Carnival

“Somebody in Parliament, if it wasn’t a ranking gallery administrator,” Lesa corrected after a reluctant pause. “We don’t let just anybody engage in urban renewal.”

“This isn’t the way back to the residence unless we’re going the long way,” Kusanagi-Jones said a little while later.

“No,” Lesa said. “I’m bringing you to Pretoria house. I know who has access to the priorities there.”

“And security?”

They’d left the agents behind. Lesa seemed to understand the nuances of his question. “Shafaqat and Cathay are running a decoy operation,” she said. “Asha will follow us. Pretoria house has its own security, of course—”

“Of course,” Vincent interrupted, ever so dry. “And there’s no evidence that itcould be compromised.”

“Not by a male,” Lesa said.

Kusanagi-Jones raised an eyebrow at Vincent, who rolled his eyes. “Angelo is probably finding your remark somewhat cryptic.”

“One of our household males has taken advantage of the recent confusion to run away,” Lesa said. “We are trying to recover him before it becomes public knowledge and we have to make an example of him when we catch him. Thank you very much for airing our dirty laundry, Miss Katherinessen.”

“Anything you can tell me, Angelo can hear,” Vincent said, which earned him another arch look from the Penthesilean. There was a subtext there that Kusanagi-Jones wasn’t catching, and for a moment, he understood what it must be like for others, on the outside of his rapport with Vincent.

“The male,” Kusanagi-Jones hazarded, his hands folded between his knees. “Robert, was it?”

Lesa, looking out the window, nodded.

Kusanagi-Jones frowned. “Your secret is safe with me.”

He half expected to be installed in the harem, or whatever they called it, but he and Vincent were given a small, comfortable room with a balcony that opened onto Pretoria house’s inner court and left alone to compose or, Kusanagi-Jones thought, incriminate themselves.

A young male servant who was familiar from the previous night’s dinner brought them warm sandwiches of scrambled, spiced vegetable protein and mixed greens, the bread made from some unfamiliar grain, and bottles—not bubbles—of a carbonated drink with a pleasing bitter aftertaste reminiscent of chocolate. They sat cross-legged on the bed, the tray balanced on the covers between them, and picked at the food.

Neither one of them was hungry, but they were both determined to eat, which made the meal an extended comedy of dragging silences and lengthy chewing, interrupted by occasional distant cracks of thunder and the sound of music and shouting drifting from nearby streets. Nothing as minor as the attempted assassination of a head of state would put a cramp in Carnival.

Kusanagi-Jones finished first and waited while Vincent picked bits out of his sandwich and poured drink into his glass one mouthful at a time. He waited poorly, bending his fingernails against the edge of the tray and wishing Vincent would break the silence with a conversational offer.

But Vincent seemed preoccupied, withdrawn. “All right?” Kusanagi-Jones said finally, and then bit the inside of his cheek in frustration.

“Yes,” Vincent said, prodding his nose delicately with the tip of his finger. “Sore, exhausted, and full of released toxins, but I’ve been worse. Something’s preying on you.”

And if he was presenting strongly enough that Vincent could tell, Kusanagi-Jones was doing even worse than he’d thought.

“Need to talk,” he said. And then, unable to bear the close intimacy of the two of them leaning together over their food, he swung his legs off the low New Amazonian bed and levered himself to his feet. The carpetplant dimpled under his soles. He strolled to the archway leading to the balcony and paused inside the air curtain, currents stirring the fine hairs on his arms.

The first fat drops of a tropical downpour splashed the green-blue translucence of the balcony as the ceiling inside paled to simulate the storming sky. As the light outside dimmed, that within seemed to brighten in comparison, so when Kusanagi-Jones glanced over his shoulder he was caught by the luster of rust-colored highlights on Vincent’s hair.

He looked down, folded his arms to hide the way his hands were shaking—again—and stepped through the air curtain and out into the rain as if stepping through a spun glass drapery.

His wardrobe shunted it away, creating a shimmering outline centimeters from his skin. He pulled his folded arms apart and ran fingertips over his watch, opening the utility fog.

The water was warm. Blood-warm, warmer than his skin, corpulent drops hitting hard enough to sting. He closed his eyes and tilted his face back, letting the rain wash him. It passed through his wardrobe without dampening the simulated cloth or affecting the hang of the outfit, soaking him, sluicing down his chest and thighs, saturating his hair.

He heard Vincent’s footsteps and saw his shadow cross the fisheye before Vincent spoke. “Do you suppose it’s safe?”

“Safer than the sunlight.”

“There could be pollution. Parasites.”