“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 client‑children 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.