Burning Bright

“That’s what worries me,” je-Sou’tsian answered. “Only two people, ji-Mao’ana and that jericho-human, Magill.”

The Speaker’s secretary and his head-of-security. Chauvelin sighed. “And that’s all you know?” It was unfair, he knew, and je-Sou’tsian gave him a brief, reproachful glance.

“Sia, I’ve only just found this out. The chief of household only just spoke to me. And naturally I was reluctant to pursue things any further without knowing what you wanted me to do.”

Chauvelin gestured an apology. “I’m sorry, Iameis, you were right.” He paused for a moment, fingers tapping nervously against his thigh. “Still, it’s Carnival. Things happen during Carnival. I think you should make discreet inquiries, Iameis, just to make sure nothing’s happened to him. Check his usual haunts, and the Lockwardens. No need to inquire at the clinics and hospitals yet, they’d‘ve notified me if a stray hsaia was brought in.”

“The Lockwardens?” je-Sou’tsian said.

Chauvelin nodded. “Ask—with discretion, mind you—if there have been any complaints or queries. I just want them to be aware that we are looking for him.” And that way, if I’ve miscalculated, if he’s not working with Damian Chrestil, I’ll have been seen to do my duty in protecting him.

“Very well, Sia, I’ll get on it at once.” Je-Sou’tsian bowed again, and backed toward the door.

“Thank you, Iameis,” Chauvelin said. “You’ve done well.” There was no formal way to respond, but he saw from the sudden movement of her hands, quickly suppressed, that she had heard, and was pleased.

Chauvelin made his way back through the corridors and coiling stairs to his office at the top of the house. The light that streamed in through the curved windows was as milky as the clouds, heavy with the promise of the coming storm. He ignored it, locking the door behind him, touched the shadowscreen to bring up his communications system even before he’d seated himself at the desk, resolutely turning his back on the clouds to the south. A screen lit beneath the desktop; he touched the shadowscreen again, calling the codes that would connect him with Ransome’s loft, and waited for the screen to clear. If anyone could track ji-Imbaoa, it would be Ransome.

The screen stayed blank, the call codes scrolling repeatedly across the base of the screen. Chauvelin let them cycle, waiting, long after he was sure Ransome would not answer. Of all the times for Ransome to be away from his loft… Chauvelin killed that thought, burying his fear with it, and tied his system into the Game nets. Half a dozen Harmsways were playing, but none of them was Ransome. Chauvelin swore again, freed himself from the Game, and touched keys to set up a new program. The communications system would access Ransome’s loft every half hour—he hesitated, then changed the numbers, making it every quarter hour—until someone answered. And that is all I can do. I’ve done everything; now I have to wait. It was not a pleasant thought, and, after a moment, he flipped part of his system back to the Game nets. If nothing else, he could distract himself in their baroque conventions.

Day 2

Storm: Old Field Administration Building,

Newfields, on the Landing Isle by Dry Cut