Fever Season

  "I do. And we know—the College has its ways of knowing—that you might have… dealt… with this Chamoun previously, and decided to content yourself with sending a message in the form of one, ah, Romanov… instead. So we wish to know whether this office has any objection to…"

  "To Chamoun's karmic debt being paid in full?" Iosef Kalugin supplied. And turned back to face Ito again.

  "To the College making its own determination on the fitness of this student, yes." It didn't do to say things in a more straightforward manner. It didn't do to even allude to irrevocable actions taken temporally by a spiritual college whose putative concern was the immortal soul. Normally, the College would have dispensed such karma without consulting a secular authority. And Kalugin knew it.

  But this was a special case, because for some reason, Iosef Kalugin had blessed the union of Cassiopeia Boregy and Michael Chamoun; blessed it perhaps because of Tatiana's interest in Chamoun's patron, Magruder, but blessed it nonetheless. Ito needed to know that the reasons were not tactical— that if the College dispensed with the problem Michael Chamoun represented, it would not be guilty of interfering in Kalugin's own plans.

  If Chamoun were some agent of Kalugin's, some carefully inserted spy sent into the nest of Merovingen's enemies by Iosef Kalugin himself, Ito needed to know that now.

  "We favor this boy, as you have guessed." Kalugin's eyes were deep in shadow; Ito couldn't read them.. But Ito could read the tone: even Iosef Kalugin walked carefully around the College. "So does your family, Ito Tremaine Boregy. But do what you must; just don't botch things. Nothing public, nothing clumsy, nothing that will shame either Vega's house ... or Chance Magruder. Not publicly, at least."

  "I will do only what karma decrees," said Ito with a tongue suddenly thick and unwieldy. So there was something. Something special about Chamoun. Some place that the Nev Hetteker and his patron fit into Iosef's plans.

  "If karma could decree that all my children stop fighting among themselves," said Iosef Kalugin; "or that one be declarable the obvious winner, most competent and deserving, I would be exceedingly grateful to the College." Sarcasm dripped from the patriarch's tongue. "Be careful, Ito, that you don't lose more than you gain with this. I do not forbid or decree the actions of the College, but I must warn you: these are difficult times, and any misstep can come back to haunt us. Do nothing that will compromise yourself, your station, or the College."

  But I already have, you old fool. Why do you think I'm here? "We will proceed as karma dictates," said Ito unhappily, having been put on notice that, if anything should go wrong, the College would take any ensuing blame—or scandal—alone, with no help from the Signeury.

  "Now, if that is all?" Iosef Kalugin wanted to end the audience. The not-quite-respectful prompt made Ito even more nervous as he began his farewells, blessing Kalugin and his family and the stones of the Signeury as he went.

  Only when Ito was back at the College, after he'd climbed the familiar steps and was seated in his deep dark sanctum with his prelates washing his feet in warm water and attending to his before-dinner drinks, did it occur to the Cardinal that Iosef Kalugin might be bold enough to use the Chamoun matter against the College—whether it succeeded, or even if it failed. Ito should have thought of it before, but he hadn't. He'd been too worried about the young man named Michael Chamoun, who held true memories of the alien sharrh in his oft-reborn soul. Memories that would have remained forever dormant if Ito Boregy, in an attempt to acquire the boy as a pawn, hadn't used illicit techniques to awaken them.

  When Ito called for his favorite boy and his thorn switches, everyone in the College dorm below the rank of acolyte scurried for cover.

  There was nothing worse than a cardinal who felt the need of discipline. When Ito had finished having himself whipped, the prelates would beat the novices, and the novices would beat the choir boys, and the choir boys would beat the cooks.…

  It was going to be a long night at the Revenantist College. And in the midst of it, a single acolyte slipped unnoticed out the water-gate, bound for Merovingen-below on a mission of mayhem so foul and so important that Ito sweated under the whip even as it began.

  Tatiana Kalugin had eyes and ears everywhere in Merovingen, including her father's office. Thus she was already gone when Magruder arrived at the embassy, having left him a note that she'd be back.

  And she would. But now, wrapped in a heavy cloak and standing at the Boregy high-door, where the wind was fierce, she had more important things to deal with. At the sight of her, the servants scurried and scraped.

  It was not often a Kalugin came unannounced to Boregy House, unless it was her eel of a brother, Anastasi.

  "No, no, don't bother Vega," she told a worried Boregy retainer. "It's Cassiopeia I've come to see—a woman's matter."

  There was too much silence in this house. The household was unwilling to believe the fiction Tatiana had concocted. She didn't care if they did or not; she didn't care if Vega bit his nails to the elbow because his patron's enemy had come to his house to see his daughter.

  Tatiana had her reasons. So she told the worried Vega Boregy when he came down the stairs, arms outstretched to greet her, saying how glad he was to see her and asking what he could do for her.

  "Nothing, as I've said. It's Cassie I wish to see. About the census—you know her husband's working for us diligently in the matter of the census. Cassiopeia may be of service also. And she may already have earned a commendation. Now, Vega, if you'll take me to her…"

  "She's up with Gregory—with her grandfather."

  "Ah," said Tatiana, not able to resist the opportunity. "And is he awake, your father?" Gregory spent long periods of time comatose or sleeping, no one outside the family quite knew which. When he was awake, control of Boregy House was unconditionally his. No wonder Vega looked so pale beneath his black hair.

  "Awake. Alive and well," said Vega with just a hint of challenge in his smile.

  Long ago, there had been an attack by unknown persons on Boregy House; the old man's infirmity was whispered to be a result of that attack, but not even that fact could be determined for certain by outsiders. As Boregy House's sympathies could not be.

  Which was why Tatiana had come here: perhaps Anastasi, her brother, had Vega's ear, but now there was Michael Chamoun, Chance's young protege, and Cassie. And so much at stake. Any ill befalling Chamoun could destroy the new embassy more completely than earthquake, lightning, or the sinking of the entire Spur into the canals.

  If Chamoun were assassinated by the College, and word reached Magruder, and through him Karl Fon, it might be just the pretext Fon needed to declare Fon's sort of war on Merovingen. Even if war didn't result, Fon might easily call back his new ambassador, since the whole trade agreement was predicated on the merger of Boregy Shipping and Nev Hettek's Chamoun Shipping. And then Magruder, and all the opportunities he represented, would be gone like a thief in the night.

  Tatiana couldn't risk it. Nor could she confront the College directly, or go against her father's (admittedly vague) permission in this matter. Nor would she dare tell Magruder what she'd learned: she'd have to tell him how; she'd be forced to explicate her motives. And she didn't want Magruder going up against the College.

  So using Magruder to stop the College's attempt on Chamoun was out of the question. That left only unorthodox avenues of procedure, and Tatiana had chosen an audacious one.

  "Your daughter," she reminded Vega, who was still staring at her owlishly. Tatiana had cultivated a rude manner; it was not flattering, but it was an effective tool. "Take me to her, now. I haven't time to stand around chatting with you, Vega, until my brother shows up and it becomes a threesome. Unless that's what you want? Perhaps a political debate this evening… ?"

  "I ... m'sera Secretary, you cannot go up there. My father isn't— I'll have Cassie sent down to you. If you'll wait in the green room?"

  The green room, whereservant led her, was a reception room for guests to eye with envy. It was m
eant to cow. Its ceiling was high and its gilding excessive. Tatiana hated gilt. She was a prisoner of pomp and circumstance; she knew it for a curse, not a privilege.

  High position must be guarded; she was always in danger of losing grace, face, power. Every material item in her care had upkeep, valuation, maintenance. The pure wealth of Kalugin power had made Tatiana vulnerable. She had so much to lose; she'd made so many enemies; there was no way to judge whether her work was good enough, her mind quick enough, her skills honed enough to make her equal to the tasks before her. As she got older, she became more practiced, yes, but more skilled? She wasn't sure. She'd been bolder in her youth, more optimistic.

  Once she'd thought she could remake the world; when she'd held those dreams, she'd always assumed that by now, facing her fourth decade, she'd have done it: be recognized as a power on her own; be respected for more than her bloodline; be fulfilled and happy. She was none of those. She was uncertain and frightened.

  She'd tasted failure too often; and success, when it came these days, was only a relief, not a reason to celebrate. She was expected to succeed; she was a Kalugin. Someday, the unstable perch on which she rested would bend or break. By then, she had to have a safety net in place—even a safety net such as Magruder's ambassadorial ties to Nev Hettek was better than no safety net at all. She had to find a way to weather the storms coming, storms she could smell in the new odor wafting up from the canais.

  Had to. Or she'd lose Merovingen to her brother, Anastasi; or to Mikhail—even that was possible. She was fighting for life, watching power pass her by as her father grew closer and closer to retirement age—or to death.

  When Cassie Boregy finally arrived, preceded by three servants with a pastry tray and tea in vermeil pots, Tatiana was sunk in thought.

  She didn't notice servants; they were all around her every day. She didn't notice Cassiopeia Boregy until the girl blurted out, "M'sera Secretary Kalugin, I'm so excited that you picked Michael to help with the census. So honored! Even daddy's proud, he just can't admit it." And the girl was pumping her hand, all youth and expectation.

  Yet Tatiana could see through the gloss to the fear, the uncertainty that Cassie's father must have put there. The eyes behind the smile said, What do you want? My father says you're not to be trusted. He acts like you're an enemy in this house, yet you can't be, can you? Have I done something wrong? Please don't let me do anything wrong.

  "Shoo the servants, child," said Tatiana, and Cassie Boregy's face went white.

  When the girl had obeyed, Tatiana drew her toward the window and opened it. "Look out there. Your husband is out there somewhere, on an errand for me." She put her arm fleetingly around the younger woman's shoulders because, if not until now, then at this moment Cassie was a true Merovingen woman of high estate: in politics up to her neck.

  "This is about… Michael?" Cassie's tone was hushed with foreboding and shock.

  "It is. We think Cardinal Ito might be very upset. We think your husband should be careful. We think you should tell him so."

  "I told Michael we should tell Daddy what happened. I told him. He wouldn't listen." Cassie's face worked with conflicting emotions. "You know what happened, then?"

  Tatiana didn't tell her no.

  "It's so wonderful, and everyone's acting as if it was an awful thing. To remember a past life—I wish I could. Michael's promised to teach me, to show me, but Ito made him swear not to, so it's hard.…" Cassie's hand flew up to cover her mouth. Above it, her eyes went wide.

  It must have been the look on Tatiana's face as the pieces clicked:

  "Oh, no," Cassie whispered. "You didn't know, then. I'm sorry. Oh, I'm sorry. Promise you won't tell—"

  The girl was backing away, panicking, and Tatiana had to grab her arm and squeeze. "Shush, girl! Don't be a fool! If I were your husband's enemy, would I have risked coming here personally, where your father was bound to find out? Do these things: Tell your grandfather, if he's still awake, what happened to Michael at the College, as well as what I've said to you. If your father asks, tell him only that I advised you that your husband's life is in danger—that we have good information that there may be an attempt on his life, but that, nevertheless, we expect him to keep on with his commission as officer of the census. Nothing more, do you understand?"

  "Yes, yes. But is it enough? Will Michael be—"

  "Karma, my dear. We don't know the future, any of us. But we help make it, every day. You do what I say, and make sure that if your father inquires, you tell him enough to grant m'ser Chamoun a bodyguard. Or order one yourself. You're a woman of a great house. Act like one, not like a child."

  "I will. I promise I will," said Cassie as Tatiana let her go and strode to the couch to get her wrap.

  "Tea?" said the child to the woman as Tatiana brushed past her. "A pastry, m'sera Secretary?"

  When Tatiana strode out the door, Cassie Boregy was still holding the vermeil teapot in her hands helplessly, and her huge eyes were sparkling far too brightly.

  Michael Chamoun was down in Merovingen-below, on Grandside near Fishmarket, looking for someone named Alvarez, who was said to be of Nev Hettek descent. Chamoun had separated from his three Nev Hetteker teammates, all handpicked by Magruder because they weren't Sword of God.

  The night was veritably steaming as the warmer waters of the canal met the chill evening air and gave off a sulfurous mist. Here deep in the belly of poverty, picking his way along a quay slimy with fish guts and bloody fins, Chamoun was buoyed by the sense of mission that had been with him, like an ineluctable tide, ever since he'd found out he'd once been 'Mickey,' once fought the sharrh to the death. Sometimes he felt the power of the vision more strongly; sometimes it was like a half-remembered dream. But tonight it warmed him against the cold and he fancied it even armored him against the mayhem of the dockside.

  So he wasn't worried about having parted company with his teammates. They had so very much of Merovingen-below to cover, they couldn't stomp around like a street gang or a group of slavers on the make. They couldn't skulk, either, or shrink from the rougher areas. They were on a commission from the highest levels of government. It should be enough protection.

  The real reason, Chance Magruder had explained to him, that the Sword was going along with this census-taking, was more than the simple one of it being impolitic to refuse Tatiana Kalugin, or her father. Chamoun's job was to register as many Nev Hettekers as possible—twice. The ensuing extra green cards, some of them made out in assumed names, would make subsequent Sword infiltrations easier by providing false identities and covers. Some of these fisher folk and poleboaters and barmaids had agreed to sign two forms, to go twice to the Nev Hettek embassy (after shaving or dying then-hair or changing their clothes) in return for a bit of the embassy's petty cash. Others, less trustworthy, didn't know they were being used; they knew only they were called back a second time, to fill out duplicate forms or correct errors.

  Chamoun's job was to sort out the subornable, the bribe-worthy, and the coercible from the rest. This was easier when he was alone.

  He'd meet his three cohorts at Ventani Bridge in two hours; until then, he had Nev Hettekers to recruit.

  He was just about to try a dark bar Alvarez was said to frequent when three men came up behind him, walking fast, totally silent but for the crack of their heels upon the quayside.

  Chamoun was Sword-trained. His shoulder muscles stiffened; his gut contracted; his hand went to his fishknife in its sheath, wishing he'd brought a longer blade into Merovingen-below. Or brought a gun.

  There were muggers aplenty down here, and that was what the three coming up on him sounded like—because they made no sound at all, beyond the sound of their boots and their breathing.

  Michael Chamoun quickened his pace. Only a dozen more strides to the bar's dark door; if he made it inside, he could pull out his credentials…

  A passing boat slowed, going by, and someone in it called his name.

  Chamoun stopped.


  The men coming up behind him stopped too.

  What was unexpected was that the boat stopped, someone jumped up on the quayside and made it fast, bow and stern, while two other crewmen scrambled Chamoun's way.

  The three behind him were in a huddle, talking together in low tones.

  The two newcomers strode straight up to Chamoun, one of them calling out boldly, "M'ser Chamoun, your esteemed wife sent us to keep you company on your rounds." And then Chamoun could see the Boregy livery, the long, dangerous blades at the men's hips, and the gunbutts stuffed in their waistbands.

  So could the three on Chamoun's track, even in the dim light of Merovingen-below at quayside. They turned on their heels, grumbling churlishly, and melted into the mist.

  Michael Chamoun said, "I don't need—" Then stopped. These men deserved better. And he had needed them—or thought he might have. "Thanks for coming. We're spread so thin. I can use all the help I can get." Not that kind of help, boys. Don't worry, I won't recruit any double-card candidates, not outright, not tonight, thanks to you two… three. But he'd tell Chance, and Magruder would handle the rest.

  Then the leader of the household guard whom Cassie had dispatched started explaining what he'd been told to expect: that Cassie feared an attack on Chamoun's life and her father had told the three to '"humor the lady.' None of us is presumin' that y' need any help, m'ser; we's just doin' our jobs."

  And there was a plea there that Chamoun didn't mistake. These men couldn't very well go home and say they'd been rejected. It would lower their status; they'd have failed.

  Michael said, "The more's the merrier, m'sers. As long as you'll let me buy you a beer or two: this officering the census is thirsty work. Now in here, we're lookin' for a fella named Alvarez. He's on my list as being about six foot ..."

  Magruder watched the Nev Hettekers, in their rags and stinking fishing boots, straggle into the Nev Hettek embassy all morning. When he saw one who looked likely, who matched a dossier alert-flag, or who was already prepped, he'd step forward and handle that case personally.