Carnival

Ninety minutes later, Vincent, Lesa, and Michelangelo met Claude, Maiju, and another woman at the challenge square. It was otherwise empty, and Claude and her people had beaten them there and stood, waiting, not far from the center of the open court. Saide Austin was nowhere in sight, and Michelangelo couldn’t decide if he found that expected or surprising. New Amazonian dueling apparently didn’t bow to such niceties as seconds; other than the men she dueled for, Lesa went alone.

She limped in stiff boots that were the next best thing to braces, and she had refused Michelangelo’s offer of an analgesic. “I’d rather suffer than be slow.”

She’d gotten Agnes to cut the trigger guard off an old weapon for her, and wrapped the grip in cloth so that if her palm seeped through the sealant it wouldn’t slick the gun.

Michelangelo wished he thought it would be enough.

Even across the intervening distance, he saw Claude’s chin go up when Lesa rose, wobbling, out of the groundcar. Michelangelo offered his arm, but she brushed past with stubborn pride. Claude didn’t say a word, although the glance she exchanged with her wife said everything.

Michelangelo squeezed Lesa’s shoulder before he let her stagger forward alone. She flashed him an ashen grin and went, trying to stride but hobbling, and Claude’s retinue withdrew.

The duelists would meet at the center of the square. Alone. They would pace off ten steps, turn, and fire.

One shot only.

Which explained why more New Amazonian women didn’t die over a point of honor. Of course, most of them probably wouldn’t bother prosecuting a case as thickheaded as this one unless they had an ulterior motive–like Claude’s.

Michelangelo didn’t react or step back when Vincent laid a hand on his uninjured shoulder and squeezed. The least he could do was refuse to look down.

Lesa was halfway across the square when Antonia Kyoto stepped from an open doorway, flanked by Shafaqat Delhi and two other uniformed security agents, and called out her name. Lesa dragged to a halt, turning slowly, as if it took a moment for the cry to penetrate her awareness. And then Kyoto came toward her, the women fa

Lesa never even reached for her weapon. She let Kyoto take her elbow and lean close to speak into her ear. And whatever Kyoto said, Lesa responded first by shaking her head and then drawing back, startled, and glancing at Claude.

Claude, faced by two security agents herself, did drop her hand to her weapon. If she ever actually intended to shoot, the gesture came too late, because Shafaqat grabbed her arm and dragged it behind her, and the next time Michelangelo paused to think, he was moving, and Vincent had him by the elbow and wasn’t trying to slow him down.

Lesa and Kyoto reached Claude before they did, about the same time as Maiju and the other woman were intercepted by more uniformed women. Hands were waved and voices raised, though Michelangelo didn’t hear all the conversation. That muttering grew louder when Claude’s gestures and Kyoto’s determined head shaking grew more vehement, and cracked into silence when Lesa turned and gestured Michelangelo over.

He came to her, hiding his limp, Vincent still at his side. “Yes?”

“Claude,” Lesa said without looking at him, “would like to know if you’re willing to accept a vaccine for the virus in return for keeping the existence of the laboratory secret.”

He hid his shock with the old reflexive skill, but couldn’t resist a glance at Kyoto. She winked, but not so Claude would see it, and from Vincent’s sudden tension the answer must be in her face, but Michelangelo couldn’t read it.

He could act, though. He dropped his gaze from Kyoto’s to the pavement in front of his toes and made a show of thinking about it, and then he smiled, looked Claude in the eye, and lightly shook his head. “Don’t think so.”

He almost felt bad for enjoying it so much until Lesa’s hand snuck out and squeezed his own.

“It was good work,” Elena said, and Lesa smiled under the praise despite herself. She wouldn’t go so far as to call it a victory party, but she, Vincent and Michelangelo–whom she could no longer think of as the Coalition agents–Antonia and Elena were seated comfortably around the demolished remains of a very good supper, and even Michelangelo looked halfway relaxed. Very relaxed, for a man going to his execution.

But Lesa wasn’t going to think about that tonight. “So,” she said, when Antonia finally pushed her dessert plate away, “how did you find the lab?”

Elena enjoyed playing hostess. She was already filling a coffee cup, which Antonia accepted gratefully. “Old‑fashioned investigative work,” she said. “We pulled House’s records of everywhere Saide Austin had been for the past six weeks, and found out that she’d checked out a rifle and taken a three‑day hike right before Carnival. We sent out tracking teams, located where the aircar met her, and used satellite imagery to track it to the base. We actually knew last night, but it was more fun to arrest Claude in her moment of triumph.”

Lesa caught herself shaking her head in a

“Just an old warrior,” she answered, and blew across her coffee cup, but her eyes twinkled over it. “There’s no guarantee we’ll be able to hold Claude for any length of time, of course–or Saide either. They have enough political resources to weasel out of it, I’m afraid–though the scandal should at least clear them out of Parliament.”

Elena coughed lightly. “You might want to search Austin’s studio,” she said with a casual smile. “While you have probable cause and might stand a chance of getting a warrant.”

Antonia blinked at Elena while Lesa bit her lip, watching her mother the way a khir kit watches a fexa. “Oh?” Antonia said.

“You never know,” Elena said. “You might find contraband.”

Saide Austin’s public shock when the stolen statue was discovered concealed under a tarpaulin, among her waste marble, might have been convincing under other circumstances. But given the furor already surrounding her links to the genetic engineering scandal, even her reputation was not enough to weather the storm unscathed.

Her eventual jail sentence, however, was somewhat lighter than Claude Singapore’s.

When it came down to it, it wasn’t the New Amazonian’s virus that was the problem. It was Kii. Getting it to Earth and with it, its promise to eradicate the Governors.

Those on Kaiwo Maruwere easy. The ones on Earth, and the Coalition worlds, and infesting the starships that traveled between them were another issue entirely. As was ensuring that Kii got to Earth intact and protected.

Michelangelo had never had a fight with Vincent that beganto match that one. Vincent began adamant: Michelangelo was to go AWOL, go native on New Amazonia. With Antonia Kyoto as the heir apparent to the prime minister’s chair–once, of course, the unpleasant business of Claude Singapore’s impeachment and prosecution had gone forward–he would be safe there, even a valued member of Kyoto’s team. And with the remnants of the Right Hand still eluding sweeps in the jungle, he would have no trouble keeping busy. Meanwhile, Vincent would hand‑carry Kii’s data bomb back to Earth.

It was a beautiful plan, and completely unworkable. So Michelangelo had kissed him, and called him a fool. “My patron can see to it that I get a show trial to end all show trials,” Michelangelo said. “A hearing before the Cabinet. They’ll download my watch, Vincent, and the details of this mission will be presented as part of the evidence.”