“The Visiting Speaker has only just returned from the city,” the steward murmured, under lowered lashes. Her fingers curled with demure humor as she spoke.

Chauvelin lifted an eyebrow, his mind racing. What the ninth hell could ji‑Imbaoa want, at this hour, when he’s bound to be hung over, or still drunk, if I’m particularly unlucky? I should change to wait on him, but I’ll be damned if he deserves the honor–“The Visiting Speaker will have to pardon the delay,” he said, and indicated the informal coat.

“My lord will excuse,” ji‑Imbaoa’s servant said, still without expression.

“As the Visiting Speaker wishes,” Chauvelin said, and could not quite keep the irony from his voice. “Iameis”–that was his steward, who bowed her head in acknowledgment–“you’ll join me for breakfast after this. We have some things to discuss.”

“Yes, Sia,” the steward murmured, and stepped aside.

Chauvelin looked at the other woman. “Lead on.”

He let her conduct him through the ambassadorial palace, as was proper, for all that he knew the building far better than she ever would. She stayed the prescribed two paces ahead of him and slightly to his right, unspeaking, and Chauvelin watched her back, rigid under the black tunic, and the short swing of her left arm. A conscript’s mark was tattooed into her biceps, just below the fall of the cap sleeve. Chauvelin felt his eyebrows rise, controlled his expression instantly. Why would anyone be stupid enough to trust ji‑Imbaoa with pressed servants? Loyalty can only be created by favor, not by fear–though some of my own first masters were no joy to serve, but nothing like him. He filed the observation for later use, and braced himself as the woman came to a stop outside the door of ji‑Imbaoa’s suite. They were technically Chauvelin’s own rooms, by virtue of his rank as head of the ambassadorial household, but Chauvelin himself rarely used them, since any visitor of higher rank could usurp them. Ji‑lmbaoa had taken particular pleasure in moving his household into the rooms, and Chauvelin had had to keep a sharp grip on his temper to keep from betraying the existence of a second group of rooms. Ji‑Imbaoa would have been happy to move in there, at the expense of his own comfort, just to win a few points in an’ahoba.

“The ambassador Chauvelin,” ji‑Imbaoa’s servant announced to the invisible security system, and the carved and lacquered doors swung open.

The Visiting Speaker Kuguee ji‑Imbaoa je Tsinraan stood in the center of the suite’s reception room, feet firmly planted on the silk‑weave carpet that lay before the chair‑of‑state. At least he hasn’t chosen to take the chair, Chauvelin thought, and suppressed his anger as he saw the mud on ji‑Imbaoa’s feet, caked between the claws and trampled into the carpet. It was a familiar way of showing power, but Chauvelin added it to the Visiting Speaker’s account: the carpet was too beautiful to be treated as part of an’ahoba.

“ Ts’taa.” The word was untranslatable, carrying contempt and impatience and a concise statement of relationship, superior to inferior. Chauvelin raised his eyebrows, hoping that ji‑Imbaoa had finally made a mistake–he and the Visiting Speaker were too close in the hierarchy for that to be anything but a deliberate and deadly insult–and realized with regret that ji‑Imbaoa was addressing the woman servant.

“You are careless, and slow, and I am diminished by your habits.” Ji‑Imbaoa glanced sideways then, toward Chauvelin, and added, “ Chaoihave so much to learn.”

He had used the shortened term, the one that had once meant “slave.” The woman’s shoulders twitched once, but she mastered herself, and bowed deeply. “I abase myself. I beg my lord’s forgiveness.”

Ji‑Imbaoa waved a hand in dismissal, and the woman turned away, but not before Chauvelin saw the bright spots of color flaring on her cheekbones. It’s not wise–it’s downright stupid–to abuse your servants to get back at your enemies. He said, in his most neutral voice, “And yet the All‑Father commends the practice.”

Ji‑Imbaoa’s head lowered, suspiciously, but he said nothing. Chauvelin waited, running a quick and appraising glance down the Visiting Speaker’s mostly humanoid body. Fingerclaws and spurs were painted a vivid red, the spurs protected only by a small cap of filigree‑work. The bright ribbon clusters that flowed from bands around his upper arms, forming his only clothing, were badly crumpled, and Chauvelin glanced lower. The salmon‑pink tip of ji‑Imbaoa’s penis was only just visible at the opening of the genital sheath: still drunk enough to relax some inhibitions, but sobering.

“I’ve summoned you because I’ve been hearing worrisome news,” ji‑Imbaoa said abruptly. News you should already know about, his tone implied.

Chauvelin murmured, “Indeed?” They were close enough in rank to omit honorifics in informal speech, and ji‑Imbaoa had used the common forms.

Ji‑Imbaoa’s hands twitched, as though he regretted his choice, but he could not change modes without losing face. “You have an agent in the city, a houta, Ransome, it’s called.”

“Ransome is under my patronage, yes,” Chauvelin answered. “He’s been min‑haofor some years.” The gap between houta, nonperson, and client‑kinsman was vast; Ransome needed the respect and protection of min‑haostatus.

Ji‑Imbaoa flicked his fingers, dismissing the difference. “Decidamio Chrestil‑Brisch is showing a great deal of interest in him. I wonder why.”

And so do I, Chauvelin thought. He said aloud, “There are a number of reasons that Damian Chrestil might be interested in Ransome, not least that Ransome’s an imagist of some note in the city.”

“That may be,” ji‑Imbaoa said, “but what I have seen is that Damian Chrestil–or that woman, his whore–wants very much to lure your agent back into the Game. Why would that be?”

“I don’t know,” Chauvelin said.

“Such pressure against an agent of yours, I’d think you’d want to know what’s going on. They leave lures on all the nets, hints and pressures. It’s not like Damian Chrestil to care about the Game–”

“Cella, his mistress”–Chauvelin laid the lightest of stresses on the word–“is a well‑known Gamer, however, and Ransome was a notable for a long time.”

Ji‑Imbaoa flicked his fingers again. “I think it’s worth investigation.”

Chauvelin sighed. “So do I.”

“And I also think,” ji‑Imbaoa went on, as if the other hadn’t spoken, “that it would be worth doing what Damian Chrestil wants, if only to find out what’s going on.”

“If it seems a reasonable risk,” Chauvelin said softly. “I don’t send my people into difficult situations unprepared.”

“Of course, if he can tell you what they want,” ji‑Imbaoa said, equally softly, “it wouldn’t be necessary.”

“As you say.” Chauvelin got a grip on his temper with an effort, knowing his anger was sharpened by fear. “Will that be all? I have business this morning–”

Ji‑Imbaoa cut him off with a gesture. “There is one other matter. This Ransome: you say he’s not houtabut min‑hao?”

“Yes.” Chauvelin gave no other explanation, uncertain where this would lead.

“Then there is a matter of charges lodged against him on Jericho, which are actionable if he is min‑hao.”

“At the time, he was houta, and served sentence on appropriate charges,” Chauvelin said. Not now, he thought, not now, of all times, to bring that up. Christ, it was fifteen years ago, and he spent time in jail; that ought to be over and done with. But it had been a matter of an’ahoba, a game that Ransome played with regrettable skill and no status to match it– and I should have known this would come up at the worst possible time. I can deal with it.

“The larger matters still stand, in court record.” Ji‑Imbaoa made a small gesture, almost of satisfaction. “But I trust you will handle these matters appropriately.”