Burning Bright

“Because, as you say, your reputation is your business.” Ransome looked at her, weighing his next words. His only choices were money or a threat, and he would never have enough money to make it worth her while. “I’m prepared to make sure that your legitimate clients find out about your second job, Selasa. If it comes to that.”

“You’re fucking crazy,” Arduinidi said.

Ransome shook his head. “I want that data.”

“You push it, and I won’t deal with you,” Arduinidi said flatly. “I’ll make damn sure you don’t walk my nets again, make sure no one buys from you, make sure no one deals with you at all. Do you really want to risk it?”

Stalemate, Ransome thought, because she can do it. He hid his despair, said, “Can you afford to risk word getting out that you’re the best data fence on planet?”

Arduinidi sat silent, nothing moving on a face gone suddenly like stone.

“I’m willing to settle for a yes or no,” Ransome said again. “That’s all I need, Selasa. That’s all Chauvelin needs.”

“Hah.” Arduinidi’s mouth twisted, as though she’d tasted something sour. “I should’ve guessed he’d be behind this.” She sighed. “All right. What is it you think you know?”

Ransome took a deep breath, felt congestion drag at the bottom of his lungs. Not now, he thought, and knew he should have expected it. He put that fear aside, knowing he could wait a little longer to breathe the Mist, said, “Damian Chrestil is smuggling something—Oblivion, I think—into HsaioiAn, to receivers on Jericho and Highhopes, and he’s doing it for ji-Imbaoa and the rest of the je Tsinraan, who have the receivers for clients.”

Arduinidi paused for a moment, then, reluctantly, nodded. “Yes. So far as the smuggling goes, that is. I don’t deal in hsai politics.” She gave a short, humorless bark of laughter. “And it’s lachesi, not Oblivion.”

“What’s the difference?” Ransome said.

Arduinidi shook her head. “Lachesi is—mostly—legal, it’s just the spite laws that keep the Republic from exporting it to HsaioiAn. Oblivion is restricted. So Damian Chrestil stays on the good side of general opinion, if not the law.” There was a sneaking note of admiration in her voice.

“I see,” Ransome said, and heard the same note in his own voice. And it would work, too: a lot of the Republican merchants have been lobbying for years to dissolve the spite laws, and wouldn’t feel too bad seeing them broken. “Thanks,” he said, and heard the congestion tightening his voice. “There’s just one more thing—” He pointed to the datanode, eyebrows lifted in question, and was not surprised when Arduinidi shook her head.

“Not from my nodes. I’ve done a lot more than I like, I-Jay, don’t push it.”

Ransome nodded, gave her a rueful smile. “It was worth a try.”

“I hope you think so tomorrow,” Arduinidi said. Ransome looked sharply at her, and she gave him her sweetest smile. “I’m pissed at you, Ransome. Remember that.”

“I expect I’ll be in no danger of forgetting,” Ransome said, and Arduinidi nodded.

“I’d be careful, if I were you.”

“Thanks a lot,” Ransome said. Behind him, the door slid open; he turned and left the office, aware of her eyes on his back the whole while. He paused for a second in the outer office, glancing wistfully at the secretary pillar, but red lights glowed all around the base of the data drives, warning him from trying to make contact. He made a face, even though he’d expected it, and the outer door swung open, ushering him out of the office.

He made his way back through the hallways toward the main stairs—not the elevator today, not if Damian Chrestil’s people were feeling desperate enough to risk attacking a warehouse factor in broad daylight; there was too much chance of being caught in a closed space, with no room left to run. Which really brings up the next question, he thought. What do I do now? The main thing now was to get the information, his own reconstruction of Damian Chrestil’s plan, to Chauvelin; once that was done, Chauvelin could be counted on to deal with Damian Chrestil. It sounded simple enough, and he paused in a corner to chord the last bit of information, Arduinidi’s confirmation, into his datablock. The little machine chirped softly, confirming the record, and he smiled wryly. However, contacting Chauvelin could prove difficult.