Carnival

“I’m sure they’d welcome them,” Vincent said. He slid his spoon into the porridge and cut a bite‑sized portion against the edge of the bowl. “I’m surprised you’d be willing to send New Amazonian art to Old Earth, though, after–”

“The Six Weeks War?” She spooned honey into her tea. He looked away. “Isn’t the Coalition bent on showing goodwill?”

“Your countrywomen aren’t all so sanguine,” he answered.

She shrugged and drank. “What did you expect? I’m not sanguine either. But I’m prepared.”

Vincent nodded, reaching for his own tea. Yes. This was the person the Coalition meant him to deal with, the one who could bargain without ru

So why was she wasting his time?

Across the table, Michelangelo was drinking coffee, apparently engrossed in conversation with Miss Ouagadougou, but he was listening. Vincent suppressed that twinge again, half guilt and half anticipation. “I’ve heard a rumor,” he said, “that your voice is one of the respected ones urging dйtente. We’re grateful.”

She sipped her tea, set it down–aligning the cup and saucer carefully with the cream pitcher–and lifted a forkful of scrambled eggs into her mouth. Vincent waited while she chewed and swallowed. “How would the Coalition react if New Amazonia opened itself to limited immigration?” she asked, as if idly. “There must be women on Old Earth who would come–”

It was possible she was trying to see if he would startle, or how he would react. It was possible the offer–with all its attendant benefits and problems–was genuine. He could see half a dozen ways it could be politically or idealistically motivated. In any case, he’d been expecting some sort of dramatic maneuver, and he managed to neither bite his tongue nor drop his spoon. “I think they’d be very interested,” he said. “It might help relieve population pressures a great deal.”

“Of course, it would be unlikely that the government would allow them to import Old Earth technology.” She touched his sleeve, rubbing the fog between finger and thumb. “They’d be homesteading. Any men would live under New Amazonian law.”

“Of course.” He put the spoon down and leaned back, turning to face her. Suddenly, he wasn’t all that hungry. “This wouldn’t substitute for negotiations regarding the exchange of technology for the remaining unrepatriated art, though.”

“Why not?” She finished her tea, the resinous scent of her perfume wafting from her clothes as she moved. “We’d be giving the Colonial Coalition something it desperately needs–”

“Because,” Vincent said, “you benefit as much as we do. You’re having genetic issues, of course.”

Her fingers rippled on the table. She watched them beat three times, then let go a held breath and nodded. “Not yet.”

“But soon.”

“We do not permit genetic manipulation.”

“Indeed,” Vincent said. “In a closed population, that’s likely to cause problems. Especially if the radiation exposure your colonists suffered in transit was anything like what we contended with on Ur.”

“You’re a clever bastard, Vincent Katherinessen,” she said, and lifted her fork again.

He matched the gesture. “It’s what I do.”

As the breakfast reception ended, Lesa made her way around the table to collect Katherinessen, leaving Kusanagi‑Jones looking slightly trapped under Elder Montevideo’s care.

She waited while Katherinessen courteously ended his conversation with Elder Austin and turned before she offered her hand. He shook it lightly and followed as she led toward the door. “Robert?” he asked quietly.

“No sign. We reported him as a runaway. Anything else was too much risk.” She’d been proud of how level her voice was, but it didn’t spare her Vincent’s glance of sympathy.

“Are we ready for the ceremony, then?”

“Claude and Elder Austin will be on their way down shortly. But I thought you and Miss Kusanagi‑Jones would appreciate a trip to the washroom beforehand,” she said. “House has the stage set up, and there’s quite a crowd.”

“You’d expect everybody would be too hung over.”

As easily as he read her suppressed grief, she picked up the tension under his flip reply. “Penthesileans pride themselves on never being too hung over for a party,” she answered. She lowered her voice and leaned in, as if making an off‑color comment in his ear. “Any problem with your partner?”

“Not at all,” he answered, turning to wink. “I’m afraid he didn’t get any rest, though.”

“Miss Katherinessen, you’re a very bad man.”

“I know,” he answered. “Isn’t it grand?”

Lesa caught Kusanagi‑Jones’s attention and he fell into step as they slipped through the crowd milling by the door. Two security agents–Shafaqat and someone new–joined them as they entered the hall, and waited with Lesa during a brief pause outside a lavatory. When the males rejoined her, they both looked ineffably fresher. Lesa resisted a brief pang of jealousy. The wardrobes were indeed nice technology, but who would want to pay the price?

The sun barely crested the rooftops as they reached the square. Three more security agents joined them as they stepped outside, and Lesa noticed that not only did Vincent know how to move with them–close as a shadow, his body always partially obscured by theirs–but that Kusanagi‑Jones fell into the pattern as flawlessly as a stone into a ring, covering both Katherinessen and Lesa herself. The crowd parted to let them pass, and to Lesa’s trained eye, Vincent’s unease at the situation lay open. He concealed it from everyone else, smiling and waving graciously, shaking whatever hand was offered, while Kusanagi‑Jones exhibited a grim stoicism that probably masked painful worry.

Lesa guessed that on Old Earth, an emissary would never be suffered to come in such close contact with crowds. If the mind of the mob were to decide it wanted Vincent Katherinessen dead, he would be, though the cost in New Amazonian life might be stu

The populace wouldn’t tolerate any deal they felt was made in secrecy. And if Pretoria house was going to succeed, especially with the added complication of something as unpopular as Parity in the soup, Lesa needed the people comfortable with, even fond of, Katherinessen. He’d have to take the risk, even in the wake of the attempted abduction.

They climbed the stairs to the stage and took their seats. House had provided several rows of chairs for the occasion, along with a canopy to offer shade and some protection from the inevitable afternoon squall, if proceedings lasted that long.

Except for Shafaqat, security fell away as they climbed. The rest of the detail lingered near the foot of the stage or mingled with the crowd. And Lesa, drawing a deep breath, looked down at her hands and composed herself as Claude Singapore and Maiju Montevideo, Saide Austin, Antonia Kyoto, Nkechi Ouagadougou, and four pairs of artists and dignitaries chosen to represent other settlements passed through the crowd in their own ring of security, pausing to exchange small talk and shake hands with those who came forward. “When they come up,” Lesa said, in case her charges didn’t know, “you’ll rise and shake hands with them.”

“Of course,” Kusanagi‑Jones said, the left‑hand corner of his mouth twisting up. “What else’d we do?”

“You could always break somebody’s neck,” Lesa answered. “Do you take recommendations?”

Kusanagi‑Jones turned to check before he was certain she was smiling at him. It was a small, tight smile, such that he wondered at the subtext, but a secondary peek at Vincent yielded no further information.