The distant rumble of an orbiter, lifting from Newfields, caught his attention, drew his eyes west just in time to see the spark of light dwindle into a pinpoint no brighter than a star, and vanish in the twilight. The sky behind it was streaked with cloud and layered with the orange and reds of the sunset, the distant housetops outlined against it as though against a sheet of flame. The sound of the takeoff hung in the air, undercutting the drifting music. It was nothing special, and he looked away, back toward the crowd of people filling the terrace. One of them–a woman, tall, face thin and sculpturally beautiful, the lines of her bones drawn hard and pure under skin like old honey–had heard the orbiter too, was still staring upward as though she could pick out the light of its passage from among the scudding clouds. There was some expression behind that still face, knowledge, perhaps, that was no longer hunger, and Damian caught his breath in spite of himself, watching her watch the orbiter’s flight. Then there was a movement in the crowd beside her, and she turned away, her face breaking into movement, the stone‑hard beauty shattering into a sort of vivid ugliness. Ransome smiled crookedly at her–they were of a height–and drew her away with him toward the house. As she turned, Damian saw the hat slung over her shoulder, dangling from a spangled scarf that from this distance looked as though it had been woven from the sunset sky. A short grey plume flowed like a cloud from the hat’s crown. So that’s the pilot, he thought. She’ll certainly bear watching.

“I see you’ve spotted her. That’s Lioe.”

Damian looked down and down again, smiled in spite of himself at Cella’s delicate face turned up to him. She was a tiny woman, barely tall enough to reach his shoulder; even her eight‑centimeter heels did not bring her chin above his armpit. She was beautifully dressed, as always, this time in a sleeveless bodice the color of bitter chocolate that hugged breasts and hips and gave way to a swirling skirt embroidered at the hem with a band of pale copper apples. The almost‑sheer fabric emphasized perfect calves and elegant ankles. Her breasts swelled distractingly above the jerkin’s square neckline.

“Have you found out anything more?” Damian asked.

Cella smiled. She had painted her lips and cheeks and nails to match the new‑copper apples on her skirt, a cool metallic pink barely paler than her skin. “Not much. She’s from Callixte–born there, apparently, not just works from there. She’s a notable by anyone’s reckoning, and the people on the intersystems nets like her a lot. If she’s political, she’s a Republican, but that’s a big if. Between piloting and the Game, I can’t see that she’s had much time for politics. She did know Kichi Desjourdy when Desjourdy was on Falconsreach, but I can’t trace anything more than just knowing each other. Desjourdy’s a Gamer, after all, and a class‑four arbiter.”

Damian nodded thoughtfully. Kichi Desjourdy was the new Customs‑and‑Intelligence representative to Burning Bright, a clever woman, and therefore dangerous. And that made any connection between her and this Lioe a dangerous one. “Do you think this–this whole thing, meeting with Ransome and all–could be some kind of setup?”

Cella shook her head. “Not with his consent, anyway. I’m quite certain they met at the club–that that was their first meeting, and that it wasn’t staged in any way.” She paused then, and her smile took on a new edge. “I did find out one thing interesting, though. She spent last night with one of yours, Damiano. A john‑boat girl called Roscha.”

“Did she, now?” Damian said, softly. Trust Roscha to be more trouble. “Why didn’t I hear about it?”

“No one knew you were interested,” Cella said. “I didn’t know you were interested, until last night.”

“They’re sleeping together?”

“I would say so.” Cella shrugged. “I would.”

“Charming.” Damian stared out into the crowd, did not find the pilot, turned slowly so that he faced back toward the cliff and the Old City spread out beyond the lower terrace. Most of the lights were on now, the sky faded to a thick and dusty purple, and the pattern of the lights in the lower garden echoed the play of light from the city below, disrupted only by the figures moving along the silvered stones of the pathways. Neither Ransome nor Lioe was anywhere to be seen.

“I could introduce you,” Cella said. “I’ve met her.”

Damian glanced down at her, surprised less by the offer than by its timing, and she nodded to the window above them. A woman stood silhouetted in the golden light, a newly familiar, broad‑shouldered shape with a hat slung across her back. She was looking in at the party, standing quite still, and Damian hesitated, tempted. It would be interesting to speak to her directly, get some feel for what she was like–He shook his head, not without regret. It was much safer to keep his distance, just in case she did turn out to have some connection with C‑and‑I. “No, not right now, I think. But keep an eye on her, Cella. I want to know exactly what she’s doing.”

“All right,” Cella said, and sounded faintly surprised.

Damian looked away from her curiosity, back toward the lower terrace, and his eyes were caught again by the grey‑and‑silver stones that covered the paths. The more distant paths seemed to glow in the last of the light, and the nearer ones, closer to the cool standard‑lamps, caught the blue‑toned light and held it, odd shadows playing over their surfaces. He frowned, curious now, and walked away, down the steps to the graveled paths of the lower terrace. Cella followed a few steps behind, but he ignored her, stooped to examine the stones. A dozen, a hundred tiny faces looked back at him, all smiling slightly, as if they were amused by his surprise. He caught his breath, controlled his instinctive revulsion– how could anyone stand to walk here, if they saw those looking back at them?–and said, “Ransome’s work, I take it?” His voice sounded strange to him, strained and taut, but Cella didn’t seem to notice.

“I would say so.”

“They are,” Damian said, with precision, “very strange men, he and Chauvelin.” He paused, and shook his head. “I suppose I had better pay my respects to the ambassador.” He did not wait for her response, but started back across the terraces toward the ambassador’s house.

Chauvelin greeted his guests in the main hall. The long room was lit as though by a thousand candles, light like melted butter, like curry, pouring from the edges of the ceiling across the polished bronzewood floor, gilding everything it touched. It turned the ice statue on the buffet–a sleek needle‑ship poised on the points of its sailfields–to topaz, set deeper red‑gold lights dancing in its heart like the glow of invisible reactors. Chauvelin smiled, seeing it, and made a mental note to thank his staff. They had done well in other things, too: the heavy bunches of red‑streaked flowers that flamed against the ochre walls, the food, the junior staff–jericho‑human, chaoi‑monand hsai alike–circulating among the guests to diffuse tension and keep the conversation and the wine flowing with equal ease. Je‑Sou’tsian had the unenviable task of keeping an eye on ji‑Imbaoa, but she seemed to be handling it without undue strain. She had chosen to wear her full honors, and the clusters of ribbon flowed from her shoulders almost to the floor. Perhaps it was not the most tactful of gestures, Chauvelin conceded– ji‑Imbaoa has fewer hereditary honors than she–but he couldn’t bring himself to reprove her. In any case, ji‑Imbaoa seemed unaccountably sober, and in control of himself. There should be no trouble until later, if at all.

Satisfied that everything was at least temporarily secure in that quarter, Chauvelin looked away, searching the crowd for Ransome. He owed him thanks, as well as money, for the stones that paved the garden paths, and he was more than a little surprised that the imagist hadn’t already collected. He found him at last, standing by the arched hallway that led in from the garden, and lifted a hand to beckon him over. Ransome raised a hand in answer, but glanced back over his shoulder, toward the tall woman who followed at his heels. Chauvelin lifted an eyebrow–he had thought that he knew most of Ransome’s friends and proteges–but made no comment as the two made their way across the crowded room. The woman was striking, not at all in Ransome’s usual line–his taste in women, such as it was, ran to flamboyant Amazons like LaChacalle–and she wore her clothes, Burning Brighter clothes, by the familiar cut and fabric, with the bravado born of unfamiliarity. Then he saw the way Ransome was watching her–she was even with him now, moving shoulder to shoulder with him through the room–and felt the touch of an unfamiliar pain. That intensity of gaze should be for him, not this stranger, and he resented the shift in Ransome’s attention. He put that thought aside, frowning slightly at himself, as Ransome approached.