Burning Bright

“It occurred to me,” Roscha said, “that maybe N’Ambassador wasn’t all that sorry Ransome’s dead.”

No. Lioe shook her head, rejecting the thought even before she had fully analyzed it. Not that I’d put it past Chauvelin to kill someone, but not Ransome. Not the way he sounded, looked, when he told me. “There’s bound to be a reason,” she said, “something in hsai law, maybe.”

“Maybe,” Roscha said. “But the thought also occurred to me, Quinn, that maybe something could be done about it. Perii says the Visiting Speaker’s been drinking pretty heavily, drowning his sorrows, she says. It’d be a shame if he didn’t make it home some night—which could be arranged, Quinn. If you think it’s appropriate.”

Lioe stood frozen for a moment, suddenly very aware of the heat of the sun on her back, the movement of the barge under her feet. This was a power she had never expected, a direct and potent strength, the smoldering anger of the canalli channeled through Roscha, ready to hand. That’s exaggerating, sure, I don’t have all the canalli—but she’s offering me a means of direct action that I never dreamed I’d be able to tap. With this to back up the new Game, I’ve got more power than I’d ever expected. She curbed herself sternly, made herself focus on the issue at hand. “I want to talk to Chauvelin.” She pushed herself away from the rail before Roscha could follow.

She found Chauvelin about where she’d expected, toward the forward end of the canopy where a plain, raw-looking pottery jar stood ready on a white-draped table. He was wearing a white wrap coat, like everyone else, but had left it open, so that the wind blew it back to reveal the knots and clusters of his honors draped about his shoulders. Berengaria stood beside him, the wrinkles at the corners of her mismatched eyes making her look as though she almost smiled. Lioe sighed, and resigned herself to wait, but to her surprise, Chauvelin nodded to her, and said something to the governor. This time Berengaria did smile, and Chauvelin made his way across the last few meters to stand at Lioe’s side.

“It’s good to see you, Na Lioe. I’m sorry we haven’t had a chance to speak before this.”

At least not today. Lioe said, “I hear that the Visiting Speaker is back in all his old haunts, Ambassador. How does that happen?”

There was a little silence, and then Chauvelin said, “There isn’t a ship to Hsiamai for another four days. He gave his parole—his word, his promise—to give himself up when it arrives.”

“I know what parole means.” Lioe took a deep breath, fighting back her anger.

Chauvelin said, “It doesn’t mean anything. It’s his right under the law, to have this time. He’ll be on the ship to Hsiamai, and the All-Father will deal with him. He miscalculated badly, it’ll take the je Tsinraan years to recover from this.”

“I can’t say I find that terribly satisfying,” Lioe said.

“You surprise me.” Chauvelin looked at her, his lined face without emotion. “Ji-Imbaoa is ruined. Not only that, he’s ruined his entire clan. Let him have all the Oblivion he wants, it’s not going to change anything. I think that’s very satisfying.”

Lioe paused for a long moment, considering the ambassador’s words. Yes, it was satisfying to think that ji-Imbaoa would have to live with whatever hsai law thought was the appropriate punishment for murdering an ambassador’s dependent, and with the fury of his own relatives. Ransome, certainly, would have appreciated it.

“He’s lost any hope of ever gaining position at court,” Chauvelin said, “or of regaining what he’s already lost. He’ll be ostracized, completely.”

“I see.” Lioe looked away from him, toward the railing and the Water beyond. Traffic was heavy, as always, but funeral barges had priority, and the smaller boats gave way grudgingly, sliding to either side of the broad channel. The air smelled of salt and oil. They were coming up on Homestead Island and the end of the Water; she could just make out the blockhouses that controlled the first of the storm barriers, the stubby grey buildings conspicuous against the brighter brick behind them. According to the datastore and to the obituaries, Ransome had been born somewhere in that district, born poor, child of no one at all important. And now his death is bringing down a major faction within HsaioiAn. Yes, he would appreciate that. “All right,” she said, “I won’t do anything.”