Burning Bright

“No one knew you were interested,” Cella said. “I didn’t know you were interested, until last night.”

“They’re sleeping together?”

“I would say so.” Cella shrugged. “I would.”

“Charming.” Damian stared out into the crowd, did not find the pilot, turned slowly so that he faced back toward the cliff and the Old City spread out beyond the lower terrace. Most of the lights were on now, the sky faded to a thick and dusty purple, and the pattern of the lights in the lower garden echoed the play of light from the city below, disrupted only by the figures moving along the silvered stones of the pathways. Neither Ransome nor Lioe was anywhere to be seen.

“I could introduce you,” Cella said. “I’ve met her.”

Damian glanced down at her, surprised less by the offer than by its timing, and she nodded to the window above them. A woman stood silhouetted in the golden light, a newly familiar, broad-shouldered shape with a hat slung across her back. She was looking in at the party, standing quite still, and Damian hesitated, tempted. It would be interesting to speak to her directly, get some feel for what she was like—He shook his head, not without regret. It was much safer to keep his distance, just in case she did turn out to have some connection with C-and-I. “No, not right now, I think. But keep an eye on her, Cella. I want to know exactly what she’s doing.”

“All right,” Cella said, and sounded faintly surprised.

Damian looked away from her curiosity, back toward the lower terrace, and his eyes were caught again by the grey-and-silver stones that covered the paths. The more distant paths seemed to glow in the last of the light, and the nearer ones, closer to the cool standard-lamps, caught the blue-toned light and held it, odd shadows playing over their surfaces. He frowned, curious now, and walked away, down the steps to the graveled paths of the lower terrace. Cella followed a few steps behind, but he ignored her, stooped to examine the stones. A dozen, a hundred tiny faces looked back at him, all smiling slightly, as if they were amused by his surprise. He caught his breath, controlled his instinctive revulsion— how could anyone stand to walk here, if they saw those looking back at them?—and said, “Ransome’s work, I take it?” His voice sounded strange to him, strained and taut, but Cella didn’t seem to notice.

“I would say so.”

“They are,” Damian said, with precision, “very strange men, he and Chauvelin.” He paused, and shook his head. “I suppose I had better pay my respects to the ambassador.” He did not wait for her response, but started back across the terraces toward the ambassador’s house.

Chauvelin greeted his guests in the main hall. The long room was lit as though by a thousand candles, light like melted butter, like curry, pouring from the edges of the ceiling across the polished bronzewood floor, gilding everything it touched. It turned the ice statue on the buffet—a sleek needle-ship poised on the points of its sailfields—to topaz, set deeper red-gold lights dancing in its heart like the glow of invisible reactors. Chauvelin smiled, seeing it, and made a mental note to thank his staff. They had done well in other things, too: the heavy bunches of red-streaked flowers that flamed against the ochre walls, the food, the junior staff—jericho-human, chaoi-monand hsai alike—circulating among the guests to diffuse tension and keep the conversation and the wine flowing with equal ease. Je-Sou’tsian had the unenviable task of keeping an eye on ji-Imbaoa, but she seemed to be handling it without undue strain. She had chosen to wear her full honors, and the clusters of ribbon flowed from her shoulders almost to the floor. Perhaps it was not the most tactful of gestures, Chauvelin conceded— ji-Imbaoa has fewer hereditary honors than she—but he couldn’t bring himself to reprove her. In any case, ji-Imbaoa seemed unaccountably sober, and in control of himself. There should be no trouble until later, if at all.