“Well, that’s what I pay you for,” Chauvelin said. “And for finding out what in all hells Damian Chrestil wants.” He leaned back in his chair, stretching long legs in front of him, and touched the manager’s screen. The machine shut itself down obediently, its chime muted in the heavy air. He was wearing a hsaie greatcoat over plain shirt and trousers, a sweep of unshaped river‑green brocade that set off the weathered ivory of his skin. His hands were starting to betray his age. Ransome looked down at his own fingers, saw the same lines and shadows starting, tendons and bones starkly outlined under the roughened skin. Not that he was likely to see the end of the process: by the time he reached Chauvelin’s age–and there were not ten years between them–he was likely to be dead.
“Among other things,” he said again, putting aside the familiar recognition, and tilted his head toward the terrace, toward the hardscaping he himself had designed. Chauvelin nodded, acknowledging the point, and by coincidence a breath of wind shook the bellflower tree beside him, bathing them both in its musky perfume. It would have been a nice effect, Ransome thought, if I could’ve planned it.
Chauvelin set the data manager aside on the stones of the wall, leaned back in his chair, taking his time. The sunlight cast a delicate pattern of shadow over him, pouring down through the bellflower’s fan‑shaped leaves and striking deep sparks of color from the draped greatcoat. Even in the shadow, the lines that bracketed his mouth and fanned from the corners of his eyes were very visible. The crows‘‑feet tightened slightly, a movement that might become either a smile or a frown, and Ransome bit his tongue to try to copy the other’s silence, to keep from speaking too soon. The bellflower’s leaves rustled gently, and another orbiter rumbled skyward.
“I have to know what he’s up to,” Chauvelin said at last. “You’re the best chance I have for that.”
Do you mean ji‑Imbaoa, or Damian Chrestil? Ransome wondered. Or both? He sighed, looked down at the sculpted head that still rested in the palm of his hand. I would have done this anyway, regardless of threat or flattery–or love or whatever it is that’s between you and me, Tal Chauvelin. For the love of this game that’s better than anything the Game has ever produced. “All right,” he said, easing himself off the terrace wall, and reached into his pocket for the rest of the handful of carved stones. Chauvelin looked up, one eyebrow rising slightly.
“You said you had something to show me?”
Ransome nodded. “Hold out your hand.”
Chauvelin extended one long hand, both eyebrows lifting now, and Ransome opened his fist, letting the stones–grey‑silver, a shower of frozen mercury–fall into the other’s palm. Several of them bounced away before Chauvelin could catch them, but he made no move to gather them, sat staring at the four that remained in his hand. Ransome watched him turn the carvings, roll them curiously beneath one probing finger, then lean to pick up the ones that had fallen, one by one, until he had them all. The delicate faces, some white as the hazy sky, one dark as slate, the others grey and silver, stared at nothing with knowing, provocative eyes. Chauvelin nodded once, silent approval, looked up at the other man.
“I thought I’d pave your paths with them,” Ransome said, and, slowly, smiled.
There was another little silence, and then Chauvelin nodded again, this time in agreement. “How soon can you have it done?”
“And in place?” Ransome paused, thinking. The idea of paving the paths was new, had come to him on the denki‑bike ride from his loft; he hadn’t even begun to work out the quantities he would need, or the time it would take for an automated workshop to fabricate them from his models. “A week, probably–no, Storm’s coming, everyone will be working on Carnival stuff. A week and a half, two weeks, probably. Give or take a couple of days.”
“I want them in place by my party,” Chauvelin said.
Ransome frowned for an instant; he had forgotten how late it was, that tomorrow was the last day of High Spring, and the date of Chauvelin’s annual grand reception. “I don’t know,” he said involuntarily, and Chauvelin nodded.
“I know. But I’m willing to pay double costs, and a rush bonus on top of it, if you can find a way to get it done.”
“I can try,” Ransome said, absurdly pleased by the demand. There were a few places that might be able to do the production run on this kind of notice–stonecrafters didn’t get too much extra business for Storm, unlike most artisans–and Chauvelin’s own gardeners could handle the installation… This was one of the things he liked without reservation about Chauvelin: when he played patron, he did it in grand style. And the money wouldn’t hurt, either.
“I mean it,” Chauvelin said. “Post the costs on the house net, I’ll authorize the draft.”
“I’ll do it,” Ransome said, and added, knowing the workshops, “if I can.”
Chauvelin nodded, smiling slightly, and Ransome turned away, not waiting for the steward to take him back out through the maze, walking up through the garden toward the house and the well‑watched passage to the street.
Part Two
« ^ »
Evening, Day 30
High Spring: Shadows, Face
Road, Dock Road District
Below the Old Dike
Lioe started for Shadows just after sundown, riding the tourist‑trolley to the elevators at Governor’s Point, then one of the massive cars down the cliff face to Governor’s Point Below. The cab stand was empty; when she consulted the information kiosk, fingering worn keys while her other hand rolled the old‑fashioned ball that grated in its socket, she estimated Shadows was about twenty kilometers away. She hesitated, wondering if she should try one of the other clubs the steward– Vere, his name was, Vere Caminesi–had mentioned, but when she checked the kiosk again Shadows was the closest. She sighed, punched in the codes that would alert the velocab companies to a waiting fare, and lowered herself onto a stone bollard that seemed to exist to keep the cabs from getting too close to their prospective passengers. It was getting cool, would be a chill night, by her standards, and the breeze that swept up from the southeast raised goosebumps even under her jacket. It carried the faint tang, damp and salty, of the sea that was never far from anyplace in Burning Bright; brought with it too a whiff of heavy foliage from household gardens, the delicate mustiness that rose from basements, and even a momentary sharp taste of the oil that tainted the Inland Water, gone as quickly as it had come. She cocked her head, listening, but could not hear the dull polyphony of the bell buoys that tolled to mark the channel. She knew she should not be surprised–at this point she was almost as far inland as one could be and still stay on the Wet side of the Old Dike–but she was oddly, vaguely, disappointed.
The cab appeared a few minutes later, the whine of its motor audible well before it turned the corner. Lioe rose to her feet, slinging the bag that held her Rulebooks and Gameboard more securely over her shoulder, was aware of the driver’s frank stare as he keyed open the door to the passenger compartment.
“Evening, pilot.” He had a young voice, a cheerful voice, that went oddly with the lined and weathered face. “Where you bound?”
Lioe had almost forgotten she was wearing the hat, this one a small toque, suitable for Gaming, that marked her as a pilot of the Republic. “A place called Shadows,” she said. “I’m told it’s on Face Road, at the center of the Dike in Dock Road District?”
She was reciting the address from memory–no house numbers here, but all the buildings had names and were then placed within the district according to the nearest landmarks–and was relieved when the driver nodded.