Karl Schroeder - Ashes of Candesce - Book Five of Virga

He settled into the cockpit. "Our hotel? Or a good restaurant. I know of one," he said.

"I'm tired," she admitted. "Maybe the hotel tonight." He nodded and turned to his controls, and she reached out to shut the hatch.

"Excuse me." A large figure blocked the outside light. "Are you Antaea Argyre?"

Her hand shot to the little pistol at her belt. "Sorry, show's over," she said quickly as she hauled on the door handle.

A large hand reached up and the door wouldn't move. Antaea pulled out the pistol and aimed it straight at the silhouetted man's chest, her own heart suddenly pounding. "Let go or I'll shoot!"

"Shooting will be quite unnecessary," said another, familiar-sounding voice. A slim silhouette moved into the light, and Antaea's grip on the door eased. "Captain Sayrea Airsigh, of the Home Guard's Last Line," she said. "I believe we met four or five years ago, at the Gates of Virga? --At least, I gather I made an impression on you, since I hear you've been using my name as one of your aliases, lately."

Damn Crase anyway . He'd obviously reported her presence in Sere. She smiled anyway. "Yes, Captain, it was quite a party, and I do remember you. It's good to see you."

"And you," said Airsigh in a sincere tone.

"Apart from catching up on old times, though, I've been instructed to invite you to a small meeting my people have organized. We'd like your opinion on something--or rather, someone."

"Do I have your guarantee that I'll be let go again safely afterwards?"

Airsigh took the question seriously. "You do."

Antaea glanced at Richard, who shrugged. "What do you mean, you want my opinion on some one ?"

"The Last Line has a visitor--from outside."

"Outside? You mean--"

"The First Line have sent us an ambassador from beyond Virga, and we don't know what to make of him.

"We'd like you to help us answer a question. Is he--"

"--a monster?" Antaea nodded grimly. "Yes.

"I can do that."

13

"KEEP UP" WASall Venera Fanning said. So they tried.

Five countries in five days: that had been Keir's first week with Venera. Her viciously thin yacht, the Judgment , would scream from destination to destination while Venera stood up from its hatch to hold out her hand to men on passing jet bikes, like a falconer waiting for her bird to alight on her wrist. What the passing hands exchanged with her was letters. Outbound, she sent announcements (or, perhaps, warnings) of her imminent arrival at this or that palace or pavilion; inbound, she received cautious, fawning, or stiffly cool acknowledgments.

A very public campaign was under way by ambassadors and senior public officials of both Slipstream and Aerie; they, too, were fanning out across the world, visiting capitals and city-states everywhere from the principalities to Virga's cold outer reaches. They brought reminders of the two incursions into Virga that had occurred within the past several years, and proposed that all concerned heads of state send delegates to a grand colloquy, to be held in Aerie's new capital city, Aurora. The Virga Home Guard were invited as well--though whether the semimythical organization would show up was anybody's guess--to give an accounting of their own actions to the people of Virga.

Venera's mission was not so public. Her extensive spy network had spent years researching vulnerabilities and finding the skeletons in everybody's closets. For those nations and cities which proved reluctant to attend the colloquy, she was acting as a discreet second strand of persuasion. It was a process that was fascinating to watch.

As they approached the mauve or peach or lime-colored airs of the next nation on their itinerary, Venera would order one of her men out to hang gay banners off the more wicked-looking of the yacht's fins. Twirling Slipstream's colors, they glided into port like some fabulously long-lived firework. Then, the fast-and-furious game would begin.

Keir usually watched that game from a distance.

"What is she telling them?" Leal Maspeth hissed now; she was craning her neck to see the head table at tonight's banquet. The nation was Unduvine, the city Greydrop. More than that, Keir didn't know, except that they built their town wheels of iron and asteroidal stone, and that this great hall whose corner he and Leal sat in was ancient.

He glanced over his shoulder. Venera Fanning had leaned forward, across the table, and was putting most of her weight on the dinner knife she'd plunged into the oak tabletop. The ambassadors, admirals, nobles, and members of parliament seated with her were to a man cringing back in their own chairs, for all the world as if Venera were radiating some force field.

Suddenly Venera put her hand next to her temple and splayed open her fingers, said something short, and brayed with laughter. The entire table broke into howls of mirth and, as she sat down again, they leaned forward, even more relaxed than they'd been before her tirade.

"I believe," Keir said somberly, "that Venera Fanning just told a joke."

"Well, at least they're having a good time," muttered Leal. She and Keir had been introduced as minor members of Venera's ambassadorial staff, which meant they had to sit in waiting rooms, or stand in the hall, or, as now, eat at what Leal insisted on calling "the kid's table" far to one side of the real action.

"I told you to bring your notebook," he said as he tucked into the dinner. "You could have been writing your book all this time."

"They'd think I was spying," she countered; then she frowned at his plate. "And what exactly are you doing?"

Keir looked down and realized he had, once again, dismembered and dissected his dinner in such a way as to lay out his main course's bone structure for examination. "Sorry," he said. "I've just never seen birds like these. I keep trying to figure out how they fly."

"Birds don't fly," she said with an air of great patience. "Flying is something you do under gravity. Virgan birds swim. Like fish. Or people."

"Ah. I suppose." He grinned at the little skeleton.

Leal eyed him. "You're having the time of your life, aren't you?"

He shrugged. "I really don't know, I haven't had a moment to think about it." It was true; he was starting to feel safe again here in Virga--if not feel at home--and Venera kept him too busy to brood about the past. "I just..." Now he did frown.

"What?"

"I hope I remember all of this later, that's all."

"And why wouldn't you?"

Because scry used to be my memory, and now it's gone . But he didn't say that, firstly because she wouldn't understand; and secondly because increasingly, he was realizing that he could remember things without using the neural implant system.

This whole whirlwind diplomatic mission, for instance: it seemed every instant was indelibly printed in his mind. The curling mists that enwrapped the frozen city of Seasory were as vivid to him now as when they had arrived there. Mostly what he remembered about Seasory was Leal--Leal emerging from her cabin to breathe deep the brisk air of one of her own country's major trading partners; her craning her neck at the city's sights--its tenements made of ice that loomed over cleated iron streets, the men and women like feathered pillars in their coats, gliding to and fro in the mist. Throughout their visit she had seemed under some spell caused by the permanent darkness and cold; once, Keir had seen her dance a few steps to an inaudible tune when she stood in shadow and thought no one could see her.

He remembered the mechanical back-and-forth of Venera's hips as she stalked straight to the palace of Seasory's satrap to bow here, bow there, give gifts, kiss barons on the cheeks and baronesses on the hand, and then, swaying tick tick tick, leave just as quickly. "Next stop, Aeolia," was all she said as Keir and Leal (confusedly looking back at the bright palace where they'd only been for ten minutes) followed.