And Adele Mundy? No, she didn’t believe it and she didn’t imagine she ever would. But not long ago she’d believed in nothing but the certainty she would die, and today she was convinced of the reality of human friendship as well. Perhaps someday Daniel would manage to convert her—by example; Daniel was no proselytizer—into a Cinnabar chauvinist as well.
Adele felt, as she always did when walking out of a library, that the sunlight was an intrusion. Still, she hadn’t wanted to call up her messages within the Celsus; not after the meeting with Mistress Sand. Contact with intelligence personnel always made her feel both unclean and paranoid, uncomfortably aware of how easily she could be observed within the confines of a building.
Adele was an intelligence agent herself now. That made her feel more, not less, uncomfortable. Perhaps the paranoia would prove a survival trait, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to live if she had to worry this way in order to do so.
Most of the messages she’d downloaded were of no consuming interest—RCN information, updating her status; or even less significant queries from people who wanted to sell her things. Adele had gained a great deal of attention from publication of the list of those entitled to a share in the proceeds of the Princess Cecile whenever the government of the Republic got around to paying. She found it quite amazing that so many people thought she wanted to buy real estate, an aircar, or companionship.
She permitted herself another smile. Companionship of the sort those folk offered had never interested her, even as a matter of scientific curiosity. Daniel was the naturalist, after all. Mind, Daniel’s interest in companionship couldn’t be called scientific, though the way he hooked and netted each night’s quarry showed the same tactical acumen that had turned the tables on the Alliance at Kostroma.
A short block of information was encrypted. Adele entered the day’s key; even with the wands, the hundred and twenty-eight characters took some time.
The message was from Tovera, Adele’s servant insofar as that intelligent, highly trained sociopath could be said to serve anything except her own will. Tovera knew she wasn’t fully human: that there were things which human beings felt that she would never feel. Her strategy for coping with her lack was to attach herself to a human who understood what she was, and who didn’t care.
Every time Adele looked at Tovera, she thought of the boy she’d killed fifteen years before; and the others. How many more lives could Adele Mundy end with a four-ounce pressure of her trigger finger, before her eyes were just as empty as those of her servant?
The message was simple: Adele’s bank had called regarding the drawing rights she had established against the award of prize money for the Princess Cecile. They would like her to meet with them at her earliest convenience, giving an address.
It wasn’t the address of the office where Adele had set up the account, but that was only to be expected. It was on the north slope of Progress Hill, however; easier to walk to than to take a car.
It was also only to be expected that something was wrong with her account. Well, she’d known poverty before; she could learn to skip meals again.
She set off through the archway beneath the upper court. It was unadorned concrete, the lighting muted but functional. This passage wasn’t meant for show but merely for the use of visitors coming from the north to the Celsus or to offices in the complex.
Ahead of her walked a noble with a small retinue. A group of minor bureaucrats passed from the other direction, one eating the last of a roll-up and others carrying part-filled mugs. They were talking about a construction project and speculating on how much the contractor would pay for permit approval.
Adele felt her senses focus down: locking faces in her memory without appearing to stare, catching intonations and freezing the precise phrasing of the discussion. She caught herself and rubbed the impulse—though not the series of impressions—from her mind.
The Xenos municipal government wasn’t paying her to root out graft. Still, Adele had spent her life learning to gather and integrate information. The past months with Daniel—and Mistress Sand—had led her to consider other forms of information to remain alive, but she couldn’t let that get out of hand if she were to stay sane.