"Shall I wait?" he asked, looking down a line of less prestigious boats.
It was cold here, and would only get colder as the afternoon wore on. She hadn't brought a shawl or jacket, or money enough to hire a public boat. "Yes, wait for me," Andromeda murmured, ignoring the mask that descended over his face as he helped Jier to the dock.
Sometime during the winter—the exact day was blurred, though the conversations were clear enough in her mind—Richard Kamat had conceived the idea of a private security force answering to the greater merchantry, rather than any of the Kalugins. It had not been a revolutionary idea, for it found backers quickly, but it had taken Richard places that no Kamat had been before.
He dined with Vega Boregy about once a week— Andromeda recalled from her drug-dazed memories of the recent past—and spent a good deal of time here among the warehouses. Richard could hold his own with the Boregys, but he was out of his depth when it had come time to actually hire his Samurai. And so, acting in part on her own advice and Marina's yearnings, Richard had hired Thomas Mondragon to help him. Thomas was at home with the subtle dangers of the Boregys and Kalugins, but he was even more at home in the company of thugs, thieves and traitors.
Andromeda ran her fingers along the dusty, chipped paneling until they touched a Kamat sigil etched almost invisibly into the wood. Glancing around to be certain no one was watching, she leaned against the mark and stepped into a secret passageway. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust. The phosphorus paint was old, dust-covered and gave only faint clues to the location of the next stairway. If she counted wrong it might be days before she found her way out—but she was in the grip of myth and karma, and she did not miscount.
The oiled hinges moved silently. Andromeda looked across a bare room to the obviously startled face of Thomas Mondragon. Though she had asked Kidd to find him several months before, and had listened to her daughter's accounts of their affair, Andromeda had not herself laid eyes on the young man since his arrival in Merovingen. Indeed, she had only seen him once before, shortly before she'd left Nev Hettek when he was still a beautiful, but horribly spoiled, child.
Yet there was no doubting he was a Mondragon. The family resemblance was there, and that childhood beauty had matured into a handsomeness that could easily get a young woman in trouble. But his eyes were harder than a man's eyes should ever be, and his moods were undoubtedly dangerous.
He spoke first: "M'sera Kamat?"
"I am glad you recognized me. It has been a long time since we've seen each other."
"You look very much like your daughter, m'sera, and only a Kamat would have been able to find this room—or so your son assures me. I do not remember you from... any other time."
"I shouldn't think that you would even try to remember," she said recklessly. "It was the hall of your father's house; the occasion of a nephew's birth, as I recall."
Mondragon's lips grew thin and firm. "Why have you come here, m'sera? I do not talk about the past."
Andromeda came closer to him. "I wanted to see for myself what a murderer looks like."
His fingers twitched a warning that his patience was dangerously frayed. "You should go home, m'sera. You do not belong here."
"After all I've done for you, I think I have the right to see you with my own eyes."
"You're m'sera. You do not, I hope, know what you are saying."
"Would you deny that you are, or have been, a cold blooded murderer?"
"Your daughter accused me of the same thing. The fact that you are here yourself should answer that question. I do not know Mick Kidd; and I did not supply him with deathangel—as you well know."
Andromeda hadn't expected that Marina had already confronted him. The knowledge shook her complacency a bit, as if her reasons for being here were no longer so correct and full of karma. "Is that all Marina said?" she asked in a smaller voice.
"Aside from telling me that she never wanted to see me again, that was all. She wasn't interested in anything I might have to say on the matter."
"Nothing about herself—about the child?"
The words were out before Andromeda had a chance to reconsider them. She hadn't meant to tell Tom about his unborn child, but then she hadn't planned anything in any conscious sense. Tom blinked and moistened his lips, but he gave nothing else away.
"My child?" he inquired, as one might ask "my turn?" in a card game.
"You are a dangerous man, Thomas Mondragon. You always seem to survive, but no one else seems to. What could you feel for a child that you did not feel for your family."
His eyes grew very intense. "It is all lies, m'sera. I thought I could protect them, and I was wrong. If that makes me a murderer in your eyes, so be it, but I was not there when it happened and I would have died myself to prevent it."
Andromeda measured the sincerity behind his words. He wanted her to believe; she thought he wanted to believe himself. She dug into her trouser pocket and pulled out a letter. "That would not be enough," she said, handing the paper to him.
Nemesis Garin had clear, bold handwriting as befitted any househead in any city. His note was a concise and unemotional two paragraph statement of facts. Paragraph one said that Dolor Casserer was dead— starved to death in Karl Fon's dungeons. No one knew quite how she had offended the mercurial young man who held all the power in Nev Hettek and who was also a cousin by marriage contract. The offense had probably been trivial, still, Andromeda should know that her aunt was dead. Paragraph two advised that word of the Samurai had reached Nev Hettek and that it was his personal opinion that it was a very poor idea for merchants to get mixed up in security.
Mondragon folded the note and returned it to her. "My condolences," he said, without betraying any emotion.
"Is that all?" Andromeda demanded, feeling the blood rise to her cheeks. "You read that and offer condolences!"
"I've been in Karl Fon's dungeon's, m'sera. I know them better than you can imagine. Your aunt died a horrible death, no doubt, but it's hardly my fault or my concern."
Andromeda grabbed his wrist. "Marina's child is your child. He or she will be heir to Kamat... and heir to Mondragon. Perhaps you have forgotten what that means, Thomas Mondragon, but I do not think that your Sword of God friends will forget."
"You're overwrought, m'sera. I think you should go home." The coldness in Mondragon's voice was endless, but he did not call her a liar.
"I came here with many debts, m'ser Mondragon, the debt I must pay for mourning my husband too long, for hiring Mick Kidd and his deathangel, for enabling my daughter to meet with you. These are mine, but I came with one other for you.
"This is a Revenantist city, m'ser and woe betide the lonely Adventist who forgets it. Karma debts are collected with interest in Merovingen and, will you or nil you, Marina's child will be your debt." t A bitter, malicious laugh escaped through Tom's lips. "Are you suggesting that I contract a marriage with your daughter, m'sera?"
"I'm suggesting that you stay the hell out of her life and the hell away from Kamat. But I'm telling you that whatever happens, whatever you do from now on, that there's karma between you and all of us, and what happens to us will lie, in part, on your soul."
He laughed again. "You are indeed mad, m'sera, if you think I care about karma or my soul."
"I've made you aware of your debt, and that discharges a part of mine."
She turned and left the room.
FAIR GAME
by Leslie Fish
"Oh, who's the slaver in our town?
Something's burning.
What's the way to bring him down?
Something's burning.
Who's the one we can do without,
Unprotected, beyond a doubt?
Where will they go when they're down and out?
Something's burning—
Burning... down."
By the third chorus, everyone in the front room of Ho's tavern was singing along. Visiting river sailors liked the bold marching tune, the joyful-f
ierce way the two women sang it, and the general sentiment—without any detailed knowledge of the local references. The canalers took it as a fitting anthem for their grim and lasting outrage; Megarys, the slavers, had never before dared—but now had—to touch one of theirs, one of the Trade, and that did not slide well on the water. Others—clients, shippers, small merchants, folk of more esoteric and less describable trades, all of whom relied on the canalers for their transport—found it politic, not to mention enjoyable, to express enthusiastic support for their canaler allies. Combined voices thundered echoes from the walls.
Hoh smiled and opened another keg. Singing dried the throat, and such enthusiasm guaranteed good sales. He briefly considered using up the cheap brew—this crowd might be too thirsty to notice—but then decided that such abundant feeling might overflow onto the nearest target, and that might easily be himself if the crowd noticed the taste. Best play safe.
Rattail and Rif finished the last thundering chorus, ending with the sharp whoop that signaled the finish and brought the audience up in cheers and howls of applause. They tossed their heads back and whipped their instrument-straps off their shoulders in a single practiced gesture, bowed just low enough for gratitude without fawning, then up again, a flash of a bright smile, and a quick leap off the stage while the applause still rolled. A good finish to a successful set; now for a half-hour's break before last performance and away for the night.
Rattail ducked off after a particular admirer she'd been playing on the line for the last half moon, but Rif went straight to the bar to collect booze and news. She particularly wanted to know what that last song might have dredged up.
Sure enough; three canalers, a boatwright and a rag-dealer offered to buy her drinks. Rif accepted them all, one after the other, canalers first, carefully doling out the minutes spent on each: just enough to be polite and keep the customer hopeful, no longer than necessary to learn if he had any valuable gossip. The last song provided the obvious topic, and the customers were more than willing, witting or not, to play the game.
"Y'hear, Megarys got burned again last night," offered a poleboatman. "Put a good hole in their roof-tiles, she did. Enough to let the rain in, up top floor."
"They keep most o' their folk up nights, now," another canaler noted. "Up all night, watchin'. Must sleep by day. Ye don't see no trade comin' near there by day."
"Precious little by night, too," said the third, one of the sprawling Deiter clan who owned four skips among them. "Damn few on the water these days'll take Megary coin, but there's lotsa eyes watchin' ter see who does."
"Won't many folks buy nothin' from 'em," commented the boatwright, "nor sell to 'em, neither. Had a canaler come up ter my shop t' other night, wantin' 'er bow fixed. I looked close at the poler, and 'e wasn't no one I knew, and I meet most onter water."
"Hey, no bilge?" Rif prodded him, wanting firsthand details.
"S'truth, 'e weren't no canal-rat. Wore shoes, if ye please, an' handled the pole like she were a shovel. All hog-fat an' muscle in the wrong places." The boatwright leaned back on the bar and warmed to his tale. "Used ter orderin' folk about, too. No House-colors on 'em, but I had me guesses. So I looks over 'is boat by candle, an I see she's new, good wood an' no rot, but 'er front's all charred unaccountable. So I says ter me, an' likewise ter him, 'I can't tell how bad she is in this light. Ye'll have ter bring 'er back come daylight.' "
He paused to take a long pull of his beer, waiting (Rif could tell, with skill of long practice in just such ploys) for his audience to clamor for more. Sure enough, the rag-dealer and the second canaler urged him on.
"Hey, but 'e raises a stink: 'Can't take 'er back undone,' says 'e. 'Fix 'er now.' 'Can't,' says I. 'If ye can't bring 'er back, then leave 'er 'til morning and I'll look at 'er then.' Well, he spits an' stews, but there ain't much else ter do, so 'e leaves 'er an' heads fer some tavern. I has my guesses he'll be back sooner nor dawn, so I hauls the boat under main dock, drags her bow up under my best lights, an' takes a good look. Now what d'yer think I finds?"
"A lot o' charred wood?" Rif suggested mildly: In her opinion the boatwright was a good storyteller, but not a great storyteller: he tended to draw out suspense a hair too long.
"Charred wood? Oh, aye, but charred in a pattern like, say, an oil-spill." The boatwright picked up speed. "Looked fer all the world like someone went an' threw lit chugger all over 'er bow."
Rif smiled to herself. "Chugger" was the common and spreading canalers' term for fuel-alcohol, that mar-velously cheap and plentiful canalside undrinkable that could make any engine chug. Oh, yes, she knew chugger.
"Now why should anyone be throwin' burnin' chugger about, I wonders. No one with sense ter live would do that out on the water, am I right?"
"Oh, right," the boatman agreed, looking soberer than their drinks in truth allowed. "Lord, no; she might splash anywhere."
"So this had ter happen at tie-up, I figures. But what tie-up? Where've I heard o' fires lately? Like, just the night before?"
The crowd at the bar laughed knowingly in their beers.
"Now I wants ter be hundred-percent sure, so I looks close inside 'er, and what does I see all along 'er bilge centerline, an' all along under 'er gunwhales?"
"What?" demanded the Deiter boatman, whose clan weren't known for their patience.
"Why, I sees big iron rings bolted right inter the wood, Big rings, mind; bigger nor ye'd need ter pass lines fer holdin' any ordinary cargo. Bigger 'n my arm."
He paused once more for a gulp of beer and Dramatic Effect.
"Big enough ter pass shackles through." The boatwright looked around him, as if daring anyone to contradict. "Weren't no use fer them things 'cept holdin' chained prisoners. Slaves. An' some of 'em, like I said, were down in the bilges. Now would yer need ter ask any more?"
The crowd at the bar allowed that no, they wouldn't. That was, yes, m'ser, pretty damned convincing evidence.
"So what'jer do?" the Deiter man insisted, hooked.
"Why, I improved on them burns." The boatwright smiled and took another swig, emptying his glass. "Eh, this 'un's gone dry."
The Deiter man hurriedly bought him another, to Rif's amusement.
"Ye know I keeps jugs of acid fer makin' mordant-paste," the boatwright went on, "and she didn't take me but a minute ter fetch a jug and pour some of 'er all over that bow, right where the burns were, one burn lookin' much like another. Then I sets that poleboat right back where the Megary-man left 'er, tied up right and proper, bein' real careful not ter get no acid on the tie-rope. Then I goes back inside and goes ter bed so'd I'd be ready and fresh come dawn."
"When'd the Megary-man come back?" the smaller Canaler wanted to know.
"Dunno when he come back, but he was poundin' on my door come dawn, lookin' like he'd spent half the night sleepin' on the dock, and no sweeter-tempered fer it. So I gets up and dressed, and we goes down ter look at the poler, innercent as ye please."
"A pretty sight she must o' been, by then," the rag-dealer chuckled.
"Oh, aye, she were. Down by the bow, low in the water and 'er bilges sloshin' full. 'She's taken water!' says he, like ye'd say the sky were fallin' in. 'That she's done,' says I. 'Must o' crept in by the charred wood down at the waterline, and worked 'er way up from there."
The canalers chuckled, having seen charcoal float often enough.
" 'We'd best dry-dock 'er,' I says, 'and have a good look at 'er. Gimme a hand on this winch.' "
"Bet ye made him do all the work," Rif guessed.
"Oh, aye," the boatwright grinned. "We took 'er up by the bow tie-line and starts haulin' 'er in—him doin' most o' the pullin' while I guides 'er. And soon as 'er bottom starts scrapin' up on the dry-dock, soon as she starts puttin' a little more pull on the rope, what d'ye think happens?"
Rif could guess, but she didn't want to spoil the story.
"What?" everyone else asked, thoroughly caught.
"Why, 'er whole bow splits and falls off," the boatwright
grinned. "In pieces. Right down ter the waterline."
"Ho!" the audience breathed in awed delight.
"Aye," the boatwright delivered the punchline. "And o' course the line's tie comes off with it. Ye should o' seen that Megary-man's face as he watched that slaver-boat slide back down the slip and inter the water— where she sank."
The crowd at the bar exploded in whoops of laughter, crowings of victory, great pattings on the back and orders of more beer for the boatwright.
Rif laughed too, salute for a tale well told and encouragement for a clever piece of sabotage. She'd have a good bit to tell Sister Rowan tonight, including the point that lowtowners were quite ingenious at practical chemistry.
"M'sera," piped a diffident voice at her elbow.
Rif turned to see Denny, crouched over to look smaller, face set to look dutiful and a little bewildered, nothing to attract attention—sure sign that he had important news.
"Hey, I'll be right back," Rif promised her admirers, setting her empty glass on the bar. She followed the boy to the storeroom in the back, where Rattail was already thumbing through the music sheets in preparation for the next set. "What's the word, Denny?"
"Megary's is wide open, and don't know it." The boy grinned wide enough to show most of his teeth. "Just tonight. Here's yer saw-wire back." He handed over his borrowed tools.
"Ye did 'er!" Rif crowed, hands stuffing the tools into her own pockets. "Which window?"
"Tell us the whole thing," said Rat, coming over to catch the details. "Don't leave anything out, but be quick; we've got to go on again soon."
Expanding in the glow of their admiration, Denny gave his report.
Rattail waited until the door on their apartment at Fife Isle was safely locked before turning to her partner. "It's perfect," she said. "Bolts sawn nearly through, and up near the top, under the eaves. It's a golden opportunity, Rif! We'll never see a better one."