Burning Bright

Damian Chrestil sighed. Clearly the brief truce was over— if you could call it a truce, more like a whole different episode, something out of the Game, completely unrelated to the politics downstairs. It had surprised him, how alike they were in bed. But that was finished. He sat up, letting the blanket slide down to his hips, and then made himself stand up, bracing himself for the other’s acid comment. Ransome was watching, but idly, the blanket drawn up over his shoulder. Damian finished dressing— not too undignified, this time, no scrambling into clothes—and glanced back, curious. Ransome was sitting up now, hunched over a little, one hand pressed against his chest. Even as Damian frowned and opened his mouth to speak, the imagist began to cough. Damian winced at the sound, harsh and painful even over the noise of the wind.

Ransome waved him away, got his breathing under control with an effort that seemed even more painful than the cough.

“Are you all right?” Damian asked, and did his best to keep his tone neutral. Of course he’s not all right. But that’s the only thing I can ask.

Ransome nodded, took a careful breath, and when he spoke, his voice sounded almost normal. “I’ll be fine. Your thugs took my medicines, though.”

“You left them,” Damian said, and after a moment Ransome nodded, conceding.

“Whatever.”

“Shall I have someone bring them to you?” Damian asked.

Ransome shook his head. “I’ll be all right.” He still didn’t move, and Damian watched him warily, until at last the other man straightened. Damian Chrestil turned away, heading down the darkened hall to the stairs.

The lights of the main room seemed very bright after the darkened upper level, and he stood for a moment in the doorway to let his eyes adjust. The Visiting Speaker was back, sitting in a chair by the weather screen, a service cart drawn close beside him. Even as Damian saw him, and frowned, ji-Imbaoa rose to his feet and went to peer into the screen, the false-color image tinting his grey skin. Ivie said something to one of the men, and came quickly to join his employer.

“I’m sorry, Na Damian, but it seemed best to separate him from his security. And Na Cella’s been keeping an eye on him.”

Damian nodded slowly, accepting the logic of the statement. “Good enough. But watch him.”

“He seems—calmer—now,” Ivie said. “Na Cella’s been talking to him.”

Damian nodded again. Cella was sitting a little apart from the Visiting Speaker, just outside the loose ring of Ivie’s security, but as he caught her eye, she rose to her feet and came to join them, smiling gently. I just hope she’s over her snit. “Thanks, Almarin. He looks—at least resigned.”

Ivie nodded and turned away, accepting his dismissal. Cella said, “He still thinks he has a hand to play.”

“Pity he’s in the wrong game,” Damian said, and was pleased to see Cella’s smile widen briefly.

“Maybe so. But I thought I should tell you.”

“Thanks.” There was a sound in the doorway behind him, and Damian turned to see Ransome making his entrance, jerkin thrown loose over one shoulder. As he moved past into the room, Damian could hear the faint rattle of his breathing. He smiled at Cella, knowing, confident, but his eyes slid away instantly, looking for the red-painted cylinder.

“Over there?” Cella said, and pointed to a table against the wall just beyond the weather screen.

Ransome nodded, and started toward it, brushing past the nearest of Ivie’s people. He had to pass quite close to the Visiting Speaker, who was still staring at something in the weather screen, and as he did, ji-Imbaoa turned suddenly into him, uncovered wrist spur striking for his throat. Damian saw the look of shocked surprise on Ransome’s face as he lifted one arm in an instinctive, futile counter, and then the spur sliced into and past the imagist’s wrist, hooking him like a fish through the cords of his neck. Ji-Imbaoa struck again before the other could pull free, the second spur and the clawed fingers slashing deep into Ransome’s belly, and then he’d freed both spurs and Ransome was falling, still with the look of surprise frozen on his face.

“Kill him,” Damian Chrestil said instinctively, and Cella cried, “No!” Her voice rode through Damian’s, checking security’s immediate response. Ivie glanced back over his shoulder, flat face blank in shock and confusion, and ji-Imbaoa stepped back from Ransome’s body, holding up his bloody spurs in an oddly fastidious gesture.

“I am not under your jurisdiction. He was min-hao. This was between my honor and him.”