Burning Bright

Damian made himself look down at his hands to hide his sudden elation. To have ji-Imbaoa, and, more than that, his entire family, indebted to me—in exchange for Ransome. Not much of a trade, an arrogant netwalking imagist—or should that be an image-making netwalker?—for the friendship of an equally arrogant fool. But ji-Imbaoa has powerful relations, they could be very useful to me. I’ve no illusions, Ransome’s no friend of mine, but can I afford to do it? He’s Chauvelin’s client, after all… But if it means connections in HsaioiAn, a deep connection to the je Tsinraan, can I afford not to? He said, slowly, “I can’t give you an answer now. There are practical considerations involved—”

“Chauvelin will not be ambassador much longer,” ji-Imbaoa said. “There is already pressure on the All-Father to remove him from this post.”

And that would make an enormous difference, Damian thought, if it’s true. If Chauvelin were no longer a factor, there’d be no reason not to do it. He had a sudden image of Ransome at Chauvelin’s eve-of-Storm party, sitting on the wall of the garden he had designed, the paths paved with thousands of delicate faces spread out at his feet, a mocking half-smile playing on his lips as he watched the other guests recognize what they were walking on. Not a lovable man, certainly. Brave enough—and I do respect that—but this is a risk you take when you play politics. He nodded slowly, looked back at ji-Imbaoa. “If I can do you this favor,” he said, “I will.”

Day 2

Storm: Transient Hostel #31, The Ghetto,

Landing Isle at the Old City Lift

The Lockwarden pilot set the cab down on the helipad just beyond the lift complex that ran down the cliff face into the Old City, balancing the light machine against the gusting winds. He was obviously skilled, but the ride was rough, and Lioe was glad to be on the ground. The pilot insisted on escorting her to the door of the hostel. Lioe made only a token protest, grateful for his support, and did her best to ignore the concierge’s smirk at her arrival, clothes torn and under Lockwarden escort. The smile turned to a frown of concern when he saw the white patches of selfheal on her face, and he came out from behind the counter to meet her.

“Na Lioe? Are you all right?”

“Na Lioe got mugged,” the Lockwarden said, politely enough, but Lioe found herself wincing a little at the suggestion.

“I’m all right,” she said. “I just need to change clothes.”

“You look like death,” the concierge—Laness, his name was—said, and shook his head. “You go on up to your room, and I’ll send a supply cart. Do you need anything in particular?”

“Something to eat,” Lioe said, and was surprised by the intensity of her hunger. She turned to the Lockwarden. “Thanks for getting me here.”

“No problem,” the pilot said easily, and let himself out.

“You go on up,” Laness said again, “and I’ll send a cart.”