“He came to the palazze,” she said. “He said it was important, so I brought him here. Your sibs don’t know he was there.” She paused then, still smiling. “Do you want me to wait with him?”

Damian nodded, knowing he did not need to wait for an answer. He ducked through the clamped‑open door into the shadows of the warehouse, and stepped back into his office. He glanced quickly at his reflection–his hair was a mess, blown out of its ties by even that short an exposure to the wind, and he tidied it hurriedly–and then settled himself behind the desk. He lit the screens, calling up the plans he had been studying, and leaned back in his chair to wait, struggling to keep himself from grinning like a fool.

“Na Damian,” the secretary said, after what seemed to be an interminable wait. “You have a visitor. The Visiting Speaker Kuguee ji‑Imbaoa. And Na Cella.” The expensive voice module did a fairly good job with the alien name.

“Show them in,” Damian said, and this time couldn’t keep the satisfaction out of his voice.

He rose to his feet as the Visiting Speaker entered, gesturing for him to take the guest’s chair beneath the painted triptych. “Welcome, Na Speaker, it’s good to see you again.”

Ji‑Imbaoa waved a hand, waving away the need for formality, and Damian did his best to swallow his excitement.

“Your woman was good enough to bring me here. Time is of the essence now,” the Visiting Speaker said. “We can neither of us afford to waste any more time.”

In the background, Cella lifted one precise eyebrow, and said nothing.

“I’ve not been wasting time,” Damian said.

Ji‑Imbaoa waved away the comment. “No matter.”

“No,” Damian Chrestil said. “It does matter.” It was a risk, pushing him at this point, but he could not afford to let ji‑Imbaoa treat him like an employee. “I have been ready to fulfill my part of the bargain. The delays come from your end.”

There was a little silence, ji‑Imbaoa’s hands closing slowly on the arms of his chair. Damian waited, and, as slowly, the hsaia’s hands relaxed.

“It is so,” ji‑Imbaoa said. “However, that delay has ended. I have the codes.”

It’s as much of an apology as I’m likely to get. “Excellent,” Damian Chrestil said, and held out his hand.

Ji‑Imbaoa ignored it. “I have gone to a great deal of trouble to get this information. I had to contact my friends through commercial linkages–at great expense–because Chauvelin refused to allow me the use of the ambassadorial channels. I think I should have some recompense for this.”

Damian swallowed his first response, said, with careful moderation, “Na Speaker, surely that’s one of the ordinary risks of doing business.”

“I am not a business person,” ji‑Imbaoa said.

That’s for certain. Damian said aloud, “You expect me to pay for your connect time to HsaioiAn.”

The fingers of ji‑Imbaoa’s hands curled slightly, a movement Damian had learned to interpret as embarrassment, but the Visiting Speaker nodded. “I think it would be fair.”

Damian hesitated, looked down at his screens to cover his uncertainty. This was part of the hsai power games, one more attempt to jostle for status; he himself couldn’t afford to lose, and so drop lower than ji‑Imbaoa, but he wasn’t sure he was good enough to win. The secretary chimed softly, signaling an incoming message, and he seized gratefully on the excuse. “I’m sorry, Na Speaker, I need to take that.”

“Shall I go?” Cella asked softly, and Damian shook his head before the hsaia could take offense.

Ji‑Imbaoa gestured acceptance, and Damian leaned back in his chair, touched the string of codes that activated the security filter, translating spoken words to a stream of letters across the bottom of the screen. A second set of codes flared, and he touched a second key to cut in the family’s decryption routines. The screen lit at last, and Ivie’s face looked up at him.

NA DAMIAN.

It was disorienting, watching Ivie’s lips move without sound, while the words scrolled past on the bottom of the screen. Damian nodded. “I hope things went well? I’m with a visitor, so you’ll have to make it fast.”

Ivie nodded, in comprehension as well as agreement. I’M AT THE SUMMER HOUSE NOW, he said. THE FIRST GUEST IS WITH ME. WE’VE HAD A LITTLE TROUBLE WITH THE SECOND, BUT I HAVE HOPES THAT WE’LL BE ABLE TO FIND HER AGAIN SOON.

So he’s got Ransome, but not Lioe. Damian said, “It’s a start, anyway.” He looked back at ji‑Imbaoa, the germ of an idea forming in his mind. “I’m coming to join you myself, and I may be bringing a guest of my own–a colleague, rather. How’s the weather?”

Ivie shrugged. DETERIORATING. IF YOU’RE GOING TO BE MORE THAN AN HOUR OR TWO, I WOULDN’T FLY, BUT THEY TELL ME THE ROADS SHOULD STAY OPEN UNTIL DARK.

“Good enough,” Damian said. “I’ll be there directly.” He touched the sign‑off key, and watched the picture dissolve, then looked back at ji‑Imbaoa. “I’ve had to do some improvisations of my own,” he said bluntly, “thanks to your delays. And suffer some inconveniences. Illario Ransome is off the nets right now, but only because I am holding him in my family’s summer house. I think that is equal to your expenses in getting the codes.”

Ji‑Imbaoa nodded slowly. “Ransome is your prisoner.”

“To put it bluntly, yes.” Damian watched him, aware that something had changed, but not certain what it was. It was as though the rules had changed, or even the game itself. Cella was watching him with renewed intensity, as though she’d sensed the change, too.

“I would like to speak with him,” ji‑Imbaoa said. “I will give you the codes there, once we are at this house of yours.”

Damian shrugged. There was no reason not to do it, as far as he could see; the nets were too well shielded for work to be interrupted by any but the worst storms, and he could access them from the summer house as well as anywhere. “All right,” he said. “I’ll call my flyer. I assume you have staff with you?”

Ji‑Imbaoa gestured agreement. “My secretary, and one guard.”

Damian looked at Cella, who was still watching him with that same unnerving fixity of purpose. “Do you want to come, too?” From the look in her eyes, it was a pointless question.

“Yes,” she answered, gently. “If you don’t mind.”

“Fine.” Damian Chrestil opened a working channel, typed in a quick series of commands, and waited half a second for the confirmation. “The flyer will be waiting for us at Commercial Street in ten minutes.”

The wind had eased a bit by the time they reached the Commercial Street helipad, but the first fringes of rain had overspread the city. It fell in huge drops that left wet irregular circles the size of a man’s hand on the dusty pavement. Damian ignored it as he shepherded the others into the heavy flyer, but ji‑Imbaoa hissed irritably to himself, and the other hsaia, ji‑Imbaoa’s secretary, huddled himself into an incongruous plastic overcoat. The jericho‑human Magill, who handled security, flipped up the hood of his coat, but made no comment. Cella followed demurely, moving through the rain as though she didn’t feel it. The passenger compartment would seat only four in comfort, and Damian seized the excuse with some relief.

“I’ll ride with the pilot,” he said, raising his voice over the noise of the engines, and let the compartment’s door fall closed without waiting for an answer.

The pilot didn’t look up as he climbed into the control pod, already deep in her rapport with the machine, hands and feet encased by the controls, but one of Ivie’s men was riding in the copilot’s space. He scrambled to his feet as Damian opened the hatch, moved back to the jumpseat that folded down from the compartment wall.

“Thanks, Loreo,” Damian said, and took his place beside the pilot. “How’s it look, Cossi?”

The pilot shrugged one shoulder, her attention still on the displays that filled the air in front of her, visible only through her links. “Not too bad. The rain’s fading, and on the screens it looks like we’ll have some better air for the next forty minutes or so.” She looked down at her controls again, and Damian hastily fastened himself into the safety webbing. “I have clearance from the tower,” Cossi went on, “so I can lift whenever you’re ready, Na Damian.”