“You are too kind,” Zefla laughed.

“And talkative,” muttered Sharrow.

“Wha’s that, ma’am?”

“Nothing,” Sharrow said.

They followed the tall steward across the deck of the field towards the superstructure that had been one of the old carriers’ command island and was now the arrivals hall. A line of laden baggage carts blocked their way. Dloan was looking at them suspiciously.

Zefla looked round, frowning. “I thought Miz said he’d-”

A brassy, sonorous musical chord burst from beyond the baggage trolleys; a flock of white seabirds, undisturbed by the jet’s arrival, flew squawking from the superstructure as the sound echoed across the deck. The baggage trolleys jerked into motion as a small tractor unit at one end pulled them away, revealing a twenty-strong ceremonial band sitting behind, all dressed in bright red and gold uniforms and blowing on glittering and extremely noisy instruments.

Sharrow recognised the tune, but couldn’t remember the name. She looked at Zefla, who shrugged. Dloan was kneeling, a large pistol in his hands, though it was pointed at the deck for the moment as he looked around. The band stood up and started walking towards them, still playing. Dloan had switched his attention to the tall, bearded steward, who was now no longer stooped, and who was taking off his jacket. He threw his hat away, ripped the beard off.

He stepped forward, went down on one knee in front of Sharrow and took her hand in his.

“My lady! Our leader!” he exclaimed, and kissed her hand.

The band were surging round and past them, instruments swinging to and fro, up and down. Dloan had stood and was holstering his pistol. Zefla laughed, her hands over her ears. Sharrow smiled and shook her head as Miz reached into his shirt, produced a bunch of flowers and presented them to her. She accepted them, putting the blossoms to her nose while Miz jumped to his feet.

He was tall, loose-limbed and his pale brown face-framed by long, straight fair hair-looked younger than it deserved to, and almost determinedly carefree. He had sparkling eyes cratered in a network of fine lines, a thin hook of a nose and a great, grinning mouth with generous lips and uneven teeth.

“Idiot!” she shouted at him, laughing; the band blared and circled around them.

He put his arms out, a questioning look on his face. She put the flower stems in her mouth, holding them with her teeth, then went to him, embracing him.

“Hiya, beautiful!” he shouted over the noise of the band, and lifted her off her feet. He whirled her round once, winking broadly at Zefla and Dloan in turn as he did so. His smile sparkled in the sunlight and seemed to rival the carrier’s deck in extent.

He set Sharrow back on her feet, still holding her; she pushed her head forward to deposit the flowers on his shoulder, in a curiously animal-like gesture that brought a brief tremor to his face; a sudden expression of something between desire and despair. It was gone in an instant, and only Zefla saw it. The flowers fell between Miz and Sharrow, nestling against their chests.

“Good to see ya, youngster!” he shouted.

“Not so young any more,” Sharrow told him.

“I knew you’d say that.”

“Well, I never could hide much from you.”

“There was a lot you never wanted to,” he leered. He waggled his eyebrows.

“Oh,” she tutted, pushing him away. The flowers fell towards the deck; he scooped them up easily and with a look of pretended hurt clutched them to his chest. His eyes closed, then he swivelled to bow very formally to Zefla and present them to her instead. Zefla took them and threw them to Sharrow, and while Miz was still watching their trajectory, stepped forward and hugged him, lifting him off his feet and whirling him round, all in the middle of the bellowing, glittering, encircling band.

“Waaaa!” Miz wailed, as Zefla spun faster.

Dloan smiled; Sharrow laughed.

“Ah, Lady Sharrow.”

“Brother Seigneur.”

“Doubtless you wish to know the result of our deliberations concerning your proposal.”

“Yes, please.”

“I am happy to say that the Brethren have agreed. When the property is delivered, your sister will be released.”

“Half-sister. And the expenses?”

“On what is called Commercial Scale Two, I believe. Will that be acceptable?”

“I suppose so.”

“We shall have a business agency draw up the contract itself; they will sort out the details with you or your lawyer. Their number will be tagged to this message record.”

“Thank you. I’ll call them now.”

“Indeed. Your servant, my lady.”

The broad face in the holo smiled insincerely.

A fresh warm wind blew, making the lines of bunting flutter and rustle in gay lines across the shock of cloudless blue sky. The sea quivered, spangling, and across the sharp, glittering creases of the waves the small yachts came skimming like flat stones, their sails bosoming out and flourishing vivid stripes and bright patterns at the massed spectators. The crowd lining the rails of the ships or seated on the choicer barges roared into the breeze and waved hats and scarves; they threw streamers and let off noisy fireworks.

The yachts rounded the stand-turn buoy, heeling until their gunwales touched the water, then righted, reset their sails for the new reach and raced off towards the next buoy with the wind directly behind them. Spinnakers blossomed, one by one, snapping and filling like the chests of exotic displaying birds. A few of the yacht crews found time to wave back at the crowd; the people roared again, as though trying to fill the gaudy sails with their breath.

Miz guided Sharrow through the groups of chattering people on the barge, nodding to faces he recognised and occasionally exchanging greetings but not stopping to make introductions. He was dressed in achingly bright shorts and a short-sleeved shirt only a fraction quieter than the cheers of the crowds on the spectator barges. Sharrow wore a long gauzy dress of pale green; she sported dark glasses and held a parasol; Miz carried her satchel for her.

Several of the people they passed turned and looked after them, wondering who Miz’s new companion was. Nobody seemed to know, though a few thought she looked vaguely familiar. Miz lifted a couple of drinks from a waiter’s tray, leaving a coin behind, then he nodded towards a pontoon bar where little shell-boats were moored like buds on branches, paid for one and strode down the ramp to the floating deck-again nodding to the parties filling some of the other shell-boats-and set the drinks down on the central table of the boat. He helped Sharrow aboard.

They sat watching all the bustle of the regatta for a while, drinking their drinks and sampling the sweetmeats and savouries the waiters brought round; freshmenters in cat-canoes and sampans glided amongst the shell-boats, selling their own wares.

She had outlined the situation over dinner at his hotel the previous night, asking him to sleep on it. They and the Francks had dined in the circular funnel restaurant of the old cruise ship, watching the lights of the Log-Jam as they seemed to revolve beneath them.

They had danced, gone for a last few drinks and inhalants in Miz’s impressively large suite looking out over a floodlit marina, then while the Francks went for a walk on deck, he had walked her to her room, kissing her cheek and leaving, backing off, blowing kisses. She had half expected him to try and stay, or ask her to come back to his suite, but he hadn’t.

Sharrow looked from the gaudy regatta to Miz’s tanned, grinning face and twirled her parasol.

“So what have you decided, Miz? Will you come with us?”

“Yes,” he told her, nodding quickly. He adjusted the shellboat’s sunshade then took off his own dark glasses. “I do have a little business to attend to here first, however.” He smiled widely, steel-blue eyes scintillating.