"You seem to be doing well, Kamat."
"Business isn't too bad," Richard said carefully. "And I should congratulate you on your promotion. Prefect of Waterways, isn't it?"
Farren smiled modestly. "It was bound to happen, sooner or later. Addie's arranged a little entertainment tonight to celebrate. I would very much like you to come . . . bring your sister, and your mother, too, if you like. How is m'sera Andromeda these days? Addie's missed her work in the soup kitchen."
Richard's frown deepened. "Mother isn't too well," he said slowly, "and Marina's got her hands full taking care of things ..."
"In that case, come yourself," Farren persisted. "There are a few things I'd like to talk over with you."
"What's wrong with my office?" Richard asked.
"I wouldn't like to keep you from your dinner. Just drop by. Seymor's my doorman: he'll show you right up." '
Farren waved a farewell and poled himself off again, leaving Richard staring blankly after him. Raj stepped out of the shadow where he had been observing the scene.
"Who was that, m'ser?"
"Farren Delaney. He wants me to go to a party tonight."
"Will you?"
"I just might ... if only to find out what he's up to."
Ariadne Delaney's Musical Evenings drew as many of the idle artistic rich as could wangle an invitation, and a number of somewhat surprising other invitees as well. No one knew what might get served-up by Ariadne: a new dancer or a mime troupe or an elderly (but still active) poet found starving in a hidey, forgotten until Ariadne revived an interest in his Great Epic of the Scouring.
At the moment the stars of the evening were the singers Rafaella and Rattaille, those balladeers who (it was rumored) had begun their careers in canalside dives. Now they were in Fashion, thanks to Ariadne, and Merovingian leisured society filled the Delaney ballroom to hear them.
Ariadne waited at the door to the ballroom to greet her guests with a smile or a word or a very occasional kiss on the cheek.
"Sonia, so good of you to come; very glad to see you, Prefect . . . Letty, I hope you will be entertained. ..."
While Farren smiled at her side and led this or that guest to the buffet table, where the spread was lavish without being ostentatious.
The smile suddenly stiffened on Ariadne's lips as she realized who was making her way up the stairs.
Cardinal Exeter, draped in the austere burnt-orange robes of the College.
"Good evening, Your Eminence," Ariadne said, recovering her poise. "I'm so pleased you could come. I always send you an invitation, but I know how busy your schedule is. . . ."
Willa Exeter smiled, raking the room with a glance that did not partake in frivolity. She said, sweetly: "I've heard so much about these singers of yours, I felt I should find out for myself if the stories are true."
"Stories?" Ariadne asked brightly, thinking frantically, I hope Rafaella knows there's clergy here! God, don't let her do the Poleboater song—
"Oh . . . exaggerations, surely. You, of all people, would never harbor heretics in your house!" Willa moved into the ballroom, accepting the bows and greetings of the other guests as she went, bestowing the occasional blessing. Farren bounded over to his wife.
"What's she doing here?" he hissed.
"I always invite the clergy. A courtesy. I had no idea she'd decide to come— Is something wrong?"
"No, not at all . . . just a little unexpected . . . ah—" Another blink of startlement. "Kamat!"
"Addie, you don't mind? Kamat's a neighbor, after all. . . ." Farren virtually hauled Richard past her into the ballroom, with an almond-eyed boy trailing along behind. The boy gave a nervous bow, said: "Raj Tai, m'sera," and slipped into the crowd in Kamat's wake. Ariadne moved over to the buffet, certain that the last of her guests had arrived.
Farren dived back past her to the door—and the last-comer standing hesitantly in the arch. All conversation stopped dead. The man in the doorway started to retreat, but Farren had reached him and led him gently across the room.
"Mikhail Kalugin! Glad you could tear yourself away from your workshop. There are some people I want you to meet . . . this is Richard Kamat, the Kamat . . ."
Cardinal Willa Exeter stared, tried to keep her face bland as she watched the governor's eldest, her party's candidate for the succession, shambling across the ballroom arm in arm with one of the most useless, brainless pieces of furniture in the Signeury ... or so she had thought.
How had Mikhail gotten snared into this company of dilettantes and bohemians? That certainly bore looking into. . . .
Araidne clapped her hands for silence. "Dear friends, in honor of Farren's promotion to Prefect of Waterways, we have prepared a brief entertainment. Would you come into the music room?"
Farren managed to get between Richard and Mikhail as the crowd surged forward.
"Could you manage to drop over to the Signeury on some pretext?" he murmured to Richard. "Mikhail and I have a little business proposition to put to you, but we would prefer not to have it widely known just yet."
Aha! Richard thought. He wants money! Or backing for some scheme or another. Aloud he said, "I have a few minor fees to pay; I was planning to come over around noon."
"We'll be there," Farren promised, as he steered them to adjoining seats. We. Richard noticed that. "I think you'll like these singers. The tall one's got a good, strong voice . . .'
Behind them, Cardinal Exeter smiled blandly, and wondered just what Farren Delaney thought he was doing. And wondered whether Ariadne knew how close those singers were to being declared heretic.
Or whether she should simply refer them to her bodyguards down at the water-gate, and bring them to her office. . . .
Not yet, she thought. And took mental notes, who applauded at what.
Farren's tiny office seemed more crowded than ever. Gathered around the table were Iosef Kalugin, Richard Kamat, Cardinal Ito Boregy, and Cardinal Exeter. Mikhail had wedged himself into a corner, while Farren demonstrated with the little wooden model on the desk before them.
Mikhail had worked all night after the party modifying one of his precious model boats. Now it held a pair of outriggers, with a ladder mounted on each one. The engine had been expanded until it nearly filled the stern. A length of twine represented a hose, coiled around a wheel, mounted on the pump assembly.
Farren explained the mechanism, as Mikhail had explained it to him: "You see, the water is pumped up through this intake, into this compressor, which shoots it through the reinforced hose at high pressures with an adjustable nozzle, to direct the flow. The extension ladders reach the upper tiers."
He manipulated the model, and pulled the tiny ladders upright, extended the braces. "To keep the boat from tipping."
Cardinal Boregy's normally glum face took on a sour frown. "Noisy. A very large engine."
"In use only in emergencies, Cardinal."
"You know the dangers of technology, Delaney. This is a large machine, a large public machine."
"Existing technology—"
"We do quite adequately—without this monster." "A spilled lantern could devastate an Isle. Consider Megary. ..." "Karma."
"With all respect, Cardinal, the karma of the neighbors-"
"Do you lecture me in religion?"
"No, Your Eminence. Absolutely not. But—" An inspiration. "To know how technology can prevent tragedy and not to do it—what about the karma of lives and property?"
"Existing technology," Mikhail said from his corner.
"Lives and property." Farren threw fervor into his voice. "Think of it, seri. What if a stray spark ignited the grain stores? or the archives? Everything gone in a flash, records gone—and it might have been prevented by this equipment, in the hands of a well-trained crew."
"Ah, yes," the governor purred. "The crew. Just who were you planning on hiring to run this little . . . experiment?"
Farren turned a desperate smile on his three doubters. "I put it to you, seri: who is most
likely to know the canals? Who is best-trained, almost from birth, in the handling of all sorts of water-craft? Who knows the backwaters and byways of the city? and most importantly, who is most in need of steady work?"
"Cheap," Richard muttered.
"Folly!" Boregy exploded. "Machinery of this size —should not be in the hands of canalers. It puts tech in unlicensed hands. I assume you'll keep this fire-watch on duty around the clock? And the money— Who would take money for putting out fires? It's a civic duty. Pay for that is immoral. A corruption. Give canalers that windfall and they'll be starting fires to make themselves necessary. If you think the fires at Megary are coincidence—"
Farren cleared his throat and looked at Richard. "Exactly. That's why I asked my neighbor, Kamat, to this meeting. You see, I thought that the merchants have the most to lose by fire, and the most to gain by a firewatch. Let us suppose that each merchant with a warehouse or shop fronting on the canal contributes a small sum . . . say, a lune or two . . . to a general fund, administered by whomever you care to choose—" Me. "—with the—ahem!—Signeury and the College contributing matching funds."
Sullen silence from Boregy.
"Each contributor would place a token on any buildings covered by the investment. In the event of fire, those buildings with tokens would receive priority attention, although—of course—saving life is always our first consideration."
The governor frowned, took the model up, looked at it, looked at his son. "Yours?"
Mikhail stared stolidly back. Nodded.
Iosef Kalugin set the model down in front of him. Folded his hands and looked briefly at Exeter, sourly at Boregy, last and with a lift of his brow at Farren. "Ingenious, Delaney. Kamat?"
"The merchants stand to gain."
"Certainly the Signeury can match funds. Your Eminence?"
Boregy scowled, shot a glance at Mischa, who was attentively picking a hangnail and did not look up. "Your Eminence?"
Boregy inclined his head then with cold deference, pulled the Variance toward him and sullenly affixed the College seal.
Mischa grinned, looking up under one eyebrow, winked at Farren and bit the offending nail.
RED SKIES
Lynn Abbey
When man first looked up at the skies he reluctantly concluded that bad weather was more inspiring than good. Clear skies made the sun rise and set without fanfare. Add clouds—add weather in any interesting form—and patterns of glowing, shifting beauty emerged. The Ancestors had an adage: Red skies at night, sailor delight; red skies at morning, sailor take warning. It was as useful a piece of wisdom as could be wrung from the dynamics of rotating bodies, and it had followed mankind through the stars. Even to Merovin.
Richard Kamat leaned on the railing of the Salvatore high bridge. Sunrise colors ascended to mid-heaven. There were roses and ambers, golds and pinks, and at the foundation of it all the blood-red sun. It was slack-tide; the waves slapped gently against the city's pilings. To the uninitiated, it might seem that a peaceful day had begun, but no one in harbor-straddling Merovingen above the age of five was uninitiated.
A flickering breeze touched the back of Richard's neck: a warm breeze for this time of day, and onshore as well. It carried a reminder of tangle-lilies rotting in every damp shadow of the city. The more delicate among Richard's peers had taken to dangling a cinnamon-orange from a silk-ribbon bracelet. A sensitive nose was not an asset in a dyeworking House. Richard judged the taint no worse than sheepdip and considerably less pungent than the mordant brews simmering in Kamat's cellars.
He frowned and pushed away from the rail. There'd be a storm by mid-afternoon, a rafter rattler from the colors on the horizon. It might bring an end to the stifling heat; one could always hope. Even a Reve-nantist on Merovin. He descended the stairs leeward of Ramseyhead into the sunlight and the Ramsey Bell's cul-de-sac.
The unassuming tavern opened at dawn and closed in the depths of the second watch. In the course of a day it served the heirs of the mercantile houses, their agents, and, finally, the customs laborers themselves. The regulars took care to keep their brawls away from its taps, and the nonregulars were icily encouraged to take their trade elsewhere. Richard hadn't been a regular since his father died. He was recognized as he came through the screen door and accorded a narrow stare from the barkeeper. Richard's presence here couldn't be casual, it had to have a reason, and spying out that reason might be worth something to someone.
Mutely acknowledging his changed status, Richard walked past the window table where he had once eaten two meals out of three.
"Is your oil boiling yet?" he asked, propping one elbow on the worn wood of the bar.
"S'past dawn, ain't it? The fish be floured, an' the chips ready, too."
Richard nodded. The keeper tossed two white fillets and a handful of taters into the fryer. There were dozens of taverns in Merovingen where rumors were spawned. Moghi's on the Ventani waterside was a likely place to learn something worth knowing—if your silver was pure and your karma was up. The Bell was a good deal brighter than Moghi's. It smelled better, too, especially on days like this, but its real business was about the same.
When the oil was seething steadily, the keeper returned to the bar. "What brings you back this way, m'ser Kamat?"
"A sudden craving for breakfasts past," he replied with a laugh that was more good-natured than cryptic.
Richard wasn't about to tell the barkeep why he was here; he wasn't comfortable admitting it to himself. It wouldn't do for a Househead to confess that his gut was lob-tailing and he'd spent half the night beside the commode.
He'd come a long way since his father's untimely death, hadn't he? He was the driving force—the visible force, at least—behind the Samurai. He was trading with Vega Boregy and Anastasi Kalugin: personal trade, Family trade. Kamat's handshake was worth five hundred gold sols, and people listened when he talked. Of course, Vega and Anastasi were each inclined to say you and I, Richard, against our untrustworthy partner, and the three of them never got together.
That was still trade. Boregy or Kalugin hadn't kept Richard up all night; that honor belonged to Tom Mondragon. Mondragon, the archetype of treachery; Mondragon, the father of Marina Kamat's unborn child; Mondragon, the man who guarded Kamat's back. Against all instinct Richard found that he was comfortable with Tom. They could betray each other six ways from Sunday, and the knowledge was somehow reassuring. But late at night, when the House was quiet, a hysterical whisper of sanity would interrupt Richard's thoughts: You 're trusting Mondragon. You 're taking his advice. You're sharing your secrets—his karma.
Thomas Mondragon definitely had karma. He also had enemies and obligations. One of those obligations was currently living in Kamat: the youth, Raj Tai. Richard had swallowed Raj Tai like he'd swallow an oyster: quickly and thoughtlessly—because spitting it out wasn't going to resolve anything. For a while everything had gone smoothly. The boy seemed as intelligent as he claimed to be—until last week when he'd gotten drunk; when he'd mouthed off near the wrong ears; when he'd compared the rotting lilies to the idle rich in terms no one could possibly appreciate. And now Kamat had paid a bribe to the blacklegs— Tatiana's blacklegs—and Tom Mondragon had been the go-between.
Thirty sols.
No matter what Richard did, he couldn't get the memory of those coins out of his head. As blackleg bribes went, it was exorbitant. But if Tatiana had meant to put the screws to Kamat, thirty sols wasn't a quarter turn. It simply didn't make any sense, and one thing Tom had taught him was that treachery always made sense to someone.
Mondragon and the boat made sense in a crazy way. Mondragon said he wanted the exercise. He offered Mondragon a real boat, because getting Mondragon out of Merovingen was the most sensible thing to come in with the tide in the last five months. But Mondragon refused. Anastasi had his hooks in Tom deeper than Boregy: now Boregy was stalking Tom. Vega put it bluntly: I've canceled that trade, Richard. I'd advise you to do the same. I'd hate to see you go down wh
en he does. Richard hadn't canceled his trade, and neither he nor Tom had gone down—yet.
At ten Richard would meet with Vega Boregy to discuss the Samurai. It was their usual Thursday morning meeting. Richard had the usual receipts and reports in his satchel. There was nothing to say that today would be any different than last Thursday.
The Signeury bells gave their first peal of the day. The barnlike doors of the Merovingen Customs House across the New Harbor canal opened for trade. Here was the key to the Bell's popularity: an eagle's vantage of the custom dock and the counting hall inside. Every legitimate import or export stopped at both places. A skillful observer could learn as much by how goods did, or didn't, pass through the customs house as he could by eavesdropping on The Rock.
The barkeep stood on his toes to see the pallets waiting for their assessments. It was reasonable to guess that there might be something special, even something contraband, down there on the dock to account for a Househead's presence in his tavern. Reasonable, but wrong. Richard had only a passing interest in the pallets. Instead, his attention was focused on the men standing beside each pallet and at regular locations within the counting hall.
"They're a tidy bunch," the barkeep allowed, once he'd taken the angle of Kamat's gaze.
A layer of tension slid from Richard's shoulders. He was proud of those men, those Samurai, standing in their faded blue chambrys. They were making a difference in Merovingen. Trade had cleared its throat and was moving freely again. If Kamat had made enemies, they'd made friends and allies, too. Richard had done something his father could not have imagined, and he'd done it well.
The Samurai were a counterbalance to the unreliable blacklegs—the municipal blacklegs under Tatiana Kalugin's de facto control. The Samurai answered to the mercantile community. After three months they were fully subscribed; every House Kamat approached had anted up its share, and, to Richard's proud'surprise, ten Houses that had previously scorned three-generation Kamat contacted him directly.
Hed spawned a burst of civic responsibility. The Signeury Waterworks was offering subscriptions in a municipal fire department. Even the College's initiative to ban motor traffic on the smaller canals acknowledged the damage high wakes did to the pilings as much as it reflected the conservative concern with the summer's burgeoning crop of noxious weeds in the canals.