Ji‑Imbaoa suppressed a gesture, seated himself with a kind of heavy dignity. “Ransome, I would imagine, becomes a liability to you once this is over.”

Damian shook his head. “Not necessarily. He’s a known netwalker, I can prove he’s been stealing information. If he tries to go to the Lockwardens, I can bring an equally strong complaint against him.”

“Still, Chauvelin will know,” ji‑Imbaoa said.

“Chauvelin doesn’t like me anyway,” Damian Chrestil said. I wish you’d come to the point.

Ji‑Imbaoa looked away, said, as though to empty air, “I might be able to help with the situation.”

I don’t need your help, thank you, Damian thought. He bit his tongue, and waited.

“And it would be doing me a favor.” Ji‑Imbaoa said the words reluctantly, almost as though they were being pulled out of him. “There is a matter of face between my family and this Ransome, the matter of an insult which could not be acknowledged then, but is lesser treason now. If you will give him into my custody, we–my kin and I–will be able to settle this. And I, and they, will be in your debt.”

Damian made himself look down at his hands to hide his sudden elation. To have ji‑Imbaoa, and, more than that, his entire family, indebted to me–in exchange for Ransome. Not much of a trade, an arrogant netwalking imagist–or should that be an image‑making netwalker?–for the friendship of an equally arrogant fool. But ji‑Imbaoa has powerful relations, they could be very useful to me. I’ve no illusions, Ransome’s no friend of mine, but can I afford to do it? He’s Chauvelin’s client, after all… But if it means connections in HsaioiAn, a deep connection to the je Tsinraan, can I afford not to? He said, slowly, “I can’t give you an answer now. There are practical considerations involved–”

“Chauvelin will not be ambassador much longer,” ji‑Imbaoa said. “There is already pressure on the All‑Father to remove him from this post.”

And that would make an enormous difference, Damian thought, if it’s true. If Chauvelin were no longer a factor, there’d be no reason not to do it. He had a sudden image of Ransome at Chauvelin’s eve‑of‑Storm party, sitting on the wall of the garden he had designed, the paths paved with thousands of delicate faces spread out at his feet, a mocking half‑smile playing on his lips as he watched the other guests recognize what they were walking on. Not a lovable man, certainly. Brave enough–and I do respect that–but this is a risk you take when you play politics. He nodded slowly, looked back at ji‑Imbaoa. “If I can do you this favor,” he said, “I will.”

Day 2

Storm: Transient Hostel #31, The Ghetto,

Landing Isle at the Old City Lift

The Lockwarden pilot set the cab down on the helipad just beyond the lift complex that ran down the cliff face into the Old City, balancing the light machine against the gusting winds. He was obviously skilled, but the ride was rough, and Lioe was glad to be on the ground. The pilot insisted on escorting her to the door of the hostel. Lioe made only a token protest, grateful for his support, and did her best to ignore the concierge’s smirk at her arrival, clothes torn and under Lockwarden escort. The smile turned to a frown of concern when he saw the white patches of selfheal on her face, and he came out from behind the counter to meet her.

“Na Lioe? Are you all right?”

“Na Lioe got mugged,” the Lockwarden said, politely enough, but Lioe found herself wincing a little at the suggestion.

“I’m all right,” she said. “I just need to change clothes.”

“You look like death,” the concierge–Laness, his name was–said, and shook his head. “You go on up to your room, and I’ll send a supply cart. Do you need anything in particular?”

“Something to eat,” Lioe said, and was surprised by the intensity of her hunger. She turned to the Lockwarden. “Thanks for getting me here.”

“No problem,” the pilot said easily, and let himself out.

“You go on up,” Laness said again, “and I’ll send a cart.”

“I’d appreciate it,” Lioe said. She rode the narrow lift up to the third floor–the first time she’d been back to her rented room in three days; most of her spare clothes were at Shadows–and let herself into the narrow room. It was small, but comfortable, and it had its own temperature controls. She turned up the heat to drive away the lingering damp of the canal, and stripped off her crumpled clothing. I need to call Ransome, find out what’s going on, she thought, but I want to be in shape to cope with him. She showered, not too quickly, letting the hot water wash away the fear and stiffness and the last faint green stains from the waterweed. The supply cart was waiting for her when she had finished, one of the covers pushed back slightly to release the steam. She dressed quickly, scrambling into her last spare pair of trousers and a loose, Reannan‑knit pullover, and pushed back the lid of the cart. The food was good, standard local fare, fish cakes and rice and a quick‑fry of vegetables, and Laness had included a bottle of the resinous local wine. She poured herself a glass, and wolfed a couple of the fish cakes straight from the cart, then turned her attention to the communications table. She seated herself in front of it, dragged the supply cart into easy reach. There were three messages from Kerestel waiting in storage. She hesitated, feeling guilty, but none of them were marked urgent. She ignored them, and called up the cheapest of the local communications nets. Its prompt flickered into view, and she punched in Ransome’s mailcode. There was a fractional hesitation, and then the familiar message: TERMINAL IN USE, PLEASE TRY LATER.

She smiled and reached for the cart again, one unacknowledged worry assuaged. At least Ransome was all right, and could probably explain what was going on, who had tried to kidnap her and why. And in the meantime, she thought, I think I’ll start carrying my work knife again. She pushed herself away from the terminal, went to rummage in her bag for the knife. It was meant to be used as a survival tool, and was classified as such when it passed through customs, but the longer of the two blades made an effective weapon. She slipped it into her pocket, turned back to the terminal. There was a repeat function; she found it after a moment’s search, and hit the codes. This time, the screen stayed dark, codes flickering across its base; after half a minute, a new message appeared: INTENDED RECEIVER NOT RESPONDING, CANCEL YES/NO. Lioe made a face, but hit YES. The screen flickered, and a moment later presented her with the list of charges. She ignored it, staring past the numbers. Someone was on the circuit only a few minutes ago, she thought, so where the hell did he go? Unless it was someone calling him? She hesitated, then tried again. There was no answer except the cancellation prompt.

She closed the system, wondering if she should wait and try again, or if she should go back to Ransome’s loft and see if there were any messages waiting there. That made the most sense, especially since she had Ransome’s key, but she had to admit that going back out on the streets didn’t particularly appeal to her. Which is silly. There’s no reason to think that these people–whoever they are–will try anything in the port district; more to the point, and more likely, there’s no reason to think the hostel is all that safe. She stood frowning for a moment, and the communications table buzzed, the screen displaying the intercom symbol. Her frown deepened, but she reached across to touch the flashing icon.

“Yes?”

“Na Lioe.” Laness sounded oddly hesitant. “There’s a woman to see you. She says her name is Roscha. Shall I send her up?”

Roscha? What the hell is she doing here? “Is she alone?” Lioe asked. And if she isn’t, she wondered suddenly, are you in a position to warn me?