"Have they found Ri . . . Raj yet?" he asked the wide-eyed girl. "No, m'ser."
"Tell them to keep looking. There's a place on Pe-trescu; ask Marina, she'll give you directions."
"Yes, m'ser." She curtseyed and tore down the stairs.
The Petrescu address was Mondragon's flat, which Richard had never admitted he knew and where he had never gone. But the boy had brought Tom and Marina together, and Kamat was getting impatient: Mondragon could find him, if no one else could. Belatedly, then, he remembered the envelope. It seemed less important now and he put it in the safe with hardly a second thought. He picked at his food because there was nothing else to do, and tried not to make plans for the future.
The plates were clean—except for a mound of cream sauce—by the time there were footsteps echoing on the stairs again. Richard leaned forward, hoping; there was a light, hesitant knock, and he told the boy to come in.
"You wished to see me, m'ser."
It had stopped raining, but the shutters were still closed and the only light came from the oil lamps on the mantle. Raj was plainly terrified and his eyes never wandered toward the hardwood box on Kamat's desk.
"What have you learned about Kamat—about our trade, what we do to survive?"
"You're dyers, m'ser. You make First-Bath once a month. And you have lands to the southeast, where you came from, and you own some sheep."
A shadow-smile crossed Richard's lips. Some sheep. Kamat owned sheep for every man, woman and child in Merovingen three times over. He knew he was teasing the boy, and that it wasn't absolutely necessary. He could tell Raj about the scroll and the sword without saying anything more. The boy was going to have to make a decision tonight whether he understood or not, and he'd live with that decision the rest of his life. Maybe it wasn't teasing, was necessary so in later years he'd remember that there'd been no secrets.
"You understand, then, that we have the sheep, the shearers and the weavers and the fullers. We have the indigo plantations and the rendering mills—and all of these are outside the city. Only the dyeing is here, because that's the most critical part of the making, and the most expensive as well—for us."
Raj knew this was important. He was all eyes and ears, taking it in and remembering it though clearly he couldn't understand why he was in Richard's office or why he felt like he was balanced on the edge of a sword.
"We make good products, and a fair profit. Do you know why our profits are not as good as our products?"
"No, m'ser."
"Mordants."
Raj wanted to be a physician. He borrowed Dr. Jonathan's texts and memorized lists of diseases, symptoms and cures. He didn't know what a mordant was, but he guessed that like morbid, mortal, moribund and murraine it had to do with death and dying.
"Just dyeing," Richard corrected. "Mordants control how deep the dye penetrates the fiber, how much and how long. They even determine what the final color will be. There are as many mordants as there are dyes—and we're always looking for new ones, cheaper ones. The best we've got is alum, but the only proven alum deposits are down in Chattelan land."
Raj could extrapolate a bit from that: Chat trade was expensive trade.
"We sell them some cloth, but we won't sell them the raw dyes, so they see to it that we pay in gold and silver for their alum. They don't quite bleed us dry, they're too smart for that, but the trade is never quite even, and whether in Merovingen, Nev Hettek, the Falkens or anywhere else, dyers are always at a disadvantage. They tighten the spigot every twenty years or so, and dyers all over Merovin fall into their hands."
"Even Kamat?" Raj knew they were relatively new to their wealth, but it had been considerably longer than twenty years.
"No, not Kamat, because we pay on delivery and we always pay in cash, and because we could shut down the dyeworks and live on the backs of the sheep for a year or five if we had to."
"You're very wise, then."
"We're cautious—which is not always the same as wise. From the water all of Merovingen-above must look the same, but the Families are not equal, and Kamat has never been of much concern or importance. Until now."
"Do you mean to be less cautious, m'ser?"
Richard smiled again. He'd taken his risks already with the Samurai, with Boregy and Kalugin, with Tom Mondragon. What the boy could offer was a way back to the familiar, cautious pathways the family had followed before.
"Suppose the Chattelan didn't have all the alum. Suppose someone else had a proven deposit, but had kept quiet all these years. They weren't dyers but metal workers and no one noticed that they didn't buy what little alum they needed. Suppose, besides, that they weren't sure they wanted to tip the balance their way— considering where they were—"
"You're losing me, m'ser."
"Suppose there was another Family in another city. Suppose they had more alum than they needed, but that they'd never told anyone they had it because there was always the chance they would need it some day. Suppose that day came, and to get what they wanted they offered an exclusive license to all their alum for five years—with a provision for renewal. Do you think I would be wise to give that family what they wanted?"
"I can hardly say, m'ser."
"But you must say."
Raj stared at the ceiling, at the floor. He raked his hair and tugged his earlobe. "I guess so, m'ser—if this alum is everything you say it is."
"Suppose this other Family came from Nev Hettek. Would it still be a good idea?"
"I don't know, m'ser. It might be. There's good folk in Nev Hettek. Good Families."
"That's right." Richard feigned surprise and insight. "Your mother, you said, came from Nev Hettek, and you grew up there for a time. What would you say about Takahashi? Are they good folks?"
The boy was speechless.
"Come now, Rigel Takahashi, surely you remember your grandfather. What was he like? Is he the sort of man Kamat should trade with?"
Raj's eyes widened and glistened. There might be tears in a few seconds and Richard knew he'd gone too far.
"There's a box on the desk," he said more gently. "Open it and read the scroll inside."
Moving like one of Mikhail's automata, Raj stumbled toward the desk. The dusky glow through the shutters reflected on the case that the boy did not seem to recognize nor be able to open. Richard began unlatching the shutters. He eased the screens quietly into place. The office filled with the red, orange, and amber light of the sunset.
There were tears when Raj finally got his hands to raise the lid. They stained the brilliantly crimson silk. Richard waited and watched until the boy touched the sword. He wouldn't be able to read the scroll.
"Hideo Takahashi, Takahashi of Takahashi, has learned that we have given shelter to one of his house. He says this boy is the eldest son of his eldest daughter, and that he has endured both worry and helplessness on account of this boy and his brother . . . You've never mentioned a brother, Rigel, you must tell me about him.
"Your grandfather wishes he could bring you home, but if that were possible now it would have been possible before. He is a proud man, your grandfather. He does not ask for anything, but gives me his sword, calls me his son and offers me alum, only then does he speak of honor.
"Did you know him well?"
Raj nodded, more tears fell onto the silk. His hands trembled; wire rings rattled against the scabbard as he replaced it in the silk.
"Then I think Kamat will become a Takahashi partner, and vice versa. Welcome home, Rigel."
Richard extended his hand—man-to-man, trade-in-trade, and friend-to-friend. Raj seemed not to know what to do and for a moment Richard felt foolish.
There was still much he and Kamat didn't know. The katana wasn't a gift. The alum alone would have bought Kamat's cooperation; Takahashi knew that. If Richard remembered the BOY'S BOOK OF HONOR correctly—and he'd pull it off its shelf once he was alone again—that sword meant more to the Takahashi than any one son or grandson, unless . . .Unless Hideo were dying;
unless the situation in Nev Hettek were deteriorating so fast that all Takahashi might choose to die. And if that were true, then Rigel and his sudden brother were all that would be left.
Raj raised his arm toward his face. He considered the impropriety and took Richard's hand. It was better, when sealing one's fate, to keep one's tears on one's face rather than on one's sleeve or hand.
"You won't regret this, m'ser. I promise—"
"And I promise you that neither you, nor your grandfather, will regret it, either."
Light struck Richard's desk. A crimson glow reflected upward between the two men and merged with the blazing sunset.
Red skies at night; sailor's delight.
SEEDS OF DESTRUCTION (REPRISED)
C.J. Cherryh
"His Eminence is in meditation," the servant said; and: "Thank you," Willa Exeter said sweetly. "Bless you, my son," all the while thinking of Haying-knives and a slow fire for the servant, the whole effete staff his Eminence kept around him, and in particular Ito Boregy himself.
Three times she'd had the requisitions on his desk, three times his damned staff had screwed up, failed to notify Budget, failed to convene the Council a sufficient three days in advance, finally some fool had overset an inkpot on the stack of copies and thank God Pardee hadn't destroyed the plates yet: they could run another batch.
Damned bunch of incompetents, Boregy's pretty pets—half of them stoned, she suspected, but couldn't prove, as she suspected, but couldn't prove that Boregy wasn't in meditation at the moment, because he didn't want to talk about the baby and the Nev Hettek-ker doctor and the petition for Inquiry-She walked into her own offices, got her hat, two servants and the folio she had assembled over the last several weeks, and ordered a boat to meet her at the water-gate.
It was not spur-of-the-moment. It was so far from that she'd already made the appointment with the governor, because she knew Ito Boregy was going to duck the issue.
And in Iosef Kalugin's office in the Signeury, she laid that folio on the desk and said, "Iosef, I'm not here as your priest. I'm here as your friend. And I have to tell you, we have a problem."
"Mischa?" Iosef said wearily.
Willa frowned and folded her arms into her sleeves. "The College understands a talent like his. Difficult, very difficult, and prone to a certain—difficulty of cohesion—"
"Scatterbrained. Don't mince, Willa. What's he done now?"
"Head over heels for Cassie Boregy's little seances."
"I know it." Iosef ground the heels of his hands against his eyes. "I've got a watch on him. He's not doing any past-lives foolishness."
"The curiosity that drives him—"
"I have him tailed. I know his contacts."
"I know them. Are you aware His Eminence the Boregy is doing regressions? Are you aware he's counseled with your son? Are you aware these regressions involve—"
"Deathangel. Yes."
"Mikhail lives for curiosity. Not to experience something—"
"I know it, dammit! You can talk till Retribution, Willa, you can't change Mischa, all you can do is watch him!"
"Let's be frank. You know and I know the quick solution—get rid of your daughter and promote 'Stasi. ..."
"I plan to die of old age, Willa, not a knife in the back."
"Anastasi's dangerous because he wants power. Give it to him—"
"And you, me, and Mischa will be dead before the sun sets," Iosef said, with a grim, calm stare that reminded her where Anastasi got it. "He's my son. You think he'd trust you—or anyone who'd ever opposed him? You think we're not alike?"
"Then let 'Stasi have an accident!" she muttered, but she knew Iosef's answer before he said it:
"He serves a purpose. He's a focus—just like my daughter."
"And coalition is the only hope," she said, old argument. "Mischa's the only hope. Yes. But Mischa's only useful if he's in our direction. If he's under Boregy's-"
"Don't you think I don't know that?"
"That's evidence." She picked up the folio and dropped it squarely in front of him. "Those are names. I'm telling you—there's leverage there. It may agitate some Families. But those are accurate reports. Servants—talk to their priests. So do scared kids, in the provost's office. Or lovers. Or the dying. We have our records. Disciplinary interviews. Young fools. And old sinners. There's power, Iosef. I know how to use it. I assure you His Eminence does. And our Mischa is putting more and more of it into his hands."
Iosef opened the folio and leafed through it.
Slowly.
She sat down, folded her hands in her lap and watched his face go white.
TURNING POINT
Mercedes Lackey
I send into the keeping of House Kamat one of the honor-blades of Takahashi, in token of the bond now between us. Young Rigel will know how it is to be cared for.
* * *
Raj held his breath, and with all the concentration he could command, placed the centuries-old katana reverently in the cradle of the special rack he'd asked M'ser Richard to have made.
* * *
' 'Your grandfather says you know how to care for this sword. " M'ser Richard regarded the katana and Raj with equal curiosity. Raj nodded, not able to speak. There was a volume of message there from Elder Takahashi, message m 'ser Richard could not possibly read. Raj knew—and the implications had turned his life upside down in the single span of time it had taken Richard to free the blade from its silk wrapping. But m 'ser Richard was no fool—if he could not read the message, still, he knew that one was there, and that it must be portentous for his House. So he took Raj's nod at face value, and set the katana back down in its silken nest. Takahashi silk; Takahashi steel. Takahashi honor. "Tell me what you need, " Richard said simply. ' I gather this isn't the sort of thing you just hang on a wall.''
* * *
Raj stepped back two paces to scan his handiwork with an apprehensive and critical eye.
* * *
"A—place, " Raj stammered then. "I need a place for it, somewhere where it's safe, but where it can be seen by—by—" He flushed, "—by the Househead. You, m'ser. You're—supposed to be reminded by it, m 'ser. ''
Richard nodded, thoughtfully. "Will that do?" he'd asked, pointing behind and to Raj's right.
There was an alcove between two of the windows, an alcove currently holding an unimpressive sculpture of the Revenantist Wheel of Life. The alcove was approximately a foot wider than the blade was long.
"Yes, m'ser, " Raj said immediately. "Yes, m'ser— that's perfect.''
* * *
He'd inspected and cleaned the blade of the katana this morning, that being a small ritual in and of itself. Somewhere in his conversation he'd told Richard that in Merovingen's damp climate, he'd have to inspect the blade once or twice a week, and that he preferred not to have to move it too far from its resting place. He'd been a little apprehensive about that, since this was clearly the Head of Kamat's private—and very special—sanctuary. But Richard had nodded his acceptance of that, gravely, and then he'd taken the undyed tassel off the hilt, keeping it, not giving it to a servant to be dealt with. This morning he'd returned the tassel to Raj, now the deep and unmistakable midnight-blue of Kamat First-Bath. That was all Raj had needed. The katana was now ready to take its place in the heart of Kamat.
He knelt again, and reached out to adjust the blade so that the silk tassels hung side-by-side from the hilt, neither obscuring the other. The Takahashi-scarlet and Kamat-blue tassels hung gracefully, shining as only heavy silk could.
Takahashi silk, Takahashi steel.
Raj wore both, now. A main-gauche and rapier of more common design on his belt, sent by Granther, and Takahashi silk (so Marina had told him) on his back.
Dyed First-Bath blue. Marking him as under the hand and eye of Kamat for all to see.
* * *
' 'It is your Grandfather's opinion—which I share— that you would be far safer in the public eye, where harming you would be noticed and acted up
on.'' Richard Kamat's gaze weighed and measured Raj before he added—
"Both of you. "
It took all the eloquence that Raj possessed to convince Richard that he did not want Denny—not-entirely-ex-thief, bridge-brat Denny—inside Kamat. At least not for now.
"Tom Mondragon's the only one that can control him, m 'ser,'' Raj pleaded earnestly. ''I can't. And you might as well try and tell the tide not to come in, for all he'll heed you. Tom Mondragon can keep him safe until he grows into a little more sense. " He clenched his hands in anguish on the arms of the chair. "Please, m'ser—Lord and Ancestors know I love him, but I know him. He's been on the street since he was eight or nine. He's Takahashi blood—but he's bridge-brat taught, and it'd be like trying to tame a wild kitten. Tell Tom to bring him around to be civilized.' If anybody can make Denny see sense, it'll be Tom Mondragon. "
Richard Kamat scowled at the mention of Mondragon's name, then nodded again—this time reluctantly. '' I can't say that I like it, but you know your brother. '' His mouth firmed. ' 'That makes it all the more important that we fulfill our obligations toward you, Rigel. " He surveyed Raj's clothing with a critical eye. "And one of the first things will be an appropriate wardrobe. I'll have my mother see to that—''
* * *
But in the end it had been Marina, not Andromeda, who had outfitted him. Andromeda was indisposed, and Raj had yet to actually see her except at meals. She seemed ill, and looked as frail as a creature of lace and spun glass. He much doubted she'd seen him, not really; he'd kept his head down and his eyes fixed on his plate, and he never spoke. That wasn't because the Kamat cousins were unfriendly; mostly it was because he didn't know what to say. The intricacies of polite social conversation were still a mystery to him. And what could he talk about, anyway? The joys of swamp life? The best ways to break into a house? Poisons of preference when assassinating an enemy? What it was that Tatiana really had in her bed? Lord and Ancestors—his age-peers were so innocent in some ways that it shocked him. They had no idea what they'd let into their midst, and Raj didn't think it was any business of his to enlighten them, when it wouldn't do any good.