Vincent folded his arms, firming his mouth. Nothing as daunting as Michelangelo’s frictionless mask, but he wouldn’t be much of a diplomat if he couldn’t lie with a straight face. “I find it surprising they would have left without security.”
“They didn’t make you aware of their destination, then?” The furrow between Elena’s eyebrows creased deeper. She sat back abruptly, flicking moisture off her fingers like a cat. “I assumed the lack of security meant it had something to do with”–a dancing gesture, back and forth–“private matters.”
“Between you and me?”
She nodded.
“It might have,” he said. “I presume Lesa passed along the substance of our conversation last night.”
“She said you were unforthcoming enough about your partner’s politics to make her curious.”
“I was,” he said.
Elena sat forward. “I’ll have contact codes for your mother, documents, a timetable. Coordination is going to require discretion and effort.”
“Elder Pretoria,” he said, leveling his voice with far more effort than he allowed to show in it, “what about Angelo and your daughter?”
“Katya and Agnes have taken out search parties,” she said. “I’ve informed Miss Delhi and the rest of her security team, and no doubt they are scouring the city as well. In the meantime, it’s not as if our other business will wait.”
“In the meantime,” he replied, “I don’t suppose you’ve made any progress in locating the missing statue.”
“Phoenix Abased?”She studied her fingernails. “I believe security directorate is looking into it.”
“If it’s not located,” he said, “I may have some difficulty convincing the Coalition Cabinet that it’s wise to repatriate the rest of the liberated art. To a city that can’t manage to keep track of the jewel of the collection for twelve hours, once it’s released to their authority.”
“That would be unfortunate,” she said. “Because New Amazonia would no doubt interpret that as further evidence of the Coalition’s perfidy. And I think even Claude would find it challenging maintaining generalized acceptance of neutrality or appeasement under those circumstances.”
“The Christ,” he said, biting his lip to keep the grin under control. “That’s worthy of my mother.”
Elena tipped her head. “It’s hard to imagine a higher compliment.”
Lesa had said it. Only a member of Parliament could have pulled off the theft. One such as Elena Pretoria, the Opposition leader. “So you have a plan to foment revolution. Convenient. What do you plan to do about Robert?”
She spread her fingers wide. “He’s just a stud male. An unusual male, but a male. His chances of successfully accusing three well‑placed women are slim. Unless he had hard evidence–which I don’t believe–his testimony is easily discredited. It’s a minor scandal how much Lesa spoils him, anyway.”
The chill that crawled across his shoulders might have been the sunburn. “So you’re unconcerned.”
“Honestly,” she said, “given Claude’s blunder in challenging Miss Kusanagi‑Jones, I find it hard to see how our situation could be better. Assuming, of course, that they are located quickly.”
“Assuming.” He took it as leave to go when she lifted her drink and turned to the window. She could mask her worry from her family, but not from him, and it made them both uncomfortable.
Still, he managed to avoid panic until after nightfall, when a commotion in the courtyard roused him from unprofitable ceiling staring, watching the reproduced image of the Gorgon slowly color the darkening periwinkle of a crepuscular sky. He rolled off the bed quickly and hurried to the arch, his injured leg lagging. The pain medication helped, but couldn’t obscure ongoing twinges.
He came out under the real sky, washed by city lights until it shone less bright than the reproduction inside, and paused with his hands on the balcony railing. A stem of carpetplant stuck between his toes, and he momentarily forgot the ache of his knee and the seared shivers crossing his tender back. Below, several dark heads gathered, women rushing barefoot from the house, and a doorway in the courtyard wall–a sort of garden gate without a garden–stood open on the street beyond, two girls observing through the crack with gamine eyes.
He spotted Elena easily as she strode into the courtyard, the others giving way before her, except for one. Katya Pretoria stayed crouched beside an exhausted, bedraggled khir. The animal’s head curled up on a long neck, trembling, but otherwise it lay spread on its side, and Vincent could see the white glare of bandages against scaled, feathered hide.
“Dammit,” he said, stepping back. “Dammit, dammit, dammit.”
A few limping steps brought him inside, into the gentler light projected from the ceiling. He stopped, stared up at the pale colors of the nebula, and forced himself to breathe slowly.
The door irised open at his approach. An alert and concerned‑looking guard met him, setting aside the datapad she was reading to rise from her bench. “Miss Katherinessen?”
“Why wasn’t I informed?” he snarled. She stepped back, arms crossed, and he sighed and modulated his tone. “I’m sorry,” he said, through the taste of gall. “I need to speak to Elder Pretoria immediately.”
“I’ll see what I can do. If you’ll return to your room…”
“No. I’m going with you.”
She stared, but he refused to glance down. She wasn’t wearing a weapon, unlike most women, and he was glad. Otherwise, he thought she might shoot him if he stepped any closer. At least he had height and age on her. He lifted his chin and folded his arms, feeling like the heroine in a Victorian drama.
Her arms dropped to her sides. “This way.”
He followed meekly, rubbing grit from the corners of his eyes. He was notlosing Michelangelo. Not with long‑elusive dreams about to settle on his hand like butterflies. War, revolution, treason–these seemed minor considerations now.
He almost didn’t recognize the emotion. It was hope. And it was also hope settling into his gut with a painful chill. He’d forgotten what it was like having something to lose. But apparently he hadn’t forgotten how much it hurt to lose it.
Along the walk, he learned that the guard’s name was Alys, and that she wasn’t a member of Elena’s family, but was raised in a less wealthy household and working in service until she could afford her own citizenship stake. She led him down stairs and along another curved corridor tiled in faux terra‑cotta, which combined with the thicketed landscape of the walls to suggest a jungle path. At least the movement eased the ache in a knee further strained in descending the stairs.
“Your culture believes in the beneficial power of walking,” he said as they paused for Alys to consult her datacart and locate Elder Pretoria.
“Saves on chemical antidepressants,” she quipped, and frowned slightly when he didn’t laugh.
“And I would have guessed the jungle was rich in useful pharmaceuticals.” He knew he should have bitten his tongue, and couldn’t be bothered. Michelangelo was still missing, he was being kept deliberately in the dark, and she had the nerve to look disappointed at his lack of attention to her jokes.
“I believe you should discuss that with Elder Singapore,” she said coolly. “Elder Pretoria is on the porch, Miss Katherinessen. She’ll see you.”
Her pique amused him, and it might have been impolitic to let her see it, but he was beyond caring. So he nodded and smiled as he walked past her down the short corridor to the veranda, through an open archway and into the still‑warm night.