Damian Chrestil nodded. “I’m sorry,” he said again.

Chauvelin said, “I’ll keep our bargain, Damian. But it’s because I want the Visiting Speaker.”

Damian nodded again. “I accept that.” He looked away briefly, made himself look back at the screen. “I’ve not yet spoken to Na Lioe, I don’t know how she’ll take it.”

“I’ll talk to her,” Chauvelin said.

“Are you sure?” Damian asked, involuntarily.

“Our goals were the same,” Chauvelin said. “I think our interests still run parallel.”

Damian Chrestil flinched. “Very well,” he said, and reached for the cut‑off button.

“One more thing,” Chauvelin said, and the younger man stopped, his hand on the key. “I want I‑Jay’s body. I’ll send some of my household for it when the storm lifts.”

“Of course,” Damian answered, almost gently, and it was Chauvelin who cut the connection.

He stood for a long moment staring at the desktop, at the letter that no longer had any significance because Ransome was dead. I knew I would outlive him. I didn’t think it would be so soon. Even bringing down the je Tsinraan isn’t worth this. He turned away from the desktop and went to the drinks cabinet, poured himself a glass of the harsh local rum, not bothering with any of the mixers. He drank deeply, barely tasting the alcohol, put the glass aside before he could be tempted to finish the bottle. Oh, God, I know I can live without him. It’s just–at the very worst, I wish it had been at my choice.

He moved slowly back to the desktop, touched keys to connect himself to the main communications system. He called up the familiar codes– Ransome’s codes, the codes to Ransome’s loft–and swore when the familiar message flickered across the screen: SYSTEMS ENGAGED, PLEASE TRY AGAIN.

“Override,” he said harshly, and a few seconds later the screen cleared. Lioe’s beautiful, strong‑boned face looked out at him.

“What the hell do you want?” she began, and her frown deepened when she recognized the ambassador. “Na Chauvelin?”

“I have bad news,” Chauvelin said, and knew he had not been able to hide the pain in his voice. “I‑Jay–Ransome’s dead.”

“Oh, God.” There was a long silence, Lioe’s face utterly beautiful in its blank shock, and then, quite suddenly, the mask shattered into fury. “What the hell happened, did Damian Chrestil kill him? I’ll murder the son of a bitch myself–”

“No.” Chauvelin did not raise his voice, but she stopped abruptly, the mask reasserting itself.

“So what did happen?” she asked, after a moment.

Chauvelin swallowed hard, suddenly unwilling to speak, as though to tell the story would make it truly real. That was superstition, shock, stupidity, and he put the thought aside, went on, steadily now, “Ji‑Imbaoa–the Visiting Speaker–killed him. They were old enemies, and Ransome got too close to him.”

“The hsaia at your party,” Lioe said.

“That’s right.”

Lioe closed her eyes for a moment, and when she opened them again, Chauvelin could see the tears. “Ah, sa,” she said, her voice breaking. “He wouldn’t‘ve been so careless.”

“Wouldn’t he?” Chauvelin said, in spite of himself, heard the bitter laughter that was close to tears in his own voice.

“Yes,” Lioe said, after a moment. “He would.”

There was another, longer silence between them, broken only by the howl of the wind. Chauvelin wished for an instant that he could wail with it, but hsai training prevailed. He stared at Lioe’s face in the screen, wondering again just what Ransome had seen in her. Not sex, certainly, she’s not his type for that. Surely not just the Game? He meant it when he said the Game was a dead end, useless. He said she was too good for the Game, wasted on it. I wonder if he’s persuaded her of that? I suppose that’s one last thing I can do, give her the chance to do something more.

“What now?” Lioe said, softly. “I–we had a deal, Ambassador, you and I and Damian Chrestil.”

“The deal holds,” Chauvelin said. “At least as far as I’m concerned. Ji‑Imbaoa falls under hsai jurisdiction, my jurisdiction. He asked for it, in fact.”

There was a note of satisfaction in his voice in spite of himself, and Lioe nodded.

“As for the rest of it,” Chauvelin went on, “I’m I‑Jay’s next of kin, the rest of his family’s dead.” He took a quick breath, spoke before the full pain of it could hit him. “I’m willing to let you have the loft and its contents, tapes and equipment. No one else has a claim on them. As part of the deal we made.” He made himself go on without emotion. “He would want that.”

“Ah.” Lioe’s voice held a note of pain that Chauvelin suddenly resented. He frowned, searching for the necessary rebuke, and Lioe went on, her voice under tight control again.

“All right. I’ll keep my end of the bargain.”

Good. “Agreed,” Chauvelin said, and cut the connection. He stood for a moment, staring at the desktop, then touched icons to close the letter that still waited for transcription. There would have to be another letter–another letter that in some ways carried better news to the Remembrancer‑Duke, a bigger scandal, one that would devastate the je Tsinraan–but he couldn’t face that now. He turned away to lean against the shuttered window, feeling the force of the wind even through the spun shielding. The price of this victory is very high. He slammed his hand flat against the shutter, already impatient with his own grief. He was dying anyway. This was quicker, maybe kinder–but I will miss him. That was all the epitaph he could promise anyone, even Ransome. He made a face, and went back to the drinks cabinet, reaching for the rum.

Day 2

Storm: The Chrestil‑Brisch Summer House,

the Barrier Hills

A weather screen was flickering soundlessly in the corner, the display showing the bands of clouds curving now from northeast to southwest. The winds had shifted too, and the clattering of the rain against the house was softer, less insistent. Damian Chrestil sat alone in the tiny office space, the desktop open in front of him, a small black box lying on top of the displays. The lights beneath it, shining up through the clear screen, made it look as though it was floating on a haze of blued light. Damian stared at it, not touching it or the rolled tool kit that lay beside it, too tired to do more than look for a long moment. Then, sighing, he reached for the tool kit, unrolled it, and extracted a slim hook. He worked quickly, prying open the case of the desktop’s datanode–not hooked up at the moment–then fanning the stacked chips until he found the delicate nest of wires. He separated out the ones he wanted, the power feed, the direct‑on‑line lead, the one that fed the data to an implanted data socket, spliced the black box into them. It had been a long time since he’d done that kind of work, but it was easy enough; the skills came back quickly, like running a john‑boat along the Inland Water. He eased everything, wires, box, the stacked chips, back into the cavity, and fitted the cover carefully back into place. There was room and to spare in the old‑fashioned fitting.

Moving more slowly now, he rerolled the tool kit, and slipped it back into his pocket. He glanced then at the chronometer, its numbers discreetly displayed above the open file: almost midnight, and the storm would be ending soon. Already, the winds had dropped enough to allow the Lockwardens to send out the first of the emergency repair crews, heavy‑duty flyers headed for the lighter barriers west of Factory Island and Roche’Ambroise, where the news services reported some minor damage, another team headed for Plug Island to check the generators there. In another hour or two, they could leave the summer house.

He flicked a switch, reconnecting the datanode to the main system, but did not touch the waiting cord. Instead, he ran his finger over icons on the desktop, tying in to the house systems, and touched a private code. A few seconds later, a telltale lit in the monitor bar, and he said, “Cella? I need to talk to you. I’m in my office.”