Burning Bright

“No word yet on the second guest,” Ivie said softly as Damian approached, and stood aside from the door.

“You can give me the details later,” Damian answered, and went past him into the house. He could feel the floor trembling under his feet, and knew that the household generators were already at speed, ready to cut in when the power grid went down.

The others were waiting in the main room, the glass that formed the viewing wall now covered by heavy wood and steel shutters. Damian paused at the top of the short stairs, blinking in the unexpectedly warm light of a dozen hastily placed standing lamps. He had never been in the house during Storm, had never seen the shutters from the inside, the almost-black panels cutting off the view. It was an alien, disorienting sight. One of Ivie’s people had set up a pair of service trays and activated a mobile bar, and most of the group, four men and a pair of women, were clustered either by the food or in front of the communications console. The largest of the screens was tuned to the weather station, and Damian caught a quick glimpse of a redscreen report before one of the women moved, cutting off his view. Ransome sat a little apart from the others in one of the large armchairs, leaning back, a glass of deep amber wine on the table beside him. He seemed very much at his ease, despite the third woman who stood against the far wall, palmgun in hand, and Damian hid a frown. Then he saw the slight, nervous movement of Ransome’s hand, one finger slowly tracing the lines of the carved-crystal glass, and the way his eyes roved from point to point when he thought no one was looking.

“So,” ji-Imbaoa said, too loudly. “Ransome is here. And your prisoner?”

Ransome smiled, and lifted the glass of wine in ironic salute. “Not a guest, Na Damian?”

Damian came down the last two stairs, ignoring both of them, snapped his fingers to summon the bar. It rolled over to him, wheels digging into the carpet, and he poured himself a glass of raki. “Help yourself, Na Speaker, we’re informal here. Will you see to him and his household, Cella?” He looked at Ransome, barely aware of Cella’s politely murmured answer. “You were becoming an inconvenience, you know. This seemed a—reasonable—way to handle the situation.”

Ransome’s smile widened, became briefly and genuinely amused. “I suppose I should tell you that you won’t get away with this.”

“I don’t see why not,” Damian said, deliberately brutal. “This isn’t the Game.” He had the satisfaction of seeing Ransome flinch.

“Na Damian.” Ji-Imbaoa turned away from the mobile bar, a tall cylinder in one hand. “I have the codes for you, but there is a favor you could do me in return.”

A favor? Damian barely managed to keep himself from raising his eyebrows in sheer disbelief. That is a change of tune, from the hsaia who was trying to bully me into a subordinate position not an hour ago. You only ask favors from your superiors. “If I may,” he said, carefully casual, and gestured toward the door behind him. Shall we talk in private?“

“That might be well,” ji-Imbaoa said.

Damian led the way into the side room, fingering his remote to switch on the lights. Shutters covered the single window, but he could hear the sudden drumming of rain against the walls. He gestured toward the nearest chair—the room was set up as a communications space, with heavy, comfortable chairs and complex machinery lining the walls—and said, “What is this favor?”

Ji-Imbaoa suppressed a gesture, seated himself with a kind of heavy dignity. “Ransome, I would imagine, becomes a liability to you once this is over.”

Damian shook his head. “Not necessarily. He’s a known netwalker, I can prove he’s been stealing information. If he tries to go to the Lockwardens, I can bring an equally strong complaint against him.”

“Still, Chauvelin will know,” ji-Imbaoa said.

“Chauvelin doesn’t like me anyway,” Damian Chrestil said. I wish you’d come to the point.

Ji-Imbaoa looked away, said, as though to empty air, “I might be able to help with the situation.”

I don’t need your help, thank you, Damian thought. He bit his tongue, and waited.

“And it would be doing me a favor.” Ji-Imbaoa said the words reluctantly, almost as though they were being pulled out of him. “There is a matter of face between my family and this Ransome, the matter of an insult which could not be acknowledged then, but is lesser treason now. If you will give him into my custody, we—my kin and I—will be able to settle this. And I, and they, will be in your debt.”