Carnival

At the gallery, Vincent attempted to assist with the unloading and the decisions on what would be displayed and where, but there were burly men with laborer’s licenses and handcarts and floatcarts for the former, and Michelangelo and Miss Ouagadougou for the latter. And Miss Ouagadougou finally clucked at Vincent and told him that he might as well go for a walk, because he was more in the way than she wanted.

He’d thought he might find a quiet corner and go over his notes from the last day, and attempt to present the appearance of a serious diplomat, but half an hour’s restless flipping through the information on his watch and trying not to distract Michelangelo left him pacing irritably in the anteroom. His focus was compromised. It wasn’t just the variations in gravity, daylight, and atmospheric balance, or the unfamiliar food–in fact, New Amazonia’s oxygen‑rich air was a vast improvement over New Earth’s, to choose a world not particularly at random. He was as accustomed to those things as he was to the slightly folksy Colonial Christian persona he’d been using on Lesa all morning. Adaptation was his stock in trade.

No, he had mission jitters like a first‑timer, aftermath of what he’d just set in motion, and the fact that it was now out of his control. With luck, Robert would see the message in the chip into the right hands, the ones who could decodeit. With luck, they would get a message back to him, and the alliance he’d come to broker–the one in contravention of his supposed OECC loyalties, the one that could allow Ur, New Amazonia, and several other outlying colonies to resist repatriation and governance–could become reality. He might even learn who Katherine Lexasdaughter’s opposite numbers were, if they trusted him enough to arrange a face‑to‑face introduction.

Which they had to if this was going to work. Because the assurances and promises he carried weren’t recorded anywhere except in his head, and he wouldn’t commit them to anyone else.

It was out of his hands, in other words. And there was little Vincent cared for less than trusting to luck.

And the jitters were compounded by standing here, looking at Michelangelo bent in close, professional conversation with Miss Ouagadougou, remembering the smoothness of his skin, the tingle of their wardrobes meshing–

Stop it. He turned away and padded through the other, still‑empty chambers of the museum. One of the security detail detached herself and followed at a respectful distance. Vincent checked his stride to allow her to catch up, folded his hands behind his back, and turned. The chalky surface of the floor felt soft and slick under the balls of his feet. He wondered if the Amazonians ever used carpets or mats, or only bare floors and ubiquitous carpetplant.

The agent was another tall woman, broad‑shouldered and muscular, with a beaked nose, arched eyebrows over dark eyes, and coarse‑grained skin. “I’m sorry, Miss–”

“Delhi.” She didn’t quite smile, but she was thinking about it. “Shafaqat Delhi, Miss Katherinessen.”

“Vincent,” he said. “If I may call you…Shafaqat?”

And there went the smile. She had broad lips, small teeth, very white. A radiant smile. “What’s your pleasure, Vincent?”

No stumble. Much more comfortable with him than Miss Pretoria was. But then, also not personally responsible for the success of negotiations. Vincent had no illusions who would be the sacrifice if the whole careful structure of half‑truths and unmade promises came down on the New Amazonian’s ears.

She still might benefit from revolution. Vincent wanted to see the remnant technology remain in humancontrol, not that of the Governors. At least the Governors’ directive of ecological balance kept their powers in check. But he could envision a Coalition in which those limits did not apply. One in which further growth of the species was allowed, within limits, but every human was fitted not just with a watch, but with an entire series of governor‑controlled utility fogs. It wasn’t the most reassuring concept of the future he’d ever entertained.

And the human government, the Colonial Cabinet, was worse. The Governors were unconcerned with one’s mores,as long as one didn’t reproduce illegally or steal energy, though they’d enforce Coalition laws. God granted Adam and Eve free will and the first damned thing they did with it was find the nearest snake and hand it back.

The agent looked vaguely concerned. “Vincent?”

“I beg your pardon,” he said. “You asked my pleasure.”

“Within my professional capacity, of course.” There was definitely a flirtatious edge on that smile. He might have lost his mind but at least he hadn’t lost his charm.

“Miss Ouagadougou suggested that it might be all right for us to do a little exploring, as long as it wasn’t unaccompanied.” He waved backhanded the way they’d come. Miss Ouagadougou’s laugh followed Michelangelo’s reassuring rumble, their voices echoing from high arched spaces so reverberation obscured the words. “Would you do me the honor of escort?”

She laughed, and he thought he saw respect shade her expression at his willingness to venture out in spite of the threat. And that was important, too; he was sure now that he needed to show himself fearless if he wanted to be in a position to bring these women into an alliance with Ur.

Shafaqat said, “What a delightful invitation. Although I am detailed to protect you. You could have just told me where you wanted to go. It’s Carnival. You should get to play a little.”

“But that isn’t as much fun.”

“I’ll let them know we’re going,” Shafaqat said. “And find out what time your partner wants you home.”

8

WHEN SHE DISCOVERED THAT SHAFAQAT AND MISS Katherinessen were going for a walk, Lesa opted to join them. They left Miss Ouagadougou so enamored of her task that the abandonment barely drew a grunt. Miss Kusanagi‑Jones was less sanguine about the unescorted trip, arguing with Katherinessen in low tones. His unease didn’t seem assuaged by Lesa’s comment that she was capable of squiring Vincent undamaged through the streets, even on the first of Carnival.

As they returned through the galleries, Lesa noticed that Katherinessen was stealing surreptitious sideways glances, and she got the impression that he was looking for some evidence of the fate of the Colonial marines who had died here.

There wasn’t any. House wouldn’t permit lingering damage–and whatever damage there had been, had been from the marines’ weapons. The ghosts didn’t leave scorched or melted walls.

They paused on the carpetplant in the antechamber so that Lesa could slip into her boots, Katherinessen could adjust his wardrobe, and they could both retrieve their hats. The Coalition diplomats seemed to have adapted to the need to keep the sun off their heads. Which was more than she could say for Robert. Lesa could no more keep a hat on him than on their daughter.

Shafaqat seemed relieved to be part of the expedition, although Lesa was aware that the agent bore a certain healthy respect for herself. And that as they stepped outside, she was hovering protectively close to Katherinessen and not to Lesa.

At least, nothing in her ma

“Carnival.” He ticked his fingernails along the lattice. “I’m familiar with a Christian holiday of the same name–”

“We celebrate it in honor of the Gaian Principle,” Lesa said. “Ten days of party before the summer fast of Contemplation. Not a complete fast,” she hastened to add, as Katherinessen turned to her, lips parting. “But we make a point of a bit of spiritual cleansing and contemplation.”