Chekwri grinned, then shrugged. “Our troubles will soon be over, Septame,” she said, then frowned. “What?” she asked. Banstegeyn had just twitched and glanced to one side, like he’d seen something alarming from the corner of one eye.

The septame shook his head and bent back to his desk, where he was signing documents on his desk screen. “Nothing,” he muttered, scrawling his signature. “Have you only come to discuss matters of ceremonial attire or is there some actual point to this visit?”

Chekwri stood, walked to the window overlooking the stepped gardens and the city beyond the curve of river. “My, I do believe some people have started fires,” she said. “I thought that wasn’t our style.” She looked back at Banstegeyn. “One lot of aliens is about to trash another. The mighty Empiricist, no less, has signalled the miscreants telling them to play nicely but the rumour is it’s being ignored. I just wanted to be sure you were happy that we let things be and allow what might happen to happen. This is not to say that they’d take any notice of us, either, but in theory we might threaten to withdraw Scavenger cooperation. This has been suggested.”

“By whom?”

“Media, Culture, one or two politicos. There’d be more, but of course everybody’s distracted.”

“You’re the brave space marshal. What would your advice be?”

“I’d be indifferent; doesn’t affect us … save for the fact that our returned bad boy and what sounds like its entire marine force are just about to tangle with a Culture ship, out at Xown. That could get messy. Might require extraneous distractions to keep people from concerning themselves with it.” She crossed her arms. “Intelligence has crunched some more numbers and now thinks that particular side-show might all turn on this absurdly old Culture guy, and Cossont, the girl who survived Fzan-Juym and the fracas at Bokri. I think we take no chances and continue to let our assets around the Girdlecity do whatever’s needed; does that sound—?”

“Yes. Yes, it does. Do whatever’s needed,” the septame said, not looking up. “Is that all?” he asked. “Lot of signing required, winding up an entire civilisation, and the president was only too happy to delegate to his trimes and septames. Then I’ve got the joy of back-to-back receptions for a variety of newly arrived aliens and recently de-Stored self-important political nonentities to attend.”

“You should just tell them to fuck off,” Chekwri said cheerfully. “Go for a walk. Get laid. Start a fire.” She headed for the door. “Why not?”

The door closed, leaving him alone. He brought his head up, gazing at the closed door for a moment. Then his eyes flicked to one side for an instant, he made a small keening noise and bent quickly back to his task, the nib of the stylo scratching drily at the desk screen.

“Salvage and Reprocessing Team Principal, Ny-Xandabo Tyun?”