Burning Bright

Storm: The Chrestil-Brisch Summer House,

the Barrier Hills

Damian Chrestil watched the net symbols fade and then the flicker of lights and symbols as the communications console shut itself down. It was the best he could do— not very good, he acknowledged silently, but at least he would be able to salvage something from the mess. And I won’t have to deal with ji-Imbaoa anymore. He turned away from the machine, did his best to ignore Ransome, watching with his sly smile from the sidelines, and beckoned to Ivie. The flat-faced man came over quickly, his hands still curled in his pockets, caressing at least one weapon.

“Na Damian?”

Ivie was well trained, Damian thought sourly, but no one was well trained enough to keep from sounding just a little uncertain about this situation. “Escort the Visiting Speaker into the game room,” he said. “And take his people with him. Be sure you search the jericho-human, though.”

“A pleasure,” Ivie answered, and turned away. He sounded confident enough once he’d been given something definite to do, Damian thought, and touched his remote to summon the drinks cart. He busied himself with its contents, careful to keep it and himself out of the way of Ivie’s people, and saw without really looking that Cella and Ransome were being equally cautious. Cella stood well apart from the rest, still with a drink untasted in her hand, her expression remotely interested, as though she were watching someone else’s Game. Damian read disapproval in her face, and looked away from it. On the far wall, the weather screen flickered soundlessly, showing the storm from various perspectives. He could hear the wind even through the heavy shutters, a numbing, constant wail that rose and fell monotonously. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Ivie say something to the Visiting Speaker, too soft and polite to be heard. Ji-Imbaoa tossed his head angrily, turning away as though he would have preferred to ignore the security specialist, and Damian Chrestil braced himself to intervene. Then, abruptly, ji-Imbaoa’s resistance vanished; he made a curt gesture of agreement, and followed Ivie toward the door. Two of the guards followed, polite but obtrusive in their armed presence. The rest stayed behind, the thin woman still with her palmgun drawn and leveled at Magill. There was a little pause, and then Magill shook his head, and lifted his hands, surrendering to a search. At the woman’s gesture, he and the hsaia secretary moved slowly toward the door.

“Neatly done,” Ransome said. He was still smiling, but the expression was less sly, more conscious of his own failures.

Damian Chrestil ignored the irony, said, “Thank you.” He was very aware of Cella’s lifted eyebrow, and went on almost at random, “Make yourself comfortable.”

“Consider myself a guest?” Ransome asked.

“If you must.”

“Chauvelin will be grateful.” Ransome pushed himself up off the arm of the chair, moved slowly across the room to stare at the weather screen. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance of getting back into the city.”

“I wouldn’t send my people out in this,” Damian answered with some asperity. “You’ll have to wait it out with the rest of us.”

Ransome nodded, his attention still on the screen. Cella set her drink aside very precisely, and came to stand between Damian and the other man, so close that Damian could smell the faint sweetness of her perfume.

“May we talk, Damiano?”

The very reasonableness of her tone was a warning of sorts. “Of course,” Damian said, and moved back into the corner of the room, far enough away from the screen that an ordinary speaking voice would not be overheard. He leaned against the side of one of the heavy chairs, still not quite willing to turn his back on Ransome, and Cella leaned close, her hip against his knee, one hand on the chair, just brushing against his thigh. They would look intimate from a distance, Damian knew, and wished for a fleeting instant that that was all she wanted.

“Are you going to go through with this?” Cella asked. She kept her voice down, but the anger was perfectly clear under the conversational surface.

Damian Chrestil eyed her for a moment, biting back his answering anger— all the more unreasonable because I know what you’re really saying, that I backed down, that I let Chauvelin win—and said, “It’s the best bet, Cella. Better odds than anything else.”

“Changing horses is never a good bet,” Cella answered. “The Visiting Speaker’s still got power, why not stick with him? Why the hell go with Chauvelin?” She glanced over her shoulder, a quick, betraying tilt of the head toward Ransome, still staring at the screen. “And him?”

“For God’s sake, Cella,” Damian said. “Because ji-Imbaoa is unreliable, and because Chauvelin’s winning right now.”