Burning Bright

Damian Chrestil stood at the back of the plotting shed at the end of Isard’s Wharf, watching the display table. A model of Burning Bright’s oceans, spread to scale on a virtual globe, floated above the tabletop; the shapes that represented C/B Cie.‘s various ships ghosted through the mirrorlike surface, the codes that represented their cargoes and destinations flickering to life at a gesture from some one of the attendants. The coiled shapes of the blossoming storms, a grand procession of them sweeping up the trade winds from the shallows below the equator, marched over the surface, interdicting great sweeps of sea. Most of the company’s ships were already in port, or within a day’s journey, but a few were still well out to sea, and the wharfingers studied them carefully, murmuring to each other. They and their assistants each carried a smaller plotting tablet and a delicate, gold-tipped wand. As they gestured at the model, circling it like acolytes to adjust symbols and times and weather forecasts in search of the most economical arrangement, they reminded Damian of some mysterious and primitive cult. Behind him, the windows rattled in the rising wind, and one of the assistants glanced nervously toward the cloud-white sky. On the model, a tight spiral of cloud was poised south and east of the entrance to the Inland Water.

“Have they made any guesses as to when the storm barriers will go up?” Damian asked, and the senior wharfinger, Rosaurin, shook her head.

“They’re hedging.”

“So what else is new?” Damian murmured. He glared at the model as though it could provide answers on its own, then shook his head. “I think we’re cutting it too close with the short-haul boats. Have them ride it out south of the storm track.” He gestured with his own control wand, highlighted a grid mark on the model.

Rosaurin nodded slowly. “I’d rather get them home, but you’re right, we can’t risk it. Not when they can’t give me an estimate of when they’ll raise the barriers.”

Damian nodded back. The triple line of barriers lay at the bottom of the channel, were raised as the storm approached. They would hold back the worst of the storm surge, and protect the city, but once they were in place, no ships could enter the channel. They had all agreed, himself, the wharfingers, and the short-haul captains, that it was worth taking one more trip to the seining grounds before Storm set in. Now the captains, at least, would have to live with the consequences. Still, they were experienced people, with good crews, and the boats were solid, well equipped. They should be all right, he thought, and turned his mind away.

“Na Damian?”

He turned, to find one of the younger dockers in the doorway, a thin young man with close-cut blond hair that almost disappeared against his scalp. “Well?”

“You wanted to be told,” the docker said warily. “Roscha’s called in. She’ll be in the channel in about ten minutes.”

“Right,” Damian said, and couldn’t keep the satisfaction from his voice. “Can you take care of the rest of this, Rosaurin?”

The wharfinger nodded. “I’ll put together a final plot for your approval.”

“Do that,” Damian said, and left the shed.

Because of the approaching storm, there were perhaps twice as many ships tied up to the mooring points as usual, and the dock was littered with lines and spare gear. Damian stepped carefully through the clutter, and let himself into the outer office. The secretary pillar was, for once, clear of messages. He smiled rather bitterly— this once, I would have liked to have something waiting, preferably from ji-Imbaoa—and went on into the inner room, seated himself behind his desk. The workscreen lit obediently, sensing his presence, but he ignored the flickering prompts, debating whether or not he should call the Visiting Speaker himself. Not just now, he thought, and touched keys to call up his security files. The check files were all in place— or not quite all. He frowned, studying the origination codes that the security programs had preserved for him: Ransome, almost certainly, and that means I’ll have to do something about him. Or about ji-Imbaoa. He put that thought aside with regret—he’d gone too far to back out now—and the secretary chimed discreetly.

“Na Damian, Roscha is here.”

Damian touched the shadowscreen to hide the security programs. “Send her in.”

Roscha appeared in the doorway almost at once, her perfect figure obscured by a loose jacket knotted at her waist. “You wanted to see me, Na Damian?”

“Yes.” Damian paused for an instant, assessing how best to approach the question. “I hear you’ve been sleeping with this new notable, Lioe.”