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blue-blooded a politician than Speaker Scion Cade Londean of House Bretan, and it was hardly likely that one destined to move in the highest circles of power would allow himself to speak of love to a Companion unless it was part of a Scenario.
    “Look at all the Hoties.” Drue broke in on Jaymes’s thoughts.
    Jaymes gave his friends a droll look behind the Zot’s back as they joined him in gazing down at the dance floor, where the political and social leaders of their world mingled on an equal footing with Bioware. “For one night each year, they get to put aside the burden of leadership and the need to live circumspectly, and the slate is wiped clean in the morning.”
    “Convenient,” Drue commented. “There used to be a religion kind of like that. It was acceptable to sin if you told a priest afterward and had him absolve you.”
    “That’s absurd,” Parry said. “And even if it were true, I still don’t see your point.”
    “Zots rarely have a point,” Jaymes said. “Their function is to look striking and strokable.”
    Drue had a smoking retort ready, but noticed Alvera trying to get his attention. He read the hand sign in the flickering of her gilded nails and was careful not to look at her again. “Let’s go somewhere more private,” he suggested. “We can have some nice drinks, and I can tell you more about Foxtown. Did you know it was named after me?”
    Valens chuckled. “Absoposi! Right this way. Cade bespoke a small salon we can use.”
    Taking Jaymes’s arm, the Exotic exerted pressure to the inside of the T-bred’s elbow to get him moving. Jaymes saw by the droop of Drue’s eyelids that the Exotic already knew about the private salon… just as Lady Alvera must have known that Jaymes and Valens were friends. It was all taking on a patina of inevitability; each passing second was another boulder poised on a cliff, another imminent avalanche. Jaymes saw the hulking outlines of a brace of Combat-Ulteem bodyguards at the end of the short corridor, and the sense of impending doom became stifling. He was relieved when the lacquered door beside him opened, and Drue herded him inside.

III.
     
    “C ADE !” Vale called out in delighted surprise.
    Drue’s gaze went to the man who stood up to greet Valens. Speaker Cade Londean’s image was well known to most inhabitants of the Inner and Outer Cities, as well as The Cloister. They were used to seeing his aristocratic features in broadcasts spreading the message of Bioware rights. Drue supposed the T-breds conversed with Hote royalty every day, but it was the first time he’d stood in the presence of such an important man, a man he’d pledged to protect.
    Londean’s face was as chiseled as it appeared in the holos, but he also had a myriad of tiny wrinkles, and the Exotic assumed the Speaker’s image was automatically tweaked for broadcast to smooth out the weathering. There was a web of fine lines around the man’s bright blue eyes, and the crowning thatch of blond hair owed much of its pale gloss to threads of silver among the gold. So Londean was older than Drue had guessed, but he appeared no less potent for the extra years. Broad-shouldered, trim, and narrow-hipped, the Speaker cut an impressive figure in his conservative, exquisitely tailored suit. However, as much as Drue appreciated the presentation, it was something intangible that set this man apart from other Citizens with their inborn assumption of entitlement. Cade Londean had all the easy self-confidence of a predator that has no rival, but he also had something best described as charisma, an invisible glow, a beacon that called to others to follow him, that made them want to be in his company, to win his approval. Drue felt it and automatically resisted its pull. Even though he supported Londean’s politics, he had an aversion to being led.
    “Sweet,” the Exotic remarked, watching the way Valen’s patron doted on the Companion.
    “I suppose it disgusts you,” Jaymes