Carnival-SA (25 page)

Which meant relying on the agents assigned to crowd coverage and Vincent’s wardrobe to get them through safely. And Kusanagi-Jones thought that just possibly, he would rather have severed his own fingers with a pair of tin snips than made that endless, light-drenched walk. Though the crowd was calm, respectful, their attention oppressed Kusanagi-Jones like the weight of meters of water, cramping his breathing.

He managed a free breath when they stepped out of the square and into the cool shade of the gallery lobby. A brief bottleneck ensued as politicians pulled off shoes and hung them on the racks, but it wasn’t as bad as it could have been. Only the dignitaries, security, chosen observers, and a small herd of media would travel past this point.

When he looked up, Kusanagi-Jones found himself on the periphery of a glance exchanged between Elder Kyoto and Vincent that Kusanagi-Jones would have needed all of Vincent’s skill to interpret. Lesa caught it, too, and by her frown she understood it far better than Kusanagi-Jones—but she said nothing. Now that he had a plan, the wait was nauseating. He knew how Vincent, having formulated his strategy, would be behaving in Kusanagi-Jones’s shoes. He would already have assessed the possible ways in which the subject might react, and he’d have a contingency for each. He’d have alternates mapped and a decision tree in place to deal with them, with counterplans in the event of failure or unexpected consequences.

Kusanagi-Jones had only one idea, and it involved doing something he hadn’t willingly done in his adult life. And he was basing it not on facts, probabilities, and meticulously calculated options, but on three entirely illogical factors.

The first of these was Kii. Kusanagi-Jones didn’t know what to do about the Dragon’s ultimatum. He was as torn as Hamlet; Kusanagi-Jones did not, in all impartiality, consider himself capable of making the demanded choice. He wasn’t a decision maker. He would do anything possible to avoid being placed in that position of responsibility.

It was a strength in some ways. One of the things that made him an accomplished Advocate was his ability to argue both sides of a predicament to exhaustion. But he’d been able to rely first on Vincent to make the tough calls, and then, after Vincent, on the fact that he was limited by scandal to unimportant missions to prevent it from becoming a weakness. It was Vincent’s job to decide, and Kusanagi-Jones’s job to back Vincent up.

Except when he was betraying him over politics, but that, while ironic, was orthogonal to the argument. The second factor was Vincent himself. Kusanagi-Jones couldn’t face stepping away from him again. He’d done it once, ignorant of the cost, as the price of something he had thought more important than either of them. He
still
thought it was more important. But he wasn’t sure he would live through it twice. And yes, it would mean his life if Vincent reported him. He had no illusions. Except, perhaps, for the illusion that Vincent wouldn’t do it. Vincent’s loyalty to the job had always been unimpeachable…but Kusanagi-Jones was about to gamble that his loyalty to the partnership would outweigh it. In the final analysis—to dignify his gut belief with an entirely unjustified word—he didn’t believe Vincent would kill him. Which led to the third factor. Which was what Vincent had said to him in bed, regarding
Skidbladnir,
that had flexed Kusanagi-Jones’s shoulders and neck in a shivering paroxysm. But it was possible—just—that Vincent had done it on purpose, had chosen his moment and found a way of letting Kusanagi-Jones know he suspected, without allowing it to become an accusation or an admission of retroactive complicity. More, it was possible that Vincent was letting him know that Vincent was about something equally dodgy himself, and wanted his help. It was a daydream. Denial. Fantasy that didn’t want to deal with the reality of how compromised he truly was. But like pearls seeded in oysters, great treasons from small irritations grow.

He couldn’t mount a better option. Michelangelo Osiris Leary Kusanagi-Jones, Liar, was going to have to tell someone the truth. And now that he’d decided, the wait was killing him. As they broke into groups for the lifts, Kusanagi-Jones caught Vincent’s eye and gave him the subtlest of smiles, nothing more than a crinkle of the corners of his eyes. Vincent returned it, careful of his bruises, and Kusanagi-Jones swallowed a forlorn sigh.

It was going to be a long, long day.

He repeated those words like a silent mantra all through Elder Singapore’s and Elder Austin’s second round of speeches, these taking place against the unpolished back of the black granite panel that blocked the view of the rest of the display from casual eyes, and continued it as Vincent stepped up to the focal point. He didn’t need his mind engaged to run security. After fifty years, his reflexes and trained awareness did a better job of it if he kept his consciousness out of the way. His thoughts still chased an endless, anxiety-producing spiral when Vincent joined Elder Austin and Miss Ouagadougou to lead the group around to the polished, graven side of the wall. Kusanagi-Jones insinuated himself at Vincent’s side, and so he was one of the first around the corner to observe—

—an empty space in the middle of the gallery floor.

Phoenix Abased,
all four and a half metric tons of her, was gone.

What followed was more or less predictable. Elder Kyoto took charge of the scene, and Vincent found Lesa hustling himself and Michelangelo to a car, passing through a crowd of insistent media with very little pause for politeness. For a moment, Vincent thought one of them might reach for her weapon, but Lesa fixed the woman with a calm, humorless stare that seemed to persuade her of the better part of valor, and then slid into the backseat opposite Vincent and Angelo.

The door sealed and Lesa slumped. “Miss Katherinessen. You certainly know how to keep a party interesting.”

“Surely you don’t think I—” Vincent fell silent at the wave of her hand. A few minutes passed, silence interrupted only by the blaring of the groundcar’s horn as it edged through streets jammed with Carnival revelers.

“You haven’t the means,” she said. “It had to be somebody with override priority on House.”

“Override?…”

Her eyebrow rose. He fell silent. Sticky leather trapped the heat of his burned skin against his body, and he shifted uncomfortably. Angelo’s regard pressed the side of his face like a hand. Angelo, of course, had been in that gallery until nearly dawn. But he hadn’t said he’d seen anybody, in particular near
Phoenix Abased,
and Vincent hoped he wasn’t thinking that Vincent was likely to hold him accountable for the theft.

“Override priority?” he asked again.

Lesa looked up from the cuticle she was worrying with her opposite nail. “House has three modes. It automatically adapts to any regular use to which it’s put. This is how most of the architecture develops. It will also do small things—forming a fresher in an unused space or rearranging the furniture—for anybody who spends a fair amount of time in a particular spot, and provide other favors such as directions or a drinking fountain”—she tilted her head at Vincent—“for anyone, anywhere.”

“And stealing a three-meter statue from a public venue?”

“There’s the problem,” she said. “We didn’t build House. We just adapted it, learned how to program it.”

“And adapted to it. You’re saying there’s no security feed from the gallery?”

“I’m saying that anybody who could take that statue out could tell House not to remember. We’ll check the records—”

“Of course.” He managed it without a glance at Angelo. He’d been cloaked when he entered. The chances he could be detected were slim. “Please do. That means it’s somebody with clout.”

“Somebody in Parliament, if it wasn’t a ranking gallery administrator,” Lesa corrected after a reluctant pause. “We don’t let just anybody engage in urban renewal.”

“This isn’t the way back to the residence unless we’re going the long way,” Kusanagi-Jones said a little while later.

“No,” Lesa said. “I’m bringing you to Pretoria house. I know who has access to the priorities there.”

“And security?”

They’d left the agents behind. Lesa seemed to understand the nuances of his question. “Shafaqat and Cathay are running a decoy operation,” she said. “Asha will follow us. Pretoria house has its own security, of course—”

“Of course,” Vincent interrupted, ever so dry. “And there’s no evidence that
it
could be compromised.”

“Not by a male,” Lesa said.

Kusanagi-Jones raised an eyebrow at Vincent, who rolled his eyes. “Angelo is probably finding your remark somewhat cryptic.”

“One of our household males has taken advantage of the recent confusion to run away,” Lesa said. “We are trying to recover him before it becomes public knowledge and we have to make an example of him when we catch him. Thank you very much for airing our dirty laundry, Miss Katherinessen.”

“Anything you can tell me, Angelo can hear,” Vincent said, which earned him another arch look from the Penthesilean. There was a subtext there that Kusanagi-Jones wasn’t catching, and for a moment, he understood what it must be like for others, on the outside of his rapport with Vincent.

“The male,” Kusanagi-Jones hazarded, his hands folded between his knees. “Robert, was it?”

Lesa, looking out the window, nodded.

Kusanagi-Jones frowned. “Your secret is safe with me.”

He half expected to be installed in the harem, or whatever they called it, but he and Vincent were given a small, comfortable room with a balcony that opened onto Pretoria house’s inner court and left alone to compose or, Kusanagi-Jones thought, incriminate themselves.

A young male servant who was familiar from the previous night’s dinner brought them warm sandwiches of scrambled, spiced vegetable protein and mixed greens, the bread made from some unfamiliar grain, and bottles—not bubbles—of a carbonated drink with a pleasing bitter aftertaste reminiscent of chocolate. They sat cross-legged on the bed, the tray balanced on the covers between them, and picked at the food.

Neither one of them was hungry, but they were both determined to eat, which made the meal an extended comedy of dragging silences and lengthy chewing, interrupted by occasional distant cracks of thunder and the sound of music and shouting drifting from nearby streets. Nothing as minor as the attempted assassination of a head of state would put a cramp in Carnival. Kusanagi-Jones finished first and waited while Vincent picked bits out of his sandwich and poured drink into his glass one mouthful at a time. He waited poorly, bending his fingernails against the edge of the tray and wishing Vincent would break the silence with a conversational offer. But Vincent seemed preoccupied, withdrawn. “All right?” Kusanagi-Jones said finally, and then bit the inside of his cheek in frustration.

“Yes,” Vincent said, prodding his nose delicately with the tip of his finger. “Sore, exhausted, and full of released toxins, but I’ve been worse. Something’s preying on you.”

And if he was presenting strongly enough that Vincent could tell, Kusanagi-Jones was doing even worse than he’d thought.

“Need to talk,” he said. And then, unable to bear the close intimacy of the two of them leaning together over their food, he swung his legs off the low New Amazonian bed and levered himself to his feet. The carpetplant dimpled under his soles. He strolled to the archway leading to the balcony and paused inside the air curtain, currents stirring the fine hairs on his arms.

The first fat drops of a tropical downpour splashed the green-blue translucence of the balcony as the ceiling inside paled to simulate the storming sky. As the light outside dimmed, that within seemed to brighten in comparison, so when Kusanagi-Jones glanced over his shoulder he was caught by the luster of rust-colored highlights on Vincent’s hair.

He looked down, folded his arms to hide the way his hands were shaking—again—and stepped through the air curtain and out into the rain as if stepping through a spun glass drapery. His wardrobe shunted it away, creating a shimmering outline centimeters from his skin. He pulled his folded arms apart and ran fingertips over his watch, opening the utility fog. The water was warm. Blood-warm, warmer than his skin, corpulent drops hitting hard enough to sting. He closed his eyes and tilted his face back, letting the rain wash him. It passed through his wardrobe without dampening the simulated cloth or affecting the hang of the outfit, soaking him, sluicing down his chest and thighs, saturating his hair.

He heard Vincent’s footsteps and saw his shadow cross the fisheye before Vincent spoke. “Do you suppose it’s safe?”

“Safer than the sunlight.”

“There could be pollution. Parasites.”

“Could be,” Kusanagi-Jones said. Even when he dropped his chin to speak, water splashed into his mouth. It tasted strange, not neutral but crackling with ozone, faintly salty, sweet. From below, Kusanagi-Jones heard voices, a woman’s and those of children, and the slap of bare footsteps running on wet pavement. He turned his right hand up to let the rain wash across the sealed nick on his palm. “Don’t seem too worried.”

Water pattered on Vincent’s hair and shoulders as he came outside. He paused at Kusanagi-Jones’s shoulder, and Kusanagi-Jones leaned back slightly, so their wardrobes meshed. The coded channel was carried on a single-photon beam—an unimpeachable transmission. But it didn’t hurt to shorten the hop.

“Vincent—”

Vincent’s hand on his shoulder almost made him jump out of his wardrobe. “If you’re about to tell me that you’re seizing command of the mission, Angelo, I don’t blame you. But I will put up a fight. Can’t we come to an accommodation?”

Kusanagi-Jones stopped hard, with his jaw hanging open. He put one hand out, found the balustrade, and used it to pivot himself where he stood. “Beg pardon?”

To see Vincent staring at him, similarly gape-mouthed and blinking rapidly against the rain that dripped from his lashes. “I thought—” He stepped away, let his hand fall, and tilted his head back. “The Christ. I thought you’d made me.”

“As a double,” Kusanagi-Jones said, understanding, but needing the confirmation. Vincent snorted, shaking his head, water scattering from short, randomly pointed braids. He rocked back and slumped against the wall beside the doorway. “Well, now you know. It’s a good thing
I
don’t claim to be a Liar.”