Burning Bright

Good. “Agreed,” Chauvelin said, and cut the connection. He stood for a moment, staring at the desktop, then touched icons to close the letter that still waited for transcription. There would have to be another letter—another letter that in some ways carried better news to the Remembrancer-Duke, a bigger scandal, one that would devastate the je Tsinraan—but he couldn’t face that now. He turned away to lean against the shuttered window, feeling the force of the wind even through the spun shielding. The price of this victory is very high. He slammed his hand flat against the shutter, already impatient with his own grief. He was dying anyway. This was quicker, maybe kinder—but I will miss him. That was all the epitaph he could promise anyone, even Ransome. He made a face, and went back to the drinks cabinet, reaching for the rum.

Day 2

Storm: The Chrestil-Brisch Summer House,

the Barrier Hills

A weather screen was flickering soundlessly in the corner, the display showing the bands of clouds curving now from northeast to southwest. The winds had shifted too, and the clattering of the rain against the house was softer, less insistent. Damian Chrestil sat alone in the tiny office space, the desktop open in front of him, a small black box lying on top of the displays. The lights beneath it, shining up through the clear screen, made it look as though it was floating on a haze of blued light. Damian stared at it, not touching it or the rolled tool kit that lay beside it, too tired to do more than look for a long moment. Then, sighing, he reached for the tool kit, unrolled it, and extracted a slim hook. He worked quickly, prying open the case of the desktop’s datanode—not hooked up at the moment—then fanning the stacked chips until he found the delicate nest of wires. He separated out the ones he wanted, the power feed, the direct-on-line lead, the one that fed the data to an implanted data socket, spliced the black box into them. It had been a long time since he’d done that kind of work, but it was easy enough; the skills came back quickly, like running a john-boat along the Inland Water. He eased everything, wires, box, the stacked chips, back into the cavity, and fitted the cover carefully back into place. There was room and to spare in the old-fashioned fitting.

Moving more slowly now, he rerolled the tool kit, and slipped it back into his pocket. He glanced then at the chronometer, its numbers discreetly displayed above the open file: almost midnight, and the storm would be ending soon. Already, the winds had dropped enough to allow the Lockwardens to send out the first of the emergency repair crews, heavy-duty flyers headed for the lighter barriers west of Factory Island and Roche’Ambroise, where the news services reported some minor damage, another team headed for Plug Island to check the generators there. In another hour or two, they could leave the summer house.

He flicked a switch, reconnecting the datanode to the main system, but did not touch the waiting cord. Instead, he ran his finger over icons on the desktop, tying in to the house systems, and touched a private code. A few seconds later, a telltale lit in the monitor bar, and he said, “Cella? I need to talk to you. I’m in my office.”

There was no answer—probably she wasn’t wearing the jewelry that concealed the transmitter—but a moment later the telltale winked out. Damian Chrestil sighed, and settled himself to wait.

At last, the door slid open almost silently, and Cella peered around its edge. “You wanted me, Damiano?”

Damian nodded. “We need to talk,” he said again.

“Certainly.”

Cella moved easily into the room, seated herself at his gesture on the edge of the desktop. She was still wearing the demure, plain shirt and loose trousers, the creamy blouse improbably neat even after hours of wear. And Ransome’s death. Damian looked down at the open files, not really seeing the crowding symbols. “You set this up,” he said quietly.

Cella blinked once, her face utterly still and remote. “Ransome’s death? No.”

Damian Chrestil leaned back in his chair, too tired to feel much anger at the lie. “You’ve never had so much to say to the Visiting Speaker—to any hsaia—in your life. And the cylinders were moved, not by me, not by Ivie or any of his people. That leaves you.”

“Or Ransome himself,” Cella said gently. “Or the Visiting Speaker.”

“The Visiting Speaker didn’t have the chance,” Damian said. “Ivie was watching him too closely, keeping him in that corner. And Ransome was looking for it elsewhere. You had to tell him where it was. That still leaves you, Cella.”