Carnival

“Of course not.” The ledge was very smooth, and lattice laced with flowers and sticks of incense stretched above it to the veranda’s overhanging roof, so he had to peer through the chinks as if through a veil to see the courtyard beyond. The khir had been brought inside. Neither Katya nor any of the household staff and family members who had descended to assist her were present. “I understand that you wouldn’t want to disturb my fragile emotional equilibrium.”

The finger drumming was unlikely to convince her that he was calm. With an effort, he smoothed his hands and curled them around the base of the cup. The pottery wasn’t cool, but compared to the sun-retained warmth of the ledge, it seemed so.

“My apologies, Miss Katherinessen. It was thoughtless.”

He licked his lips, lifted the cup, and turned back. She stood as he had left her, hands folded around a similar cup—he couldn’t be sure of the color in the dark—and her face half shadowed, half picked out in pinpricks from nebula and courtyard light filtering through the lattice. “Tell me now,” he said.

“Katya found Walter in a street about six kilometers from here. In Cascade, which is not the best neighborhood. He was wounded, unconscious, and there were signs of a fight.”

Vincent realized the cup was at his lips only when it clicked against his teeth. “What signs?”

Elena rocked back on her heels. “Blood. A great deal of it. Marks of bullet ricochets and tangler fire.”

“Bodies?”

“None.”

He closed his eyes, breathed out, and breathed in across the liquor. The sting brought tears to his eyes. “What now?”

“There may be a ransom note,” she said. “Or an extortion demand. Security directorate is investigating. A house-to-house search has been authorized—”

“Unacceptable.”

“Miss Katherinessen,” she said, her dignity unmoderated by the interruption, “my daughter is missing as well.”

“Yes,” he said. “You haven’t even been able to find one ‘stud male’ in a city where he can’t legally walk the streets without a woman’s permission. And I’m supposed to take your efforts to ensure Angelo’s safety seriously?”

“It’s Carnival,Miss Katherinessen. You’ve seen what the streets are like this time of year.”

“And yet nobody witnessed anything? I want to see the scene.”

“And expose yourself further?”

“You had no qualms about exposing me when I was shot at—”

“Now we do,” she said. She looked down at the surface of her beverage. He wondered what she saw reflected. “Relax,” she said. “Not only is Elder Kyoto very interested in getting Miss Kusanagi-Jones back, but Saide Austin has become involved. And she is verywell connected. If anybody in Penthesilea can find Lesa and your partner, it’s the pair of them.”

Of course Saide Austin wants him back,he thought. It’d be a crying shame if her time bomb died on New Amazonian soil, far from the people he was meant to infect.What he said was, “I wish to return to the government center. I will feel safer there, under proper security.”

“I’ll see to it tonight,” she said. “Go make your farewells to the house, if you have any.”

He went quietly. The guard Alys was not waiting in the hall. He glanced left and right, but saw no trace. She must have expected Elder Pretoria to send for her when she was required.

Or Elena had sent him out intentionally unescorted for some purpose of her own. He paused in the hall, recalling the route back to his borrowed rooms unerringly. He could retrace it…or he could do a little unofficial wandering under the guise of being lost.

Don’t be silly,he told himself, following the corridor back the way he’d come. You’re inventing busywork to keep your brain off Michelangelo. It’s as likely an oversight; she’s a crafty old creature, but not everything is conspiracy, not even on this planet, and not even everything in Pretoria household happens to Elena’s plan.

Lesa Pretoria was proof enough of that.

He paused at the foot of the stair, one hand raised to rub at his nose, and froze that way. Of course. Elena couldn’t arrange for him to visit the scene of the kidnapping, if it were a kidnapping and not a murder—and the Christ damn this outpost of hell for its archaic technology anyway. If they could manage an engineered retrovirus, they ought to be able to swing a twelve-hour DNA type. But she could buy Vincent a sliver of time in which to speak to Katya in private about what she’d seen. And Katya would doubtless be with the injured khir.

“House,” he asked, “which way to the infirmary?”