Carnival

Still, he managed to avoid panic until after nightfall, when a commotion in the courtyard roused him from unprofitable ceiling staring, watching the reproduced image of the Gorgon slowly color the darkening periwinkle of a crepuscular sky. He rolled off the bed quickly and hurried to the arch, his injured leg lagging. The pain medication helped, but couldn’t obscure ongoing twinges.

He came out under the real sky, washed by city lights until it shone less bright than the reproduction inside, and paused with his hands on the balcony railing. A stem of carpetplant stuck between his toes, and he momentarily forgot the ache of his knee and the seared shivers crossing his tender back. Below, several dark heads gathered, women rushing barefoot from the house, and a doorway in the courtyard wall—a sort of garden gate without a garden—stood open on the street beyond, two girls observing through the crack with gamine eyes.

He spotted Elena easily as she strode into the courtyard, the others giving way before her, except for one. Katya Pretoria stayed crouched beside an exhausted, bedraggled khir. The animal’s head curled up on a long neck, trembling, but otherwise it lay spread on its side, and Vincent could see the white glare of bandages against scaled, feathered hide.

“Dammit,” he said, stepping back. “Dammit, dammit, dammit.”

A few limping steps brought him inside, into the gentler light projected from the ceiling. He stopped, stared up at the pale colors of the nebula, and forced himself to breathe slowly.

The door irised open at his approach. An alert and concerned-looking guard met him, setting aside the datapad she was reading to rise from her bench. “Miss Katherinessen?”

“Why wasn’t I informed?” he snarled. She stepped back, arms crossed, and he sighed and modulated his tone. “I’m sorry,” he said, through the taste of gall. “I need to speak to Elder Pretoria immediately.”

“I’ll see what I can do. If you’ll return to your room…”

“No. I’m going with you.”

She stared, but he refused to glance down. She wasn’t wearing a weapon, unlike most women, and he was glad. Otherwise, he thought she might shoot him if he stepped any closer. At least he had height and age on her. He lifted his chin and folded his arms, feeling like the heroine in a Victorian drama.

Her arms dropped to her sides. “This way.”

He followed meekly, rubbing grit from the corners of his eyes. He was notlosing Michelangelo. Not with long-elusive dreams about to settle on his hand like butterflies. War, revolution, treason—these seemed minor considerations now.

He almost didn’t recognize the emotion. It was hope. And it was also hope settling into his gut with a painful chill. He’d forgotten what it was like having something to lose. But apparently he hadn’t forgotten how much it hurt to lose it.

Along the walk, he learned that the guard’s name was Alys, and that she wasn’t a member of Elena’s family, but was raised in a less wealthy household and working in service until she could afford her own citizenship stake. She led him down stairs and along another curved corridor tiled in faux terra-cotta, which combined with the thicketed landscape of the walls to suggest a jungle path. At least the movement eased the ache in a knee further strained in descending the stairs.

“Your culture believes in the beneficial power of walking,” he said as they paused for Alys to consult her datacart and locate Elder Pretoria.

“Saves on chemical antidepressants,” she quipped, and frowned slightly when he didn’t laugh.

“And I would have guessed the jungle was rich in useful pharmaceuticals.” He knew he should have bitten his tongue, and couldn’t be bothered. Michelangelo was still missing, he was being kept deliberately in the dark, and she had the nerve to look disappointed at his lack of attention to her jokes.

“I believe you should discuss that with Elder Singapore,” she said coolly. “Elder Pretoria is on the porch, Miss Katherinessen. She’ll see you.”

Her pique amused him, and it might have been impolitic to let her see it, but he was beyond caring. So he nodded and smiled as he walked past her down the short corridor to the veranda, through an open archway and into the still-warm night.

Elena waited as promised. She placed a rough pottery cup in his hand before he spoke a word. The shape clung to his fingers, and the contents perfumed the air above with the fermented tang of alcohol. He set it down without tasting it, brushing garlands off the ledge to make room, and drummed his fingers beside it.

“Katya must have checked in, mustn’t she? Before she brought the khir in for medical treatment.”

“We didn’t want to distress you with imperfect data.”