“Lioe,” Damian Chrestil said, and Ransome felt the last hope die. “It’s Lioe, isn’t it? You gave her a key to your loft, and told her what was going on.”

Ransome shook his head. “I didn’t tell her anything,” he lied. “She’s a Gamer, and a Republican, at that. She doesn’t give a shit about politics.”

“You brought her to Chauvelin’s party,” Damian said, soft and deadly.

Ransome shook his head again. “Yeah, I tried to get her interested in something outside the Game–she’s good, too good to be stuck in the Game all her life–but she doesn’t care. All she wants to do is play the Game.”

There was another little silence, and then Damian Chrestil shook his head. “No. Nobody ignores politics like that.”

“Gamers do,” Ransome said, desperately.

“Not even Gamers.” Damian Chrestil beckoned to Ivie. “Get in touch with your people up at the port. Send some over to Ransome’s loft and see what they find.” He looked back at Ransome. “I suppose he has security in place, so be careful.”

“Fuck you,” Ransome said. If Lioe was at the loft, if she had the sense to find the key that would let her retrieve the data–and she must have, if she’d blocked access to the mail system–then there was still a chance. If Lioe can figure out what to do. He put that thought aside. There was still nothing he could do but wait, but things were looking fractionally better than they had.

Day 2

Storm: The Hsai Ambassador’s House,

in the Ghetto, Landing Isle Above

Old City North

Chauvelin stood at the only unshuttered window, watching the wind‑driven rain sweep through his garden. The bellflower trees bent until their branches dragged along the ground, stirring the human‑faced pebbles into new patterns, their flowers blown away in gusts with the wind. A few early flowers were flattened, their petals frayed to nothing against the ground. The clouds streamed in, dark overhead, darker still, almost black, to the south, so that the light was dimmed, filled with an odd, underwater quality. Ransome was not at his loft.

Chauvelin grimaced, annoyed with himself, at his inability to concentrate on anything except that useless fact, and turned away from the window to consider the double‑screened workboard that lay on the wide table. Both screens displayed the transcript of the last transmission from Haas, the last that had come in before the transmitter went down for the duration of the storm, a fragmentary, garbled mess that defied the computers. He frowned again, and made himself pick up a stylus, fitting his fingers into the pressure points to change the mode. It was obvious that Haas had found at least some of what he had expected–connections between the je Tsinraan and the Chrestil‑Brisch, clients of the je Tsinraan who did most of their business through C/B Cie.–but the overall sense of the message was so mangled that there was little he could do. Even the standard phrases certifying Haas’s authority and authorizing him to act in her name for the Remembrancer‑Duke had come through poorly, though there, at least, they had the Forms of Protocol to fill in the gaps. At least he could use that authority, if he had to.

And maybe he could do more. Ransome was missing; the inquiries he’d put out on the nets had brought no results, and Lioe seemed–said she knew nothing. Ji‑Imbaoa certainly knew, certainly held some of the keys to this situation. If the transmission could be edited properly, he could force ji‑Imbaoa’s household to cooperate with him. He highlighted one section of the message, deleted the intervening words and nonsense, tilted his head to one side to study the result. The phrasing was a little stilted, but no worse than in many official documents. He finished the rest of it, editing carefully, and studied the result. The document now gave him the temporary rank necessary to resume control of the ambassadorial household, and therefore of ji‑Imbaoa’s household as well, on the grounds that ji‑Imbaoa’s carefully unspecified actions had cast a shadow on the reputation of his superiors. There was only one problem with using it: ji‑Imbaoa would inevitably query it to the Remembrancer‑Duke himself, and not enough of the original message survived for Chauvelin to be sure that his patron would back him in such a drastic action. He set the stylus aside, ran his finger over the glowing characters at the foot of the screen, tracing the stylized n’jaocharacters that symbolized Haas’s authority. He could use this authority successfully, of that he was quite certain, but possibly at the cost of his career. Is Ransome worth it?

Chauvelin sighed, touched controls at the base of the workscreen to produce a paper copy and transfer the original to storage. Is he? It’s taken me most of my life–nearly thirty years–to earn this rank, starting from nothing, as a conscript, less than nothing. Even the strictest hsaia codes acknowledge that it isn’t always possible to protect one’s proteges. Flashes of memory broke through his guard: Ransome newly paroled, all in grey still, the canalli brown of his skin faded to ivory; Ransome in his bed, the unexpected, wiry strength of his thin body; Ransome laughing at a party, a handful of birds, the centerpiece of a story egg, dancing in his palm; Ransome sitting on the garden wall, holding out a handful of carved stones. And Ransome with Lioe, too, the way he watched her. He picked up the printed sheet, rolled it carefully in the prescribed fashion, concentrating on the task so he wouldn’t have to think. If I use this, and I’m wrong–or even if I’m right and it’s inexpedient–I will lose the ambassadorship. And probably my other ranks, too; there will be need to make an example of me. I’m not ready, yet, to make that choice.

He tucked the cylinder of paper, the ends neatly folded over on themselves, into the pocket of his coat, and turned back to the window. It was raining harder now, hard enough that the rain formed a solid curtain, completely concealing the Old City in the distance below the cliffs, veiling the paths of the lower terrace. A few yard lights glowed through the rain, outlining the steps that led from one plateau to the next. He grimaced, thinking of Ransome’s sculptures, and looked away.

“Sia?” Je‑Sou’tsian spoke from the doorway, excitement in her voice, and Chauvelin turned sharply.

“Well, Iameis?”

“Sia, I think we’ve found the Visiting Speaker, or at least traced where he went.”

“Good.” Chauvelin reached for the cylinder of paper, touched it like a talisman. “Where?”

“He was with Damian Chrestil,” je‑Sou’tsian said. “He and his people, ji‑Mao’ana and Magill, went to the C/B Cie. docks, and they left with him in a flyer. They headed southeast, our informant says, but I can’t contact the Speaker at the Chrestil‑Brisch palazze.” She paused, and made a formal gesture of apology. “I regret we haven’t located him more exactly, but I thought you would wish to know.”

“So,” Chauvelin said softly, and nodded. “Yes, I want to know.” This changes everything. He is acting irresponsibly, and he’s dealing with, maybe making a deal with, ahouta– Damian Chrestil is still not a person, in the law’s view–and this can be construed as dishonoring his patron. That will give me just enough claim to the honorable position that Haas and my lord can afford to protect me. He slipped the rolled paper from his pocket, touched it to lips and forehead in the ritual gesture. “As you must know, I received a last transmission from maiHu’an before we lost contact with the satellite. In it, I was granted this commission, which I now execute.”

Je‑Sou’tsian bowed her head, crossed her hands on her chest, spurs downward, claws turned inward to her own body in ritual submission. “I will bear witness, Sia.”

Chauvelin nodded. “In it, I am authorized to act as head of household, lesser father, under the authority of the Father‑Emperor, father of all clans.” The ritual phrases came surprisingly easily to his tongue, for all that it had been years since he had last used them. “This commission supersedes all earlier claims of rank and privilege, and will do so until it is renounced or revoked.”