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, ditVere,” 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.”