Evening's Empires (Quiet War 3) by Paul McAuley Page A

They’re here?’
    ‘They passed through cis-Vestan space and rendezvoused with your ship and continued onwards. But we have spoken to them. They claim to be specialists hired by your family. They say that
you murdered Dr Gagarian and stole his head, then murdered two of their companions who gave chase. They say that they are attempting to bring you to justice.’
    ‘Did they also tell you that they hijacked my family’s ship? That they wiped my father’s viron, and murdered my brothers and the woman who raised me?’
    ‘We are not your enemy,’ Ma Sakitei said. ‘We are merely trying to establish whether your story is true.’
    Hari apologised. He was ashamed of his loss of self-control, scared that he’d compromised any chance that the Free People would help him.
    A butterfly landed on Ma Sakitei’s hand, perching on the web between thumb and forefinger. She lifted it to the level of her eyes and studied it for a moment, and then it fluttered
away.
    ‘Your pursuers asked us to render you up to them,’ she said. ‘You, and the head of the tick-tock philosopher. We refused. First, because they deployed a weapon inside the
volume of space that we control. Second, because we are minded to grant you refugee status.’
    Hari began to thank her, fell silent when she held up a hand.
    ‘We cannot confirm many of the details of your story,’ she said, ‘but your DNA profile confirms that you are the son of Aakash Pilot, and the nephew of Tamonash Pilot. We were
able to compare your profile with theirs because both have done business with us in the past. Both have been good friends to us.’
    ‘Tamonash Pilot?’
    ‘The free trader.’
    ‘He is my uncle?’
    ‘You do not know him?’
    ‘I have never met him,’ Hari said.
    No one in his family had ever mentioned that his father had a brother. That he had an uncle . . .
    Ma Sakitei threw a small file – the requirements and qualifications for refugee status – to Hari’s bios, and told him to study it.
    ‘We are an open city,’ she said. ‘We provide a peaceful, neutral environment where trade and business flourish. But when it comes to maintaining order we are vigilant, and
swift to punish any who exploit or abuse our hospitality. And we do not takes sides in disputes and vendettas outwith our sphere of influence. While you remain here, you will make no attempt to
contact your pursuers, or anyone able to negotiate with them on your behalf. If you seek justice or revenge you must look elsewhere.’
    ‘I will.’
    A butterfly landed on Ma Sakitei’s cheek. She closed her eyes and said, ‘Were you ever employed as a librarian or an archivist by your family?’
    ‘My father maintained our records.’
    ‘I see. Perhaps you worked as a courier.’
    ‘I have been trained in most aspects of running a ship. And I helped Dr Gagarian construct the machines he used in his experiments.’
    The butterfly flicked into the air. Ma Sakitei opened her eyes.
    ‘Everyone in Fei Shen must pay for their time,’ she said. ‘Even refugees. You will be able to obtain a little credit here. Enough to support you for a short time, not enough to
buy passage elsewhere. You will need to find work, sooner or later. When you do, come and talk to me again.’
    ‘I will,’ Hari said again.
    But he’d already decided that he wanted to leave Fei Shen as soon as possible. He’d reach out to Dr Gagarian’s colleagues for help. He’d work his passage if he
couldn’t buy it. He’d smuggle himself aboard a ship if he had no other choice . . .
    He said, ‘May I ask one more favour? You have taken custody of my pressure suit and Dr Gagarian’s head. Also a book that’s important to me. I would like them back.’
    ‘You may have the head and the book, but we cannot allow the pressure suit to enter the city. Its eidolon confessed to us that it is weaponised.’
    ‘It is naive, and often does not know what it is saying.’
    ‘Nevertheless, your suit will be stored at the