Burning Bright Read online

  Day 30

  High Spring: The Hsai Ambassador’s

  House, in the Ghetto, Burning Bright

  The ambassador to Burning Bright knelt in his reception room, facing the hissing screen. A few check‑characters crawled across the blank grey space; the ambassador frowned, seeing them, and glanced over his shoulder at the technician who knelt in front of the control board.

  “Sorry, Sia Chauvelin,” the technician murmured, and his hands danced across his controls. The characters vanished, were replaced by a single steady glyph: the link was complete.

  Chauvelin glanced one last time around the narrow room, at the plain black silk that lined the walls, at the low table with the prescribed ritual meal–snow‑wine; a tray of tiny red‑stained wafers, each marked in black with the graceful double‑glyph that meant both good fortune and gift; a molded sweet, this one in the shape of the nuao‑pear that stood for duty–laid out in the faint shadow of a single perfect orchid in an equally perfect holder carved from a natural pale‑purple crystal. His own clothes were equally part of the prescribed ritual, plain black silk coat over the pearl‑grey bodysuit that served humans like himself for the hsai’s natural skin, a single knot of formal ribbons tied around his left arm, the folded iron fan set on the bright carpet in front of him. He glanced a final time at his reflection in the single narrow window, checking his appearance, and found it acceptable. It was night out still, the sun not yet risen; he suppressed a certain sense of injustice, and glanced again at the technician. “Is everything ready?”

  “Yes, Sia Chauvelin.”

  “Then you may go.” Chauvelin looked back at the screen, barely aware of the murmured response and the soft scuffing sound as the technician bowed himself out and closed the door gently behind him. The remote was a sudden weight against his thigh, reminding him of his duty; he reached into the pocket of his coat to touch its controls, triggering the system. The hidden speakers hissed for a moment, singing as the jump‑satellite bridged the interstellar space between the local transmitter and an identical machine on maiHu’an, and then the screen lit on a familiar scene. Chauvelin bowed, back straight, eyes down, hands on the carpet in front of him, heard a light female voice–human female–announcing his name.

  “Tal je‑Chauvelin tzu Tsinraan, emissary to and friend‑at‑court for the houtaof Burning Bright.”

  Chauvelin kept his eyes on the fan, dark against the glowing red of the carpet, staring at the five n‑jaocharacters of his name carved into the outer guard. There was a little silence, and then a second voice answered the first, this one unmistakably hsaia, inhuman and male.

  “I acknowledge je‑Chauvelin.”

  Chauvelin leaned back slowly, raising his eyes to the screen. Even expecting it, the illusion was almost perfect, so that for an instant he could almost believe that the wall had dissolved, and a second room identical to his own had opened in front of him. The Remembrancer‑Duke Aorih ja‑Erh’aoa tzu Tsinraan sat facing him in a carved chair‑of‑state, hands posed formally on the heads of the crouching troglodyths that formed the arms of the chair. His wrist spurs curved out and down toward the troglodyths’ eyes, their enameled covers–done in a pattern of twining flowers, Chauvelin saw, without surprise–glowing in the warm lights.

  “This person thanks his most honored patron for his acknowledgment,” he said, in the hsai tongue that he prided himself on speaking as well as any jericho‑human, any human born and bred inside the borders of HsaioiAn. “And welcomes him with service.”

  Ja‑Erh’aoa made a quick, ambiguous gesture with one hand, at once accepting and dismissing the formal compliments. The stubby fingerclaws, painted a delicate shade between lavender and blue to match the enameled flowers of the spur sheath, clicked once against the carved head, and were still again. Chauvelin read impatience and irritation in the movement, and in the still face of the human woman who stood at ja‑Erh’aoa’s left hand, and braced himself for whatever was to follow.

  “I would like to know, je‑Chauvelin, what you meant by this report.”

  For a crazy second, Chauvelin considered asking which report the hsaia meant, but suppressed that particularly suicidal notion. The Remembrancer‑Duke had shifted from the formal tones of greeting to the more conversational second mode, and Chauvelin copied him. “My lord, you asked for my interpretation of what the All‑Father and his council should expect from the elections. I gave you that answer.”

  “You recommended that we support, or at least acquiesce in, Governor Berengaria’s reelection.” Ja‑Erh’aoa’s hand moved again, the painted claws clicking irritably against the troglodyth’s low forehead. “Am I mad, or do I misremember, that she supports the Republic quite openly?”

  Chauvelin winced inwardly at the mention of memory–ja‑Erh’aoa implied that he had implied an insult–and said, “It is so, my lord.” He kept his voice cool and steady only with an effort: he had known that this would become an issue of an’ahoba, the delicate game of status and prestige, but he had counted on ja‑Erh’aoa’s support.

  “Then why should we not stand in her way?”

  I gave you my reasons in my report, my lord. Chauvelin suppressed that answer, and saw the faintest of rueful smiles cross the human woman’s otherwise impassive face. He said aloud, “My Lord, the other candidates are not safe. They either have no backing among the people who matter”– or among the people in general, but that’s not something a hsaia would understand–“or are too young and untried for me to suggest that HsaioiAn place any trust in them.”

  “It is not expedient that we support Berengaria,” ja‑Erh’aoa said flatly.

  “Then, my lord, it is as though my report was never made.” Chauvelin sat back slightly, folded his hands in his lap.

  “Unfortunately,” ja‑Erh’aoa said, “your report has become common knowledge in the council halls. I have suffered some–diminishment–because of it. It is even being said, je‑Chauvelin, that you are too close to the houtaon Burning Bright, and would perhaps benefit from a different posting.”

  “Do you question my loyalties, lord?” Even as he said it, Chauvelin knew that was the wrong question, born from the sudden cold fear twisting his guts. It was too direct, put ja‑Erh’aoa in a position where he could only answer yes–and he himself was too vulnerable to that accusation to risk angering his patron. No chaoi‑mon, citizen by impressment, could risk that, particularly not when he was born on Burning Bright and served now as ambassador to that planet. He silenced those thoughts, kept himself still, hands quiet in his lap, face expressionlessly polite, with an effort that made the muscles along his spine and across his shoulders tremble slightly beneath the heavy coat. He made himself face ja‑Erh’aoa guilelessly, as though no one had touched his one vulnerable spot, pretended he did not see the Remembrancer‑Duke’s fingerclaws close over the troglodyths’ heads.

  “No one questions your fealty, je‑Chauvelin,” ja‑Erh’aoa said, after a moment. “However, it is as well not to cause even the hint of a question.”

  Bad, very bad, Chauvelin thought. He bowed again, accepting the rebuke, and said, “As my lord wishes.”

  “I would also see to your household, je‑Chauvelin,” ja‑Erh’aoa said. “I am concerned that this report has traveled so far outside my knowledge, and yours.”

  Chauvelin lifted an eyebrow at him, stung at last into retort. “My household is well known to me, save the guest I entertain at your command, my lord.”

  There was another little silence, ja‑Erh’aoa’s hands slowly tightening over the troglodyths’ heads, thumbclaws perilously close to their carved eyes, and Chauvelin braced himself to offer his humblest apologies. Then, quite slowly, ja‑Erh’aoa’s hands loosened again, and he said, with apparent inconsequence, “How is your guest, Chauvelin?”

  “The Visiting Speaker is enjoying the pleasures of the planet,” Chauvelin answered, conventionally. In point of fact, the Visiting Speaker Kuguee ji‑Imbao aje Tsinraan, cousin of the Imperial Father, is spend
ing most of his nights attending parties and most days sleeping off the effects of Oblivion. Even so, I may have underestimated him–or at least his household. He made a mental note to make a second investigation of the half‑dozen attendants who had arrived with ji‑Imbaoa.

  “You will convey our greetings,” ja‑Erh’aoa said, and Chauvelin bowed again.

  “As my lord wishes.”

  Ja‑Erh’aoa nodded, pushed himself up out of the chair‑of‑state, at the same time gesturing to the woman behind him. She said, in her clear voice, “The audience is ended.”

  Chauvelin bowed again, more deeply, hands on the floor, straightened slowly when the click of the room door was not followed by the static of a broken connection. Eriki Haas tzu Tsinraan, ja‑Erh’aoa’s First Speaker, looked back at him without expression, came slowly forward to kneel on the carpeting in front of ja‑Erh’aoa’s empty chair. Chauvelin lifted an eyebrow at her.

  “What’s made this report so different from all the others? My lord knows what I think of Berengaria.” He used tradetalk, the informal creole that was the common language of human beings in HsaioiAn, and Haas’s severity melted into a rueful grin.

  “What makes it different is exactly what he said: somebody leaked it before it could be edited for the council. And my lord’s right, you should check on how that happened.”

  “I fully intend to,” Chauvelin said. “This is not the most opportune time to have a visitor.”

  Haas nodded. “The problem is, the je cousins have been getting a lot of attention at court lately–Norio Mann is a je Tsinraan, and he’s been the All‑Father’s favorite son since the petro strike on Hazuhonae. And the cousins are doing everything they can to consolidate their position.”

  Chauvelin nodded back, wishing–not for the first time–that communications between the court on Hsiamai and the worlds outside HsaioiAn were a little more frequent. “If I had known–” he began, and bit off the words. The rivalry between je and tzu lines of the imperial family–between cousin and direct‑line family–was ongoing; if he couldn’t anticipate particular events and shifts in favor, he should at least have made sure nothing in his report could have affected the Remembrancer‑Duke’s position in that struggle. But I didn’t count on his dumping ji‑Imbaoa on me. Or his household.

  Haas smiled sourly. “For some reason, Tal, they’ve decided to pick on you–you are in an anomalous position, after all. And my lord is vulnerable through you, don’t forget.”

  “I don’t forget,” Chauvelin said.

  “Good.”

  “Tell me this,” Chauvelin said, and in spite of his best efforts heard the anger in his voice. “Do you want me to retract my report? It’s my best advice–my lord never used to prefer a political lie to common sense, but I am at my lord’s command.”

  “No.” Haas waved one hand in a hsaii gesture, negation and apology in one. “What’s done is done. But you might look for some way to reaffirm your loyalties in public, Tal. My lord would find it helpful.”

  “I’ll do that,” Chauvelin said, a new, cold fear warring with the anger. He had earned his place on Burning Bright, earned the right to return to his homeworld, a favor almost never granted to chaoi‑mon, and that did leave him open to just this accusation, that he favored his origins over the imperial clan that had adopted him.

  Haas looked at him from under lowered lashes. “My lord is vulnerable through you,” she said again.

  “The threat was clear the first time,” Chauvelin said.

  “I hope so,” Haas murmured, and ran a finger along the elaborate enameling that decorated the cover of her implanted wrist spur. The picture wavered and died. Chauvelin swore, and reached for his own remote, closing down the local connection. Check characters flickered across the screen, and then the wall went dead, a blank grey space at the end of the room.

  Chauvelin sat staring at it for a long moment, mastering his anger, and the fear that anger masked. So my lord will throw me to the wolves, he thought, testing the idea, and found he could view it without great surprise. So I will find a reason for him to have to keep me, and I think I will begin with finding something, or something more, to discredit ji‑lmbaoa. Not that that will be that hard, or particularly unpleasant. He pushed himself slowly to his feet, wincing a little at the ache in his knees. Outside the window, the sky had lightened visibly, the sky even to the west, over the city, showing clear signs of dawn. There was no point in going back to bed–the conference had been scheduled at ja‑Erh’aoa’s convenience, and he himself had other appointments later in the day. Better to eat– assuming the kitchen staff is awake, which they had better be–and then take steps to deal with this.

  He returned to his own rooms to change clothes, discarding the unflattering bodysuit and heavy coat with a sigh of relief. One of the servants–the hsai preferred living beings to mechanicals; service given and received in kinship was the glue of their society, and this morning Chauvelin was oddly comforted by his place in the hierarchy–had laid out everyday clothing, shirt and plain trousers, and a less formal coat of green brocade. The fabric was of Burning Bright weave, shot through with strands of the iridescent pearl‑silk rendered from the discarded shells of the sequensa after the more expensive paillettes had been cut, and he hesitated for a moment, wondering if it would be more tactful to wear something less obviously identified with his world of origin, but then shrugged the thought aside. The damage was done; it was better to pretend he hadn’t heard about the rumors. And besides, the cool drape of the fabric was a reassuring luxury. He slipped it on, running one hand down the unshaped lapel just for the feeling of the heavy silk under his touch, and left the room.

  The sun was fully up now, the rising light pouring in through the seaward windows, casting long shadows toward the city below the Ghetto cliff. The breakfast room, overlooking the gardens that dropped in terraces toward the cliff edge and the Old City, was pleasantly shadowed, only the food tables softly lit by the stasis fields. Chauvelin smiled with real enjoyment for the first time that day, and crossed to the tables to pour himself a cup of flower‑scented tea.

  “Sia Chauvelin.”

  He turned to face the speaker, recognizing his steward’s voice, and saw a second person, jericho‑human rather than hsaii, standing beside the steward, so close and so exactly even in the doorway that their shoulders touched. The woman was part of ji‑Imbaoa’s household, and Chauvelin set the tea aside untouched.

  “Yes?”

  “My lord wishes to speak with you,” ji‑Imbaoa’s servant said, her voice completely without expression.

  “The Visiting Speaker has only just returned from the city,” the steward murmured, under lowered lashes. Her fingers curled with demure humor as she spoke.

  Chauvelin lifted an eyebrow, his mind racing. What the ninth hell could ji‑Imbaoa want, at this hour, when he’s bound to be hung over, or still drunk, if I’m particularly unlucky? I should change to wait on him, but I’ll be damned if he deserves the honor–“The Visiting Speaker will have to pardon the delay,” he said, and indicated the informal coat.

  “My lord will excuse,” ji‑Imbaoa’s servant said, still without expression.

  “As the Visiting Speaker wishes,” Chauvelin said, and could not quite keep the irony from his voice. “Iameis”–that was his steward, who bowed her head in acknowledgment–“you’ll join me for breakfast after this. We have some things to discuss.”

  “Yes, Sia,” the steward murmured, and stepped aside.

  Chauvelin looked at the other woman. “Lead on.”

  He let her conduct him through the ambassadorial palace, as was proper, for all that he knew the building far better than she ever would. She stayed the prescribed two paces ahead of him and slightly to his right, unspeaking, and Chauvelin watched her back, rigid under the black tunic, and the short swing of her left arm. A conscript’s mark was tattooed into her biceps, just below the fall of the cap sleeve. Chauvelin felt his eyebrows rise, controlled his expression instantl
y. Why would anyone be stupid enough to trust ji‑Imbaoa with pressed servants? Loyalty can only be created by favor, not by fear–though some of my own first masters were no joy to serve, but nothing like him. He filed the observation for later use, and braced himself as the woman came to a stop outside the door of ji‑Imbaoa’s suite. They were technically Chauvelin’s own rooms, by virtue of his rank as head of the ambassadorial household, but Chauvelin himself rarely used them, since any visitor of higher rank could usurp them. Ji‑lmbaoa had taken particular pleasure in moving his household into the rooms, and Chauvelin had had to keep a sharp grip on his temper to keep from betraying the existence of a second group of rooms. Ji‑Imbaoa would have been happy to move in there, at the expense of his own comfort, just to win a few points in an’ahoba.

  “The ambassador Chauvelin,” ji‑Imbaoa’s servant announced to the invisible security system, and the carved and lacquered doors swung open.

  The Visiting Speaker Kuguee ji‑Imbaoa je Tsinraan stood in the center of the suite’s reception room, feet firmly planted on the silk‑weave carpet that lay before the chair‑of‑state. At least he hasn’t chosen to take the chair, Chauvelin thought, and suppressed his anger as he saw the mud on ji‑Imbaoa’s feet, caked between the claws and trampled into the carpet. It was a familiar way of showing power, but Chauvelin added it to the Visiting Speaker’s account: the carpet was too beautiful to be treated as part of an’ahoba.