Burning Bright

Lioe made her way through the fringes of the crowd that filled one end of Betani Square, pressed as close as possible to the stage where the puppeteers would be performing. It was less crowded by the fountain, but not by much; a dozen or more children in varying degrees of costume were playing on the edges of the three-lobed basin, and several more were splashing in the shallow water, parents—or at least parental-looking figures—watching from the sidelines. There was no sign of Roscha. Lioe scowled— I knew she wouldn’t be able to get away—but walked around the fountain’s edge until she was certain the other woman had not arrived. She looked sideways, poising the chronometer’s numbers against one of the bands of darker stone that crisscrossed the square’s paving, dividing it into diamonds. There were still a few minutes until the show was supposed to start. She sighed, and resigned herself to wait.

A line of bollards marked the square’s legal limits, twenty or thirty of the low mushroom shapes running along a line of dark paving that seemed to mark the top of the short flight of stairs that led down to the canal. A handful of people were sitting there, mostly in ones and twos, some staring toward the distant stage, more looking out toward the water or toward the smaller canal that formed part of the square’s southern edge. Lioe glanced around again, and seated herself on the bollard nearest the fountain. She could see well enough, could see all the likely approaches, from the waterbus stops on the canals or from the nearest helipad, and at least she could be relatively comfortable. Besides, I don’t think she’s coming.

Lioe tugged her jacket closed against the wind. It wasn’t cold, but it had picked up even in the half hour since she’d left Ransome’s loft, was blowing steadily now, from the south and east. The air smelled odd, of salt and thunder, and the children’s shouts fell flat in the heavy air. She glanced over her shoulder toward the mouth of the Inland Water, saw only the housetops on the far side of the canal. The last forecast she had seen had predicted the storm would strike around midnight, and she looked around again for a street broker. To her surprise—the brokers had seemed to be everywhere for a while—there were none of the bright red-and-white umbrellas in sight.

Music sounded from under the stage, distorted by distance and wind and the thick air. Lioe rose to her feet with the others, and saw the first of the puppets move out onto the platform. It was a massive construct, maybe two and a half meters tall, and nearly as broad; fans unfurled from what should have been the shoulders, and a crest of bronze feathers rose from the stylized head. More of the feathers appeared below the fans, and wings parted to reveal several small, white-painted faces. They were set slightly askew, Lioe saw, and jagged cracks ran down their centers, detouring around the long noses. As she watched, the first of them split open, revealing an animal shape too small to recognize. Intrigued, Lioe moved toward the platform, circling south toward the smaller canal, where the crowd was thinner, to try to get a better view. It was a bird, or something with delicate, arching wings and a glittering, peacock-blue body. She edged farther into the crowd as the second face split, revealing what seemed to be a model of the local solar system, and the entire assemblage leaned sideways, elevating the fans and turning the feathered crest into an almost architectural arch. There was a person inside that structure, Lioe realized suddenly, a single human being at the center of the spines and wings and the delicately made creatures; each precisely controlled movement set changes flowing through the puppet’s outer layers. But what did it mean? It was not like any puppet she’d ever seen, or even imagined, and she stood staring, trying to puzzle out a story, some purpose, from the complex metamorphosis.

“Na Lioe?”

The voice was unfamiliar, but polite. She turned to face a thin, plainly dressed man with a plain, unmemorable face.

“It is Na Lioe, isn’t it?”

Lioe nodded. “Yes.” She kept her voice and face discouraging, but the man nodded anyway.

“I thought it must be you. Roscha said you’d be here. She asked me to tell you, she’s running late.” He gestured toward the street that led away from the square, running along the edge of the smaller canal. “She said she’d meet you at the Mad Monkey, instead of here.”

Lioe glanced down the street—the sign was there, all right, a grinning, contorted holoimage dancing above a doorway at the far end of the street, where the canal turned left, away from the street itself—and looked back at the stranger. He was dressed like a docker, all right—dressed much like Roscha herself, for that matter, dockers’ trousers and a plain vest under a loose, unbelted jacket. “When?”