Burning Bright

“Wonderful,” Ransome murmured, a crooked smile on his face.

“Quite.” Chauvelin leaned back in his chair, deliberately closed the last of the sleeping files. There was nothing he could do to stop ji-Imbaoa—the Visiting Speaker was technically head of the ambassadorial household during his visit, and no doors could be shut to him—but he did not have to welcome him. The shutdown codes were still flickering across the screens when the door slid back and ji-Imbaoa strode into the room.

“So, Chauvelin,” he said, “your agent’s here. I want to talk to him.”

“As you wish,” Chauvelin said, spread his hands in a deliberate gesture of innocence. “I didn’t want to trouble you until I was sure it was worth your time.”

Ji-Imbaoa’s fingers twitched— annoyance? Chauvelin thought, or fear? He did not move, but felt himself suddenly, painfully tense, waiting for the Visiting Speaker’s next move.

“What have you found? Have you gone back to the Game?”

Ransome hesitated, visibly choosing his words with care, and Chauvelin wondered for a moment if the other might have learned discretion. He need not have worried, however. Ransome said, “Yes, Na Speaker, I’ve been back to the Game, and found very little of interest.”

“Then surely you haven’t looked very hard, or very long,” ji-Imbaoa snapped. “Particularly since you have only been looking for two days.”

“I don’t need any more than that to tell you there’s nothing there,” Ransome said.

Chauvelin said, “If Na Ransome says he’s found nothing in the Game, then there’s nothing to be found.”

Ji-Imbaoa glanced back at him, fingers still twitching with unreadable emotion. “Then why should Damian Chrestil go to so much trouble to get him back into those nets? It must have to do with the Game.”

“Na Ransome thinks it’s a distraction,” Chauvelin said. “That Damian Chrestil’s real interests lie elsewhere.”

“Don’t you think you’re being overelaborate?” ji-Imbaoa interrupted rudely.

“Perhaps the Visiting Speaker is being underelaborate,” Ransome murmured. “After all, he isn’t used to the complex dishonesties of our local politics.”

He had used the hsai word that linked dishonesty and foreignness, so that the statement hovered delicately between compliment and insult. Chauvelin said, “I think Na Ransome’s assessment is plausible, Sia.”

“And I tell you it is unlikely,” ji-Imbaoa said. “I tell you, on my name and my fathers‘, this must be pursued, and pursued through the Game.”

Chauvelin kept his face impassive with an effort, torn between anger and elation. Ji-Imbaoa had made it a direct order, one that Chauvelin could not directly disobey, but at the same time he’d made it equally clear that there was something important at stake. “Very well, Sia,” he said aloud. “Na Ransome will remain with the Game a little while longer.”

“Until he finds what Damian Chrestil wants,” ji-Imbaoa said.

“So be it,” Chauvelin said. Behind ji-Imbaoa’s shoulder, Ransome rolled his eyes.

“You must do more,” ji-Imbaoa said, and turned to face the imagist.

“I do my poor best,” Ransome murmured, and bowed, too deeply for sincerity.

Ji-Imbaoa ignored that, and glanced back at Chauvelin. “I expect to be kept informed.”

“As you wish,” Chauvelin said, and the Visiting Speaker lifted a clawed hand to signal the door. It slid open obediently, and ji-Imbaoa stalked out, his ribbons flurrying behind him.

Ransome said, even before the door had fully closed again, “Pity everything else isn’t so docile.”

“You’d better have meant the door,” Chauvelin said, without heat.

“What else?” Ransome darted him a suddenly mischievous glance, said, “Am I to keep on with the Game, then? Or would you rather know about the larger nets?”

“Both,” Chauvelin said. “You heard him. I need you to be visible on the Game nets, to be sure he knows you’re doing what he ordered.”

“That won’t be too difficult,” Ransome said.

“You’ve changed your tune.” In spite of himself, Chauvelin felt a stab of jealousy, remembering the way the other had looked at the pilot, Lioe, the night before.

Ransome gave him a rueful smile. “She’s good,” he said. “And she’s wasted in the Game.”

Chauvelin said, more abruptly than he’d intended, “Whatever. But I do need you to be seen in the Game.”

“I’ve said I would,” Ransome said. He pushed himself off the corner of the desk. “But, damn it, Damian Chrestil is up to something that has nothing at all to do with the Game.”

“I believe you,” Chauvelin said. “I’m doing what I can to find out what.”

“That would make sense,” Ransome said. He lifted his hand to open the door, paused with the gesture half completed. “Do you want me to keep on the port nets?”

Chauvelin nodded. “If you can, yes, but the main thing’s the Game. I think you’re right, but ji-Imbaoa’s forced my hand.”

Ransome nodded abruptly. “I know, I’m sorry. I’ll do what I can.” He finished his gesture, and the door slid open.