“Thank God you made it,” a well‑remembered voice said, and Avellar sighed.

“Danile.” She smiled then, careful not to look back at the others, particularly Harmsway. She had risked everything to get him back, and she had at least freed him from the Baron’s prison. The rest–his return to her rebellion, his proper place at her side–would come, in time. He owed her that, and he would eventually pay.

“We have to hurry,” Danile went on, “so everybody, get inboard now.” The hatch sealed itself as he spoke, closing off their view of the cargo bay. “It’s chaos back there, there’s nothing they can do to stop us. But we have to go now.”

There was a ragged murmur of agreement, and the group began to move farther into the ship, following Danile and Avellar. Underfoot, the ship’s main power plant trembled, building toward blast‑off and freedom from Ixion’s Wheel.

Part Five

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Day 2

Storm: Roscha’s boat, Public Canal #419,

Dock Road District

Lioe woke to the noise of distant traffic and the easy motion of the boat against the sluggish current. She turned her head away from the bars of sunlight that crept in through the gaps in the shutters, lay still for a moment, remembering where she was. She was meanly glad that Roscha was nowhere in sight. Not that it hadn’t been fun–and after Roscha’s performance in the session, especially; it was one of the best character readings Lioe had seen–but in the cold light of morning, she found herself wondering exactly why she’d done it. She shook the thought away–it was a little late for regrets, and anyway, it hadbeen fun–and crawled out of the low bunk. The bathroom was tiny, and smelled of aggressive cleaning; she washed quickly, the water tasting flatly of chemicals, and found her clothes hanging on the bulkhead beside the low stairs that led up onto the deck. She pulled on shirt and trousers and the loose vest, slung the mask that Gelsomina had given her around her neck, and pushed open the double doors. She had left her hat somewhere, she realized, either at Shadows or at Ransome’s loft, and she made a mental note to look for it later.

The sunlight on the deck had an odd cast to it, a sickly, uncertain tone, and Lioe glanced toward the sky. It was almost white, hazed with clouds as it had been for the past two days, but when she looked south, toward the mouth of the Inland Water, darker clouds showed between the housetops. An erratic little wind was blowing fitfully, sending bits of trash skittering along the embankment above the boat, and Lioe felt the hairs rising on the back of her neck.

“Oh, there you are,” Roscha said. She made her way forward, stepping easily over the solar panels set into the decking. “I was just coming to wake you. It looks like that storm’s going to hit us after all, and I’ve got a call from the wharfinger to report at once to the main dock.”

“That’s too bad,” Lioe said.

“I don’t see why I couldn’t make it to Roche’Ambroise for the puppet shows,” Roscha went on. “That is, if you still want to go.”

One of the local artists’ cooperatives was giving its annual free show that afternoon. It was supposed to be a spectacular event, a combination of athletics, mime, and robotics, and Lioe had said she would like to see it. “I don’t want you to go to any trouble,” she began, and Roscha frowned.

“Look, if you don’t want to go, no problem.” Her tone implied the opposite.

“It’s not that,” Lioe said, impatiently. “Yes, I want to see the show, but you’ve got this call–”

“It shouldn’t be anything serious,” Roscha said, and gave a fleeting grin. “I haven’t done anything. They probably just need help securing the barges. I should be able to make the show.”

“Fine,” Lioe said. If you don’t, I can enjoy it by myself. “Where do you want to meet?”

“They do the show in Betani Square, right off the Hartzer Canal,” Roscha answered. “Why don’t we just meet there, midafternoon? By the fountain.”

“Fine,” Lioe said again. The sunlight faded, and she glanced up, to see a thicker strand of cloud turning the sun to a disk of bronze. “How bad is this storm going to be?”

Roscha shrugged. “Not bad, I’d say. The street brokers are saying a category two at most. That’s not anything to worry about.”

By whose standards? Lioe wondered, squinting again at the sky. The sun was back, but the clouds looked darker than before. Still, Roscha was the native; if she said it wasn’t that bad, it shouldn’t be. “I’ll see you at the fountain in Betani Square at fifteenth hour,” she said aloud, and reached for the rope ladder that led up to the embankment.

Roscha nodded. “Will you help me cast off?”

“Sure.” Lioe climbed easily up onto the broad stones, unhooked the ladder, and let it drop. Roscha caught it as it fell, folded it neatly into a well on the deck.

“Ready for the cables?” Lioe asked, and Roscha nodded again.

“I’ve already switched over.”

Lioe unhooked the double‑headed cables from the power nodes at the base of the bollard. Roscha caught those as well, guiding them back into their housings, and took her place in the steering well. Lioe released the bow and stern lines, tossed them onto the deck, and stood watching while Roscha shoved the boat away from the embankment, and fed power to the engine. She was out of earshot before Lioe realized she hadn’t asked how to get to Roche’Ambroise. She laughed, and started back toward Shadows, where food and her mail would be waiting.

The streets were still busy with costumed figures, despite the impending storm. A cloaked trio was visible in the window of a restaurant, masks set aside to let them eat; a bedraggled pair–male and female? no, two women–were obviously on their way home after a long night of revelry, the skirts of their straight gowns hiked up to make walking easier, their feathers drooping. Yet another indistinct shape wrapped in a cloak lay sound asleep under a bench in one of the little parks, mask tucked under its head for a pillow. Others were just starting the day–another Avellar, a striding Baron Vortex, an odd shape like an egg with trousers that everyone else seemed to recognize–and Lioe was suddenly glad of Gelsomina’s mask. It made her feel less alien, among the bright maskers, more as though she belonged on Burning Bright. And I want to belong here, she realized suddenly. I’d like to be a part of this. She shook the thought away as impractical, left her mask hanging around her neck where it couldn’t tempt her, and kept walking.

As she came up on the Underface helipad, she saw the lights flashing to warn of an incoming flight, and then recognized the figure sitting on the bench at the edge of the pad. At least I can ask him about my hat. “Good morning, Ransome,” she called, and the man on the bench lifted a hand in answer. He did not speak, and Lioe wondered if she’d offended him. He looked up as she approached, met her eyes fully, and she was shocked by his pale face and the brown shadows like ugly bruises under his eyes.

“Jesus, you look awful,” she said, and bit her tongue as he managed a wry grin.

“Tactful.”

There was something wrong with Ransome’s voice; even the one word came thin and breathless, as though he had been running. “Are you all right?” she began, and realized in the same instant what it had to be. White‑sickness was most common in HsaioiAn, among jericho‑humans, but it was not unknown in the nonaligned worlds, or in the Republic. And this was white‑sickness, no question about it: like all pilots, she’d had enough basic medical training to recognize the symptoms.

Ransome read that recognition in her face, and his grin skewed even more. “I have what I need at home,” he said, and Lioe had to lean closer to catch the strangled words. “The doctors changed the medication; I’m not as stable as I used to be. So I got caught short again.”