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 high‑pitched 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.”