“Na Ransome.”

It was Damian Chrestil’s voice: the younger man moved so quietly that Ransome hadn’t heard him approach. He turned, setting the glass aside, contents untasted, forced a calm smile of greeting. “Na Damian.”

Damian Chrestil snapped his fingers, and one of the heavy chairs trundled over to join them. At another gesture, the woman with the palmgun withdrew a little, resting her back against the shutters that covered the enormous window. Ji‑Imbaoa made a slight, impatient movement of his fingers, but moved away toward the display console and the twin serving carts. Ransome, watching with what he hoped was a convincing show of incurious distaste, saw the other hsaia, ji‑Imbaoa’s secretary, present a plate of food. Cella said something to him, turned him away toward the shuttered windows. She glanced over her shoulder, and met Ransome’s look with a quick, triumphant smile. It was gone almost as soon as he’d seen it, but Ransome felt the chill of it down his spine.

“There are a couple of things we need to get settled,” Damian Chrestil said, and Ransome looked back at him a little too quickly.

“If you let me go, give me a ride back to the city and an apology,” Ransome said, trying to cover his nervousness, “I suppose I’d be willing to ignore all of this.” He gestured with all the grace he could muster to the woman with the gun.

Damian smiled. “That really wasn’t what I had in mind.”

Somehow I didn’t think so. Ransome smiled back, the muscles of his face stiff and unresponsive, felt congestion tugging at his lungs again. He ignored that– maybe it will go away, ease off on its own the way it sometimes does–and said aloud, “It’s a generous offer.”

“So’s mine,” Damian answered, and the smile vanished abruptly. “I understand from my people that you dumped the contents of a datablock into the nets, into storage somewhere. I want that material.”

Ransome spread his hands. “I don’t hear an offer.”

“Ji‑Imbaoa tells me there are still some charges pending in HsaioiAn,” Damian Chrestil said. “He wants you back, to face them. I don’t care either way, but I want that data.”

Ransome froze, felt himself go rigid, as though he’d been turned to stone. He remembered the hsai courts, the hsaia judge–“ insults fromhouta are as the barking of dogs; it’s fortunate you are of no status”–most of all the dreary grey padding, walls and floors and ceiling, that was the hsai prison, months and months of grey cells and grey clothes and grey men, and finally the numbing grey fog of the first bout of white‑sickness. That’s twice the Chrestil‑Brisch have done this to me, he thought, and could see the same fine shape, Bettis Chrestil’s face imposed for an instant on her brother’s features. I can’t go back. I don’t want to die there, in that grey place… “If I give you the data,” he said slowly, despising himself for the concession, “you won’t turn me over to ji‑Imbaoa.”

Damian nodded.

“What, then? You’ll just let me go?” Ransome let his disbelief fill his voice, and caught his breath sharply, just averting a coughing fit. He tasted metal, the tang of it at the back of his throat, and swallowed hard, willing the sickness away.

“Why not?” Damian shrugged with deliberate contempt. “Once the–product–is transferred, there’s nothing you can do.”

“The lachesi, you mean,” Ransome said, and, after a moment, Damian nodded.

“That’s right.”

“Chauvelin won’t be pleased,” Ransome said, and Damian shrugged again.

“Chauvelin won’t be in a position to do anything about his displeasure for very much longer. The tzu Tsinraan are losing face by the day, they won’t be in power much longer. And then Chauvelin won’t be able to do a damn thing to help you.”

Ransome sat very still, kept his face expressionless with an effort. It was true; if the tzu Tsinraan lost their dominant position at the court on Hsiamai, then Chauvelin would go down– and I’ll go with him. I can’t go back to HsaioiAn. I don’t want to die there, I know what that would be like, I saw it happen. He controlled his fear with an effort, made himself reach for the wine. He sipped carefully, but did not really taste the faint sweetness. “So if I tell you where the data is, you won’t turn me over to him.” He nodded to the Visiting Speaker, still standing by the food carts. “What guarantee do I have that you won’t get the data and still hand me over?”

“You don’t. But you don’t have another choice,” Damian Chrestil answered. “I tell you–I’ll give you my word–that if you give me the data, you can go free.”

“Your word,” Ransome said, in spite of himself, remembering Bettis Chrestil. She had given her word, too, and it had been less than useless. Damian Chrestil gave his sister’s humorless smile.

“I don’t care if you believe me or not,” he said. “This is the only deal you’ve got. Tell me where you stashed the data, or I’ll give you to ji‑Imbaoa, now.”

It is the only deal, and worse than no choice at all. Ransome stared at him for a long moment, unable to come up with any alternatives. Whatever I do, I lose, because I don’t believe him for a second when he says he’ll let me go. I’m only prolonging it, and losing any bargaining power I might have–but I can’t give up without some fight. “All right,” he said slowly. “I’ll retrieve it for you.” He hadn’t expected that attempt to work, and was not surprised when Damian shook his head, refusing the gambit.

“Tell me the codes.”

“They’re in my loft, in the mail systems there,” Ransome said. “You’ll find a message in n’jaothere, a string of codes. That accesses the secure storage.” Damian frowned, started to say something, and Ransome held up his hand. “The program I used, I don’t know the access numbers myself, or even where the data ended up. It’s a random dump, to whoever had space open at the time. But the retrieval codes are in my mailbox.”

Damian nodded then, beckoned to one of his people, a thin woman with a pilot’s calluses on her wrists. “Cossi, you’ve done this before. I need to get some information out of his mailbox.”

Cossi shrugged. “Can you give me a key?”

“Well?” Damian said.

Ransome hesitated, then reeled off the string of numbers.

“Right, Na Damian,” Cossi said, and turned away. Ransome watched her walk to the nearest netlink and settle herself at the workstation. For a crazy moment, he hoped that she didn’t know what she was doing–she was a pilot, after all–but then he saw the way her hands moved across the shadowscreens, and that hope died.

He looked away, not wanting to watch, but could still hear the steady click of the machines as Cossi worked her way onto the nets. This was it: there was no hope left, and he could expect to choke to death in a hsai prison… He heard his breath whistling in his lungs, and this time reached for the cylinder of Mist. There was no point in pretending anymore, no point in trying to hide his weakness. He’d played his best hand, and he’d lost. He laid the mask against his face, inhaled the cool vapor. Damian Chrestil watched him, his thin face expressionless. Ransome refolded the mask with deliberate care, and slipped the cylinder back into his pocket.

“Na Damian,” Cossi said. “I’m being blocked.”

“What?” Damian looked up sharply, frowning.

“I’m being blocked,” Cossi said again. “Somebody’s pulled that system off‑line. There’s no way I can access it.”

Damian looked back at Ransome, his thin eyebrows drawn into a scowl. “Well? I thought we had a bargain.”

Ransome spread his hands, did his best to hide his sudden elation. Someone was in the loft, Chauvelin, maybe, or–better still and most likely–Quinn Lioe. And if Lioe was there, and had changed the system settings, then maybe he had a second chance. “Everything was on‑line when I left it. Maybe the storm’s knocked it off.”

Cossi’s hands danced across the multileveled controls. “Nothing else is off, Na Damian. I think someone’s reset.”