“Na Damian,” he said, and rose hastily to his feet. “What’s up?”

Damian waved for him to be seated again, found the guest’s chair, and spun it into position opposite the desk. “I need you to do something for me.”

“Whatever,” Ivie said, with a sincerity that Damian always found slightly unsettling. He killed that uncertainty–this was the time to appreciate his subordinates’ fervor–put the thought aside and slid the minidisk across the desk. Ivie caught it easily, the button of plastic disappearing in his thick fingers, and said, “For me?”

Damian nodded, and waited while Ivie slipped the disk into the reader tucked at the base of his left wrist spur. “I need these people taken out of circulation for a while,” he said. “The woman–her name’s Lioe, Quinn Lioe–I don’t really care how you do it as long as we’re not connected with it in any way. Ransome has to be handled with care: I don’t want him killed, or damaged too badly, but I want him out of circulation for at least the next half‑week. The summer house is empty, and I’ve given you the system codes. Can you do it?”

Ivie looked almost offended for an instant, but the expression passed across his flat face almost as fast as it had appeared. His heavy hands moved over a shadowscreen with surprising delicacy, and he said, “It looks as though Ransome is up in Newfields now, talking to people. I don’t find the woman. At least not at first look.” His fingers danced over another set of controls, and he went on, “I’ve got a trace going through the Game nets–she’s the Gamer, right?”

Does everyone know her reputation? Damian wondered, irritably. “That’s right.”

“I’ve got some people in Newfields now, and I’ll put them on him,” Ivie went on, fingers still working. “I’ll send them to the summer house once they’ve secured him.” He stopped then, looked impassively at Damian. “I’d like a little more guidance with Lioe, Na Damian.”

Damian sighed. He had been hoping to avoid this decision, had hoped, even knowing better, that Ivie would make it for him. “If you can secure her without killing her, I’d prefer it. Murder’s messy, even at Carnival. But if you can’t get her to come quietly, I’d rather have her dead.”

Ivie nodded calmly. “All right.”

“There’s one other thing that may help you,” Damian said. “One of my people was supposed to meet Lioe at the puppet show in Betani Square, over on Roche’Ambroise. They were to meet at the fountain, half an hour before the show.”

Ivie nodded again. “Good. That is a help. If we don’t get her before that, we’ll get her there.”

“I leave it in your capable hands,” Damian Chrestil said.

Day 2

Storm: The Hsai Ambassador’s House,

in the Ghetto, Landing Isle Above

Old City North

Chauvelin waited in the transmission room, leaning over the technician’s shoulder to study the hissing screens. The technician, jericho‑human, small and square‑built, looked back at him reproachfully.

“I’m doing the best I can, Sia.”

Chauvelin nodded, gestured an apology. “I’ll leave you to it, then.” He stepped backward, but couldn’t bring himself to leave the little room, stood instead still staring at the static that coursed across the screens. It was awkward enough at the best of times, contacting the Remembrancer‑Duke’s household on maiHu’an, given the time corrections between the two planets; during Storm, when the first link of the long connection, the transmission between the planet and the relay satellite, was notoriously unreliable, it was all but impossible. But I really don’t have much choice. Whatever ji‑Imbaoa is up to, it has roots in HsaioiAn.

“Got it,” the technician said, and hastily corrected himself. “Sia, I’ve established the link. The Speaker Haas will be on‑line directly.”

“How stable is the connection?” Chauvelin asked.

The technician shrugged. “About what you’d expect this time of year, Sia. But I can patch it through to the reception room. That won’t make any difference.”

Chauvelin nodded. “Do that, then. And thank you.”

The technician ducked his head in acknowledgment, not moving from his position in front of the multiple control boards. Chauvelin nodded back, and went on past him into the reception room. There had not been time to make the formal preparations, but then, this was not a formal call. Nonetheless, he laid the thin cushions, black‑on‑black embroidery, the geometric patterns dictated by a thousand years of tradition, in front of the low table, and poured two cups of the harsh snow‑wine. The warning chime sounded as he set the cups on the table, and he knelt on the cushions, settling himself so that he faced the massive screen. The grey static faded as the last of the check characters crossed its surface, and Eriki Haas tzu Tsinraan looked out at him. She knelt on identical cushions in front of an identical table; only the cups that held the wine were different, marked with the n‑jaocharacters of her name. The fan that marked her rank was folded in her hand, and Chauvelin wished for a brief instant that he had changed into hsai dress for this meeting. But it was too late for those regrets, and he bowed his head politely.

“Tal je‑Chauvelin,” Haas said, acknowledging his presence, and Chauvelin looked up.

“Sia Speaker. It’s good of you to speak with me on such short notice.”

Haas gestured quickly, the fluttering of the fingers that meant a hsaii wished to be informal. “I accept that things have gotten complicated. Let’s dispense with ceremony.”

Chauvelin allowed himself a soundless sigh of relief, and went on in tradetalk. “Complicated is a good word. I need your help, Sia–I need information.”

“If I can get it, of course,” Haas said. “What can I do?”

“I want to know what kind of connections there are between ji‑Imbaoa and Damian Chrestil–Decidamio Chresti‑Brisch, head of the import/export company C/B Cie.,” Chauvelin said bluntly. “Or any connections between the je Tsinraan and C/B Cie., particularly if any of C/B Cie.‘s clients are also houtadependents of the je Tsinraan.”

Haas paused, one hand busy with the notepad fastened to her belt, out of sight beneath the loose, semiformal coat. “This could be difficult to do discreetly, Tal. What does it matter?”

“I don’t care about discretion,” Chauvelin began, and bit back the rest of his words. He said, more carefully, “There isn’t time for discretion. I have reason to think that the Visiting Speaker and Damian Chrestil are working together here on Burning Bright, not as enemies, and I think that their real connection is something in HsaioiAn. The last thing my lord would want is to see Damian Chrestil elected governor of Burning Bright.”

“Do you think that’s likely?” Haas asked, but her hand was busy again, transferring notes to the household computers.

“I wouldn’t bother you if I didn’t,” Chauvelin said, and Haas waved her free hand in apology.

“I’m sorry, Tal. It’s just–the je Tsinraan have been making real inroads at court in the last week, and my lord is eager not to antagonize them.”

“My lord’s existence annoys them,” Chauvelin said dryly. “I don’t think he would care to do much about it.”

Haas grinned in spite of herself. “I know.” She looked down at the tabletop, and Chauvelin guessed that there was a screen concealed in its surface. “I’ll see what I can find out for you. C/B Cie. does a lot of business on the jericho‑human worlds, and on Jericho itself, for that matter.”

“Which worlds?” Chauvelin asked.

“I know,” Haas said, with a touch of impatience, “over half of them are client‑bound to the je Tsinraan. I’ll find out.” She looked down again, ran her hand over a control bar hidden in the table’s carved edge. “I’m glad you called me, Tal. This could be something important.”

Certainly it’s important to me, Chauvelin thought. He said, “I’d appreciate an answer as soon as possible.”