Roscha looked at her for a long moment, then nodded, appeased. Lioe nodded back, and reached into the control space to turn the images to herself. For a moment, she saw Roscha webbed in the Game shapes, tangled with the visible templates, and then the images sharpened, and she turned her attention to the double task of ending the old Game and creating the new.
Day 2
Storm: The Chrestil‑Brisch Summer House,
the Barrier Hills
The room was dark and chill under the eaves, the roof and walls trembling under the lash of the wind. Damian Chrestil burrowed close to Ransome’s warmth, dragging the found blanket up over his shoulders, and wondered if it was time to leave. In the darkness Ransome’s face was little more than a pale blur, but he could guess at the expression, sleepy and sated, and suspected that it matched his own. Something, not a solid object, just the wind itself, slammed the side of the house with a noise like a great drum. Damian winced, and felt Ransome shift against him, startled by the sound.
“Perhaps a downstairs room would have been wiser.”
Damian shrugged, the coarse cloth of the mattress cover rasping against his shoulders. “But not nearly as private.”
Even in the dark, he could see Ransome’s grin. “Since when did you care about discretion, Na Damian?”
Damian Chrestil sighed. Clearly the brief truce was over– if you could call it a truce, more like a whole different episode, something out of the Game, completely unrelated to the politics downstairs. It had surprised him, how alike they were in bed. But that was finished. He sat up, letting the blanket slide down to his hips, and then made himself stand up, bracing himself for the other’s acid comment. Ransome was watching, but idly, the blanket drawn up over his shoulder. Damian finished dressing– not too undignified, this time, no scrambling into clothes–and glanced back, curious. Ransome was sitting up now, hunched over a little, one hand pressed against his chest. Even as Damian frowned and opened his mouth to speak, the imagist began to cough. Damian winced at the sound, harsh and painful even over the noise of the wind.
Ransome waved him away, got his breathing under control with an effort that seemed even more painful than the cough.
“Are you all right?” Damian asked, and did his best to keep his tone neutral. Of course he’s not all right. But that’s the only thing I can ask.
Ransome nodded, took a careful breath, and when he spoke, his voice sounded almost normal. “I’ll be fine. Your thugs took my medicines, though.”
“You left them,” Damian said, and after a moment Ransome nodded, conceding.
“Whatever.”
“Shall I have someone bring them to you?” Damian asked.
Ransome shook his head. “I’ll be all right.” He still didn’t move, and Damian watched him warily, until at last the other man straightened. Damian Chrestil turned away, heading down the darkened hall to the stairs.
The lights of the main room seemed very bright after the darkened upper level, and he stood for a moment in the doorway to let his eyes adjust. The Visiting Speaker was back, sitting in a chair by the weather screen, a service cart drawn close beside him. Even as Damian saw him, and frowned, ji‑Imbaoa rose to his feet and went to peer into the screen, the false‑color image tinting his grey skin. Ivie said something to one of the men, and came quickly to join his employer.
“I’m sorry, Na Damian, but it seemed best to separate him from his security. And Na Cella’s been keeping an eye on him.”
Damian nodded slowly, accepting the logic of the statement. “Good enough. But watch him.”
“He seems–calmer–now,” Ivie said. “Na Cella’s been talking to him.”
Damian nodded again. Cella was sitting a little apart from the Visiting Speaker, just outside the loose ring of Ivie’s security, but as he caught her eye, she rose to her feet and came to join them, smiling gently. I just hope she’s over her snit. “Thanks, Almarin. He looks–at least resigned.”
Ivie nodded and turned away, accepting his dismissal. Cella said, “He still thinks he has a hand to play.”
“Pity he’s in the wrong game,” Damian said, and was pleased to see Cella’s smile widen briefly.
“Maybe so. But I thought I should tell you.”
“Thanks.” There was a sound in the doorway behind him, and Damian turned to see Ransome making his entrance, jerkin thrown loose over one shoulder. As he moved past into the room, Damian could hear the faint rattle of his breathing. He smiled at Cella, knowing, confident, but his eyes slid away instantly, looking for the red‑painted cylinder.
“Over there?” Cella said, and pointed to a table against the wall just beyond the weather screen.
Ransome nodded, and started toward it, brushing past the nearest of Ivie’s people. He had to pass quite close to the Visiting Speaker, who was still staring at something in the weather screen, and as he did, ji‑Imbaoa turned suddenly into him, uncovered wrist spur striking for his throat. Damian saw the look of shocked surprise on Ransome’s face as he lifted one arm in an instinctive, futile counter, and then the spur sliced into and past the imagist’s wrist, hooking him like a fish through the cords of his neck. Ji‑Imbaoa struck again before the other could pull free, the second spur and the clawed fingers slashing deep into Ransome’s belly, and then he’d freed both spurs and Ransome was falling, still with the look of surprise frozen on his face.
“Kill him,” Damian Chrestil said instinctively, and Cella cried, “No!” Her voice rode through Damian’s, checking security’s immediate response. Ivie glanced back over his shoulder, flat face blank in shock and confusion, and ji‑Imbaoa stepped back from Ransome’s body, holding up his bloody spurs in an oddly fastidious gesture.
“I am not under your jurisdiction. He was min‑hao. This was between my honor and him.”
Damian hesitated, knowing that the moment for action had already passed–had maybe never happened, the Visiting Speaker had been so quick in his attack. “Self‑defense,” he said anyway, and ji‑Imbaoa shook his head.
“Who would believe it? All the witnesses are yours.”
“Na Damian?” Ivie asked.
Ransome was none of mine. I would have sold him before. And I don’t know what to do. Damian said, “Cossi–?” The pilot had some medical training, he remembered.
Cossi slid the useless blackjack–her only weapon, Damian guessed–back into her pocket with a look almost of embarrassment, and went to kneel beside Ransome’s body. She turned him over gently, long fingers probing at the wounds. Damian Chrestil winced and looked away. The pilot shook her head.
“Not a chance. Not even at the city hospitals.”
I didn’t think there was. Damian took a deep breath, looked back at the Visiting Speaker. “No,” he said aloud, “it’s not my jurisdiction. But it is Na Chauvelin’s, and I expect–I’m certain–he will handle this appropriately. In the meantime–” He looked at Ivie. “Find someplace small, secure, no windows. Lock him in there, and keep him there until we hand him over to the ambassador.”
Ivie nodded. “There’s a storeroom that will do.” He gestured to his people, who moved warily toward the Visiting Speaker, guns drawn.
Ji‑Imbaoa looked at them, gestured disdainfully with his bloody hands. “This has nothing to do with you,” he said, and one of Ivie’s men hissed at the contempt in the hsaia’s voice. “I have no quarrel with you.”
“Go with them, then,” Damian Chrestil said, well aware of the edge of fury still in his voice, and ji‑Imbaoa nodded with maddening calm.
“I will do so.”
Ivie’s people still circled the hsaia, and Damian wished, fiercely, futilely, that he would try something, anything, that would give Ivie an excuse to act.
“This way,” Ivie said, and gestured with the muzzle of his palmgun. Ji‑Imbaoa nodded again, and followed him from the room.
Damian looked back at Ransome’s body, sprawled now on its back in a pool of blood– not as much as I’d expected, but then, I guess he died quick�
��empty eyes staring up at the ceiling. Cossi saw him looking, and reached across to close the imagist’s eyes.
“What do you want me to do with him, Na Damian?” she asked.
I don’t know. Very God, I have to tell Chauvelin. Damian Chrestil took a deep breath, still staring at Ransome’s body. Not an hour ago we were in bed together–not an hour ago he was fucking me. The room smelled of blood and shit. “Leave him for now,” he began, and Cella spoke softly.
“What about one of the upstairs rooms?”
Damian looked at her blankly for a moment, then, in spite of himself, in spite of everything, smiled. “Well, he would’ve appreciated the irony.” He looked at Cossi. “Yes, take him upstairs–get one of Ivie’s people to help you. And then get a housekeeper running, get that cleaned up.”
“Right, Na Damian,” Cossi said.
And I will speak with Chauvelin. Damian took a deep breath, bracing himself. Ransome dead isn’t so bad, it’s how he died, and where–that he died in my house when I’d made a deal with Chauvelin to keep him safe. The question now is, can I persuade Chauvelin that I didn’t do it, that I didn’t break our deal? And is there any way I can persuade him to turn this death to his advantage? He shook his head, sighing. Anyone but Ransome, that might have worked, but not when it was Chauvelin’s lover. Very God, I haven’t even thought of Lioe. He pushed the thought away. One thing at a time, he told himself, and turned to the communications console.
Day 2
Storm: The Hsai Ambassador’s House,
in the Ghetto, Landing Isle Above
Old City North
Chauvelin had come away from the windows when the wind got bad, waited now in one of the smaller rooms that overlooked the gardens, his back to the shuttered windows and the storm. The walls, dark red trimmed with gold, gleamed in the warm light; he could not feel the household generators whirring on standby through the thick carpet, but a glance at the monitor board told him they were ready should city power fail. He glanced away, took a few restless steps toward the door and then back again to the desk, looking down at the files glowing in the display surfaces. The first draft of his formal letter to the Remembrancer‑Duke waited in the main screen, ready to be transcribed into n‑jaoscript, but he could not make himself concentrate on its careful phrases. Damian Chrestil had given him the excuse he had needed to break ji‑Imbaoa’s power. If he and the Remembrancer‑Duke played the game right, the incident could have effects as far away as Hsiamai and the All‑Father’s court itself. At the very least, the je Tsinraan would lose face over this, a Speaker for the court embroiled in common commerce, tripped up by a smuggling scheme: a more than acceptable outcome. And that didn’t take into account the effects on Burning Bright itself. Chauvelin smiled, savoring the double victory. At the very least, Damian Chrestil would not become governor in the next elections, nor the ones after that; at best, he would never be governor, and the tzu Tsinraan would not have to contend with an ally of the je Tsinraan in control of Burning Bright. And I may still be able to keep some hold over Damian Chrestil, even after all of this is over. That would be the best of all.
A chime sounded in the desktop, and he reached to answer it, touching the flashing icons. “Yes?”
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Sia,” je‑Sou’tsian said, “but it’s Na Damian. He says it’s urgent.”
“Put him through,” Chauvelin said, and felt the fear cold in his stomach. Something’s gone wrong–The picture took shape in the desktop, blotting out the open files, and Damian Chrestil looked out at him, his face strained and white.
“N’Ambassador.”
“What’s happened?” Chauvelin asked, suspecting already, dreading the answer. In the screen behind Damian Chrestil, out‑of‑focus shapes bent over another shape crumpled on the floor.
“I’m sorry,” Damian Chrestil said. “Ransome’s dead.”
I knew it. Chauvelin bit back anger, the instinct that would have had him calling out the garrisons on Iaryo, on Hsiamai, to launch the missile strike that would obliterate the summer house and everyone, everything, in it… “How?”
“The Visiting Speaker,” Damian said baldly. He was telling it badly, and he knew it. “He attacked him. Ransome went past him, to get his medicine, and the Speaker attacked him. He was killed almost instantly.”
“Like hell,” Chauvelin said. “I‑Jay wasn’t that stupid, he would never have gone within reach–” But he might have, the cold voice of logic whispered at the back of his mind. Ransome never did fully appreciate just how much that clan line hated him. And he always underestimated ji‑Imbaoa.
“It was none of my doing,” Damian Chrestil said.
Chauvelin looked at him for a long moment, recognizing the truth of his words in the shocked look on the younger man’s face. I‑Jay’s dead. “Where’s ji‑Imbaoa?”
“Locked in the cellar.” Damian Chrestil managed a strained, mirthless grin, gone almost as quickly as it had appeared. “I’m sorry, Chauvelin. He claimed your jurisdiction.”
Chauvelin made a noise that might at another time have been a bark of laughter. “What a fool.” He paused then, considering, the habit of cold calculation carrying him through in spite of himself. There was nothing he could do for Ransome, and nothing more Ransome could do for him, except that in his death he would bring down ji‑Imbaoa and most of the je Tsinraan with him. Ji‑Imbaoa had overstepped himself. Even under the old codes that the je Tsinraan professed to believe in, this killing, this murder, cut across too many kinship lines, impinged on his, Chauvelin’s, rights as Ransome’s patron and lover. “Fool,” he said again, not sure if he was thinking of ji‑Imbaoa or Ransome or himself, and made himself focus on Damian Chrestil, white‑faced in the screen’s projection. “Hold him for me. He claims hsai law, he’ll get it.”
Damian Chrestil nodded. “I’m sorry,” he said again.
Chauvelin said, “I’ll keep our bargain, Damian. But it’s because I want the Visiting Speaker.”
Damian nodded again. “I accept that.” He looked away briefly, made himself look back at the screen. “I’ve not yet spoken to Na Lioe, I don’t know how she’ll take it.”
“I’ll talk to her,” Chauvelin said.
“Are you sure?” Damian asked, involuntarily.
“Our goals were the same,” Chauvelin said. “I think our interests still run parallel.”
Damian Chrestil flinched. “Very well,” he said, and reached for the cut‑off button.
“One more thing,” Chauvelin said, and the younger man stopped, his hand on the key. “I want I‑Jay’s body. I’ll send some of my household for it when the storm lifts.”
“Of course,” Damian answered, almost gently, and it was Chauvelin who cut the connection.
He stood for a long moment staring at the desktop, at the letter that no longer had any significance because Ransome was dead. I knew I would outlive him. I didn’t think it would be so soon. Even bringing down the je Tsinraan isn’t worth this. He turned away from the desktop and went to the drinks cabinet, poured himself a glass of the harsh local rum, not bothering with any of the mixers. He drank deeply, barely tasting the alcohol, put the glass aside before he could be tempted to finish the bottle. Oh, God, I know I can live without him. It’s just–at the very worst, I wish it had been at my choice.
He moved slowly back to the desktop, touched keys to connect himself to the main communications system. He called up the familiar codes– Ransome’s codes, the codes to Ransome’s loft–and swore when the familiar message flickered across the screen: SYSTEMS ENGAGED, PLEASE TRY AGAIN.
“Override,” he said harshly, and a few seconds later the screen cleared. Lioe’s beautiful, strong‑boned face looked out at him.
“What the hell do you want?” she began, and her frown deepened when she recognized the ambassador. “Na Chauvelin?”
“I have bad news,” Chauvelin said, and knew he had not been able to hide the pain in his voice. “I‑Jay–Ransome’s dead.”
�
��Oh, God.” There was a long silence, Lioe’s face utterly beautiful in its blank shock, and then, quite suddenly, the mask shattered into fury. “What the hell happened, did Damian Chrestil kill him? I’ll murder the son of a bitch myself–”
“No.” Chauvelin did not raise his voice, but she stopped abruptly, the mask reasserting itself.
“So what did happen?” she asked, after a moment.
Chauvelin swallowed hard, suddenly unwilling to speak, as though to tell the story would make it truly real. That was superstition, shock, stupidity, and he put the thought aside, went on, steadily now, “Ji‑Imbaoa–the Visiting Speaker–killed him. They were old enemies, and Ransome got too close to him.”
“The hsaia at your party,” Lioe said.
“That’s right.”
Lioe closed her eyes for a moment, and when she opened them again, Chauvelin could see the tears. “Ah, sa,” she said, her voice breaking. “He wouldn’t‘ve been so careless.”
“Wouldn’t he?” Chauvelin said, in spite of himself, heard the bitter laughter that was close to tears in his own voice.
“Yes,” Lioe said, after a moment. “He would.”
There was another, longer silence between them, broken only by the howl of the wind. Chauvelin wished for an instant that he could wail with it, but hsai training prevailed. He stared at Lioe’s face in the screen, wondering again just what Ransome had seen in her. Not sex, certainly, she’s not his type for that. Surely not just the Game? He meant it when he said the Game was a dead end, useless. He said she was too good for the Game, wasted on it. I wonder if he’s persuaded her of that? I suppose that’s one last thing I can do, give her the chance to do something more.
“What now?” Lioe said, softly. “I–we had a deal, Ambassador, you and I and Damian Chrestil.”
“The deal holds,” Chauvelin said. “At least as far as I’m concerned. Ji‑Imbaoa falls under hsai jurisdiction, my jurisdiction. He asked for it, in fact.”
There was a note of satisfaction in his voice in spite of himself, and Lioe nodded.
“As for the rest of it,” Chauvelin went on, “I’m I‑Jay’s next of kin, the rest of his family’s dead.” He took a quick breath, spoke before the full pain of it could hit him. “I’m willing to let you have the loft and its contents, tapes and equipment. No one else has a claim on them. As part of the deal we made.” He made himself go on without emotion. “He would want that.”
Burning Bright Page 35
