There were new people at this meal, husbands and wives of dignitaries who hadn’t attended the supper two days previous. Vincent filed all the introductions under mnemonics. The one on his immediate left, however, he suspected he’d have no difficulty recalling: Saide Austin, the artist.
She was an imposing woman. Almost two meters tall and not slight of build, with short, tight‑coiled hair shot through with gray threads like smoke and wide cheeks framing a broad, fleshy nose. Her skin was textured brown, darker around her eyes and paler in the creases between her brows, and her half‑smile reinforced the lines. Heavy silver rings circled several of her fingers, flashing like the mirrors embroidered on her robe.
Her hand was warm where she shook Vincent’s, and she gave him a little pat on the forearm before she let him go. Over her shoulder, he saw Michelangelo frown. Their eye contact was brief, but definite, and the flickering glance that followed ended on Claude Singapore.
So Austin was the one pushing Singapore’s buttons.
“I very much admired your sculpture,” Vincent said.
“Jinga Mbande?”The smile broadened, showing stout white teeth. “Thank you. How do you think your government will feel about touring artists, when negotiations are concluded?”
“I’m sure they’d welcome them,” Vincent said. He slid his spoon into the porridge and cut a bite‑sized portion against the edge of the bowl. “I’m surprised you’d be willing to send New Amazonian art to Old Earth, though, after–”
“The Six Weeks War?” She spooned honey into her tea. He looked away. “Isn’t the Coalition bent on showing goodwill?”
“Your countrywomen aren’t all so sanguine,” he answered.
She shrugged and drank. “What did you expect? I’m not sanguine either. But I’m prepared.”
Vincent nodded, reaching for his own tea. Yes. This was the person the Coalition meant him to deal with, the one who could bargain without running home to check with her mother. And according to Kyoto–if he could trust her–one he had no real chance of bargaining with. A separatist, somebody who’d as soon see New Amazonia live up to its name to the extent of eradicating men entirely.
So why was she wasting his time?
Across the table, Michelangelo was drinking coffee, apparently engrossed in conversation with Miss Ouagadougou, but he was listening. Vincent suppressed that twinge again, half guilt and half anticipation. “I’ve heard a rumor,” he said, “that your voice is one of the respected ones urging dйtente. We’re grateful.”
She sipped her tea, set it down–aligning the cup and saucer carefully with the cream pitcher–and lifted a forkful of scrambled eggs into her mouth. Vincent waited while she chewed and swallowed. “How would the Coalition react if New Amazonia opened itself to limited immigration?” she asked, as if idly. “There must be women on Old Earth who would come–”
It was possible she was trying to see if he would startle, or how he would react. It was possible the offer–with all its attendant benefits and problems–was genuine. He could see half a dozen ways it could be politically or idealistically motivated. In any case, he’d been expecting some sort of dramatic maneuver, and he managed to neither bite his tongue nor drop his spoon. “I think they’d be very interested,” he said. “It might help relieve population pressures a great deal.”
“Of course, it would be unlikely that the government would allow them to import Old Earth technology.” She touched his sleeve, rubbing the fog between finger and thumb. “They’d be homesteading. Any men would live under New Amazonian law.”
“Of course.” He put the spoon down and leaned back, turning to face her. Suddenly, he wasn’t all that hungry. “This wouldn’t substitute for negotiations regarding the exchange of technology for the remaining unrepatriated art, though.”
“Why not?” She finished her tea, the resinous scent of her perfume wafting from her clothes as she moved. “We’d be giving the Colonial Coalition something it desperately needs–”
“Because,” Vincent said, “you benefit as much as we do. You’re having genetic issues, of course.”
Her fingers rippled on the table. She watched them beat three times, then let go a held breath and nodded. “Not yet.”
“But soon.”
“We do not permit genetic manipulation.”
“Indeed,” Vincent said. “In a closed population, that’s likely to cause problems. Especially if the radiation exposure your colonists suffered in transit was anything like what we contended with on Ur.”
“You’re a clever bastard, Vincent Katherinessen,” she said, and lifted her fork again.
He matched the gesture. “It’s what I do.”
As the breakfast reception ended, Lesa made her way around the table to collect Katherinessen, leaving Kusanagi‑Jones looking slightly trapped under Elder Montevideo’s care.
She waited while Katherinessen courteously ended his conversation with Elder Austin and turned before she offered her hand. He shook it lightly and followed as she led toward the door. “Robert?” he asked quietly.
“No sign. We reported him as a runaway. Anything else was too much risk.” She’d been proud of how level her voice was, but it didn’t spare her Vincent’s glance of sympathy.
“Are we ready for the ceremony, then?”
“Claude and Elder Austin will be on their way down shortly. But I thought you and Miss Kusanagi‑Jones would appreciate a trip to the washroom beforehand,” she said. “House has the stage set up, and there’s quite a crowd.”
“You’d expect everybody would be too hung over.”
As easily as he read her suppressed grief, she picked up the tension under his flip reply. “Penthesileans pride themselves on never being too hung over for a party,” she answered. She lowered her voice and leaned in, as if making an off‑color comment in his ear. “Any problem with your partner?”
“Not at all,” he answered, turning to wink. “I’m afraid he didn’t get any rest, though.”
“Miss Katherinessen, you’re a very bad man.”
“I know,” he answered. “Isn’t it grand?”
Lesa caught Kusanagi‑Jones’s attention and he fell into step as they slipped through the crowd milling by the door. Two security agents–Shafaqat and someone new–joined them as they entered the hall, and waited with Lesa during a brief pause outside a lavatory. When the males rejoined her, they both looked ineffably fresher. Lesa resisted a brief pang of jealousy. The wardrobes were indeed nice technology, but who would want to pay the price?
The sun barely crested the rooftops as they reached the square. Three more security agents joined them as they stepped outside, and Lesa noticed that not only did Vincent know how to move with them–close as a shadow, his body always partially obscured by theirs–but that Kusanagi‑Jones fell into the pattern as flawlessly as a stone into a ring, covering both Katherinessen and Lesa herself. The crowd parted to let them pass, and to Lesa’s trained eye, Vincent’s unease at the situation lay open. He concealed it from everyone else, smiling and waving graciously, shaking whatever hand was offered, while Kusanagi‑Jones exhibited a grim stoicism that probably masked painful worry.
Lesa guessed that on Old Earth, an emissary would never be suffered to come in such close contact with crowds. If the mind of the mob were to decide it wanted Vincent Katherinessen dead, he would be, though the cost in New Amazonian life might be stunning. But the New Amazonian system was based on personal contact, kinship and friendship systems, alliances and bargains hammered out during drawn‑out suppers.
The populace wouldn’t tolerate any deal they felt was made in secrecy. And if Pretoria house was going to succeed, especially with the added complication of something as unpopular as Parity in the soup, Lesa needed the people comfortable with, even fond of, Katherinessen. He’d have to take the risk, even in the wake of the attempted abduction.