‘I appreciate that courtroom theatrics are your stock in trade,’ Borodin crowbarred in, ‘but you appear to have reasoned yourself into a corner. So you’re not going with us, or them. What’s next?’
‘We are placing ourselves in the neutral hands of the Hiver Assembly,’ Almier declared brightly. ‘Specifically, as represented by Delegate Trine. For the time being we’ll sit in our ship. And our ship can sit right here in the bay of the Heaven’s Sword. Unless you’d rather we took the Vulture God to Berlenhof’s Hiver diplomatic orbital? If we remain here, under Trine’s auspices, we all know it’s basically a fiction to keep us out of anyone’s hands. Whereas if we actually go to the Hiver embassy, the Hivers are likely to have questions, don’t you think? So I suggest you allow us to stay here and talk to whoever we want. You can both keep an eye on us that way – to make sure the other party doesn’t just bundle us in a bag and cart us off, see right?’
Havaer was working hard to keep a straight face. Borodin and Tact were just staring. Tact recovered first.
‘Well, then. As a temporary measure that will be acceptable.’
There was more but Havaer was distracted by Telemmier, as the man stared across the room at him. At me? Man, this is out of my hands . . . But Havaer wasn’t the focus of Telemmier’s gaze. Saint Xavienne was sitting beside him, and Havaer saw she was staring right back. Some communication passed between the Intermediaries, some I told you so from one Int to the mother of them all. And she looked ten years older for it, as though she might collapse at any moment. The diplomats were still wrangling, but it was more for form’s sake than anything else now, and at least they had a plan to follow.
Minutes after they had filed out of the room, Havaer was talking to Mordant House about the urgent need for him to go see the new asylum seekers.
*
Getting to visit them involved the usual fun and games, but Havaer had all the right Hugh clearances. Both sets of guards outside the Vulture God still stared at him, though. He expected he cut an odd figure in his scarecrow way, but he reckoned he’d do better than Borodin, in his expensively tailored suit. That would get right up the nose of any spacer, and this lot were punchier than most.
He was met by Kittering, the Hannilambra – because why not bring yet another citizenry into play? The alien’s shield arms bore screens displaying a complex pattern of silver lines on black.
‘What’s that?’ Havaer couldn’t help but ask.
‘Behold the flag of the Hiver Assembly!’ the Hanni’s translator declared proudly.
Havaer suspected they were making a fool of him. ‘When did they get one, exactly?’
‘For purpose of entering into contract with my kinsmen. Heraldry is always appreciated.’ Kittering made a show of examining Havaer’s unornamented black clothes. ‘Eyes are wasted on humans sometimes.’
‘I consider myself properly told,’ Havaer said. ‘Look, you probably think I’m here to put the screws on for Mordant House? Offer you something that serves Hugh and fucks the Partheni, that kind of thing?’
‘All the lights!’ Kittering exclaimed. The figure of speech was opaque but the artificial tone suggested agreement. And not friendly agreement.
‘I just want to talk to Telemmier,’ Havaer said. ‘I’m actually not part of the official delegation. I’m following a hunch . . .’ It struck him that his own figure of speech might not translate well, to a species without shoulders. ‘Don’t have to meet him alone. Everyone’s invited. I have one question, really. That’s all it is.’
Soon after, he found himself in the Vulture God’s drone bay, perhaps the only room big enough to contain them all. The actual drones had been moved to the walls to make space, resting near a remarkable mess of disconnected wires and general mechanical gubbins. Someone had printed out a set of the cheapest plastic chairs he’d ever seen. Almier and Telemmier were sitting on two of them, side by side like they were going to give a prepared statement. She was sleekly elegant in a new gold scarf and formal suit. Telemmier still wore his drab spacer’s clothes, looking small and unwell. A man at the fulcrum of events who wasn’t prospering under the attention. Solace stood behind the Int’s chair with her actual accelerator in her hands. She’d left off the armour, but the weapon could shoot someone three rooms away. Once again, Havaer considered himself properly told.
‘I’m not an assassin, by the way,’ Havaer started. ‘I appreciate that’s also what an assassin would say . . . but just to clear the air.’