Burning Bright

“One moment, please.”

“He’s there?” Roscha demanded, and Lioe shrugged.

“He seems to be–” She broke off as the handset clicked, flipping over to the new co

“Chauvelin.”

The voice was familiar from the ambassador’s party, low and crisp, with only a hint of the hsai accent. Lioe froze, not knowing what to say, what she should do, and Chauvelin said, “Na Lioe?”

“I’m sorry to have bothered you, Ambassador,” she said. “I–I was looking for Ransome, he said he might be with you.” Maybe that wasn’t the best phrasing, she thought, but it’s the best I could do on short notice. Things must be bad, if Chauvelin himself is talking to me.

“I’ve been looking for Ransome myself,” Chauvelin said. “Are you at his loft?”

There was a certainty in his voice that made Lioe think the call had been traced. “Yes.” No point in lying: even if he hasn’t traced it yet, he will.

“Has he been there, do you know?”

“I don’t know,” Lioe said. It was a safe answer; better still, it was the truth. “Is there anything wrong?”

There was a little pause, just enough to make her sure he was lying. “No, not at all. But I would like to talk to him as soon as he returns.”

“I’ll tell him that,” Lioe said, and waited.

“It’s important,” Chauvelin said. There was another pause, barely more than a hesitation, and then the ambassador went on, “I was expecting a message from him. Did he leave anything for me?”

Lioe shook her head, then remembered it was a voice‑only line. “Not that I’ve seen.” She glanced quickly at the console, double‑checking the messages displayed on the screen. “No, nothing.” She hesitated herself, wondering how much she could say, then said, “I was expecting to find him here. I’m a little–concerned.”

“So am I.” She could almost hear a kind of wry smile in Chauvelin’s voice. “If you hear from him, please tell him to contact me.”

“I’ll do that,” Lioe said, and broke the co

“So what happened?” Roscha asked.

Lioe shrugged, looked back at the massive console, at the symbols and codestrings filling the screens. “Ransome isn’t there, as you heard, and Chauvelin badly wants to talk to him.”

“That doesn’t sound good,” Roscha said. “What about hospitals, or the Lockwardens?”

“I bet Chauvelin’s already done that,” Lioe said, “but it couldn’t hurt to check again.” Or could it? What if he wants to keep this quiet? She shoved the thought away. “How are you on the nets?”

Roscha shrugged. “Good enough to find that out, anyway.”

In spite of everything, Lioe gri

Roscha reached for the handset. “All right.”

One screen winked out, slaved to the handset; Lioe ignored its absence, stared at the routing codes displayed on her workboard. She was still learning her way around Burning Bright’s nets, but this sequence looked straightforward enough. The header codes indicated a secure node, but the numbers following should be the owner’s own codes. She ran her hands over the shadowscreen, recalling the main directory, and set the system sca

“Nothing at any of the hospitals,” Roscha said, and came to peer over her shoulder. “But a friend of mine at C/B Cie. says Na Damian’s gone off with a hsaia–it was somebody important, he said, so it could be the Visiting Speaker–and Almarin Ivie, he’s head of security, has been sent off to look at something at the family’s summer house.”

“Look at this,” Lioe said. She gestured to the screen, heard the repressed excitement in her own voice. “Damn it, how did he get all of this?” The outline was complete– maybe a little iffy in courtroom eyes, especially when so much of it was gathered netwalking, but certainly enough to use. Enough to blackmail Damian Chrestil with, and enough to make Damian Chrestil willing to do–what? Kill him? She pushed the thought away. That seemed the least likely result, if only because a well‑known body would be hard to explain, and Chauvelin would be likely to ask awkward questions. But certainly to keep him out of action for a few days. Especially since Damian seemed to be ready to transfer the lachesi to its new “owners.”

“So Na Damian was smuggling lachesi for clients of ji‑Imbaoa’s,” Roscha said, slowly. “I think I worked that pickup.”

“I brought it in,” Lioe said. “Damn, that’s why we had bungee‑gars on board. I didn’t think red‑carpet was worth that much trouble.”

Roscha laughed softly. “What a fucking mess. Na Damian is going to be really pissed when he realizes we know what’s going on.”

“I think he already is,” Lioe said, and touched the patches of selfheal starring her face. “That has to be what this was all about.” He was willing to kill me, too–not eager, so I suppose I should be grateful, but willing. She shivered, looked over her shoulder in spite of herself toward the shuttered window and the locked door. Which means we need some kind of a defense, and not just physical. “You said Damian Chrestil went off with the Visiting Speaker?”

“It looks like it,” Roscha said. “And if N’Ivie’s at the family summer house, then I bet that’s where Ransome is. It’s remote enough to keep somebody out of circulation for a while. Especially with the storm.”

Lioe nodded, aware for the first time of the steady slap of rain against the shutters. Every so often, a stronger gust smacked against them, a sharp sound like a handful of nails thrown against the metal plates. “All right,” she said. “How safe are we here?”

Roscha shrugged. “Na Damian has plenty of people in the port,” she said. “If he wants–well, if he doesn’t care about publicity, we’re not safe at all.”

“How much do you think he cares about publicity?”

“I don’t know.” Roscha looked back at the screen, at the careful outline. “If that’s what’s been going on, it could mean the governorship. I wouldn’t care a whole lot, in his shoes.”

Lioe nodded at the answer she had expected. “Do me a favor, make sure everything’s locked, as secure as you can make it. And see if Ransome owns any weaponry.”

“All right,” Roscha said, and sounded faintly dubious. “But–”

Lioe looked back at the chair, Ransome’s working space inert, invisible around it. “I’ve got an idea,” she said. “And if it works, we shouldn’t need guns.”

Day 2

Storm: The Chrestil‑Brisch Summer House,

the Barrier Hills

Ransome waited in the sunken main room, staring at the glass of wine that stood untouched on the table beside him. His back ached with the effort of holding himself relaxed and easy against the chair’s thick cushions; he was aware, painfully aware, of the rising noise of the rain and the murmuring conversations among the Chrestil‑Brisch thugs standing by the display console. He was equally aware of the woman who held her palmgun with the comfortable stance of the expert, but kept his eyes away from her. The wind howled outside the shutters, and he wondered when the storm would hit its peak. Not that the storm was much of an advantage, but at least it limited their actions as much as his. And I bet I know what favor ji‑Imbaoa wants. Chauvelin warned me I shouldn’t push him. The only question is, will Damian Chrestil sell me out? Ransome smiled then, put the glass to his lips to cover the expression. And why shouldn’t he? If he wins–and he’s wi