Carnival

That never changed the fact that for the first day or two in a changed environment, he struggled as if finding his sea legs. But as far as he was concerned, the less time spent tripping over invisible, immaterial objects, the better.

So it was a mixed blessing to discover that wherever Miss Pretoria was taking them, they were walking. It would help with acclimation, but it also left Vincent exposed. Kusanagi-Jones clung to his side, only half an ear on the conversation, and kept an eye on the windows and the rooftops. To say that he didn’t trust the Penthesilean security was an understatement.

“Tell me about these Trials,” Vincent was saying. “And about Carnival.”

Lesa gave Vincent an arch look—over Kusanagi-Jones’s shoulder—but he pretended oblivion. “Your briefings didn’t cover that?”

“You are mysterious,” Vincent answered diplomatically. “Intentionally so, I might add. Are they a sporting event?”

“A competition,” Lesa answered. “You’ll see. We’re in time for a few rounds before high heat.”

Around them, the atmosphere had textures with which Kusanagi-Jones was unfamiliar. The heat was no worse than Cairo, but the air felt dense and wet, even filtered by his wardrobe, and it carried a charge. Expectant.

“It gets hotter than this?” Vincent asked.

Lesa flipped her hair behind her ear. “This is just morning. Early afternoon is the worst.”

They crossed another broad square that would have had Kusanagi-Jones breaking out in a cold sweat if the heat wasn’t already stressing his wardrobe. Here, there were onlookers—mostly armed women, some of them going about their business and some not even pretending to, but all obviously interested in the delegates from Earth. Kusanagi-Jones was grateful that Vincent knew how the game was played and stuck close to him, using his body as protection.

Smooth as if they had never been apart.

Miss Pretoria led them under cover at last, into the shade of an archway broad enough for two groundcars abreast. The path they followed descended, and women in small, chatting groups emerged from below—settling hats and draping scarves against the climbing sun—or fell in behind, following them down.

This place was cooler, and the air now carried not just electric expectation, but the scent of an arena. Chalk dust, sweat, and cooking oil tickled Kusanagi-Jones’s sinuses. He sneezed, and Miss Pretoria smiled at him. He spared her a frown; she looked away quickly.

“Down this way,” she instructed, stepping out of the flow of traffic and gesturing them through a door that irised open when she passed her hand across it. Kusanagi-Jones stepped through second, because the taller of the two security agents beat him to first place.

This was a smaller passageway, well lit without being uncomfortably bright. With a sigh, he let his wardrobe drop its inadequate compensations for the equatorial sun.

“Private passage,” Miss Pretoria said. “Would you rather sit in my household’s box, or the one reserved by Parliament for dignitaries?”

Vincent hesitated, searching her face for a cue. “Is yours nicer?” he asked.

Her mouth thinned. “It is,” she said. “And closer to the action.”

Kusanagi-Jones caught the shift in Vincent’s weight, the sideways glance, as he was meant to. Miss Pretoria didn’t approve of them, or perhaps she didn’t approve of the “action.”

Kusanagi-Jones stepped aside to let her take the lead again. It wasn’t far: a few dozen yards and they could hear cheering, jeering, the almost inorganic noise of a crowd.

There must have been other concealed side passages, because this one led them directly to the Pretoria house box. They emerged through another irising door and among comfortable seats halfway up the wall of an oblong arena. The galleries were severely raked, vertiginous, and one of the security agents reached out as if to steady him when he marched up to the edge. He stepped away from her hand, and she let it fall.

When he leaned out, he looked down on the heads of the group seated immediately below. And Vincent was just as unprotected from anybody watching from the next tier above.

While the immediate security concerns distracted Kusanagi-Jones, Vincent touched his elbow. He didn’t need to be told to follow Vincent’s line of sight; he did it automatically, his alerted interest becoming a startle and a reflexive step closer as another cheer went up.

The floor of the arena was divided into long ovals, each one bounded by white walls that were thick, but not higher than a man’s waist. And in each of the pits were men.