Burning Bright

“The je Tsinraan have the power at court,” Cella said. “I know that, I did the research for you. They’re going to win in the long term, not the tzu line. You should stick with them.”

“It’s a little late for that.”

“I could persuade him,” Cella said. “I could tell him it was a bluff—”

“ Sha-mai!” Damian Chrestil pushed her away, pushed himself up off the chair in a single motion, heedless of Ransome’s frankly curious stare. “Look, Cella, I’ve told you what I’m doing, which is more than is really your business. You’re very good at the Game, but this is reality. This is what I am going to do—this is the only thing I can do, the only way I can keep even this much—and I don’t need your baroque variations to complicate it.” He took a deep breath, regained his composure with an effort. “If you want to help out, yes, by all means, keep the Visiting Speaker happy. But stay out of my politics.”

Cella looked at him, her face stiff and hard as a Carnival mask, her careful makeup bright as paint against a sudden angry pallor. “I can—keep him happy—if that’s what you want, yes.”

“I don’t really give a fuck,” Damian Chrestil answered, and turned away.

“Certainly, Na Damian,” Cella said, with the sweet subservience that never failed to infuriate him, and swept away toward the door.

Ransome watched without seeming to do so, all too aware of the tone if not all the words of the conversation. It was the losers who watched and listened like this, prisoners, servants, houta… Well, I’ve been all of those, and born canalli besides. He fixed his attention on the screen as Cella stalked past him and disappeared into the hallway. I can’t say I’m sorry she’s been taken down a peg or two.

In the screen, waves rose and beat against the wet black metal of the storm barriers, the image dimmed and distorted by the blowing rain and the drops that ran down the camera’s hooded lens. It shivered now and then, as the wind shook the shielded emplacement. The first line of barriers was almost engulfed, foam boiling against and over it; the second and third, farther up the channel, were more visible, but a steady swell still pounded against them. Ransome watched impassively, remembering what conditions would be like on the Inland Water. Even with all the barriers up, the water would be rough—the Lockwardens would have to let some of the tides through, or risk damage to the generators that powered the city and, if things got bad enough, to the barriers themselves—and the water level would be rising along the smaller canals. He had grown up on a lowlying edge of the Homestead Island District, could remember struggling with his parents to get the valuables out to higher ground without any of the neighbors finding out that they had anything worth stealing; remembered how they had piled what they couldn’t carry onto the shelves that ran below the ceilings, hoping that the roof would stay intact and the water wouldn’t rise too high. And hoping, too, that the overworked Lockwardens from the local station would remember to keep an eye on the block. He glanced at the controls, touched a key to superimpose the chronometer reading on the screen: still almost an hour to actual sunset, but the image in the screen was already as dark as early evening. The winds were high, but steady for now: all in all, he thought, not a bad time for looting. There would be a few bad boys in the Dry Cut and Homestead who would be risking it.

“Where’s that from, Warden’s East?” Damian Chrestil asked. He had come up so silently that the other hadn’t been aware of his presence until he spoke.

“I think so,” Ransome answered, and found himself glad of the distraction. He glanced sideways, saw the younger man still scowling faintly, not all the marks of ill temper smoothed away. Still pissed at Cella, he thought. And I can’t say I blame him.

Damian Chrestil slipped a hand into his pocket, obviously reaching for a remote, and a moment later the image in the screen vanished, to be replaced by a false-color overview of the storm itself. Distinct bands of cloud curved across the city, outlined in dotted black lines beneath the flaring reds and yellows of the storm; more bands were visible to the south, but there was still no sign of the eye.

“Heading right for us,” Damian Chrestil said.

“We should be here some hours,” Ransome agreed, and had to raise his voice a little to be heard over the noise of the rain. Something thudded heavily against the shutters, and they both glanced toward the source of the sound, Damian Chrestil vividly alert for a second before he’d identified and dismissed the noise.

“Not too many trees around here, I hope,” Ransome said, with delicate malice, and Damian’s mouth twisted into a wry smile.