"It'll be handled."
"Handled." Tatiana studied her lover's puffy and sickly-looking face. He looked miserable, totally unappetizing, probably too dull with pain to invent specific evasions. "Why in hell did you say you were consorting with prostitutes?"
"He suggested it; I just agreed. God, what did you want me to say? I was shopping for a bolt of silk? A side of beef? Aw, hell, pass me the water, will you?"
Frowning, Tatiana handed him a glass of water, saying nothing.
Yes, everyone knew that her city militia could be bought. It was part of the system, from time out of reach—and nonetheless, that system worked. The well-understood, unwritten schedule of payoffs and patronage formed a pattern whereby people could live, Kalugins could hold power, trade could flourish, the city could run efficiently—but how was she to-explain that life-learned system to an outsider?
And he was an outsider, as she could see very clearly this morning. For all his charm and cleverness, he didn't really know her city as well as he thought. He didn't even know all the unspoken rules, let alone the exceptions thereto.
In this case, he'd had the bad luck to encounter Black Cal, the one unbuyable blackleg in the city. She tried to imagine the meeting. And the consequences.
Had Black Cal bought the story? Or would he take the warning, if he discovered his commander's money had bailed Magruder out?
"God," Magruder was groaning, "I won't be able to tend to business for a week. —Or anything else." He patted her leg. "My apologies."
Tatiana's smile remained fixed. Fool, she thought, not questioning the real source of her distaste. Did he think he looked seductive right now, between bandages, his foreign-pale skin spotted with purple bruises and clashing orange disinfectant? A truly impressive picture.
He was woefully ignorant—of her, her city, his limitations. He took her for incompetent in intrigue— and in managing her office. Perhaps he mistook her interest in him for infatuation and her ambitions limited to the bedroom. Fool.
It occurred to her that it would betray too much to inform him of her reactions, betray too much even to hint at this stage. Let him come to the conclusion, by himself, that she knew this city better than he ever would. Let him convince himself, by sharply-learned lessons, that he needed her more than she needed him—
And thereby—that his future, in several senses, was more profitable in her service than Karl Fon's.
Seeing that she would rule the southern course of the Det—and that she was not, like her father, content with that; and not, like her elder brother Mikhail, a fool and a puppet; and not, like her younger brother Anastasi, a spoiler intent on war only as a mechanism for him to seize (and thereby damage) the power that would merely fall, intact, into her lap when her father died.
She would not proceed by war. She had other uses for the weapon that was Chance Magruder.
And all the clandestine apparatus he managed.
A brief vision of her father's face, rigid with disapproval, flickered through her mind—
—quickly, with a wince—dismissed.
At his spy-post in the corridor, the blackleg listened silently to the conversation inside, and took detailed notes.
The crowd at Hoh's was packed to the walls, bright-eyed and wild, but all laughing, grinning, drinking as if there were no tomorrow, singing along raucously with the performers on stage. Hoh himself worked the bar, all his regular staff not enough for such a huge and thirsty mob, smiling from ear to ear as he filled the cups and collected the silverbits. Oh yes, those singers were money in the bank; look at the trade they brought in, more every night, draining the barrels like a victory celebration—and never mind what war. A few more nights like this, and he could expand business.
The customers, mostly canalers with a few shopmen, drank merrily, bought more rounds for their friends, gossiped quickly during the songs' verses and joined merrily on the choruses—giving respectful room only to the table in the corner, where a legend sat smiling gently and nursing a beer as if he were almost one of them. Oh, it was that good a night at Hoh's.
Black Cal sat relaxed, almost sprawled, in the barely lamplit corner, fingers tapping time on his cup of Hoh's best. He no longer even bothered to track his glance occasionally across the crowded barroom, but only watched one of the singers. He couldn't remember ever having felt this good in a public place. This was magic, true magic, and all her doing. Lord, what art.
On the stage, Rif could feel that warm green stare clean across the room. Yes, yes, let him see; last night had been work, done for many interlocking reasons, but tonight—this place and this celebration, and their time together afterwards—was her private gift to him.
Let him see it, hear it, take his own message out of this song that so many were singing tonight. Rif tossed back her tangled cloak of dark hair, vamped two beats coming off the instrumental break, and plunged into the new last verse.
"Slavers crying in their beer.
Something's burning.
Poor things get no pity here.
Something's burning.
Fire, clean this trash away:
Clear the karma yet to pay—
Give us back the stars someday.
Something's burning—
Burning... down.
All our chains are
Burning down!"
APPENDIX
MEROVINGIAN FOLKLORE 101
OR
ALARUMS, EXCURSIONS, AND RUMORS
Mercedes R. Lackey
Certain folktales dating back to pre-spaceflight days seem to crop up wherever humankind plants its roots, whether or not the immediate ancestors of those settlers ever heard of those tales in their lives. The following archetypical stories may be heard all over Merovin in one form or another, and are told to this day from hightown to canalside throughout Merovingen. And the teller will undoubtedly aver that although he didn't witness this, he has a brother (cousin, aunt, friend) who knows someone who did, so you can be certain that it is true.
THE CHILD ON THE BRIDGE
It is a dark and foggy night, usually just after Festival Moon. A lone woman is making her way homeward, and takes a shortcut across Hanging Bridge. Just beneath the statue of the Angel, she sees a child huddled, crying. Being kindhearted, she stops to ask the child what is wrong.
When the child emerges from the shadows, she can see that it is well-dressed (and, in some versions, dripping wet), so it is no half-orphaned bridge-brat.
The child tells her that it is lost, and gives a middling hightown address as its home. The woman now sees the prospect of a reward, as well as incurring the karmic debt of someone in a position to do her well, and so offers to take the child where it belongs. She generally offers the child the protection of her cloak, which the child accepts gratefully.
But the moment they step off the bridge, the woman notices that the warm little body pressed against her side is gone—nor is there any sign of the child, on the bridge or off it.
It is not until the next day, relating the story to another, that she learns that a child of that description and Family fell to its death from Hanging Bridge exactly one year before.
THE PHANTOM PASSENGER
It is very late at night; a poleboatman is making one last tour of canalside hoping to attract a final fare. And much to his surprise, he is hailed from Ventani by a very attractive young hightown woman.
He picks her up; she is looking something the worse for wear on close inspection. She explains to him that she was out with a party of young people when she became separated from them and robbed. She promises him that although she has no money he will be able to collect his fare from her father if he will just take her home. She offers him a very expensive scarf (or in some versions, a piece of jewelry, usually a ring) as a pledge to hold.
He acquiesces and takes her to the water-door of one of the Families. But when he arrives there and turns to assist her from the boat, she is gone, and so is the pledge.
He then usually
goes to the doorman and tells him the tale. The doorman tells him that the girl he described was the eldest daughter of the House, and that she was murdered by robbers on this very night just outside Moghi's Tavern.
In another version, the girl will not give her name, but asks to be taken to House Hannon and says that she was attacked by a man named "Chud." When the boatman arrives, she is gone, and her description matches that of the murdered Teryl Hannon who was drowned during Festival by an unknown assassin in the pay of the Gregoris. The man calling himself "Chud," disguised as a poleboatman, is wanted for the murder.
THE DEMON LOVER
A canaler (male or female) is out on the Rim fishing, and sees what appears to be a fellow canaler of incredible physical beauty out on a Rim sandspit by a small fire. If the canaler is paying attention, he (or she) may notice that the other casts no shadow, and that the bottom of his (her) breeches are always muddy and dripping with water, no matter how dry the air is. The charisma of this stranger is always so great that the canaler nevertheless throws all caution to the wind, and asks the stranger to sleep-up.
The stranger agrees, and steps aboard the canaler's skip. But at that moment any one several things may happen. In some versions, the canaler mentions the Dead Fleet. In others, the light from the fire falls upon a religious icon. In still others, they make it as far as Hanging Bridge, where the shadow of the Angel falls upon the stranger. In all cases, the stranger vanishes, proving to be a Dead Fleet ghost.
THE DEMON LOVER, PART TWO
In this case the canaler in question is vowed to be a no-good, rotten (exclusively male) bastard. He is out on the Rim for No Good Purpose. He discovers a very beautiful and very battered young woman on a sandspit, who begs him for help, saying she has just escaped from the Megarys. He, being a no-good, rotten bastard, agrees to help her—but is planning on raping her, then selling her back to the Megarys. In most versions he meets an acquaintance with whom he had a meeting, and tells of his changed plans for the evening. He intends to head for Dead Harbor again, it being unlikely that anyone will heed the girl's cries for help there.
He (of course) then vanishes, and his boat is found the next day floating at anchor in Dead Harbor just above the location of the sunken Ghost Fleet. The decks are stained with incredible amounts of blood, scored with what looks like claw marks, and there is usually something (a medallion, a very ancient coin, a bit of ship's insignia) identifying one of the ships known to have gone down with the Fleet on the halfdeck of the skip.
THE CATS OF JANE
A young mother is at her wits' end; there is no money, no prospect for any, her children have eaten the last crust and the rent is due. She goes out begging with no luck whatsoever; she even tries to sell herself, but has no takers.
She is about ready to kill herself on the steps of the College so that the priests will have the karmic obligation to take in her children, when an old canaler woman stops her and tells her to trust in the Good Goddess Jane Morgoth and not in the priests.
The woman laughs at her and says that Jane never helped her before, so why should she help her now. The canaler woman tells her that if she really wants help she must ask for it from one of Jane's special messengers—the black cats of Merovingen.
The woman, in despair, supposes she has nothing to lose and looks for a cat. It is very late when she finally finds one, and strangely, it does not run from her, but seems to listen until she has told her whole sad story, and only then leaves, heading straight for the roof.
The woman goes home and falls asleep in utter exhaustion.
In the morning she awakens to find a bag of sUverbits beside each of her children's heads, or, in one version, a black kitten wearing a solid silver collar with a gold medallion of Jane at the foot of her bed.
THE SHARRH OF NAYAB
This story is always set at Nayab.
A gang of bridge-toughs is stalking a child; the presumed reason for the attack is to sell it to Megarys. The child runs injudiciously down to the waterline and begins trying to make an escape by using the narrow and treacherous walkways that edge the isle, most of them partially under water. The child is at length cornered after several narrow escapes. Just when all seems lost, there is a roar and a hideous manlike monster emerges from a hole in the foundations and attacks the toughs; killing at least half of them, and sending the rest into the canal. It turns to the child, and the child sees its face and faints.
The child wakes up on one of the walkways, with no recollection of how it got there, and clutching a silver medallion inscribed with the strange characters of the sharrh. The child can no longer properly recall the face it saw, only that it was so alien as to make the eyes hurt. A hunt under Nayab reveals nothing except another silver medallion like the one the child found, and what appears to be an underwater escape tunnel that no one wishes to follow.
MEROVINGIAN SONGS
GOLDEN RULE
Lyrics by Mercedes Lackey
Lady from the hightown come a-walkin' down below—
Lady lookin' down 'er nose an' thinkin' we don't know—
If that lady lose 'er purse soon as 'er back be turned,
Figure, hightown lady, it's the price fer what ye've learned.
Duelist on the bridge lookin' mighty high an' proud,
Duelist reckons that 'e's better nor th' whole damn crowd.
If that fancy man should miss a coin or two or three,
Reckon that's the cost 'e pays that looks but doesn't see.
College priest a-strollin' thinkin' 'e's so pure an' fine.
College priest a-countin' sins an' layin' out his line,
Maybe some 'un's seen 'im with 'is lovers an' 'is toys—
Maybe soon 'e'll pay summat t' see there be no noise.
Merchant man with rooms all full of things 'e doesn't use
Merchant man, if some 'un begs yer help, why ye'd refuse.
Merchant man, walk through yer rooms, an' tally with yer pen
Ye'll find yer house be lighter by a trinket now an' then.
Me, I ain't a-sayin' who did what, nor where they be
Figure that there ain't no profit in morality—
Not unless ye be the feller that kin fleece th' fools.
Reckon them as got the gold is them as makes the rules.
THE CATS OF JANE
Lyrics by Mercedes Lackey
In a one-room apartment in Ventani Gut
A mother weeps in hopeless fright,
For her children are hungry, the rent money's gone
And her man vanished into the night,
Tomorrow the hightowner landlord will come—
Tomorrow he'll drive them away.
But then in the darkness of night she awakes
And recalls what the old legends say—
Chorus:
"Tell your troubles to cats, the nightwalking cats,
The black cats of Althea Jane,
Tell your trouble to cats, Her messenger-cats,
For She cures the poor folk of their pain."
So she creeps out the doorway in search of a cat
And what should she find on the stair,
But a bright-eyed black tomcat, as bold and as proud
As if he had awaited her there.
She told him her woes, and he listened, it seemed,
With his eyes gold, unwinking, and bright,
And then when she had finished, he ran to the roof
And the shadows soon hid him from sight.
Now when she had turned homeward, it just might have been
That a shadow moved where none should be,
And a shadow cat-footed, moved silent away—
But of course there was no one to see.
And it could be this shadow danced off on the roofs
With a shadowy cat-wise-like guile,
And it could be this shadow slipped soundlessly in
By a window of Ventani Isle.
Come next morning, the mother awoke to the sound
/>
Of a kitten that purred at her feet,
And a second and third were curled up by the sides
Of her children that slept sound and sweet.
They say great was her wonder and great her surprise
And still greater her joy and delight,
For the kittens were black and each bore round its neck
A fat pouch full of silverbits bright!
LADIES OF THE HIGHTOWN
Lyrics by Mercedes Lackey
Oh the ladies of the hightown
Dressed in silk and lace so fine,
As they stroll along the bridges
You can see their jewels shine.
But the ladies of the hightown
To canalside never go,
And they'll never see the hunger
Of their sisters here below.
Oh the ladies of the hightown
With their perfumed hair so sweet,
Never smell the stinking water
That's so far below their feet.
But the women of canalside
And the women of the Trade
Know the worst of daily living—
Know that every debt gets paid.
Oh the ladies of the hightown
With their hands so soft and white,
Hands that never held a boathook,
Hands that never had to fight,
Hands that never nursed a fever,
Hands that never sewed a seam—
See the ladies of the hightown
Walking in their waking dream?