Chauvelin lifted his eyebrows, but nodded. “All right, show him into–no, bring him up here. Without any of the Visiting Speaker’s people seeing him, if you can.” If Ransome had come in person, and not on the nets, it was bound to be something important.

“Yes, Sia,” je‑Sou’tsian said. “I’m sorry, but I’m not sure that some of the Speaker’s household didn’t meet him as he came in.” Her voice trailed off, and she gestured apology.

“That’s all right, it can’t be helped,” Chauvelin said. “But bring him up here.”

“At once, Sia,” je‑Sou’tsian said, and her image vanished from the cylinder. The empty rod of light retreated into its base, and a string of lights played across a secondary screen: the steward and Ransome were on their way. Chauvelin ran his hands across the shadowscreen, closing down some programs and putting others to sleep, watched as the multiple screens beneath the desktop copied his movements. A few moments later, the door slid open, and je‑Sou’tsian appeared in the arched opening.

“Sia, Na Ransome is here.”

“Thanks,” Chauvelin said, and gestured for the other man to come in. Ransome did as he was told, settled himself comfortably on the corner of the desk. Chauvelin smiled slightly, but said nothing: the seat would prove its own punishment.

“What is it?” he asked, and Ransome smiled back at him.

“You’ve been suckered,” he said bluntly– and with entirely too much enjoyment, Chauvelin thought. But that was his own fear speaking, not his intellect.

“How so?”

“I did exactly what you wanted,” Ransome said. “I’ve gone back into the Game, I’ve trawled the Game nets, every one of them at least twice, and there’s nothing going on–except Lioe’s scenario, of course. But nothing, absolutely nothing, that involves Damian Chrestil. But when I went onto the port nets, into the commercial systems, I found a lot of blocks that didn’t used to be there.”

“Such as?” Chauvelin kept his tone strictly neutral, buying time. He had been half expecting something like this, some new revelation of wheels within wheels, but not from the port district. He frowned slightly, readjusting his thoughts to add money and shipping to the already volatile political mix. It didn’t make sense, not yet–the Chrestil‑Brisch were supposed to favor the Republic, not HsaioiAn–but if Ransome was being shut out of the port computers, then there had to be an economic motive.

“For one thing–” Ransome paused, laughed shortly. “This is at best unethical, by the way, if not actively illegal.”

“I’m not surprised,” Chauvelin murmured.

Ransome nodded again, conceding the point. “It’s not usually very hard to get someone to give you an address and an access code for the raw datafeed from the port computers–you know, the ones that control the warehouse records for individual firms, scheduling, all that sort of thing.” He shrugged. “Too many people know about it, and there are always plausible reasons to want access. And of course, a lot of people owe me favors.”

“Of course.”

“But today, when I tried to get those codes, first of all no one was selling them–and I’ve never seen that happen, somebody’s put the fear of Retribution into the shadow‑walkers like I’ve never seen–and then no one I know would give me anything. Now, that’s happened before, especially after someone’s scored a coup, but no one has, that I’ve heard, and I hear these things.” Ransome paused, all the humor gone from his voice. “What I did find out was that some companies complained that information had been copied from those feeds, and used against them. And when I got names, they were all tied to Damian Chrestil.”

“Who were they?” Chauvelin asked.

“C/B Cie. itself, Ionel Factor–they import wines and spirits, and they’ve got ties to the Chrestil‑Brisch distillery business–and one of the FPB’s steering groups.”

“Let me guess,” Chauvelin said. “The merchant division, the one that Bettis Chrestil heads?”

“Got it in one.” Ransome smiled sourly. “But what exactly it all means is beyond me.”

And me, Chauvelin thought. At least for the moment. He looked down at the empty screens under the surface of the desktop, debating whom to query– Eriki Haas, certainly, once we’re in phase and if the transmitter is reliable enough, just to see what connections ji‑Imbaoa has with Damian Chrestil or C/B Cie. The chime sounded again beneath the desktop. He frowned, more deeply this time, and touched the icon flashing in the shadowscreen. The projector lit, and je‑Sou’tsian bowed from within the cylinder of light.

“I apologize again for disturbing you, Sia, but the Visiting Speaker is on his way to your office.”

That’s all I need. Chauvelin said, “All right, Iameis, thank you.”

“Wonderful,” Ransome murmured, a crooked smile on his face.

“Quite.” Chauvelin leaned back in his chair, deliberately closed the last of the sleeping files. There was nothing he could do to stop ji‑Imbaoa–the Visiting Speaker was technically head of the ambassadorial household during his visit, and no doors could be shut to him–but he did not have to welcome him. The shutdown codes were still flickering across the screens when the door slid back and ji‑Imbaoa strode into the room.

“So, Chauvelin,” he said, “your agent’s here. I want to talk to him.”

“As you wish,” Chauvelin said, spread his hands in a deliberate gesture of innocence. “I didn’t want to trouble you until I was sure it was worth your time.”

Ji‑Imbaoa’s fingers twitched– annoyance? Chauvelin thought, or fear? He did not move, but felt himself suddenly, painfully tense, waiting for the Visiting Speaker’s next move.

“What have you found? Have you gone back to the Game?”

Ransome hesitated, visibly choosing his words with care, and Chauvelin wondered for a moment if the other might have learned discretion. He need not have worried, however. Ransome said, “Yes, Na Speaker, I’ve been back to the Game, and found very little of interest.”

“Then surely you haven’t looked very hard, or very long,” ji‑Imbaoa snapped. “Particularly since you have only been looking for two days.”

“I don’t need any more than that to tell you there’s nothing there,” Ransome said.

Chauvelin said, “If Na Ransome says he’s found nothing in the Game, then there’s nothing to be found.”

Ji‑Imbaoa glanced back at him, fingers still twitching with unreadable emotion. “Then why should Damian Chrestil go to so much trouble to get him back into those nets? It must have to do with the Game.”

“Na Ransome thinks it’s a distraction,” Chauvelin said. “That Damian Chrestil’s real interests lie elsewhere.”

“Don’t you think you’re being overelaborate?” ji‑Imbaoa interrupted rudely.

“Perhaps the Visiting Speaker is being underelaborate,” Ransome murmured. “After all, he isn’t used to the complex dishonesties of our local politics.”

He had used the hsai word that linked dishonesty and foreignness, so that the statement hovered delicately between compliment and insult. Chauvelin said, “I think Na Ransome’s assessment is plausible, Sia.”

“And I tell you it is unlikely,” ji‑Imbaoa said. “I tell you, on my name and my fathers‘, this must be pursued, and pursued through the Game.”

Chauvelin kept his face impassive with an effort, torn between anger and elation. Ji‑Imbaoa had made it a direct order, one that Chauvelin could not directly disobey, but at the same time he’d made it equally clear that there was something important at stake. “Very well, Sia,” he said aloud. “Na Ransome will remain with the Game a little while longer.”

“Until he finds what Damian Chrestil wants,” ji‑Imbaoa said.

“So be it,” Chauvelin said. Behind ji‑Imbaoa’s shoulder, Ransome rolled his eyes.

“You must do more,” ji‑Imbaoa said, and turned to face the imagist.

“I do my poor best,” Ransome murmured, and bowed, too deeply for sincerity.