“Fuck it.” Ransome stared for a fraction of a second at the little screen, hit the codes again. The screen went blank, and then the same message flickered into view. He’d been suckered: the woman at the main kiosk wasn’t bothering to tap the mail system; instead, she was interrupting it, blocking any transmission that he tried to make, and she was bound to be tracing his location at the same time. He stared at the screen, feeling the seconds slip away. It was too late to get away, his own mistake had seen to that; the only thing he could hope for was to dump the information somewhere where Chauvelin could find it. Maybe his home systems, if he couldn’t reach Chauvelin himself in time. He killed that sense of panic, forcing himself to think clearly, dredged the emergency codes out of his memory. He had bartered for them almost two weeks ago, eons on the nets, but they were Lockwardens’ codes, and the Lockwardens were notoriously conservative. He typed them in, making himself work carefully: he would only get one chance, if that. The screen went blank again, then lit, presented him with an open channel. He suppressed a cheer, and hit the codes that would dump the entire contents of the datablock to a holding node, one of a thousand secure datastores that laced the nets. The block whined softly to itself, the seconds ticking past, and then the screen cleared. He started to type a mailcode, allowing the datastore itself to transfer the information to Chauvelin, but heard footsteps on the stone floor behind him. Too late. He touched a second series of illegal codes, saw the screen fill with trash, effectively destroying his trail. Lights flickered across the datablock, warning him that its contents had been permanently erased. He sighed, and heard a woman’s voice behind him.

“Na Ransome.”

He turned slowly, not wanting to provoke anything, and found himself facing a wiry woman–not the one who had been working at the kiosk in the lobby. She had a palmgun out and ready, half hidden by her hand and body, invisible to anyone working in the offices along the corridor. A much bigger man stood just behind and to her left, screening her still further from the offices. He wore a bulky coat that could hide a dozen weapons. Ransome looked to his own left in spite of himself, in spite of knowing better, and saw another pair–dockers, this time–moving toward him along the cross corridor.

“Someone wants to talk to you,” the woman went on, her voice low and even.

“Someone like Damian Chrestil?” Ransome asked, but she didn’t flinch.

“Someone.” She beckoned to him with her free hand, the palmgun still leveled. “Someone who prefers to keep this tidy. If you’ll step this way.”

Ransome hesitated, but there was no real choice. I’m too old–and not sick enough yet–for a suicide leap, and I was never good at fighting. He spread his hands, showing empty palms, and stepped carefully away from the mail kiosk.

“Search him,” the woman said to one of the dockers, and Ransome submitted to the rough and efficient search. She stepped past him then, unplugged the datablock, and stood studying the kiosk screen for a moment. Ransome saw her frown over the hash of random characters and touch a few keycodes before she shook her head and pocketed the datablock. At least she wasn’t able to trace the destination codes, he thought, and felt a flicker of hope revive.

“Nothing here,” the docker said, and she nodded.

“I hope you’ll come quietly, Na Ransome.”

“I’m not stupid,” Ransome answered. This is how the game is played; you cut your losses and hope for your connections to save you. Please God, Chauvelin will try to contact me, will sort through the net stores when he can’t–He pushed that thought aside, pushing away panic with it. But this had happened before; he’d done his best, and sacrificed himself, and ended up abandoned. That was Bettis Chrestil, twenty years ago. Chauvelin is different. I can rely on him. I have to rely on him. The fear was a taste of metal in his throat.

“Walk with him,” the woman said to the big man, who nodded unsmiling and took Ransome’s arm. Ransome felt the muzzle of a palmgun touch his side briefly, felt the plastic warm against the inside of his elbow. The big man had a grip like iron; there was no hope of pulling free. All I can do now is wait, Ransome thought, and let them walk him slowly down the stairs and across the lobby. No one looked twice at them, and a part of Ransome’s mind had to admire their efficiency.

“I hope Damian Chrestil pays you what you’re worth,” he said, experimentally, and the big man’s hand closed painfully on his arm, grinding the palmgun into his elbow.

“Do stay quiet,” the woman said, conversationally, and turned her head to murmur something into a hand‑held com‑unit. As they passed through the main doors, a heavy passenger carrier, its rear pod sealed tight, windows darkened, pulled up in front of them. The door of the sealed compartment sighed open, and the woman said, “In there, please.”

There was no point in a struggle, and no chance even if he’d wanted to. The big man leaned into him, putting him off balance, and as Ransome stumbled, the woman tripped him neatly, so that he practically fell into the darkened pod. He righted himself instantly, steadying himself with both hands against the padded seats, but the big man pushed in after him, palmgun now displayed, forcing him back against the pod’s wall. The door closed behind the big man almost as soon as he’d cleared the frame, and the carrier slid away from the curb.

Ransome leaned back against the cushions, knowing better than to move too quickly. The big man settled himself opposite him, moving with the rocking of the carrier, sat comfortably, with the palmgun resting on his knee. Ransome eyed it for a moment, but knew better than to think of attack. He could hear the rasp of his breathing even over the purr of the carrier’s motor, felt the familiar pain tugging at his lungs. “Hey,” he said, and his voice cracked even on the single word. He made a face, hating the weakness, hating to have to ask, said again, “Hey. I need to take some medicine. It’s in my pocket.”

The big man looked at him for a long moment, his face utterly without expression. “All right,” he said at last. “Which pocket?”

“Jacket. Left‑hand side.”

“Go ahead.”

Ransome reached for the cylinder of Mist, making himself move at half the speed he wanted, slid the squat cylinder from his pocket, and started to hold it up even with the big man’s eyes. The man leaned forward instantly, caught Ransome’s wrist before he could finish the movement.

“Don’t make trouble.”

Ransome shook his head, did his best to suppress the cough that threatened to choke him. The big man eyed him warily, then released him, leaned back against his cushion. Ransome unfolded the mask, set it against his mouth and nose, and touched the trigger. The cold mist enfolded him, drove away even the fear for a brief second; he leaned back, eyes closed, and let the drug fill his lungs. He’d betrayed another weakness, he knew, something that they could use against him, and for a moment the fear rose with the thick mucus to choke him. He made himself breathe slowly, until the worst of the fear passed and he was left with the lethargy of the drug. He let himself fall into it, repeating his thoughts like a mantra. He would wait: there was nothing else he could do, and the situation might change. And in the meantime, he would wait.

Day 2

Storm: Betani Square, Roche’Ambroise

Lioe made her way through the fringes of the crowd that filled one end of Betani Square, pressed as close as possible to the stage where the puppeteers would be performing. It was less crowded by the fountain, but not by much; a dozen or more children in varying degrees of costume were playing on the edges of the three‑lobed basin, and several more were splashing in the shallow water, parents–or at least parental‑looking figures–watching from the sidelines. There was no sign of Roscha. Lioe scowled– I knew she wouldn’t be able to get away–but walked around the fountain’s edge until she was certain the other woman had not arrived. She looked sideways, poising the chronometer’s numbers against one of the bands of darker stone that crisscrossed the square’s paving, dividing it into diamonds. There were still a few minutes until the show was supposed to start. She sighed, and resigned herself to wait.