“One hears that the je Tsinraan are rising in favor at court,” Berengaria went on.

“One of them made a decent profit for the All‑Father on Hazuhone,” Chauvelin said. She would already know at least that much; there was no point in denying it. He shrugged, carefully casual. “I must say, I doubt it will last.”

“One hopes not,” Berengaria said. “And not just for your sake.”

She didn’t have to say more, and Chauvelin nodded in agreement. The je Tsinraan, having been out of favor for years, were attempting to rally other groups who had stood aloof from court politics by advocating a return to the old, hard‑line, imperialistic policies of two generations ago. Unfortunately, now that HsaioiAn and the Republic were trading freely, or at least relatively freely, through the merchants on entrepot worlds like Burning Bright, both sides would suffer from a change in attitude. And Burning Bright and her fellow entrepots would suffer most of all.

“The All‑Father knows perfectly well where his bread is baked,” Chauvelin said aloud, and hoped it was true.

“I hope so,” Berengaria said, in unpleasant, unintended echo. “Whatever else happens, Chauvelin, I’d be very sorry if you were a casualty.”

“I don’t intend to be,” Chauvelin answered. His mouth was dry, and he smiled to hide the sudden fear.

“Good,” Berengaria said. She smiled back, but the expression did not touch the lines around her mismatched eyes. “It would be very dull without you.” She nodded, and turned away into the crowd.

Chauvelin watched her go, turning her words over in his mind. It was not a good sign that Berengaria had heard rumors of power shifts between the factions in HsaioiAn, and even less good that she was expressing concern for his future. And I wonder, did I hear a hint that she might offer sanctuary, if things get bad? There would be a price, of course– and probably a high one–but it was an option to keep in mind. At least Ransome was, for once, doing what he was told: that might buy enough time to deal with ji‑Imbaoa. They said, on Burning Bright, that Storm brought a change in luck–he could remember, dimly, his mother buying lottery chances on the first day of Storm, hoping to bring money into the household. I have to hope that’s true.

Ransome made his way through the maze of smaller rooms off the main hall. Chauvelin’s household had thrown them open as well, knowing the space would be needed. Ji‑Imbaoa was holding court in the largest of these, and Ransome paused at the door for a brief moment, glancing in past the crowding guests. He had lost Lioe some while back, to a conversation with the novelist LaChacalle, and hoped to find her– though probably not here. The Visiting Speaker was popular with certain groups on Burning Bright, most notably and most obviously the ones who traded heavily with HsaioiAn, and he was surrounded by their representatives, but Ransome hardly thought that a Republican pilot would be likely to join them. The members of ji‑Imbaoa’s own household stood watchfully at the Speaker’s shoulder, and at the edges of the room. Their ribbons, short strands of red that fell barely to their waists, were vivid against the sea‑green panels. It was an elegant display, and one that deliberately overshadowed Chauvelin’s less formal presence.

He had looked too long. Across the room, the Visiting Speaker lifted his hand in acknowledgment, and beckoned for Ransome to approach. It was not a request. Ransome hid a scowl, and started toward ji‑Imbaoa. The crowd made way for him, a few people murmuring his name. Overhead, false lightning flickered through holographic clouds, and Ransome couldn’t resist a quick look to see how the installation was doing. He had made the image canopy for Chauvelin a few years before; so far, he thought, it seemed to be holding up well.

“ Tso‑eh, Ransome,” the Visiting Speaker said, granting the courtesy of a formal greeting. He continued in tradetalk, however, lifting his voice a little to be sure that the fringes of the group could hear. Conversations faded at that signal, and Ransome was suddenly aware of all eyes intent on him. Ji‑Imbaoa was making this a matter of prestige, and for Chauvelin’s sake– and my pride, too–he could not afford to make mistakes.

“I’m told you made this display?” Ji‑Imbaoa gestured to the image in the dome overhead, where half‑hawk, half‑human figures now swirled through the gaps in the clouds, riding the illusory lightning.

“That’s right,” Ransome answered, and forced himself not to mimic the hissing accent, the heavy emphasis on terminal sibilants.

“It’s very striking,” ji‑Imbaoa said, without looking up. “But when will you come back to HsaioiAn and show your talents there?”

Ransome pretended to glance up at the dome, not really seeing the roiling clouds, controlled his anger with an effort. Ji‑Imbaoa had threatened him with prosecution if he returned to HsaioiAn; this was a particularly clumsy maneuver. He looked back at the Visiting Speaker, said politely enough, “Probably when such a generous commission is offered me. Do you think your t’ueanaowould be interested, Na Speaker?” He deliberately used the word that meant more than just family or household unit, that carried connotations of political rank and power as well, and saw from the sudden convulsive clenching of ji‑Imbaoa’s hand that the implications had struck home. Chauvelin was still a member of the tzu line; Ransome carried some of the same prestige by virtue of his patronage.

Ji‑Imbaoa mastered his annoyance instantly, though the fingers of his free hand were still crooked slightly, and the red‑painted fingerclaws rapped gently against his thigh. “Perhaps we shall,” he said. “I am sure such a–thing–would please my dependents. You would come if we asked?”

Ransome bowed slightly, perfectly aware of where this game could lead if not precisely judged. He could not let himself be trapped into a commission, even if it meant seeming to back down. “If the price were right, and the time were convenient, and I were committed to no other business, yes, of course, Speaker.” He paused, then added, “And, of course, assuming that all issues of freedom could be resolved. Some people take offense at images when none is intended; it seems–safer–to settle that ahead of time, than risk displeasing anyone.”

Ji‑Imbaoa showed teeth in an approximation of a human smile. The expression was delicately close to the bared teeth of insult, but not quite; Ransome admired his control even as he bit back anger. “I’m sure we could work out appropriate compensation,” the Visiting Speaker said, and looked away, lifting a hand to beckon another guest. The woman turned toward him at once, and ji‑Imbaoa took a few steps to meet her, bringing the group’s attention with him. Ransome hesitated for a moment longer, tempted to protest this dismissal, but made himself turn away.

Lioe was standing just inside the doorway. “Were you having fun?” she asked, and Ransome made a face.

“How much of that did you hear?” He touched her shoulder lightly, easing her out into the more dimly lit hallway. The walls here were painted a deep red, the rich color of wine held up to a light. Golden vines coiled along the ceiling just below the hidden lights.

“Most of it, I think. I gather he doesn’t like you.”

“Not much,” Ransome agreed. Lioe kept looking at him, one thin eyebrow lifted in an expression that reminded him suddenly of Chauvelin, and he touched her shoulder again, steering her toward one of the side rooms. It was little more than an alcove, pillared walls painted in a coppery brown, the pillars themselves painted with more delicate vines, the lighting concealed in thick clusters of sea grapes that dangled from the heads of the pillars. Bench‑seats had been built into the side walls, and the space between the central set of pillars on the rear wall had been turned into a display recess. The shelves were filled with odd objects, and Ransome was startled to recognize one of his own story eggs among them.