Carnival

“They’ll fight to keep New Amazonia free. We can explain the rest afterward,” Kyoto said. Determination squared her. She unfolded her hands and let them drop against her thighs, the right one hovering close to her holster. “And, if you wouldn’t mind putting the rest of the lecture on hold for a minute, Miss Katherinessen, we have company.”

Vincent had caught the motion in his fisheye, and was already putting his back to the wall. Someone walked toward them, a tripled shadow cast by multiple light sources splayed on the pavement before her. The unfastened safety snap bounced against her holster and her hair caught blond and crimson and fuchsia highlights off the domed street lights lining the walls of the half‑empty square. A big animal–a khir–stood beside her, the angular silhouette also casting three long shadows that interlocked with the woman’s.

“You shouldn’t raise your voice so, Miss Katherinessen,” Lesa said, pausing, her thumb resting on the butt of her weapon. “It’s unseemly to shout.”

He slid his arm off Elder Kyoto’s shoulder and stepped back with a sigh. Kyoto glanced at him and he shrugged. He didn’t say it, but he didn’t think you’d have to be a superperceiver to read the I told you soin the twist of his mouth. “Miss Pretoria,” he said. “Welcome to the party. Is Robert coming?”

Lesa let her hand drift away from her holster as she came forward, but didn’t fix the snap. Kyoto hadn’t unbonded her honor; it wouldn’t slow her down much, if she opened fire–but probably enough. Considering how people treated Lesa when she had a weapon in her hand.

“I don’t know,” Lesa said. She stepped under the arch, into the shadows, and Walter trotted beside her, fluffed up and cheerful. “You’d have to ask his true mistress.” She tilted her head, frowning at Kyoto under the fall of her hair, and lowered her voice. “In between plotting treason in the streets. Where’s Kusanagi‑Jones, Vincent?”

“Keeping busy with a little industrial espionage. You leave Angelo to me. That’s not negotiable.”

Kyoto glared for a moment before she nodded. “All right,” she said. “Vincent. You are authorized to deal for your mother.”

“Full authority,” he said. “New Earth, too.”

Kyoto nodded and turned to Lesa. “Then we’ll join forces. One good Coalition deserves another.”

“Mother won’t like it.”

“I’ll handle your mother.” And now Kyoto’s hand dropped to her gun butt. Vincent stiffened, ready to grab her wrist and trust to his wardrobe to save him, but all she did was stroke a thumb across the snap, assuring herself that it was closed.

Lesa snorted, but she echoed the gesture, causing a click. “I’d like to see that. Who else do you have in Pretoria house?”

“Nobody,” Kyoto said. Vincent believed her; he glanced at Lesa to see what shethought. He was still half convinced that Kyoto was a Liar. Or the next best thing.

Lesa was nibbling her lower lip, leaning forward aggressively as if completely oblivious that she was facing down her superior officer. “Then where’s Robert tonight?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Robert left the Blue Rooms somehow. He’s gone.”

Vincent had rarely seen somebody’s mouth actually drop open. Kyoto’s did, and stayed down for seconds while she thought it over. “I’m sorry,” she said at last. “I have no idea.”

“Shit,” Lesa said. She thumbed her watch and turned slightly away, as people did for politeness when taking remote calls. Her eyes unfocused slightly. “Agnes? Yes. Sweetie, I’m sorry…we have a fairly serious problem.”

“When you’re done with that,” Vincent said, “I’ll need a distraction while I sneak back into my room.”

Kusanagi‑Jones returned to the guest suite half an hour before dawn, walking camouflaged through the door when the security guards knocked to awaken Vincent. He slipped into the bed as Vincent was shaking the covers in an ostensible attempt to awaken him, reabsorbed the ma

“You don’t look very rested,” Vincent said. He walked toward the shower as Kusanagi‑Jones rolled out of bed.

“Somebody’s snoring kept me up,” he said between push‑ups.

“Your own?” Vincent replied.

Kusanagi‑Jones’s eyes were gritty with exhaustion. He wasn’t young enough to shrug off a sleepless night anymore, if he ever had been; he couldn’t remember. He quit at twenty‑five push‑ups and knelt, ducking his head over his wrist as he adjusted his chemistry. A rush of energy swept the cobwebs away, leaving him taut and jittering but awake.

He climbed to his feet and went to join Vincent in the shower. Vincent stepped aside, letting Kusanagi‑Jones have the spray. He lifted his face into the patter of water, fighting the uneasy urge to flinch. He didn’t like it drumming on cheeks and eyelids. “Did you find it?” Vincent asked.

Kusanagi‑Jones stepped out of the water and looked at him before answering the same way. “Found something. I know where the generator is, anyway, though it’s going to be a bigger problem than I want to contemplate getting to it. Disruptingthe power supply, I might manage. At some risk. The point of transmission is guarded. The rest…it’s going to take awhile to explain.” He paused for a breath, and to shake the water off his lashes. “Why are you limping?”

Vincent was lathering himself. His hands were over his face, but Kusanagi‑Jones saw him hesitate. “Am I?”

“Favoring your knee.”

“I must have hit it wrong last night,” Vincent answered, turning into the water to rinse. “It’s sore.”

“Sure picked the right day,” Kusanagi‑Jones answered, as Vincent stepped past him, reaching for a towel. “We’re going to be on our feet every minute.”

14

IT WASN’T QUITE AS BAD AS THAT. THERE WERE CHAIRS AT the breakfast table. Which was fortunate, for by then occasional sharper stabs punctuated the ache in Vincent’s knee. It was manageable, however, with the assistance of the same chemistry that mitigated his sunburn.

Elder Kyoto caught him wincing as they took their seats. “Third day is the worst,” she said.

“Oh, good,” he answered. “Something to look forward to.” Across the table, Michelangelo reached out to press a fingertip to Vincent’s wrist. The heat made him jerk his hand back.

“Remember this,” Angelo said, finishing it with a glower. The sting of the touch wasn’t what made Vincent’s eyes burn.

He looked down hastily, examining what was on offer this morning. Apparently, somebody had alerted the chef to the dietary restrictions of the Coalition agents, because the breakfast options included a kashalike grain, cooked into porridge and served with some sort of legume milk and a sweetener reminiscent of molasses in its sulfury richness.

There were new people at this meal, husbands and wives of dignitaries who hadn’t attended the supper two days previous. Vincent filed all the introductions under mnemonics. The one on his immediate left, however, he suspected he’d have no difficulty recalling: Saide Austin, the artist.

She was an imposing woman. Almost two meters tall and not slight of build, with short, tight‑coiled hair shot through with gray threads like smoke and wide cheeks framing a broad, fleshy nose. Her skin was textured brown, darker around her eyes and paler in the creases between her brows, and her half‑smile reinforced the lines. Heavy silver rings circled several of her fingers, flashing like the mirrors embroidered on her robe.

Her hand was warm where she shook Vincent’s, and she gave him a little pat on the forearm before she let him go. Over her shoulder, he saw Michelangelo frown. Their eye contact was brief, but definite, and the flickering glance that followed ended on Claude Singapore.

So Austin was the one pushing Singapore’s buttons.

“I very much admired your sculpture,” Vincent said.

“Jinga Mbande?”The smile broadened, showing stout white teeth. “Thank you. How do you think your government will feel about touring artists, when negotiations are concluded?”