“Yes, Na Lioe.”

“I’ll come down,” Lioe said, and cut the connection before anyone could protest. She made her way down the side stairs rather than the lift, and paused just inside the doorway to scan the lobby. Roscha was standing by the concierge’s counter, her beautiful face looking oddly forlorn as she watched the lift entrance. There was no one else in sight. Feeling rather foolish, Lioe took her hand off the button of the work knife, and stepped out into the lobby.

“Quinn!” Roscha turned at the sound of the other woman’s footsteps, her eyes going instantly to the patches of selfheal. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, fine,” Lioe said, irritably, and made herself stop. “It’s just cuts and bruises,” she said. “Listen, did you send someone to tell me you were at someplace called the Mad Monkey?”

“No.” Roscha shook her head, sending the red hair flying. “No, I didn’t, and the Lockwardens have been talking to me already. What happened?”

Lioe looked over her shoulder, saw Laness leaning against his counter, listening shamelessly. “Over here,” she said, and drew Roscha away into the shelter of the pillars that defined the common entertainment center. No one was there, the VDIRT consoles empty, and she turned back to face Roscha. “Maybe you can tell me,” she said. “This man came up to me, called me by name, and said you’d given him a message to be passed on, to meet you at this place called the Mad Monkey.”

“I know it,” Roscha muttered, and waved a hand in apology. “I’m sorry, go on.”

“When I tried to go there,” Lioe said, and heard her voice tight and angry, “I was followed, and someone stepped out of a doorway carrying a gun. He said somebody wanted to talk to me, and I was to come quietly. Do you have any idea who that somebody might be?”

“No.” Roscha shook her head, stopped abruptly. “Do you work for C‑and‑I?”

“What?” Lioe blinked, irrationally offended by the question. “No, I’m a pilot. And I’m a Gamer. I don’t need to work for Customs.”

“Na Damian–Damian Chrestil thinks you do,” Roscha said, slowly. “And you’ve been hanging out with Ransome, who’s not exactly clean when it comes to politics.” There was a fleeting note of malice in her voice that vanished almost as soon as Lioe recognized it. “And Na Damian went out of his way to make sure I had an alibi for this afternoon.”

“So you think Damian Chrestil is behind this?” Lioe asked.

“You don’t sound that surprised,” Roscha answered, bitterly.

“I’m not, exactly. Ransome–” Lioe stopped abruptly. How the hell do I know who to trust, if I can trust you, or anyone? You work for C/B Cie., which is the same thing as working for Damian Chrestil, and Ransome isn’t answering his calls. What the hell am I supposed to do now? “Why should I tell you?”

Roscha made an angry sound that was almost laughter. “Because I don’t like being jerked around. Because I don’t like being used to set somebody up–especially you, somebody I’ve been sleeping with, somebody I like. Somebody as good as you are in the Game.” Her voice cracked then, and she looked away, scowling. “Na Damian lied to me, and he used me, and he maybe would’ve murdered you, and it could’ve been my fault. I’ll be damned if I’ll let him do that to me.”

There was something in her voice, the street kid’s– the canalli’s–ancient, bitter grievance that made Lioe nod in spite of herself. “All right,” she said slowly, “I believe you.”

Roscha nodded, silent, still scowling.

“I need your help,” Lioe went on, more slowly still, a voice screaming reproaches inside her head. Are you crazy? She still works for C/B Cie. Even someone as Game‑addicted as Roscha is isn’t going to give up a good job for a total stranger. She could be setting you up again. She shook the thoughts away. I have to have help, and the only other person I can trust is Ransome. And he’s not answering. I have to take a chance, and Roscha’s my best shot. She’s a good actor, but I don’t think anyone’s that good. I think she meant exactly what she said I hope. “I need to find Ransome, he’s the one who really knows what’s going on. Can you get me back to his loft? It’s back at Newfields, where the cliffs overlook the Junction Pools.”

“I know where it is,” Roscha said. She nodded, her face grim. “Na Damian’s going to be looking for both of us now–I was supposed to stay on the docks until midnight. I guess I don’t need an alibi now.” She smiled wryly, but shrugged the thought away. “I borrowed a denki‑bike, we can take that.”

“In this weather?” Lioe said. The thought of riding one of the unstable little two‑wheeled vehicles in the same winds that had tossed the Lockwardens’ helicab across the sky was not appealing.

Roscha glanced toward the window beside the door, shrugged slightly. “It’s not raining yet.”

“Right,” Lioe said. She looked toward the concierge’s counter, where Laness was pretending to be absorbed in the tourist display‑tapes. No harm in providing a little insurance, she thought, and walked over to join him. “Laness,” she said, and the man looked up in an unconvincing flurry of surprise.

“What can I do for you, Na Lioe? Is everything all right?”

“Yes,” Lioe answered. So far. “I need you to do me a favor,” she went on. “I have to go out, but after what happened earlier, would you–if I’m not back here tonight, or if I don’t call you, would you give the Lockwardens a call?”

“Of course, Na Lioe,” Laness said. His eyes widened slightly, his whole being torn between enjoyment of the Game‑like intrigue and concern for a guest. “But, Na Lioe, if there’s any chance–what I mean is, with the storm predicted for tonight, if anything happens to you, the Lockwardens are going to have enough to do.”

“That’s all right,” Lioe said. Or at least it can’t be helped. “I’m not really worried, not really expecting anything. But if I’m not back, and you don’t hear from me, I want you to call them.”

Laness nodded. “I’ll do that,” he said, and added, awkwardly, “Good luck.”

Roscha’s denki‑bike was parked outside, under the shelter of a news kiosk’s awning instead of in the racks outside the hostel’s door. The wind–a warm wind, unpleasantly warm–sent dust and a few errant pieces of trash whipping along the pavement; across the road, a pair of women struggled with a storefront banner, fighting to fold the heavy cloth. Up and down the street, wooden shutters had been clamped into place across the larger windows, and there was a line out the door of the single grocer’s shop. “It looks bad,” Lioe said, involuntarily, and Roscha shrugged.

“It’s always like this when a storm’s coming. They say it’s only going to be a class two.” She reached into the bike’s security field, expertly touching the release codes. “Let’s get going before the rain starts.”

The streets were all but empty in the port district, most of the workers already heading home to secure their own property. Shutters covered most of the upper‑floor windows, and there were storm bars across the warehouse doors. Lioe leaned close against Roscha’s back, felt the denki‑bike shudder each time they turned a corner. A few drops of rain were falling as they turned the last corner and pulled into the alley beside Ransome’s loft. Lioe winced as the first huge drops hit her face, looked toward the building’s entrance. The red flag was still out, whipping frantically against its stays, and she wondered if its owner had just forgotten to take it in. Still, the stairs weren’t difficult, and at least she knew where they were. She reached into her pocket for the lockbox, and closed her fingers gratefully over its smoothly dented surface. At least I didn’t lose it in the canal. She started toward the stairwell, motioning for Roscha to follow. The other woman straightened from hooking her bike to the recharging bollard, gave the connector a last tug, and came to join her.