In his pocket, the house remote buzzed softly, a tingling vibration against his thigh. He swore under his breath, and reached for it, cupping his fingers over the control points. The message vibrated against his hand: urgent message, come at once. He swore again, but the code was his highest priority. He glanced over his shoulder again, saw no one watching, and turned the remote to touch the control combination that released the gate to the outside stair. It was in shadow, and everyone’s attention would be on the finale for at least half an hour. He looked again toward the Water–red and green halos flared around a golden center–and made himself turn away.

The staircase spiraled down the outside of the palazze, with only a single entrance before the ground level. He twisted the remote again to release that lock, and let himself in past impassive human security to the third floor’s secondary hall. The corridor connected with his own rooms; he made his way there, the lights growing brighter at his approach, dimming as he moved away, let himself into the suite. Lights were blinking on the communications console, but he paused long enough to clear the windows completely before he crossed to the control board and entered the security codes. The little screen sprang to life, but Damian ignored it, tilted the boxy display so that he could see at least some of the fireworks through the window beyond it.

In the screen, ji‑Imbaoa glared at him, claws tapping somewhere out of sight. “Your plans are starting to unravel,” he said, without preamble.

Damian Chrestil lifted an eyebrow at him– how did I come to join forces with him?–said aloud, “Weren’t you able to get the codes?”

Ji‑Imbaoa waved away that question. “They are coming. There has been some trouble with the transmitter; I’ve had to go through the commercial links. But that is not the issue.”

“Forgive me, Na Speaker, but I thought precisely that was the cause of this delay,” Damian said.

“The codes are on their way,” ji‑Imbaoa said again. “Do you doubt me?”

Damian bit back his anger, waved a hand in apology. “No. I don’t doubt they’ll get here.” Eventually.

“I accept the apology.”

It was only a formal phrase, effectively meaningless, but Damian felt his hackles rise. He controlled his temper with an effort, and said, “Then, Na Speaker, what’s happened to upset you?”

“Ransome,” ji‑Imbaoa said. “He has concluded that the Game is a blind, and he is encouraging Chauvelin to look elsewhere.”

Damian frowned at the screen, a cold knot forming in the pit of his stomach. If that was true, if Ransome was back on the port nets, and with Customs‑and‑Intelligence still asking questions about the shipment from Demeter, it would be only too easy to track down what was really going on. Easy for Ransome, anyway. He took a deep breath, trying to banish fear, and ji‑Imbaoa went on.

“I have taken steps to forestall him, but I don’t know how long it will last.”

“Good,” Damian said, and then considered. “What did you do?”

“The only thing I could do,” ji‑Imbaoa answered. “I have made it a matter of honor and prestige that Ransome continue with the Game–I have wagered my name and my fathers’ that there will be something there for him to find. I trust that it’s so.”

Do I care about your fathers’ names? Damian ran his hand through his hair, tried to consider things calmly. “There are things for him to worry about, yes,” he said, “and I can arrange for him to find some more political material.” I think. If Cella can get time. “But under these circumstances, Na Speaker–let me put it plainly, if you don’t get me those codes, tonight or tomorrow, this deal will fall through. At a high cost to both of us, money and prestige alike.”

“Let me remind you,” ji‑Imbaoa said, his hands suddenly as still as Damian had ever seen them, “that you have significantly more to lose than I.”

“I’ve done all that I promised,” Damian answered, and left the rest unsaid.

“I’ll get you the codes,” ji‑Imbaoa said. “But you will have to keep Ransome busier.” He cut the connection before Damian could reply.

Damian swore at the blank screen, slapped the controls with more force than was really necessary. But ji‑Imbaoa was lord and master of Highhopes, and if the jericho‑human colony there was going to trade with Burning Bright without the interference of the brokers backed by the tzu Tsinraan, they had to work through ji‑Imbaoa. And ji‑Imbaoa had to get his share of the profits. The system shut itself off, and he stood for a moment staring at the sky beyond the long windows. The last shells made a curtain of fire, sheets of gold and red that frayed to long streamers against the invisible stars, but he barely saw it, lost in calculations. If Ransome wasn’t distracted by the Game, his own security was probably inadequate: he paid well, employed the best experts, but Ransome was a superb netwalker in his own right, and he knew too many people within the systems. If he couldn’t crack the security wall himself, he would know someone who could give or sell him the keys. Damian tapped his fingers against the case, winced at the echo of ji‑Imbaoa’s gesture. He’d increase security– it’s a good thing I thought to organize a blockade of the port feed already, but I’ll have to do something more. And I can’t transfer the lachesi to the transshipment group without those codes. Still, it would be better if Ransome stayed in the Game.

The door chime sounded then, and the remote buzzed gently against his thigh. He frowned– no one should know I’m here–and touched the code that threw the security feed onto the small display. Cella was waiting in the hall, demure in a sheer overdress. Damian’s frown deepened, and he touched the controls that released the lock.

“They’re starting to wonder where you are,” Cella said, without preamble.

“Damn them,” Damian said, and then, “Which them, anyway?”

“Your siblings, mostly,” Cella answered, and Damian made a face.

“I’d better go up, then.”

“I do need to talk to you,” Cella said.

Damian Chrestil looked at her. “I hope it’s good news. I’ve not been having a pleasant evening.”

Cella smiled wryly. “I’m afraid not.”

Damian sighed. “Well?”

“I suppose it’s good and bad, at that. I stopped in at Shadows before I came here. Lioe–Ransome’s pilot–is running a session tonight, and I wanted to look over the play list. The good news is that Ambidexter himself is back in the Game–he’s even playing Harmsway–but the bad news is that Kichi Desjourdy’s also part of the session. And as best I can discover, it was Lioe herself who asked her to play.”

Damian’s hand closed convulsively on the pocket remote, and there was a squeal of protest from the mechanism. He released it hastily, and Cella went on.

“Desjourdy is known as a Gamer, but I thought you ought to know.”

“Damn,” Damian said softly, as much to himself as to Cella, and he stared into space for a long moment, trying to order his thoughts. The sky beyond the windows was very black, the fireworks over: no inspiration there, he thought, and turned his eyes away. “This Lioe,” he began, “is she still seeing Roscha, or was it a one‑night affair?”

Cella shrugged. “I don’t know. Roscha was slated to play Avellar, but Lioe seems very taken with Ransome. And he with her, for that matter.”

“So.” Damian shoved his hands into his pockets again, running his fingers over the remote’s smoothly indented surface as though it were a talisman. If I can get Roscha to watch Lioe–Roscha’s done that kind of job before, she can certainly handle it–then I can be sure to find out if she contacts Desjourdy again. He touched the remote’s control points again, and the image in the display screens shifted, became a memo board. He leaned over the keyboard, typed a quick message into the wharfingers’ computers–CONTACT JAFIERA ROSCHA 2 STORM AM, SEND HER TO MY OFFICE AS SOON AS SHE ARRIVES–and set it loose on the main systems. And if all else fails, she can deal with Lioe, and I can get Ransome out of the way. “Can you get a transcript of this session for me?”