Roscha looked warily at her, the frown gone, replaced by a look of uncertainty that made her look suddenly years younger, almost a child again. “I don’t play politics–”

“You could. In this Game, you could.” Lioe smiled, suddenly, fiercely happy, the storm forgotten. “We both can. It won’t be jeu a clefany more, that’s too easy. We can set it up so that it’s an integral part of the Game, so that you can’t escape it–so that no one who plays, and no one who sees the Game, hears about it, can avoid what we’re doing. That’s what we need, to keep us honest. To make it real.”

“That’s what you need, maybe.” Roscha shook her head. “I’m not that good.”

“Then you’d better learn.”

There was a little silence between them, the wind a rough counterpoint, and then Roscha threw back her head and laughed. “You’re right, and I’ll do it. Sha‑mai, what a chance!”

I knew you would. Lioe hid that certainty, looked again at the busy workspace. “Let’s get on with it, then.” She reached for the nearest of Ransome’s gloves, started to draw them on.

Roscha nodded, and moved toward the other controls. “One thing, though.”

Lioe stopped, one hand half into the thin mesh. “What?”

“A favor.”

“If I can.”

“I want to play the last scenarios.” Roscha’s face was utterly serious. “The ones that wrap this up, I mean. I want to be a part of that, too. It’s–I think someone in the new Game should have been part of the old one, that’s all.”

I was part of the old Game. Lioe stopped short, the moment of indignation fading. But not like her. I was looking for something else, something better, even when I didn’t know it. I never was wholly part of it, no matter how hard I tried. She said aloud, “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Roscha looked at her for a long moment, then nodded, appeased. Lioe nodded back, and reached into the control space to turn the images to herself. For a moment, she saw Roscha webbed in the Game shapes, tangled with the visible templates, and then the images sharpened, and she turned her attention to the double task of ending the old Game and creating the new.

Day 2

Storm: The Chrestil‑Brisch Summer House,

the Barrier Hills

The room was dark and chill under the eaves, the roof and walls trembling under the lash of the wind. Damian Chrestil burrowed close to Ransome’s warmth, dragging the found blanket up over his shoulders, and wondered if it was time to leave. In the darkness Ransome’s face was little more than a pale blur, but he could guess at the expression, sleepy and sated, and suspected that it matched his own. Something, not a solid object, just the wind itself, slammed the side of the house with a noise like a great drum. Damian winced, and felt Ransome shift against him, startled by the sound.

“Perhaps a downstairs room would have been wiser.”

Damian shrugged, the coarse cloth of the mattress cover rasping against his shoulders. “But not nearly as private.”

Even in the dark, he could see Ransome’s grin. “Since when did you care about discretion, Na Damian?”

Damian Chrestil sighed. Clearly the brief truce was over– if you could call it a truce, more like a whole different episode, something out of the Game, completely unrelated to the politics downstairs. It had surprised him, how alike they were in bed. But that was finished. He sat up, letting the blanket slide down to his hips, and then made himself stand up, bracing himself for the other’s acid comment. Ransome was watching, but idly, the blanket drawn up over his shoulder. Damian finished dressing– not too undignified, this time, no scrambling into clothes–and glanced back, curious. Ransome was sitting up now, hunched over a little, one hand pressed against his chest. Even as Damian frowned and opened his mouth to speak, the imagist began to cough. Damian winced at the sound, harsh and painful even over the noise of the wind.

Ransome waved him away, got his breathing under control with an effort that seemed even more painful than the cough.

“Are you all right?” Damian asked, and did his best to keep his tone neutral. Of course he’s not all right. But that’s the only thing I can ask.

Ransome nodded, took a careful breath, and when he spoke, his voice sounded almost normal. “I’ll be fine. Your thugs took my medicines, though.”

“You left them,” Damian said, and after a moment Ransome nodded, conceding.

“Whatever.”

“Shall I have someone bring them to you?” Damian asked.

Ransome shook his head. “I’ll be all right.” He still didn’t move, and Damian watched him warily, until at last the other man straightened. Damian Chrestil turned away, heading down the darkened hall to the stairs.

The lights of the main room seemed very bright after the darkened upper level, and he stood for a moment in the doorway to let his eyes adjust. The Visiting Speaker was back, sitting in a chair by the weather screen, a service cart drawn close beside him. Even as Damian saw him, and frowned, ji‑Imbaoa rose to his feet and went to peer into the screen, the false‑color image tinting his grey skin. Ivie said something to one of the men, and came quickly to join his employer.

“I’m sorry, Na Damian, but it seemed best to separate him from his security. And Na Cella’s been keeping an eye on him.”

Damian nodded slowly, accepting the logic of the statement. “Good enough. But watch him.”

“He seems–calmer–now,” Ivie said. “Na Cella’s been talking to him.”

Damian nodded again. Cella was sitting a little apart from the Visiting Speaker, just outside the loose ring of Ivie’s security, but as he caught her eye, she rose to her feet and came to join them, smiling gently. I just hope she’s over her snit. “Thanks, Almarin. He looks–at least resigned.”

Ivie nodded and turned away, accepting his dismissal. Cella said, “He still thinks he has a hand to play.”

“Pity he’s in the wrong game,” Damian said, and was pleased to see Cella’s smile widen briefly.

“Maybe so. But I thought I should tell you.”

“Thanks.” There was a sound in the doorway behind him, and Damian turned to see Ransome making his entrance, jerkin thrown loose over one shoulder. As he moved past into the room, Damian could hear the faint rattle of his breathing. He smiled at Cella, knowing, confident, but his eyes slid away instantly, looking for the red‑painted cylinder.

“Over there?” Cella said, and pointed to a table against the wall just beyond the weather screen.

Ransome nodded, and started toward it, brushing past the nearest of Ivie’s people. He had to pass quite close to the Visiting Speaker, who was still staring at something in the weather screen, and as he did, ji‑Imbaoa turned suddenly into him, uncovered wrist spur striking for his throat. Damian saw the look of shocked surprise on Ransome’s face as he lifted one arm in an instinctive, futile counter, and then the spur sliced into and past the imagist’s wrist, hooking him like a fish through the cords of his neck. Ji‑Imbaoa struck again before the other could pull free, the second spur and the clawed fingers slashing deep into Ransome’s belly, and then he’d freed both spurs and Ransome was falling, still with the look of surprise frozen on his face.

“Kill him,” Damian Chrestil said instinctively, and Cella cried, “No!” Her voice rode through Damian’s, checking security’s immediate response. Ivie glanced back over his shoulder, flat face blank in shock and confusion, and ji‑Imbaoa stepped back from Ransome’s body, holding up his bloody spurs in an oddly fastidious gesture.

“I am not under your jurisdiction. He was min‑hao. This was between my honor and him.”

Damian hesitated, knowing that the moment for action had already passed–had maybe never happened, the Visiting Speaker had been so quick in his attack. “Self‑defense,” he said anyway, and ji‑Imbaoa shook his head.