Carnival

And yes, it would mean his life if Vincent reported him. He had no illusions. Except, perhaps, for the illusion that Vincent wouldn’t do it. Vincent’s loyalty to the job had always been unimpeachable…but Kusanagi-Jones was about to gamble that his loyalty to the partnership would outweigh it.

In the final analysis—to dignify his gut belief with an entirely unjustified word—he didn’t believe Vincent would kill him. Which led to the third factor. Which was what Vincent had said to him in bed, regarding Skidbladnir,that had flexed Kusanagi-Jones’s shoulders and neck in a shivering paroxysm. But it was possible—just—that Vincent had done it on purpose, had chosen his moment and found a way of letting Kusanagi-Jones know he suspected, without allowing it to become an accusation or an admission of retroactive complicity. More, it was possible that Vincent was letting him know that Vincent was about something equally dodgy himself, and wanted his help. It was a daydream. Denial. Fantasy that didn’t want to deal with the reality of how compromised he truly was. But like pearls seeded in oysters, great treasons from small irritations grow.

He couldn’t mount a better option. Michelangelo Osiris Leary Kusanagi-Jones, Liar, was going to have to tell someone the truth. And now that he’d decided, the wait was killing him.

As they broke into groups for the lifts, Kusanagi-Jones caught Vincent’s eye and gave him the subtlest of smiles, nothing more than a crinkle of the corners of his eyes. Vincent returned it, careful of his bruises, and Kusanagi-Jones swallowed a forlorn sigh.

It was going to be a long, long day.

He repeated those words like a silent mantra all through Elder Singapore’s and Elder Austin’s second round of speeches, these taking place against the unpolished back of the black granite panel that blocked the view of the rest of the display from casual eyes, and continued it as Vincent stepped up to the focal point. He didn’t need his mind engaged to run security. After fifty years, his reflexes and trained awareness did a better job of it if he kept his consciousness out of the way.

His thoughts still chased an endless, anxiety-producing spiral when Vincent joined Elder Austin and Miss Ouagadougou to lead the group around to the polished, graven side of the wall. Kusanagi-Jones insinuated himself at Vincent’s side, and so he was one of the first around the corner to observe—

—an empty space in the middle of the gallery floor.

Phoenix Abased,

all four and a half metric tons of her, was gone.

What followed was more or less predictable. Elder Kyoto took charge of the scene, and Vincent found Lesa hustling himself and Michelangelo to a car, passing through a crowd of insistent media with very little pause for politeness. For a moment, Vincent thought one of them might reach for her weapon, but Lesa fixed the woman with a calm, humorless stare that seemed to persuade her of the better part of valor, and then slid into the backseat opposite Vincent and Angelo.

The door sealed and Lesa slumped. “Miss Katherinessen. You certainly know how to keep a party interesting.”

“Surely you don’t think I—” Vincent fell silent at the wave of her hand. A few minutes passed, silence interrupted only by the blaring of the groundcar’s horn as it edged through streets jammed with Carnival revelers.

“You haven’t the means,” she said. “It had to be somebody with override priority on House.”

“Override?…”

Her eyebrow rose. He fell silent. Sticky leather trapped the heat of his burned skin against his body, and he shifted uncomfortably. Angelo’s regard pressed the side of his face like a hand. Angelo, of course, had been in that gallery until nearly dawn. But he hadn’t said he’d seen anybody, in particular near Phoenix Abased,and Vincent hoped he wasn’t thinking that Vincent was likely to hold him accountable for the theft.

“Override priority?” he asked again.

Lesa looked up from the cuticle she was worrying with her opposite nail. “House has three modes. It automatically adapts to any regular use to which it’s put. This is how most of the architecture develops. It will also do small things—forming a fresher in an unused space or rearranging the furniture—for anybody who spends a fair amount of time in a particular spot, and provide other favors such as directions or a drinking fountain”—she tilted her head at Vincent—“for anyone, anywhere.”

“And stealing a three-meter statue from a public venue?”

“There’s the problem,” she said. “We didn’t build House. We just adapted it, learned how to program it.”

“And adapted to it. You’re saying there’s no security feed from the gallery?”

“I’m saying that anybody who could take that statue out could tell House not to remember. We’ll check the records—”

“Of course.” He managed it without a glance at Angelo. He’d been cloaked when he entered. The chances he could be detected were slim. “Please do. That means it’s somebody with clout.”