Burning Bright

Desjourdy’s smile widened. “Well, that one I can’t turn down. Who is it, anyway?”

“There are two slots still open,” Lioe answered. “Jack Blue, the telekinetic, leader of the prison population, and Mijja Lyall, who’s a secret telepath and a member of the research staff at the prison.”

“Put me down for Jack Blue,” Desjourdy answered promptly. “He—is it he?—sounds interesting. Can you flip me a copy of the template?”

“Sure.” Lioe touched keys to call the file from storage and duplicate it for transmission. “Are you ready?”

“Line’s open and ready.”

“Sending,” Lioe said, and waited while icons formed and shifted at the bottom of the screen.

“All set,” Desjourdy said, and in the same instant the icons vanished. “What time does the session start?”

Lioe glanced at her reminders list. “At twenty hours.”

“I’ll be there,” Desjourdy said. “And thanks, Quinn. I owe you for this.”

“I think I owe you,” Lioe answered and closed down the connection.

“Who was that?” Roscha asked.

Lioe glanced at her warily, wondering if she had heard a possessive note in the other woman’s voice, but Roscha’s expression was merely curious. “A woman I know from Falconsreach, a Gamer. I told you I was short a couple of people.” And I’m still short one player, for Lyall. She touched keys again to call up the list, to add Desjourdy’s name, and was startled to see that someone had already signed up for Lyall. It was not a name she knew, but at least it solved the problem. She added Desjourdy’s name to the list, and closed down the system.

“Are you still interested in going down to the Water?” Roscha asked, and Lioe shrugged.

“Why not?” She knew she sounded less than enthusiastic, and added, “I would like to see the procession.”

“Leave your board,” Roscha said, pushing herself back from the little table. Lioe glanced at her curiously, and Roscha made an embarrassed face. “If there’s going to be any trouble, it’ll be tonight, kids steaming—you know, a gang of them runs through the crowd, grabs at whatever people’re carrying? That doesn’t often happen down here, it’s more something they do up in Dry Cut, or over on Homestead, but you don’t want to take chances.”

“Right,” Lioe said, allowing the skepticism to color her voice, but she left her Gameboard and most of her credit and cash with Gueremei.

The streets were already crowded, the sun low on the horizon, so that the buildings cast long shadows and only the open plazas were still bathed in amber light. Nearly everyone was masked, faces obscured by strips or full stiffened ovals of beaded lace, or completely hidden by fantastic, beak-nosed half-masks painted in every color of the rainbow. A few, men and women in seemingly equal numbers, simply painted their faces, the aged-ivory complexion that was common on Burning Bright making a perfect backdrop for the delicate sprays of color. Gold flowers climbed one woman’s neck and cheek, appeared again at her bare shoulder, a golden vine winding languidly down to her wrist and a hand that bloomed like a bouquet, each knuckle sprouting a tiny, perfect rose. Her clothes were otherwise ordinary, a sleeveless vest and docker’s trousers, and Lioe caught herself staring at the brilliant contrast, wishing she had her recorder with her. In one of the plazas, a trio of drummers in black, shapeless robes and grotesque masks like the skulls of birds beat a complex almost-tune, the high-pitched hand drum weaving a stuttering, offbeat counterpoint to the steadier, full-toned notes of the larger drums. A slim man in black— in Avellar’s black and gold, Lioe realized, and felt a thrill of absolute delight run up her spine, Avellar’s black and gold and Avellar’s face for a mask—paused to listen, and then pushed the mask back on his head, reaching for something inside his jacket. He pulled out a slim silvered pipe, began improvising against the beat of the drum. The hand-drummer nodded to him, beckoned him with a movement of head and chin, and the group—a quartet now, for as long as the spirit seized them—played on. A pair of women, their blank silver masks topped with fantastic turbans, flowers and leaves dripping from braided coils of iridescent fabric, danced with them for a moment, then darted away, the metal and glass that weighted the hems of their enormous skirts flashing in the last of the sunlight.

“You should mask,” Roscha said. “I want to mask.”

Lioe hesitated, uncertain, and Roscha caught her arm.

“Come on, Gelsomina was tied up in the public cut not more than an hour ago. If we hurry, she might still be there.”