Justice Lee leaned on the railing of the second level walkway on the backside of Kass, and stared across at the Pile and at the citizens who thronged it, out for a breath of spring. A junction between Kass, Bent and Spellbridge, the Pile was honeycombed with small shops, benches for sitting, and small corners for talking; today it bustled with passers-by stopping to linger a moment in what sunlight they could find, before continuing on to their business.
And since tomorrow could bring clouds and sleet, today's sunshine was doubly appreciated.
A heavy, furry body bumped into Justice: he glanced down at the large, golden cat that rubbed back and forth between his legs, and smiled. Sunny was living up to his name: the cat sought out whatever sunlight the second level of Kass afforded, to sit in the warmth, motionless as some statue, glowing as if he were made of gold.
Justice settled back into his slouch at the rail, content, full of a good lunch, and in between classes. He doubted even Krishna could spoil his mood right now, though he turned away the thought of his fellow student as a blemish on the day. Things had changed for Justice in the past few months... changed drastically, and he was sometimes hard put to figure out what he was doing and what was expected of him.
Ever since meeting Sonja Keisel during winter exams, Justice had found himself propelled into a world he had always wanted to enter—the rarified existence of the high and mighty of Merovingen. He smiled briefly, remembering the Governor's Winter Ball, an event attended only by those of sufficient social and financial worth. As such, he had never in his wildest imaginings thought he would or could attend. But Sonja had changed all that, had invited him to accompany her, and suddenly Justice had found himself under the eye of hightown Merovingen.
Granted that Sonja's invitation had come as a result of Father Rhajmurti's plan to shatter the blackmail hopes of Krishna Malenkov, but it had been a legitimate invitation nonetheless. Without it, Justice would have only heard about what had happened at the ball from his fellow students, not participated in it. And, participate in it he had.
Thanks to the Lord and his Ancestors, he had not disgraced himself or, even worse, Sonja. He had comported himself with the best of manners, had kept his mouth shut most of the time, and had left the ball with the feeling that he might have scored some points with his moneyed student companions.
Sonja Keisel was not someone to be ignored. Daughter of Nadia Keisel who held the monopoly on beef trade that came into Merovingen, Sonja was also a Borg. Her father, Vladimir Borg had married her mother before Sonja had been born, making her a true love child, not the issue of a contract marriage.
And for some reason Justice could not fathom, Sonja seemed to enjoy his company.
He thought back on the ball: his nervousness, his concern that his best clothes would not be good enough, or his manners refined enough. That his lack of money and family connections would be viewed as a mark against him as he moved among such exalted company.
But Sonja had dismissed his worries with a smile and a wave of her hand. When he had entered the huge ballroom, clad in his best shirt, trousers and boots, Sonja Keisel at his side, the eyes of the hightowners around him had registered only curiosity, not hostility.
But now... now he was having a hard time trying to figure out where he stood in the scheme of things. After the ball, his fellow students had treated him— well, if not differently, then with more respect. He had been invited to several parties later, affairs he would more than likely have been passed over for had he never met Sonja. Students not in his chosen field of art had taken more interest in what he was doing; several of them even commissioned small works, landscapes or portraits of family, paying him far more than he would have asked.
He hated to plant false hopes in his heart, but maybe Sonja was right... maybe he did have a brilliant career in front Of him. Even Father Rhajmurti had assured him this was true.
Justice shrugged and turned his thoughts to the present. Even if he had been noticed by the upper crust of Merovingen society, he still had to study, to learn, to do... to perfect his chosen career. He dared not lose sight of his goal, or consider himself "arrived" before he got there.
So, it had been back to the books, back to classes, and back to the real world of College competitiveness. But one thing had not changed since the glorious experience of the ball... Sonja still sought out his company, still came to Hilda's on occasion to share a meal with him, and—more staggering to Justice's mind—periodically had him over to her house for an informal meal.
The warm breeze lifted Justice's hair from his brow and he smiled, leaning there on the railing and watching Merovingen go by. Sunny rubbed up against Justice's leg, meowed, and set off down the walkway, in search of whatever it was that cats did on such a lovely day.
Justice straightened, sighed softly and, turning his back on the warm sunlight and lazy spring breeze, returned to Hilda's and his books.
There were some days, he thought, when it would be nice to be a cat.
Father Rhajmurti stood in a shadowed corner of the wide hallway and watched the students pass him by. The second story of the College was always packed after lunch, with priests on their way to teach classes and students returning for an afternoon of instruction. Rhajmurti smiled briefly as he caught sight of his protege, Justice Lee, on the way to his next class. Justice's height would have made him stand out in a crowd, but there was a new assurance to the way the young man walked, a certain set of Justice's shoulders, of his head, that spoke of a newly found confidence.
And it was a confidence, Rhajmurti thought, that was long overdue. Justice possessed one of the brightest artistic talents Rhajmurti had seen in years and, to be honest, one of the better minds. Not that this was merely the pride a patron felt in the student he had chosen to sponsor, it was a truth. Rhajmurti leaned back against the wall: whether he admitted it or not, it was also the pride a father had in a son who thought his parents dead long ago.
One of these days, there would be no backing down from it: Rhajmurti would have to tell Justice the truth of his parentage, that his aunt was really his mother, and that his sponsor, Alfonso Rhajmurti, was his father. But now was not the time, though he had more than once since winter exams come close to admitting his relationship to Justice. No. He would tell the young man when and if the time was ripe. Such information could unseat all the carefully nurtured confidence Rhajmurti had helped instill in Justice's life.
"Rhajmurti."
He turned and found another priest standing at his side: Father Alexiev, initiated as he was at the Third Level, and teacher of literature.
"Are you free for a while?" Alexiev asked.
"Yes. I don't have another class for two hours."
"Come with me. I've got to talk with you."
Rhajmurti nodded and followed Alexiev down the hallway toward the massive front stairs. Something seemed to be bothering Alexiev: his bushy eyebrows were drawn together in a frown, his expression enough to put off any casual approach. Though Rhajmurti did not consider his fellow priest exactly a friend, Alexiev was a member of the same Fine Arts staff as Rhajmurti, the two of them had studied for the priesthood in the same year and there was some trust between them. So it was up the stairs then, past the stair guard, and to the third story, the private apartments of the priests. The cardinals lived at one end of the College in apartments far more lavish than those the priests inhabited. Among the priests, it was a mark of importance where one's apartment was located: the closer to the cardinals' end of the hall, the higher one stood—and Alexiev's rooms sat a few doors down from Rhajmurti's, toward the cardinals' end of the third story.
"Have a chair," Alexiev said, ushering Rhajmurti into his sitting room and closing the door. "May I get you something to drink?"
Rhajmurti nodded and watched his fellow priest bustle around, pouring the wine, stopping the decanter, and returning to extend one of the glasses.
"Rama's blessing," Rhajmurti said and lifted his glass in a toast.
"Hari Rama," Alexiev returned, taking a sip of his wine and sitting down in another chair so he faced Rhajmurti. "Have you heard anything unusual lately?" he asked without preamble.
Rhajmurti studied his host over the top of his glass. "Unusual regarding what?"
For a moment, Alexiev started at Rhajmurti, then glanced around as if he feared eavesdroppers. "The cardinals."
"What about the cardinals?" Rhajmurti leaned forward in his chair. "Would you come to the point, Pytor? Quit beating around the bush."
"Cardinal Ito Boregy," Alexiev said softly.
Ah. Cardinal Boregy. And most likely his private conversion sessions with Nev Hetteker Mike Chamoun. "I've heard about the conversion classes he's giving."
Alexiev shifted his weight uneasily. "Have you heard he's using—ah, shall we say, he's helping this Chamoun fellow remember his previous life with... a little assistance?"
"Yes."
"Do you know what it is?"
Rhajmurti shook his head. "I haven't heard."
Alexiev moved forward until he was sitting on the edge of his chair, his face as close as possible to Rhajmurti's. "It's deathangel."
"Holy..." Rhajmurti settled back in his chair. "Are you sure?"
"Well—why else would the word have gone out for us to gather all the deathangel powder we can?"
"No one asked me to do that," Rhajmurti said.
"I know, I know." Alexiev waved a hand. "No one asked me in so many words either. But you have been asked to watch out for it among your students, haven't you?"
"Yes."
"To confiscate it and give any of the powder you find to the cardinals?" "Yes."
"Use your head, man. I think they want it for some reason."
Rhajmurti narrowed his eyes and stared over Alex-iev's shoulder at the wall. It could likely be true. He knew Alexiev stood higher in favor with the cardinals than he did, being far more willing to—as the old saying went—brownnose. And Alexiev was also much fonder of gossip, being a periodic gold mine of information that had not yet come to the surface of College society. But deathangel? If Cardinal Boregy was using that in his conversion classes...
"You know how dangerous it is, don't you?" Alexiev asked, settling back in his chair and taking another drink of wine.
"Gods, yes. But do you know for a fact that Boregy's using deathangel on this Chamoun?"
"No, but I'd be willing to bet on it. Why else would the cardinals be so interested in getting their hands on whatever deathangel powder we priests can find?"
Rhajmurti frowned. No reason he could think of. Drugs were a problem among the idle rich of Merovingen, and among their children. The College had always made a point of forbidding any drug dealing or drug taking in its halls. But in the past, what drugs the priests had found had been consigned to the canals, not turned over to the cardinals.
"Is it just deathangel they're interested in?" he wondered, both of himself and Alexiev.
"That's the only one we've been told to confiscate rather than destroy."
"You're right there." Rhajmurti rubbed his chin. "Have you ever taken any?"
"Deathangel?" Alexiev glanced down at his feet. "Once. Long ago. And you?"
"That's one I avoided. I saw a friend of mine die from it."
Alexiev made an quick handsign of aversion. "My experience wasn't pleasant," he said, "or at least it wasn't at the end. At first, it was, —well, I thought I was going to see what the yogis see. Gods, Alfonso. Everything was glittering, sharper edged than usual, surrounded by its own aura. I've never seen anything like it."
"And then?"
"Then I threw up. I guess I'm allergic to deathangel." Alexiev smiled crookedly. "It's a damned strange thing to be having glimpses into the otherworld while you're puking your shoes off."
Rhajmurti grinned. "Thank you, no. I'll go after such visions by meditation. No aftereffects. Do you think the cardinals are going to start using it?"
"I don't know. I haven't been told anything different than the rest of the priests: if I find it, I'm to deliver it to the cardinals. Between you and me, if they're not going to use it, then they're damned interested in seeing what it does."
"Do you think it can help you remember past lives?"
"I can't say, even after having used it once. I'd be more worried about the levels of toxin ingested than my heightened mental state."
"Huhn. Well, I haven't heard anything you haven't."
"Keep your ears open. If the cardinals find some use for deathangel, I'm afraid we could be in for some interesting times."
Rhajmurti met his fellow priest's eyes. Interesting times? If deathangel was a key to remembering former lives, and word leaked out, not a Revenantist soul in Merovingen would pass up the chance to explore one part of the mystery of personal karma.
Neither would the smugglers, drug dealers, and worse.
When Justice arrived back at Hilda's after his last class, he found Raj waiting for him. The young man sat patiently on the edge of the walkway outside the tavern, arms crossed on his knees, a small smile on his face, staring off into nothing. Raj had not said a word to Justice about what had happened when he had disappeared during winter exams, and—after the boat ride in the dark of night, delivering Lord only knew what to Petrescu—Justice had not asked.
He had seen Raj's friend, the canaler Jones, several times since that night, and had found Jones to be warm and friendly when their paths had crossed; but Jones obviously had nothing more to say about the incident, and Justice consigned the entire delivery trip to a growing number of events he considered Mysteries of Life. Raj's brother, Denny, had turned up several times at Hilda's, usually as a messenger for his brother when Raj could not make an agreed-upon get-together.
As for Raj, Justice saw his new friend off and on, mostly after Raj got off his job at Gallandrys, though there were long stretches of time when Raj would effectively disappear. Justice had continued to mention Raj whenever he talked privately to Father Rhajmurti, telling his patron how well-qualified Raj was, and how it was a shame that he was not admitted to the College. Nothing had come of those talks, but Justice knew how long it took sometimes for things to happen.
"You off for the day?" Raj asked, standing up as Justice approached. "Want a beer?"
"Sounds good to me. Where?"
Raj shrugged one shoulder. "Hilda's is good enough for me."
Justice nodded and led the way inside. Something was up—he could not remember seeing Raj looking so happy^
"So," he said, taking his place at his favorite table and gesturing Raj to sit. "What's going on?"
Raj fairly squirmed in his chair. "I wanted you to be one of the first to know. I got accepted to the College!"
Justice sat up straighter. "You did? But— Who sponsored you?"
"House Kamat," Raj said, meeting Justice's eyes with a "don't-you-say-anything-about-the-lady" look. "I'll be starting next semester."
"Damn!" Justice grinned. "That's great news! I'm really happy for you!"
Raj beamed back, his dark eyes sparkling in the lamplight.
"When did you find out? Father Rhajmurti didn't say anything about it to me." Justice lifted two fingers in Jason's direction indicating his and Raj's order for beer.
"It's not really news yet," Raj said. "You know how those things are... certain people have to talk with certain people, and then other people talk with the higher-ups, and—"
"Spare me the details." Jason arrived with the beer and, after he left with the tab, Justice toasted Raj with a high-held mug. "Here's to your new career! You're going in as a student doctor?"
"Yes." Raj took a long drink, then set his mug down. He reached inside his sweater and drew out a large packet. "And before we get much further here, this is for you."
Justice took the packet and hefted it in his hand. "What it is this time?"
"More herb tea for your exams. It's the same stuff I gave you earlier, only this batch is a bit stronger. When it comes time to study, a cupful of this will k
eep you up far into the night." A sly look crossed Raj's face. "I suspect you might be able to sell some, too."
"This is good news and bad news, you know. Now I won't have any excuse for not getting high marks on my tests. Oh, well. If Krishna gets on my nerves, I can always sell some to him, and tell him to use twice what he's supposed to."
Raj laughed, then sobered. He leaned forward on the table. "It's further payment for the favor you did me," he said in a quiet voice. "Thanks again."
The favor. Oh, yes... another one of Raj's shadowy doings. Find out what you can about Father Jermaine Harmody, Raj had asked. Nothing special. Just keep your ears open. And if if s any trouble, don't worry about it. Those were indeed the magic words: "if it's any trouble, don't worry." Justice was not sure he wanted to be involved in any more of Raj's secretive doings... dangerous or not.
"I hope I was of some help."
"You were," Raj said. He glanced around: the tavern was not full, for the dinner hour had yet to come. "And I've got a piece of advice for you."
Justice lifted an eyebrow.
"Word's out on the canals that someone, or maybe more than one someone, is damned interested in deathangel."
"Oh?" A thousand thoughts clamored in Justice's mind—more mysterious goings on? Which was it this time? A poisoning war between two powerful houses? A blackleg setup, prelude for a crackdown on drug traffic? "Why?"
Raj shrugged. "Don't know. It might have something to do with hallucinating. You can get a great grandmother of a high off the stuff."
"And die from it, too, if I remember correctly."
"Right. Now that you've started to attend the affairs of the high and mighty—" Raj winked at Justice. "—you might run into some of it at the parties. I wouldn't have anything to do with it, if I were you."
"Don't worry." Justice sipped at his beer, trying to remember if he had seen anyone talking with God at the recent parties he had attended. "I have enough trouble mixing with hightowners as it is without doing it drugged."
"I don't exactly mean it that way," Raj said. "If someone's interested in deathangel, then someone's going to be willing to pay for it. . ."