"It's not a woman!"
That almost passed whisper. She gazed full into his eyes across the table.
"That's real good, 'cause that way I won't embarrass you when I follow you out of here."
"Dammit, I knew you'd be like this."
"You knew damn well I'd be over to your place if you didn't show. Look at you! There ain't anybody here'd mistake you for a riverman. Look at you eat that bread. Look at you with them clean hands. You try to pass somewheres else but Moghi's, you can get a hook in you. Hear? You don't go wandering off canalside!"
He shoved the chair back and got up.
She did, and leaned on the table. "Hall?" she said. "Dammit, you walk on me I'll be at your heels."
"Hall," he said, and it was not Mondragon-the-fool that stared back at her with those burning eyes. It was Mondragon the Nev Hetteker, the foreigner, once an agent of the Sword of God. It might have made his enemies back up, that stare. She gave him his best back, that which made bridgeway bullies think twice about a gawky seventeen-year-old with a knife and a hook in her belt.
He gestured to the curtained doorway. She gestured with as grand a flourish. "After you."
He glared a moment more, then rounded the table, grabbed her by the arm and walked her through the curtain.
"Hoooo," came a soft voice at their backs, appreciating the theater.
She shook Mondragon's hand off, beyond the curtain and put her head back out the split of the curtain. "You mind your business, Goiter!"
Gotter lifted his glass to her. "Hey, that pretty man o' yours got something below the belt after all, don't 'e?"
Mondragon's hand closed on her arm and jerked her back through the curtain. Jerked her back, that was all, so fast it nearly took her cap off on the curtain. She snatched it off and whacked his arm with it. "Dammit—!"
"The man's drunk. Let be."
"You hear what he just said about you?"
"I don't need notice, Jones, for God's sake, don't. Stop it, hear?"
She caught her breath, stared at him with her mouth open. "You—"
"I don't need the notice."
"You don't want notice. You got notice, man." She spun about to put her head out the curtain again, and in the little view she had, Moghi was already advancing on Gotter's table—about the time Mondragon got her by both arms this time, dragged her inside and marched her over along the inside wall of the hallway, amongst the hanging towels and the staffs spare snirts and trousers and aprons, and along that hall to the upward stairs.
He marched her right up them, up the single flight to the Room, the door of which was open and lighted and waiting, the bed all turned down.
He pushed her toward it and let her go. She caught her balance, turned and dusted her cap against her leg, facing a face with nothing of compromise in it.
"You ain't thinking you're going to lay a hand on me! Dammit, Gotter wants his mouth fixed down there! What'm I going to get now? Gossip, that's what I'll get! All up and down the Grand, hoooo, Jones, you want ter try me, Jones? That's what you go off and leave me with? Thanks! Thanks a whole lot!"
Mondragon's face was flushed in the lamplight. Breath flared his nostrils. "This was a mistake. It was all a mistake." He walked over to the bedpost and took up the rapier which hung there in its belt and sheath, and headed for the door.
"F'God's sake, ye don't take that to 'im!"
He stopped. Turned. "Jones. He's not my business. I don't care about the man. I'm on other business. Does that get through? You started that down there. You made something out of a damn stupid drunk. It didn't need to happen, do you understand me?"
She blinked, dazed. "He yelled at me, dammit!"
"So he yelled. You've got a whiskey in you and a man yelled at you. You want me to kill him?"
"Damn drunk knew exactly what he was doing! He was trying me, dammit, trying you, and you hauled me back. Dammit, I may have to kill him now! I may have to kill somebody, all P your doing!" Her breath failed her. She shook her head. "Oh, damn, Mondragon—ye don't understand. Ye don't understand. Ye go wandering out and ye say don't follow ye, and what d'ye leave me with but a damn drunk and likeliest all the trouble you got, too. It'll come to me. You don't think it will. You and your damn secrets, you think you keep me out of it, but it'll come hunting me. And me not knowing what it is, it'll slip up on me in some backwater in the dark, and they'll find me floating three days on. Is that what you want? You ain't never quit of me; I ain't never quit of you. You can go uptown and find yourself some uptown woman, all soft and perfumey, but it's Jones they'll hunt down when you get in trouble, it's Jones who runs the dark ways and who's so easy to take up and ask all them questions of—They'll get me 'fore they get you, I ain't got no doubt. And ye won't even tell me who I got to watch out for—" Breath ran out again. She made a futile gesture with the hat. "Go on, get. I got to follow you, I follow you, but, damn, I wisht ye thought I had sense."
He stared at her. It was no longer rage in his face. It was a trapped look. "Jones."
"I pulled you out of that damned slaver's place! That took sense!"
"Jones."
"You was in there; I wasn't."
"Jones, for God's sake."
"Kalugin knows who I am, you know."
"Jones, shut up!" He came and laid hands on her arms, gently this time. Took her face between his hands then. "Jones, there's someone on my track. I don't know who. I took a hell of a chance coming here, because I knew you were going to be a total fool and come looking for me over at my apartments."
"Damn right I would."
"Listen to me. I walked over here. I don't plan to go home till I can get the matter settled. If I make noise, Jones, if I attract attention, my—patron—might take offense at it. I suspect—I strongly suspect my problem is one of his relatives."
"Tatiana Kalugin." Altair blinked, building a whole sudden structure. Mondragon belonged to Anastasi Kalugin—third in line behind the governor. First was Mikhail the Clockmaker, feckless and harmless; second was Tatiana, who was neither feckless nor harmless. And if the governor's daughter had taken some action to remove her brother Anastasi's agents—
"Or the governor himself," Mondragon said, "protecting Mikhail. You see my position. I have too many embarrassing associations. If I become notorious, Anastasi will see I turn up dead. Or the governor will have me arrested, and it's the Justiciary, and a long, long private session with the justiciar and his little toys—do you understand me, Jones? I'm trying to deal with this situation. Quietly. Downstairs didn't help."
A shiver ran through her. "You want to listen to me?"
"I'll listen. I don't say I'll agree and I don't say I'll have you along. I mean that."
"Two words: hire Moghi. He's got ways. He'll find out who it is."
"Listen to me now. Two more words: Anastasi Kalugin. If I bring in outside help, that means someone else knows about this affair. That means gossip. That means I've become a problem. Moghi's liable to find out more than Kalugin wants him to know. And there won't be a smoking stick left standing here."
"Then what're we going to do?"
"Jones—"
"You get hauled in by the College and the justiciar, just how long's it going to be before the blacklegs come and arrest me, huh? I c'n move quiet. I c'n keep my mouth shut. And I got you out of that slaver's house. Didn't I?"
"That was noisy, Jones."
"Well, you're still here, ain't you? Did I handle that Kalugin right or didn't I?" "You took a chance." "Worked."
Mondragon shut his eyes a moment, opened them again. "Mercy."
FIRST NIGHT CRUISE
Leslie Fish
It was maybe half an hour to sundown, that first full day of Festival, when Jones came out of Moghi's and saw someone sitting on the pier near her skip. The woman saw her, nodded friendly-wise, stood up and pulled back her cloak, showing both hands empty. The big bag hanging from her shoulder might have concealed anything, but her hands weren't near it. She looked as if she mi
ght be a customer.
Jones sidled nearer, studying her: medium-tall height, lean-muscular build, long black hair held back by a red headband, pretty-good maroon pants and a fancy black shirt under the rusty-indigo cloak, plain black stockings and rope-soled canvas shoes. The face was vaguely familiar, seen somewhere canalside.
"You Jones?" The voice brought up memory: cafe-singer, heard at Hoh's, one half of a music duo— suspected insurrectionists, both. The other half was Rattail. This was Rif.
"Yey. What d'ye want?" Approach with caution: Rif was known to carry at least three visible knives, probably as many not visible. Also reputed to have a gun, though no one had ever seen it—at least, no one who'd lived to talk.
"Heard you're reliable for moving cargo."
"What cargo?" Jones asked, easing a step closer.
"Three barrels, two crates. Go up past Greve Fork t' get 'em, bring 'em back south of here, lots of stops on the way. No questions, good pay."
Jones noticed that Rif was facing away from the water, pitching her voice so it carried just to its intended hearer and no further. So, sticky business. Careful. "What size barrels and crates? Got weight-limits."
"Standard fluid-weight barrels, small crates, maybe a hundred fifty kilos or a little over." Rif smiled briefly. "A skip c'n take it, I made sure."
Jones hitched her shoulders uneasily. Yes, her skip could take the cargo, but the weight would make it unwieldly and slow in the crowded traffic of first Festival night. She wasn't hurting for money, didn't need any new troubles. What was this trip worth? "Cost you four lunes." There. Enough to make casual trouble go look elsewhere. Maybe Rif would try to argue her down to something reasonable. If so, she'd stick to the stated price.
"Four pieces," Rif calmly topped her offer, "And be very cool." One hand did something quick and subtle, then opened for a moment to reveal the glint of four little gold pieces.
Jones blinked while the gold disappeared again. Hell, yes, that was worth some risks. How bad could it be? "What do I got to look out for?"
"Anyone trying to stop us, or take the cargo." Rif glanced upstream. Traffic was thick on the Grand Canal right now, but a lot of it was poleboats, many of them fancy with trims of ribbon, taxiing passengers around to early Festival amusements. That traffic might conceal attackers, but it could also provide witnesses and summonable help. "It'll be dark soon."
Yes, and a boat running dark would be hard to spot in the backwaters. Yes. "I'll take ye. Get in."
Rif sat back down on the pier's edge, eased one foot into the skip and slid her weight onto it in a single fluid motion. No fool landsman, her. Maybe she wouldn't do anything stupid on water. Jones got in, unracked the pole and yanked the ties loose.
Two quick jabs with the pole got them away from Ventani pier and well into the Grand. Jones peered at the Festival-dressed traffic and began picking her way through it, working toward the upstream lane.
From behind them, on Hanging Bridge, a woman's voice crackled loud and strong over the water. "No plague this Festival! May there be no plague this year, or any year, Jane willing. No plague, in the name of Jane!"
A Janist? Here? Jones turned to look, and saw a brown-robed woman turn and stride purposefully down the bridge toward the Bogar side. Right, best move quickly in a Revenantist town, in fact better have a quick hidey-hole somewhere, if the woman expected to get home unbothered after that act. There, she'd just disappeared in a doorway. Smart. But what was all that about?
Jones turned back to her steering, neatly sidestepped an oncoming poleboat, and got out to midstream. Then she noticed that Rif had pulled the hood of her dark cloak up over her head and was crouched down on the slats, glaring worriedly backward.
"... ain't wasting any time," Rif muttered. Then, only a little louder: "Jones, it might be a good idea if you cut west soon's you can, and go up by the Lagoon."
"All right." Jones frowned. All this work to get out to midstream, only to go back west again. Why? Some connection with the shouting Janist? Or had Rif just spotted someone she didn't want to meet on the Grand Canal? Well, no matter. Cut over west.
Jones danced the skip portward under Fishmarket Bridge, waited for an opening, then cut fast around the northeast Ventani corner, under Little Ventani Bridge and into the Fisher Canal. A passing poleboat-man cursed wearily as he jigged out of her way, but otherwise there was no traffic here at the moment. Jones poled in and shot the skip neatly down between Ventani and Calliste.
Empty water here. A dash of low sunlight licked briefly across the eyes, and from somewhere on the near rooftops a riverbird called: hoop-wawww, hoop-waww. Almost a pretty evening, by Merovingen's standards. Now under Princeton Bridge and a cautious turn right, up the narrow passage between Yan and Calliste. Little traffic here: a poleboat unloading passengers at Yan's near wharf and the Brutkys easing their skip down toward Greely, too busy with a load of wrapped cloth-bales to give more than brief greeting. Now into the sun-patched intersection and on up the passage between Williams and Pardee.
They were right under the Williams-Pardee Bridge when Jones caught two sudden and odd sounds: the squawk of a frightened riverbird and an echoing rattle from the bridge.
"Midstream!" Rif snapped. "Quick!"
Jones was already jigging the skip fast to port. The prow came out from under the bridge a good two meters left of where the stern had gone in.
The falling mess of wood and tiles missed the skip by an arm's length, no more.
"Ware! Hof, you shit-for-brains!" Jones yelled over her shoulder, peering up at the bridge. She barely made out two running figures, dressed in nondescript dark pants and shirts, darting down the bridge toward the Pardee side. Maybe clumsy fools dropping a cargo, maybe crooks dumping evidence, maybe
pranksters—or worse—trying to hole the skip. She hissed through her teeth and turned to glare accusingly at Rif. "Friends of yours?"
"Ney." Rif didn't take her eyes off the bridge as it receded behind them. There was a sharp ridge protruding under her cloak, the upper edge of something fairly long and bulky at the end of her hand. "How soon c'n you get to Port Canal?"
"Beyond next bridge," said Jones, swinging toward it. There was more traffic ahead, two skips and a crate-laden canal-boat heading toward the Grand, plus the usual cluster of poleboats. She recognized most of them. Good company to have around in case of more trouble, but going the wrong way.
"Word gets around fast," Rif grumbled, turning back to face the prow. "Just can't keep a secret in this damned city." The long lump under her cloak disappeared as if it had never been.
Then again, one might do worse than Rif in case of trouble.
Traffic was thick here, and working through it required some concentration, especially at the squeeze between Mars and Salazar. Beyond it lay the intersection of the Port and West canals, anyone's guess where the crowds were worse. Jones paused to ask if Rif had any preference.
Rif glanced up at the rooftops, then behind them. During a moment's gap in the noise, the riverbird's call sounded again. It seemed to come from Mars Isle's roof. Rif smiled fleetingly. "West be fine," she said.
Jones duly poled into the West Canal, flicking glances at the rooftops whenever she could. At one point she caught a glimpse of a small figure, child-shaped, scampering among the drainpipes and turrets. Rif was looking that way too. Their eyes met. "More trouble?" Jones asked carefully.
"Ney. Friends, pacing us." Rif looked back again. "Go slow so they can keep up."
Jones shrugged and complied. This was a safer neighborhood, anyway.
The sun dropped behind the horizon of jagged roofs, steeping the canals in violet shadow, and the first Festival-lights came out, spilling gold on the water. Canal-noise dropped to an almost peaceful hush. Lamplight and echoes of street-musicians bloomed on the upper levels, and the day-birds took off for home in a rising clatter of wings. One last hoop-wawww sounded after the others.
"Clear road," said Rif. "Make time if you can."
Jones
leaned on the pole and glided the skip smoothly down the darkening water, hoping for no more trouble. Figure another half hour to the Greve West Branch, maybe an hour up the fork of the Det. And then where? Back down the Grand in the dark? Another good hour, at least, not counting unnumbered stops. Calculate being done somewhere along three hours after dark. Where could she tie-up for the night then? Back to Ventani's pier, most likely. Safe there, though not much quiet. Get a good dinner at Moghi's, anyway. Get the gold changed there, no questions asked.
As they pulled into the Greve West Branch and turned north the bird-call came again, but changed: Hoop-whee! Hoop-whee!
Rif sat up fast. "Shit," she muttered, and did some fast fumbling with her clothes.
Jones sighed and pulled the skip to a halt. "What kind of trouble?" she asked.
"No matter," said Rif, yanking her cloak aside and pulling open the big shoulder-bag. "Keep going and look innocent. It's blacklegs." There were flashes of simple jewelry at her throat now, and from the pouch came a flat-harp, tuning-wrench and finger-picks. She looked like a respectable musician on her way to entertain the rich.
Rif fussed with the harp while Jones eased the skip into motion. Bird-calls, rock-tossers, now blacklegs: no wonder Rif was paying well. It had damned well better be enough. Jones peered at the thinning traffic ahead, most of it with Festival-lights, and poled forward cautiously.
Rif put on the finger-picks, shouldered the flat-harp and stroked sweet chords out of it. "O sanctissima, O piisima ..." she sang, a drowsy tune that sounded ancient.
As they came up to the bridge between Eick and Torrence, someone pitched a small stone into the water. It hit just ahead of the prow. A harmless pebble, no threat, just a signal. "Stop there," said a voice. A quiet, but carrying, tenor voice.
Jones stopped right there, and looked up. So did Rif. Only one blackleg in Merovingen sounded like that.