all issues of 
freedom could be resolved. Some people take offense at images when 
none is intended; it seems -- safer -- to settle that ahead of 
time, than risk displeasing anyone." 
Ji-Imbaoa showed teeth in an approximation of a human 
smile. The expression was delicately close to the bared teeth of 
insult, but not quite; Ransome admired his control even as he bit 
back anger. "I'm sure we could work out appropriate compensation," 
the Visiting Speaker said, and looked away, lifting a hand to 
beckon another guest. The woman turned toward him at once, and ji- 
Imbaoa took a few steps to meet her, bringing the group's 
attention with him. Ransome hesitated for a moment longer, tempted 
to protest this dismissal, but made himself turn away. 

 Lioe was standing just inside the doorway. "Were you having 
fun?" she asked, and Ransome made a face. 
"How much of that did you hear?" He touched her shoulder 
lightly, easing her out into the more dimly lit hallway. The walls 
here were painted a deep red, the rich color of wine held up to a 
light. Golden vines coiled along the ceiling just below the hidden 
lights. 
"Most of it, I think. I gather he doesn't like you." 
"Not much," Ransome agreed. Lioe kept looking at him, one 
thin eyebrow lifted in an expression that reminded him suddenly of 
Chauvelin, and he touched her shoulder again, steering her toward 
one of the side rooms. It was little more than an alcove, pillared 
walls painted in a coppery brown, the pillars themselves painted 
with more delicate vines, the lighting concealed in thick clusters 
of sea grapes that dangled from the heads of the pillars. Benchseats 
had been built into the side walls, and the space between 
the central set of pillars on the rear wall had been turned into a 
display recess. The shelves were filled with odd objects, and 
Ransome was startled to recognize one of his own story eggs among 
them. 
"All right," Lioe said, "why doesn't this Visiting Speaker 
like you?" 
Ransome hesitated again, then grimaced. "I'm not trying to 
put you off, I just don't know where to begin." 
Lioe laughed. "You make friends easily, I see." 
Ransome smiled back. "All right. For one thing, he and 
Chauvelin are from opposite factions, and Chauvelin has been my 
patron for years. For another -- " He stopped, took a breath. 
"When I was younger, I worked for a local company, worked in 
Hsaioi-An, on Jericho, and I got into trouble there. I offended 
some people as well as breaking a few laws, but because I was only 
_houta_ then they couldn't do anything about it -- the insults, I 
mean. They enforced the laws. Now that I'm _min-hao_, though, they 
can take notice of those insults, and ji-Imbaoa -- aside from 
being personally stupid and therefore an irresistible target -- is 
closely related to someone with a serious grudge against me." 
"That does explain a lot," Lioe said, after a moment. She 
cocked her head to one side, clearly reviewing his conversation 
with the Visiting Speaker. "Given all that, though, was it wise to 
antagonize him?" 

 "Probably not," Ransome admitted. "But he really is 
irresistible." 
Lioe shook her head, but she was smiling. "I hope you and 
your patron get along." 
Ransome winced, remembering their earlier conversation. 
"I'm sorry about earlier," he said. _It was because Chauvelin's 
been pushing me, pushing me back into the Game when that's the 
last thing I want to waste my time with_ -- But that was not 
something he could say aloud. "Do you do your own backgrounds, for 
the Game?" 
Lioe nodded, obviously glad to accept the change of 
subject. "Yes. I carry a recorder when I go planetside. A lot of 
times I stumble into places that I can use later. When I can get 
time on the club machines, I do some manipulations, of course, but 
most of the time I can't afford it. That's the good part about 
this deal with Shadows. I've got all the time I want, and the run 
of their libraries." 
"For ten days," Ransome said. That wasn't nearly enough 
time, not for any real work. 
Lioe shrugged. "I have a contract with Kerestel." 
Ransome stared at her with a certain frustration, wondering 
how she could stand to work part-time, only when there was time 
available on club machines, only when she wasn't piloting -- how 
she could stand to stay confined, stuck inside the boundaries of 
the Game, where the ultimate rule was, _never change anything?_ He 
opened his mouth, searching for the right words, and saw her pick 
up the story egg, hold its lens to her eye. He remembered that one 
well -- an early work, filled with flames and a figure made of 
flame that shifted from male to female and back again with the 
fire's dance -- and closed his mouth again, wondering what she 
would say. 
"Is this yours?" Lioe asked, after a moment. She set the 
egg carefully aside, as though she thought the mechanism was 
something delicate. Her voice was without emotion, without 
inflection, polite and unreadable. 
"Yes," Ransome said, "it's one of mine." 
"How do you do that?" Abruptly, Lioe's voice thawed into 
enthusiasm. "How do you pull it all together?" 
"Do you mean mechanically, or how I structure the images?" 
Ransome asked. 

 "Yes -- both, I mean." Lioe grinned again, looked slightly 
embarrassed. "Sorry, I don't mean to hassle you." 
"No!" Ransome had spoken more sharply than he had intended, 
shook his head to erase the word. "No, you're not hassling me. I 
like to talk about my work." _And anything to get her away from 
the Game_. "It's a lot like finding settings for Game sessions," 
he said, and heard himself painfully casual. "I spend a lot of 
time on the nets. I've got a pretty complete tie-in in my loft, 
and a good display structure. I pull clips off the nets, break 
down the images, then rebuild them into the loops for the eggs." 
"That must take a lot of storage," Lioe said. 
"But only linear, that's cheap enough," Ransome answered. 
"Look, it's easier to show you what I do than it is to talk about 
it. Would you like to go back to my loft, look at the system? I've 
got some things in progress, you could see how everything fits 
together -- you could even play with the machines, if you'd like." 
Lioe gave him a measuring look, and Ransome felt himself 
flush. "No strings attached. This is not an unsubtle way of 
getting you into bed." 
Lioe smiled. "I wasn't really worried about it." She laid 
the lightest of stresses on "worried." 
"Will you do it, then?" Ransome asked, and did his best to 
hide his sudden elation at her nod. Maybe, just maybe he could 
show her what was so wrong with the Game, why it was a waste of 
any decent talent -- she was good at the Game, good enough that 
she should have a try at something else, something that would last 
beyond the ephemeral quasi-memory of the Game nets. He shook those 
thoughts away. Time enough for that if she was interested, if she 
cared about anything beyond the Game. "I was wondering," he said 
aloud, and Lioe glanced curiously at him. "You've got a great 
reputation on the Game nets. Why haven't you gone into it fulltime, 
become a club notable? You could make a living at it, 
easily." 
Lioe looked at him for a long moment, obviously choosing 
her words with care, and Ransome found himself, irrationally, 
holding his breath. "Two reasons," she said at last. "One, 
piloting's a better living. Two -- the second reason is, I can't 
see making it my life." She shrugged and looked away, embarrassed. 
"It's a game. It's only as good as all its players." 
_Yes, and that's most of what's wrong with it_, Ransome 

thought. _But there's so much else out there, besides the Game. 
What the hell were your parents thinking of, to send you into 
piloting?_ There was no answer to that, and he curbed his 
enthusiasm sharply. "Let me show you my setup," he said, and 
started out of the room. 
The second moon was setting over Chauvelin's garden, 
throwing long shadows. Beyond the garden, fireworks flared in 
silent splendor over the Inland Water, great sprays of colored 
light that rivaled the moon. Damian Chrestil stood in a darkened 
embrasure, one of the archways that looked out onto the upper 
terrace, idly tugging the curtain aside to watch the departing 
guests, filing by ones and twos along the path that led to the 
street. His eye was caught by a familiar figure: Ransome, and the 
pilot was with him. That was a good sign -- Ransome should stay 
preoccupied with the nets, with the Game, with Lioe to distract 
him -- and he smiled briefly. 
"So you see it's going well." Ji-Imbaoa slipped into the 
embrasure beside him, gestured to one of his household, who bowed 
and backed away. 
Damian let the heavy curtain fall back into place, 
effectively cutting off any view from the garden. He was blind in 
the sudden darkness, heard ji-Imbaoa's claws chime against a 
crystal glass, a faint, unnerving music. "So far," he said. 
"Chauvelin has accepted that it is important, and Ransome 
will do what he tells him," the Visiting Speaker went on. "I 
should think that conditions would be ideal." 
Damian's eyes were beginning to adjust to the dimness. He 
could see ji-Imbaoa outlined against the faint light from the 
hallway; he shifted slightly, his shoulder brushing the curtains, 
and a thin beam of moonlight cut across the space, drawing faint 
grey lights from the Visiting Speaker's skin. "Conditions will be 
ideal," Damian said, "once I have the codes." 
Ji-Imbaoa gestured unreadably, only the fact of the 
movement visible in shadow behind the moonlight. "It takes time to 
get those, time and a certain amount of privacy. I will have them 
for you tomorrow, I am certain of that." 
_I was expecting them tonight. Ransome won't be distracted 
forever, and C-and-I is sniffing around on Demeter. I don't have 
time to waste on this, I need to move the cargo now_.... Damian 
bit back his irritation, said, "I hope so, Na Speaker. The longer 

I have to wait for them, the more risk to all of us." 
"Tomorrow," ji-Imbaoa said again, and there was a note in 
his voice that warned Damian not to push further. 
"All right," he said, but couldn't resist adding, "Tonight 
was such a good chance. I'm just sorry we missed it." 
Ji-Imbaoa made a hissing sound, but said nothing. 
"Until tomorrow, then," Damian said, cheerfully, and 
slipped out of the embrasure before the Visiting Speaker could 
think to stop him. 
-------- 
*Part Four* 
*Day 1* 
_Storm: Ransome's Loft, Old Coast Road,_ 
_Newfields, Above Junction Pool_ 
Lioe woke slowly, blinking in the light that seeped in 
through the filtered windows. She lay still for a moment, 
remembering where she was, then cautiously pushed herself upright. 
The door to Ransome's bedroom was still closed, but the light was 
on in the little kitchen, and she could hear the last gasps as an 
automatic coffee maker completed its cycle. She glanced sideways, 
checking the time, and made a face as the numbers flashed red 
against the stark white wall. Almost noon, and she was committed 
to a midafternoon meeting at Shadows, reviewing her scenario for a 
group of club session leaders. 
She reached for her shirt and trousers, the loose silky 
tunic incongruous at this hour of the morning, and dressed 
quickly, then went into the kitchen alcove. The coffee maker was 
obviously on a standard program: the tiny pot held barely enough 
for a single mug. She hesitated for an instant, but poured herself 
some anyway. That emptied the pot, and she searched cabinets, the 
little room as compulsively ordered as a ship's galley, until she 
found the box of makings and set another pot on to brew. She 
folded up the bed as well, but could not remember where Ransome 
had kept it; she left it sitting against the wall, and went back 
to the computer setup that dominated the working space. She 
touched one of the secondary keyboards lightly, but did not bring 
up the system, remembering instead what she had done the night 
before. It had been like the best parts of the Game, the 
preparation, hunting through the nets and libraries and her own 
collection of filmed scenes until she found just the right image -- 

_or the image that can be adjusted, manipulated, until it has 
exactly the impact you wanted, that will conjure upjust the right 
responses from your players, and they can take that knowledge and 
run with it_.... Except, of course, that Ransome's work stopped 
there, before the others, any others, entered the picture. He set 
up the image, calculated the effect, but didn't stay to finish the 
job. Or else he assumed he had finished his job, that the effect 
would be what he intended. She shook her head, not sure if she 
even really believed in that sort of confidence -- _or is it 
arrogance?_ -- and turned away from the computers, touched the 
window controls to clear the treated glass. 
The city stretched out below her, a breathtaking view over 
the housetops toward the Inland Water. The sky above the city was 
milky white, sunlight filtered by clouds, but light still glinted 
from the solar panels and on the murky water of the Junction Pool 
at her feet. It was busy, barges and lighters of all sizes snugged 
up to the multiple docking points that lined the Pool's edges. One 
of the largest ships, broad-beamed, its deck piled high with the 
familiar scarred-silver shapes of drop capsules, was moored at the 
foot of a cargo elevator. As she watched, fascinated -- pilots 
rarely got to see where their cargoes ended up -- a crane swooped 
down, delicately picked up two of the capsules, and added them to 
the neat pile growing in the elevator's open car. 
She finished the coffee before the crane operator finished 
loading the elevator, and looked sideways again, checking the 
time. Past noon, and it would take almost an hour to reach Shadows 
-- more, if she understood right, and the Storm celebrations had 
already begun. She looked again toward Ransome's door, blinking 
away the chronometer's numbers, wondering what she should do. It 
seemed rude just to leave, but it might well be worse to wake him. 
Of course, she could always leave a note. She looked around, 
searching for a notepad/printer or pen and paper, and the door to 
the bedroom opened. 
"Good morning," Ransome said. _He looked tired_, Lioe 
thought, _more tired than she would have expected_. "I see you 
found the coffee." 
"Yes, thanks," Lioe answered. "I made a second pot." 
"Thank you," Ransome said, and stepped into the kitchen. 
"I'm glad you found the makings, most people I know drink tea." He 
came back out into the loft's main room, mug of coffee in one 

hand, a polished spherical remote in the other. His hand moved 
easily over the steel-bright surface, and the display space in the 
center of the room flashed into life. Lioe looked away, vaguely 
embarrassed, from the loop she had compiled the night before. 
"That's really quite good," Ransome said. 
"Beginner's work," Lioe said, more roughly than she had 
intended. In the display space, a metal-skinned woman transformed 
herself into a bird, the fingers elongating into feathers, hair 
into the crest of a hawk, body melting and shrinking into a 
compact and vicious form, rose and turned and swooped on something 
invisible, then landed, body beginning to turn again into a 
woman's even as she fell the last few meters, until the 
silverskinned woman sat again on a bench in the sun, inspecting 
her long, bony feet. Even in the light from the window, the forms 
were clear and vivid. 
"Certainly," Ransome said. "Everybody starts off with this 
kind of thing. But it's got promise. You could do something with 
it." 
Lioe looked suspiciously at him, but he was staring at the 
images, watching the loop run its course one more time. It wasn't 
often one heard judgment and praise so neatly balanced; there was 
something in his tone that let her believe his words. "Thanks," 
she said. She sounded stilted, even to herself, and added, "And 
thanks for letting me play with your equipment. I really enjoyed 
it." 
Ransome touched the remote again, and glyphs flashed in the 
air around him. From where she stood, Lioe could only see enough 
to recognize the drop-to-storage sequence. "You should try it 
again. I'm serious, you have a knack." 
"Thanks." Lioe looked at the chair, the wire gloves 
discarded on the stand beside it, but made herself look away. 
"I've got to be at Shadows, though. I'm committed to a training 
group for their session leaders." 
"For Ixion's Wheel?" Ransome asked, and Lioe nodded. 
"They're paying me," she said, and didn't know quite why 
she felt so defensive. 
Ransome grinned. "Well, that's a good reason, there. But 
don't you ever get sick of the Game?" 
"No," Lioe said, automatically, and then, because Ransome 
had been honest with her, added, "It's not like I do it for a 

living." 
"You could," Ransome murmured. 
Lioe made a face. "I suppose. But I like piloting, which is 
a steady income, unlike Gaming, and -- " She stopped abruptly, 
acknowledging what he had said. "And, yes, I think I'd be bored -- 
well, not bored, exactly, but the Game, the scenarios never seem 
to resolve anything." 
Ransome nodded. "Ixion's Wheel comes pretty close, from 
what I saw." 
Lioe smiled, and didn't bother to deny it. "It could be the 
start of something. I think Avellar could pull the whole Game 
together into one really big scenario, but I know damn well no 
one's going to want to play that." 
She stopped then, knowing how she sounded, but Ransome 
nodded again, more slowly, his expression remote. "A scenario that 
concentrated on Avellar's bid for the throne -- you're right, that 
would pull everything in, wouldn't it? Rebellion, Psionics, Court 
Life ... it would be worth playing. And Ixion's Wheel really sets 
it up. Have you started work on it?" 
"No one wants to change the Game," Lioe repeated. "Not that 
drastically, anyway." 
Ransome sighed. "You're probably right, which is why I 
stopped playing. It's a pity, though." 
_It's the nature of the Game_. Lioe said instead, "I 
suppose. But, listen, I do have to leave, if I'm going to make 
this meeting on time. Thanks again." 
"My pleasure," Ransome said, automatically. "You know where 
the helipad is?" 
"I know where the tourist-trolley stops," Lioe answered. "I 
can't afford helicabs." 
"All right," Ransome said. "Are you running any sessions 
yourself today?" 
"Tonight," Lioe answered. She looked back, her hand on the 
main latch. "Why?" 
"I thought -- " Ransome paused, then gave a wry smile. "I 
thought I might see if there were any places left. Like I said the 
other night, it's been a long time since I've seen a scenario that 
made me want to play." 
"Shall I hold Harmsway for you?" Lioe asked. 
"Why not?" Ransome's smile changed, became openly 

mischievous. "I don't think that part was played to its 
potential." 
Lioe smiled back, flattered and apprehensive at the same 
time. Ambidexter in the scenario, playing his own template: it was 
a thought to conjure with, and to strike terror into the souls of 
lesser players. It was also a challenge, and she did not turn down 
a challenge. "I'll do that. And thank you again for a fascinating 
evening." She let herself out into the hallway, not quite hearing 
his murmured reply. 
Left to himself, Ransome went back into the narrow kitchen, 
rummaged in the cold storage until he found a package that 
promised to cook in three minutes. He fitted it into the wallmounted 
cooker, and made himself open the container once the timer 
sounded. The spicy pastry smelled good, but his appetite did not 
return; he forced himself to finish it anyway, standing at the 
counter, and turned his attention back to the main room and the 
empty display space. Lioe's hat was sitting on the folded bed, 
forgotten in her hurry. He sighed, and hoped he would remember to 
return it that night. 
The hawk-woman had been a good image, for someone who'd 
never worked with more than the Game's more limited editors, and 
Lioe had been quick to sense the difference in form between the 
Game images and the image loops that filled a story egg. It was 
just too bad she was so caught up in the Game ... He crossed to 
the windows, staring down on the city. It would be Carnival 
already in the Wet Districts, the streets and canals busy with 
costumed figures. It would be Carnival on the nets as well, and 
that might be the best time to look into just why Damian Chrestil 
wanted him back in the Game. 
He turned back to the display space, spun his chair into 
place at its center, but hesitated, slipping on the wire-bound 
gloves. It would be Carnival, all right, but that didn't mean that 
his usual net projection wouldn't be recognized. He crossed to the 
shelves where he kept the shells of the unfinished eggs, searched 
among the clutter until he found the mask he had bought two years 
before, for a party he could no longer clearly remember. It was a 
plain white mask, of the three-quarters size that left only mouth 
and chin free, a standard form, eyebrows and cheekbones and nose 
all coarsely modeled from the dead white plastic. He contemplated 
it for a moment -- it had always been an affectation of his not to 

mask, to walk the streets and nets at Carnival as himself -- but 
this was not the time for that. He set the mask carefully on one 
of the imaging tables, and switched on the cameras. Lights flared, 
crisscrossed, catching the mask in a web of stark white beams. He 
turned back to the display space, and saw the mask's image 
floating in the air above his chair, waiting to be remade. 
He fingered the remote to dim the windows, and the image 
grew correspondingly stronger as the competing daylight faded. He 
set the remote aside, pulled on the remaining glove, and settled 
himself in his chair. The servos whirred softly, tilting it and 
him to the most comfortable position; the image moved with him, 
floating in the air within easy reach. He studied it for a moment 
longer, then reached tentatively into another image bank to pull 
out a series of other faces. He found one with a mouth he liked, 
bleached that image to match the mask's absolute lack of color, 
then patched the two together, bringing the mouth and chin from 
the new image to cover the missing parts of the original mask. He 
studied the result for a moment, then ran his hand over the 
compound image, deepening the modeling of mouth and chin so that 
it matched the mask. He cocked his head to one side, then drew the 
corners of the mouth down into a parody of tragedy's mask. He 
tilted the eyes down as well, filled the empty holes with absolute 
black, and dumped the resulting image to main memory. It was not 
at all his usual style: no one on the nets should recognize it as 
him. 
He reached into control space to change modes, rewriting 
his usual identification-and-projection package to display the 
newly created mask, and flipped the whole system to Carnival mode. 
Now all identification inquiries would automatically be ignored -- 
this was the only time of year when that routine would not get one 
dumped from the nets in short order -- and a secondary program 
would deflect any attempt to trace the point of origin. He smiled 
then -- he was going to enjoy this after all -- and flipped 
himself out onto the nets. 
The nets were crowded with ghostly shapes, a cheerful 
anarchy overriding the narrowcast lines and filling the unreal 
echo of the city with light and sound and sheets of brilliant 
color. Scenes like the loops of a story egg filled a number of 
nodes: rather than simply projecting an image, many of the maskers 
had chosen to create a brief repeating scene, and let that 

represent them to the world. Ransome let himself drift for a 
while, slipping from one system to the next with the ebb and flow 
of the crowds. A few groups and systems still tried to keep to 
business-as-usual, pale geometrics and strings of symbols 
competing with the gaudy loop-displays of the revelers, but they 
were easily overwhelmed. Some of the Carnival displays were 
elaborate, a sphere of scenery enclosing a character or two -- 
often Grand Types from the Game -- so that Ransome had either to 
bypass that particular node or move through the ongoing scenario. 
Near the Game nets, it was easier to go through than to try to 
find a way around the miniature worlds; he let himself slide 
through like a ghost, ignoring the spray of words and images that 
greeted any stranger, idly tracking the Grand Types that appeared. 
There were quite a few Avellars, as well as the inevitable Barons 
and Ladies: _Lioe should be pleased_, he thought, and turned his 
attention toward the port systems. 
If Damian Chrestil wanted him back in the Game, it was all 
but certain that the Game was not really important, was only a 
blind -- and certainly he'd found nothing during his time on the 
Game nets to indicate otherwise -- which made it well worth his 
time to see what was happening on the various nets that served the 
port and the traders who depended on the port for their living. He 
dimmed his own image further, so that he saw his mask floating 
ghostly through a Bower of Love that currently filled a transfer 
node. It was a striking image, the death-white mask drifting 
expressionless, incurious, through the flower-draped temple where 
an improbably well-endowed man and woman were locked in vigorous 
and detailed sex, and he touched the capture sequence to record 
the moment. It would make an interesting story egg, someday, but 
he made himself turn away once the capture was complete and follow 
the multiple channels into the port systems. 
There were fewer Carnival images here: more off-worlders 
used the port nets, and there weren't many Burning Brighters who 
dealt with them who could afford to give up a day's trade. Still, 
an Avellar walked through a segment of corridor, striding hard as 
though it was work to keep up with the moving tiles; another Grand 
Type, the Viverina, braided tiny human skulls into her long hair. 
Ransome frowned, trying to remember the scenario that had spawned 
the image, but couldn't place it. The Judge Directing presided 
over a node that gave entrance to a merchant bank. The serene face 

was semitransparent, and Ransome recognized familiar features 
behind the cloaking Carnival image. He adjusted his own 
projection, allowing his familiar on-line presence to show behind 
the floating mask, and slipped into the node. 
The Judge Directing turned to face him, the ster serenity 
melting to a more familiar grin, and codes flashed through the 
display space, weaving a private link-in-realtime. "Ransome. I 
didn't expect to see you masking." 
"Neither did I," Ransome answered, truthfully. Guyonet 
Merede was a Gamer as well as a banker, and a former patron who 
owned several of his earlier story eggs. "But it seems to have 
worked out well." 
"It's a nice image," Merede said. He was older than he 
looked behind the Judge's face: the projection's stony beauty 
reminded Ransome for an instant of Lioe's face in repose. 
"Thanks," he said. "I wonder if you could do me a favor, 
Guy. I need access to the raw feed from the port computers -- the 
unsorted line, the one that carries the general traffic." If 
Damian Chrestil wanted him on the Game nets, it could only be to 
keep him away from some other part of the greater system. C/B Cie. 
was an import/export firm, and that most likely meant smuggling. 
And the best way to track that down was to sift the day-to-day 
chatter and hope that, despite the sheer volume, he could find 
some hint of an irregular shipment, something that didn't match 
the more public records. _And if I can't find it, well, there are 
other places to look, political games he could be playing, and I 
won't have wasted much time. But I'm betting it's a doctored 
cargo_. 
Merede was silent for an instant, his face gone very still, 
and then he said, cautiously, "You know I can't do that, I-Jay." 
_You've done it before_. Ransome said aloud, "I just need 
to pull some numbers for a piece I'm working on. It's a commission 
for the MIS, and I need some strings for background. I thought I'd 
tie part of the loop to the trade balance." 
It was an easy lie, and plausible, but to his surprise 
Merede shook his head. "I'm sorry, I-Jay. If it weren't Carnival -- 
but we've had some complaints recently, people saying stuffs been 
pulled out of the raw feed that should've stayed confidential. I 
just can't do it." 
Ransome nodded. "I can see that. I guess I can rig what I 

need some other way." He did his best to look thoughtful, glad of 
the mask that screened his features. "Who's been complaining, 
anyway?" 
Merede glanced down at something out of camera range. "The 
Five Points Bank's merchant division -- you know, the exchangerate 
people? -- and a couple of importers, Ionel Factor and C/B 
Cie., and one of the private captains." 
_Who I just bet is connected to the Chrestil-Brisch, too_. 
Ionel Factor was closely tied to the Chrestil-Brisch -- Ionel 
dealt in off-world spirits, and therefore, inevitably, was tied to 
the Chrestil-Brisch distillery and their various wholesalers -- 
and Bettis Chrestil was head of the merchant division's steering 
group. "You think there's anything in it?" he said aloud, and 
Merede shrugged. 
"We haven't seen anything on our screens, and we tap pretty 
carefully. I suppose it could be a very directed probe, but -- 
between you and me only, Ransome -- I think they're overreacting." 
"I'll keep it quiet," Ransome said. "Thanks anyway." He 
touched the key sequence that released the private linkage, and 
let himself drift deeper into the port nets. He adjusted his 
presence, making the mask opaque again, so that his identity was 
completely hidden except to the most determined probe, and shifted 
the scale slightly. To a cursory scan, he should look like a 
bounce-echo from the chaos on the public nets, a common enough 
phenomenon at this time of year. Satisfied, he let himself slide 
further into the system, looking for an interface of commercial 
and customs data. 
It took him over an hour to find that node -- it shifted, 
as did the codes that guarded it -- and another hour to prove to 
himself that it was unusually well guarded. None of the usual 
sources would provide a key, and that left Selasa Arduinidi, who 
was one of the better security consultants in the business and, on 
the shadow nets, a reliable data fence. She had a name as a 
netwalker, too, prided herself on knowing how to access any part 
of the net, but when he finally tracked her down, she shook her 
head in disgust. 
"I've been fighting with that one for two days now, I-Jay. 
I haven't cracked it yet. You'll have to get legit codes for that 
one, I'm afraid." 
"Nobody's telling -- or selling," Ransome answered. He 

stared at her icon floating in the air in front of him, a hugeeyed 
owl perched in a glowing tree branch that seemed to grow 
directly out of the lines of the net itself. "What's going on, 
Selasa?" 
"I don't know," Arduinidi answered, but there was something 
in her voice, a subtle admiration that belied her words. 
"Somebody's up to something, that's for sure." She broke the 
connection before he could ask anything more. 
_Somebody like Damian Chrestil_, Ransome thought, sourly. 
The deeper he tried to probe, the more likely it seemed that the 
Game was just a blind, and that Damian Chrestil was hiding 
something. From the way his own probes were being blocked, it 
seemed to have something to do with run cargoes. _But if that's 
all, why is ji-Imbaoa involved?_ Politics and smuggling: the two 
did not often overlap, but when they did, it was a particularly 
volatile mix. _Which is what I will tell Chauvelin myself_, he 
thought, and began to extricate himself from the maze of the 
port's multinet. It would be easy enough simply to shut down his 
system, but then the automatics would take over the shutdown 
procedures and leave a clear trail back to his loft. Better to do 
things slowly, and make sure he wasn't followed. 
-------- 
*Day 1* 
_Storm: The Hsai Ambassador's House,_ 
_in the Ghetto, Landing Isle Above_ 
_Old City North_ 
Chauvelin sat in his office at the top of the ambassador's 
residence, staring into the desktop displays without really seeing 
the multiple screens. The hazy sunlight poured in through the 
slightly curved windows, dulling the displays; he hit the key that 
brought the glyphs and numbers and the harsh strokes of hsai 
demiscript to their greatest brightness, but did not dim the 
window glass. He could see the first signs of the approaching 
storm on the horizon beyond Plug Island, a thicker bank of clouds 
like fog or a distant landfall. The weather service still said 
that bank was only an outrider, and the real storm behind it would 
not arrive for days, but Chauvelin could feel it waiting, a 
brooding, distant presence. The street brokers had it at twenty-toone 
to hit within the next five days, though the pessimists were 
hedging their bets by excluding lower-category storms. Chauvelin 

sighed, and leaned back in his chair. If nothing else, the storm 
was already starting to interfere with the connection to the jump 
transmitter orbiting the planet, the one that carried the 
communications link with Hsaioi-An. On the one hand, the erratic 
reception was a good excuse to keep ji-Imbaoa from using the house 
transmitters without one of Chauvelin's own household present, 
ostensibly to monitor the machinery. On the other, he was under no 
illusion that this would keep ji-Imbaoa from finding some way to 
contact his patrons in Hsaioi-An, nor would it prevent the 
Visiting Speaker from dealing with someone on planet. And it 
annoyed the Visiting Speaker. Chauvelin allowed himself a quick, 
private smile. That also had disadvantages, but it did give him a 
certain sense of satisfaction. 
A chime sounded in his desktop, a discreet, two-toned 
noise, and Chauvelin glanced down in some surprise. He had left 
instructions that he was not to be disturbed, and je-Sou'tsian was 
usually scrupulous about obeying him. He touched the icon, and the 
tiny projector hidden in a disk of carved and lacquered iaon wood 
lit, forming a cylindrical image. JeSou'tsian bowed to him from 
the center of that column of light. 
"I'm very sorry to interrupt you, Sia, but Na Ransome is 
here, and says he needs urgently to speak with you." 
Chauvelin lifted his eyebrows, but nodded. "All right, show 
him into -- no, bring him up here. Without any of the Visiting 
Speaker's people seeing him, if you can." If Ransome had come in 
person, and not on the nets, it was bound to be something 
important. 
"Yes, Sia," je-Sou'tsian said. "I'm sorry, but I'm not sure 
that some of the Speaker's household didn't meet him as he came 
in." Her voice trailed off, and she gestured apology. 
"That's all right, it can't be helped," Chauvelin said. 
"But bring him up here." 
"At once, Sia," je-Sou'tsian said, and her image vanished 
from the cylinder. The empty rod of light retreated into its base, 
and a string of lights played across a secondary screen: the 
steward and Ransome were on their way. Chauvelin ran his hands 
across the shadowscreen, closing down some programs and putting 
others to sleep, watched as the multiple screens beneath the 
desktop copied his movements. A few moments later, the door slid 
open, and je-Sou'tsian appeared in the arched opening. 

 "Sia, Na Ransome is here." 
"Thanks," Chauvelin said, and gestured for the other man to 
come in. Ransome did as he was told, settled himself comfortably 
on the corner of the desk. Chauvelin smiled slightly, but said 
nothing: the seat would prove its own punishment. 
"What is it?" he asked, and Ransome smiled back at him. 
"You've been suckered," he said bluntly -- _and with 
entirely too much enjoyment_, Chauvelin thought. But that was his 
own fear speaking, not his intellect. 
"How so?" 
"I did exactly what you wanted," Ransome said. "I've gone 
back into the Game, I've trawled the Game nets, every one of them 
at least twice, and there's nothing going on -- except Lioe's 
scenario, of course. But nothing, absolutely nothing, that 
involves Damian Chrestil. But when I went onto the port nets, into 
the commercial systems, I found a lot of blocks that didn't used 
to be there." 
"Such as?" Chauvelin kept his tone strictly neutral, buying 
time. He had been half expecting something like this, some new 
revelation of wheels within wheels, but not from the port 
district. He frowned slightly, readjusting his thoughts to add 
money and shipping to the already volatile political mix. It 
didn't make sense, not yet -- the Chrestil-Brisch were supposed to 
favor the Republic, not Hsaioi-An -- but if Ransome was being shut 
out of the port computers, then there had to be an economic 
motive. 
"For one thing -- " Ransome paused, laughed shortly. "This 
is at best unethical, by the way, if not actively illegal." 
"I'm not surprised," Chauvelin murmured. 
Ransome nodded again, conceding the point. "It's not 
usually very hard to get someone to give you an address and an 
access code for the raw datafeed from the port computers -- you 
know, the ones that control the warehouse records for individual 
firms, scheduling, all that sort of thing." He shrugged. "Too many 
people know about it, and there are always plausible reasons to 
want access. And of course, a lot of people owe me favors." 
"Of course." 
"But today, when I tried to get those codes, first of all 
no one was selling them -- and I've never seen that happen, 
somebody's put the fear of Retribution into the shadow-walkers 

like I've never seen -- and then no one I know would give me 
anything. Now, that's happened before, especially after someone's 
scored a coup, but no one has, that I've heard, and I hear these 
things." Ransome paused, all the humor gone from his voice. "What 
I did find out was that some companies complained that information 
had been copied from those feeds, and used against them. And when 
I got names, they were all tied to Damian Chrestil." 
"Who were they?" Chauvelin asked. 
"C/B Cie. itself, Ionel Factor -- they import wines and 
spirits, and they've got ties to the Chrestil-Brisch distillery 
business -- and one of the FPB's steering groups." 
"Let me guess," Chauvelin said. "The merchant division, the 
one that Bettis Chrestil heads?" 
"Got it in one." Ransome smiled sourly. "But what exactly 
it all means is beyond me." 
_And me_, Chauvelin thought. _At least for the moment_. He 
looked down at the empty screens under the surface of the desktop, 
debating whom to query -- _Eriki Haas, certainly, once we're in 
phase and if the transmitter is reliable enough, just to see what 
connections ji-Imbaoa has with Damian Chrestil or C/B Cie_. The 
chime sounded again beneath the desktop. He frowned, more deeply 
this time, and touched the icon flashing in the shadowscreen. The 
projector lit, and je-Sou'tsian bowed from within the cylinder of 
light. 
"I apologize again for disturbing you, Sia, but the 
Visiting Speaker is on his way to your office." 
_That's all I need_. Chauvelin said, "All right, Iameis, 
thank you." 
"Wonderful," Ransome murmured, a crooked smile on his face. 
"Quite." Chauvelin leaned back in his chair, deliberately 
closed the last of the sleeping files. There was nothing he could 
do to stop ji-Imbaoa -- the Visiting Speaker was technically head 
of the ambassadorial household during his visit, and no doors 
could be shut to him -- but he did not have to welcome him. The 
shutdown codes were still flickering across the screens when the 
door slid back and ji-Imbaoa strode into the room. 
"So, Chauvelin," he said, "your agent's here. I want to 
talk to him." 
"As you wish," Chauvelin said, spread his hands in a 
deliberate gesture of innocence. "I didn't want to trouble you 

until I was sure it was worth your time." 
Ji-Imbaoa's fingers twitched -- _annoyance?_ Chauvelin 
thought, _or fear?_ He did not move, but felt himself suddenly, 
painfully tense, waiting for the Visiting Speaker's next move. 
"What have you found? Have you gone back to the Game?" 
Ransome hesitated, visibly choosing his words with care, 
and Chauvelin wondered for a moment if the other might have 
learned discretion. He need not have worried, however. Ransome 
said, "Yes, Na Speaker, I've been back to the Game, and found very 
little of interest." 
"Then surely you haven't looked very hard, or very long," 
ji-Imbaoa snapped. "Particularly since you have only been looking 
for two days." 
"I don't need any more than that to tell you there's 
nothing there," Ransome said. 
Chauvelin said, "If Na Ransome says he's found nothing in 
the Game, then there's nothing to be found." 
Ji-Imbaoa glanced back at him, fingers still twitching with 
unreadable emotion. "Then why should Damian Chrestil go to so much 
trouble to get him back into those nets? It must have to do with 
the Game." 
"Na Ransome thinks it's a distraction," Chauvelin said. 
"That Damian Chrestil's real interests lie elsewhere." 
"Don't you think you're being overelaborate?" ji-Imbaoa 
interrupted rudely. 
"Perhaps the Visiting Speaker is being underelaborate," 
Ransome murmured. "After all, he isn't used to the complex 
dishonesties of our local politics." 
He had used the hsai word that linked dishonesty and 
foreignness, so that the statement hovered delicately between 
compliment and insult. Chauvelin said, "I think Na Ransome's 
assessment is plausible, Sia." 
"And I tell you it is unlikely," ji-Imbaoa said. "I tell 
you, on my name and my fathers', this must be pursued, and pursued 
through the Game." 
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 Tsinra-an 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-andsmoke 
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 sheclone." 
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 agedivory 
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 almosttune, 
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?" 
"Yes, if you have it," Roscha answered, and the woman 
beckoned to her. 
"Well, come aboard, then." She looked up at Lioe, tilting 
her head inside the painted mask. "And you too. Are you here for a 
mask?" 
"I don't know," Lioe began, and Roscha answered for her. 
"Yes, probably." She dropped down onto the deck -- not a 
long drop, not much more than a meter -- and the boat rocked under 
her. Gelsomina kept her balance effortlessly, and beckoned for 
Lioe to follow. Lioe hesitated, but lowered herself more carefully 
onto the unsteady planks. The boat rocked anyway, and she steadied 
herself against the mast. It shifted under her hand, and the faces 
danced, seeming almost alive in the streetlight's glow. 
"These are beautiful," she said, and didn't quite realize 
she'd spoken aloud until Gelsomina bowed to her. 
"Thank you. But then, I enjoy my work." 
"Do you have any Avellars left, Na Mina?" Roscha asked, and 
Gelsomina shook her head. 
"No, child, not a one. There's some off-worlder doing a 
scenario with him at the heart of it; I sold my last one before 
noon." 
"Damn," Roscha said, and then, belatedly remembering her 
manners, "Na Mina, this is a friend of mine, Quinn Lioe. She's the 
one who wrote that scenario." 
"I've heard a lot about you," Gelsomina said. She tilted 
her head to one side, studying Lioe from behind the mask. "What 
were you looking for, do you know?" 
"Thanks," Lioe said, and heard her own uncertainty in her 
voice. "I didn't really have anything in mind. I've never been on 
Burning Bright during Storm." She scanned the rows of masks in the 
hopes of finding something, and, to her surprise, one face seemed 
to leap out at her from the row crowded on the mast. It was a full 
mask, with a heavy, elaborately braided wig covering the back of 
the head. One half of the face was plain, smooth, a bland 
collection of planes and angles, pleasing enough, but nothing out 
of the ordinary; the other was deformed and distorted like the 
carvings on a ritual mask, the cheek eaten to the bone, the mouth 

drawn down by a scar like a sneer, the eye hidden by a painted 
patch. And the rest of the scars were decorated, too, layered with 
color so that they became almost an abstract painting of a face. 
Lioe reached out to touch it, drawn and repelled at the same time, 
and Gelsomina nodded. 
"That's from one of LaChacalle's novels -- Helike, from 
_The Witch-Vizier_. Do you know it?" 
"I'm afraid I don't," Lioe answered, and didn't know if she 
was glad or sorry. The new name, the last name on the session 
list, had been LaChacalle. "Is LaChacalle a Gamer?" 
Gelsomina shrugged one shoulder. "She used to be. I haven't 
seen her much lately -- she quit about when Ambidexter did. They 
were old friends." 
"She's playing tonight, I think," Lioe said. "Or someone 
with that name is, anyway." 
"There's only one of her," Gelsomina said. 
"What about Hazard?" Roscha asked, and Gelsomina shook her 
head. 
"No, but I do have Cor-Clar Sensmerce. I remember you used 
to play her." 
"Thanks," Roscha said, and Gelsomina turned to the lines of 
masks, running her staff idly along the rows until she found the 
one she wanted. 
"There you are. It's twenty _real_. Or we can make a 
trade." 
Roscha stopped, her hand on the purse inside her belt. 
"What trade?" 
"You needn't sound so suspicious," Gelsomina said. "Are you 
going to watch the parade?" 
"We were, yes," Roscha answered, and despite Gelsomina's 
words still sounded wary. Lioe grinned, and then wondered if she 
should be more cautious. 
"I'd rather watch it from the Water, myself, with all the 
stock aboard," Gelsomina went on, "and I wouldn't mind having some 
younger bodies to help me get this cow down to the canal mouth. 
I'll trade you each a mask, and bring you back to your club -- is 
it Shadows you're playing at? as close as I can get, then -- 
before the session starts." 
Roscha relaxed visibly. "That would make life easier." 
Lioe shrugged. "Can we get back in time?" 

 "When is the session?" Gelsomina asked. 
"Twentieth hour," Roscha said, and looked at Lioe. "It 
shouldn't be a problem. The parade starts at dark -- seventeenth 
hour." 
Lioe glanced sideways, checking the time, and shrugged 
again, willing to let herself be overruled. "If you're sure, why 
not? It should be worth seeing." 
"It always is," Gelsomina answered. "There's nothing quite 
like our Carnival, not anywhere in human space." 
_Or anywhere at all_, Lioe thought. Under Gelsomina's 
instructions, she and Roscha stowed most of the masks and costumes 
that cluttered the decking in the storage cells that ran along the 
gunwales, but left the ones that lined the mast. Then Roscha freed 
the mooring lines while Gelsomina took her place in the steering 
well. Lioe, knowing nothing of boats, crouched beside the mast and 
waited to be told what to do. The motor coughed and caught, 
settled almost instantly to a steady purr. Roscha shoved them free 
of the embankment, and the barge swung out into the channel, 
heading toward the Inland Water. 
The people on the banks were moving toward the Water, too, 
knots and groups of them in bright matching costumes, a few who 
walked alone, families with strings of children going hand in hand 
under an elder's watchful eye. There were more boats on the canal, 
too, some smaller than Lioe had seen before, little more than a 
shell with a racketing motor slung over the stern, and, of course, 
the inevitable mob of gondas. A Lockwardens' patrol boat moved 
silently through the crowd, its flashing light sending blue 
shadows across the water and along its own black hull. The 
civilian craft all carried bright lights at stern and bow -- the 
littlest shells had handlights rigged to the motors -- and even as 
Lioe noticed that, lights blossomed along the sides of Gelsomina's 
barge. They were directed outward, shielded from the boat's 
occupants, but Lioe could see their brilliance reflected in the 
water. It was a beautiful effect, the shape of the barge outlined 
in light, but she guessed it was as much precaution as decoration. 
There would be a lot of traffic on the canals tonight: it was a 
good time to be visible. 
Horns sounded as they came up on the wide feeder channel 
that carried local traffic down to the Water, and Lioe jumped as 
Gelsomina sounded their own horn in answer. The barge swung over, 

stately, Roscha standing ready in the bow, boatpole in hand to 
fend off any unwary craft, and then Gelsomina had tucked them 
neatly into the line of traffic. The canal was jammed with barges 
and gondas, and here and there a bigger commercial boat -- heavy 
barges and seiners in about equal numbers -- loomed above the 
crowd, their sides dripping with strings of chaser lights. A heavy 
barge swayed past, set Gelsomina's boat rocking in its wake, the 
strings of lights dipping into the water as it heeled over 
slightly to avoid a passing gonda. Its open deck was crowded with 
people of all ages, from babies in flotation suits to old men and 
women in support chairs. _Families of the regular crews?_ Lioe 
wondered, but it was too noisy to ask. 
Blatting one-note trumpets sounded from the walkways that 
lined the shore -- children, mostly, carrying the brightly colored 
horns that were a full meter long, taller than some of the 
children who sounded them -- and were answered by another clutch 
of children on the heavy barge's deck. Other boats took up the 
sound, and Lioe covered her ears, wincing, until the boats had 
passed and the shore children had admitted defeat. People called 
to each other, their words drowned in the general din, and a man 
dressed all in bells danced on a bollard, the clanging all but 
inaudible as Gelsomina's barge slipped past only a few meters from 
the wall. A disk of light swept across the crowd, and Lioe looked 
up to see the familiar shape of a hovering security drone scanning 
the crowd. The Lockwardens' insignia was picked out in lights on 
its stubby wings. A cheer, ironic but not hostile, rose from the 
crowd as the light touched them. 
Farther up the canal, there were whoops, and then a splash, 
the sound distinct and chilling even in the uproar. Lioe turned 
her head sharply, even though it had been too loud to have been a 
child, saw Roscha's body a tense shadow against the shore lights. 
Then, as suddenly, she saw her relax as two drones flung their 
lights onto the source of the sound. Caught in that double disk of 
light, a dripping boy hauled himself back onto a fingerling dock, 
shaking water from the ruined feathers that decorated his mask. He 
shook his fist at another boy, but a third grabbed his shoulders, 
and hustled him away. One of the drones followed the group for a 
moment longer, then turned away, taking the light with it. As the 
bright circle swung briefly aimless along the buildings that 
fronted the canal, it hit a doorway where a man and a woman were 

locked in blind embrace, her skirt rucked up to her waist, and 
flashed away again. Lioe blinked, not sure if she'd seen the woman 
reaching not for her partner but for his wallet, but there was 
nothing she could do about it if she had. 
The feeder widened suddenly as it opened onto the Water. 
Gondas were clustered in flotillas along either bank, filled and 
overfilled with masked and costumed figures, standing shapes 
balanced precariously against the chop where the two currents met. 
The Water itself was black and empty, except for a few speeders 
that carried the blue lights of the Lockwardens; another 
Lockwardens' speeder, throttled back so far that it barely made 
headway against the chop, moved along the line of gondas, a tall 
man calling instructions from the pilot's well. 
"Which way?" Gelsomina called from her place in the stern, 
and Lioe saw Roscha look right and left before she answered. 
"It looks clearer down toward the Warden's Channel." 
"Right." The boat swung left as Gelsomina answered, pulling 
out around the mob of smaller boats, and Lioe felt rather than 
heard the beat of the engine strengthen as they picked up speed. 
"Do you see a buoy?" Gelsomina called. 
"No, not yet -- wait." Roscha leaned precariously out over 
the bow, one hand clinging tight to the mast. "Wait, yes, past 
that seiner there's a free point." 
Gelsomina did not answer, but Lioe felt the boat surge 
again, as though she'd opened a throttle. The barge passed two 
more ships -- another barge filled with people costumed from the 
Game, several Avellars among them, and then a seiner, its nets 
spread to let a horde of children climb to a better view -- and 
then started to slow. They were almost on top of it before Lioe 
saw the mooring point. Roscha had had it in view long before, 
however, and caught it easily with the boatpole's hooked end. 
Gelsomina saw the movement, the swoop and jerk of the pole against 
the shore lights, and reversed the engines. The barge slid neatly 
up to the orange-painted buoy, coming to an almost perfect stop 
against its scarred sides. Roscha looped a cable into place, 
tugged twice to snug it home. Flares blossomed in the distance, 
toward the entrance to the channel. 
"They're coming," Roscha called, and Gelsomina pulled 
herself up out of the steering well, came to sit on the unstepped 
mast. Lioe seated herself beside the older woman, careful of the 

masks and the barge's unpredictable roll, and Roscha joined them a 
moment later, tucking the boatpole neatly under their feet. A 
larger Lockwardens' boat, a slim needle of a ship twice as long as 
a gonda, slid past down the center of the channel, a tail of spray 
gleaming behind it. 
"In that compartment there," Gelsomina said, "you'll find a 
bottle of raki." 
Roscha grinned, and rummaged in the shallow space until she 
had found the bottle and three small, unmatching cups. She poured 
a cup for each of them, and came back to sit beside Lioe. 
"Health," she said, and the three touched cups. 
They did not have to wait long for the parade to appear. 
Lioe sipped cautiously at the bitter drink -- it tasted of anise, 
a flavor she didn't like -- and looked south again just as another 
flare blossomed in the darkness over the Warden's Channel. A trio 
of speeders, all with Lockwardens' lights and markings, swept into 
view, and another group of three followed more slowly, peeling off 
to take up stations just inside the line of spectators. 
"Soon now," Gelsomina said, and Roscha said, "Mommy..." She 
caught a five-year-old's whine so perfectly that Lioe laughed 
aloud. 
"Five more minutes," Gelsomina said. 
Lioe looked south again, still smiling, toward the light at 
the point of Mainwarden Island, and saw a dark shape eclipse the 
light. _The parade?_ she thought, and Roscha whooped beside her. 
"There they are!" 
Gelsomina fumbled in the folds of her costume, and produced 
a slim set of night glasses. She laid her staff aside and used 
both hands to work the focusing buttons. Lioe narrowed her eyes at 
the dark platform, wondering how anyone would be able to see 
anything on that distant deck. And then a giant figure unfolded 
itself from the barge, a woman in a full skirt and low-cut bodice, 
a giantess with a crown of blue-white stars, and more stars draped 
and scattered across her dress. She stood for a moment, a sketch 
in light and shadows, and then spotlights came on, revealing her 
full glories. There was a gasp from the crowds on the banks and on 
the boats to either side, and then shrill applause. It had to be 
some kind of puppet, Lioe knew, an enormous automaton that swept 
into an astonishingly graceful curtsy as the sound of the cheers 
reached it, but the illusion was nearly perfect. The face was 

serenely beautiful, elegantly proportioned; as Lioe watched, the 
features shifted, rearranging themselves into a gentle smile. 
"Oh, they're not going to like that," Gelsomina said. "Half 
the crowd will miss the lighting." 
"No, look," Roscha answered, pointing as the spotlights 
faded again, leaving the giantess wreathed in her own lights. "Oh, 
very nice." 
Gelsomina nodded, fumbling again with her glasses. 
"It must be, what, ten meters tall," Lioe said, and Roscha 
nodded. 
"Between ten and twelve. Whose is it, Na Mina?" 
"Who pays for them all?" Lioe asked. 
"Civic groups," Gelsomina answered, not taking her glasses 
from her eyes. "That's Estens there -- one of the Five Points 
Families, Na Lioe. They, the Five Points Families, I mean, and the 
Merchant Investors Syndicate, the Five Points Bank, cartels like 
Yardmasters and Fishers Co-op, and the Lockwardens, of course, 
each one sponsors a barge. Once a group's bought the framework, 
it's just a matter of dressing it each year." 
"It's a way of proving your importance," Roscha said. 
Gelsomina went on as though she hadn't spoken, lowering the 
glasses into her lap. "I used to dress for Yardmasters, a long 
time ago, and then for the MIS. Before it got so political." 
Lioe nodded, not really understanding, and a second barge 
swept into view. This one carried a massively muscled male shape, 
naked except for a blue-and-gold loincloth and heavy golden 
bracelets running from its wrists almost to its elbows. Its head 
was the head of a bull, the horns tipped with gold as well, and 
its body glittered in the spotlight, as though its skin were 
sheathed in some kind of faintly mottled coating, a gold 
iridescence like tiny scales. It threw back its head as the 
crowd's noise reached it, massive mouth opening in a silent roar, 
and beat the air with its fists. 
"Five Points Bank?" Roscha said, and Gelsomina nodded. 
"More money than sense. But that's always been their 
problem." 
"It looks," Roscha said slowly, frowning, "you know, it 
looks almost hsaia, with that skin. I wonder if they meant it?" 
"I doubt it," Gelsomina said. "I heard talk about this. 
They hired Marrin Artisans to come up with a new way to make the 

sheathing, out of sequensas -- rejects and scrap, mind you, but 
still. You can imagine what that cost." She stared at the figure 
for a long moment, and added, grudgingly, "Still, it does look 
pretty good from here." 
"It still looks hsaia to me," Roscha said. "And the FPB 
does a lot of business with Hsaioi-An." 
"And that," Gelsomina said, "is what's wrong with the 
parade these days. Remember the year the Five Points Families each 
did one of the Four Judges? That started it, once their candidate 
got elected that year. Everything's got a political angle, some 
kind of message -- even when you don't mean it to, somebody's 
going to see it. The old days were a lot better." 
Roscha looked away, her expression at once embarrassed and 
mulish in the dim light, and Lioe said hastily, "Who's that 
coming?" 
Gelsomina adjusted her glasses again, focusing on the third 
barge that was just coming into view its deck still empty of its 
puppet. "MIS." 
_Merchant Investors' Syndicate_, Lioe translated, and 
leaned forward a little. On the distant deck, a dark figure lifted 
its head, rose forward as though to its knees, and hung there for 
a moment, an indistinct shadow against the thin bank of light that 
was the far bank of the Water. Lioe caught her breath, heard a 
shocked murmur from the people filling the seiner to her right, 
and the same questioning noises from the crowd on the bank behind 
her. Gelsomina smiled faintly, said nothing. Then the figure 
straightened fully, and the lights came on, revealing a shape in a 
nipwaisted coat and the blood-red shoulder-cape-and-hood of 
Captain Rider. She was a familiar template in the Game, one of the 
heroic almost-pirates who defended the Scattered Worlds against 
the Imperium, and Lioe waited eagerly for her to lower her hood. 
The puppet lifted both hands -- light glinted from the ring, 
Captain Rider's seal, worn on its right forefinger, and Lioe 
smiled at the careful detail -- and slipped the hood back. There 
was something not quite right about the face, though, something 
unfamiliar, added or taken away from the template. Lioe frowned, 
puzzled, and realized that the puppet's eyes didn't match, one 
blue, one brown. Behind her, the crowd cheered. 
"Holy shit," Roscha said, "that's Berengaria." 
"More politics," Gelsomina said, but did not sound 

particularly displeased this time. 
"The governor?" Lioe said. 
Roscha nodded, grinning, and raised her voice to carry over 
the cheers and shrill whistles from the crowd. "She's one of 
theirs, the MIS's, I mean. And they're proud of her." 
"She's favored them enough, you mean," Gelsomina said. 
_For all she hates politics_, Lioe thought, _she knows a 
lot about what's going on_. Still, it was a clever move, 
associating Governor Berengaria -- who from all accounts supported 
Burning Bright's freedom from both the metagovernments, and leaned 
to the Republic, her friends said, only because they were less of 
a threat than the Hsaioi-An -- with Captain Rider, protector of 
the Scattered Worlds. _Not subtle, admittedly, but clever_. 
"And Rider's not what you'd call a Beauty," Gelsomina went 
on, her voice rising, querulous. 
"She's surely not a Beast," Roscha answered, and Lioe 
intervened again. 
"What is the rule?" 
"There isn't really a rule," Gelsomina said, grudgingly. 
"Not written down, anyway. But the tradition is to alternate the 
pageant barges, a Beauty and a Beast, and the figures are usually 
taken from mythology. Not from the Game." 
"The Game's a kind of mythology," Lioe said mildly, 
overriding something Roscha started to say, and after a moment the 
john-boat pilot subsided. 
"Oh, I know," Gelsomina answered. "It's just -- oh, very 
God, I hate getting old. You always end up sounding like your own 
mother." 
Lioe grinned and saw Roscha relax even further. "Who 
designs the puppets?" she asked at random, hoping to turn the 
conversation even further, and saw a fourth barge pull into view. 
"Who's that?" Roscha demanded. 
Gelsomina worked her glasses, shook her head. "Can't tell 
yet." 
On the distant deck, a figure unfolded, barely rising out 
of a crouch before the spotlights struck it. A dancing satyr 
leered back at the crowd, goat-legged, rude horns jutting from its 
forehead and implied beneath its gilded fig leaf; it was crowned 
with oak and ivy, golden acorns -- _they must be the size of 
melons_, Lioe realized, _too big to span in my cupped hands_ -- 

and carried a double flute. The cheers were less than 
enthusiastic, to her surprise, and she looked at Roscha. 
"It's been done before," Roscha said, and Gelsomina shook 
her head. 
"It's Soresin, too. I expected better, after what I heard 
they spent this year." 
Then, quite suddenly, the satyr began to move. As though it 
had heard the comments, it thumbed its nose to each bank in turn, 
still grinning, then lifted its flute to its thick lips. It began 
to play, and, seconds later, the sound reached the watching crowd, 
a thin, seductive melody that carried the urge to dance and weep 
in the same quick, minor-keyed strain. A moment later, the puppet 
began to dance to its own piping, the movements timed so perfectly 
that for a long moment Lioe forgot the barge, forgot that it was a 
puppet, and saw only the ghost of an abandoned god dancing against 
the horizon. 
"Now that's more like it," Gelsomina said, and her words 
were nearly drowned by the cheering from the shore. On the seiner 
next to them, some of the people were dancing, sketching the same 
quick steps to the satyr's music. Lioe glanced toward them, saw a 
young man clasp a woman's hands and swing her in a sweeping 
circle. She leaned back, eyes closed, bright skirt flying, her 
long hair tumbling loose from a Carnival crown of braids, brushing 
the decks. She came upright laughing, and Lioe looked away from 
the wild abandon in her face. 
"If that doesn't take all the awards," Roscha began, and 
her voice trailed off into nothing. 
Gelsomina nodded, but her expression was less certain. 
"Everything for puppetry, certainly." 
The barge that followed Soresin's dancing satyr carried 
another female puppet, this one tall and very slim, dressed in a 
short, one-shouldered tunic and carrying a spear nearly as tall as 
the puppet itself. Light flared from the fingers of her free hand; 
she touched the spear's point, and fire ran up and down the shaft. 
It was impressive, but after the dancing satyr anything would have 
been an anticlimax. 
The next barge carried a stooped and cloaked figure, red 
lights glowing like eyes from the shadows within its hood -- 
"Imbriac," Gelsomina said, "one of the Five Points Families" -- 
that received no more than polite applause, and the next was a 

crowned man, very handsome, sponsored by a fishing cooperative 
called Tcheirin Sibs. The next barge slid into view, its puppet 
already outlined against the lights of the distant shore, a 
stooped and crooked figure, one shoulder higher than the rest. The 
lights came on, revealing the twisted body, the sneering scowl of 
one of the Game's grand villains, the Baron's henchman Ettanin 
Hasse. The puppet stood for a long moment, only its head moving as 
it looked from side to side, mouth still twisted in contemptuous 
amusement, and then, quite slowly, it lifted a mask to its face. 
The mask was perfect, ordinary, a man's face without deformity; 
the puppet set it into place, and straightened fully, the crooked 
shoulder and twisted body easing away. There was a murmur, 
approving and uneasy all at once, before the applause. The puppet 
lowered the mask again, and sank back into its first character. 
"That," Gelsomina said, "was Chrestil-Brisch." 
"That takes guts," Roscha said. "Considering that's what 
most people think of them anyway." 
Lioe glanced at her, and Roscha shrugged. "They've got a 
reputation for being, well, chancy. You're never really sure where 
you stand with them -- or so they say." 
Lioe looked back toward the line of barges to watch the 
next group of puppets mime their reactions against the starless 
sky. There were only three more -- a female shape with a fan, from 
a popular video series; something with the head and shoulders of a 
dragon, beautiful but incomprehensible; and, last and best, 
neither Beauty nor Beast, a shape that seemed to be made of glass 
and mirrors, each curve of its body turned to facets and angles. 
It barely moved -- "too fragile to move much," Gelsomina said -- 
but it threw back the spotlights in a storm of white fire. It was 
all too much, and Lioe found herself strangely glad when the last 
of them slid past. Gelsomina sighed, and motioned for Roscha to 
release the mooring. 
They made their way back to Shadows by the quickest route, 
up the Crooked River to the turnoff below the Old Dike, then back 
through the maze of canals to the Liander canal just south of 
Shadows. The streets were quieter here -- most people were still 
on the Water, or in the streets and plazas along its banks -- and 
Lioe was not sure if she was relieved or worried to see a security 
drone sail past overhead. 
"I appreciate your help," Gelsomina said. "It's nice to see 

the parade from a decent viewpoint." She had pushed the Viverina's 
mask back onto her forehead to see while she steered, but the wig 
was still in place, the skulls clattering against each other. 
"Thank you," Lioe said. "I didn't -- I don't know what I 
was expecting, but that was just incredible." 
Gelsomina smiled. "And I owe you masks, too. Roscha, do you 
want Cor-Clar?" 
"Yes, and thank you," Roscha answered, and reached with 
unerring speed for the rich brown-skinned mask. 
"And you, Na Lioe?" Gelsomina asked. 
Lioe shook her head. "I can't decide. They're all gorgeous, 
and I don't know who I want to be." 
"Well, you're not leaving empty-handed," Gelsomina 
declared. "We had a bargain." She turned slowly, leaning on the 
Viverina's stick, running her gaze along the masks still hanging 
from the unstepped mast. They looked back at her, their colors 
mellowed in the amber light from the embankment. She smiled then, 
and reached out with her staff. "Take that one." 
"If you're sure, Na Gelsomina," Lioe began, and the woman 
nodded. 
"Take it. I insist." 
"Thank you," Lioe said, helplessly, and loosened the mask 
from the clips that held it. It was made of stiffened lace, 
roughly formed to the shape of a human face, with a single sixmillimeter 
stone of clear faceted glass set above the mouth like a 
beauty mark. The web of lace, black and faintly metallic, looked 
almost transparent in the light. "Thanks," she said again, and let 
Roscha pull her up onto the embankment. She looked back once, to 
see Gelsomina -- the Viverina again, her mask pulled down into 
place and staff in hand -- standing beside the row of masks that 
looked almost alive in the amber light. 
"We've got some time," Roscha said. "Do you want to stop 
for coffee, or something?" 
Lioe looked sideways, found a patch of grey stone that 
would let her see the chronometer's numbers. In a little more than 
an hour she would have to start the night's session, and she shook 
her head decisively. "No. I want to get back to Shadows." She was 
aware suddenly that Roscha was frowning, added a belated, "Thanks 
anyway." 
Roscha shrugged one shoulder. "Suit yourself." 

 "Some other time," Lioe said, and got no answer. They kept 
walking through the patches of light and shadow that filled the 
streets, pools of light puddling in the intersections, shadow 
creeping back at the middle of the blocks, where the streetlights 
did not overlap. Distant music wound through the darkness, fits 
and snatches that she could almost weave into a tune. She tilted 
her head to one side to listen -- she didn't even quite recognize 
the instruments, except for the heavy bass and the thin whine of 
metal strings from a violo -- and started when Roscha's hand 
brushed her own. 
"Hey, I'm sorry," Roscha said, in an affronted voice and 
Lioe shook her head. 
"I'm sorry, you just startled me. That's all." 
There was a moment of silence, and then Roscha looked away. 
"I'm sorry," she said again, in an entirely different tone. 
"It's all right," Lioe said, and did not move away when 
Roscha reached for her hand again. They walked on hand in hand, 
their footsteps echoing on the paving, and then Roscha pulled away 
again. Lioe bit back annoyance -- she didn't need this, not before 
a session -- but said nothing. _Whatever's wrong with her, she'll 
have to get over it on her own; I don't have the time to nursemaid 
her_. Then, in spite of herself, she gave a rueful smile. _Why are 
my one-night stands always more complicated than they should be?_ 
-------- 
*Evening, Day 1* 
_Storm: The Chrestil-Brisch_ 
_Palazze, Five Points_ 
Damian Chrestil stood on the wide balcony that ran along 
the base of the palazze's roof, watching the fireworks that 
bloomed over the Wet Districts and the Inland Water. Each burst 
drew a murmur of appreciation from the other guests, watching from 
the open doorways farther down the roof, but he enjoyed the annual 
display too much to share it. The bursts of red and gold flared 
like flowers, drowning the stars and the starlike lights of the 
distant buildings. He would rather have been watching from the 
Water itself, where the sky rained golden fire with each 
explosion, but Chrestillio had asked -- _and we all agreed, in 
some perverse fit of compliance_ -- that they all attend the 
family's party as a show of solidarity. Customs-and-Intelligence 
was still asking questions about the Demeter shipment, and it was 

important that they look as though they trusted each other, and 
weren't worrying about anything. The fireworks slackened, the 
breathing space before the finale, and Damian glanced over his 
shoulder toward the guests who lined the balcony. About half of 
them were masked, all from the Five Points Families: the Old City 
did not mask, preferred more refined pastimes, but the real power 
had never needed refinement. Damian smiled at the thought, nodded 
to a thin woman -- _she was something in the bank_, he thought -- 
who lifted her glass to him, and looked away. 
The finale caught them all by surprise, and there was a 
collective gasp as the first burst flowered into an enormous spray 
of red that turned to gold and then fell in streamers of light 
toward the distant Water. Another shell burst into a flare of 
purple brightening to pink, and then another, and another, so that 
the balls of light hung for a moment on a trail of gold fire like 
flowers on a stem. Even as they fell, dissolving into a shower of 
sparks, four more shells flew up, trailing thin lines of flame, 
exploded into flat sheets of light. From the Water, Damian knew, 
it would be as though the world were frozen for an instant by that 
crack of light, and he sighed for what he was missing. 
In his pocket, the house remote buzzed softly, a tingling 
vibration against his thigh. He swore under his breath, and 
reached for it, cupping his fingers over the control points. The 
message vibrated against his hand: _urgent message, come at once_. 
He swore again, but the code was his highest priority. He glanced 
over his shoulder again, saw no one watching, and turned the 
remote to touch the control combination that released the gate to 
the outside stair. It was in shadow, and everyone's attention 
would be on the finale for at least half an hour. He looked again 
toward the Water -- red and green halos flared around a golden 
center -- and made himself turn away. 
The staircase spiraled down the outside of the palazze, 
with only a single entrance before the ground level. He twisted 
the remote again to release that lock, and let himself in past 
impassive human security to the third floor's secondary hall. The 
corridor connected with his own rooms; he made his way there, the 
lights growing brighter at his approach, dimming as he moved away, 
let himself into the suite. Lights were blinking on the 
communications console, but he paused long enough to clear the 
windows completely before he crossed to the control board and 

entered the security codes. The little screen sprang to life, but 
Damian ignored it, tilted the boxy display so that he could see at 
least some of the fireworks through the window beyond it. 
In the screen, ji-Imbaoa glared at him, claws tapping 
somewhere out of sight. "Your plans are starting to unravel," he 
said, without preamble. 
Damian Chrestil lifted an eyebrow at him -- _how did I come 
to join forces with him?_ -- said aloud, "Weren't you able to get 
the codes?" 
Ji-Imbaoa waved away that question. "They are coming. There 
has been some trouble with the transmitter; I've had to go through 
the commercial links. But that is not the issue." 
"Forgive me, Na Speaker, but I thought precisely that was 
the cause of this delay," Damian said. 
"The codes are on their way," ji-Imbaoa said again. "Do you 
doubt me?" 
Damian bit back his anger, waved a hand in apology. "No. I 
don't doubt they'll get here." _Eventually_. 
"I accept the apology." 
It was only a formal phrase, effectively meaningless, but 
Damian felt his hackles rise. He controlled his temper with an 
effort, and said, "Then, Na Speaker, what's happened to upset 
you?" 
"Ransome," ji-Imbaoa said. "He has concluded that the Game 
is a blind, and he is encouraging Chauvelin to look elsewhere." 
Damian frowned at the screen, a cold knot forming in the 
pit of his stomach. If that was true, if Ransome was back on the 
port nets, and with Customs-and-Intelligence still asking 
questions about the shipment from Demeter, it would be only too 
easy to track down what was really going on. _Easy for Ransome, 
anyway_. He took a deep breath, trying to banish fear, and ji- 
Imbaoa went on. 
"I have taken steps to forestall him, but I don't know how 
long it will last." 
"Good," Damian said, and then considered. "What did you 
do?" 
"The only thing I could do," ji-Imbaoa answered. "I have 
made it a matter of honor and prestige that Ransome continue with 
the Game -- I have wagered my name and my fathers' that there will 
be something there for him to find. I trust that it's so." 

 _Do I care about your fathers' names?_ Damian ran his hand 
through his hair, tried to consider things calmly. "There are 
things for him to worry about, yes," he said, "and I can arrange 
for him to find some more political material." _I think. If Cella 
can get time_. "But under these circumstances, Na Speaker -- let 
me put it plainly, if you don't get me those codes, tonight or 
tomorrow, this deal will fall through. At a high cost to both of 
us, money and prestige alike." 
"Let me remind you," ji-Imbaoa said, his hands suddenly as 
still as Damian had ever seen them, "that you have significantly 
more to lose than I." 
"I've done all that I promised," Damian answered, and left 
the rest unsaid. 
"I'll get you the codes," ji-Imbaoa said. "But you will 
have to keep Ransome busier." He cut the connection before Damian 
could reply. 
Damian swore at the blank screen, slapped the controls with 
more force than was really necessary. But ji-Imbaoa was lord and 
master of Highhopes, and if the jericho-human colony there was 
going to trade with Burning Bright without the interference of the 
brokers backed by the tzu Tsinra-an, they had to work through ji- 
Imbaoa. And ji-Imbaoa had to get his share of the profits. The 
system shut itself off, and he stood for a moment staring at the 
sky beyond the long windows. The last shells made a curtain of 
fire, sheets of gold and red that frayed to long streamers against 
the invisible stars, but he barely saw it, lost in calculations. 
If Ransome wasn't distracted by the Game, his own security was 
probably inadequate: he paid well, employed the best experts, but 
Ransome was a superb netwalker in his own right, and he knew too 
many people within the systems. If he couldn't crack the security 
wall himself, he would know someone who could give or sell him the 
keys. Damian tapped his fingers against the case, winced at the 
echo of ji-Imbaoa's gesture. He'd increase security -- _it's a 
good thing I thought to organize a blockade of the port feed 
already, but I'll have to do something more. And I can't transfer 
the lachesi to the transshipment group without those codes_. 
Still, it would be better if Ransome stayed in the Game. 
The door chime sounded then, and the remote buzzed gently 
against his thigh. He frowned -- _no one should know I'm here_ -- 
and touched the code that threw the security feed onto the small 

display. Cella was waiting in the hall, demure in a sheer 
overdress. Damian's frown deepened, and he touched the controls 
that released the lock. 
"They're starting to wonder where you are," Cella said, 
without preamble. 
"Damn them," Damian said, and then, "Which them, anyway?" 
"Your siblings, mostly," Cella answered, and Damian made a 
face. 
"I'd better go up, then." 
"I do need to talk to you," Cella said. 
Damian Chrestil looked at her. "I hope it's good news. I've 
not been having a pleasant evening." 
Cella smiled wryly. "I'm afraid not." 
Damian sighed. "Well?" 
"I suppose it's good and bad, at that. I stopped in at 
Shadows before I came here. Lioe -- Ransome's pilot -- is running 
a session tonight, and I wanted to look over the play list. The 
good news is that Ambidexter himself is back in the Game -- he's 
even playing Harmsway -- but the bad news is that Kichi 
Desjourdy's also part of the session. And as best I can discover, 
it was Lioe herself who asked her to play." 
Damian's hand closed convulsively on the pocket remote, and 
there was a squeal of protest from the mechanism. He released it 
hastily, and Cella went on. 
"Desjourdy is known as a Gamer, but I thought you ought to 
know." 
"Damn," Damian said softly, as much to himself as to Cella, 
and he stared into space for a long moment, trying to order his 
thoughts. The sky beyond the windows was very black, the fireworks 
over: _no inspiration there_, he thought, and turned his eyes 
away. "This Lioe," he began, "is she still seeing Roscha, or was 
it a one-night affair?" 
Cella shrugged. "I don't know. Roscha was slated to play 
Avellar, but Lioe seems very taken with Ransome. And he with her, 
for that matter." 
"So." Damian shoved his hands into his pockets again, 
running his fingers over the remote's smoothly indented surface as 
though it were a talisman. _If I can get Roscha to watch Lioe -- 
Roscha's done that kind of job before, she can certainly handle it 
-- then I can be sure to find out if she contacts Desjourdy 

again_. He touched the remote's control points again, and the 
image in the display screens shifted, became a memo board. He 
leaned over the keyboard, typed a quick message into the 
wharfingers' computers -- CONTACT JAFIERA ROSCHA 2 STORM AM, SEND 
HER TO MY OFFICE AS SOON AS SHE ARRIVES -- and set it loose on the 
main systems. _And if all else fails, she can deal with Lioe, and 
I can get Ransome out of the way_. "Can you get a transcript of 
this session for me?" 
Cella blinked, startled. "Yes, of course. It'll be on all 
the Game nets by three this morning if not before. Why?" 
"I just want to see how they behave," Damian said vaguely. 
_I want to see if Roscha thinks she's competing with Ransome, and 
I want to see how good she is at it. Because if she has any grudge 
against him, I can make good use of it_. "Dump it to my private 
system as soon as you can get a copy, please." 
"I'll do that," Cella said. 
Damian Chrestil smiled crookedly. "Then let's rejoin the 
party." 
-------- 
*Interlude* 
_Game/varRebel.2.04/_ 
_subPsi. 1.22/ver22.1/ses4.24_ 
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 back out 
onto the center catwalk it would take a miracle to keep from being 
seen. Galan Africa/ALEMO TOMSEY frowned over the power pack of 
their only heavy laser, working methodically to mate a salvaged 
blaster cell into the nonstandard housing. Jack Blue/KICHI 
DESJOURDY sprawled gasping against the nearest stack of crates, 
hand against his chest as though it pained him. Mijja 
Lyall/LACHACALLE crouched at his side, one hand on his wrist, as 
though somehow knowing his pulse rate could help. Blue's great 
bulk had displaced the lower crates slightly, and Gallio 
Hazard/HALLY VENTURA edged out of its line of fall, his pistol 
drawn and ready. He knelt cautiously in the shelter of a second 
stack of crates, laid a fresh clip on the floor beside him, and 
settled to wait. Lord Faro/PETER SAVIAN and Ibelin 
Belfortune/KAZIO BELEDIN crouched as always a little apart from 

the rest, Faro a little ahead of the wild-eyed Belfortune, as 
though he could protect him. 
"We're still waiting for this contact," Desir of 
Harmsway/AMBIDEXTER said. "Well, Avellar? What happened this 
time?" 
"How can I know?" Avellar/JAFIERA ROSCHA answered. 
"Something's gone wrong, obviously." She smiled suddenly. "I say 
we press on, Desir, unless you want to go back." 
Harmsway looked away, made a face of disgust. Avellar's 
grin faded, and she went to kneel on the warped flooring beside 
Jack Blue. "How is it?" 
"Not so good." Blue's voice was thin and wheezing, and, 
behind his back, Lyall shook her head. She reached into her muchdepleted 
kit, came out with a slim injector, but hesitated, and 
did not lay it against the telekinetic's arm. 
"If you weren't so damn fat, you wouldn't be in this bad 
shape," Harmsway snapped. "Christ, what a waste." 
Blue frowned, his eyes losing their focus for a moment. A 
cracked piece of the floor tiling snapped loose and flung itself 
at Harmsway's face. He ducked away from it, but too late, and the 
tile's sharp edge drew a thin line of blood along one cheekbone. 
Avellar snatched the tile out of the air before it could strike 
anything else. 
"A waste to bring me," Blue said, mimicking Harmsway's 
precise voice. "You didn't bring me, little man -- " 
"Shut up," Avellar said, and was obeyed. "Save your 
strength," she added, and looked at Harmsway. "The ship's right 
there, Desir, just waiting for us. Go right ahead." 
Harmsway looked longingly at the cargo door, only forty 
meters away across the width of the warehouse. It was even open, 
the ship's hatch gleaming in the loading lights, 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. His 
lips thinned, and he looked away. 
"Avellar." Lyall's voice was suddenly sharp with fear, and 
Avellar swung to face her. 
"I think -- " Lyall began, then shook her head. "No, I'm 
sure. They've brought in one of the hunters." 
Harmsway swore, and Hazard looked back over his shoulder at 
them all. 

 Africa did not look up from his work, his hands still busy 
with the laser. "Hunter?" 
"Another telepath," Blue said. "The kind that specializes 
in hunting down his own kind." 
"How close?" Harmsway demanded, and Lyall shook her head 
again. 
"I can't tell. He-she-it's shielded." 
"All right," Avellar said. "No one use anything, 
telekinesis, telepathy, electrokinesis, anything at all, unless 
there's no other choice." There were murmurs of agreement from the 
others, and she looked at Africa. "Galan?" 
The technician shrugged, his hands never slowing on the 
balky connection. "I don't know. Even if I get it hooked up, I 
can't make any guarantees." 
Avellar grimaced, and for the first time looked at 
Belfortune. "Bel." 
Faro shifted his position slightly, putting himself between 
Avellar and Belfortune. "Let him be." 
"Bel," Avellar said again. 
"I can't do it," Belfortune said flatly, without lifting 
his eyes from the floor. 
"Oh, that's a lie," Harmsway said, soft and deadly, "a lie 
and you know it, Belfortune. That's what bought the Baron's favor, 
bought you a lover and almost anything you wanted, just as long as 
you learned to use your power. Tell me, is it true the Baron liked 
to watch while you killed them?" 
"Jesus, Desir," Hazard said, and was ignored. 
Belfortune looked up slowly, met Harmsway's glare for the 
first time unflinching. "Yes. It's true." 
"Then you can stop the hunter," Avellar said. 
"It won't do any good," Belfortune said. "Where else could 
we be, but in one of the cargo bays? All it'll do is buy you 
time." 
"That'll be enough," Avellar said. 
"But if it isn't -- " Lyall began, and closed her mouth 
over what she would have said. 
Avellar answered her anyway. "If it's not enough, then we 
fight." 
"Brilliant," Harmsway jeered. "How clever of you, Royal." 
"Shut up, Desir," Hazard said. "Avellar. Belfortune's 

right, much as I hate to admit it." 
Avellar nodded. "We need a diversion, I agree. But to make 
it work, we have to get rid of the hunter." She looked back at 
Belfortune. "Well? Will you do it?" 
Belfortune closed his eyes for a moment, pain etched deep 
in his face, then nodded. "Oh, yes. What's one more?" Lord Faro 
reached out to touch his shoulder. 
"Then we'll need to distract the rest of the searchers," 
Avellar said. 
"No, really?" Harmsway murmured. 
"Yes, and you're just the man to do it," Avellar answered. 
She smiled briefly, daring him. "This bay is right next to the 
main computer nexus, Desir. Think what you can do with that." 
Harmsway said, "But why should I, Royal? Give me one 
reason, after everything you tried to do." 
There was a little silence, and then Avellar looked at him, 
her face absolutely without emotion. "I told you then. I'm telling 
you now. I need you, need your talent, to make up for what I lost 
when my sibs -- my twins, the rest of the clone, the rest of me -- 
were killed. I can't take the throne without you." 
"To hell with you," Harmsway said, and there was an odd, 
gloating note in his voice. 
"I need you," Avellar said again. "I came here for you, 
didn't I? I did what you couldn't do, I broke you out of the 
Baron's prison because I need you. Isn't that enough?" 
"Maybe if you went down on your knees," Harmsway said, "but 
not before." 
"For God's sake," Hazard said. He pushed himself to his 
feet, grabbed Harmsway roughly by the shoulder, and swung him to 
face the others. "If you don't do it, Desir, we're going to die." 
Harmsway lifted an eyebrow at him. "I'm surprised at you -- 
" 
"I want out of here," Hazard said. "We can sort out the 
rest of it once we're free, but right now, getting off planet is a 
hell of a lot more important than Avellar or the goddamn throne." 
"I won't work with her again," Harmsway said. 
"So what?" That was Jack Blue, hoisting himself to his 
feet. "It won't be as good, Avellar, but maybe I can do something 
if this shit won't." 
Avellar nodded her thanks, still watching Harmsway, who 

smiled bitterly. 
"All right. I'll do it -- if only to spare your talents, 
Jack." 
"Too kind," Blue said, and achieved a passable imitation of 
Harmsway's sneer. 
"There's only one thing," Faro said. "How close do you need 
to be to a -- a subject, Bel?" 
"I don't really know," Belfortune said. "A few meters, 
probably closer." He looked at Lyall. "Any ideas, Doctor?" 
Lyall shook her head. "I wasn't involved in that part of 
the project. I would think within two meters." 
Belfortune laughed softly to himself. "Do you know who it 
is? Which hunter?" 
"No," Lyall answered. "I told you, it's shielded." 
"You'll need support," Avellar said. 
Belfortune shook his head, and Faro said, "I'll go with 
him. One's enough." 
Avellar nodded. "Good luck, then, both of you." 
Lyall said, "The hunter's coming closer. Moving along the 
east wall, toward the entrance there." 
"Careful," Africa said. "You don't want to tip him off." 
Lyall shook her head, and Blue said impatiently, "She's not 
strong enough. Nobody can hear her, not unless they're right on 
top of her." 
"Let's go, Bel," Faro said gently, and Belfortune nodded. 
Faro reached down and pulled the other man to his feet. 
"Take an extra power pack," Hazard said, and handed his 
last spare to Faro. 
"Thanks," Faro said, and he and Belfortune stepped out into 
the corridor. They turned left at the first cross corridor, 
heading east, toward the entrance and the searching hunter. 
Avellar looked at the others. "Dr. Lyall, tell me when the 
hunter's dead." 
Lyall winced, but nodded. 
"And the rest of us?" Harmsway demanded. 
"We wait," Avellar answered, grimly. "Be ready to act when 
Lyall gives the word." 
-------- 
*Game/varRebel.2.04/subPsi.1.22/ver22.1/ses4.25* 
Faro and Belfortune moved warily through the corridors, 

ready to duck under the shelter of the cargo racks at the first 
sign of patrolling guards. To their surprise, however, the racks 
and catwalks were empty, and they reached the eastern wall without 
incident. 
"What now, Bel?" Faro began, stopped abruptly at the look 
on Belfortune's face. 
Belfortune was staring into the middle distance, pale eyes 
vague, unfixed, pupils dilating. He ran a hand delicately along 
the bare metal skin of the cargo bay's exterior wall, a gesture 
unnervingly like a caress, and began to walk, slowly, a faint 
smile curving his lips. Faro, who had seen this before, this 
stalking hunger, shivered convulsively, but kept his place at 
Belfortune's shoulder, gun drawn and ready, the spare power pack 
ready to hand. 
"Come to me," Belfortune whispered. "Come here, you, I feel 
you walking there, come to me now...." The words trailed off into 
a hissing murmur, rising and falling with his slow breath. He 
could feel the hunter's presence, a vague warmth beyond the cold 
wall, allowed his own hunger to rise to match that warmth, played 
out his desire as a fisherman plays a line, a thread of appetite 
disguised as curiosity. He could feel the hunter's presence more 
clearly now, and recognized the man, had considered him a friend, 
but his unleashed hunger accepted that knowledge only as a way to 
make the bait more attractive. He leaned against the thin metal of 
the wall, flattening himself against the cool surface as though he 
could feel the hunter's body against his own, and let the tendril 
of thought unfold. He felt the hunter take the bait, felt him turn 
his attention toward the faint, stray presence, the oddity that 
must be investigated, and kept tight control of his own power, 
letting the hunter's own curiosity draw him nearer. Belfortune 
could almost see the slight frown, the familiar lines of his face; 
he pressed himself harder against the wall, willing the hunter 
closer. And then, at last, he was close enough. Belfortune smiled, 
let himself go at last, and felt the hunter's whole body jerk 
convulsively as he realized he was no longer free. Belfortune felt 
him struggle and tightened his grip, felt the sudden terrified 
release as the hunter's shields failed, and tasted the hunter's 
power, his strength and his cunning and the delicate flavor of his 
mind. He drained him, not bothering to savor it -- there was no 
time for such niceties, and it had been too long since the last 

one, anyway -- and saw/felt, in the last moment of double vision, 
the hunter's body slumping to the ground just on the other side of 
the wall. He slid down the wall with it, sucking the last dregs of 
life, and crouched there for a moment, breathing hard. 
Faro looked away, swallowing bile, unwilling to watch the 
sated hunger turn to disgust in Belfortune's eyes. "Tell them it's 
done," he said, and a whispering voice said, from the end of the 
corridor, "Tell who what, Faro?" 
Faro spun, gun leveled, even as he knew it was useless, and 
felt as much as heard the snap of a laser bolt. He ducked 
instinctively, but the shot had been meant as a warning only. 
"Hold your fire," the voice said. It came from the closed 
cabin of an airsled that blocked the corridor behind them. 
Soldiers -- soldiers in the black uniforms of Baron Vortex's elite 
troops -- flanked it, their lasers lowered and ready. Belfortune 
shook his head, trying to drive away the cloying satisfaction, 
made a small, pained noise of despair. The voice went on, as 
though no one had spoken. "Faro, you're not a fool. I think we can 
come to some agreement." 
Faro hesitated, the muzzle of his gun wavering slightly -- 
to fire was suicide, his and Belfortune's, but the speaker was 
Baron Vortex, and the Baron could never be trusted. 
"I find you useful," the voice went on, "just useful enough 
to salvage from this mess. Put down your gun, and I'll let you 
live." 
Faro dredged a laugh from somewhere. "To what end?" 
"I told you, I find you useful," the voice said. "You can 
return to your previous employment." 
"Not much better off than the prisoners," Faro muttered, 
said more loudly, "What about Bel?" 
"Ah." There was a note like amusement in the Baron's voice. 
"For him, there is a price." 
"Well?" Faro said. 
"I asked you before, tell who what," the voice said. "But I 
think I know that. Where are they, Faro? Where are Avellar and the 
rest?" 
"Faro," Belfortune said, and the word was ambiguous appeal. 
Faro glanced down at him, at the renewed sanity in the pale 
eyes, saw him start to pull himself to his feet, clinging to the 
wall of the cargo bay, looked back at the Baron's airsled and the 

flanking soldiers. He let the gun fall to his side. 
"Your lands and your lover," the voice whispered. "You can 
still have them both. Is Avellar's rebellion worth that much to 
you?" 
"I don't know for sure," Faro said. "She -- they were back 
toward the middle of the bay, heading for a ship." 
He paused, hoping that would be enough, a large enough 
betrayal, saw the nearest soldier raise his laser, and waited for 
the Baron to pronounce the sentence. 
"Put down your gun, Faro," the Baron said at last, and Faro 
laid the pistol on the floor tiles, kicked it toward the line of 
soldiers. Two of them came forward, slinging their rifles, and 
Faro let them drag him forward, stood quite still as they ran 
their hands roughly over his body, then locked his wrists together 
behind his back. Another pair dragged Belfortune to his feet, and 
did the same to him. 
Flame flared overhead, bursting from the shattering light 
fixtures, and raw electricity leaped like lightning from the power 
nodes. One of the soldiers fired reflexively at the snapping 
currents, and screamed as the laser's power pack exploded in a 
sheet of flame. 
"Harmsway," Belfortune said, and the pale eyes were 
suddenly alive again. 
"Get them out of here," the Baron ordered. "The rest of 
you, come with me." 
-------- 
*Game/varRebel.2.O4/subPsi.1.22/ver22.1/ses4.26* 
"The hunter's dead," Lyall said, and in spite of her best 
efforts the disgust showed in her voice. 
Avellar nodded, hiding the same repulsion. "Then let's get 
on with it." She looked at Harmsway. "It's your show now, Desir." 
Harmsway nodded, allowed himself a smile of pure pleasure. 
"So we need a diversion," he said aloud. "And the computer center 
is right behind these walls." He turned in a full circle, scanning 
the racks until he found a power node, and went to crouch beside 
it, laying one long-fingered hand gently over the input jack. 
There was a faint crackling, and then he had matched the current 
precisely. He closed his eyes, and let his consciousness wander 
out into the bay's power grid. There was a faint humming, and a 
haze of blue light, all but invisible, formed around his hand. He 

could feel the pattern of the electrical systems, and of the 
computers and other instruments that fed off it, could almost see 
their regularity like lines against his eyes. He felt his way into 
the grid, merging himself with the flow of power until he was all 
but invisible, a faint surge of current that was still within the 
tolerances of the port computers. He found the access port, and 
teased it open, then slipped cautiously into the alien space 
within the network. 
He had the electron's view, current flashing on or off, and 
he hung for a moment, disoriented, trying to match that image with 
what he knew must be hidden in the computers. The lights blinked 
on and off, too fast to follow even in his heightened state, tuned 
perfectly to the flow of the currents; he stared a little longer, 
still trying to analyze the workings, and heard, very distant, 
Lyall's cry. 
"My God, it's the Baron. He's found them." 
At the same moment, someone touched his shoulder, and he 
opened his eyes to see Hazard bending over him. 
"Desir. Blow the system, we've got trouble." 
Harmsway was already moving within the distant system, 
calling power from various nodes. Throughout the building, 
terminals flickered and died; across the complex, screens wavered, 
the sudden drain triggering backup power supplies. Harmsway kept 
pulling, drawing power to himself, letting the minuscule energies 
collect and build, feeding on themselves. 
"Hurry, Desir," a voice said -- Avellar's voice, he 
thought, but he could not be sure. 
The process could not be hurried, not if he was to do it 
right. He blocked all thoughts of the Baron, all fear, 
concentrating on the energy around him, tracing an escape route in 
his mind. He felt it cross the threshold at last, and released it, 
let the surge blast through every circuit in the system, and let 
the same wave of power carry him back into the grid that fed the 
cargo bay. He felt overloaded systems crash, felt the surging 
power flare at every node, and in a heartbeat redirected that 
power, away from the local nodes into everything electrical near 
the eastern entrance. He opened his eyes, and heard the flat, hard 
crack of explosions from the far side of the bay. 
"The port computers are down," he said. "They shouldn't be 
able to stop lift-off." 

 "And it should give them something else to worry about," 
Avellar said. Fire sirens whooped in the next building, 
underscoring her words. "Let's go." 
They made their way quickly through the last corridors, 
dodging between the half-full cargo racks. At each exposed power 
node, Harmsway paused to send another wave of power through the 
building's systems. He could feel the network overloading under 
his manipulations, knew that he was literally burning out their 
defenses as he used them, but the explosions behind them seemed to 
mean that it was working. 
There were still two guards at the door that gave access to 
the ship's hatch, both staring nervously toward the sounds of 
Harmsway's attack. They were sheltered by the hatchway, not an 
easy shot at all, and Avellar paused in the shelter of the final 
stacks of crates, considering them cautiously. After a moment, she 
beckoned to Hazard. He frowned, but slipped forward to join her. 
"You're our best shot," Avellar said, her voice an almost 
soundless whisper. "Can you do it?" 
Hazard shook his head. "They're too well covered. Why the 
hell didn't they run for the fighting?" 
"Be glad they didn't just close the access door," Avellar 
said with a grin, and eased back into the shelter of the crates. 
"You're going to have to do something quick," Harmsway 
said. He was sweating, breathing hard, as though he'd been lifting 
heavy weights. "I'm draining the grid, and the wiring isn't going 
to take this abuse much longer." 
"The Baron's still back by the door," Lyall said. Her eyes 
were closed, and Jack Blue steadied her, guiding her with a hand 
on her shoulder. "But you've only delayed him." 
"I can draw the guards out," Blue said. "Leave it to me." 
Avellar considered him for a moment -- a fat man, still 
wheezing a little, but no longer leaning on the others -- and 
nodded. "If you can get them out into gunshot, we can take them." 
Hazard nodded, snapped the power pack out of his pistol, 
checked the power remaining, and snapped it in again. "I've got 
about a dozen shots left. That should be enough." 
"It ought to be," Harmsway said, and managed a grin. 
"It'll have to be," Avellar said. She looked at Blue. "Do 
it." 
Blue closed his eyes, frowning slightly, and a moment later 

they all heard something stir in the corridor to their right. It 
was a faint noise, as though someone trying to be careful had 
brushed against an imperfectly balanced crate, but one of the 
guards heard it and looked up warily. Blue's frown deepened, and 
there was a quick patter of footsteps, as though someone had 
darted across a corridor into cover. The guard peered out of the 
doorway, put up his faceplate to listen more closely. 
"They're buying it," Africa said, and leveled his pistol. 
Hazard laid a restraining hand on his arm. "Wait for the 
other one." 
Africa nodded, lowered the pistol again. 
Blue was sweating lightly now, his forehead furrowed in 
concentration. In the corridor, there was another stirring, and 
then the distinctive click of a power pack snapping home into a 
pistol butt. The guard cocked his head to one side, listening, 
then pulled his faceplate slowly down again. Avellar held her 
breath, her own pistol ready at her side. There were no more 
noises from the corridor, a silence that seemed somehow ominous, 
more dangerous than the sounds had been. The guard held up his 
hand, and beckoned to his partner. The second guard came up to the 
edge of the hatch, but stopped just inside the heavy frame. Africa 
swore under his breath: the hatchway still blocked his shot. 
"Come on," Hazard muttered. "Come on, now." 
The guards stood still for a moment longer, obviously 
conferring via the helmet links. Then the first guard started 
toward the sound of the footsteps, and the second man moved out of 
the hatchway to cover him. 
"Now!" Avellar said. 
The others fired almost as she spoke. The first guard fell 
without a sound, sprawling on the warped floor tiles, but the 
second guard fired back blindly, dodged back toward the access 
door. Africa and Hazard fired at the same moment, and the guard 
went down. 
"Did he get out a warning?" Hazard demanded, looking at 
Lyall. 
"It doesn't matter," Avellar said, impatiently. "Let's go." 
She started across the open space without looking back. 
Hazard glanced over his shoulder, saw Harmsway reaching 
across to steady Jack Blue, and smiled in spite of himself. They 
crowded into the narrow space between the doorway and the ship's 

hatch, and Africa fiddled with the controls to bring the door down 
behind them. Avellar nodded her approval, and laid her hand 
against the sensor panel that controlled access to the freighter's 
cargo lock. There was a soft click, and then a high-pitched tone. 
"Royal Avellar," she said, and waited. A heartbeat later, 
the cargo lock creaked open. Familiar people, familiar faces, were 
waiting inside the lock, and Avellar relaxed for the first time 
since they had left the prison complex. 
"Thank God you made it," a well-remembered voice said, and 
Avellar sighed. 
"Danile." She smiled then, careful not to look back at the 
others, particularly Harmsway. She had risked everything to get 
him back, and she had at least freed him from the Baron's prison. 
The rest -- his return to her rebellion, his proper place at her 
side -- would come, in time. He owed her that, and he would 
eventually pay. 
"We have to hurry," Danile went on, "so everybody, get 
inboard now." The hatch sealed itself as he spoke, closing off 
their view of the cargo bay. "It's chaos back there, there's 
nothing they can do to stop us. But we have to go now." 
There was a ragged murmur of agreement, and the group began 
to move farther into the ship, following Danile and Avellar. 
Underfoot, the ship's main power plant trembled, building toward 
blast-off and freedom from Ixion's Wheel. 
-------- 
*Part Five* 
*Day 2* 
_Storm: Roscha's boat, Public Canal #419,_ 
_Dock Road District_ 
Lioe woke to the noise of distant traffic and the easy 
motion of the boat against the sluggish current. She turned her 
head away from the bars of sunlight that crept in through the gaps 
in the shutters, lay still for a moment, remembering where she 
was. She was meanly glad that Roscha was nowhere in sight. Not 
that it hadn't been fun -- and after Roscha's performance in the 
session, especially; it was one of the best character readings 
Lioe had seen -- but in the cold light of morning, she found 
herself wondering exactly why she'd done it. She shook the thought 
away -- it was a little late for regrets, and anyway, it _had_ 
been fun -- and crawled out of the low bunk. The bathroom was 

tiny, and smelled of aggressive cleaning; she washed quickly, the 
water tasting flatly of chemicals, and found her clothes hanging 
on the bulkhead beside the low stairs that led up onto the deck. 
She pulled on shirt and trousers and the loose vest, slung the 
mask that Gelsomina had given her around her neck, and pushed open 
the double doors. She had left her hat somewhere, she realized, 
either at Shadows or at Ransome's loft, and she made a mental note 
to look for it later. 
The sunlight on the deck had an odd cast to it, a sickly, 
uncertain tone, and Lioe glanced toward the sky. It was almost 
white, hazed with clouds as it had been for the past two days, but 
when she looked south, toward the mouth of the Inland Water, 
darker clouds showed between the housetops. An erratic little wind 
was blowing fitfully, sending bits of trash skittering along the 
embankment above the boat, and Lioe felt the hairs rising on the 
back of her neck. 
"Oh, there you are," Roscha said. She made her way forward, 
stepping easily over the solar panels set into the decking. "I was 
just coming to wake you. It looks like that storm's going to hit 
us after all, and I've got a call from the wharfinger to report at 
once to the main dock." 
"That's too bad," Lioe said. 
"I don't see why I couldn't make it to Roche'Ambroise for 
the puppet shows," Roscha went on. "That is, if you still want to 
go." 
One of the local artists' cooperatives was giving its 
annual free show that afternoon. It was supposed to be a 
spectacular event, a combination of athletics, mime, and robotics, 
and Lioe had said she would like to see it. "I don't want you to 
go to any trouble," she began, and Roscha frowned. 
"Look, if you don't want to go, no problem." Her tone 
implied the opposite. 
"It's not that," Lioe said, impatiently. "Yes, I want to 
see the show, but you've got this call -- " 
"It shouldn't be anything serious," Roscha said, and gave a 
fleeting grin. "I haven't done anything. They probably just need 
help securing the barges. I should be able to make the show." 
"Fine," Lioe said. _If you don't, I can enjoy it by 
myself_. "Where do you want to meet?" 
"They do the show in Betani Square, right off the Hartzer 

Canal," Roscha answered. "Why don't we just meet there, 
midafternoon? By the fountain." 
"Fine," Lioe said again. The sunlight faded, and she 
glanced up, to see a thicker strand of cloud turning the sun to a 
disk of bronze. "How bad is this storm going to be?" 
Roscha shrugged. "Not bad, I'd say. The street brokers are 
saying a category two at most. That's not anything to worry 
about." 
_By whose standards?_ Lioe wondered, squinting again at the 
sky. The sun was back, but the clouds looked darker than before. 
Still, Roscha was the native; if she said it wasn't that bad, it 
shouldn't be. "I'll see you at the fountain in Betani Square at 
fifteenth hour," she said aloud, and reached for the rope ladder 
that led up to the embankment. 
Roscha nodded. "Will you help me cast off?" 
"Sure." Lioe climbed easily up onto the broad stones, 
unhooked the ladder, and let it drop. Roscha caught it as it fell, 
folded it neatly into a well on the deck. 
"Ready for the cables?" Lioe asked, and Roscha nodded 
again. 
"I've already switched over." 
Lioe unhooked the double-headed cables from the power nodes 
at the base of the bollard. Roscha caught those as well, guiding 
them back into their housings, and took her place in the steering 
well. Lioe released the bow and stern lines, tossed them onto the 
deck, and stood watching while Roscha shoved the boat away from 
the embankment, and fed power to the engine. She was out of 
earshot before Lioe realized she hadn't asked how to get to 
Roche'Ambroise. She laughed, and started back toward Shadows, 
where food and her mail would be waiting. 
The streets were still busy with costumed figures, despite 
the impending storm. A cloaked trio was visible in the window of a 
restaurant, masks set aside to let them eat; a bedraggled pair -- 
male and female? no, two women -- were obviously on their way home 
after a long night of revelry, the skirts of their straight gowns 
hiked up to make walking easier, their feathers drooping. Yet 
another indistinct shape wrapped in a cloak lay sound asleep under 
a bench in one of the little parks, mask tucked under its head for 
a pillow. Others were just starting the day -- another Avellar, a 
striding Baron Vortex, an odd shape like an egg with trousers that 

everyone else seemed to recognize -- and Lioe was suddenly glad of 
Gelsomina's mask. It made her feel less alien, among the bright 
maskers, more as though she belonged on Burning Bright. _And I 
want to belong here_, she realized suddenly. _I'd like to be a 
part of this_. She shook the thought away as impractical, left her 
mask hanging around her neck where it couldn't tempt her, and kept 
walking. 
As she came up on the Underface helipad, she saw the lights 
flashing to warn of an incoming flight, and then recognized the 
figure sitting on the bench at the edge of the pad. _At least I 
can ask him about my hat_. "Good morning, Ransome," she called, 
and the man on the bench lifted a hand in answer. He did not 
speak, and Lioe wondered if she'd offended him. He looked up as 
she approached, met her eyes fully, and she was shocked by his 
pale face and the brown shadows like ugly bruises under his eyes. 
"Jesus, you look awful," she said, and bit her tongue as he 
managed a wry grin. 
"Tactful." 
There was something wrong with Ransome's voice; even the 
one word came thin and breathless, as though he had been running. 
"Are you all right?" she began, and realized in the same instant 
what it had to be. White-sickness was most common in Hsaioi-An, 
among jericho-humans, but it was not unknown in the nonaligned 
worlds, or in the Republic. And this was white-sickness, no 
question about it: like all pilots, she'd had enough basic medical 
training to recognize the symptoms. 
Ransome read that recognition in her face, and his grin 
skewed even more. "I have what I need at home," he said, and Lioe 
had to lean closer to catch the strangled words. "The doctors 
changed the medication; I'm not as stable as I used to be. So I 
got caught short again." 
Lioe nodded, wordlessly, hearing the voice of the school's 
medical trainer droning in her mind. _White-sickness -- pneumatic 
histopathy, also known as lung-rot or_ uhanjao, _drown-yourself, 
in Hsaioi-An -- is classified as a dangerous condition less 
because it is fatal, which it is, than because it is contagious 
until treated. Once proper treatment is begun, the danger of 
infection is over, but the damage to the victim is irreversible. 
Most planets require a certificate of treatment before customs 
will admit an infected person; pilots are advised to adopt the 

same precaution_. There had been more -- details of how death 
occurred, how and why simple organ transplants inevitably failed, 
the mechanisms by which the disease altered the lung tissue, 
slowly dissolving it into a thick white mucus, so that the patient 
drowned in body fluids even as the lungs themselves stopped 
working -- but she did her best to push that aside. "Do you want 
me to come with you?" she said cautiously, and did her best to 
keep her voice normal. 
Ransome looked for a moment as though he would refuse, but 
then made a face. "Yes," he said, and then, with an effort, "Thank 
you." 
"No problem," Lioe said, and seated herself on the bench 
beside him. But it was a problem, it was a hell of a problem, and 
she found herself filled with an irrational fury. _How could he be 
sick -- how dare he? -- just when she'd found_ -- She stopped 
abruptly, closed off that line of thought. _Found what? You barely 
know him, except through the Game. Just because he showed you the 
imaging system he uses doesn't mean that he'd want to teach you -- 
or that you could learn, or even that you want to_. 
The sound of rotors overhead was a welcome relief, and she 
squinted up into the hazy clouds. The helicab dropped easily 
toward the pad, balancing the weight of the machine against the 
lift of the rotors and the gas in the envelope. The two pods were 
fully inflated, one to each side of the passenger compartment, so 
that the cab looked rather like a rodent, both cheeks filled with 
scavenged food. The unseen pilot brought it down carefully, 
setting it precisely in the center of the bright-blue guidelines, 
and the passenger door opened. Lioe stood, uncertain whether to 
offer her hand, and Ransome pushed himself to his feet. He climbed 
into the cab, and Lioe followed him, pulling the door closed 
behind them. 
"You're going to Warehouse?" the pilot said, and Ransome 
nodded. 
"That's right," Lioe said aloud, and wasn't sure she'd done 
the right thing until she saw Ransome's fleeting smile. 
The helicab rose slowly, rotors whining, and the whole 
machine shivered suddenly in a gust of wind. The pilot corrected 
it instantly, adjusting power and lift, glanced apologetically 
over his shoulder. 
"Sorry, people. It's going to be a rough ride." 

 "'S all right," Ransome murmured. 
"The storm?" Lioe asked, as much to distract the pilot as 
anything, and was not surprised when he nodded. The braided wires 
that connected him to the cab bobbed against his neck. 
"Yeah. The dispatcher's saying we'll probably have to shut 
down this afternoon." 
Lioe leaned back in her seat. Through the transparent door 
panel she could see the Dock Road District spread out beneath her, 
buildings clustered around tiny spots of green that were the open 
plazas, and crowding shoulder to shoulder along the banks of the 
myriad canals. "I think this is the first time I've seen this in 
daylight," she said, in some surprise, and saw Ransome smile 
again. 
As they rose above the cliff edge, approaching Newfields 
and the Warehouse helipad, the wind caught them, jolting the cab 
sideways before the pilot caught it. Lioe braced herself against 
the safety webbing, watching the muscles of the pilot's arms tense 
and relax as his hands moved inside the sheaths of the on-line 
controls. His lips were moving, too, and she guessed he was 
talking to his dispatcher, warning other pilots about the winds. 
He took the approach to Warehouse very carefully, and Lioe was 
grateful for it: the helicab shuddered and bounced, but finally 
dropped the last meter or so onto the hard paving. The credit 
reader unfolded from the cab wall, beeping for payment. 
Ransome reached for his card, but Lioe got there first. 
"Pay me back," she said, and ran her own card through the slot. 
She managed not to wince at the total -- about twice what she had 
expected -- and hit the key that confirmed the payment. The pilot 
opened the passenger door, and they climbed out onto the pad. The 
helicab started to lift as they crossed the low barrier, and Lioe 
flinched as grit stung her face and bare arms. Ransome turned away 
from it, one hand cupped over his mouth and nose, did not move 
until the cab had lifted out of range. 
"Do you want a velocab?" Lioe asked, tentatively, more to 
make sure he was all right than to get an answer to her question, 
and was relieved when he shook his head. 
"No. It's not far to the loft." He sounded a little better, 
and Lioe let herself relax. 
The streets were all but empty of pedestrians here, and 
only a few heavy carriers rumbled past, stirring the drifted dirt 

and sand. A fickle wind was blowing, a warm wind that carried an 
occasional hint of a chill at its heart. Lioe shivered at its 
touch, glanced again to the sky, but saw only the same hazy 
clouds, the sun a hot white disk behind them. It felt like the 
afternoon winds on Callixte, the summer wind that brought the big 
storms down onto the plains, and she found herself walking warily, 
as though too quick a movement would trigger lurking thunder. 
Ransome glanced curiously at her, then looked away. 
They turned the last corner onto a street shadowed by the 
buildings to either side, and Ransome led her past a tangle of 
denki-bikes, their security fields humming at an annoying pitch, 
to the access stair that ran along the side of the building. 
"Isn't there a lift?" Lioe asked involuntarily, but Ransome 
didn't seem offended. 
"There is, but it's in use." He nodded to the main doorway, 
where a red flag drooped, moving only sluggishly in the breeze. 
"Oh." Lioe followed him up the stairway, past the Carnival 
debris, broken bottles, a cluster of stained and ragged ribbons at 
the base of the stairs, another bottle on the landing; the 
crumpled papers and stained foils from a packet of Oblivion lay on 
the landing outside Ransome's door. He stepped over them without 
looking, and Lioe did her best to follow his example. 
The loft was pretty much as it had been when she'd left it, 
nothing changed except the pile of clothes on the floor outside 
the bedroom door. Her hat was sitting on the folded bed. _Was it 
only yesterday that I left it?_ she thought, said aloud, "Can I 
get you anything?" 
Ransome was already heading for the tiny bedroom, said over 
his shoulder, "Coffee?" 
"Right." Lioe went into the kitchen. She filled the machine 
and set it running, came back out into the main room just as 
Ransome emerged from the bedroom. His eyes looked slightly 
unfocused, and there were two spots of red on his cheeks that 
spread as she watched, as though he were blushing deeply. 
"I appreciate your coming back with me," Ransome said. His 
voice already sounded better, less choked. "I wasn't sure I'd be 
able to talk the pilot out of taking me to a clinic." 
"Should you have gone to a clinic?" Lioe asked. "Should you 
go to a clinic?" 
Ransome grinned. "No, I told you, I had what I needed here. 

They couldn't've given me anything different." 
Lioe nodded, watching him. "Are you all right?" she said 
slowly, and Ransome looked away. 
"For the moment." He sighed, turned back to face her. "As 
you probably already figured out, I have white-sickness -- it's 
under treatment, so you don't need to worry -- but I've had it for 
a while, and the system's slipping out of equilibrium." 
_Which translates as, you're starting to die_. Lioe said, 
"I'm sorry," and cringed at the inadequacy of the words. 
Ransome went on as if he hadn't heard, his tone so matterof-
fact that she winced at the unvoiced pain. "I have five to 
seven years, or so they tell me, so it's not an emergency." 
_Except that you can't be much more than forty, and you 
ought to live another forty years_. Lioe said again, "I'm sorry." 
"So am I." There was a little pause, and then Ransome 
achieved a kind of smile. "Do you want some coffee?" 
"Sure, thanks," Lioe said, glad of the change of subject, 
and Ransome disappeared into the kitchen. He returned a moment 
later with two steaming mugs. Lioe took hers with a murmur of 
thanks, sipped cautiously at the bitter liquid. 
"There's something I've been wanting to ask you," Ransome 
said, and his voice was carefully casual, so that Lioe glanced 
back at him warily. "Especially since last night's session." 
"Oh?" Lioe paused, and then shrugged. "Go ahead, I guess." 
"What the hell were your parents thinking of, to let you 
become a pilot?" 
Lioe blinked, completely taken aback by the question. It 
was not at all what she'd been expecting -- _though what I was 
expecting I don't know -- _and she didn't quite know how to 
answer. She opened her mouth, stopped, closed it again. "I was 
good at it," she said at last, and heard the annoyance in her 
voice. 
Ransome spread his hands, almost spilling his coffee. "I 
didn't mean to pry. It's just that you've got an artistic sense, a 
talent for the Game, and for imaging. I'm surprised you didn't get 
a chance to pursue it -- I'm surprised nobody picked up on it." 
"No, it's all right," Lioe said. _And after what you've 
told me, I'm not sure I have the right not to answer_. She ordered 
her thoughts with an effort. "I was raised by Foster Services, on 
Callixte. They steered me toward the union certificate program, 

and when I won one of the scholarships -- well, you know how hard 
they are to get. I wanted to take it, at least to prove I was as 
smart as the docents had always said." 
Ransome nodded. "Your parents died?" 
Lioe shrugged. "I don't know. I don't remember much about 
it -- I pretty much don't remember anything before the Service 
creche -- but what they told me was, a couple of people found me 
in an abandoned house near the port district, Mont'eranza, it's 
called. I was undernourished, but otherwise unhurt, and about six 
years old, as best the medical people could tell. So I ended up 
with Foster Services." 
"And the Game," Ransome said. "Your scenario's good, near 
brilliant, in fact." 
"Thanks." Lioe grinned. "I'd still like to take this 
situation a little further, though, pull it all together. Can you 
imagine what that would do to the Game?" 
Ransome nodded, his tone quite serious. "It would be 
enormous fun while it lasted, though, wouldn't it?" 
"I'm not eager to be lynched afterwards," Lioe said. 
"Besides, I'd have to set it up now, change this scenario a 
little." 
"Do it," Ransome said. Lioe looked at him, startled, and he 
said again, "Do it. And let me play Avellar." 
"Not Harmsway?" 
Ransome shook his head. "Avellar." 
_God_, Lioe thought, _that would be a brilliant bit of 
casting, and if anybody could pull it off, give me the setup I 
need for Avellar's Rebellion_ -- She smiled, realizing that she 
had already given the scenario a title. "When I run it again," she 
said, slowly, "you can have Avellar, if you want him. But I'm not 
sure about making the changes." 
"If you won't," Ransome said, "I will." 
She lifted an eyebrow at him, not sure she believed him, 
and his smile widened. "I'll do it, you know," he said. 
"I believe you," Lioe answered. 
"You needn't sound quite so worried," Ransome said. He 
paused, looked back toward the windows. The clouds had thickened a 
little since they had come in, turning the sky the color of milk, 
and the shadows had vanished. Lioe moved to join him, staring down 
into the Junction Pool. It was even more crowded than it had been, 

seemingly hundreds of barges tied up two deep at the piers, and 
smaller craft darted like beetles among them. She wondered briefly 
if Roscha were somewhere among them. 
"There was something else I wanted to ask you," Ransome 
said. "How did you happen to pick Harmsway for the scenario? Did 
Cella Minter -- or anyone -- mention him to you?" 
Lioe blinked again, startled, and shook her head. "No. I'd 
worked up the scenario before I got here. We didn't expect to 
spend any time on planet; we lost calibration in one of the sail 
projectors en route from Demeter, and had to lay over to reset it. 
I'd kind of forgotten that they were local Types when I showed the 
scenario." Ransome nodded, still looking out the window, and Lioe 
frowned. _My turn to ask questions, I think_. "Why? Who's -- 
Cella, did you say?" 
"Cella Minter." Ransome paused. "You may have seen her at 
Chauvelin's party the other night, a tiny woman, absolutely a 
perfect beauty. She's Damian Chrestil's mistress, when he isn't 
chasing something else." 
Lioe paused, trying to remember, could vaguely recall a 
tiny woman with copper-colored braids woven into sleek, jet-black 
hair. She had been startlingly beautiful, seen from across the 
room, and more than a little intimidating. "So who's Damian 
Chrestil? Any connection to C/B Cie.?" 
There was a little silence, and Ransome looked at her. "He 
_is_ C/B Cie. Decidamio Chrestil-Brisch is his full name, he's 
head of C/B Cie. Did you, your ship, bring in a cargo for him?" 
"It was a C/B Cie. cargo, yes," Lioe said. "Why?" 
"Because Damian Chrestil has been trying to keep me out of 
the port nets for two days now," Ransome said, anger and glee 
mixed in equal measures in his voice. "And maybe, just maybe, you 
can help me figure out why." 
"I don't quite see the connection," Lioe began, and Ransome 
cut in. 
"What were you carrying?" 
"I don't want to be overly delicate about this," Lioe said, 
"but why do you want to know? We're supposed to keep our mouths 
shut about what we carry. General union rules." 
Ransome nodded. "Sorry." He took a deep breath, gestured, 
spilling coffee, and set the mug aside, scowling. "Look, it's like 
this. Chauvelin's my patron. We've known each other for years -- " 

 "I remember," Lioe said. She could still see the little 
room in Chauvelin's monumental residence, light gleaming off the 
story egg, the first one she'd seen. _Chauvelin is your patron, 
and Chauvelin's rival the Visiting Speaker hates you, quite 
personally_. 
"I've done various kinds of work for him," Ransome went on, 
and there was a distinct note of pride in his voice. "I'm good on 
the nets, very good, and I occasionally do some research for him." 
"The charge is usually common netwalking," Lioe murmured, 
and remembered, too late, that Ransome had been in jail. To her 
surprise, he laughed. 
"True. Anyway, I've been -- walking the nets for him 
lately, because the damn Visiting Speaker got it into his head 
that Damian Chrestil was up to something in the Game. When I 
checked it out, sure, he wanted me back in the Game, back 
involved, but there wasn't anything really happening. It was all 
just a blind. So I started wondering what Damian Chrestil really 
wanted, and I haven't been able to get into the port nets at all. 
So you see why I'd really like to know what you were carrying." 
Lioe shrugged. "Red-carpet, according to the manifest. En 
route to a distillery here. We had a couple of bungee-gars on 
board." 
"Is that normal?" 
"Depends," Lioe said. "I wouldn't think red-carpet was 
quite that valuable, but it's close enough, I guess." 
"Who was the shipper?" 
Lioe frowned, pulling names from her mental files. "A 
company called TMN, I think. They weren't much." 
"I bet it's smuggling," Ransome muttered, as much to 
himself as to her. "There's no other reason to keep me out of the 
port nets, except that he hasn't rechristened the cargo yet. Damn 
it, if I could just get in!" 
Lioe eyed him warily. It seemed overelaborate to her, a lot 
more complicated than simple smuggling would need to be -- _and 
I've seen enough smuggling combines at work to know that simple's 
the way to go_. "So why should the Visiting Speaker be worried 
about it?" she asked aloud. 
"I wish I knew," Ransome answered. He stopped suddenly, 
eyes wild. "But I do know, I just had it backward. Ji-Imbaoa 
doesn't want to know what Damian Chrestil's up to, he already 

knows that because he's involved in it. What he wants is me out of 
the way, me and Chauvelin, so that he can gain favor with whatever 
it is they're smuggling." 
"That sounds a little complicated," Lioe said when it 
became clear that some answer was expected of her. 
"But that's it," Ransome said. "I'm sure of it. Ji-Imbaoa's 
a je Tsinraan, and they need to consolidate their position with 
the All-Father. Chauvelin's a tzu Tsinra-an, he'd stop him on 
principle, regardless of what the cargo is. And Damian Chrestil's 
an ambitious little bastard; he's got lots of friends in the 
Republic, but not many in Hsaioi-An. But if the je Tsinra-an owed 
him a favor, that would give him some substance over the border, 
and that kind of connection there translates to power here, on 
Burning Bright. It makes good sense." 
"If you say so," Lioe said, and didn't bother to hide her 
own uncertainty. 
"Trust me," Ransome said. "Look, this has to be what's 
going on -- Christ, won't Chauvelin be pleased, it's the perfect 
excuse to get rid of ji-Imbaoa -- but I have to talk to some 
people." 
"Netwalking?" 
Ransome shook his head. "I've tried that already. But there 
are some people up at the port who still owe me favors, and I 
think it's time I called them in." 
"How are you feeling?" Lioe asked, pointedly. Ransome 
looked blank for a moment, then laughed. 
"Fine. Look, I need to do this now, before it's too late, 
but I wanted to know, were you serious about this scenario?" 
Lioe hesitated for an instant -- it would mean the end of 
the Game as she knew it -- but then nodded firmly. "I'd like to 
work it out." 
"Do you want to use my systems?" Ransome asked. "It's a 
little more private than Shadows would be, and I've got most of 
the library disks you'd need. We could talk about it when I got 
back, you could show me what you need to have happen to set up the 
new scenario." 
Lioe thought for a moment. It would be easier, working here 
-- more privacy, fewer interruptions from players and would-be 
session leaders who had questions about Ixion's Wheel -- but she'd 
already made plans for the day. "I'm supposed to meet Roscha. 

We're going to see a puppet show in Betani Square." 
"So work here anyway; if I'm not back by the time you have 
to leave, come back when you've finished. I can give you a key, 
just in case I'm not back by then -- though God knows I should be - 
- but if I'm not, let yourself in and make free with the systems." 
Ransome grinned. "You should know where things are by now." 
"All right," Lioe said. "We'll do this." 
"Great." Ransome rummaged in a drawer without result, then 
stood scanning his shelves before he came up with a flat black 
rectangle about the size of a dice box. He handed it to her, and 
Lioe took it cautiously, feeling for the almost invisible 
indentations. 
"Upper left is for the stairs," Ransome said, "upper right 
is the main entrance, center is the loft door, lower right calls 
the lift -- when it's free." 
Lioe nodded. 
"Then I'm off," Ransome said. "I probably won't be back 
before you have to leave, but I'll see you after the show, all 
right?" 
"I'll be here," Lioe said, and shook her head slowly as the 
main door slapped shut behind him. _How do I get into these 
situations?_ she wondered, then grinned. Maybe Burning Bright was 
the home of the Game precisely because its own politics were as 
baroque as those of the imaginary Imperium. _Let's see if I can 
come up with something as complex for Avellar_. She found the room 
remote, and touched its gleaming surface, darkening the windows 
and bringing up the display space. She pulled on the wire-bound 
gloves and settled herself in the massive chair, wriggling a 
little as the cushions shifted beneath her, accommodating her 
weight. She reached into control space, touching virtual icons, 
and found a copy of her scenario waiting in storage. She defined a 
space, called it into those new confines, and sat for a moment, 
staring at the tree of symbols. Then she touched the first icon, 
and began to work. 
-------- 
*Day 2* 
_Storm: C/B Cie. Offices, Isard's Wharf,_ 
_Channel 9, Junction Pool 4_ 
Damian Chrestil stood at the back of the plotting shed at 
the end of Isard's Wharf, watching the display table. A model of 

Burning Bright's oceans, spread to scale on a virtual globe, 
floated above the tabletop; the shapes that represented C/B Cie.'s 
various ships ghosted through the mirrorlike surface, the codes 
that represented their cargoes and destinations flickering to life 
at a gesture from some one of the attendants. The coiled shapes of 
the blossoming storms, a grand procession of them sweeping up the 
trade winds from the shallows below the equator, marched over the 
surface, interdicting great sweeps of sea. Most of the company's 
ships were already in port, or within a day's journey, but a few 
were still well out to sea, and the wharfingers studied them 
carefully, murmuring to each other. They and their assistants each 
carried a smaller plotting tablet and a delicate, gold-tipped 
wand. As they gestured at the model, circling it like acolytes to 
adjust symbols and times and weather forecasts in search of the 
most economical arrangement, they reminded Damian of some 
mysterious and primitive cult. Behind him, the windows rattled in 
the rising wind, and one of the assistants glanced nervously 
toward the cloud-white sky. On the model, a tight spiral of cloud 
was poised south and east of the entrance to the Inland Water. 
"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, visibly 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 Hsaioi-An_. 
"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 Tsinra-an 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 _njao_ 
characters 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 Tsinra-an and C/B Cie., 
particularly if any of C/B Cie.'s clients are also _houta_ 
dependents of the je Tsinra-an." 
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 Hsaioi-An. 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 Tsinra-an have been 
making real inroads at court in the last week, and my lord is 
eager not to antagonize them." 
"My lord's existence annoys them," Chauvelin said dryly. "I 
don't think he would care to do much about it." 
Haas grinned in spite of herself. "I know." She looked down 
at the tabletop, and Chauvelin guessed that there was a screen 
concealed in its surface. "I'll see what I can find out for you. 
C/B Cie. does a lot of business on the jericho-human worlds, and 
on Jericho itself, for that matter." 
"Which worlds?" Chauvelin asked. 
"I know," Haas said, with a touch of impatience, "over half 
of them are client-bound to the je Tsinra-an. I'll find out." She 
looked down again, ran her hand over a control bar hidden in the 
table's carved edge. "I'm glad you called me, Tal. This could be 
something important." 
_Certainly it's important to me_, Chauvelin thought. He 
said, "I'd appreciate an answer as soon as possible." 
"I'll do what I can," Haas answered. "Between your weather 
and my ignorant staff -- well, I'll do my best." 

 _No one of lesser rank than yours is allowed to blame her 
staff for failures_. Chauvelin bowed again, more deeply. "Thank 
you for your help, Sia Speaker." 
"Thanks for the information, Tal," Haas answered, and 
signaled for her system to break contact. 
Chauvelin touched his own remote to close down his end of 
the transmission, leaned back on his heels to watch the characters 
cascade across the screen. If there was a connection between the 
je Tsinra-an and the Chrestil-Brisch -- more specifically, between 
ji-Imbaoa and Damian Chrestil -- and if he could prove it, then it 
should be possible to parry ji-Imbaoa's threats. And if the 
connection went deep enough, it might be sufficient to discredit 
the entire je Tsinra-an. That was probably too much to hope for, 
he knew, and he sighed as he pushed himself up off the low 
cushions. _A nice thought, but not to be counted on_. 
A chime sounded gently from the speaker set into the wall 
beside the door, the red pinlight flicking on as well, and 
Chauvelin touched the remote again to establish the connection. 
"Yes?" 
"I beg your pardon, Sia," je-Sou'tsian said, "but there's 
something that needs your urgent attention." 
Chauvelin lifted his eyebrows at the blank space, but 
answered the tone as much as the words. "I'll be in the breakfast 
room in three minutes." 
"Thank you, Sia," je-Sou'tsian answered, and the pinlight 
faded. Chauvelin sighed -- _I wonder what new disaster I'll have 
to deal with_ -- and let himself out of the reception room. 
Je-Sou'tsian was ahead of him in the breakfast room, the 
curtains half-drawn across the long windows. Beyond them, beyond 
her shoulder, Chauvelin could see the distant wall of cloud, a 
little higher on the horizon now, dark against the milk-white sky. 
The garden looked subdued in the dimmed light, only the stone 
faces in the paths still reflecting the minimal sunlight. 
"Your pardon, Sia," je-Sou'tsian said again, and Chauvelin 
dragged his eyes away from the approaching storm. 
"It's all right," he said. "What's happened?" 
"The Visiting Speaker has not come home today." There was a 
tension in the set of je-Sou'tsian's hands and arms that made 
Chauvelin frown even more deeply. 
"It's later than he usually stays away, certainly, but is 

it important?" 
"Sia, I don't think his household knows for certain where 
he's gone. At least none of the ones left here. And they are 
worried, if only because they don't know what's happening." 
_Have I left things too late?_ Chauvelin suppressed the 
stabbing fear, said, "So what happened, do you know?" 
Je-Sou'tsian made a quick gesture, one-handed, the 
equivalent of a shrug. "As best I can tell -- and I'm reading 
between the lines for much of this, Sia -- the Visiting Speaker 
left the house last night just after dark, saying he wanted to 
experience the Carnival. His household expected him back sometime 
this morning, but he hasn't arrived, and they haven't had word 
from him. By midday, his chief of household was worried enough to 
ask me if I had heard anything." 
"Who does he have with him?" Chauvelin asked. 
"That's what worries me," je-Sou'tsian answered. "Only two 
people, ji-Mao'ana and that jericho-human, Magill." 
_The Speaker's secretary and his head-of-security_. 
Chauvelin sighed. "And that's all you know?" It was unfair, he 
knew, and je-Sou'tsian gave him a brief, reproachful glance. 
"Sia, I've only just found this out. The chief of household 
only just spoke to me. And naturally I was reluctant to pursue 
things any further without knowing what you wanted me to do." 
Chauvelin gestured an apology. "I'm sorry, Iameis, you were 
right." He paused for a moment, fingers tapping nervously against 
his thigh. "Still, it's Carnival. Things happen during Carnival. I 
think you should make discreet inquiries, Iameis, just to make 
sure nothing's happened to him. Check his usual haunts, and the 
Lockwardens. No need to inquire at the clinics and hospitals yet, 
they'd've notified me if a stray hsaia was brought in." 
"The Lockwardens?" je-Sou'tsian said. 
Chauvelin nodded. "Ask -- with discretion, mind you -- if 
there have been any complaints or queries. I just want them to be 
aware that we are looking for him." _And that way, if I've 
miscalculated, if he's not working with Damian Chrestil, I'll have 
been seen to do my duty in protecting him_. 
"Very well, Sia, I'll get on it at once." Je-Sou'tsian 
bowed again, and backed toward the door. 
"Thank you, Iameis," Chauvelin said. "You've done well." 
There was no formal way to respond, but he saw from the sudden 

movement of her hands, quickly suppressed, that she had heard, and 
was pleased. 
Chauvelin made his way back through the corridors and 
coiling stairs to his office at the top of the house. The light 
that streamed in through the curved windows was as milky as the 
clouds, heavy with the promise of the coming storm. He ignored it, 
locking the door behind him, touched the shadowscreen to bring up 
his communications system even before he'd seated himself at the 
desk, resolutely turning his back on the clouds to the south. A 
screen lit beneath the desktop; he touched the shadowscreen again, 
calling the codes that would connect him with Ransome's loft, and 
waited for the screen to clear. If anyone could track ji-Imbaoa, 
it would be Ransome. 
The screen stayed blank, the call codes scrolling 
repeatedly across the base of the screen. Chauvelin let them 
cycle, waiting, long after he was sure Ransome would not answer. 
_Of all the times for Ransome to be away from his loft_... 
Chauvelin killed that thought, burying his fear with it, and tied 
his system into the Game nets. Half a dozen Harmsways were 
playing, but none of them was Ransome. Chauvelin swore again, 
freed himself from the Game, and touched keys to set up a new 
program. The communications system would access Ransome's loft 
every half hour -- he hesitated, then changed the numbers, making 
it every quarter hour -- until someone answered. _And that is all 
I can do. I've done everything; now I have to wait_. It was not a 
pleasant thought, and, after a moment, he flipped part of his 
system back to the Game nets. If nothing else, he could distract 
himself in their baroque conventions. 
-------- 
*Day 2* 
_Storm: Old Field Administration Building,_ 
_Newfields, on the Landing Isle by Dry Cut_ 
Ransome waited in the narrow reception room, lit by the 
long windows that ran like stripes from floor to ceiling and by 
the thin blue glow of the secretary system. Beyond the windows he 
could see the cliff face, and the cold grey-green sea beneath it, 
the strands of foam bright against its choppy surface; he shivered 
once, and turned his back on the hypnotic waters. The office was 
on the north side of the building, away from the approaching 
storm; as he'd come in, a horde of workers had been drawing 

shutters across the southern windows. It was not like Arduinidi to 
make him wait. _It just proves how hot I am -- if I weren't, 
Selasa wouldn't make me wait here like this, while she decides if 
she can afford to see me. Or_, he realized suddenly, _while she 
finds out if I've been seen, coming here_. That was not a pleasant 
thought, and he reached into his pocket to touch the datablock 
that nestled there. It was not a good habit to get into and he 
took his hand away, fingers tingling. _Maybe, just maybe I 
should've quit after I talked to the factors at Bonduri Warehouse, 
they told me enough to be able to tell Chauvelin what's going on_ - 
- He put the thought aside as unprofitable. He was here; it was 
too late to turn back. 
The secretary chirped discreetly on its pedestal, the blue 
light strengthening slightly. The affected mechanical voice said, 
"N'Arduinidi will see you now." 
In the same instant the inner door slid open, a soft chime 
drawing his attention. Ransome rose to his feet, and stepped 
through the doorway into Arduinidi's office. It was as if he had 
stepped from Storm into High Summer, and he stood blinking for a 
moment, disoriented. Light, the hot sunlight of full summer, 
poured through the windows, falling from a clear and brassy sky; a 
faint breeze stirred, bringing with it the smell of the summerweed 
that choked the cliffs in warm weather and the acrid undertone of 
the port. Very distantly, he could hear the slow slap of the waves 
against the cliff face and the screech of metal from the port. It 
was an illusion, of course -- holoimages inside the false frames 
of the windows, carefully controlled ventilation and a scent 
mixer, subtle sound effects -- but even knowing that, Ransome 
found himself relaxing in the summer warmth. 
"It's very good," he said, and Arduinidi smiled at him from 
behind her desk. She was a big woman, tall and broad-shouldered, 
short hair further restrained by a band of metal disks. A single 
wire fell from it, running down her forehead to the socket at the 
corner of her left eye; her earrings were in the shape of an owl, 
her on-line icon. 
"Thanks," she answered, but her tone was less than 
enthusiastic. "You're a very chancy item right now, did you know 
that?" 
Ransome managed a smile, did his best to hide the sudden 
chill that ran up his spine. "I'd kind of gathered that, yes." 

 Arduinidi glanced down at her desktop. "You were followed 
here, and there's talk just coming in about a disturbance at the 
Bonduri Warehouse -- somebody beat up a factor, it looks like. 
That wasn't you, was it?" 
Ransome shook his head. "Not my style." _Not my style at 
all. It sounds like someone's getting desperate_. 
"But I'll bet it had something to do with you," Arduinidi 
said. 
Ransome hesitated, but there was little point in lying to 
her. Arduinidi was not only one of the better network security 
consultants on planet, she was also one of the more reliable data 
fences, and a superb netwalker in her own right. Nothing happened 
on the nets that she didn't know about. "Something," he said 
aloud. "More to do with Damian Chrestil." 
"I told you before," Arduinidi said. "I don't know anything 
about it." 
_Meaning he's put the fear of Retribution into all of you_, 
Ransome thought. "Selasa," he said, and managed to make his tone 
faintly teasing. Arduinidi lifted an eyebrow, but said nothing. "I 
know you," Ransome went on. "You're worse than I am about a 
blocked access. It wouldn't be like you not to get into the port 
feeds, especially after someone warned you off. I want that data." 
Arduinidi looked at him. "I'm not that stupid," she said. 
"You may do this for fun, I-Jay, but half my business comes from 
my reputation. Even if I had the information -- if -- I wouldn't 
sell it. And doubly not to you." 
"I know what it is," Ransome said, "what it has to be. If I 
tell you what you found, will you give me a yes or no?" 
Arduinidi shook her head. "No dice. How would you know 
whether to believe me, anyway?" 
"Because, as you say, your reputation is your business." 
Ransome looked at her, weighing his next words. His only choices 
were money or a threat, and he would never have enough money to 
make it worth her while. "I'm prepared to make sure that your 
legitimate clients find out about your second job, Selasa. If it 
comes to that." 
"You're fucking crazy," Arduinidi said. 
Ransome shook his head. "I want that data." 
"You push it, and I won't deal with you," Arduinidi said 
flatly. "I'll make damn sure you don't walk my nets again, make 

sure no one buys from you, make sure no one deals with you at all. 
Do you really want to risk it?" 
_Stalemate_, Ransome thought, _because she can do it_. He 
hid his despair, said, "Can you afford to risk word getting out 
that you're the best data fence on planet?" 
Arduinidi sat silent, nothing moving on a face gone 
suddenly like stone. 
"I'm willing to settle for a yes or no," Ransome said 
again. "That's all I need, Selasa. That's all Chauvelin needs." 
"Hah." Arduinidi's mouth twisted, as though she'd tasted 
something sour. "I should've guessed he'd be behind this." She 
sighed. "All right. What is it you think you know?" 
Ransome took a deep breath, felt congestion drag at the 
bottom of his lungs. _Not now_, he thought, and knew he should 
have expected it. He put that fear aside, knowing he could wait a 
little longer to breathe the Mist, said, "Damian Chrestil is 
smuggling something -- Oblivion, I think -- into Hsaioi-An, to 
receivers on Jericho and Highhopes, and he's doing it for ji- 
Imbaoa and the rest of the je Tsinra-an, who have the receivers 
for clients." 
Arduinidi paused for a moment, then, reluctantly, nodded. 
"Yes. So far as the smuggling goes, that is. I don't deal in hsai 
politics." She gave a short, humorless bark of laughter. "And it's 
lachesi, not Oblivion." 
"What's the difference?" Ransome said. 
Arduinidi shook her head. "Lachesi is -- mostly -- legal, 
it's just the spite laws that keep the Republic from exporting it 
to Hsaioi-An. Oblivion is restricted. So Damian Chrestil stays on 
the good side of general opinion, if not the law." There was a 
sneaking note of admiration in her voice. 
"I see," Ransome said, and heard the same note in his own 
voice. _And it would work, too: a lot of the Republican merchants 
have been lobbying for years to dissolve the spite laws, and 
wouldn't feel too bad seeing them broken_. "Thanks," he said, and 
heard the congestion tightening his voice. "There's just one more 
thing -- " He pointed to the datanode, eyebrows lifted in 
question, and was not surprised when Arduinidi shook her head. 
"Not from my nodes. I've done a lot more than I like, IJay, 
don't push it." 
Ransome nodded, gave her a rueful smile. "It was worth a 

try." 
"I hope you think so tomorrow," Arduinidi said. Ransome 
looked sharply at her, and she gave him her sweetest smile. "I'm 
pissed at you, Ransome. Remember that." 
"I expect I'll be in no danger of forgetting," Ransome 
said, and Arduinidi nodded. 
"I'd be careful, if I were you." 
"Thanks a lot," Ransome said. Behind him, the door slid 
open; he turned and left the office, aware of her eyes on his back 
the whole while. He paused for a second in the outer office, 
glancing wistfully at the secretary pillar, but red lights glowed 
all around the base of the data drives, warning him from trying to 
make contact. He made a face, even though he'd expected it, and 
the outer door swung open, ushering him out of the office. 
He made his way back through the hallways toward the main 
stairs -- not the elevator today, not if Damian Chrestil's people 
were feeling desperate enough to risk attacking a warehouse factor 
in broad daylight; there was too much chance of being caught in a 
closed space, with no room left to run. _Which really brings up 
the next question_, he thought. _What do I do now?_ The main thing 
now was to get the information, his own reconstruction of Damian 
Chrestil's plan, to Chauvelin; once that was done, Chauvelin could 
be counted on to deal with Damian Chrestil. It sounded simple 
enough, and he paused in a corner to chord the last bit of 
information, Arduinidi's confirmation, into his datablock. The 
little machine chirped softly, confirming the record, and he 
smiled wryly. However, contacting Chauvelin could prove difficult. 
He took the side stairs down to the second floor, paused on 
the balcony to look down into the building's open lobby. As he'd 
feared, a pair of men in docker's clothes were standing by the 
main entrance; a woman whom he recognized as belonging to C/B Cie. 
warehouse security was standing beside the main information kiosk, 
one hand cupped loosely over the controls. He frowned, narrowed 
his eyes, but couldn't see if she was using a tap. _All the more 
reason to hurry_, he thought, and turned left, walking along the 
short end of the building, staying close to the wall where he was 
less likely to be seen from the lobby floor. There were no public 
terminals here, and a quick scan of the directories showed no 
names he knew. That left the general mail system, with its kiosks 
on every floor at each corner of the building. He lengthened his 

stride, found the nearest kiosk, luckily unoccupied. It was set 
into a small alcove, partly screened by a sculpture of panels of 
sequensa-covered fabric, and he began to hope that he might have 
time to contact Chauvelin after all. 
He glanced over his shoulder, saw no one except a secretary 
at the far end of the corridor, and quickly fed cash slips into 
the system. This was no time to use his money cards: it would be 
like shouting his presence to everyone who might be watching. He 
had just enough; the system lit and windowed, and he slid the 
datablock out of his pocket. The jacks and cords were standard, 
and he plugged the thin wire into the mail system's receivers. It 
wasn't perfect -- for one thing, he had far less control over who 
would ultimately receive the information than he would if he were 
able to use the regular networks -- but it would have to do. He 
touched the codes that would connect him with the ambassador's 
house, and the system flashed back at him: CONNECTION NOT 
POSSIBLE, PLEASE TRY AGAIN. 
"Fuck it." Ransome stared for a fraction of a second at the 
little screen, hit the codes again. The screen went blank, and 
then the same message flickered into view. He'd been suckered: the 
woman at the main kiosk wasn't bothering to tap the mail system; 
instead, she was interrupting it, blocking any transmission that 
he tried to make, and she was bound to be tracing his location at 
the same time. He stared at the screen, feeling the seconds slip 
away. It was too late to get away, his own mistake had seen to 
that; the only thing he could hope for was to dump the information 
somewhere where Chauvelin could find it. Maybe his home systems, 
if he couldn't reach Chauvelin himself in time. He killed that 
sense of panic, forcing himself to think clearly, dredged the 
emergency codes out of his memory. He had bartered for them almost 
two weeks ago, eons on the nets, but they were Lockwardens' codes, 
and the Lockwardens were notoriously conservative. He typed them 
in, making himself work carefully: he would only get one chance, 
if that. The screen went blank again, then lit, presented him with 
an open channel. He suppressed a cheer, and hit the codes that 
would dump the entire contents of the datablock to a holding node, 
one of a thousand secure datastores that laced the nets. The block 
whined softly to itself, the seconds ticking past, and then the 
screen cleared. He started to type a mailcode, allowing the 
datastore itself to transfer the information to Chauvelin, but 

heard footsteps on the stone floor behind him. _Too late_. He 
touched a second series of illegal codes, saw the screen fill with 
trash, effectively destroying his trail. Lights flickered across 
the datablock, warning him that its contents had been permanently 
erased. He sighed, and heard a woman's voice behind him. 
"Na Ransome." 
He turned slowly, not wanting to provoke anything, and 
found himself facing a wiry woman -- not the one who had been 
working at the kiosk in the lobby. She had a palmgun out and 
ready, half hidden by her hand and body, invisible to anyone 
working in the offices along the corridor. A much bigger man stood 
just behind and to her left, screening her still further from the 
offices. He wore a bulky coat that could hide a dozen weapons. 
Ransome looked to his own left in spite of himself, in spite of 
knowing better, and saw another pair -- dockers, this time -- 
moving toward him along the cross corridor. 
"Someone wants to talk to you," the woman went on, her 
voice low and even. 
"Someone like Damian Chrestil?" Ransome asked, but she 
didn't flinch. 
"Someone." She beckoned to him with her free hand, the 
palmgun still leveled. "Someone who prefers to keep this tidy. If 
you'll step this way." 
Ransome hesitated, but there was no real choice. _I'm too 
old -- and not sick enough yet -- for a suicide leap, and I was 
never good at fighting_. He spread his hands, showing empty palms, 
and stepped carefully away from the mail kiosk. 
"Search him," the woman said to one of the dockers, and 
Ransome submitted to the rough and efficient search. She stepped 
past him then, unplugged the datablock, and stood studying the 
kiosk screen for a moment. Ransome saw her frown over the hash of 
random characters and touch a few keycodes before she shook her 
head and pocketed the datablock. _At least she wasn't able to 
trace the destination codes_, he thought, and felt a flicker of 
hope revive. 
"Nothing here," the docker said, and she nodded. 
"I hope you'll come quietly, Na Ransome." 
"I'm not stupid," Ransome answered. _This is how the game 
is played; you cut your losses and hope for your connections to 
save you. Please God, Chauvelin will try to contact me, will sort 

through the net stores when he can't_ -- He pushed that thought 
aside, pushing away panic with it. But this had happened before; 
he'd done his best, and sacrificed himself, and ended up 
abandoned. _That was Bettis Chrestil, twenty years ago. Chauvelin 
is different. I can rely on him. I have to rely on him_. The fear 
was a taste of metal in his throat. 
"Walk with him," the woman said to the big man, who nodded 
unsmiling and took Ransome's arm. Ransome felt the muzzle of a 
palmgun touch his side briefly, felt the plastic warm against the 
inside of his elbow. The big man had a grip like iron; there was 
no hope of pulling free. _All I can do now is wait_, Ransome 
thought, and let them walk him slowly down the stairs and across 
the lobby. No one looked twice at them, and a part of Ransome's 
mind had to admire their efficiency. 
"I hope Damian Chrestil pays you what you're worth," he 
said, experimentally, and the big man's hand closed painfully on 
his arm, grinding the palmgun into his elbow. 
"Do stay quiet," the woman said, conversationally, and 
turned her head to murmur something into a hand-held com-unit. As 
they passed through the main doors, a heavy passenger carrier, its 
rear pod sealed tight, windows darkened, pulled up in front of 
them. The door of the sealed compartment sighed open, and the 
woman said, "In there, please." 
There was no point in a struggle, and no chance even if 
he'd wanted to. The big man leaned into him, putting him off 
balance, and as Ransome stumbled, the woman tripped him neatly, so 
that he practically fell into the darkened pod. He righted himself 
instantly, steadying himself with both hands against the padded 
seats, but the big man pushed in after him, palmgun now displayed, 
forcing him back against the pod's wall. The door closed behind 
the big man almost as soon as he'd cleared the frame, and the 
carrier slid away from the curb. 
Ransome leaned back against the cushions, knowing better 
than to move too quickly. The big man settled himself opposite 
him, moving with the rocking of the carrier, sat comfortably, with 
the palmgun resting on his knee. Ransome eyed it for a moment, but 
knew better than to think of attack. He could hear the rasp of his 
breathing even over the purr of the carrier's motor, felt the 
familiar pain tugging at his lungs. "Hey," he said, and his voice 
cracked even on the single word. He made a face, hating the 

weakness, hating to have to ask, said again, "Hey. I need to take 
some medicine. It's in my pocket." 
The big man looked at him for a long moment, his face 
utterly without expression. "All right," he said at last. "Which 
pocket?" 
"Jacket. Left-hand side." 
"Go ahead." 
Ransome reached for the cylinder of Mist, making himself 
move at half the speed he wanted, slid the squat cylinder from his 
pocket, and started to hold it up even with the big man's eyes. 
The man leaned forward instantly, caught Ransome's wrist before he 
could finish the movement. 
"Don't make trouble." 
Ransome shook his head, did his best to suppress the cough 
that threatened to choke him. The big man eyed him warily, then 
released him, leaned back against his cushion. Ransome unfolded 
the mask, set it against his mouth and nose, and touched the 
trigger. The cold mist enfolded him, drove away even the fear for 
a brief second; he leaned back, eyes closed, and let the drug fill 
his lungs. He'd betrayed another weakness, he knew, something that 
they could use against him, and for a moment the fear rose with 
the thick mucus to choke him. He made himself breathe slowly, 
until the worst of the fear passed and he was left with the 
lethargy of the drug. He let himself fall into it, repeating his 
thoughts like a mantra. He would wait: there was nothing else he 
could do, and the situation might change. And in the meantime, he 
would wait. 
-------- 
*Day 2* 
_Storm: Betani Square, Roche'Ambroise_ 
Lioe made her way through the fringes of the crowd that 
filled one end of Betani Square, pressed as close as possible to 
the stage where the puppeteers would be performing. It was less 
crowded by the fountain, but not by much; a dozen or more children 
in varying degrees of costume were playing on the edges of the 
three-lobed basin, and several more were splashing in the shallow 
water, parents -- or at least parental-looking figures -- watching 
from the sidelines. There was no sign of Roscha. Lioe scowled -- 
_I knew she wouldn't be able to get away_ -- but walked around the 
fountain's edge until she was certain the other woman had not 

arrived. She looked sideways, poising the chronometer's numbers 
against one of the bands of darker stone that crisscrossed the 
square's paving, dividing it into diamonds. There were still a few 
minutes until the show was supposed to start. She sighed, and 
resigned herself to wait. 
A line of bollards marked the square's legal limits, twenty 
or thirty of the low mushroom shapes running along a line of dark 
paving that seemed to mark the top of the short flight of stairs 
that led down to the canal. A handful of people were sitting 
there, mostly in ones and twos, some staring toward the distant 
stage, more looking out toward the water or toward the smaller 
canal that formed part of the square's southern edge. Lioe glanced 
around again, and seated herself on the bollard nearest the 
fountain. She could see well enough, could see all the likely 
approaches, from the waterbus stops on the canals or from the 
nearest helipad, and at least she could be relatively comfortable. 
_Besides, I don't think she's coming_. 
Lioe tugged her jacket closed against the wind. It wasn't 
cold, but it had picked up even in the half hour since she'd left 
Ransome's loft, was blowing steadily now, from the south and east. 
The air smelled odd, of salt and thunder, and the children's 
shouts fell flat in the heavy air. She glanced over her shoulder 
toward the mouth of the Inland Water, saw only the housetops on 
the far side of the canal. The last forecast she had seen had 
predicted the storm would strike around midnight, and she looked 
around again for a street broker. To her surprise -- the brokers 
had seemed to be everywhere for a while -- there were none of the 
bright red-and-white umbrellas in sight. 
Music sounded from under the stage, distorted by distance 
and wind and the thick air. Lioe rose to her feet with the others, 
and saw the first of the puppets move out onto the platform. It 
was a massive construct, maybe two and a half meters tall, and 
nearly as broad; fans unfurled from what should have been the 
shoulders, and a crest of bronze feathers rose from the stylized 
head. More of the feathers appeared below the fans, and wings 
parted to reveal several small, white-painted faces. They were set 
slightly askew, Lioe saw, and jagged cracks ran down their 
centers, detouring around the long noses. As she watched, the 
first of them split open, revealing an animal shape too small to 
recognize. Intrigued, Lioe moved toward the platform, circling 

south toward the smaller canal, where the crowd was thinner, to 
try to get a better view. It was a bird, or something with 
delicate, arching wings and a glittering, peacock-blue body. She 
edged farther into the crowd as the second face split, revealing 
what seemed to be a model of the local solar system, and the 
entire assemblage leaned sideways, elevating the fans and turning 
the feathered crest into an almost architectural arch. There was a 
person inside that structure, Lioe realized suddenly, a single 
human being at the center of the spines and wings and the 
delicately made creatures; each precisely controlled movement set 
changes flowing through the puppet's outer layers. But what did it 
mean? It was not like any puppet she'd ever seen, or even 
imagined, and she stood staring, trying to puzzle out a story, 
some purpose, from the complex metamorphosis. 
"Na Lioe?" 
The voice was unfamiliar, but polite. She turned to face a 
thin, plainly dressed man with a plain, unmemorable face. 
"It is Na Lioe, isn't it?" 
Lioe nodded. "Yes." She kept her voice and face 
discouraging, but the man nodded anyway. 
"I thought it must be you. Roscha said you'd be here. She 
asked me to tell you, she's running late." He gestured toward the 
street that led away from the square, running along the edge of 
the smaller canal. "She said she'd meet you at the Mad Monkey, 
instead of here." 
Lioe glanced down the street -- the sign was there, all 
right, a grinning, contorted holoimage dancing above a doorway at 
the far end of the street, where the canal turned left, away from 
the street itself -- and looked back at the stranger. He was 
dressed like a docker, all right -- dressed much like Roscha 
herself, for that matter, dockers' trousers and a plain vest under 
a loose, unbelted jacket. "When?" 
The man shrugged, looked sideways as though to call up his 
chronometer. "She said she'd be there at fifteen-thirty -- by the 
sixteenth hour at the latest." 
Lioe glanced sideways herself, saw the numbers flash into 
existence against the dark paving: _almost sixteen hundred 
already_. "Thanks a lot," she said, and the man nodded. 
"No problem." He turned away, already looking for a better 
vantage point among the crowd. 

 Lioe watched him go, wondering just who he was. He looked 
vaguely familiar -- _maybe someone from Shadows_, she thought, and 
looked back at the stage. The puppet seemed to be melting into the 
platform, dozens of indistinguishable little mechanisms churning 
frantically around its edges. The operator was doing the splits 
within the confining mechanism. The crowd murmured, sounding both 
awed and approving. _I must have missed something_, Lioe thought. 
_I don't understand at all_. She looked again toward the Mad 
Monkey, wondering if Roscha was there yet, and if she could get 
food and/or drink. The sign looked like a bar's, the monkey 
dancing in the air, very bright in the shadowed street. _And even 
if it isn't, it might be more fun than watching the puppets. 
Mechanical perfection palls after a few minutes, in my opinion_. 
She eased her way out of the crowd, and started down the narrow 
street. 
She had not traveled more than a dozen meters before she 
realized that she was being followed by a nondescript man who 
looked like another docker. She glanced back, wondering if she 
could turn back toward the square, slip between the back of the 
stage platform and the storefronts that defined the square, and 
saw a second person detach himself from the knot of people beside 
the curtain that screened the back of the stage, effectively 
cutting off her escape. She swore under her breath, wishing that 
she were armed -- wishing that she'd carried even a pilot's toolknife 
-- and with an effort kept herself from looking around 
wildly. They were between her and the fringes of the crowd; she 
could shout, but none of the people watching the puppet show could 
reach her before the two men did. _I'll pretend I haven't seen 
them_, she decided, _keep walking and hope I can get to the Monkey 
before them -- if that's safe. The man who said he was from 
Roscha, he must've been one of them, set this up_... She shoved 
her hand into her pocket, closed her fist over thin air so that it 
made what she hoped would look like a dangerous bulge, and kept 
walking. _I'll try the Mad Monkey, and then the cross street, and 
if it comes to it, I'm not carrying much cash and it's not a good 
place for rape_ -- 
A third man stepped out of a doorway ahead of her, hands 
deep in the pockets of his jacket. Lioe stopped, took an 
instinctive step sideways and back, toward the edge of the canal. 
"Na Lioe," the third man said. "There's someone who wants 

to see you." 
"Like hell," Lioe answered. She drew breath to scream, and 
the man freed his hand from his jacket, displayed a palmgun. 
"Yell and I'll shoot." 
Lioe released her breath cautiously, glanced back toward 
the square. Sure enough, the two strangers -- and a third, the man 
who had spoken to her about Roscha -- were coming toward her, 
blocking her escape in that direction. She took another step 
toward the canal, turning so that she could see all of them. "What 
do you want?" 
"There's someone who wants to talk to you," the leader said 
again. "If you come quietly, no one will get hurt." 
Lioe took another slow step backward, toward the canal 
edge, so that she stood barely half a meter from the bank. She 
could swim, that had been bullied into her in Foster Services, but 
the current was fast, and the far bank was not distant enough to 
offer an escape. "Not likely," she said aloud, fighting for time. 
"Come any closer, and I'll scream -- and if you shoot me, nobody's 
going to be talking to me." 
There was a little silence, and a quick exchange of 
glances, and then the leader raised his palmgun. "Last chance. 
Come quietly, or I will shoot." 
_Shit_. Lioe froze for a second, frantically weighing her 
options. If she screamed, the leader would shoot -- she had no 
doubt about it, and at this distance, he could hardly miss. He was 
too far away to try to jump him, get the gun away from him, and 
even if he weren't, there were the others to consider -- probably 
armed, too. That left the canal, her only -- and not very good -- 
choice. _Unless I want to go with them_. She rejected that thought 
even before it was fully formed. _I don't even know why they want 
me, who this mysterious someone could be -- unless this is 
Ransome's doing, his weird intrigue rebounding on me?_ She pushed 
that thought aside as irrelevant, said carefully, "Wait a minute, 
now." 
The leader relaxed slightly, the palmgun's muzzle wavering 
just a little. It was all the chance she was going to get. Lioe 
flung herself blindly backward, into the canal's murky water. 
Fleetingly she heard one of the men shout, and she hit the water 
hard, shoulder and hip, throwing a great plume of spray. She 
righted herself under the cold surface, risked opening her eyes 

for just an instant. The water, salt and oil and chemicals, stung 
miserably, but she saw light above her, and oriented herself 
against it. The current was strong, as she'd hoped and feared, and 
she let it take her, sweeping her down toward the junction where 
the canal turned south, away from the street. Already her lungs 
hurt her; she let out a little of her air, exerting herself only 
to keep herself parallel with the surface, and risked another 
glance into the dirty water. The surface glimmered just above her, 
tempting her with air and light, but she made herself stay down, 
trying to put a meter or so of water between her and the palmgun's 
projectiles. She let out a little more air, darkness gathering at 
the edge of her vision, and could hold her breath no longer. 
Gasping, she broke the surface, flinging her hair out of her eyes, 
and heard the flat crack of the palmgun from the nearer bank. 
Someone shouted, but she dove again, striking out strongly across 
the canal. The current clutched at her, rolling her sideways and 
down, then back in toward the canal bank. She floundered in 
momentary panic, eyes opening in spite of the pain, and clawed her 
way back to the surface. She was at the corner, where the canal 
narrowed and the water ran the fastest, rolling and folding over 
itself. She forgot about the gunmen in her struggle to free 
herself from the current's pull. For a terrified moment she 
thought she'd failed, that she would be pulled under and drowned, 
and then the water flung her with bruising force against the first 
of a set of pilings. She cried out in spite of herself, choked on 
a mouthful of the salty water, and struck the pilings again. This 
time, she grabbed for them, her hands sliding in the slimy mess of 
waterweeds, and then she worked her fingers into the dripping mat 
and clung, head above water, the current still dragging at her 
clothes and body. Her face burned where she had struck the piling, 
pain like long lines of fire running from cheek to jaw, and the 
corner of her mouth stung painfully. Her shoulder hurt, too -- _it 
was the same shoulder each time_, she thought, with a crazy 
feeling of injustice. She'd fallen hard on her left shoulder when 
she went into the canal, and now it was her left shoulder that had 
hit the piling. She caught her breath, flailed her feet against 
the piling until she found something -- it felt like a metal band, 
or an old mooring ring -- and braced herself against it. It had 
all happened so fast, she hadn't had time to kick off her shoes. 
She looked back down the canalside, saw the four men 

huddled together, staring along the canal in her direction. She 
froze for a second, new fear shooting through her, and realized 
that they couldn't see her after all. The bend in the bank 
protected her, at least a little bit, and at this distance she 
would be no more than a dark dot against the dark water. That was 
reassuring; she tightened her grip on the piling, and began to 
look for a way out of the water. This was a one-bank canal, with a 
single pedestrian embankment on the opposite side. Above her 
stretched blank formestone walls, banded with darker blocks of 
stone; the nearest window was a good ten meters above her head. 
The current swept past her, tugging her body away from the piling: 
_not a place to try and swim_, she thought, and turned her 
attention to the wall. The pilings stretched the length of the 
house row, and there seemed to be a break in the walls beyond 
that. _Maybe if I can work my way down to that break, I can just 
climb out_, Lioe thought, _or even just get out of the worst of 
the current, and swim to the embankment. If it weren't for the 
current, I could do it, no problem_. 
She looked back down the canal, ready to duck out of sight 
if the would-be kidnappers were looking in her direction, but they 
were standing close together, one of them with his hand cupped to 
his head as though he held a portable com-unit. They seemed to be 
distracted, or as distracted as they were likely to get, looking 
back toward the stage. Lioe leaned out cautiously into the 
current, reached for the coat of waterweed that fringed the next 
piling. There wasn't much above the water, and she leaned out a 
little farther, reaching beneath the surface to grope for the 
matted weeds. She found them, dug her hand into the slimy surface, 
the individual strands slipping slack between her fingers. They 
were covered with a gelatinous coating that made her shiver even 
as she tightened her grip, pulling back as hard as she could. The 
weeds stayed fast to the piling. She took a deep breath and 
released her grip on the first piling, reaching for the second, 
letting the current toss her against it. She tightened her hold, 
breathing hard, ignored the new pain where her knee had scraped 
the formestone wall, and reached for the next piling to try again. 
She inched her way down the canal wall, groping from piling 
to piling, her hands slimed and green from clutching the weeds. 
Their air sacs burst and oozed a sticky ichor, staining her hands 
despite the running water; her face burned where the salt hit the 

cuts, and her waterlogged clothes dragged heavy on her limbs. She 
hesitated for a moment, wondering if she should finally get rid of 
her shoes, but she would have to walk once she made the bank, and 
she was getting close to the open space between the buildings. She 
started to smile, but winced as the expression jarred her scraped 
face, and reached for the next piling. She grasped the ring of 
waterweed -- it seemed thinner than the others, but solidly 
attached -- and let go. The waterweed came away in her hand as the 
current caught her, whirling her away from the bank. She flailed 
for a moment in panic, then got herself under control. The current 
was not as strong here on the straight of the canal. She brought 
herself abreast of it, angled in slowly toward the bank. 
The space she had been aiming for turned out to be one of 
the tiny canalside parks, neatly paved, with low umbrella-shaped 
trees growing in tubs and a wide strip of open ground filled with 
extravagant white flowers. There was a gonda landing as well, 
three steps leading up out of the water, and a mooring ring on the 
wall, and Lioe clung to that for a moment, grateful to feel solid 
land under her feet, before she dragged herself up onto the bank. 
A woman was sitting under the nearest umbrella-tree, on the 
edge of the tub, a paper parcel open beside her, the remains of a 
meat pie strewn on the ground for the local cats. Her head came up 
sharply as Lioe staggered up onto the bank, and Lioe hastily 
lifted her hands to show them empty of weapons. 
"It's all right, I'm not going to hurt you. Somebody tried 
to mug me." 
The woman swallowed whatever she was going to say, swept 
the last crumbs off her lap. She was a big woman, tall and heavyset, 
dressed in the dark robe that belonged to the Four Judges. 
Lioe saw the tall headdress and mask of the Prospering Judge set 
aside on the tub's edge beside her. "Are you hurt?" the woman 
asked, and came forward briskly. 
Lioe shook her head, was suddenly grateful for the other's 
steadying arm. "Not really, just cuts and bruises." She looked 
down, saw her knee raw and scraped through the ripped trousers. "I 
went into the canal, back toward Betani Square." 
"Jesus," the woman said. "The current's murder there. You 
were lucky." She shifted her grip, taking more of Lioe's weight, 
said firmly, "Come on. You'll want to talk to the Lockwardens." 
"Lockwardens?" Lioe echoed, and then remembered. They were 

the local police, responsible for the locks and storm barriers as 
well as the usual laws. 
"Our police," the woman answered. "You're an off-worlder, 
then?" 
Lioe nodded. 
"The bastards will pick on strangers," the woman said, with 
a kind of dour satisfaction. "Come on, it's not far." 
Lioe let the stranger half lead, half carry her across the 
courtyard, suddenly too tired, too drained to care if she were 
part of the group. The woman paused by her tree, stooped with 
surprising grace to collect her mask, and Lioe realized with a 
sudden pang that she had lost the mask Gelsomina had given her. It 
was a strange thing to bother her, but her eyes filled with tears, 
and she stood shivering for a moment, mouth trembling painfully. 
"Easy now," the big woman said. "Not far." 
The nearest Lockwardens' station wasn't far, barely forty 
meters along a narrow side street. It occupied the corner of one 
of the larger buildings, and all its windows blazed with light. 
The door stood open, men and women in uniforms that Lioe didn't 
recognize hurrying in and out, clutching workboards and datablocks 
and even sheafs of paper. Someone exclaimed, seeing their 
approach, but Lioe was too tired and too cold to care. She let 
herself be led into the station, and then into a side room, unable 
to focus on the questioning voices that surrounded her. Someone 
eased her into a chair -- a warm, well-padded chair -- and then 
wrapped her hands around something warm, held it to her lips. She 
sipped obediently, and recognized the flat, bitter taste of 
antishock drugs beneath the sweet tea. In the distance, she heard 
the soft chirping of a medical scanner, and looked up in 
confusion. 
"Finish the tea," a new voice said, and she did as she was 
told. Someone else -- she was aware of him only as a pair of longfingered, 
rather beautiful hands -- wrapped the edges of a heated 
cocoon blanket closed around her. She had been sitting in it, she 
realized, and she huddled into its stiff embrace, letting its 
creeping warmth seep into her, drying her clothes. The tea was 
starting to work; she looked up, feeling more alert than she had 
before, and saw a spare, grey-haired woman sitting on the edge of 
a table opposite her. She herself was sitting in the only chair. 
Even as she realized that, a male voice said, "Let me take 

a look at your face." 
She turned her head obediently, winced as the long fingers 
probed the cuts on her cheek and jaw. The man -- he wore a medic's 
snake-and-staff earring -- winced in sympathy, and reached for the 
supply box that lay open at his feet. 
"Close your eyes," he said, and laid a delicate mist of 
disinfectant over the entire side of her face. The stuff stung for 
a moment, and then a sensation of coolness seemed to spread across 
her jaw. She felt an applicator dab quickly at each of the cuts -- 
it hurt, but remotely, the pain reaching her from a distance -- 
and then the medic said, "All right, you can look now." 
Lioe opened her eyes, to see that the woman was still 
staring at her. Lioe's identification disks and the contents of 
her belt purse were spread out on the tabletop beside her. 
"So, can you tell me what happened, Na Lioe?" The hardboned 
face was not unfriendly, but Lioe found herself choosing her 
words with care. 
"A bunch of guys tried to kidnap me, pulled a gun on me -- 
this was on the little street that runs away from Betani Square, 
where the Mad Monkey is. I ended up jumping into the canal to 
escape, and I got kind of banged up." 
"Kidnap?" The woman's voice sharpened. "The woman who 
brought you in said you'd been mugged. Why would someone want to 
kidnap you?" 
"Because -- " Lioe stopped abruptly. _I'm not fully sure 
why, but it's bound to have something to do with Ransome, and 
Damian Chrestil and the cargo that I helped bring in, and the 
hsai, or at least hsai politics. And even if I did know what was 
going on, I don't know how much I can afford to tell you: 
Ransome's in this up to his neck, and he's a Burning Brighter 
working for the hsai_. She shrugged, feeling more bruises on her 
arm and shoulder. "I don't know. It was what they said -- " 
"Why don't you tell me about this from the beginning?" the 
woman said, not ungently. "My name's Telanin. I'm the chief of the 
station." She looked at the medic, who nodded. 
"Let me just get you another cup of tea," he said. "And 
then I want to look at your knee." 
"Thanks," Lioe said. Her clothes were drying nicely in the 
cocoon's steady warmth; only her shoes stayed cold, squishing 
slightly when she moved her toes, and she loosened the cocoon's 

lower edges to kick them off. She took the mug the medic held out 
to her, sipped cautiously, and wasn't surprised to taste more of 
the bitter restoratives beneath the minty tea. It wasn't as sweet 
as the first mug. The medic set her shoes aside to dry under the 
orange-red glow of a drying rack, and pulled the cocoon aside to 
begin working on her leg. 
"About what happened?" Telanin said, and Lioe dragged her 
attention back to the other woman. 
"Sorry." She pulled the cocoon closer around her body, 
buying time. "I was supposed to meet someone in Betani Square to 
watch the puppet show, but she didn't show up. She had to work 
this morning; I had a feeling she wouldn't be able to make it. So 
I stayed to watch the show anyway, and this man came up to me, 
said he had a message from Roscha -- that's the woman I was 
supposed to meet. He said she wanted to meet me at the place 
called the Mad Monkey, and went off. I waited a little bit, but I 
was getting bored with the show, so I decided to see if she was 
there, at the Monkey, I mean. A couple of guys followed me away 
from the square, and there was a third man waiting in the street -- 
he was the one with a gun." _And he said "someone" wanted to talk 
to me. But if I mention that, she'll want to know why this 
mysterious someone would go to this much trouble over me_. 
"Did any of them say anything, say what they wanted?" 
Telanin asked. Her hand was resting on the control pad of an 
ordinary-looking noteblock, Lioe saw, and she chose her words very 
carefully. 
"Something about coming quietly, I think. It happened 
pretty quickly." 
Telanin's fingers shifted almost imperceptibly, recording 
the answer. "So they didn't say anything else, nothing about 
kidnapping?" 
Lioe shook her head, contrived to look sheepish. "I guess I 
overstated it." 
Telanin nodded. "What about this woman you were meeting, 
this Roscha? Did you see her?" 
Lioe shook her head again. 
"How well do you know her -- what's her full name?" 
"Jafiera Roscha." Lioe paused. "We met at one of the Game 
clubs, Shadows, a couple of days ago. I'm only on planet for few 
days while my ship is in for repairs, but I'm a Gamer, and I've 

been spending my time in the clubs." 
"So you don't know her well?" Telanin persisted. 
"She's a Gamer," Lioe said again, and was suddenly aware of 
how ridiculous she must sound. _We've played together, I've seen 
her play my characters -- yes, I know her very well, and not at 
all. About like I know Ransome_. She shrugged, helplessly, and the 
other woman nodded. 
"Jafiera Roscha's known to us, though she's never been 
involved in the bash-and-grab gangs. But it's worth checking out, 
see if she set you up. She hasn't been asking you about your 
movements, whether you carry cash, anything like that, has she?" 
Lioe shook her head. 
Telanin nodded again. "We'll check her out, though. It 
seems odd they'd use her name, otherwise. How many people knew you 
were meeting Roscha today?" 
"I don't know," Lioe said. "We talked about it in the club 
last night. We weren't making any secret of it, so probably a lot 
of people heard." 
"Probably." Telanin gave a rather sour smile. "Look, I have 
to say I don't think this was a kidnap attempt. I hate to admit 
it, but this kind of bash-and-grab isn't uncommon during Carnival, 
especially when off-worlders are involved. A couple of canalli 
manage to lure a stranger into a dark alley, demand money and 
movables at gunpoint, and run. We'll check it out, see if Roscha's 
involved, and I'll ask you to look at our files, see if you can 
pick anyone out of the visual database -- " She smiled again, more 
genuinely this time. "It's set up a lot like the _Face/Body_ 
books. You shouldn't have any trouble finding them if they're in 
there. But I don't know how much chance we have of finding them. 
You were lucky." 
There was a little murmur of agreement from the medic, who 
had finished spreading a film of selfheal over the cuts on her 
knee. "Lucky twice," he said aloud. "The current's dangerous at 
that corner." 
Telanin nodded in agreement. "We'll do what we can," she 
said again, "but with this storm coming in, frankly, we've got to 
concentrate on that. Our investigation won't get started properly 
until it's past, and by then, the trails will be pretty cold." 
"I understand," Lioe said. "Hell, I wouldn't mind seeing 
these guys in jail, but, as you say, I was lucky. They didn't get 

anything, and I'm not hurt." She managed a quick grin. "I don't 
want to push my luck." 
Telanin smiled back, and Lioe thought she looked faintly 
relieved. "I'll have you look through our database, then, and sign 
a complaint, and then I'll have one of my people fly you back to 
your hostel. Are you up in the Ghetto?" 
"Yes," Lioe said, "but that's not necessary -- " 
Telanin held up a hand, cutting off any further protest. 
"Just in case I'm wrong, and your first feeling was right," she 
said. "Besides, a lot of the helicab companies are going to be 
shutting down soon, and you don't want to be taking the buses. Not 
the way you're going to be feeling." 
"I'm all right," Lioe said, but it was only a token 
protest. She freed herself from the cocoon. Her clothes were all 
but dry, only a few damp spots remaining, but she was faintly 
sorry to give up the warm embrace. She followed Telanin out of the 
little room, the medic close on her heels. The public parts of the 
station were crowded and noisy, half a dozen men and women leaning 
over a single console and its harried operator, another group 
clustered around a display table. Lioe couldn't see all of the 
image that floated above the polished surface, but she could see 
enough to guess that it was a model of the neighborhood. Telanin 
touched her arm, turning her over to another woman, this one 
darkly elegant even in the Lockwardens' bulky uniform, and Lioe 
let herself be led away to the database. 
She looked through the files under the dark woman's 
tutelage, and, as she had expected, found nothing. About halfway 
through, a young man appeared with the complaint form. Lioe 
skimmed through it -- she was mildly surprised to see that it was 
real paper, not a noteboard and disk -- and signed her name in the 
necessary places. When she had finished, she followed the dark 
woman back again through the chaos of the main rooms and out onto 
the helipad, where a helicab stood waiting, the Lockwardens' 
markings muted. She looked back once, from the doorway, to see 
Telanin staring down at the tabletop display. By chance, one of 
the Lockwardens stepped aside, so that for a brief moment Lioe saw 
the full display. As she'd guessed, it was a model of the area 
around the station, but that neighborhood transformed by water and 
fire. Then another Lockwarden moved in front of her, blocking her 
view. Lioe shivered -- _if that's what could happen, I'll be glad 

to be on high ground_ -- and climbed meekly into the helicab. The 
pilot nodded a sympathetic greeting, and the cab rose easily into 
the unsettled air. 
-------- 
*Day 2* 
_Storm: C/B Cie. Offices, Isard's Wharf,_ 
_Channel 9, Junction Pool 4_ 
Damian Chrestil sat in the serene gold-tinged light of his 
office, the plans for a new long-haul carrier floating in the 
desktop screens in front of him. It was an elegant design, with 
ample cargo space, but surprisingly narrow-beamed, so that it 
would be half again as efficient as the larger long-haul craft in 
the current fleet. Even so, he had trouble forcing himself to 
concentrate, to keep his mind on the minutely detailed 
calculations sketched in the margins. Ivie -- or at least his 
people -- were somewhere out there, searching for Ransome and 
Lioe. _I should be hearing something soon_, he thought, and made 
himself look down again at the model that hung in the illusory 
space within the desktop, rotating slowly in response to a command 
he did not remember giving. He touched another key to stop it, 
called up the specifications for the power plant, and stared at 
the numbers for a long moment without really seeing them. 
Something -- sand or gravel, it sounded like -- rattled against 
the wall of the office, carried by the rising wind. 
_Enough of this_, he thought, and touched keys to banish 
the gleaming images. They disappeared in a flurry of shutdown 
codes. He pushed himself away from the desk, and walked past the 
twin secretaries into the darkened warehouse. The large doors were 
shut, of course, but the side door was wedged open, letting in the 
rush and the smell of the wind. The door itself vibrated against 
its clips, jumping a little as each gust hit it. _Another two or 
three hours_, Damian thought, and stepped out onto the wharf. 
The activity was less frantic than it had been earlier: the 
barges and john-boats lay close to the docks, their heaviest 
fenders in place and double lines securing them to the piers. 
Damian nodded his approval, glanced up to see the power line that 
ran from the warehouse to the plotting shed swinging wildly in the 
wind. _Better see to that before it comes down on its own_, he 
thought, and looked around for the nearest docker. A blocky woman 
was crouched between bollards on the deck of the closest barge, 

tapline attached to a test node, workboard on her lap, and Damian 
lifted his hand to get her attention. 
"Where's Rosaurin?" he shouted, raising his voice to be 
heard over the wind. 
"I don't know, Na Damian," the woman called back. "In the 
shed, maybe?" 
Damian waved in answer, turned away. 
"Na Damian!" That was Rosaurin's voice, coming from the 
head of the dock, beyond the plotting shed. Damian waved to get 
her attention. 
"Over here!" 
Rosaurin came to join him, the wind whipping her short hair 
and flinging the skirts of her coat wildly so that they seemed in 
danger of tripping her. A smaller figure was visible behind her, a 
tiny woman in loose trousers and a fitted coat, posed so 
unobtrusively that for a moment he didn't recognize her. "It's 
that hsaia, Na Damian -- I'm sorry, the Visiting Speaker. He's 
here, and he insists you promised him a tour of the facilities." 
_Ji-Imbaoa. What would he be doing here, except to bring me 
the codes? And Cella, too_. Damian Chrestil suppressed his 
excitement and said, with what he hoped was convincing asperity, 
"And at a time like this. Tell him -- I'll see him in my office, 
you can bring him in there." Rosaurin looked warily at him, and 
Damian smiled. "Don't worry, there won't be any tours. I'll deal 
with him. And secure that cable, will you?" 
"Right, Na Damian. I'll bring him to your office." 
Rosaurin turned away, balancing herself against the 
unsteady wind, made her way back down the wharf. Damian followed 
her, more slowly, doing his best to hide his elation. There was no 
other reason for ji-Imbaoa to visit the Junction Pool docks, no 
reason except that he'd finally gotten the codes, and if he had, 
and Ransome was off-line, held in the summer house, there would be 
no one who could stop the transfer. Except -- maybe -- Lioe, and 
she was being dealt with, too. He smiled then, unable to stop 
himself, and Cella smiled back at him. 
"He came to the palazze," she said. "He said it was 
important, so I brought him here. Your sibs don't know he was 
there." She paused then, still smiling. "Do you want me to wait 
with him?" 
Damian nodded, knowing he did not need to wait for an 

answer. He ducked through the clamped-open door into the shadows 
of the warehouse, and stepped back into his office. He glanced 
quickly at his reflection -- his hair was a mess, blown out of its 
ties by even that short an exposure to the wind, and he tidied it 
hurriedly -- and then settled himself behind the desk. He lit the 
screens, calling up the plans he had been studying, and leaned 
back in his chair to wait, struggling to keep himself from 
grinning like a fool. 
"Na Damian," the secretary said, after what seemed to be an 
interminable wait. "You have a visitor. The Visiting Speaker 
Kuguee ji-Imbaoa. And Na Cella." The expensive voice module did a 
fairly good job with the alien name. 
"Show them in," Damian said, and this time couldn't keep 
the satisfaction out of his voice. 
He rose to his feet as the Visiting Speaker entered, 
gesturing for him to take the guest's chair beneath the painted 
triptych. "Welcome, Na Speaker, it's good to see you again." 
Ji-Imbaoa waved a hand, waving away the need for formality, 
and Damian did his best to swallow his excitement. 
"Your woman was good enough to bring me here. Time is of 
the essence now," the Visiting Speaker said. "We can neither of us 
afford to waste any more time." 
In the background, Cella lifted one precise eyebrow, and 
said nothing. 
"I've not been wasting time," Damian said. 
Ji-Imbaoa waved away the comment. "No matter." 
"No," Damian Chrestil said. "It does matter." It was a 
risk, pushing him at this point, but he could not afford to let ji- 
Imbaoa treat him like an employee. "I have been ready to fulfill 
my part of the bargain. The delays come from your end." 
There was a little silence, ji-Imbaoa's hands closing 
slowly on the arms of his chair. Damian waited, and, as slowly, 
the hsaia's hands relaxed. 
"It is so," ji-Imbaoa said. "However, that delay has ended. 
I have the codes." 
_It's as much of an apology as I'm likely to get_. 
"Excellent," Damian Chrestil said, and held out his hand. 
Ji-Imbaoa ignored it. "I have gone to a great deal of 
trouble to get this information. I had to contact my friends 
through commercial linkages -- at great expense -- because 

Chauvelin refused to allow me the use of the ambassadorial 
channels. I think I should have some recompense for this." 
Damian swallowed his first response, said, with careful 
moderation, "Na Speaker, surely that's one of the ordinary risks 
of doing business." 
"I am not a business person," ji-Imbaoa said. 
_That's for certain_. Damian said aloud, "You expect me to 
pay for your connect time to Hsaioi-An." 
The fingers of ji-Imbaoa's hands curled slightly, a 
movement Damian had learned to interpret as embarrassment, but the 
Visiting Speaker nodded. "I think it would be fair." 
Damian hesitated, looked down at his screens to cover his 
uncertainty. This was part of the hsai power games, one more 
attempt to jostle for status; he himself couldn't afford to lose, 
and so drop lower than ji-Imbaoa, but he wasn't sure he was good 
enough to win. The secretary chimed softly, signaling an incoming 
message, and he seized gratefully on the excuse. "I'm sorry, Na 
Speaker, I need to take that." 
"Shall I go?" Cella asked softly, and Damian shook his head 
before the hsaia could take offense. 
Ji-Imbaoa gestured acceptance, and Damian leaned back in 
his chair, touched the string of codes that activated the security 
filter, translating spoken words to a stream of letters across the 
bottom of the screen. A second set of codes flared, and he touched 
a second key to cut in the family's decryption routines. The 
screen lit at last, and Ivie's face looked up at him. 
NA DAMIAN. 
It was disorienting, watching Ivie's lips move without 
sound, while the words scrolled past on the bottom of the screen. 
Damian nodded. "I hope things went well? I'm with a visitor, so 
you'll have to make it fast." 
Ivie nodded, in comprehension as well as agreement. I'M AT 
THE SUMMER HOUSE NOW, he said. THE FIRST GUEST IS WITH ME. WE'VE 
HAD A LITTLE TROUBLE WITH THE SECOND, BUT I HAVE HOPES THAT WE'LL 
BE ABLE TO FIND HER AGAIN SOON. 
_So he's got Ransome, but not Lioe_. Damian said, "It's a 
start, anyway." He looked back at ji-Imbaoa, the germ of an idea 
forming in his mind. "I'm coming to join you myself, and I may be 
bringing a guest of my own -- a colleague, rather. How's the 
weather?" 

 Ivie shrugged. DETERIORATING. IF YOU'RE GOING TO BE MORE 
THAN AN HOUR OR TWO, I WOULDN'T FLY, BUT THEY TELL ME THE ROADS 
SHOULD STAY OPEN UNTIL DARK. 
"Good enough," Damian said. "I'll be there directly." He 
touched the sign-off key, and watched the picture dissolve, then 
looked back at ji-Imbaoa. "I've had to do some improvisations of 
my own," he said bluntly, "thanks to your delays. And suffer some 
inconveniences. Illario Ransome is off the nets right now, but 
only because I am holding him in my family's summer house. I think 
that is equal to your expenses in getting the codes." 
Ji-Imbaoa nodded slowly. "Ransome is your prisoner." 
"To put it bluntly, yes." Damian watched him, aware that 
something had changed, but not certain what it was. It was as 
though the rules had changed, or even the game itself. Cella was 
watching him with renewed intensity, as though she'd sensed the 
change, too. 
"I would like to speak with him," ji-Imbaoa said. "I will 
give you the codes there, once we are at this house of yours." 
Damian shrugged. There was no reason not to do it, as far 
as he could see; the nets were too well shielded for work to be 
interrupted by any but the worst storms, and he could access them 
from the summer house as well as anywhere. "All right," he said. 
"I'll call my flyer. I assume you have staff with you?" 
Ji-Imbaoa gestured agreement. "My secretary, and one 
guard." 
Damian looked at Cella, who was still watching him with 
that same unnerving fixity of purpose. "Do you want to come, too?" 
From the look in her eyes, it was a pointless question. 
"Yes," she answered, gently. "If you don't mind." 
"Fine." Damian Chrestil opened a working channel, typed in 
a quick series of commands, and waited half a second for the 
confirmation. "The flyer will be waiting for us at Commercial 
Street in ten minutes." 
The wind had eased a bit by the time they reached the 
Commercial Street helipad, but the first fringes of rain had 
overspread the city. It fell in huge drops that left wet irregular 
circles the size of a man's hand on the dusty pavement. Damian 
ignored it as he shepherded the others into the heavy flyer, but 
ji-Imbaoa hissed irritably to himself, and the other hsaia, ji- 
Imbaoa's secretary, huddled himself into an incongruous plastic 

overcoat. The jericho-human Magill, who handled security, flipped 
up the hood of his coat, but made no comment. Cella followed 
demurely, moving through the rain as though she didn't feel it. 
The passenger compartment would seat only four in comfort, and 
Damian seized the excuse with some relief. 
"I'll ride with the pilot," he said, raising his voice over 
the noise of the engines, and let the compartment's door fall 
closed without waiting for an answer. 
The pilot didn't look up as he climbed into the control 
pod, already deep in her rapport with the machine, hands and feet 
encased by the controls, but one of Ivie's men was riding in the 
copilot's space. He scrambled to his feet as Damian opened the 
hatch, moved back to the jumpseat that folded down from the 
compartment wall. 
"Thanks, Loreo," Damian said, and took his place beside the 
pilot. "How's it look, Cossi?" 
The pilot shrugged one shoulder, her attention still on the 
displays that filled the air in front of her, visible only through 
her links. "Not too bad. The rain's fading, and on the screens it 
looks like we'll have some better air for the next forty minutes 
or so." She looked down at her controls again, and Damian hastily 
fastened himself into the safety webbing. "I have clearance from 
the tower," Cossi went on, "so I can lift whenever you're ready, 
Na Damian." 
Damian touched the intercom button, opening the channel to 
the passenger compartment. "We're ready to lift, Na Speaker. 
Please be sure you're strapped in, this could be a rough ride." He 
took his hand off the button without waiting for an answer, looked 
at Cossi. "Ready when you are." 
The flyer lifted easily, jets whining as it rose past the 
warehouse fronts and through the lower levels of sky traffic. As 
Cossi had predicted, the winds did not seem to be as strong as 
they had been, though the flyer dipped and shuddered. Damian clung 
to the edge of the hatchway, peered out the tiny window toward the 
Old Dike and the cliffs that marked the edge of Barrier Island. 
Even in the grey light, it was easy to make out the five 
projecting bits of cliff face that were the Five Points; he could 
even see the sparkle of lights behind the rows of windows. The 
Soresins' palazze looked busy, a swarm of servants and robohaulers 
clustered around an ungainly-looking cargo flyer, unloading 

supplies for the family's annual first-big-storm party. Behind 
him, Loreo laughed softly. 
"Looks like the party's on." 
Damian nodded. "Pity we can't make it." 
The flyer lifted further, looking for a clearer path 
through the updrafts off the Barrier Hills, and for the first time 
Damian had a clear view of the sky to the south. Wedges of grey 
clouds piled over and on top of each other, steel-colored 
overhead, shading to purple at the horizon; their edges met and 
meshed, deforming under the pressure of the wind. The light that 
came in through the flyer's forward screen and windows was dull, 
lifeless, dim as twilight. The flyer banked sharply, heading south 
past the last of the hills, and Damian caught a quick glimpse of 
the mouth of the Inland Water. The storm barriers were up at last, 
three ranks of dark, wet metal closing off the channel, and the 
waves were starting to break against them, grey-green walls of 
water streaked with skeins of foam that were startlingly white in 
the dim light. Damian shivered, thinking of a childhood visit to 
Observation Point just before a storm. The low, hemispherical 
building, set on the southernmost point of Barrier Island, on a 
spur of land that curved out into the sea, had obviously been 
built to withstand the worst hurricanes, but he had never 
forgotten the sight of the surf pounding at the base of the 
cliffs, throwing spray and stones ten meters high. At the height 
of a bad storm, the man in charge had said, boasting a little but 
also stating simple fact, the waves broke completely over the 
station for hours at a time. 
"We're going to have to land from the southeast," Cossi 
said, breaking into his train of thought. "Otherwise we'll be 
crosswise to the wind." 
"Go ahead." 
Damian braced himself as the flyer bucked, dropped several 
meters, but then Cossi had made the turn, and the flyer steadied 
slightly, riding with the wind instead of against it. They dropped 
lower, and Damian saw the scrubby trees bent even farther into the 
hillside by the wind. The family's landing strip gleamed ahead of 
them, the rain-darkened pavement outlined by double rows of tiny 
blue lights. The flyer fell the last few meters with a roar of 
jets, and then they were down, Cossi converting the drop smoothly 
to forward momentum. The braking fans rose to a scream, and died 

away as the flyer came to a stop, directly on the markers. 
"Nicely done," Damian said, and meant it. 
Cossi smiled, in genuine pleasure, then turned her 
attention to the difficult task of prying herself out of the 
control links. "Do you want me to wait for you, or do I head back 
to the city?" she asked, still working herself free of the 
controls. 
"There's no point in your flying back," Damian said. "Put 
the flyer under cover -- the hangar's rated to stand a class three 
-- and then you can either wait it out here or take a groundcar." 
"I'll wait," Cossi said. 
Damian nodded, and swung himself out of the pilot's 
compartment. The others were already standing on the rainspattered 
pavement, ji-Imbaoa still hissing to himself, his 
household clustered miserably at his back. Cella was standing a 
little apart, a little behind them, her eyes downcast, hiding that 
unnerving smile. Damian managed a smile in return, wondering what 
she was up to, and waved them on toward the house itself. He could 
see Ivie waiting in the doorway, light blazing behind him. 
Shutters covered the windows; he glanced hastily over his shoulder 
and saw Loreo by the door of the domed hangar, guiding Cossi and 
the flyer inside. 
"No word yet on the second guest," Ivie said softly as 
Damian approached, and stood aside from the door. 
"You can give me the details later," Damian answered, and 
went past him into the house. He could feel the floor trembling 
under his feet, and knew that the household generators were 
already at speed, ready to cut in when the power grid went down. 
The others were waiting in the main room, the glass that 
formed the viewing wall now covered by heavy wood and steel 
shutters. Damian paused at the top of the short stairs, blinking 
in the unexpectedly warm light of a dozen hastily placed standing 
lamps. He had never been in the house during Storm, had never seen 
the shutters from the inside, the almost-black panels cutting off 
the view. It was an alien, disorienting sight. One of Ivie's 
people had set up a pair of service trays and activated a mobile 
bar, and most of the group, four men and a pair of women, were 
clustered either by the food or in front of the communications 
console. The largest of the screens was tuned to the weather 
station, and Damian caught a quick glimpse of a redscreen report 

before one of the women moved, cutting off his view. Ransome sat a 
little apart from the others in one of the large armchairs, 
leaning back, a glass of deep amber wine on the table beside him. 
He seemed very much at his ease, despite the third woman who stood 
against the far wall, palmgun in hand, and Damian hid a frown. 
Then he saw the slight, nervous movement of Ransome's hand, one 
finger slowly tracing the lines of the carved-crystal glass, and 
the way his eyes roved from point to point when he thought no one 
was looking. 
"So," ji-Imbaoa said, too loudly. "Ransome is here. And 
your prisoner?" 
Ransome smiled, and lifted the glass of wine in ironic 
salute. "Not a guest, Na Damian?" 
Damian came down the last two stairs, ignoring both of 
them, snapped his fingers to summon the bar. It rolled over to 
him, wheels digging into the carpet, and he poured himself a glass 
of raki. "Help yourself, Na Speaker, we're informal here. Will you 
see to him and his household, Cella?" He looked at Ransome, barely 
aware of Cella's politely murmured answer. "You were becoming an 
inconvenience, you know. This seemed a -- reasonable -- way to 
handle the situation." 
Ransome's smile widened, became briefly and genuinely 
amused. "I suppose I should tell you that you won't get away with 
this." 
"I don't see why not," Damian said, deliberately brutal. 
"This isn't the Game." He had the satisfaction of seeing Ransome 
flinch. 
"Na Damian." Ji-Imbaoa turned away from the mobile bar, a 
tall cylinder in one hand. "I have the codes for you, but there is 
a favor you could do me in return." 
_A favor?_ Damian barely managed to keep himself from 
raising his eyebrows in sheer disbelief. _That is a change of 
tune, from the hsaia who was trying to bully me into a subordinate 
position not an hour ago. You only ask favors from your 
superiors_. "If I may," he said, carefully casual, and gestured 
toward the door behind him. Shall we talk in private?" 
"That might be well," ji-Imbaoa said. 
Damian led the way into the side room, fingering his remote 
to switch on the lights. Shutters covered the single window, but 
he could hear the sudden drumming of rain against the walls. He 

gestured toward the nearest chair -- the room was set up as a 
communications space, with heavy, comfortable chairs and complex 
machinery lining the walls -- and said, "What is this favor?" 
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 Hsaioi-An, a deep connection to the 
je Tsinra-an, 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 button 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-jao_ 
characters. _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'jao_ glyphs, mostly trade-related -- like most Republicans, 
her dealings with the hsai were generally done through a jerichohuman 
broker, and none of these were familiar. 
"Do you know any _n'jao?_" she asked, and Roscha came to 
look over her shoulder at the screen. 
"A little. I can't read that, though." 
Lioe glanced back at her, saw the delicate eyebrows draw 
down into a thoughtful frown. 
"Wait a minute, though." Roscha reached out to touch one 
tripart character in the first message. "I think that's the 
ambassador's name-sign. And I think these are repeats -- message 
repeats." She indicated another set of symbols. 
"Chauvelin?" Lioe asked. 
"I saw it on a crate once, when we handled some diplomatic 
shipping out," Roscha answered. "I'm sure that's what it is." 
"I'm not surprised," Lioe muttered. She touched more keys, 
searching for a main directory, and wished she had had more time 
to learn Ransome's idiosyncratic systems. 
"Why not?" Roscha asked. "Look, what's going on?" 
"I wish I knew," Lioe answered. She took a deep breath, 
made herself look away from the screens crowded with useless 
information. "What I think is happening -- what Ransome said was 
happening -- is that Damian Chrestil and the hsaia Visiting 
Speaker are probably smuggling something, mainly to get Damian 
Chrestil some political advantage in Hsaioi-An, which he could use 

here." 
Roscha nodded. "That makes sense. He wants to be governor." 
"Chauvelin and the Visiting Speaker are enemies," Lioe 
continued, "members of rival factions -- and the Visiting Speaker 
doesn't much like Ransome, either -- so there's a hsai dimension 
to this, too." 
"_Sha-mai_." Roscha shook her head. "It's a mess, but it 
does make sense." 
"I'm glad it makes sense to someone," Lioe said. She 
fiddled with the shadowscreen again, found the main directory at 
last, and ran through it hastily, searching for translation 
programs. There was only one, and it was really only for 
transliteration. _Ransome certainly speaks tradetalk, and probably 
a couple of modes of hsai_, she thought, but copied the two 
screens to its working memory anyway. The prompt blinked for a few 
seconds, and spat strings of letters. She recognized Chauvelin's 
name, and, in the second message, a string of numbers that looked 
like routing codes. She studied those numbers, cocking her head to 
one side. They were certainly routing codes; in fact, they looked 
like the kind of codes that gave access to commercial data 
storage. _I wonder what Ransome keeps in that kind of safe space_, 
she thought, and copied the codes to a separate working board. 
"I think," Roscha said slowly, "I think that means that 
Chauvelin's been looking for him." She pointed to the first 
message, her fingertip hovering just above the screen. "And it 
looks like it's been repeated -- what's the time check, anyway?" 
Lioe touched keys. "That message has been repeated every 
quarter hour for four hours. The last one arrived about forty 
minutes ago." _Does that mean he got the message and is with 
Chauvelin?_ she wondered. _Or did Chauvelin just give up?_ 
"Do you think he got the message?" Roscha said. 
Lioe shook her head. "There's only one way to find out." 
Roscha looked at her, and she smiled wryly. "Call Chauvelin and 
ask." 
"Yeah, but do you think he'd answer?" 
Lioe shrugged. "I've no idea." She reached for the 
workboard, typed in a string of codes, an inquiry first, to 
Ransome's own directories, and then into his storage. To her 
surprise, the codes to contact the hsai ambassador were held in 
open storage; she copied them to the communications system, but 

hesitated, wondering if she should send them. _What do I say, 
anyway? "I'm so sorry to bother you, Ambassador, but is Ransome 
with you?" How do I explain why I'm calling, if he's there, 
without getting him into trouble? More important, what do I say if 
he's not?_ She touched the final key before she could change her 
mind. _I can always just say he told me he might be there. I don't 
have to tell a jericho-human -- no, not even a jericho-human, a 
conscript,_ chaoi-mon -- _anything of what's going on_. The 
handset chimed softly, from beside the working chair, and at the 
same time the secondary screen displayed connect symbols. 
"What the hell?" Roscha said. 
"I'm calling the ambassador," Lioe answered, and crossed to 
pick up the handset. The green telltale was lit at the base of the 
set, indicating a machine on the other end of the connection. "I 
want to know if Ransome's there." She touched the connect button 
before Roscha could say anything, heard a delicate mechanical 
voice in her ear. 
"Hsaie house. May I help you?" A moment later, the voice 
repeated the same message in tradetalk. 
"I'm trying to contact Illario Ransome," Lioe said. 
"Who may I say is calling?" 
_So he is there_. Lioe felt a sudden surge of relief, a 
kind of deflation, and said, "Quinn Lioe." She heard her voice 
flat and irritable in the handset's reflection. 
"One moment, please." 
"He's there?" Roscha demanded, and Lioe shrugged. 
"He seems to be -- " She broke off as the handset clicked, 
flipping over to the new connection. 
"Chauvelin." 
The voice was familiar from the ambassador's party, low and 
crisp, with only a hint of the hsai accent. Lioe froze, not 
knowing what to say, what she should do, and Chauvelin said, "Na 
Lioe?" 
"I'm sorry to have bothered you, Ambassador," she said. "I - 
- I was looking for Ransome, he said he might be with you." _Maybe 
that wasn't the best phrasing_, she thought, _but it's the best I 
could do on short notice. Things must be bad, if Chauvelin himself 
is talking to me_. 
"I've been looking for Ransome myself," Chauvelin said. 
"Are you at his loft?" 

 There was a certainty in his voice that made Lioe think the 
call had been traced. "Yes." _No point in lying: even if he hasn't 
traced it yet, he will_. 
"Has he been there, do you know?" 
"I don't know," Lioe said. It was a safe answer; better 
still, it was the truth. "Is there anything wrong?" 
There was a little pause, just enough to make her sure he 
was lying. "No, not at all. But I would like to talk to him as 
soon as he returns." 
"I'll tell him that," Lioe said, and waited. 
"It's important," Chauvelin said. There was another pause, 
barely more than a hesitation, and then the ambassador went on, "I 
was expecting a message from him. Did he leave anything for me?" 
Lioe shook her head, then remembered it was a voice-only 
line. "Not that I've seen." She glanced quickly at the console, 
double-checking the messages displayed on the screen. "No, 
nothing." She hesitated herself, wondering how much she could say, 
then said, "I was expecting to find him here. I'm a little -- 
concerned." 
"So am I." She could almost hear a kind of wry smile in 
Chauvelin's voice. "If you hear from him, please tell him to 
contact me." 
"I'll do that," Lioe said, and broke the connection. 
"So what happened?" Roscha asked. 
Lioe shrugged, looked back at the massive console, at the 
symbols and code-strings filling the screens. "Ransome isn't 
there, as you heard, and Chauvelin badly wants to talk to him." 
"That doesn't sound good," Roscha said. "What about 
hospitals, or the Lockwardens?" 
"I bet Chauvelin's already done that," Lioe said, "but it 
couldn't hurt to check again." _Or could it? What if he wants to 
keep this quiet?_ She shoved the thought away. "How are you on the 
nets?" 
Roscha shrugged. "Good enough to find that out, anyway." 
In spite of everything, Lioe grinned. "Can you take care of 
it? There's something I want to check." 
Roscha reached for the handset. "All right." 
One screen winked out, slaved to the handset; Lioe ignored 
its absence, stared at the routing codes displayed on her 
workboard. She was still learning her way around Burning Bright's 

nets, but this sequence looked straightforward enough. The header 
codes indicated a secure node, but the numbers following should be 
the owner's own codes. She ran her hands over the shadowscreen, 
recalling the main directory, and set the system scanning for a 
node that matched the header codes. She could hear Roscha's voice 
in the background, rising in inquiry, flattening out with each 
inaudible answer, but she ignored it, her eyes fixed on the 
screen. If this didn't work, she would have to try netwalking, 
personally checking the likely nodes. Then the screen lit, 
displaying a gaudy logo, a shield banded in blue and gold, with a 
scarlet dragon coiling over it, and presented her with a list of 
options: ADD, SUBTRACT, RETRIEVE, NEW FILE, CHARGES. She hit 
RETRIEVE, and her screen filled with symbols, scrolling past too 
fast for her to read. She touched the shadowscreen to dump the 
information to Ransome's local system -- somewhat to her surprise, 
there was no request for a further password -- and waited until 
the key bar flickered green again. She banished the connection, 
and turned her attention to the workscreen, scrolling back to the 
beginning of the file. 
"Nothing at any of the hospitals," Roscha said, and came to 
peer over her shoulder. "But a friend of mine at C/B Cie. says Na 
Damian's gone off with a hsaia -- it was somebody important, he 
said, so it could be the Visiting Speaker -- and Almarin Ivie, 
he's head of security, has been sent off to look at something at 
the family's summer house." 
"Look at this," Lioe said. She gestured to the screen, 
heard the repressed excitement in her own voice. "Damn it, how did 
he get all of this?" The outline was complete -- _maybe a little 
iffy in courtroom eyes, especially when so much of it was gathered 
netwalking, but certainly enough to use. Enough to blackmail 
Damian Chrestil with, and enough to make Damian Chrestil willing 
to do -- what? Kill him?_ She pushed the thought away. _That 
seemed the least likely result, if only because a well-known body 
would be hard to explain, and Chauvelin would be likely to ask 
awkward questions. But certainly to keep him out of action for a 
few days. Especially since Damian seemed to be ready to transfer 
the lachesi to its new "owners."_ 
"So Na Damian was smuggling lachesi for clients of ji- 
Imbaoa's," Roscha said, slowly. "I think I worked that pickup." 
"I brought it in," Lioe said. "Damn, that's why we had 

bungee-gars on board. I didn't think red-carpet was worth that 
much trouble." 
Roscha laughed softly. "What a fucking mess. Na Damian is 
going to be really pissed when he realizes we know what's going 
on." 
"I think he already is," Lioe said, and touched the patches 
of selfheal starring her face. "That has to be what this was all 
about." _He was willing to kill me, too -- not eager, so I suppose 
I should be grateful, but willing_. She shivered, looked over her 
shoulder in spite of herself toward the shuttered window and the 
locked door. _Which means we need some kind of a defense, and not 
just physical_. "You said Damian Chrestil went off with the 
Visiting Speaker?" 
"It looks like it," Roscha said. "And if N'Ivie's at the 
family summer house, then I bet that's where Ransome is. It's 
remote enough to keep somebody out of circulation for a while. 
Especially with the storm." 
Lioe nodded, aware for the first time of the steady slap of 
rain against the shutters. Every so often, a stronger gust smacked 
against them, a sharp sound like a handful of nails thrown against 
the metal plates. "All right," she said. "How safe are we here?" 
Roscha shrugged. "Na Damian has plenty of people in the 
port," she said. "If he wants -- well, if he doesn't care about 
publicity, we're not safe at all." 
"How much do you think he cares about publicity?" 
"I don't know." Roscha looked back at the screen, at the 
careful outline. "If that's what's been going on, it could mean 
the governorship. I wouldn't care a whole lot, in his shoes." 
Lioe nodded at the answer she had expected. "Do me a favor, 
make sure everything's locked, as secure as you can make it. And 
see if Ransome owns any weaponry." 
"All right," Roscha said, and sounded faintly dubious. "But 
-- " 
Lioe looked back at the chair, Ransome's working space 
inert, invisible around it. "I've got an idea," she said. "And if 
it works, we shouldn't need guns." 
-------- 
*Day 2* 
_Storm: The Chrestil-Brisch Summer House,_ 
_the Barrier Hills_ 

 Ransome waited in the sunken main room, staring at the 
glass of wine that stood untouched on the table beside him. His 
back ached with the effort of holding himself relaxed and easy 
against the chair's thick cushions; he was aware, painfully aware, 
of the rising noise of the rain and the murmuring conversations 
among the Chrestil-Brisch thugs standing by the display console. 
He was equally aware of the woman who held her palmgun with the 
comfortable stance of the expert, but kept his eyes away from her. 
The wind howled outside the shutters, and he wondered when the 
storm would hit its peak. Not that the storm was much of an 
advantage, but at least it limited their actions as much as his. 
_And I bet I know what favor ji-Imbaoa wants. Chauvelin warned me 
I shouldn't push him. The only question is, will Damian Chrestil 
sell me out?_ Ransome smiled then, put the glass to his lips to 
cover the expression. _And why shouldn't he? If he wins -- and 
he's winning so far -- he has nothing to lose_. 
"Na Ransome." 
It was Damian Chrestil's voice: the younger man moved so 
quietly that Ransome hadn't heard him approach. He turned, setting 
the glass aside, contents untasted, forced a calm smile of 
greeting. "Na Damian." 
Damian Chrestil snapped his fingers, and one of the heavy 
chairs trundled over to join them. At another gesture, the woman 
with the palmgun withdrew a little, resting her back against the 
shutters that covered the enormous window. Ji-Imbaoa made a 
slight, impatient movement of his fingers, but moved away toward 
the display console and the twin serving carts. Ransome, watching 
with what he hoped was a convincing show of incurious distaste, 
saw the other hsaia, ji-Imbaoa's secretary, present a plate of 
food. Cella said something to him, turned him away toward the 
shuttered windows. She glanced over her shoulder, and met 
Ransome's look with a quick, triumphant smile. It was gone almost 
as soon as he'd seen it, but Ransome felt the chill of it down his 
spine. 
"There are a couple of things we need to get settled," 
Damian Chrestil said, and Ransome looked back at him a little too 
quickly. 
"If you let me go, give me a ride back to the city and an 
apology," Ransome said, trying to cover his nervousness, "I 
suppose I'd be willing to ignore all of this." He gestured with 

all the grace he could muster to the woman with the gun. 
Damian smiled. "That really wasn't what I had in mind." 
_Somehow I didn't think so_. Ransome smiled back, the 
muscles of his face stiff and unresponsive, felt congestion 
tugging at his lungs again. He ignored that -- _maybe it will go 
away, ease off on its own the way it sometimes does_ -- and said 
aloud, "It's a generous offer." 
"So's mine," Damian answered, and the smile vanished 
abruptly. "I understand from my people that you dumped the 
contents of a datablock into the nets, into storage somewhere. I 
want that material." 
Ransome spread his hands. "I don't hear an offer." 
"Ji-Imbaoa tells me there are still some charges pending in 
Hsaioi-An," Damian Chrestil said. "He wants you back, to face 
them. I don't care either way, but I want that data." 
Ransome froze, felt himself go rigid, as though he'd been 
turned to stone. He remembered the hsai courts, the hsaia judge -- 
"_insults from_ houta _are as the barking of dogs; it's fortunate 
you are of no status_" -- most of all the dreary grey padding, 
walls and floors and ceiling, that was the hsai prison, months and 
months of grey cells and grey clothes and grey men, and finally 
the numbing grey fog of the first bout of white-sickness. _That's 
twice the Chrestil-Brisch have done this to me_, he thought, and 
could see the same fine shape, Bettis Chrestil's face imposed for 
an instant on her brother's features. _I can't go back. I don't 
want to die there, in that grey place_.... "If I give you the 
data," he said slowly, despising himself for the concession, "you 
won't turn me over to ji-Imbaoa." 
Damian nodded. 
"What, then? You'll just let me go?" Ransome let his 
disbelief fill his voice, and caught his breath sharply, just 
averting a coughing fit. He tasted metal, the tang of it at the 
back of his throat, and swallowed hard, willing the sickness away. 
"Why not?" Damian shrugged with deliberate contempt. "Once 
the -- product -- is transferred, there's nothing you can do." 
"The lachesi, you mean," Ransome said, and, after a moment, 
Damian nodded. 
"That's right." 
"Chauvelin won't be pleased," Ransome said, and Damian 
shrugged again. 

 "Chauvelin won't be in a position to do anything about his 
displeasure for very much longer. The tzu Tsinra-an are losing 
face by the day, they won't be in power much longer. And then 
Chauvelin won't be able to do a damn thing to help you." 
Ransome sat very still, kept his face expressionless with 
an effort. It was true; if the tzu Tsinra-an lost their dominant 
position at the court on Hsiamai, then Chauvelin would go down -- 
_and I'll go with him. I can't go back to Hsaioi-An. I don't want 
to die there, I know what that would be like, I saw it happen_. He 
controlled his fear with an effort, made himself reach for the 
wine. He sipped carefully, but did not really taste the faint 
sweetness. "So if I tell you where the data is, you won't turn me 
over to him." He nodded to the Visiting Speaker, still standing by 
the food carts. "What guarantee do I have that you won't get the 
data and still hand me over?" 
"You don't. But you don't have another choice," Damian 
Chrestil answered. "I tell you -- I'll give you my word -- that if 
you give me the data, you can go free." 
"Your word," Ransome said, in spite of himself, remembering 
Bettis Chrestil. She had given her word, too, and it had been less 
than useless. Damian Chrestil gave his sister's humorless smile. 
"I don't care if you believe me or not," he said. "This is 
the only deal you've got. Tell me where you stashed the data, or 
I'll give you to ji-Imbaoa, now." 
_It is the only deal, and worse than no choice at all_. 
Ransome stared at him for a long moment, unable to come up with 
any alternatives. _Whatever I do, I lose, because I don't believe 
him for a second when he says he'll let me go. I'm only prolonging 
it, and losing any bargaining power I might have -- but I can't 
give up without some fight_. "All right," he said slowly. "I'll 
retrieve it for you." He hadn't expected that attempt to work, and 
was not surprised when Damian shook his head, refusing the gambit. 
"Tell me the codes." 
"They're in my loft, in the mail systems there," Ransome 
said. "You'll find a message in _n'jao_ there, a string of codes. 
That accesses the secure storage." Damian frowned, started to say 
something, and Ransome held up his hand. "The program I used, I 
don't know the access numbers myself, or even where the data ended 
up. It's a random dump, to whoever had space open at the time. But 
the retrieval codes are in my mailbox." 

 Damian nodded then, beckoned to one of his people, a thin 
woman with a pilot's calluses on her wrists. "Cossi, you've done 
this before. I need to get some information out of his mailbox." 
Cossi shrugged. "Can you give me a key?" 
"Well?" Damian said. 
Ransome hesitated, then reeled off the string of numbers. 
"Right, Na Damian," Cossi said, and turned away. Ransome 
watched her walk to the nearest netlink and settle herself at the 
workstation. For a crazy moment, he hoped that she didn't know 
what she was doing -- she was a pilot, after all -- but then he 
saw the way her hands moved across the shadowscreens, and that 
hope died. 
He looked away, not wanting to watch, but could still hear 
the steady click of the machines as Cossi worked her way onto the 
nets. This was it: there was no hope left, and he could expect to 
choke to death in a hsai prison.... He heard his breath whistling 
in his lungs, and this time reached for the cylinder of Mist. 
There was no point in pretending anymore, no point in trying to 
hide his weakness. He'd played his best hand, and he'd lost. He 
laid the mask against his face, inhaled the cool vapor. Damian 
Chrestil watched him, his thin face expressionless. Ransome 
refolded the mask with deliberate care, and slipped the cylinder 
back into his pocket. 
"Na Damian," Cossi said. "I'm being blocked." 
"What?" Damian looked up sharply, frowning. 
"I'm being blocked," Cossi said again. "Somebody's pulled 
that system off-line. There's no way I can access it." 
Damian looked back at Ransome, his thin eyebrows drawn into 
a scowl. "Well? I thought we had a bargain." 
Ransome spread his hands, did his best to hide his sudden 
elation. Someone was in the loft, Chauvelin, maybe, or -- better 
still and most likely -- Quinn Lioe. And if Lioe was there, and 
had changed the system settings, then maybe he had a second 
chance. "Everything was on-line when I left it. Maybe the storm's 
knocked it off." 
Cossi's hands danced across the multileveled controls. 
"Nothing else is off, Na Damian. I think someone's reset." 
"Lioe," Damian Chrestil said, and Ransome felt the last 
hope die. "It's Lioe, isn't it? You gave her a key to your loft, 
and told her what was going on." 

 Ransome shook his head. "I didn't tell her anything," he 
lied. "She's a Gamer, and a Republican, at that. She doesn't give 
a shit about politics." 
"You brought her to Chauvelin's party," Damian said, soft 
and deadly. 
Ransome shook his head again. "Yeah, I tried to get her 
interested in something outside the Game -- she's good, too good 
to be stuck in the Game all her life -- but she doesn't care. All 
she wants to do is play the Game." 
There was another little silence, and then Damian Chrestil 
shook his head. "No. Nobody ignores politics like that." 
"Gamers do," Ransome said, desperately. 
"Not even Gamers." Damian Chrestil beckoned to Ivie. "Get 
in touch with your people up at the port. Send some over to 
Ransome's loft and see what they find." He looked back at Ransome. 
"I suppose he has security in place, so be careful." 
"Fuck you," Ransome said. If Lioe was at the loft, if she 
had the sense to find the key that would let her retrieve the data 
-- and she must have, if she'd blocked access to the mail system -- 
then there was still a chance. _If Lioe can figure out what to 
do_. He put that thought aside. There was still nothing he could 
do but wait, but things were looking fractionally better than they 
had. 
-------- 
*Day 2* 
_Storm: The Hsai Ambassador's House,_ 
_in the Ghetto, Landing Isle Above_ 
_Old City North_ 
Chauvelin stood at the only unshuttered window, watching 
the wind-driven rain sweep through his garden. The bellflower 
trees bent until their branches dragged along the ground, stirring 
the human-faced pebbles into new patterns, their flowers blown 
away in gusts with the wind. A few early flowers were flattened, 
their petals frayed to nothing against the ground. The clouds 
streamed in, dark overhead, darker still, almost black, to the 
south, so that the light was dimmed, filled with an odd, 
underwater quality. Ransome was not at his loft. 
Chauvelin grimaced, annoyed with himself, at his inability 
to concentrate on anything except that useless fact, and turned 
away from the window to consider the double-screened workboard 

that lay on the wide table. Both screens displayed the transcript 
of the last transmission from Haas, the last that had come in 
before the transmitter went down for the duration of the storm, a 
fragmentary, garbled mess that defied the computers. He frowned 
again, and made himself pick up a stylus, fitting his fingers into 
the pressure points to change the mode. It was obvious that Haas 
had found at least some of what he had expected -- connections 
between the je Tsinra-an and the Chrestil-Brisch, clients of the 
je Tsinra-an who did most of their business through C/B Cie. -- 
but the overall sense of the message was so mangled that there was 
little he could do. Even the standard phrases certifying Haas's 
authority and authorizing him to act in her name for the 
Remembrancer-Duke had come through poorly, though there, at least, 
they had the Forms of Protocol to fill in the gaps. At least he 
could use that authority, if he had to. 
And maybe he could do more. Ransome was missing; the 
inquiries he'd put out on the nets had brought no results, and 
Lioe seemed -- said she knew nothing. Ji-Imbaoa certainly knew, 
certainly held some of the keys to this situation. If the 
transmission could be edited properly, he could force ji-Imbaoa's 
household to cooperate with him. He highlighted one section of the 
message, deleted the intervening words and nonsense, tilted his 
head to one side to study the result. The phrasing was a little 
stilted, but no worse than in many official documents. He finished 
the rest of it, editing carefully, and studied the result. The 
document now gave him the temporary rank necessary to resume 
control of the ambassadorial household, and therefore of ji- 
Imbaoa's household as well, on the grounds that ji-Imbaoa's 
carefully unspecified actions had cast a shadow on the reputation 
of his superiors. There was only one problem with using it: ji- 
Imbaoa would inevitably query it to the Remembrancer-Duke himself, 
and not enough of the original message survived for Chauvelin to 
be sure that his patron would back him in such a drastic action. 
He set the stylus aside, ran his finger over the glowing 
characters at the foot of the screen, tracing the stylized _n'jao_ 
characters that symbolized Haas's authority. He could use this 
authority successfully, of that he was quite certain, but possibly 
at the cost of his career. _Is Ransome worth it?_ 
Chauvelin sighed, touched controls at the base of the 
workscreen to produce a paper copy and transfer the original to 

storage. _Is he? It's taken me most of my life -- nearly thirty 
years -- to earn this rank, starting from nothing, as a conscript, 
less than nothing. Even the strictest hsaia codes acknowledge that 
it isn't always possible to protect one's proteges_. Flashes of 
memory broke through his guard: Ransome newly paroled, all in grey 
still, the canalli brown of his skin faded to ivory; Ransome in 
his bed, the unexpected, wiry strength of his thin body; Ransome 
laughing at a party, a handful of birds, the centerpiece of a 
story egg, dancing in his palm; Ransome sitting on the garden 
wall, holding out a handful of carved stones. _And Ransome with 
Lioe, too, the way he watched her_. He picked up the printed 
sheet, rolled it carefully in the prescribed fashion, 
concentrating on the task so he wouldn't have to think. _If I use 
this, and I'm wrong -- or even if I'm right and it's inexpedient -- 
I will lose the ambassadorship. And probably my other ranks, too; 
there will be need to make an example of me. I'm not ready, yet, 
to make that choice_. 
He tucked the cylinder of paper, the ends neatly folded 
over on themselves, into the pocket of his coat, and turned back 
to the window. It was raining harder now, hard enough that the 
rain formed a solid curtain, completely concealing the Old City in 
the distance below the cliffs, veiling the paths of the lower 
terrace. A few yard lights glowed through the rain, outlining the 
steps that led from one plateau to the next. He grimaced, thinking 
of Ransome's sculptures, and looked away. 
"Sia?" Je-Sou'tsian spoke from the doorway, excitement in 
her voice, and Chauvelin turned sharply. 
"Well, Iameis?" 
"Sia, I think we've found the Visiting Speaker, or at least 
traced where he went." 
"Good." Chauvelin reached for the cylinder of paper, 
touched it like a talisman. "Where?" 
"He was with Damian Chrestil," je-Sou'tsian said. "He and 
his people, ji-Mao'ana and Magill, went to the C/B Cie. docks, and 
they left with him in a flyer. They headed southeast, our 
informant says, but I can't contact the Speaker at the Chrestil- 
Brisch palazze." She paused, and made a formal gesture of apology. 
"I regret we haven't located him more exactly, but I thought you 
would wish to know." 
"So," Chauvelin said softly, and nodded. "Yes, I want to 

know." _This changes everything. He is acting irresponsibly, and 
he's dealing with, maybe making a deal with, a_ houta -- _Damian 
Chrestil is still not a person, in the law's view -- and this can 
be construed as dishonoring his patron. That will give me just 
enough claim to the honorable position that Haas and my lord can 
afford to protect me_. He slipped the rolled paper from his 
pocket, touched it to lips and forehead in the ritual gesture. "As 
you must know, I received a last transmission from maiHu'an before 
we lost contact with the satellite. In it, I was granted this 
commission, which I now execute." 
Je-Sou'tsian bowed her head, crossed her hands on her 
chest, spurs downward, claws turned inward to her own body in 
ritual submission. "I will bear witness, Sia." 
Chauvelin nodded. "In it, I am authorized to act as head of 
household, lesser father, under the authority of the Father- 
Emperor, father of all clans." The ritual phrases came 
surprisingly easily to his tongue, for all that it had been years 
since he had last used them. "This commission supersedes all 
earlier claims of rank and privilege, and will do so until it is 
renounced or revoked." 
"I hear, my father," je-Sou'tsian said, "and I witness. And 
I obey even to the price of my life." 
"So be it," Chauvelin said, and laid the rolled paper 
ceremoniously on the table. "Now." He paused, sorting out what 
needed to be done. "I want you to proclaim this to the household. 
Take a couple of our security people with you, just in case." 
"I don't think the Visiting Speaker's household will cause 
any trouble," je-Sou'tsian said. "Not all of them are fond of 
him." 
Chauvelin smiled. "I can't say I blame them. All right, do 
what you think is best about security. But I want his rooms 
searched, particularly for papers, disks, datablocks, anything 
that could prove the link with Damian Chrestil -- also for 
anything that might tell us where he is. Keep your people on that, 
as well, highest priority." 
"Yes, Sia." Je-Sou'tsian paused, seemed about to say 
something more, then turned and slipped away. Chauvelin stared 
after her, suddenly aware of the roaring of the wind beyond the 
window. If he could just find either Ransome or ji-Imbaoa -- _when 
I find them_, he corrected silently, not daring to think of the 

consequences if he did not -- he would have the tools he needed to 
act. But for now, all he could do was wait. 
-------- 
*Day 2* 
_Storm: Ransome's Loft, Old Coast Road,_ 
_Newfields, Above Junction Pool_ 
Lioe walked the Game nets, calling files from the 
libraries, moving from one familiar nonspace to the next. Images 
flickered in the air in front of her, bright against the dark 
shutters; below and to her right, where there was no danger of 
accidentally intruding into that space, hung Ransome's outline of 
Damian Chrestil's plan. From time to time she glanced at it, 
comparing its form to the Game scenario taking place in the 
working volume in front of her. The basic shape looked good, and 
she reached for images to complement it, trawling now through less 
familiar news nets and more sober datafields. She found the images 
she wanted after some trouble -- Damian Chrestil's face, a news 
scan that covered the arrival of the Visiting Speaker, an old 
still of Chauvelin, looking younger than he had at the party -- 
and dragged them one by one into space occupied by the _Face/Body_ 
program. The program considered them and produced a string of 
numbers; Lioe dragged those numbers into the working volume, and 
smiled at the result. The images attached to the character 
templates were not -- quite -- the original faces, but they were 
close enough to be recognized, and that was all that mattered. _In 
some ways, it was almost a shame the scenario would never be 
played_, she thought, studying the convolutions that formed a 
neat, red-branched tree in front of her eyes. _Damian Chrestil's 
plot makes for a wonderful Game incident. Too bad it's only made 
for blackmail_. 
"No luck finding guns." 
Roscha's voice seemed to come from a distance, and Lioe 
shook her head, refocusing to look through and past the crowding 
images. She reached into control space to switch off her vocal 
link, said to Roscha, "Then there's nothing?" 
"Not quite nothing," Roscha said with a lop-sided grin, and 
slipped a hand into the pocket of her jacket. She brought out a 
cheap plastic pistol, displayed it with a shrug. "This is mine. On 
the other hand, it's only six shots, and it's not supposed to be 
reloadable. I've had it modified, and I've got another magazine, 

but I don't know how well it will work." 
"Wonderful," Lioe said. 
"What are you doing?" Roscha asked. She was frowning at the 
control spaces, as though she was trying to make sense of the 
carefully focused images. 
"My -- our -- way out," Lioe said. _I hope_. "I've pulled 
together a Game scenario, merchant-adventurers variant, a _jeu a 
clef_. I've put this whole situation into a Game -- and used their 
faces -- and I'm going to put it on the nets. If Damian Chrestil 
doesn't back down, leave me alone and let Ransome go, I'm going to 
let it run. The scenario will show up in four hours -- in fact, I 
think I'll tell Lia Gueremei to expect it -- and it will be sent 
on the internets as well. He'll never get rid of it, and he should 
have a hard time explaining why it fits what's been going on so 
extremely closely." 
"He will be pissed," Roscha said. 
She didn't sound entirely pleased, and Lioe looked sharply 
at her. "I wasn't thinking," she said. "Look, I don't want to get 
you into trouble. If you want, you can leave now. I won't mention 
you." 
Roscha looked momentarily embarrassed. "No. I'm not 
leaving. Who'd watch the door? Anyway, the storm's pretty bad." 
"Not that bad," Lioe said, reaching for the nearest weather 
station reports. Air traffic was not recommended, but the roads 
were still open. 
"I don't want to take the bike, and I'm not leaving it," 
Roscha said. Face and tone were abruptly serious. "I don't want to 
leave, Quinn. Don't worry about me." 
Lioe stared at her for a moment longer, then slowly nodded. 
"I'm trusting you," she said. 
Roscha smiled, and turned away, settling herself against 
the wall by the door. There was an intercom panel there, Lioe 
noticed, and for the first time became aware of a rush of street 
sounds -- rain and wind on pavement, once in a great while the 
slow whine of an engine as a heavy carrier crawled along the 
street -- that formed a counterpoint to the sounds from the net. 
"I've rigged the intercom," Roscha said. "At least that way we can 
hear them coming." 
_If they come in the front door_, Lioe thought. "Great," 
she said aloud, and turned her attention back to the images that 

surrounded her. The scenario was complete, and again, she felt the 
pang of regret that no one would ever play it. All that remained 
was to put it on the nets, neatly packaged and ready to unfurl 
itself four hours from now. She had done this kind of programming 
before, though only for frivolous reasons, a birthday present, a 
joke; still, the basic technique remained the same, and the 
routines she used had proved impervious to the best attempts to 
corkscrew them open. _At least, they were impervious on Callixte_. 
She ignored that thought, and reached into the control space for a 
new set of tools. Ransome's gloves were warm against her hands, 
the wires tingling gently to confirm each movement. 
She set a nonsense algorithm to work, let it spin its hash 
into the working space, then shaped the jumbled nonsense into a 
solid plate, turned it back in on itself, so that the algorithm 
constantly rebuilt, reinforced itself. It formed a virtual capsule 
that sealed the scenario away from the rest of the nets. She 
prodded at it, testing the system, and when she was satisfied with 
its solidity, began the trigger mechanism. The timer was easy, a 
standard commercial program tied to the algorithm; it would cancel 
the nonsense run in three hours and fifty-seven minutes. Three 
minutes later, the last of the nonsense wall would disappear, 
tidied away by the net's housekeeper routines. At last she 
finished, and spun the entire structure in virtual space in front 
of her, shaping the external presentation. The emerging image 
glittered as it turned, became a shape like a golden dodecahedron, 
each hexagonal facet marked with her Gamer's mark. That would get 
people's attention, if nothing else did. If Damian Chrestil didn't 
capitulate, it, and her growing reputation, would ensure that 
Gamers would copy the program to every corner of the nets. If he 
did give in, and she pulled the scenario -- _not that hard, since 
I have the key algorithm; there won't be too many copies to track 
down_ -- she would lose a little status, but that was a small 
price to pay for survival. _And maybe not even that_, she thought 
suddenly. _Suppose I do what Ransome suggested, float the scenario 
for Avellar's Rebellion. No one could say I didn't live up to the 
advertising then_... 
But that was for later. She took a deep breath, reached out 
with her gloved hand, copied the dodecahedron, and shoved it into 
the place that was the entrance to the nets. It floated away from 
her, picking up speed as it went, until it vanished in a flash of 

black. _One away_. She copied the program and scenario again and 
pushed it out onto the nets, did it again and again until there 
were at least a dozen copies loose on the nets. Only then did she 
lean back a little, and reach into control space for the 
communications system. 
She opened a space, but did not drag the connect codes into 
it, staring at the static-filled volume for a long moment. Then, 
reluctantly, she reached into the directory, rifling its files for 
Damian Chrestil, or the family's summer house. She found a code 
for the latter, and dragged it into the communications space 
before she could change her mind. There was a long pause, while 
codes streamed across the space -- unusually long, nearly thirty 
seconds -- and then the codes vanished, to be replaced by a man's 
head and shoulders. It was an unfamiliar, ugly face, white-skinned 
and broad-featured, and for a crazy instant Lioe thought of giants 
in the story tapes she'd viewed as a child. 
"Can I help you?" the giant asked, in a voice as heavy as 
his features, and Lioe dragged herself back to the present. 
"I want to talk to Damian Chrestil," she said. "My name's 
Lioe." 
The giant closed his mouth over whatever he had started to 
say, and looked down at something out of the camera's vision. 
"Just a minute, Na Lioe. I'll see if he's free." 
"If you're trying to set up a trace, don't bother," Lioe 
said. "I'll tell you where I am. I'm in Ransome's loft, and I've 
found what he found. You can tell Damian Chrestil that, too." 
The giant's expression did not change. "I'll do that, Na 
Lioe," he said, and his face vanished, to be replaced by what was 
meant to be a soothing hold pattern. 
"You heard that," Lioe said over her shoulder, and Roscha 
answered quickly. 
"Yeah. But I haven't heard anybody in the entrance yet." 
"If I take too long -- " Lioe began, and stopped abruptly. 
_If he doesn't come to talk, decides to send his people after us 
instead, what then? I suppose if he doesn't show up in a couple of 
minutes, I can cut the connection, we can head back to the port, 
try again from there_ -- 
The communications space cleared abruptly, and she found 
herself looking at Damian Chrestil. She'd only seen him once 
before, at Chauvelin's party, and was surprised again at how young 

he was. _No older than me, if as old. Let's hope I can play this 
as well as he has_. 
"Na Lioe," Damian said. "I'm glad to finally get to talk to 
you." 
"I didn't think talking was what you had in mind." 
Damian Chrestil shrugged. "If you'd come quietly ... But 
that's old business. What can I do for you?" 
"You're holding Ransome," Lioe said bluntly, and hoped she 
was right. "I want him back." 
"You want him?" Damian's face creased suddenly into an 
urchin's grin. "I didn't think he was yours, too." 
Lioe sighed, ostentatiously refraining from an answer. 
"I'm afraid that's not possible right away," Damian went 
on. "I have business in train which I don't intend to see 
interfered with. Na Ransome will stay with me until it's 
finished." 
"I don't think so," Lioe said. "If he's not released -- and 
if you don't call off the goons you've got chasing me -- I will 
spread this entire business deal onto the nets, Republican as well 
as Burning Brighter, and into Hsaioi-An if I can manage it." 
There was a little silence, and Damian Chrestil said 
slowly, "I know the nets. I can kill this before it starts." 
Lioe shook her head. "Not on the Game nets. The Game nets 
run different protocols, different rules, they serve a different 
clientele. I've put a new scenario in motion, Na Damian. It's a 
merchant-adventurer's variant, primed for release in four hours, 
and it's based on what you've been trying to do, from smuggling 
the lachesi to the high politics." She reached into her working 
space, dragged another copy into the communications space, peeled 
back the shell to reveal the tiny, perfect -- and perfectly 
recognizable -- characters contained in its center, held by the 
red webbing of the scenario's outline. "All this has to do is come 
to someone's attention in C-and-I, or, I would imagine, in the 
Lockwardens or the governor's office, or even back in Hsaioi-An, 
and you're screwed. And there are enough Gamers in all those 
places that it's bound to happen." 
Damian Chrestil shook his head. "Not necessarily. I admit, 
we may not be able to break that shell, but my people can contain 
the scenario as soon as it's open. It won't get that far, 
certainly not far enough to cause me trouble. So let's talk 

reasonably." 
"Once the scenario's opened, you'll never stop the spread," 
Lioe said. "You know how Gamers are, we copy things. We share 
variants we like, sessions we've played, work by people we admire. 
And my name means something in the Game. Once that shell opens, 
half the Gamers on the nets will have made a copy for their own 
use -- once they realize it's a _jeu a clef_ even more of them 
will want it. How are you going to stop that, Na Damian?" 
There was a little silence, and in it Lioe could hear a 
kind of choked laughter. _Ransome_, she realized, and hid her 
delight. 
"All right," Damian Chrestil said. "I'm prepared to 
negotiate. You're not invulnerable, Na Lioe, you crewed the ship 
that brought the lachesi, and that could be made to look bad for 
you." 
"Possibly," Lioe said. 
"Easily enough done," Damian Chrestil said. "But I'm 
willing to make a deal." He did something with controls that were 
out of her line of sight; an instant later, the view within the 
communications space widened, so that she was looking into a 
comfortably furnished room. The wall behind him was black -- not a 
wall at all, she realized abruptly, but the same kind of shutter 
that covered Ransome's windows. Lioe tugged at the edges of her 
view, expanded it so that she could see the details more clearly. 
Half a dozen men and women waited at a polite distance, all in 
dockers' clothes, tough-looking people who looked like older, less 
beautiful versions of Roscha. The Visiting Speaker stood a little 
apart from them, feet planted wide apart, arms crossed on his 
chest, the fingers of the one visible hand working restlessly. A 
tiny, pretty woman -- _Cella_, she realized -- sat on the arm of a 
chair to the hsaia's right. Ransome was sitting in a comfortablelooking 
chair, just outside the pool of amber light from an 
overhead lamp, but as she watched, he pushed himself to his feet 
and came to stand by Damian Chrestil. Damian looked over his 
shoulder, his fine eyebrows drawing together in a frown, but he 
did not order the other man away. 
"Yes, this concerns you, Ransome. Join the party, why don't 
you?" 
"Thanks," Ransome said, and smiled. 
Damian Chrestil looked back into the display space. "Since 

you're not a political animal, Na Lioe, I would assume you don't 
really care whether or not the lachesi gets through to my buyers 
in Hsaioi-An." 
"Or even about your chance of being governor," Ransome said 
gently, his eyes fixed on Lioe as though he wanted to convey a 
message. 
Lioe nodded. "All I care about is your goons off my back, a 
job to go back to, and Ransome's freedom. That's pretty simple, Na 
Damian." 
"I can perhaps do better," Damian Chrestil said. He paused, 
not looking back over his shoulder toward the Visiting Speaker, 
but the hsaia straightened anyway, both hands now poised to 
display claws and wrist spurs. 
"We have an agreement, Damian Chrestil," ji-Imbaoa said. 
"If you fail to honor it -- " 
Damian turned on him. "You haven't yet done what you and I 
agreed. I'll fulfill my contracts, all right -- this time -- but 
you can go to hell." Behind him, the flat-faced giant made a 
gesture, and the dockers shifted position suddenly, so that they 
encircled the Visiting Speaker and his staff. Cella slipped easily 
from her place, out of the armed ring. The jericho-human made an 
abortive grab for a weapon hidden under his coat, and a thin woman 
leveled her palmgun at him. 
"Enough, Magill," ji-Imbaoa said, and looked at Damian. 
"Very well. I have no choice. But I will ruin you for this. You 
and yours will never do business in Hsaioi-An again -- " 
Ransome said something then, in hsai, not tradetalk, and 
the Visiting Speaker was abruptly silent, hunching into himself as 
though into feathers. Ransome looked back into the communications 
space. "As I said to him, Chauvelin may be able to offer other 
connections, Na Damian. You see, I'm willing to negotiate, too." 
"But will Chauvelin?" Damian Chrestil asked. 
"Ask him," Ransome answered. 
There was a little silence, and Lioe, still held in the 
chair's gentle embrace, the nets wound around her like a cocoon, 
held her breath. If this could work, if they could come up with a 
bargain -- 
"Be my guest," Damian Chrestil said, and gestured to the 
controls. 
"Traitor," ji-Imbaoa said, almost conversationally, and 

turned his back on them all. 
Ransome grinned, and reached for the control spaces. Static 
fuzzed a tiny circle at the edge of Lioe's viewing volume. She 
winced, and looked away from it, but did not adjust her own 
controls. An image formed, slowly at first, then flicked 
completely into adjustment. Chauvelin looked out at them, one 
eyebrow raised in arrogant question, and Lioe tugged at the image 
until it was as large as the other. 
"Na Chauvelin," Damian Chrestil said, with a fleeting and 
twisted smile. 
"Na Damian," Chauvelin acknowledged. "What interesting 
company you keep." He looked at Ransome. "I've been looking for 
you, I-Jay. I trust you're well?" 
Ransome nodded. "Well enough." 
Damian Chrestil cleared his throat. "I think we've achieved 
stalemate," he said. "Each of us has something the others want, 
and, thanks to you, Na Lioe, we have a time constraint as well." 
"How so?" Both of Chauvelin's eyebrows rose. 
"I've put a new Game scenario onto the nets," Lioe said 
bluntly. "In four hours -- less than that, now -- it'll be 
released, and every Gamer on the nets will want a copy. It's a 
_jeu a clef_, Ambassador, based on Na Damian's deal with the 
Visiting Speaker. If Damian Chrestil doesn't back off, guarantee 
my safety and let Ransome go, I'll let it run." She paused, 
couldn't resist adding, "I do think it will play." 
Chauvelin was silent for a moment, his face expressionless, 
then looked at Ransome. "Will it work?" 
"It's fucking brilliant," Ransome answered, and the 
amusement in his voice had a slight note of hysteria. "Oh, it'll 
work, all right, no question." 
A faint expression of distaste flickered across Chauvelin's 
face, vanished as he looked back at Lioe. "I wish you had seen fit 
to trust me with this information, Na Lioe." 
"Why the hell should I?" Lioe retorted. "I'm a Republican, 
you're hsaia -- and I don't know you. Why should I trust my neck 
to you?" 
"If I may interrupt," Damian Chrestil said. "I think I can 
offer us all a way out." 
"Why not?" Lioe said, and heard Ransome laugh. 
Chauvelin said, "Go on." 

 "Na Lioe says she wants to be left alone -- my goons off 
your back, you said, and your job to go to. And Ransome back, 
which is what Na Chauvelin wants, too." Damian Chrestil looked 
directly at Chauvelin, his voice gone suddenly deadly cold. "Am I 
right in thinking you'd also like to see the Visiting Speaker's 
influence curbed a little, N'Ambassador?" 
Chauvelin nodded once. 
"Then this is what I'm offering," Damian Chrestil said. 
"You, N'Ambassador, will allow this shipment to proceed. Neither 
you nor Na Ransome will interfere with it -- why should you care 
what happens to my money and clients, so long as ji-Imbaoa, and 
the je Tsinra-an, are taken down a few notches? In return, I won't 
act for the Visiting Speaker, or ask any awkward questions about 
his disgrace. As for you, Na Lioe, I want you to withdraw this 
scenario of yours, and to keep quiet about all of this. And I'd 
like you to stay away from Republican C-and-I at least until the 
statute of limitations runs out on any possible smuggling charges 
from that direction." 
_I'm a pilot. That's impossible_. Lioe started to protest 
aloud, but Damian Chrestil held up his hand. 
"In return, I'm willing to offer you my sponsorship to 
remain on Burning Bright, as a citizen. I daresay you can find 
work as a notable, in the Game clubs, but if you can't, or if you 
don't want to -- if you want to follow Ransome's example -- I'll 
provide you with a stipend, to continue until the statute runs 
out." 
_To stay on Burning Bright. To live as a notable, as a 
Gamer, my income guaranteed_... Lioe took a deep breath, fighting 
for calm. This was the last thing she had expected, something 
outside of all possibility, that she would play this game, and 
win, and be offered this reward. 
"That's very good, Damian," Chauvelin said, and there was 
real admiration in his voice. 
"Thank you. I think it serves all our needs," Damian 
Chrestil said. 
_Maybe not mine_, Lioe thought, indignant. _There's my 
piloting -- I like my work -- and, my God, there's Kerestel. I 
can't just leave him without warning_. But there were plenty of 
pilots in the replacement pool, good ones, too. It was not 

impossible, not impossible at all. _Will he keep his word? Will I 
find his goons still on my tail, or wake up dead some morning? Do 
I care? I could stay on Burning Bright, stay in the Game; most of 
all, if Ransome will teach me -- and I think he will -- I can see 
what else there is, beyond the Game. He and I can put an end to 
the Game, and see what happens then_. 
"I can agree to this," Chauvelin said. 
Damian nodded. "Na Lioe?" 
She nodded, slowly. "I agree. But I want the money." 
"Wise move," Ransome said. He was smiling again, without 
amusement. "And I'll agree, because the rest of you do. But you 
owe me something for it, Damian." 
Damian Chrestil shook his head. "No. You're getting 
something already. You're getting yourself an apprentice, someone 
you can pass your skills to before you die. I think that's reward 
enough for anyone." 
There was another silence, and Lioe held her breath, sure 
that Ransome would reject the offer, reject the reminder that he 
was going to die -- _reject me_. Then, quite slowly, Ransome's 
smile changed, became more real. "You are good, Damian," he said. 
"I'm not Bettisa," Damian Chrestil answered, and there was 
an odd regret in his voice, as well as certainty. There was a 
little pause, and Ransome nodded. 
"All right. I'll agree." 
Lioe let out the breath she had been holding, leaned back 
and let the chair tilt with her, the images moving around her to 
hold their relative positions. It was done, it would work -- _and 
I will stay on Burning Bright, and in the Game. And I'll have my 
chance, at last, to do something no one will want to change_. 
-------- 
*Day 2* 
_Storm: The Chrestil-Brisch Summer House,_ 
_the Barrier Hills_ 
Damian Chrestil watched the net symbols fade and then the 
flicker of lights and symbols as the communications console shut 
itself down. It was the best he could do -- _not very good_, he 
acknowledged silently, but at least he would be able to salvage 
something from the mess. _And I won't have to deal with ji-Imbaoa 
anymore_. He turned away from the machine, did his best to ignore 
Ransome, watching with his sly smile from the sidelines, and 

beckoned to Ivie. The flat-faced man came over quickly, his hands 
still curled in his pockets, caressing at least one weapon. 
"Na Damian?" 
Ivie was well trained, Damian thought sourly, but no one 
was well trained enough to keep from sounding just a little 
uncertain about this situation. "Escort the Visiting Speaker into 
the game room," he said. "And take his people with him. Be sure 
you search the jericho-human, though." 
"A pleasure," Ivie answered, and turned away. He sounded 
confident enough once he'd been given something definite to do, 
Damian thought, and touched his remote to summon the drinks cart. 
He busied himself with its contents, careful to keep it and 
himself out of the way of Ivie's people, and saw without really 
looking that Cella and Ransome were being equally cautious. Cella 
stood well apart from the rest, still with a drink untasted in her 
hand, her expression remotely interested, as though she were 
watching someone else's Game. Damian read disapproval in her face, 
and looked away from it. On the far wall, the weather screen 
flickered soundlessly, showing the storm from various 
perspectives. He could hear the wind even through the heavy 
shutters, a numbing, constant wail that rose and fell 
monotonously. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Ivie say 
something to the Visiting Speaker, too soft and polite to be 
heard. Ji-Imbaoa tossed his head angrily, turning away as though 
he would have preferred to ignore the security specialist, and 
Damian Chrestil braced himself to intervene. Then, abruptly, ji- 
Imbaoa's resistance vanished; he made a curt gesture of agreement, 
and followed Ivie toward the door. Two of the guards followed, 
polite but obtrusive in their armed presence. The rest stayed 
behind, the thin woman still with her palmgun drawn and leveled at 
Magill. There was a little pause, and then Magill shook his head, 
and lifted his hands, surrendering to a search. At the woman's 
gesture, he and the hsaia secretary moved slowly toward the door. 
"Neatly done," Ransome said. He was still smiling, but the 
expression was less sly, more conscious of his own failures. 
Damian Chrestil ignored the irony, said, "Thank you." He 
was very aware of Cella's lifted eyebrow, and went on almost at 
random, "Make yourself comfortable." 
"Consider myself a guest?" Ransome asked. 
"If you must." 

 "Chauvelin will be grateful." Ransome pushed himself up off 
the arm of the chair, moved slowly across the room to stare at the 
weather screen. "I don't suppose there's any chance of getting 
back into the city." 
"I wouldn't send my people out in this," Damian answered 
with some asperity. "You'll have to wait it out with the rest of 
us." 
Ransome nodded, his attention still on the screen. Cella 
set her drink aside very precisely, and came to stand between 
Damian and the other man, so close that Damian could smell the 
faint sweetness of her perfume. 
"May we talk, Damiano?" 
The very reasonableness of her tone was a warning of sorts. 
"Of course," Damian said, and moved back into the corner of the 
room, far enough away from the screen that an ordinary speaking 
voice would not be overheard. He leaned against the side of one of 
the heavy chairs, still not quite willing to turn his back on 
Ransome, and Cella leaned close, her hip against his knee, one 
hand on the chair, just brushing against his thigh. They would 
look intimate from a distance, Damian knew, and wished for a 
fleeting instant that that was all she wanted. 
"Are you going to go through with this?" Cella asked. She 
kept her voice down, but the anger was perfectly clear under the 
conversational surface. 
Damian Chrestil eyed her for a moment, biting back his 
answering anger -- _all the more unreasonable because I know what 
you're really saying, that I backed down, that I let Chauvelin 
win_ -- and said, "It's the best bet, Cella. Better odds than 
anything else." 
"Changing horses is never a good bet," Cella answered. "The 
Visiting Speaker's still got power, why not stick with him? Why 
the hell go with Chauvelin?" She glanced over her shoulder, a 
quick, betraying tilt of the head toward Ransome, still staring at 
the screen. "And him?" 
"For God's sake, Cella," Damian said. "Because ji-Imbaoa is 
unreliable, and because Chauvelin's winning right now." 
"The je Tsinra-an have the power at court," Cella said. "I 
know that, I did the research for you. They're going to win in the 
long term, not the tzu line. You should stick with them." 
"It's a little late for that." 

 "I could persuade him," Cella said. "I could tell him it 
was a bluff -- " 
"_Sha-mai!_" Damian Chrestil pushed her away, pushed 
himself up off the chair in a single motion, heedless of Ransome's 
frankly curious stare. "Look, Cella, I've told you what I'm doing, 
which is more than is really your business. You're very good at 
the Game, but this is reality. This is what I am going to do -- 
this is the only thing I can do, the only way I can keep even this 
much -- and I don't need your baroque variations to complicate 
it." He took a deep breath, regained his composure with an effort. 
"If you want to help out, yes, by all means, keep the Visiting 
Speaker happy. But stay out of my politics." 
Cella looked at him, her face stiff and hard as a Carnival 
mask, her careful makeup bright as paint against a sudden angry 
pallor. "I can -- keep him happy -- if that's what you want, yes." 
"I don't really give a fuck," Damian Chrestil answered, and 
turned away. 
"Certainly, Na Damian," Cella said, with the sweet 
subservience that never failed to infuriate him, and swept away 
toward the door. 
Ransome watched without seeming to do so, all too aware of 
the tone if not all the words of the conversation. It was the 
losers who watched and listened like this, prisoners, servants, 
_houta ... Well, I've been all of those, and born canalli 
besides_. He fixed his attention on the screen as Cella stalked 
past him and disappeared into the hallway. _I can't say I'm sorry 
she's been taken down a peg or two_. 
In the screen, waves rose and beat against the wet black 
metal of the storm barriers, the image dimmed and distorted by the 
blowing rain and the drops that ran down the camera's hooded lens. 
It shivered now and then, as the wind shook the shielded 
emplacement. The first line of barriers was almost engulfed, foam 
boiling against and over it; the second and third, farther up the 
channel, were more visible, but a steady swell still pounded 
against them. Ransome watched impassively, remembering what 
conditions would be like on the Inland Water. Even with all the 
barriers up, the water would be rough -- the Lockwardens would 
have to let some of the tides through, or risk damage to the 
generators that powered the city and, if things got bad enough, to 
the barriers themselves -- and the water level would be rising 

along the smaller canals. He had grown up on a low-lying edge of 
the Homestead Island District, could remember struggling with his 
parents to get the valuables out to higher ground without any of 
the neighbors finding out that they had anything worth stealing; 
remembered how they had piled what they couldn't carry onto the 
shelves that ran below the ceilings, hoping that the roof would 
stay intact and the water wouldn't rise too high. And hoping, too, 
that the overworked Lockwardens from the local station would 
remember to keep an eye on the block. He glanced at the controls, 
touched a key to superimpose the chronometer reading on the 
screen: still almost an hour to actual sunset, but the image in 
the screen was already as dark as early evening. The winds were 
high, but steady for now: _all in all_, he thought, _not a bad 
time for looting_. There would be a few bad boys in the Dry Cut 
and Homestead who would be risking it. 
"Where's that from, Warden's East?" Damian Chrestil asked. 
He had come up so silently that the other hadn't been aware of his 
presence until he spoke. 
"I think so," Ransome answered, and found himself glad of 
the distraction. He glanced sideways, saw the younger man still 
scowling faintly, not all the marks of ill temper smoothed away. 
_Still pissed at Cella_, he thought. _And I can't say I blame 
him_. 
Damian Chrestil slipped a hand into his pocket, obviously 
reaching for a remote, and a moment later the image in the screen 
vanished, to be replaced by a false-color overview of the storm 
itself. Distinct bands of cloud curved across the city, outlined 
in dotted black lines beneath the flaring reds and yellows of the 
storm; more bands were visible to the south, but there was still 
no sign of the eye. 
"Heading right for us," Damian Chrestil said. 
"We should be here some hours," Ransome agreed, and had to 
raise his voice a little to be heard over the noise of the rain. 
Something thudded heavily against the shutters, and they both 
glanced toward the source of the sound, Damian Chrestil vividly 
alert for a second before he'd identified and dismissed the noise. 
"Not too many trees around here, I hope," Ransome said, 
with delicate malice, and Damian's mouth twisted into a wry smile. 
"Let's take a look." He worked the remote again, and the 
picture shifted -- tapping into the house systems, Ransome 

realized. At least one camera was useless, its lens completely 
obscured by the blowing rain, so that it showed only wavering 
streaks of grey. Damian flicked through three more cameras, so 
quickly that Ransome barely had time to recognize the images -- a 
rain-distorted view of the lawn, a camera knocked out of alignment 
by the wind, so that it showed only the corner of the house and a 
patch of wind-blown grass, more rain sweeping in heavy curtains 
across a stone courtyard -- and stopped as abruptly as he'd begun. 
"Ah." 
The camera was looking away from the wind, Ransome 
realized, looking inland toward the Barrier Hills and the lowlying 
trees that grew along their wind-scoured shoulders. The 
nearest trees were perhaps thirty meters away, up a gentle slope. 
They were bent away from the house, into the hillside, their 
leaves tossing wildly, thick trunks bent into a steady arc. 
Ransome winced, and even as he watched, one of the trees fell 
forward, quite slowly, a tangle of roots pulling free of the wet 
ground. The silent fall was disconcerting, eerie, and he looked 
away. 
"What a lovely place to spend a storm." 
Damian Chrestil shrugged, smiling slightly. "It's stood 
worse." 
"It wasn't the house I was worried about." 
Damian shrugged again, and his smile widened. "The odds 
look good to me." 
_And you're such a judge of that_. The comment was too 
double-edged, too easily turned against himself, and Ransome kept 
silent, though he guessed that the other had read the thought in 
his eyes. He turned away from the screen, went over to the drinks 
cart, and poured himself another glass of the sweet amber wine. 
"Do you want anything?" 
Damian Chrestil looked momentarily surprised, but then 
flipped the screen back to one of the city channels, and came to 
join him. "Yes, thanks, you can pour me a glass of that." 
Ransome filled another of the long-stemmed glasses, handed 
it to Damian Chrestil, and they stood for a moment in an almost 
companionable silence. Something else fell against the shutters, a 
lighter thump and then a skittering, as though whatever it was had 
been dragged across the rough surfaces. Damian Chrestil glanced 
quickly toward the noise, and looked away again. He was a handsome 

man, Ransome thought, attractive in the same fine-boned, longnosed 
way that his sister Bettisa had been, with the same quick 
response to the unexpected. And it was good to see a man who knew 
better than to follow an unflattering fashion. _And sex is the 
last weapon of the weak. Not that that's stopped me before_. He 
looked back at Damian Chrestil, allowed himself a quick and 
calculated smile, and was not surprised when the other's smile in 
return held a certain interest. _But I'm bored, and he is -- less 
than fastidious, at least by reputation. Not very flattering, I 
suppose. But it's better than doing nothing_. 
-------- 
*Day 2* 
_Storm: Ransome's Loft, Old Coast Road,_ 
_Newfields, Above Junction Pool_ 
Lioe lay on Ransome's neatly made bed, one arm thrown over 
her eyes to block the light from the main room. The walls trembled 
now and then in the gusts of wind; she could feel the vibration 
through the mattress, through the heavy wood of the bed frame. The 
shutter that protected the single narrow window had jammed before 
it quite closed off the view, and she had left it there rather 
than risk damaging the mechanism. The glass had seemed heavy 
enough, and on this side of the building, overlooking the cliff 
edge, there had seemed little chance that anything would blow 
through it. Now, feeling the building shake, she was not so sure, 
and looked sideways under the crook of her elbow, at the hand-span 
gap between the shutter and the bottom of the frame. She could see 
only the sky and the rain, the slate-colored clouds periodically 
dimmed by sheets of water blown almost horizontally past the 
window. She had never seen anything like this before, could not 
believe how tired she felt, tired of the tension, the dull fear at 
the pit of her stomach. Storms on Callixte were just as dangerous, 
maybe more so; but they swept in out of the plains with a few 
minutes' warning, and were over almost as quickly. There was none 
of the anticipation -- days of anticipation -- that preceded 
Burning Bright's storms, and certainly nothing she'd ever been 
through had prepared her for the steady, numbing fear. And the 
worst of it was that she had nothing to do -- there was nothing 
she could do to face the storm, and nothing in the Game seemed 
worthwhile compared to its massive force. Once she had pulled the 
copies of the _jeu a clef_ off the nets, there was nothing to 

distract her. 
A noise from the street brought her bolt upright, heart 
pounding, an enormous ripping sound and then a crash. Roscha's 
voice came indistinctly from the main room. "What the hell -- ?" 
Lioe went to join her, found the other woman standing by 
the main door, her head cocked to one side. The working space was 
opened, and the air around Ransome's chair was filled with Game 
images. "What was it, do you know?" 
"Outside," Roscha answered. She worked the locks. "Only one 
way to find out." 
Lioe nodded. Roscha slid back the last bolt, and eased back 
the heavy door. The wind caught them both by surprise, a gust of 
cold, wet air snapping past them into the room. 
"I didn't hear a window," Lioe began. 
"_Sha-mai_," Roscha said. "The stairway's gone." 
"The stairway?" Lioe repeated, foolishly, and Roscha edged 
back into the loft. 
"See for yourself." 
Lioe leaned past her, blinking a little as the full force 
of the wind hit her. The short hall looked different, wrong 
somehow, and then she realized that the stairs were indeed gone, 
ripped away from the side of the building, the door hanging 
crooked by a single hinge. Even as she watched, another gust of 
wind set the door swinging, and the groan of the hinge pulling 
still farther out of the wall was loud even over the noise of the 
storm. 
"The wind must've caught it just right," Roscha said. 
"Is there anything we should do?" Lioe asked. She looked up 
and down the hall as she spoke, wondering if any of the other 
tenants were around, glanced back to see Roscha shrug. 
"I don't know what. I don't see any sheet-board, or 
anything like that, and I can't see that a little rain's going to 
hurt this floor. There's probably a maintenance staff around 
somewhere, anyway." 
"Probably," Lioe agreed. She was certainly right about the 
damage: the battered tiles had been peeling away from the floor 
long before the storm started. She stepped back into the loft, and 
Roscha pushed the door closed again. She had to work against the 
weight of the wind, and Lioe leaned against it too, to help the 
bolts go home. 

 The Game shapes were still dancing in the air around 
Ransome's chair. Lioe glanced idly at them, frowned, and looked 
more closely. Damian Chrestil's face seemed to leap out at her 
from among the busy images. "What's all this?" she asked, and 
turned to see Roscha looking at her with a mix of defiance and 
embarrassment. There was a little pause before the other woman 
spoke. 
"I was trying to remake your scenario, the one you threw 
together. It was too good to waste -- too good to waste on 
blackmail." 
Lioe ignored the deliberately provocative word. "I made a 
deal," she said. "You could get all three of us killed, you, me, 
and Ransome." 
Roscha looked away. "I wasn't going to run it as it stood, 
I was going to make a lot of changes. Enough to make a difference, 
I think -- I know." She faced Lioe again, scowling now. "You can't 
stop me." 
Lioe looked at her for a long moment, weighing her options. 
_No, I probably could stop you. I've got the influence on the Game 
nets, and I'm probably better on the nets than you are -- and 
Ransome will help me -- but that only works for a while. I'd have 
to watch you like a hawk, and I don't have the time or the 
inclination to do that._ "Maybe not," she said aloud, "but the 
scenario shouldn't run, regardless of my deal. It doesn't belong 
in this Game." 
Roscha's frown deepened, her expression faintly interested 
as well as suspicious. "Why not?" 
"Because this Game is over." 
Roscha opened her mouth to protest, and Lioe lifted an 
eyebrow at her, daring her to continue. The other woman said 
nothing, and Lioe felt a thrill of excitement at the small 
victory, a small, sweet pleasure at a good beginning. Was this 
what Chauvelin felt, this sure power? She swept on, not wanting to 
lose her moment. 
"Yes, this Game is ending. The scenario I've been running 
is the start of it, a bigger scenario that's going to tie 
everything together, all the bits and pieces, and bring this Game 
to a solid conclusion, all the lines resolved in a single grand 
structure. And no one, ever, is going to be able to play with it 
again without knowing that it's ended." She had not realized, 

until then, how important that had become to her, to write one 
thing, create one scenario, that could never be changed -- that no 
one would want to change. She went on more slowly, speaking now as 
much to herself as to Roscha, and heard both certainty and 
seduction in her tone. "It's gotten stale, it's too predictable 
right now. We've all felt it. So it's time to start over, begin a 
new Game. And that's where this scenario -- " she nodded to the 
dancing images, to the faces of Chauvelin and Damian Chrestil 
hanging in the air beside the working chair -- "it and lots of 
others like it -- that's where they come in. We can remake the 
Game so that it's something real, not just a distant reflection of 
reality, but something that changes, comments on, reshapes what's 
really going on. That's the Game your scenario belongs in, don't 
you see? Someplace where it will matter." 
Roscha looked warily at her, the frown gone, replaced by a 
look of uncertainty that made her look suddenly years younger, 
almost a child again. "I don't play politics -- " 
"You could. In this Game, you could." Lioe smiled, 
suddenly, fiercely happy, the storm forgotten. "We both can. It 
won't be _jeu a clef_ any more, that's too easy. We can set it up 
so that it's an integral part of the Game, so that you can't 
escape it -- so that no one who plays, and no one who sees the 
Game, hears about it, can avoid what we're doing. That's what we 
need, to keep us honest. To make it real." 
"That's what you need, maybe." Roscha shook her head. "I'm 
not that good." 
"Then you'd better learn." 
There was a little silence between them, the wind a rough 
counterpoint, and then Roscha threw back her head and laughed. 
"You're right, and I'll do it. _Sha-mai_, what a chance!" 
_I knew you would_. Lioe hid that certainty, looked again 
at the busy workspace. "Let's get on with it, then." She reached 
for the nearest of Ransome's gloves, started to draw them on. 
Roscha nodded, and moved toward the other controls. "One 
thing, though." 
Lioe stopped, one hand half into the thin mesh. "What?" 
"A favor." 
"If I can." 
"I want to play the last scenarios." Roscha's face was 
utterly serious. "The ones that wrap this up, I mean. I want to be 

a part of that, too. It's -- I think someone in the new Game 
should have been part of the old one, that's all." 
_I was part of the old Game_. Lioe stopped short, the 
moment of indignation fading. _But not like her. I was looking for 
something else, something better, even when I didn't know it. I 
never was wholly part of it, no matter how hard I tried_. She said 
aloud, "I wouldn't have it any other way." 
Roscha looked at her for a long moment, then nodded, 
appeased. Lioe nodded back, and reached into the control space to 
turn the images to herself. For a moment, she saw Roscha webbed in 
the Game shapes, tangled with the visible templates, and then the 
images sharpened, and she turned her attention to the double task 
of ending the old Game and creating the new. 
-------- 
*Day 2* 
_Storm: The Chrestil-Brisch Summer House,_ 
_the Barrier Hills_ 
The room was dark and chill under the eaves, the roof and 
walls trembling under the lash of the wind. Damian Chrestil 
burrowed close to Ransome's warmth, dragging the found blanket up 
over his shoulders, and wondered if it was time to leave. In the 
darkness Ransome's face was little more than a pale blur, but he 
could guess at the expression, sleepy and sated, and suspected 
that it matched his own. Something, not a solid object, just the 
wind itself, slammed the side of the house with a noise like a 
great drum. Damian winced, and felt Ransome shift against him, 
startled by the sound. 
"Perhaps a downstairs room would have been wiser." 
Damian shrugged, the coarse cloth of the mattress cover 
rasping against his shoulders. "But not nearly as private." 
Even in the dark, he could see Ransome's grin. "Since when 
did you care about discretion, Na Damian?" 
Damian Chrestil sighed. Clearly the brief truce was over -- 
_if you could call it a truce, more like a whole different 
episode, something out of the Game, completely unrelated to the 
politics downstairs_. It had surprised him, how alike they were in 
bed. But that was finished. He sat up, letting the blanket slide 
down to his hips, and then made himself stand up, bracing himself 
for the other's acid comment. Ransome was watching, but idly, the 
blanket drawn up over his shoulder. Damian finished dressing -- 

_not too undignified, this time, no scrambling into clothes_ -- 
and glanced back, curious. Ransome was sitting up now, hunched 
over a little, one hand pressed against his chest. Even as Damian 
frowned and opened his mouth to speak, the imagist began to cough. 
Damian winced at the sound, harsh and painful even over the noise 
of the wind. 
Ransome waved him away, got his breathing under control 
with an effort that seemed even more painful than the cough. 
"Are you all right?" Damian asked, and did his best to keep 
his tone neutral. _Of course he's not all right. But that's the 
only thing I can ask_. 
Ransome nodded, took a careful breath, and when he spoke, 
his voice sounded almost normal. "I'll be fine. Your thugs took my 
medicines, though." 
"You left them," Damian said, and after a moment Ransome 
nodded, conceding. 
"Whatever." 
"Shall I have someone bring them to you?" Damian asked. 
Ransome shook his head. "I'll be all right." He still 
didn't move, and Damian watched him warily, until at last the 
other man straightened. Damian Chrestil turned away, heading down 
the darkened hall to the stairs. 
The lights of the main room seemed very bright after the 
darkened upper level, and he stood for a moment in the doorway to 
let his eyes adjust. The Visiting Speaker was back, sitting in a 
chair by the weather screen, a service cart drawn close beside 
him. Even as Damian saw him, and frowned, ji-Imbaoa rose to his 
feet and went to peer into the screen, the false-color image 
tinting his grey skin. Ivie said something to one of the men, and 
came quickly to join his employer. 
"I'm sorry, Na Damian, but it seemed best to separate him 
from his security. And Na Cella's been keeping an eye on him." 
Damian nodded slowly, accepting the logic of the statement. 
"Good enough. But watch him." 
"He seems -- calmer -- now," Ivie said. "Na Cella's been 
talking to him." 
Damian nodded again. Cella was sitting a little apart from 
the Visiting Speaker, just outside the loose ring of Ivie's 
security, but as he caught her eye, she rose to her feet and came 
to join them, smiling gently. _I just hope she's over her snit_. 

"Thanks, Almarin. He looks -- at least resigned." 
Ivie nodded and turned away, accepting his dismissal. Cella 
said, "He still thinks he has a hand to play." 
"Pity he's in the wrong game," Damian said, and was pleased 
to see Cella's smile widen briefly. 
"Maybe so. But I thought I should tell you." 
"Thanks." There was a sound in the doorway behind him, and 
Damian turned to see Ransome making his entrance, jerkin thrown 
loose over one shoulder. As he moved past into the room, Damian 
could hear the faint rattle of his breathing. He smiled at Cella, 
knowing, confident, but his eyes slid away instantly, looking for 
the red-painted cylinder. 
"Over there?" Cella said, and pointed to a table against 
the wall just beyond the weather screen. 
Ransome nodded, and started toward it, brushing past the 
nearest of Ivie's people. He had to pass quite close to the 
Visiting Speaker, who was still staring at something in the 
weather screen, and as he did, ji-Imbaoa turned suddenly into him, 
uncovered wrist spur striking for his throat. Damian saw the look 
of shocked surprise on Ransome's face as he lifted one arm in an 
instinctive, futile counter, and then the spur sliced into and 
past the imagist's wrist, hooking him like a fish through the 
cords of his neck. Ji-Imbaoa struck again before the other could 
pull free, the second spur and the clawed fingers slashing deep 
into Ransome's belly, and then he'd freed both spurs and Ransome 
was falling, still with the look of surprise frozen on his face. 
"Kill him," Damian Chrestil said instinctively, and Cella 
cried, "No!" Her voice rode through Damian's, checking security's 
immediate response. Ivie glanced back over his shoulder, flat face 
blank in shock and confusion, and ji-Imbaoa stepped back from 
Ransome's body, holding up his bloody spurs in an oddly fastidious 
gesture. 
"I am not under your jurisdiction. He was _min-hao_. This 
was between my honor and him." 
Damian hesitated, knowing that the moment for action had 
already passed -- had maybe never happened, the Visiting Speaker 
had been so quick in his attack. "Self-defense," he said anyway, 
and ji-Imbaoa shook his head. 
"Who would believe it? All the witnesses are yours." 
"Na Damian?" Ivie asked. 

 _Ransome was none of mine. I would have sold him before. 
And I don't know what to do_. Damian said, "Cossi -- ?" The pilot 
had some medical training, he remembered. 
Cossi slid the useless blackjack -- her only weapon, Damian 
guessed -- back into her pocket with a look almost of 
embarrassment, and went to kneel beside Ransome's body. She turned 
him over gently, long fingers probing at the wounds. Damian 
Chrestil winced and looked away. The pilot shook her head. 
"Not a chance. Not even at the city hospitals." 
_I didn't think there was_. Damian took a deep breath, 
looked back at the Visiting Speaker. "No," he said aloud, "it's 
not my jurisdiction. But it is Na Chauvelin's, and I expect -- I'm 
certain -- he will handle this appropriately. In the meantime -- " 
He looked at Ivie. "Find someplace small, secure, no windows. Lock 
him in there, and keep him there until we hand him over to the 
ambassador." 
Ivie nodded. "There's a storeroom that will do." He 
gestured to his people, who moved warily toward the Visiting 
Speaker, guns drawn. 
Ji-Imbaoa looked at them, gestured disdainfully with his 
bloody hands. "This has nothing to do with you," he said, and one 
of Ivie's men hissed at the contempt in the hsaia's voice. "I have 
no quarrel with you." 
"Go with them, then," Damian Chrestil said, well aware of 
the edge of fury still in his voice, and ji-Imbaoa nodded with 
maddening calm. 
"I will do so." 
Ivie's people still circled the hsaia, and Damian wished, 
fiercely, futilely, that he would try something, anything, that 
would give Ivie an excuse to act. 
"This way," Ivie said, and gestured with the muzzle of his 
palmgun. Ji-Imbaoa nodded again, and followed him from the room. 
Damian looked back at Ransome's body, sprawled now on its 
back in a pool of blood -- _not as much as I'd expected, but then, 
I guess he died quick_ -- empty eyes staring up at the ceiling. 
Cossi saw him looking, and reached across to close the imagist's 
eyes. 
"What do you want me to do with him, Na Damian?" she asked. 
_I don't know. Very God, I have to tell Chauvelin_. Damian 
Chrestil took a deep breath, still staring at Ransome's body. _Not 

an hour ago we were in bed together -- not an hour ago he was 
fucking me_. The room smelled of blood and shit. "Leave him for 
now," he began, and Cella spoke softly. 
"What about one of the upstairs rooms?" 
Damian looked at her blankly for a moment, then, in spite 
of himself, in spite of everything, smiled. "Well, he would've 
appreciated the irony." He looked at Cossi. "Yes, take him 
upstairs -- get one of Ivie's people to help you. And then get a 
housekeeper running, get that cleaned up." 
"Right, Na Damian," Cossi said. 
_And I will speak with Chauvelin_. Damian took a deep 
breath, bracing himself. _Ransome dead isn't so bad, it's how he 
died, and where -- that he died in my house when I'd made a deal 
with Chauvelin to keep him safe. The question now is, can I 
persuade Chauvelin that I didn't do it, that I didn't break our 
deal? And is there any way I can persuade him to turn this death 
to his advantage?_ He shook his head, sighing. _Anyone but 
Ransome, that might have worked, but not when it was Chauvelin's 
lover. Very God, I haven't even thought of Lioe_. He pushed the 
thought away. _One thing at a time_, he told himself, and turned 
to the communications console. 
-------- 
*Day 2* 
_Storm: The Hsai Ambassador's House,_ 
_in the Ghetto, Landing Isle Above_ 
_Old City North_ 
Chauvelin had come away from the windows when the wind got 
bad, waited now in one of the smaller rooms that overlooked the 
gardens, his back to the shuttered windows and the storm. The 
walls, dark red trimmed with gold, gleamed in the warm light; he 
could not feel the household generators whirring on standby 
through the thick carpet, but a glance at the monitor board told 
him they were ready should city power fail. He glanced away, took 
a few restless steps toward the door and then back again to the 
desk, looking down at the files glowing in the display surfaces. 
The first draft of his formal letter to the Remembrancer-Duke 
waited in the main screen, ready to be transcribed into _n-jao_ 
script, but he could not make himself concentrate on its careful 
phrases. Damian Chrestil had given him the excuse he had needed to 
break ji-Imbaoa's power. If he and the Remembrancer-Duke played 

the game right, the incident could have effects as far away as 
Hsiamai and the All-Father's court itself. At the very least, the 
je Tsinra-an would lose face over this, a Speaker for the court 
embroiled in common commerce, tripped up by a smuggling scheme: a 
more than acceptable outcome. And that didn't take into account 
the effects on Burning Bright itself. Chauvelin smiled, savoring 
the double victory. At the very least, Damian Chrestil would not 
become governor in the next elections, nor the ones after that; at 
best, he would never be governor, and the tzu Tsinra-an would not 
have to contend with an ally of the je Tsinra-an in control of 
Burning Bright. _And I may still be able to keep some hold over 
Damian Chrestil, even after all of this is over. That would be the 
best of all_. 
A chime sounded in the desktop, and he reached to answer 
it, touching the flashing icons. "Yes?" 
"I'm sorry to disturb you, Sia," je-Sou'tsian said, "but 
it's Na Damian. He says it's urgent." 
"Put him through," Chauvelin said, and felt the fear cold 
in his stomach. _Something's gone wrong_ -- The picture took shape 
in the desktop, blotting out the open files, and Damian Chrestil 
looked out at him, his face strained and white. 
"N'Ambassador." 
"What's happened?" Chauvelin asked, suspecting already, 
dreading the answer. In the screen behind Damian Chrestil, out-offocus 
shapes bent over another shape crumpled on the floor. 
"I'm sorry," Damian Chrestil said. "Ransome's dead." 
_I knew it_. Chauvelin bit back anger, the instinct that 
would have had him calling out the garrisons on Iaryo, on Hsiamai, 
to launch the missile strike that would obliterate the summer 
house and everyone, everything, in it.... "How?" 
"The Visiting Speaker," Damian said baldly. He was telling 
it badly, and he knew it. "He attacked him. Ransome went past him, 
to get his medicine, and the Speaker attacked him. He was killed 
almost instantly." 
"Like hell," Chauvelin said. "I-Jay wasn't that stupid, he 
would never have gone within reach -- " _But he might have_, the 
cold voice of logic whispered at the back of his mind. _Ransome 
never did fully appreciate just how much that clan line hated him. 
And he always underestimated ji-Imbaoa_. 
"It was none of my doing," Damian Chrestil said. 

 Chauvelin looked at him for a long moment, recognizing the 
truth of his words in the shocked look on the younger man's face. 
_I-Jay's dead_. "Where's ji-Imbaoa?" 
"Locked in the cellar." Damian Chrestil managed a strained, 
mirthless grin, gone almost as quickly as it had appeared. "I'm 
sorry, Chauvelin. He claimed your jurisdiction." 
Chauvelin made a noise that might at another time have been 
a bark of laughter. "What a fool." He paused then, considering, 
the habit of cold calculation carrying him through in spite of 
himself. There was nothing he could do for Ransome, and nothing 
more Ransome could do for him, except that in his death he would 
bring down ji-Imbaoa and most of the je Tsinra-an with him. Ji- 
Imbaoa had overstepped himself. Even under the old codes that the 
je Tsinra-an professed to believe in, this killing, this murder, 
cut across too many kinship lines, impinged on his, Chauvelin's, 
rights as Ransome's patron and lover. "Fool," he said again, not 
sure if he was thinking of ji-Imbaoa or Ransome or himself, and 
made himself focus on Damian Chrestil, white-faced in the screen's 
projection. "Hold him for me. He claims hsai law, he'll get it." 
Damian Chrestil nodded. "I'm sorry," he said again. 
Chauvelin said, "I'll keep our bargain, Damian. But it's 
because I want the Visiting Speaker." 
Damian nodded again. "I accept that." He looked away 
briefly, made himself look back at the screen. "I've not yet 
spoken to Na Lioe, I don't know how she'll take it." 
"I'll talk to her," Chauvelin said. 
"Are you sure?" Damian asked, involuntarily. 
"Our goals were the same," Chauvelin said. "I think our 
interests still run parallel." 
Damian Chrestil flinched. "Very well," he said, and reached 
for the cut-off button. 
"One more thing," Chauvelin said, and the younger man 
stopped, his hand on the key. "I want I-Jay's body. I'll send some 
of my household for it when the storm lifts." 
"Of course," Damian answered, almost gently, and it was 
Chauvelin who cut the connection. 
He stood for a long moment staring at the desktop, at the 
letter that no longer had any significance because Ransome was 
dead. _I knew I would outlive him. I didn't think it would be so 
soon. Even bringing down the je Tsinra-an isn't worth this_. He 

turned away from the desktop and went to the drinks cabinet, 
poured himself a glass of the harsh local rum, not bothering with 
any of the mixers. He drank deeply, barely tasting the alcohol, 
put the glass aside before he could be tempted to finish the 
bottle. _Oh, God, I know I can live without him. It's just -- at 
the very worst, I wish it had been at my choice_. 
He moved slowly back to the desktop, touched keys to 
connect himself to the main communications system. He called up 
the familiar codes -- _Ransome's codes, the codes to Ransome's 
loft_ -- and swore when the familiar message flickered across the 
screen: SYSTEMS ENGAGED, PLEASE TRY AGAIN. 
"Override," he said harshly, and a few seconds later the 
screen cleared. Lioe's beautiful, strong-boned face looked out at 
him. 
"What the hell do you want?" she began, and her frown 
deepened when she recognized the ambassador. "Na Chauvelin?" 
"I have bad news," Chauvelin said, and knew he had not been 
able to hide the pain in his voice. "I-Jay -- Ransome's dead." 
"Oh, God." There was a long silence, Lioe's face utterly 
beautiful in its blank shock, and then, quite suddenly, the mask 
shattered into fury. "What the hell happened, did Damian Chrestil 
kill him? I'll murder the son of a bitch myself -- " 
"No." Chauvelin did not raise his voice, but she stopped 
abruptly, the mask reasserting itself. 
"So what did happen?" she asked, after a moment. 
Chauvelin swallowed hard, suddenly unwilling to speak, as 
though to tell the story would make it truly real. That was 
superstition, shock, stupidity, and he put the thought aside, went 
on, steadily now, "Ji-Imbaoa -- the Visiting Speaker -- killed 
him. They were old enemies, and Ransome got too close to him." 
"The hsaia at your party," Lioe said. 
"That's right." 
Lioe closed her eyes for a moment, and when she opened them 
again, Chauvelin could see the tears. "Ah, sa," she said, her 
voice breaking. "He wouldn't've been so careless." 
"Wouldn't he?" Chauvelin said, in spite of himself, heard 
the bitter laughter that was close to tears in his own voice. 
"Yes," Lioe said, after a moment. "He would." 
There was another, longer silence between them, broken only 
by the howl of the wind. Chauvelin wished for an instant that he 

could wail with it, but hsai training prevailed. He stared at 
Lioe's face in the screen, wondering again just what Ransome had 
seen in her. _Not sex, certainly, she's not his type for that. 
Surely not just the Game? He meant it when he said the Game was a 
dead end, useless. He said she was too good for the Game, wasted 
on it. I wonder if he's persuaded her of that? I suppose that's 
one last thing I can do, give her the chance to do something 
more_. 
"What now?" Lioe said, softly. "I -- we had a deal, 
Ambassador, you and I and Damian Chrestil." 
"The deal holds," Chauvelin said. "At least as far as I'm 
concerned. Ji-Imbaoa falls under hsai jurisdiction, my 
jurisdiction. He asked for it, in fact." 
There was a note of satisfaction in his voice in spite of 
himself, and Lioe nodded. 
"As for the rest of it," Chauvelin went on, "I'm I-Jay's 
next of kin, the rest of his family's dead." He took a quick 
breath, spoke before the full pain of it could hit him. "I'm 
willing to let you have the loft and its contents, tapes and 
equipment. No one else has a claim on them. As part of the deal we 
made." He made himself go on without emotion. "He would want 
that." 
"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 Tsinra-an -- 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 Tsinra-an. 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 stopped, 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 Hsaioi-An -- _ 
"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 Tsinra-an 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 Hsaioi-An. Yes, 
he would appreciate that_. "All right," she said, "I won't do 
anything." 
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-jao_ character and then copyflashed; 
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-mon_ 
worked for, dreamed of, but few ever achieved. There, set out in 
the formal, archaic language of court records, were the 
certificates of posthumous co-optation 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 
strain 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 second 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?" 
"I can take him," Faro said, and nodded to the closer 
guard. "But that one will spread the alarm the minute he goes 
down." 
"Leave that to me," Harmsway whispered. 
"Don't be stupid," Hazard began, and the electrokinetic 
shook his head, the ghost of a smile wreathing his mouth. 

 "The com circuit has to go, or we're all shot. Lucky you 
have me." 
"Be ready when he takes out the com," Avellar said to Faro, 
and the older man nodded, his eyes fixed over the leveled gun. 
Africa dropped to his knees beside him, tucked the laser rifle 
against his shoulder. 
Harmsway closed his eyes, drawing on what remained of his 
power. His whole body seemed for an instant to be stretched to 
breaking, as though the psionic stress had translated itself to 
every muscle in his body, and then the pain had passed. He reached 
along the wires behind the distant wall, searching carefully to 
avoid anything that was not part of the communications system, and 
teased his way into the handset. For an instant, he considered the 
spectacular, blowing all the circuits in a shower of gaudy sparks, 
but he no longer had the strength for that. He reached for a fuse 
instead and quietly poured what was left of his power through it. 
The cylinder melted, and he allowed himself to fall back into his 
body. 
The guard stopped, shook his head and then the handset, and 
stepped forward to join the other, holding out the suddenly silent 
com-unit. 
"Now!" Avellar said, and the others fired almost as he 
spoke. The guards fell without a sound. "Nice shooting. Let's go." 
He started across the narrow space without looking back. The 
others followed, crowding into the narrow space between the outer 
door and the ship's hatch, and Africa fiddled with the controls to 
close the door behind them. Avellar nodded, and laid his hand 
against the sensor panel in the center of the hatch. There was a 
soft click, and then a high-pitched tone. 
"Royal Avellar," he said, and waited. A heartbeat later, 
the cargo lock creaked open. Familiar people, familiar faces, were 
waiting inside the lock, and Avellar smiled with open pleasure. 
"Danile," he said, and a man -- greying, thin, a long, 
heavily embroidered coat thrown open over expensively plain shirt 
and trousers -- looked back at him gravely. 
"I'm back, Danile," Avellar said again, and the greying man 
nodded. 
"You're here." 
"And I have Harmsway, and the others," Avellar went on. "We 
had an agreement, Danile." 

 Danile nodded again, more slowly. "Yes." 
"You said," Avellar said, a note of menace in his voice, 
"you said you would support me, support my claim to the throne, if 
I brought Desir of Harmsway out of Ixion's Wheel. We're here, 
Danile. Are you going to keep your part of the bargain?" 
"I didn't think you could do it," Danile said. "I thought -- 
I thought I'd be rid of you. But if you can do this..." His voice 
trailed off, and he shook his head. "If you can do this, yes, 
you're the best choice for the position. Yes, I'll support you -- 
Majesty." 
Avellar smiled with wolfish triumph, and one of Danile's 
crew said urgently, "Sirs -- " 
"She's right," Danile said. "We have to hurry. We're 
cleared for departure; we'd better go while we still can." 
There was a ragged murmur of agreement, and the group began 
to move farther into the ship, following Avellar and Danile. The 
cargo door slid shut again behind them, closing off their last 
view of Ixion's Wheel. 
-------- 
*Day 16* 
_Storm: Ransome's Loft, Old Coast Road,_ 
_Newfields, Above Junction Pool_ 
Lioe closed down the system for the last time, running her 
hands over the secondary controls to disconnect the monitors. She 
already had all the data she needed, stored in spheres until her 
new space was up and running -- a newer building, down in the Dock 
Road District, closer to the clubs. A haulage company would come 
for the machines later, or at least for the ones she had decided 
to keep. It was a generous legacy, maybe too generous, especially 
since she was still not sure if Ransome would have wanted her to 
have it. She was better than he had ever been, at both games, 
politics and the Game itself, and once the novelty had worn off, 
it might have become awkward between them. But there was no point 
in might-have-beens. She looked around a final time, making sure 
she hadn't forgotten anything. There was nothing left, nothing 
that she wanted, and she let herself out into the sun-warmed 
corridor. The elevator was in use, as always; she scrambled down 
the new stairway, walled in storm-hardened glass, barely aware of 
the cityscape spread out below the cliff edge beyond her. Roscha 
was waiting, with a borrowed denki-bike, and the new Game began 

tonight. Lioe smiled, and hurried. 
----------------------- 
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