As he made his window and slid inside with scarcely a sound, another thought occurred to him.
So what kind of circles did she useta move in, I wonder?
And another, as he stripped off his clothing and got into bed.
I wonder if this gets me off th' hook with her now? Or is she gonna keep comin' back for more favors?
Bet she keeps comin' back.
Hell. With friends like Rat. . .
Yey. This's a damn good reason t' go visitin' upriver. Mebbe I get gone long enough, she'll forget about me. An' even if she don't—I won't be around t' go as kin' favors of.
Denny turned over and stared at the wall. Think mebbe I take old Uncle up on that invite.
Yey. Think mebbe I better. . . .
FLOOD TIDE REPRISED
by C. J. Cherryh
Weather was about to turn, one hoped, Lord! Rain and more rain, till Old Det was swole up and running fierce through the town, till Mantovan corner marker was under and a canaler-boat and a Gallandry motor-barge came to odds, on account of the canaler finding more current than wanted to be, there on the Port Canal turn.
"Should've heard 'em yell," Jones said, while Mondragon helped her with the barrels, down by Salem, on the Gut, where the current was especially fierce. "Barge hit Pardee corner a hell of a swipe, ol' m'sera Pardee herself was yellin' out the window, an' all. Took the pilin's right out, whole skip-length of Pardee waterfront, them big logs floating free, canaler yellin' th' barge pushed 'im short. Hell, if the barge caught the pilin's he was short, if he were short that close t' shore it weren't his fault if some damn fool come to grief on his waterward side. Never should've given that canaler room."
"Instinct," Mondragon said. That was one of his big words Jones knew. "Didn't want to ride the poor fool down."
"Instinct, hell, there's legal traffic an' there's damn-fools committin' suicide. Big ol' barge, a fool can hear 'im, ain't no cause that canaler comin' ahead on that corner—Lord, he was comin' off o' Grand, had hisself all the room he wanted. Ney, he was a fool, he crowded that barge, damn sure, but ain't no way Pardee'll sue him, he ain't got the money Gallandry's got! An' let all them landers get to arguin' in the court with Pardee's lawyers, bunch of canalers all callin' each other liars—I dunno, I'll be surprised if the Gallandry don't give up an' pay Pardee t' save 'em worse."
"Money counts," Mondragon said.
"Ain't no justice," Jones said. "I tell you, what: the Trade is goin't' file a paper."
"File a paper?"
"With them judges." She caught the last barrel, swung it into place and walked over to the waiting store-front, where the night-boy waited to make his mark on her tally sheet. "Thank ye, Jonny. G'night, Lor' bless." And to Mondragon as she jumped aboard and caught her balance on the slats of the empty well: "Folks is just gettin' so damn legal nowadays—the Trade took a vote, an' if nobody calls any meetin' to oppose, there's goin't' be this paper writ up, sayin' how it is, the current there an' all, from them as know that canaler's a fool, Ain't fair on Gallandry. An' those lander judges ain't goin't' know it."
"Expert witness," Mondragon said. A fancy word she didn't know.
"What's that?"
"It means you know what you're talking about. It means somebody like old Jobe could go to the court and tell them the situation there. Jobe should talk to Gallandry."
"Dunno. Expert witness, huh? That the law?" "That's the law."
She cast off the bow-tie, he cast off the stern; they sorted out the two poles and shoved away. "Jobe said ask ye."
Mondragon made a noncommittal sound, and shoved with the pole. "Hin. Mark."
Gotten right handy with the skip, he has, Mama.
He likes it right well that Jobe asked—ain't no hightowner that Jobe'd ask, now is it?
Mama was back to silences again, having said her piece. Mama was probably mad about the engine.
She said, "Hey-hin, bow a-starb'd, there," as they hit the Gut current, and the way Old Det was running, the skip's bow hove over a good bit. " 'Ware pole! Hey!"
She poled off the wall at the swing of the current, Mondragon ducked the pole-end and crossed right smart over to portside to shove as she trod on the stern-case. Neat as could be, the skip got her lightened bow up, swung over in a poleboater's maneuver and Mondragon's pole went right in where it had to.
"Good," she said, "that's good, that."
Storm-tide, a good wind blowing: the Gut's current shot them into the Grand, and after that it was just hard, fast work, to bring a light skip upcurrent— no using the engine after hours in this stretch, and after Mantovan corner it was just a bit on past Ventani to Foundry, and after that just a little ways to Kamat. They were at a good clean clip.
"Seen old Muggin lately?" Mondragon asked. She reckoned it was Mantovan corner put him in mind of crazy Muggin, who had had this bad habit of night-tying there, where the barges came.
She said, "Seen him over f Arden Cut, last week. Smelly as ever."
"Wondered if he was still alive."
"Don't know what keeps 'im goin'." A stop for breath. The current came hard, and the pole warmed in her hands. "Him an' Min. Lord."
"I know what keeps Min going. Bottle of whiskey a week."
"That ain't fair. You know she's in love with you. Knit you that sweater an' all." "For two bottles." "Ye're a hard man."
Mondragon laughed. It wasn't often he laughed. She liked to hear it. It meant things were going better, that maybe whatever was going on with him was going better lately. She didn't ask.
But on a certain thought she said, "Cute kid, that."
"Who?"
"The baby, Lord, who else?" "Marina's?"
Marina's. Like there was else. But it seemed for a moment he hadn't thought of that. She was a pretty bit. And Jones thought: Could've been mine an' his. Would I want that?
Ain't ready for any kid.
Mama wasn't either. Damn, she wasn't. Didn't pick my papa, either.
"Jones, what about the baby?"
Damn, the man was honestly worried. She saw his face in the light off Hanging Bridge, and laughed, to ease his mind. "Hey, not me, Mondragon."
He let out a breath and missed his rhythm with the pole.
"Scare ye, did I?"
"Out of a year of my life." A few strokes more of the pole. "You're not having thoughts like that, are you?"
"Me? Hell. Just wondered if that was the change in ye."
"What change?"
"Ye ain't jumpin' at shadows."
"Say things have calmed down a bit." A breath. "Maybe we'll take that trip to the rim."
"Ye want to? I'll do 'er."
"Next week, I think. Way things are going—maybe next week some things'll be settled."
"Deal." They were coming up on Fishmarket Bridge now. They needed their wind. She savored that last thought awhile, all the way up to Foundry, both of them breathing hard and the pole grown more than warm in the hands.
"Ye'll have blisters."
"Had them before."
Gasp.
Up Foundry North Canal, then, and an easy port swing up into Kamat West, and the blank forbidding face of Kamat warehouses and dye-works. And a wooden gate standing wide into the black recess of Kamat's water-port. "Here we go, now, trick bit comin', bow sharp a-port, hope t' hell ol' Richard ain't tied his fancyboat in here t'night—the damn lantern's out."
"Better swing out a bit."
"Ney, ney, trust me, just like th' Gut, Det'll push 'er hard. Ya-hin, yoss, yoss, yoss, there!"
He shoved hard. She fended off the wall. The skip sailed true right into Kamat's water-gate, neat and even clearance on either side. The fancyboat was there. They missed her clean, glided right past for the landing. "See?" she said.
And did see, shadowy movement in the depth of the cut, against the faint reflected glow of the garde-port. She had the pole out of the water, she called out, " 'Ware the shore!"
"In the cardinal's name!" came back, hollow off the walls.
; And Mondragon: "Jones! Easy!" before she had time to swing.
She stood, shaking in the knees and cold, while the skip tossed and ground against the pilings of Kamat House. They were all in shadow. She counted five, maybe more of them, and Mondragon was saying, "What's the trouble here?"
"Thomas Mondragon?" one said. "You'll come with us."
"What charge?" Jones asked out, with a mind to finding targets for the pole. Six of them. She could do for two or three, before they knew what hit them. But Mondragon said, "Jones, easy, Jones." And to the cardinal's slinks: "Is there a charge?"
"None yet. You'll come along, ser."
"Mondragon," Jones protested, knowing dammit, knowing he was thinking of her in the middle of it. He put his hand on her shoulder.
"Just take it easy." He squeezed, hard enough to bruise. "Listen. Just drop a word to Richard, all right? Probably just some questions, same as his. Nothing to hide and no reason not to answer."
A second squeeze, that hurt. He meant, Shut up, Jones. Don't be a fool, Jones. He was saying—Tell Richard. You didn't fight the cardinal's slinks, you ended up dead for that. And he'd be in it.
She said, "All right." He let her go and racked his pole and went ashore while she stood there. They told him go on out along waterside, she heard that much. She watched them go, watched them round the corner against the glisten of the canal's dark water, and she had this sick shivery feeling, hearing them walk away.
She threw down the pole, jumped down to the well and grabbed up the boat-hook, then ashore, with only the hook to keep the skip at hand. She rang the garde-port bell, rang it and rang it.
A shadowy face showed there, furtive and frightened. She said, "It's Jones. Tell m'ser Richard they arrested Mondragon, the cardinal did—they took 'im, just now, ye hear?"
Give 'em credit, the man started to unlock the door for her; but she pulled the skip up hard and was back in the well, headed up to the half-deck and trading the hook for the pole.
"Where are you going?" the Kamat servant asked.
"T' find help. Tell m'ser Richard—tell 'em Mon-dragon's in the Trade, remind 'em that, hear! He ain't alone!"
Hell with the pole, she thought. Hell with the quiet-laws. She flung the pole down in the dim light the door cast, threw up the engine cover, put up the tiller bar and started the new-fangled engine up.
She took, damn, she took, the water boiled and bubbled up white behind and she reversed the screw, cast a look back at the Kamat man.
"Move!" she shouted. "Fool!" And backed her out, fast and hard.
* * *
They said walk, Mondragon walked. They said face the wall, and he faced the wall while they searched him and took the knife he had: his sword was still on Jones' skip. So long as they were on Kamat Isle he hoped that word might have sped upstairs to Richard Kamat and that Richard might move to find out what was going on—maybe even to stop it.
But when they headed him for the bridge to Sofia and he was walking with a hard grip on either arm, shock began to set in, a physical kind of shock that turned him cold and made everything unreal, their steps on the boards, the sound of the water. He was back in Nev Hettek again, on that walk between the prison and the commandant's office, he could see Merovingen around him, its wooden towers and its lacework of bridges, but the sound of their footsteps on the boards overcame all other reality. He thought, Richard will get Jones away. There's the money at Moghi's, there's that safe place upriver— she won't like it, but she'll be alive . . .
Then common sense tried to say. But maybe there's no need. There's still the chance this is nothing more than Exeter pulling Richard in for a warning, it could even be Richard this is aimed at, nothing about me at all. . . .
It brought him a little calm, thinking that, but they hurried him down the bridge steps on Sofia and along the flooded walkway toward a waiting poleboat. He had seen that damned thing up and down the canals too often. No charges yet, they had said; but there had been no charges against Delaree, either, when they were asking him questions. Less and less chance it was the College they were going to. This boat belonged to the Justiciary.
They shoved him face against Sofia's wooden wall. He heard the rattle of chain as they pulled his arms back.
Then he was not in Merovingen, it was Nev Hettek, it was small spaces and bars. He twisted half free and, remembering the canal-edge, drove straight for the water and escape, but something slammed into his head, buckling his knees. More than one body hit him, bore him sprawling back against Sofia's brick foundations. His head hit, stars exploded, time jumped from that impact to a second blow across his face, a sudden powerful whiff of something chemical.
He thought in panic, Professionals—as the icy cloth covered his nose and mouth and fumes flooded his lungs. The long, long slide started. He felt one of them kick him in the leg, but there was no feeling there, no feeling from anything they did.
Jones cut a wake all the way down the Grand, zigged the skip around a slow canaler-boat and shot the Eastdike Gate at a rate that doubtless raised curses behind her—hope to the Lord there was no fisherman out on this windy night: she headed out into an inky black harbor where there was only water-sheen to tell her what was ahead, no stars, no moon, nothing but the lights of Rimmon Isle and its docks.
But that black yacht was there, she knew it was, she had heard the gossip about the canals, how it had come down from Archangel—it never moved these days but what word went with it, where Anastasi was, Anastasi who had run down a canaler cold as could be. That great black ship had a limited dockage: it could only clear the bridges on the Grand, and only turn about up by the Signeury, whenever Anastasi thought the climate wanted changing.
Now it sat at its other dock near Nikolaev, the way it had come in the time she and Mondragon had first run afoul of Kalugin business. There were electric lights all up and down the dock, brighter than the lights of Rimmon, there were fancyboats and yachts of all sorts, but that one was the only one lit up like noonday.
And when she got closer she could see guards—a godawful number of them: Kalugin defending himself, damn him! while Mondragon got taken up by the cardinal, Lord only knew why, except Damn-'im Kalugin had put him somewhere to make him get aslant of the cardinal's business.
Maybe Kalugin knew it—maybe Kalugin damn well expected trouble, and let Mondragon walk into it.
The guards took sharp notice of a skip powering up to the docks. She saw the militia blacklegs with their guns running down the water-stairs to point them at her like she was the Angel come for 'Stasi's soul.
She cut the engine and yelled at them, "Tell 'Stasi Kalugin it's Altair Jones, and I'm a courier, hear?"
"On what business?"
"Kalugin business!" she yelled back. "An' a hurry on it!"
Mondragon always said, if you bluffed, you bluffed like there was no tomorrow, you did 'er high and wide and ye walked like you knew what you was doing. So she skipped down into the well, she grabbed up the tie rope and jumped ashore among the blacklegs to make a jury-tie to a piling.
"Where's the message?" one said, jabbing her with a gun.
She pointed at her head. "Here! An' damn little time for it. Ask 'Stasi."
"Report it," that one told another man, who headed up the steps in a hurry. But the guns stayed aimed at her, except the blackleg captain's, that waved her up the stairs.
Damn, she thought, never saw so many so'jers down t' Rimmon.
What the hell's goin' on? That's what I want to know.
She climbed the wooden steps, barefoot and quiet, while the blacklegs came thumping up after her and the ones still up on the high dock met her with a solid row of gunbarrels.
"I got to see 'im," she said, waving a hand toward the yacht and the gangway, and started walking that way, but the militia showed no sign of letting her. "Move!" she said, reaching a point it was come ahead and get shot or beat. "Out o' my way, damn ye!"
"You wait a damn minute, canaler! Nobody's walking in there without orders." r />
"Urgent, man are ye deaf?"
"Stand still!"
She stood. She waited while the man the captain had sent ran up onto the yacht and found whatever damn secretary they could wake up to talk to at this hour.
"You better wake 'im up!" she said. "It's Anastasi's neck we're talkin' about!"
"Shut up!" the captain yelled at her, and guns clicked.
So she shut up, quick and quiet, and waited with an eye to the gangway.
It seemed an age before the blackleg that had gone up came running down again, to report to the captain in words she couldn't hear.
But the captain got a funny look on his face then and glared at her and motioned her with a wave of his hand.
So she strode off to the gangway and up it, wobbly-kneed, onto the deck of a ship that gave her the willies sure and proper, bad memories, those—and there were more blacklegs on the deck, that made sure she went straight where the captain directed her to go, down the companionway into that inside corridor all lit with electronics.
But not down to the stowage this time: this time they showed her to that fancy door, and they opened it wide for her and stood up straight when she walked through.
Anastasi himself was there. She felt weak in the knees from relief she had never thought she would feel to see that black-hearted, handsome bastard.
"Mondragon's arrested," she said, right off. "Ye got to get him free, m'ser."
"Arrested by whom?" Anastasi asked.
"The cardinal. We was makin' night runs, just put in t' Kamat, an' there they was waitin' for us. They took him with 'em. He said t' me, Jones, get help, so I came here."
"You came here. What precisely should I do, sera Jones?"
"Get 'im out o' there! It ain't any good for you either, 'Stasi Kalugin!"
There was a door half open, behind Anastasi. It moved, and a tall, red-haired woman walked out— all in blackleg kit, she was, and wearing a gun.