Iain Banks - Against a Dark Background

“Good to see ya, youngster!” he shouted.

“Not so young any more,” Sharrow told him.

“I knew you’d say that.”

“Well, I never could hide much from you.”

“There was a lot you never wanted to,” he leered. He waggled his eyebrows.

“Oh,” she tutted, pushing him away. The flowers fell towards the deck; he scooped them up easily and with a look of pretended hurt clutched them to his chest. His eyes closed, then he swivelled to bow very formally to Zefla and present them to her instead. Zefla took them and threw them to Sharrow, and while Miz was still watching their trajectory, stepped forward and hugged him, lifting him off his feet and whirling him round, all in the middle of the bellowing, glittering, encircling band.

“Waaaa!” Miz wailed, as Zefla spun faster.

Dloan smiled; Sharrow laughed.

“Ah, Lady Sharrow.”

“Brother Seigneur.”

“Doubtless you wish to know the result of our deliberations concerning your proposal.”

“Yes, please.”

“I am happy to say that the Brethren have agreed. When the property is delivered, your sister will be released.”

“Half-sister. And the expenses?”

“On what is called Commercial Scale Two, I believe. Will that be acceptable?”

“I suppose so.”

“We shall have a business agency draw up the contract itself; they will sort out the details with you or your lawyer. Their number will be tagged to this message record.”

“Thank you. I’ll call them now.”

“Indeed. Your servant, my lady.”

The broad face in the holo smiled insincerely.

A fresh warm wind blew, making the lines of bunting flutter and rustle in gay lines across the shock of cloudless blue sky. The sea quivered, spangling, and across the sharp, glittering creases of the waves the small yachts came skimming like flat stones, their sails bosoming out and flourishing vivid stripes and bright patterns at the massed spectators. The crowd lining the rails of the ships or seated on the choicer barges roared into the breeze and waved hats and scarves; they threw streamers and let off noisy fireworks.

The yachts rounded the stand-turn buoy, heeling until their gunwales touched the water, then righted, reset their sails for the new reach and raced off towards the next buoy with the wind directly behind them. Spinnakers blossomed, one by one, snapping and filling like the chests of exotic displaying birds. A few of the yacht crews found time to wave back at the crowd; the people roared again, as though trying to fill the gaudy sails with their breath.

Miz guided Sharrow through the groups of chattering people on the barge, nodding to faces he recognised and occasionally exchanging greetings but not stopping to make introductions. He was dressed in achingly bright shorts and a short-sleeved shirt only a fraction quieter than the cheers of the crowds on the spectator barges. Sharrow wore a long gauzy dress of pale green; she sported dark glasses and held a parasol; Miz carried her satchel for her.

Several of the people they passed turned and looked after them, wondering who Miz’s new companion was. Nobody seemed to know, though a few thought she looked vaguely familiar. Miz lifted a couple of drinks from a waiter’s tray, leaving a coin behind, then he nodded towards a pontoon bar where little shell-boats were moored like buds on branches, paid for one and strode down the ramp to the floating deck-again nodding to the parties filling some of the other shell-boats-and set the drinks down on the central table of the boat. He helped Sharrow aboard.

They sat watching all the bustle of the regatta for a while, drinking their drinks and sampling the sweetmeats and savouries the waiters brought round; freshmenters in cat-canoes and sampans glided amongst the shell-boats, selling their own wares.

She had outlined the situation over dinner at his hotel the previous night, asking him to sleep on it. They and the Francks had dined in the circular funnel restaurant of the old cruise ship, watching the lights of the Log-Jam as they seemed to revolve beneath them.

They had danced, gone for a last few drinks and inhalants in Miz’s impressively large suite looking out over a floodlit marina, then while the Francks went for a walk on deck, he had walked her to her room, kissing her cheek and leaving, backing off, blowing kisses. She had half expected him to try and stay, or ask her to come back to his suite, but he hadn’t.

Sharrow looked from the gaudy regatta to Miz’s tanned, grinning face and twirled her parasol.

“So what have you decided, Miz? Will you come with us?”

“Yes,” he told her, nodding quickly. He adjusted the shellboat’s sunshade then took off his own dark glasses. “I do have a little business to attend to here first, however.” He smiled widely, steel-blue eyes scintillating.

She laughed at his expression; it was so childishly roguish.

He looked young and healthy and handsome as ever, she thought. There was an energy in him, as though his life held a momentum greater than that of others; the poor kid from the barrios of Speyr come up from nothing and heading higher still, brimming with ideas and schemes and general mischief.

“What sort of business? Will it take long?” she asked, twirling her parasol to watch the pattern of light and shade it cast on his open, eager face.

He bit his lips, put one hand over the side of the little shell-boat and dabbled his fingers in the water. “It’s just a little lifting operation,” he said, glancing at her. “Actually, I might be able to expedite it, now you lot are here; bring it forward a bit, if you’ll help.”

She frowned at the water where his hand trailed. “A lifting operation?” she said. “You gone into the marine salvage business?” She sounded confused.

He laughed. “No, not that sort of lifting,” he said, and sounded almost embarrassed.

She nodded. “Oh… that sort of lifting.”

“Yes,” he said.

“What is it you’re going for?”

He slid along the circular seat to her side, making the shell-boat list. He put his chin on her shoulder and spoke softly into her ear, which was revealed under the mass of swept-back black hair. He breathed her perfume in, closing his eyes, then sensed her moving away from him. He sighed and opened his eyes. She was angled away from him, staring at him over the top of her dark glasses, her huge eyes wide.

“Say that again,” she said. He looked beyond where she sat, then mouthed the words without actually speaking them.

She mouthed the words back, and he watched her lips.

The Crownstar Addendum? her lips said. Her eyes became wider still. He nodded. Sharrow pointed at his chest and mouthed: You Are Fucking Crazy.

He shrugged and sat back.

She dropped the parasol to the seat and set the dark glasses on the table, then put one hand under her armpit and the other over her eyes. “This must be the silly season for Antiquities,” she breathed.

“Don’t you admire my ambition?” Miz laughed.

She looked at him. “I thought we were going for something difficult. I thought the… article you’re talking about was supposed to be unstealable.”

“Whisper when you say that last word,” he said quietly, looking around the other shell-boats. “It’s only applied to one thing round here.”

“What are you going to do with it once you’ve got it?”

“Well, it started when I was contacted by an anonymous buyer,” Miz said breezily. “But I think I’ll ransom it back to the relevant authorities. That might be safer.”

“Safer!” she laughed. He looked hurt. “Why?” she asked. “Why are you doing this? I thought you were doing all right here?”

“I am,” he said, looking insulted. He waved around. “I’m rich; I don’t need to do it.”