It would, Lioe thought. It would make a brilliant one. And it’s one I want to write–maybe put it at the core of the new Game, make it one of the givens, part of the background for everything. That would be a nice memorial, something else he’d approve of. And then no one could play without knowing something about him, remembering his death. She nodded slowly. “Thanks, Roscha,” she said. “I’ll do just that.”
Day 6
Storm: The Hsai Ambassador’s House,
in the Ghetto, Landing Isle Above
Old City North
It was midafternoon by the time Chauvelin returned to his house, and his face stung from the combination of sun and salt spray. Je‑Sou’tsian was waiting in the main hall–like all the household, she wore white ribbons, sprays of them bound around each arm–flanked by a pair of understewards. Chauvelin frowned, surprised to see so formal a delegation, and je‑Sou’tsian bowed deeply.
“Your pardon, Sia, but there has been a transmission from maiHu’an. His grace has been pleased to grant you an award.” She used the more formal word, the one that meant “award‑of‑honor”: she would have seen the message when it came in, Chauvelin knew. She would have prepared the formal package. “It’s waiting in your office.”
“My lord honors me beyond my deserving,” Chauvelin answered, conventionally. “Thanks, Iameis–and thanks for that, too.” He reached out, gently touched the knots of white ribbon.
Je‑Sou’tsian made the quick fluttering gesture, quickly controlled, that meant embarrassment and pleasure. “We–I didn’t want to presume. But we regret your loss.”
“Thank you,” Chauvelin said again, and went up the spiral stairs to his office.
The room was unchanged, the single pane of glass that had cracked during the storm replaced days before. Chauvelin settled himself at the desk, lifted the precisely folded message to his lips in perfunctory acknowledgment, and broke the temporary seal. The message–handwritten in n‑jaocharacter and then copy‑flashed; Haas’s handwriting, not the Duke’s–was clear enough, but he had to read it a second time before the meaning sank in. Then, quite slowly, he began to laugh. He had done well, in the Remembrancer‑Duke’s opinion: this was the reward every chaoi‑monworked for, dreamed of, but few ever achieved. There, set out in the formal, archaic language of court records, were the certificates of posthumous cooptation for his parents and their parents, the necessary two generations that would make him no longer chaoi‑mon, but a full hsaia, indistinguishable in the eyes of the court and the law from any other hsai. He could not quite imagine his mother’s reaction, but suspected it would have been profane.
There was a second note folded up inside the official announcement, also in Haas’s hand, the neat familiar alphabet used for tradetalk. He opened that, skimmed the spiky printing.
CONGRATULATIONS ON YOUR PROMOTION, AND MY SYMPATHIES FOR THE LOSS OF YOUR PROTEGE. MY LORD IS VERY PLEASED WITH THE OUTCOME OF THIS BUSINESS, AND IS PLANNING TO TRAVEL TO HSIAMAI IN PERSON FOR THE TRIALS. A MORE PERSONAL TOKEN OF HIS PLEASURE WILL FOLLOW.
Chauvelin smiled again, rather wryly this time. I don’t think I should count on that. The Remembrancer‑Duke might be less pleased after all, though on balance it shouldn’t affect the ultimate outcome of the trials. He glanced at the chronometer display, gauging the time left until he would hear– not much longer now–and set both messages aside. One of Ransome’s story eggs was sitting on the desk beside him, the case a lacquer‑red sphere that looked as though it had been powdered with gold dust. He picked it up idly, turned it over until he could look through the lens into its depths. Familiar shapes, Apollo and a satyr, shared images from his and Ransome’s shared culture, leaned together in a luminous forest, each with a lyre in his hands. The loop of images showed a brief conversation, a smile– Ransome’s familiar, knowing smile–and then a brief interlude of music, the sound sweetly distant, barely audible half a meter away. Apollo and Marsyas, Chauvelin thought, in the last good days before the contest. He had never noticed it before, but the Apollo had his own eyes, and his trick of the lifted eyebrow. Oh, very like you, I‑Jay. But that’s not how it was. I did everything I could to save you. You died by your own misjudgment, not by mine.
“Sia?” That was je‑Sou’tsian’s voice, sharp and startled in the speakers. “Sia, I’m sorry to disturb you, but there’s been an accident.”
“An accident?” Chauvelin said.
“Yes, Sia.”
Chauvelin did not light the screens, allowed himself a smile, hearing the shock in the steward’s voice.
“I’m sorry, Sia,” je‑Sou’tsian said again, “but it’s the Visiting Speaker. There’s been–the Lockwardens say he fell into one of the canals, he was drunk on Oblivion, and a barge hit him.”
“Is he alive?” Chauvelin demanded, and heard himself sharp and querulous.
“For now, Sia. But he’s not expected to live the night. They’ve taken him to the nearest hospital, Mercy Underface, they said.”
“So.” Chauvelin could not stop his smile from becoming a grin; it was an effort to keep his voice under control. “Do they know what happened?”
“Not for certain, Sia. They think he fell.”
“Or did he kill himself?” Chauvelin asked, and was pleased with the bitterness of his tone. If they can believe it’s suicide, that’s shameful enough on top of everything else that the Remembrancer‑Duke will still gain everything he would have gained through the trial. He heard je‑Sou’tsian’s sharp intake of breath, wished he dared light the screen to watch her gestures.
“It–the Lockwardens asked that also, Sia. It seems possible.”
“Such shame,” Chauvelin said, and knew that this time he did not sound sincere. “Send his house steward to stand by him, and one of us to stay with her. Express my condolences.”
“I’ll go myself, if you want, Sia,” je‑Sou’tsian said.
Chauvelin nodded, then remembered the dark screen. “That would be a gracious gesture, Iameis. I’d be grateful.”
“Then I’ll do it,” je‑Sou’tsian said.
“Keep me informed of his condition,” Chauvelin said, and closed the connection. It was good to have friends on the canals. He leaned back in his chair, reached out to touch the story egg again, but did not pick it up, ran his fingers instead over the warm metal of the case. I told the truth when I told Lioe I’d take care of the Visiting Speaker. It’s not my fault that she assumed I meant that I would let the law take its course. That was something Ransome would’ve appreciated, that double‑edged conversation. And I think he would’ve appreciated my decision. He smiled again, and picked up the story egg, glanced again at the bright images. The loop, triggered by the movement, showed god and satyr leaning shoulder to shoulder, and then the faint clear strain of the music as the satyr played.
–––
Interlude
Game/varRebel.2.04/
subPsi. 1.22/ver22. 1/ses 7.25
They crouched in the uncertain shelter of the cargo bay, hearing the clatter of boots recede along the walkways to either side. The overhanging shelves, piled high with crates, gave some cover, but they all knew that if the Baron’s guards came out onto the center catwalk it would take a miracle to keep from being seen. Galan Africa/VERE CAMINESI winced as an incautious movement jarred his bandaged arm and shoulder, and stopped trying to pry the power pack away from the nonstandard mounting.
“Hazard,” he said, and Gallio Hazard/PETER SAVIAN slipped his own pistol back into his belt and came to study the housing. After a moment, he pried it loose with main force, handed the two parts to Africa. The technician accepted them, prodded dubiously at the bent plugs. Hazard shrugged an apology, and drew his pistol again, his attention already turned outward toward the retreating footsteps of the guards.