The Judge Directing turned to face him, the ster serenity melting to a more familiar grin, and codes flashed through the display space, weaving a private link‑in‑realtime. “Ransome. I didn’t expect to see you masking.”

“Neither did I,” Ransome answered, truthfully. Guyonet Merede was a Gamer as well as a banker, and a former patron who owned several of his earlier story eggs. “But it seems to have worked out well.”

“It’s a nice image,” Merede said. He was older than he looked behind the Judge’s face: the projection’s stony beauty reminded Ransome for an instant of Lioe’s face in repose.

“Thanks,” he said. “I wonder if you could do me a favor, Guy. I need access to the raw feed from the port computers–the unsorted line, the one that carries the general traffic.” If Damian Chrestil wanted him on the Game nets, it could only be to keep him away from some other part of the greater system. C/B Cie. was an import/export firm, and that most likely meant smuggling. And the best way to track that down was to sift the day‑to‑day chatter and hope that, despite the sheer volume, he could find some hint of an irregular shipment, something that didn’t match the more public records. And if I can’t find it, well, there are other places to look, political games he could be playing, and I won’t have wasted much time. But I’m betting it’s a doctored cargo.

Merede was silent for an instant, his face gone very still, and then he said, cautiously, “You know I can’t do that, I‑Jay.”

You’ve done it before. Ransome said aloud, “I just need to pull some numbers for a piece I’m working on. It’s a commission for the MIS, and I need some strings for background. I thought I’d tie part of the loop to the trade balance.”

It was an easy lie, and plausible, but to his surprise Merede shook his head. “I’m sorry, I‑Jay. If it weren’t Carnival–but we’ve had some complaints recently, people saying stuffs been pulled out of the raw feed that should’ve stayed confidential. I just can’t do it.”

Ransome nodded. “I can see that. I guess I can rig what I need some other way.” He did his best to look thoughtful, glad of the mask that screened his features. “Who’s been complaining, anyway?”

Merede glanced down at something out of camera range. “The Five Points Bank’s merchant division–you know, the exchange‑rate people?–and a couple of importers, Ionel Factor and C/B Cie., and one of the private captains.”

Who I just bet is connected to the Chrestil‑Brisch, too. Ionel Factor was closely tied to the Chrestil‑Brisch–Ionel dealt in off‑world spirits, and therefore, inevitably, was tied to the Chrestil‑Brisch distillery and their various wholesalers–and Bettis Chrestil was head of the merchant division’s steering group. “You think there’s anything in it?” he said aloud, and Merede shrugged.

“We haven’t seen anything on our screens, and we tap pretty carefully. I suppose it could be a very directed probe, but–between you and me only, Ransome–I think they’re overreacting.”

“I’ll keep it quiet,” Ransome said. “Thanks anyway.” He touched the key sequence that released the private linkage, and let himself drift deeper into the port nets. He adjusted his presence, making the mask opaque again, so that his identity was completely hidden except to the most determined probe, and shifted the scale slightly. To a cursory scan, he should look like a bounce‑echo from the chaos on the public nets, a common enough phenomenon at this time of year. Satisfied, he let himself slide further into the system, looking for an interface of commercial and customs data.

It took him over an hour to find that node–it shifted, as did the codes that guarded it–and another hour to prove to himself that it was unusually well guarded. None of the usual sources would provide a key, and that left Selasa Arduinidi, who was one of the better security consultants in the business and, on the shadow nets, a reliable data fence. She had a name as a netwalker, too, prided herself on knowing how to access any part of the net, but when he finally tracked her down, she shook her head in disgust.

“I’ve been fighting with that one for two days now, I‑Jay. I haven’t cracked it yet. You’ll have to get legit codes for that one, I’m afraid.”

“Nobody’s telling–or selling,” Ransome answered. He stared at her icon floating in the air in front of him, a huge‑eyed owl perched in a glowing tree branch that seemed to grow directly out of the lines of the net itself. “What’s going on, Selasa?”

“I don’t know,” Arduinidi answered, but there was something in her voice, a subtle admiration that belied her words. “Somebody’s up to something, that’s for sure.” She broke the connection before he could ask anything more.

Somebody like Damian Chrestil, Ransome thought, sourly. The deeper he tried to probe, the more likely it seemed that the Game was just a blind, and that Damian Chrestil was hiding something. From the way his own probes were being blocked, it seemed to have something to do with run cargoes. But if that’s all, why is ji‑Imbaoa involved? Politics and smuggling: the two did not often overlap, but when they did, it was a particularly volatile mix. Which is what I will tell Chauvelin myself, he thought, and began to extricate himself from the maze of the port’s multinet. It would be easy enough simply to shut down his system, but then the automatics would take over the shutdown procedures and leave a clear trail back to his loft. Better to do things slowly, and make sure he wasn’t followed.

Day 1

Storm: The Hsai Ambassador’s House,

in the Ghetto, Landing Isle Above

Old City North

Chauvelin sat in his office at the top of the ambassador’s residence, staring into the desktop displays without really seeing the multiple screens. The hazy sunlight poured in through the slightly curved windows, dulling the displays; he hit the key that brought the glyphs and numbers and the harsh strokes of hsai demiscript to their greatest brightness, but did not dim the window glass. He could see the first signs of the approaching storm on the horizon beyond Plug Island, a thicker bank of clouds like fog or a distant landfall. The weather service still said that bank was only an outrider, and the real storm behind it would not arrive for days, but Chauvelin could feel it waiting, a brooding, distant presence. The street brokers had it at twenty‑to‑one to hit within the next five days, though the pessimists were hedging their bets by excluding lower‑category storms. Chauvelin sighed, and leaned back in his chair. If nothing else, the storm was already starting to interfere with the connection to the jump transmitter orbiting the planet, the one that carried the communications link with HsaioiAn. On the one hand, the erratic reception was a good excuse to keep ji‑Imbaoa from using the house transmitters without one of Chauvelin’s own household present, ostensibly to monitor the machinery. On the other, he was under no illusion that this would keep ji‑Imbaoa from finding some way to contact his patrons in HsaioiAn, nor would it prevent the Visiting Speaker from dealing with someone on planet. And it annoyed the Visiting Speaker. Chauvelin allowed himself a quick, private smile. That also had disadvantages, but it did give him a certain sense of satisfaction.

A chime sounded in his desktop, a discreet, two‑toned noise, and Chauvelin glanced down in some surprise. He had left instructions that he was not to be disturbed, and je‑Sou’tsian was usually scrupulous about obeying him. He touched the icon, and the tiny projector hidden in a disk of carved and lacquered iaon wood lit, forming a cylindrical image. JeSou’tsian bowed to him from the center of that column of light.

“I’m very sorry to interrupt you, Sia, but Na Ransome is here, and says he needs urgently to speak with you.”