Ransome went on as if he hadn’t heard, his tone so matter‑of‑fact that she winced at the unvoiced pain. “I have five to seven years, or so they tell me, so it’s not an emergency.”

Except that you can’t be much more than forty, and you ought to live another forty years. Lioe said again, “I’m sorry.”

“So am I.” There was a little pause, and then Ransome achieved a kind of smile. “Do you want some coffee?”

“Sure, thanks,” Lioe said, glad of the change of subject, and Ransome disappeared into the kitchen. He returned a moment later with two steaming mugs. Lioe took hers with a murmur of thanks, sipped cautiously at the bitter liquid.

“There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you,” Ransome said, and his voice was carefully casual, so that Lioe glanced back at him warily. “Especially since last night’s session.”

“Oh?” Lioe paused, and then shrugged. “Go ahead, I guess.”

“What the hell were your parents thinking of, to let you become a pilot?”

Lioe blinked, completely taken aback by the question. It was not at all what she’d been expecting– though what I was expecting I don’t know –and she didn’t quite know how to answer. She opened her mouth, stopped, closed it again. “I was good at it,” she said at last, and heard the annoyance in her voice.

Ransome spread his hands, almost spilling his coffee. “I didn’t mean to pry. It’s just that you’ve got an artistic sense, a talent for the Game, and for imaging. I’m surprised you didn’t get a chance to pursue it–I’m surprised nobody picked up on it.”

“No, it’s all right,” Lioe said. And after what you’ve told me, I’m not sure I have the right not to answer. She ordered her thoughts with an effort. “I was raised by Foster Services, on Callixte. They steered me toward the union certificate program, and when I won one of the scholarships–well, you know how hard they are to get. I wanted to take it, at least to prove I was as smart as the docents had always said.”

Ransome nodded. “Your parents died?”

Lioe shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t remember much about it–I pretty much don’t remember anything before the Service creche–but what they told me was, a couple of people found me in an abandoned house near the port district, Mont’eranza, it’s called. I was undernourished, but otherwise unhurt, and about six years old, as best the medical people could tell. So I ended up with Foster Services.”

“And the Game,” Ransome said. “Your scenario’s good, near brilliant, in fact.”

“Thanks.” Lioe grinned. “I’d still like to take this situation a little further, though, pull it all together. Can you imagine what that would do to the Game?”

Ransome nodded, his tone quite serious. “It would be enormous fun while it lasted, though, wouldn’t it?”

“I’m not eager to be lynched afterwards,” Lioe said. “Besides, I’d have to set it up now, change this scenario a little.”

“Do it,” Ransome said. Lioe looked at him, startled, and he said again, “Do it. And let me play Avellar.”

“Not Harmsway?”

Ransome shook his head. “Avellar.”

God, Lioe thought, that would be a brilliant bit of casting, and if anybody could pull it off, give me the setup I need for Avellar’s Rebellion–She smiled, realizing that she had already given the scenario a title. “When I run it again,” she said, slowly, “you can have Avellar, if you want him. But I’m not sure about making the changes.”

“If you won’t,” Ransome said, “I will.”

She lifted an eyebrow at him, not sure she believed him, and his smile widened. “I’ll do it, you know,” he said.

“I believe you,” Lioe answered.

“You needn’t sound quite so worried,” Ransome said. He paused, looked back toward the windows. The clouds had thickened a little since they had come in, turning the sky the color of milk, and the shadows had vanished. Lioe moved to join him, staring down into the Junction Pool. It was even more crowded than it had been, seemingly hundreds of barges tied up two deep at the piers, and smaller craft darted like beetles among them. She wondered briefly if Roscha were somewhere among them.

“There was something else I wanted to ask you,” Ransome said. “How did you happen to pick Harmsway for the scenario? Did Cella Minter–or anyone–mention him to you?”

Lioe blinked again, startled, and shook her head. “No. I’d worked up the scenario before I got here. We didn’t expect to spend any time on planet; we lost calibration in one of the sail projectors en route from Demeter, and had to lay over to reset it. I’d kind of forgotten that they were local Types when I showed the scenario.” Ransome nodded, still looking out the window, and Lioe frowned. My turn to ask questions, I think. “Why? Who’s–Cella, did you say?”

“Cella Minter.” Ransome paused. “You may have seen her at Chauvelin’s party the other night, a tiny woman, absolutely a perfect beauty. She’s Damian Chrestil’s mistress, when he isn’t chasing something else.”

Lioe paused, trying to remember, could vaguely recall a tiny woman with copper‑colored braids woven into sleek, jet‑black hair. She had been startlingly beautiful, seen from across the room, and more than a little intimidating. “So who’s Damian Chrestil? Any connection to C/B Cie.?”

There was a little silence, and Ransome looked at her. “He isC/B Cie. Decidamio Chrestil‑Brisch is his full name, he’s head of C/B Cie. Did you, your ship, bring in a cargo for him?”

“It was a C/B Cie. cargo, yes,” Lioe said. “Why?”

“Because Damian Chrestil has been trying to keep me out of the port nets for two days now,” Ransome said, anger and glee mixed in equal measures in his voice. “And maybe, just maybe, you can help me figure out why.”

“I don’t quite see the connection,” Lioe began, and Ransome cut in.

“What were you carrying?”

“I don’t want to be overly delicate about this,” Lioe said, “but why do you want to know? We’re supposed to keep our mouths shut about what we carry. General union rules.”

Ransome nodded. “Sorry.” He took a deep breath, gestured, spilling coffee, and set the mug aside, scowling. “Look, it’s like this. Chauvelin’s my patron. We’ve known each other for years–”

“I remember,” Lioe said. She could still see the little room in Chauvelin’s monumental residence, light gleaming off the story egg, the first one she’d seen. Chauvelin is your patron, and Chauvelin’s rival the Visiting Speaker hates you, quite personally.

“I’ve done various kinds of work for him,” Ransome went on, and there was a distinct note of pride in his voice. “I’m good on the nets, very good, and I occasionally do some research for him.”

“The charge is usually common netwalking,” Lioe murmured, and remembered, too late, that Ransome had been in jail. To her surprise, he laughed.

“True. Anyway, I’ve been–walking the nets for him lately, because the damn Visiting Speaker got it into his head that Damian Chrestil was up to something in the Game. When I checked it out, sure, he wanted me back in the Game, back involved, but there wasn’t anything really happening. It was all just a blind. So I started wondering what Damian Chrestil really wanted, and I haven’t been able to get into the port nets at all. So you see why I’d really like to know what you were carrying.”

Lioe shrugged. “Red‑carpet, according to the manifest. En route to a distillery here. We had a couple of bungee‑gars on board.”

“Is that normal?”

“Depends,” Lioe said. “I wouldn’t think red‑carpet was quite that valuable, but it’s close enough, I guess.”

“Who was the shipper?”

Lioe frowned, pulling names from her mental files. “A company called TMN, I think. They weren’t much.”

“I bet it’s smuggling,” Ransome muttered, as much to himself as to her. “There’s no other reason to keep me out of the port nets, except that he hasn’t rechristened the cargo yet. Damn it, if I could just get in!”