Lioe eyed him warily. It seemed overelaborate to her, a lot more complicated than simple smuggling would need to be– and I’ve seen enough smuggling combines at work to know that simple’s the way to go. “So why should the Visiting Speaker be worried about it?” she asked aloud.

“I wish I knew,” Ransome answered. He stopped suddenly, eyes wild. “But I do know, I just had it backward. Ji‑Imbaoa doesn’t want to know what Damian Chrestil’s up to, he already knows that because he’s involved in it. What he wants is me out of the way, me and Chauvelin, so that he can gain favor with whatever it is they’re smuggling.”

“That sounds a little complicated,” Lioe said when it became clear that some answer was expected of her.

“But that’s it,” Ransome said. “I’m sure of it. Ji‑Imbaoa’s a je Tsinraan, and they need to consolidate their position with the All‑Father. Chauvelin’s a tzu Tsinraan, he’d stop him on principle, regardless of what the cargo is. And Damian Chrestil’s an ambitious little bastard; he’s got lots of friends in the Republic, but not many in HsaioiAn. But if the je Tsinraan owed him a favor, that would give him some substance over the border, and that kind of connection there translates to power here, on Burning Bright. It makes good sense.”

“If you say so,” Lioe said, and didn’t bother to hide her own uncertainty.

“Trust me,” Ransome said. “Look, this has to be what’s going on–Christ, won’t Chauvelin be pleased, it’s the perfect excuse to get rid of ji‑Imbaoa–but I have to talk to some people.”

“Netwalking?”

Ransome shook his head. “I’ve tried that already. But there are some people up at the port who still owe me favors, and I think it’s time I called them in.”

“How are you feeling?” Lioe asked, pointedly. Ransome looked blank for a moment, then laughed.

“Fine. Look, I need to do this now, before it’s too late, but I wanted to know, were you serious about this scenario?”

Lioe hesitated for an instant–it would mean the end of the Game as she knew it–but then nodded firmly. “I’d like to work it out.”

“Do you want to use my systems?” Ransome asked. “It’s a little more private than Shadows would be, and I’ve got most of the library disks you’d need. We could talk about it when I got back, you could show me what you need to have happen to set up the new scenario.”

Lioe thought for a moment. It would be easier, working here–more privacy, fewer interruptions from players and would‑be session leaders who had questions about Ixion’s Wheel–but she’d already made plans for the day. “I’m supposed to meet Roscha. We’re going to see a puppet show in Betani Square.”

“So work here anyway; if I’m not back by the time you have to leave, come back when you’ve finished. I can give you a key, just in case I’m not back by then–though God knows I should be–but if I’m not, let yourself in and make free with the systems.” Ransome grinned. “You should know where things are by now.”

“All right,” Lioe said. “We’ll do this.”

“Great.” Ransome rummaged in a drawer without result, then stood scanning his shelves before he came up with a flat black rectangle about the size of a dice box. He handed it to her, and Lioe took it cautiously, feeling for the almost invisible indentations.

“Upper left is for the stairs,” Ransome said, “upper right is the main entrance, center is the loft door, lower right calls the lift–when it’s free.”

Lioe nodded.

“Then I’m off,” Ransome said. “I probably won’t be back before you have to leave, but I’ll see you after the show, all right?”

“I’ll be here,” Lioe said, and shook her head slowly as the main door slapped shut behind him. How do I get into these situations? she wondered, then grinned. Maybe Burning Bright was the home of the Game precisely because its own politics were as baroque as those of the imaginary Imperium. Let’s see if I can come up with something as complex for Avellar. She found the room remote, and touched its gleaming surface, darkening the windows and bringing up the display space. She pulled on the wire‑bound gloves and settled herself in the massive chair, wriggling a little as the cushions shifted beneath her, accommodating her weight. She reached into control space, touching virtual icons, and found a copy of her scenario waiting in storage. She defined a space, called it into those new confines, and sat for a moment, staring at the tree of symbols. Then she touched the first icon, and began to work.

Day 2

Storm: C/B Cie. Offices, Isard’s Wharf,

Channel 9, Junction Pool 4

Damian Chrestil stood at the back of the plotting shed at the end of Isard’s Wharf, watching the display table. A model of Burning Bright’s oceans, spread to scale on a virtual globe, floated above the tabletop; the shapes that represented C/B Cie.‘s various ships ghosted through the mirrorlike surface, the codes that represented their cargoes and destinations flickering to life at a gesture from some one of the attendants. The coiled shapes of the blossoming storms, a grand procession of them sweeping up the trade winds from the shallows below the equator, marched over the surface, interdicting great sweeps of sea. Most of the company’s ships were already in port, or within a day’s journey, but a few were still well out to sea, and the wharfingers studied them carefully, murmuring to each other. They and their assistants each carried a smaller plotting tablet and a delicate, gold‑tipped wand. As they gestured at the model, circling it like acolytes to adjust symbols and times and weather forecasts in search of the most economical arrangement, they reminded Damian of some mysterious and primitive cult. Behind him, the windows rattled in the rising wind, and one of the assistants glanced nervously toward the cloud‑white sky. On the model, a tight spiral of cloud was poised south and east of the entrance to the Inland Water.

“Have they made any guesses as to when the storm barriers will go up?” Damian asked, and the senior wharfinger, Rosaurin, shook her head.

“They’re hedging.”

“So what else is new?” Damian murmured. He glared at the model as though it could provide answers on its own, then shook his head. “I think we’re cutting it too close with the short‑haul boats. Have them ride it out south of the storm track.” He gestured with his own control wand, highlighted a grid mark on the model.

Rosaurin nodded slowly. “I’d rather get them home, but you’re right, we can’t risk it. Not when they can’t give me an estimate of when they’ll raise the barriers.”

Damian nodded back. The triple line of barriers lay at the bottom of the channel, were raised as the storm approached. They would hold back the worst of the storm surge, and protect the city, but once they were in place, no ships could enter the channel. They had all agreed, himself, the wharfingers, and the short‑haul captains, that it was worth taking one more trip to the seining grounds before Storm set in. Now the captains, at least, would have to live with the consequences. Still, they were experienced people, with good crews, and the boats were solid, well equipped. They should be all right, he thought, and turned his mind away.

“Na Damian?”

He turned, to find one of the younger dockers in the doorway, a thin young man with close‑cut blond hair that almost disappeared against his scalp. “Well?”

“You wanted to be told,” the docker said warily. “Roscha’s called in. She’ll be in the channel in about ten minutes.”

“Right,” Damian said, and couldn’t keep the satisfaction from his voice. “Can you take care of the rest of this, Rosaurin?”

The wharfinger nodded. “I’ll put together a final plot for your approval.”

“Do that,” Damian said, and left the shed.

Because of the approaching storm, there were perhaps twice as many ships tied up to the mooring points as usual, and the dock was littered with lines and spare gear. Damian stepped carefully through the clutter, and let himself into the outer office. The secretary pillar was, for once, clear of messages. He smiled rather bitterly– this once, I would have liked to have something waiting, preferably from ji‑Imbaoa–and went on into the inner room, seated himself behind his desk. The workscreen lit obediently, sensing his presence, but he ignored the flickering prompts, debating whether or not he should call the Visiting Speaker himself. Not just now, he thought, and touched keys to call up his security files. The check files were all in place– or not quite all. He frowned, studying the origination codes that the security programs had preserved for him: Ransome, almost certainly, and that means I’ll have to do something about him. Or about ji‑Imbaoa. He put that thought aside with regret–he’d gone too far to back out now–and the secretary chimed discreetly.