Gwillgi expressed no curiosity about the image; but it wasn’t his planet, after all. The headwaiter, when the robot server had summoned him, was equally uninformative.
“We call it the Moment, snor, which means ‘The Face of Evening.’ There is another, a different face, on the cliff below us, but only the finest of lighting calls it from the rock. That is why it is best to patronize this poor place, which snor does not forget is called Dinner in the Mist. The view from Prizga is not so fine as from here.”
By this the Fudir understood that the two restaurants were rivals. Perhaps there would be something about the cliff faces in the files he had copied at the Miwellion. He wasn’t sure why it mattered, or even that it did; but deprived of the Mount of Many Faces, he would settle for the Cliffs of Two Faces.
“I fancy myself a good judge of character,” Gwillgi said. “I’ve seldom been wrong, and never wrong twice. I don’t see you working for the Names. Otherwise, you’d be in that gorge, not gazing at it. As for the Revolution … Are you certain about those apparitions? The ones who appeared from nowhere at the warehouse fight?”
Donovan stroked his chin. His bowl held a steaming heap of vermicelli and rice pilaf, seasoned with a variety of spices, from which he took a forkful. “I can’t be entirely certain,” he said after he had swallowed. “They may have been lurking somewhere nearby. But Oschous was monitoring the battle through the sensor array, and swore that they simply appeared on his screens.”
“I was too late for that part. You think they were Names.”
“Oschous wouldn’t speak of them directly. That’s a common behavior pattern over here.”
“Some rebel. And there were a total of … How many? Four?”
“I counted four. Two on the rooftop: a woman of surpassing beauty and, after Domino Tight had wounded her, a man enough alike to be her brother. A second man appeared in the old truck apron—he was a walking arsenal—and took out quite a few of our fighters just as we were on the verge of victory. Then, another woman—her beauty was more the hard-as-nails kind—appeared with Domino Tight and Ravn Olafsdottr and helped them take out the rambo.”
“Which means, if they were Names, the Names are fighting on both sides. Which means the Revolution has sparked a civil war among the rulers themselves.”
“It’s not unusual,” Donovan said, “to find revolutionaries among the rulers. Those who think they can surf the waves of change.”
Gwillgi wrinkled his brow. “Surf?”
“Never mind. There’s a second interpretation of events.”
“No fact explains itself,” Gwillgi agreed. “It can always be seen from other angles. I think I see where you’re heading.”
“The whole Revolution is a sham. The Names have not taken sides in the rebellion. The Names were already at each other’s throats—and the Revolution is something they have conjured up to carry on their fight by proxy.”
Gwillgi showed his teeth again. “I don’t know which would be more discomfited by that, the loyalists or the rebels. Do you think they know?”
Donovan shook his head. “I think Gidula suspects. That may be why he’s chosen his own road. I can’t answer for the loyalists.”
“And you don’t know how Domino Tight was resurrected.”
“I didn’t even know he was dead. When the mums ambushed the lyre, they nearly wiped out his cadre. The survivors who trickled into the warehouse knew only that they had lost contact with their master and his staff. We feared the worst, but when he showed up, we figured he had eluded the trap.”
Gwillgi shook his head. “I was there. I saw him. I even waved the knife for him.” He blinked, then explained. “‘Wave the knife’ is what we say in Public Vorhayn, Friesing’s World, when we ritually dispatch companions to accompany the dead.”
“Umm.”
“Don’t worry, Donovan. Only for murders. To accompany their victims.”
“I never had a chance to talk with Domino Tight,” Donovan said. “He teamed up with Ravn Olafsdottr and the two of them attacked Ekadrina Sèanmazy together. That was … when I joined the fight.”
The eyes of Gwillgi narrowed and his brow grew thoughtful. “When Olafsdottr was killed.”
“She wasn’t killed. I found that out later. Gidula had her cared for, then dropped her off on Delpaff. If you can track her down…”
Gwillgi rose. “It’s not good to stay too long in one place. You know what you have to do, right?”
Donovan was not certain he “had” to do anything, let alone the bidding of this spring-loaded ball of razor wire. “I have an idea.”
“You’ll have to let Gidula find you.”
Donovan shrugged. “How do I get in touch with you?”
“You don’t. I get in touch with you. But don’t expect it too soon or too often. I’ve been getting calling cards—drone packets entering systems where I’ve been—but not from anyone I’ve entrusted with my call-code. I don’t know that my network’s been compromised, but I won’t risk it by answering. Just in case, I’ve shifted my pattern.” He extended a hand, which Donovan found to be rough and calloused. “So think about what you’ve told me, and where you’ve used pronouns like ‘we,’ ‘us,’ and ‘our.’ And make sure you’re on the right side.”
“I told you. I’m on my side; and that’s always the right side.”
Gwillgi smiled. “I like you, Donovan. I don’t like many people, but I like you. That would make it particularly hard if I have to kill you. Betrayal by someone I like is especially galling.”
IX. Never Do What You Said You’d Do
That evening, as the sun-lamps dimmed in Sector Seventeen, Ravn escorted Méarana to a nearby restaurant called, in that cozy Confederal fashion, Restaurant No 17-04. It was also known, unofficially, as Demvrouq’s Place. That it was called this, and called this unofficially, was a flower blossoming through the duroplast of Confederal culture.
It stood a short distance across the concourse from the hotel, but to gain its entrance meant breasting the madding, elsewhere-bent transient streams. The shuttle-fresh starward bound clashed, mixed, and eddied with inbounders intent on the capital. Gray suits, saffron turbans, embroidered gowns, gold and red and black, willowy women, head-scarfed men, skipping children—that last the only spot of humanity not yet humbled and broken.
The harper scanned the faces—masked, veiled, open, wimpled—as she and Ravn swam through them cross-current, thinking she might notice the woman Gwen once more. With rather less anticipation, her eyes also sought out shadows and patches of darkness left by the boulevard-lamps, waiting for one that might come to life and speak.