“We do a lot of business in HsaioiAn, 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 low‑level 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.