“I don’t know,” Lioe said. “We talked about it in the club last night. We weren’t making any secret of it, so probably a lot of people heard.”

“Probably.” Telanin gave a rather sour smile. “Look, I have to say I don’t think this was a kidnap attempt. I hate to admit it, but this kind of bash‑and‑grab isn’t uncommon during Carnival, especially when off‑worlders are involved. A couple of canalli manage to lure a stranger into a dark alley, demand money and movables at gunpoint, and run. We’ll check it out, see if Roscha’s involved, and I’ll ask you to look at our files, see if you can pick anyone out of the visual database–” She smiled again, more genuinely this time. “It’s set up a lot like the Face/Bodybooks. You shouldn’t have any trouble finding them if they’re in there. But I don’t know how much chance we have of finding them. You were lucky.”

There was a little murmur of agreement from the medic, who had finished spreading a film of selfheal over the cuts on her knee. “Lucky twice,” he said aloud. “The current’s dangerous at that corner.”

Telanin nodded in agreement. “We’ll do what we can,” she said again, “but with this storm coming in, frankly, we’ve got to concentrate on that. Our investigation won’t get started properly until it’s past, and by then, the trails will be pretty cold.”

“I understand,” Lioe said. “Hell, I wouldn’t mind seeing these guys in jail, but, as you say, I was lucky. They didn’t get anything, and I’m not hurt.” She managed a quick grin. “I don’t want to push my luck.”

Telanin smiled back, and Lioe thought she looked faintly relieved. “I’ll have you look through our database, then, and sign a complaint, and then I’ll have one of my people fly you back to your hostel. Are you up in the Ghetto?”

“Yes,” Lioe said, “but that’s not necessary–”

Telanin held up a hand, cutting off any further protest. “Just in case I’m wrong, and your first feeling was right,” she said. “Besides, a lot of the helicab companies are going to be shutting down soon, and you don’t want to be taking the buses. Not the way you’re going to be feeling.”

“I’m all right,” Lioe said, but it was only a token protest. She freed herself from the cocoon. Her clothes were all but dry, only a few damp spots remaining, but she was faintly sorry to give up the warm embrace. She followed Telanin out of the little room, the medic close on her heels. The public parts of the station were crowded and noisy, half a dozen men and women leaning over a single console and its harried operator, another group clustered around a display table. Lioe couldn’t see all of the image that floated above the polished surface, but she could see enough to guess that it was a model of the neighborhood. Telanin touched her arm, turning her over to another woman, this one darkly elegant even in the Lockwardens’ bulky uniform, and Lioe let herself be led away to the database.

She looked through the files under the dark woman’s tutelage, and, as she had expected, found nothing. About halfway through, a young man appeared with the complaint form. Lioe skimmed through it–she was mildly surprised to see that it was real paper, not a noteboard and disk–and signed her name in the necessary places. When she had finished, she followed the dark woman back again through the chaos of the main rooms and out onto the helipad, where a helicab stood waiting, the Lockwardens’ markings muted. She looked back once, from the doorway, to see Telanin staring down at the tabletop display. By chance, one of the Lockwardens stepped aside, so that for a brief moment Lioe saw the full display. As she’d guessed, it was a model of the area around the station, but that neighborhood transformed by water and fire. Then another Lockwarden moved in front of her, blocking her view. Lioe shivered– if that’s what could happen, I’ll be glad to be on high ground–and climbed meekly into the helicab. The pilot nodded a sympathetic greeting, and the cab rose easily into the unsettled air.

Day 2

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

Channel 9, Junction Pool 4

Damian Chrestil sat in the serene gold‑tinged light of his office, the plans for a new long‑haul carrier floating in the desktop screens in front of him. It was an elegant design, with ample cargo space, but surprisingly narrow‑beamed, so that it would be half again as efficient as the larger long‑haul craft in the current fleet. Even so, he had trouble forcing himself to concentrate, to keep his mind on the minutely detailed calculations sketched in the margins. Ivie–or at least his people–were somewhere out there, searching for Ransome and Lioe. I should be hearing something soon, he thought, and made himself look down again at the model that hung in the illusory space within the desktop, rotating slowly in response to a command he did not remember giving. He touched another key to stop it, called up the specifications for the power plant, and stared at the numbers for a long moment without really seeing them. Something–sand or gravel, it sounded like–rattled against the wall of the office, carried by the rising wind.

Enough of this, he thought, and touched keys to banish the gleaming images. They disappeared in a flurry of shutdown codes. He pushed himself away from the desk, and walked past the twin secretaries into the darkened warehouse. The large doors were shut, of course, but the side door was wedged open, letting in the rush and the smell of the wind. The door itself vibrated against its clips, jumping a little as each gust hit it. Another two or three hours, Damian thought, and stepped out onto the wharf.

The activity was less frantic than it had been earlier: the barges and john‑boats lay close to the docks, their heaviest fenders in place and double lines securing them to the piers. Damian nodded his approval, glanced up to see the power line that ran from the warehouse to the plotting shed swinging wildly in the wind. Better see to that before it comes down on its own, he thought, and looked around for the nearest docker. A blocky woman was crouched between bollards on the deck of the closest barge, tapline attached to a test node, workboard on her lap, and Damian lifted his hand to get her attention.

“Where’s Rosaurin?” he shouted, raising his voice to be heard over the wind.

“I don’t know, Na Damian,” the woman called back. “In the shed, maybe?”

Damian waved in answer, turned away.

“Na Damian!” That was Rosaurin’s voice, coming from the head of the dock, beyond the plotting shed. Damian waved to get her attention.

“Over here!”

Rosaurin came to join him, the wind whipping her short hair and flinging the skirts of her coat wildly so that they seemed in danger of tripping her. A smaller figure was visible behind her, a tiny woman in loose trousers and a fitted coat, posed so unobtrusively that for a moment he didn’t recognize her. “It’s that hsaia, Na Damian–I’m sorry, the Visiting Speaker. He’s here, and he insists you promised him a tour of the facilities.”

Ji‑Imbaoa. What would he be doing here, except to bring me the codes? And Cella, too. Damian Chrestil suppressed his excitement and said, with what he hoped was convincing asperity, “And at a time like this. Tell him–I’ll see him in my office, you can bring him in there.” Rosaurin looked warily at him, and Damian smiled. “Don’t worry, there won’t be any tours. I’ll deal with him. And secure that cable, will you?”

“Right, Na Damian. I’ll bring him to your office.”

Rosaurin turned away, balancing herself against the unsteady wind, made her way back down the wharf. Damian followed her, more slowly, doing his best to hide his elation. There was no other reason for ji‑Imbaoa to visit the Junction Pool docks, no reason except that he’d finally gotten the codes, and if he had, and Ransome was off‑line, held in the summer house, there would be no one who could stop the transfer. Except–maybe–Lioe, and she was being dealt with, too. He smiled then, unable to stop himself, and Cella smiled back at him.