Burning Bright

“One hopes not,” Berengaria said. “And not just for your sake.”

She didn’t have to say more, and Chauvelin nodded in agreement. The je Tsinraan, having been out of favor for years, were attempting to rally other groups who had stood aloof from court politics by advocating a return to the old, hard-line, imperialistic policies of two generations ago. Unfortunately, now that HsaioiAn and the Republic were trading freely, or at least relatively freely, through the merchants on entrepot worlds like Burning Bright, both sides would suffer from a change in attitude. And Burning Bright and her fellow entrepots would suffer most of all.

“The All-Father knows perfectly well where his bread is baked,” Chauvelin said aloud, and hoped it was true.

“I hope so,” Berengaria said, in unpleasant, unintended echo. “Whatever else happens, Chauvelin, I’d be very sorry if you were a casualty.”

“I don’t intend to be,” Chauvelin answered. His mouth was dry, and he smiled to hide the sudden fear.

“Good,” Berengaria said. She smiled back, but the expression did not touch the lines around her mismatched eyes. “It would be very dull without you.” She nodded, and turned away into the crowd.

Chauvelin watched her go, turning her words over in his mind. It was not a good sign that Berengaria had heard rumors of power shifts between the factions in HsaioiAn, and even less good that she was expressing concern for his future. And I wonder, did I hear a hint that she might offer sanctuary, if things get bad? There would be a price, of course— and probably a high one—but it was an option to keep in mind. At least Ransome was, for once, doing what he was told: that might buy enough time to deal with ji-Imbaoa. They said, on Burning Bright, that Storm brought a change in luck—he could remember, dimly, his mother buying lottery chances on the first day of Storm, hoping to bring money into the household. I have to hope that’s true.

Ransome made his way through the maze of smaller rooms off the main hall. Chauvelin’s household had thrown them open as well, knowing the space would be needed. Ji-Imbaoa was holding court in the largest of these, and Ransome paused at the door for a brief moment, glancing in past the crowding guests. He had lost Lioe some while back, to a conversation with the novelist LaChacalle, and hoped to find her— though probably not here. The Visiting Speaker was popular with certain groups on Burning Bright, most notably and most obviously the ones who traded heavily with HsaioiAn, and he was surrounded by their representatives, but Ransome hardly thought that a Republican pilot would be likely to join them. The members of ji-Imbaoa’s own household stood watchfully at the Speaker’s shoulder, and at the edges of the room. Their ribbons, short strands of red that fell barely to their waists, were vivid against the sea-green panels. It was an elegant display, and one that deliberately overshadowed Chauvelin’s less formal presence.

He had looked too long. Across the room, the Visiting Speaker lifted his hand in acknowledgment, and beckoned for Ransome to approach. It was not a request. Ransome hid a scowl, and started toward ji-Imbaoa. The crowd made way for him, a few people murmuring his name. Overhead, false lightning flickered through holographic clouds, and Ransome couldn’t resist a quick look to see how the installation was doing. He had made the image canopy for Chauvelin a few years before; so far, he thought, it seemed to be holding up well.

“ Tso-eh, Ransome,” the Visiting Speaker said, granting the courtesy of a formal greeting. He continued in tradetalk, however, lifting his voice a little to be sure that the fringes of the group could hear. Conversations faded at that signal, and Ransome was suddenly aware of all eyes intent on him. Ji-Imbaoa was making this a matter of prestige, and for Chauvelin’s sake— and my pride, too—he could not afford to make mistakes.

“I’m told you made this display?” Ji-Imbaoa gestured to the image in the dome overhead, where half-hawk, half-human figures now swirled through the gaps in the clouds, riding the illusory lightning.

“That’s right,” Ransome answered, and forced himself not to mimic the hissing accent, the heavy emphasis on terminal sibilants.

“It’s very striking,” ji-Imbaoa said, without looking up. “But when will you come back to HsaioiAn and show your talents there?”