Burning Bright

“I am sure,” ji-Imbaoa said, and gestured polite dismissal. Chauvelin bowed his thanks, and let himself out into the hallway.

He made his way back to the breakfast room through corridors that were slowly filling with people, responding mechanically to the respectful greetings of his household. Three things, he thought, three things I have to do. Find the weaknesses in ji-Imbaoa’s household so that I can counter his threats, find out who leaked this report of mine, and then find out why Damian Chrestil wants Ransome back in the Game. And why it should worry ji-Imbaoa so much. Which means I will have to talk to Ransome: it doesn’t do to have him keeping secrets from me. He paused in the door of the breakfast room, mentally reordering his list, then went in to give orders to the waiting steward.

Day 30

High Spring: Canal #291, Fisher’s

Isle District, Burning Bright

Damian Chrestil woke to sunlight and the steady sway of the john-boat against the forward mooring. The stern tie had parted in the night. He was certain of it even before he stopped blinking, and moved his head out of the thin bar of sunlight that shone in through the gap between the snuggery’s canvas top and the side of the boat. He was angry even before he remembered what lay next to him in the bunk. It was his fault, the stranger’s—he had been the one to place the stern tie—and he propped himself up on one elbow to study the situation, and the body beside his. He couldn’t remember the stranger’s name, nor very clearly why he had picked him up the night before; whatever had been interesting or endearing had vanished with his clothes. Slumming, certainly—and the stranger turned over onto his side, dragging the thin sheet with him. That was quite enough, especially now that the inevitable headache was starting behind his eyes. Damian kicked away the rest of the sheet and reached for his discarded clothes, wriggling awkwardly into briefs and shirt and trousers. The stranger— whoever he is—was lying on top of the storage compartments. There was nothing useful in them, not in a borrowed boat, but Damian added the extra inconvenience to his account anyway, and crawled out of the snuggery to deal with the stern tie.

Luckily, he had had the sense to pick a quiet lay-by. The john-boat was swinging only sluggishly, the soggy impact of the hull against the piling barely audible over the gentle slap of the water, not even enough to bruise the paint. He made his way aft along the sun-warming decking, and as the boat swung in against the pilings, caught the dangling ring and made the tie fast. He stood there for a moment, balancing automatically against the deck’s gentle heave, and blinked up at the sky and the white-hot light. The john-boat lay at the bottom of a blue-toned canyon. Shadowed factory buildings rose six stories high along either bank of the canal, their unlit windows showing only blank glass. This was not a deliveryway; there were no lesser docks or vertical line of gaping doors beneath an overhanging cranehead. It was just a traffic alley, not much used—it might even once have been a natural stream, by the gentle curve of its banks. The rising sun was pouring down from the near end of the channel, a wedge of almost solid light that turned the murky water to liquid agate. No one was moving on the narrow walkways that ran alongside the factories; no one else was tied up to the mossy pilings, or tucked under the cool shadow of the piers. He made a face—the heavy sun was doing nothing for his headache—and went forward again, shielding his eyes from the shards of light that glinted off the water.

The stranger was still asleep in the snuggery, face now turned to the empty pillow beside him. Damian Chrestil squatted in the entrance to the cavelike space, staring into air turned honey-gold by the worn cover, and felt a detached malevolence steal over him. Why should hesleep, when Damian himself was awake, and feeling unpleasing? There was nothing in the round face and showily muscled body that aroused the least compassion; his thin mustache was intolerable. I must give up slumming, he thought, and leaned sideways to release the lock that held the cover’s frame erect. He caught the nearest hoop as the wind took it, guiding it down onto the deck. The frame folded neatly, as it was supposed to, with only a soft creak from the well-oiled mechanism, and the cover collapsed into a rumpled U-shape at his feet. The stranger slept on.