“I’ll do what I can,” Haas answered. “Between your weather and my ignorant staff–well, I’ll do my best.”

No one of lesser rank than yours is allowed to blame her staff for failures. Chauvelin bowed again, more deeply. “Thank you for your help, Sia Speaker.”

“Thanks for the information, Tal,” Haas answered, and signaled for her system to break contact.

Chauvelin touched his own remote to close down his end of the transmission, leaned back on his heels to watch the characters cascade across the screen. If there was a connection between the je Tsinraan and the Chrestil‑Brisch–more specifically, between ji‑Imbaoa and Damian Chrestil–and if he could prove it, then it should be possible to parry ji‑Imbaoa’s threats. And if the connection went deep enough, it might be sufficient to discredit the entire je Tsinraan. That was probably too much to hope for, he knew, and he sighed as he pushed himself up off the low cushions. A nice thought, but not to be counted on.

A chime sounded gently from the speaker set into the wall beside the door, the red pinlight flicking on as well, and Chauvelin touched the remote again to establish the connection. “Yes?”

“I beg your pardon, Sia,” je‑Sou’tsian said, “but there’s something that needs your urgent attention.”

Chauvelin lifted his eyebrows at the blank space, but answered the tone as much as the words. “I’ll be in the breakfast room in three minutes.”

“Thank you, Sia,” je‑Sou’tsian answered, and the pinlight faded. Chauvelin sighed– I wonder what new disaster I’ll have to deal with–and let himself out of the reception room.

Je‑Sou’tsian was ahead of him in the breakfast room, the curtains half‑drawn across the long windows. Beyond them, beyond her shoulder, Chauvelin could see the distant wall of cloud, a little higher on the horizon now, dark against the milk‑white sky. The garden looked subdued in the dimmed light, only the stone faces in the paths still reflecting the minimal sunlight.

“Your pardon, Sia,” je‑Sou’tsian said again, and Chauvelin dragged his eyes away from the approaching storm.

“It’s all right,” he said. “What’s happened?”

“The Visiting Speaker has not come home today.” There was a tension in the set of je‑Sou’tsian’s hands and arms that made Chauvelin frown even more deeply.

“It’s later than he usually stays away, certainly, but is it important?”

“Sia, I don’t think his household knows for certain where he’s gone. At least none of the ones left here. And they are worried, if only because they don’t know what’s happening.”

Have I left things too late? Chauvelin suppressed the stabbing fear, said, “So what happened, do you know?”

Je‑Sou’tsian made a quick gesture, one‑handed, the equivalent of a shrug. “As best I can tell–and I’m reading between the lines for much of this, Sia–the Visiting Speaker left the house last night just after dark, saying he wanted to experience the Carnival. His household expected him back sometime this morning, but he hasn’t arrived, and they haven’t had word from him. By midday, his chief of household was worried enough to ask me if I had heard anything.”

“Who does he have with him?” Chauvelin asked.

“That’s what worries me,” je‑Sou’tsian answered. “Only two people, ji‑Mao’ana and that jericho‑human, Magill.”

The Speaker’s secretary and his head‑of‑security. Chauvelin sighed. “And that’s all you know?” It was unfair, he knew, and je‑Sou’tsian gave him a brief, reproachful glance.

“Sia, I’ve only just found this out. The chief of household only just spoke to me. And naturally I was reluctant to pursue things any further without knowing what you wanted me to do.”

Chauvelin gestured an apology. “I’m sorry, Iameis, you were right.” He paused for a moment, fingers tapping nervously against his thigh. “Still, it’s Carnival. Things happen during Carnival. I think you should make discreet inquiries, Iameis, just to make sure nothing’s happened to him. Check his usual haunts, and the Lockwardens. No need to inquire at the clinics and hospitals yet, they’d‘ve notified me if a stray hsaia was brought in.”

“The Lockwardens?” je‑Sou’tsian said.

Chauvelin nodded. “Ask–with discretion, mind you–if there have been any complaints or queries. I just want them to be aware that we are looking for him.” And that way, if I’ve miscalculated, if he’s not working with Damian Chrestil, I’ll have been seen to do my duty in protecting him.

“Very well, Sia, I’ll get on it at once.” Je‑Sou’tsian bowed again, and backed toward the door.

“Thank you, Iameis,” Chauvelin said. “You’ve done well.” There was no formal way to respond, but he saw from the sudden movement of her hands, quickly suppressed, that she had heard, and was pleased.

Chauvelin made his way back through the corridors and coiling stairs to his office at the top of the house. The light that streamed in through the curved windows was as milky as the clouds, heavy with the promise of the coming storm. He ignored it, locking the door behind him, touched the shadowscreen to bring up his communications system even before he’d seated himself at the desk, resolutely turning his back on the clouds to the south. A screen lit beneath the desktop; he touched the shadowscreen again, calling the codes that would connect him with Ransome’s loft, and waited for the screen to clear. If anyone could track ji‑Imbaoa, it would be Ransome.

The screen stayed blank, the call codes scrolling repeatedly across the base of the screen. Chauvelin let them cycle, waiting, long after he was sure Ransome would not answer. Of all the times for Ransome to be away from his loft… Chauvelin killed that thought, burying his fear with it, and tied his system into the Game nets. Half a dozen Harmsways were playing, but none of them was Ransome. Chauvelin swore again, freed himself from the Game, and touched keys to set up a new program. The communications system would access Ransome’s loft every half hour–he hesitated, then changed the numbers, making it every quarter hour–until someone answered. And that is all I can do. I’ve done everything; now I have to wait. It was not a pleasant thought, and, after a moment, he flipped part of his system back to the Game nets. If nothing else, he could distract himself in their baroque conventions.

Day 2

Storm: Old Field Administration Building,

Newfields, on the Landing Isle by Dry Cut

Ransome waited in the narrow reception room, lit by the long windows that ran like stripes from floor to ceiling and by the thin blue glow of the secretary system. Beyond the windows he could see the cliff face, and the cold grey‑green sea beneath it, the strands of foam bright against its choppy surface; he shivered once, and turned his back on the hypnotic waters. The office was on the north side of the building, away from the approaching storm; as he’d come in, a horde of workers had been drawing shutters across the southern windows. It was not like Arduinidi to make him wait. It just proves how hot I am–if I weren’t, Selasa wouldn’t make me wait here like this, while she decides if she can afford to see me. Or, he realized suddenly, while she finds out if I’ve been seen, coming here. That was not a pleasant thought, and he reached into his pocket to touch the datablock that nestled there. It was not a good habit to get into and he took his hand away, fingers tingling. Maybe, just maybe I should’ve quit after I talked to the factors at Bonduri Warehouse, they told me enough to be able to tell Chauvelin what’s going on–He put the thought aside as unprofitable. He was here; it was too late to turn back.

The secretary chirped discreetly on its pedestal, the blue light strengthening slightly. The affected mechanical voice said, “N’Arduinidi will see you now.”

In the same instant the inner door slid open, a soft chime drawing his attention. Ransome rose to his feet, and stepped through the doorway into Arduinidi’s office. It was as if he had stepped from Storm into High Summer, and he stood blinking for a moment, disoriented. Light, the hot sunlight of full summer, poured through the windows, falling from a clear and brassy sky; a faint breeze stirred, bringing with it the smell of the summerweed that choked the cliffs in warm weather and the acrid undertone of the port. Very distantly, he could hear the slow slap of the waves against the cliff face and the screech of metal from the port. It was an illusion, of course–holoimages inside the false frames of the windows, carefully controlled ventilation and a scent mixer, subtle sound effects–but even knowing that, Ransome found himself relaxing in the summer warmth.