Burning Bright

“The sound of money,” Ransome said, and deliberately turned his back on the port. Chauvelin lifted an eyebrow, visibly decided the comment did not deserve an answer, and returned his attention to the data manager that rested on his lap. The subject was clearly closed, or else, Ransome thought, even Chauvelin was a little ashamed of himself for this one. He watched Chauvelin work for a little longer, the long hands busy on the input strip, the grey-brown hair fading even more in the afternoon light, the slight, faintly quizzical hint of a frown as he studied something on the screen. Ransome did not like being ignored, did not like being ignored after being threatened, said, not quite at random, “Do you think it’s wise to annoy Damian Chrestil?”

“Why not?” Chauvelin’s voice sounded bored, his eyes still on the screen in front of him, but Ransome got what he was looking for, the subtle shift of expression that meant the ambassador was listening closely.

“He’s not a fool,” Ransome said. “Or a child. They say he’ll be coopted to the Select next year.”

“Is that what they say?” Chauvelin did not move, but Ransome smiled to himself, hearing the slight change in tone. He had confirmed something that Chauvelin had suspected—and a seat among the Select, the elite advisory council that handled much of Burning Bright’s foreign policy, was the first step toward becoming governor.

“Among other things.” Ransome lowered his eyes to look at the carved head, pinching it between his fingers, glanced up through his lashes to watch Chauvelin’s response.

“Well, that’s what I pay you for,” Chauvelin said. “And for finding out what in all hells Damian Chrestil wants.” He leaned back in his chair, stretching long legs in front of him, and touched the manager’s screen. The machine shut itself down obediently, its chime muted in the heavy air. He was wearing a hsaie greatcoat over plain shirt and trousers, a sweep of unshaped river-green brocade that set off the weathered ivory of his skin. His hands were starting to betray his age. Ransome looked down at his own fingers, saw the same lines and shadows starting, tendons and bones starkly outlined under the roughened skin. Not that he was likely to see the end of the process: by the time he reached Chauvelin’s age—and there were not ten years between them—he was likely to be dead.

“Among other things,” he said again, putting aside the familiar recognition, and tilted his head toward the terrace, toward the hardscaping he himself had designed. Chauvelin nodded, acknowledging the point, and by coincidence a breath of wind shook the bellflower tree beside him, bathing them both in its musky perfume. It would have been a nice effect, Ransome thought, if I could’ve planned it.

Chauvelin set the data manager aside on the stones of the wall, leaned back in his chair, taking his time. The sunlight cast a delicate pattern of shadow over him, pouring down through the bellflower’s fan-shaped leaves and striking deep sparks of color from the draped greatcoat. Even in the shadow, the lines that bracketed his mouth and fanned from the corners of his eyes were very visible. The crows‘-feet tightened slightly, a movement that might become either a smile or a frown, and Ransome bit his tongue to try to copy the other’s silence, to keep from speaking too soon. The bellflower’s leaves rustled gently, and another orbiter rumbled skyward.

“I have to know what he’s up to,” Chauvelin said at last. “You’re the best chance I have for that.”

Do you mean ji-Imbaoa, or Damian Chrestil? Ransome wondered. Or both? He sighed, looked down at the sculpted head that still rested in the palm of his hand. I would have done this anyway, regardless of threat or flattery—or love or whatever it is that’s between you and me, Tal Chauvelin. For the love of this game that’s better than anything the Game has ever produced. “All right,” he said, easing himself off the terrace wall, and reached into his pocket for the rest of the handful of carved stones. Chauvelin looked up, one eyebrow rising slightly.

“You said you had something to show me?”

Ransome nodded. “Hold out your hand.”