Burning Bright

Damian hesitated, knowing that the moment for action had already passed—had maybe never happened, the Visiting Speaker had been so quick in his attack. “Self-defense,” he said anyway, and ji-Imbaoa shook his head.

“Who would believe it? All the witnesses are yours.”

“Na Damian?” Ivie asked.

Ransome was none of mine. I would have sold him before. And I don’t know what to do. Damian said, “Cossi—?” The pilot had some medical training, he remembered.

Cossi slid the useless blackjack—her only weapon, Damian guessed—back into her pocket with a look almost of embarrassment, and went to kneel beside Ransome’s body. She turned him over gently, long fingers probing at the wounds. Damian Chrestil winced and looked away. The pilot shook her head.

“Not a chance. Not even at the city hospitals.”

I didn’t think there was. Damian took a deep breath, looked back at the Visiting Speaker. “No,” he said aloud, “it’s not my jurisdiction. But it is Na Chauvelin’s, and I expect—I’m certain—he will handle this appropriately. In the meantime—” He looked at Ivie. “Find someplace small, secure, no windows. Lock him in there, and keep him there until we hand him over to the ambassador.”

Ivie nodded. “There’s a storeroom that will do.” He gestured to his people, who moved warily toward the Visiting Speaker, guns drawn.

Ji-Imbaoa looked at them, gestured disdainfully with his bloody hands. “This has nothing to do with you,” he said, and one of Ivie’s men hissed at the contempt in the hsaia’s voice. “I have no quarrel with you.”

“Go with them, then,” Damian Chrestil said, well aware of the edge of fury still in his voice, and ji-Imbaoa nodded with maddening calm.

“I will do so.”

Ivie’s people still circled the hsaia, and Damian wished, fiercely, futilely, that he would try something, anything, that would give Ivie an excuse to act.

“This way,” Ivie said, and gestured with the muzzle of his palmgun. Ji-Imbaoa nodded again, and followed him from the room.

Damian looked back at Ransome’s body, sprawled now on its back in a pool of blood— not as much as I’d expected, but then, I guess he died quick—empty eyes staring up at the ceiling. Cossi saw him looking, and reached across to close the imagist’s eyes.

“What do you want me to do with him, Na Damian?” she asked.

I don’t know. Very God, I have to tell Chauvelin. Damian Chrestil took a deep breath, still staring at Ransome’s body. Not an hour ago we were in bed together—not an hour ago he was fucking me. The room smelled of blood and shit. “Leave him for now,” he began, and Cella spoke softly.

“What about one of the upstairs rooms?”

Damian looked at her blankly for a moment, then, in spite of himself, in spite of everything, smiled. “Well, he would’ve appreciated the irony.” He looked at Cossi. “Yes, take him upstairs—get one of Ivie’s people to help you. And then get a housekeeper running, get that cleaned up.”

“Right, Na Damian,” Cossi said.

And I will speak with Chauvelin. Damian took a deep breath, bracing himself. Ransome dead isn’t so bad, it’s how he died, and where—that he died in my house when I’d made a deal with Chauvelin to keep him safe. The question now is, can I persuade Chauvelin that I didn’t do it, that I didn’t break our deal? And is there any way I can persuade him to turn this death to his advantage? He shook his head, sighing. Anyone but Ransome, that might have worked, but not when it was Chauvelin’s lover. Very God, I haven’t even thought of Lioe. He pushed the thought away. One thing at a time, he told himself, and turned to the communications console.

Day 2

Storm: The Hsai Ambassador’s House,

in the Ghetto, Landing Isle Above

Old City North