Burning Bright

“Where away?”

“Upstairs,” Lioe answered, and laid the lockbox against the stairway door. It clicked open, and she stepped into the sudden darkness. It smelled odd, sour and rather yeasty, and Roscha made a small noise of disgust.

“Better watch your step.”

“What is it, anyway?” Lioe turned to secure the door behind them. A tiny light came on as she refastened the latch, casting a sickly glow over the landing.

“Someone’s been chewing strawn,” Roscha answered. “There’ll be a cud around here somewhere.”

“What’s strawn?” Lioe started up the stairs, avoiding the shadows.

“It comes out of hsai space, makes you feel very calm,” Roscha answered. Lioe could hear the sudden smile in her voice as she added, “Not something I indulge in much.”

“I guess not.” Lioe paused outside Ransome’s door, fumbling with the lockbox until she found the depressions that released the lock. The lights were out, just as she’d left it, the big window open to the city view. Dark clouds, almost purple, filled the left side of the window; the sky to the right was still only grey. “Ransome?”

There was no answer, and she hadn’t really expected one, but she called his name once more before crossing to the display space. Lights flashed along the base of the main console, signaling at least a dozen messages waiting. She frowned, puzzled now as well as worried, and touched keys to retrieve the latest. A secondary screen lit, displayed a string of hsai n‑jaocharacters. Chauvelin? she wondered, and touched keys again to scroll back to the first message.

“He hasn’t even gotten the shutters down,” Roscha said, and Lioe looked back at her. “If you were looking for Ransome,” Roscha went on, “he hasn’t been here. He’d‘ve put storm shutters up, the way that sky is looking.”

“Damn.” Lioe looked around, saw nothing that looked as though it could cover the enormous window. Her hat was still sitting on the folded bed, and she realized that she had left it behind that morning as well. “Can you take care of it, please?”

“Sure,” Roscha said, sounding slightly surprised, and crossed to the window. She ran her hand along the left‑hand side of the frame until she found an all‑but‑invisible panel. She popped that open, studied the controls for a moment, then turned a dial. There was a shriek from outside the window, unoiled metal reluctant to move, and then the shutters began to lower themselves into place, creaking and groaning along their track.

Lioe reached for the room remote, touched keys to bring up the lights, and then turned her attention back to the messages. The first message in the queue was flashing on the screen: more n’jao characters, she thought, but these looked different from the first ones she’d seen. Frowning now, she split the screen, recalled the last message. Sure enough, the characters were different, forming an entirely different pattern. She knew only a few n’jaoglyphs, mostly trade‑related–like most Republicans, her dealings with the hsai were generally done through a jericho‑human broker, and none of these were familiar.

“Do you know any n’jao?” she asked, and Roscha came to look over her shoulder at the screen.

“A little. I can’t read that, though.”

Lioe glanced back at her, saw the delicate eyebrows draw down into a thoughtful frown.

“Wait a minute, though.” Roscha reached out to touch one tripart character in the first message. “I think that’s the ambassador’s name‑sign. And I think these are repeats–message repeats.” She indicated another set of symbols.

“Chauvelin?” Lioe asked.

“I saw it on a crate once, when we handled some diplomatic shipping out,” Roscha answered. “I’m sure that’s what it is.”

“I’m not surprised,” Lioe muttered. She touched more keys, searching for a main directory, and wished she had had more time to learn Ransome’s idiosyncratic systems.

“Why not?” Roscha asked. “Look, what’s going on?”

“I wish I knew,” Lioe answered. She took a deep breath, made herself look away from the screens crowded with useless information. “What I think is happening–what Ransome said was happening–is that Damian Chrestil and the hsaia Visiting Speaker are probably smuggling something, mainly to get Damian Chrestil some political advantage in HsaioiAn, which he could use here.”

Roscha nodded. “That makes sense. He wants to be governor.”

“Chauvelin and the Visiting Speaker are enemies,” Lioe continued, “members of rival factions–and the Visiting Speaker doesn’t much like Ransome, either–so there’s a hsai dimension to this, too.”

“ Sha‑mai.” Roscha shook her head. “It’s a mess, but it does make sense.”

“I’m glad it makes sense to someone,” Lioe said. She fiddled with the shadowscreen again, found the main directory at last, and ran through it hastily, searching for translation programs. There was only one, and it was really only for transliteration. Ransome certainly speaks tradetalk, and probably a couple of modes of hsai, she thought, but copied the two screens to its working memory anyway. The prompt blinked for a few seconds, and spat strings of letters. She recognized Chauvelin’s name, and, in the second message, a string of numbers that looked like routing codes. She studied those numbers, cocking her head to one side. They were certainly routing codes; in fact, they looked like the kind of codes that gave access to commercial data storage. I wonder what Ransome keeps in that kind of safe space, she thought, and copied the codes to a separate working board.

“I think,” Roscha said slowly, “I think that means that Chauvelin’s been looking for him.” She pointed to the first message, her fingertip hovering just above the screen. “And it looks like it’s been repeated–what’s the time check, anyway?”

Lioe touched keys. “That message has been repeated every quarter hour for four hours. The last one arrived about forty minutes ago.” Does that mean he got the message and is with Chauvelin? she wondered. Or did Chauvelin just give up?

“Do you think he got the message?” Roscha said.

Lioe shook her head. “There’s only one way to find out.” Roscha looked at her, and she smiled wryly. “Call Chauvelin and ask.”

“Yeah, but do you think he’d answer?”

Lioe shrugged. “I’ve no idea.” She reached for the workboard, typed in a string of codes, an inquiry first, to Ransome’s own directories, and then into his storage. To her surprise, the codes to contact the hsai ambassador were held in open storage; she copied them to the communications system, but hesitated, wondering if she should send them. What do I say, anyway? “I’m so sorry to bother you, Ambassador, but is Ransome with you?” How do I explain why I’m calling, if he’s there, without getting him into trouble? More important, what do I say if he’s not? She touched the final key before she could change her mind. I can always just say he told me he might be there. I don’t have to tell a jericho‑human–no, not even a jericho‑human, a conscript, chaoi‑mon– anything of what’s going on. The handset chimed softly, from beside the working chair, and at the same time the secondary screen displayed co

“What the hell?” Roscha said.

“I’m calling the ambassador,” Lioe answered, and crossed to pick up the handset. The green telltale was lit at the base of the set, indicating a machine on the other end of the co

“Hsaie house. May I help you?” A moment later, the voice repeated the same message in tradetalk.

“I’m trying to contact Illario Ransome,” Lioe said.

“Who may I say is calling?”

So he is there. Lioe felt a sudden surge of relief, a kind of deflation, and said, “Qui