Endgame

  Or seeing her. Even from the window. Just once, to know she was free and outside anyone's concern.

  The door opened. Chance walked in, sat down, poured himself another cup of tea. "You?"

  "Thanks," he said, and pushed his cup over. Chance filled it.

  "So what about Karl?" Chance asked. "You were talking about the Tanner affair."

  It wasn't what he was ready for. He dragged the cup back over. He couldn't pick it up. Wasn't sure he could hold it steady. He drew a couple of breaths, said, "Just that Tanner leaked the date."

  "You worried, Tom?"

  "About what?"

  "You just look worried."

  He looked Chance in the face a long, long moment. Waiting. And with a pain in his gut. Chance wanted him to ask. It could go on another day like this. Or maybe there wasn't time, on Jones' side.

  Chance got up then, walked for the door. Lingered there a moment, but Mondragon found distraction in the other wall. Chance said, "A man in love's a damned fool, Tommy-lad."

  "So?" Rif said.

  Jones said, "Ye do me this 'un, Rif, an' there ain't nothin' I'd deny ye."

  Rif grinned, the two of them squatting over a map— in a place the like of which no Merovingian alive but the Janes had seen, Jones reckoned: in a place that had survived the fire of the Scouring and the seeping corruption of Dead Marsh. All metal and something like plastic, its metal parts the ransom of any House-head, Lord, of the whole damn city out there, and reaching up through the ooze in a caisson the Janes had built around a ventilation shaft. Rif said it was some old remnant of the starport—she was in a place that the Ancestors had built, no, not the Ancestors, who'd been fools and stayed, but the real space-farers. Astronauts—Jones liked that word—had come and gone here, technicians who knew what all those dead, water-stained panels used to do—they'd handled the evacuation from here, and there might even be, out there in the ooze, some ship that hadn't made it off—

  Mondragon should see this, Jones thought, hugging her arms about her knees. Her feet were cold. Water leaked in here and the lower level was, Rif said, all full of water, but there was something about sealed electrics, so the lights up here worked just fine, except one or two. Rif said there was something in the deep-down gut of this place that got its electrics from the center of Merovin itself. Which sounded unlikely, but after she'd seen this place she'd seen everything.

  Only fault with it, there weren't any guns or such from the astronauts. But there was her mama's revolver. And Black Cal, who squatted down to take another look at the map—that gun of his wasn't any blackleg issue, for all Black Cal was, himself.

  Black Cal pointed a lean finger at the backside of the Nev Hettek embassy, and said there was all the standpipes and the chimney and such on the roof about there. But there was a guardpost, too. He knew that because he'd been Tatty's once. He said he was still Iosef's. But mostly he was Rif's, and the way when they were thinking and planning he took hold of Rif's hand and their fingers locked, the two of them not even thinking about it, made Jones ache with lone-someness, even with five and six Janes lurking about and offering advice on doing something, for the Lord's sake, finally there was this thread of a hope, even though Rif said they hadn't the hands right now, and last se'nday they would have—they were doing something upriver, you didn't ask.

  But Rif gave that funny laugh of hers and said, hunkering there over the map, that the time was coming, that was an odd thing to say: the time was coming and Jane'd provided, and the seeds she'd sowed were going to bloom.

  Wasn't what Adventists talked about, seeds and blooming. Adventists talked about the Retribution, about the ships coming down and fighting off the sharrh that might be circling around and around the world to be sure humans didn't build new ships. Adventists talked about a day of reckoning, and thought and thought about it, until some of them got the Melancholy and went and did something, even if it got them hanged.

  Maybe she'd got religion. Because that was the way she was thinking. They'd got her man and they wouldn't let him out, and she'd use the Janes' help or anybody's, they weren't going to carry Mondragon to Nev Hettek and put him in that prison again.

  "Chance t' rattle th' Nev Hettekkers?" Rif chuckled, rubbing her hands. "Yeh, Cal and me is in. How 'bout a fire-bottle?"

  "I ain't riskin' fire with him! I ain't havin' him trapped in there! Ye say yourself we can't anyways get a floor plan—"

  "Na, calm down. We got t' get t’ uptown." Rif had got this odd look, then, grim as grim. "Fast. 'Cause there ain't all that lot o' time, Jones. Cal an' me goes with ye t'night. Rest of us got to stay here."

  "Why? What d' ye mean?"

  "All I'll say. Can't take hands nor eyes from th' things we got movin'. But ye got favors due an' this little favor fits right in, Jones. Trouble for th' Sword ain't a bother to us a'tall."

  FAMILY TIES

  by Nancy Asire

  "You're my what?" Justice asked, his voice shaking.

  "Your father," Rhajmurti repeated.

  Justice tried to say something, tried again. He slowly rose from his chair and turned away, staring at the wall.

  "Justice." Rhajmurti's voice radiated calm. "Look at me. Is the fact so distasteful you can't face it . . . or me?"

  "But why?" Justice faced Rhajmurti, blindly sought his chair. He banged his shin on it, cursed, caught its arm and sat down. "Why haven't you . . . God, why tell me now? You've had my entire life to tell me!"

  "Many reasons, some of which you wouldn't understand. First and foremost, I'm a coward—I proved that this afternoon. On the bridge. Didn't I? And don't look at me that way . . . this isn't easy for me either."

  "A swordfight's not your best talent. Words are. Quit dodging. Why wouldn't you tell me?"

  "Maybe fear of the way you see me now. I put it off, I kept thinking it was going to be easier to explain when you were older. It wasn't; the lie only got more complicated. I didn't want to unbalance you when you were beginning College. I didn't want to put the lie off on your shoulders, pretending one of your teachers wasn't your father. Or have you think it was nepotism that got you in."

  Justice shook his head as if that would sort his thoughts. "And it wasn't? Tell me it wasn't."

  "No. You could have been anyone . . . any child I happened to come across—who happened to win the board's approval. Who happened to pass the tests. Your talents are your own, Justice. They're more than enough to qualify you."

  "But ..." God, the unanswered questions. The maze of wrong assumptions. "If you're my father, then who—"

  "Who's your mother? Your aunt, Justice."

  "Oh, Lord." Justice buried his head in his hands and listened to his own ragged breathing. He heard Rhajmurti get up, saying,

  "I think you need something to settle you down. I'll be right back."

  Rhajmurti left the room. Tears Justice would never have believed he could shed spilled down his cheeks. He lowered his hands, absently noting that they shook violently, then wiped those tears away.

  Father Alfonso Rhajmurti, Priest of the College, Instructor in Fine Arts ... his father? And Aunt Stella his mother? Neighbors had always remarked how they looked alike—and how much had they known? His coloring, especially his eyes, he had surely inherited from her. She'd given him his outlook on life—and the Adventist leanings he'd so carefully concealed from Father Rhajmurti . . . Father Rhajmurti. What a damnable joke!

  He stood, paced up and down the room; he leaned his head against the wall, closed his eyes, and rubbed his hands together to stop their shaking. So nepotism hadn't propelled him through the College doors? What else was it? The tall, kindly man in priestly saffron, watching his childish attempts at a rat on a sunlit walkway edge, offering encouragement—telling him he was going to the College school when he got older.

  He drew a deep breath. Was what Rhajmurti . . . what his father, said true? Could he have gotten into the exclusive world of the College without familial help? Was he good enough? Rhajmurti was a damned good lia
r. He'd just found that out. So was Aunt Stella. Their relationship had always seemed warm, verging on tender. He'd never questioned it. It had always been there. Friendship, he'd always thought— a shared interest in old books. Now he understood the glances they'd traded over his head, at the edge of his adolescent awareness. Or the lingering of hand on shoulder in farewell. Religious consolation, hell!

  He'd thought his parents dead from before he could remember. Aunt Stella had even given him names for them—neighbors talked about his mother dying—

  So Aunt Stella must have had a sister. And people died in boating accidents—people did die that way. . . .

  He stared up at the ceiling, lost in flickering shadow and light. His entire life rested on a lie. Everything he thought he'd known was untrue. The entire foundation of his being was shattered. And without that to stand on, what could he trust for true?

  Truth: he was still Justice Lee. It was Stella's surname, too. He was still an artist. And a damned good one—if he could believe what other professors at the College had told him. Maybe they knew Rhajmurti was his father, and complimented him accordingly.

  No. He couldn't believe they knew. That was the whole point of the silence, wasn't it—protecting his father's reputation, his priestly karma—wasn't it the catechism his father had taught him: priests were celibate because the more personal ties one had in the world, the harder it became to break free?

  Rhajmurti could say that and look him in the eye? And Stella—

  Stella, who'd held him, comforted him, protected him from the bumps and bruises—

  Stella the martyr, who'd lived a quiet, uncomplaining life, telling the world that she could do no more for her poor, dead sister than raise her son? Damn!

  But she'd taught him to read, surrounded him with her books, guided him through the pages—she'd put up all his pictures over the kitchen counter. She still had them. Wouldn't give them up, no matter he painted her better ones.

  She loved him. She had stuck by him. In spite of everything.

  He heard footsteps in the hall, hastily wiped his cheeks of lingering tears.

  "Here, Justice." Rhajmurti closed the door and extended a glass of wine. "Drink this. It should help."

  Justice reached for the glass; his fingertips brushed against Rhajmurti's, and he flinched.

  "Better?" Rhajmurti asked.

  He lowered the glass and licked his lips. "Why now?" He stuck to his original question. One had to do that, with Rhajmurti. He'd learned that years ago. "Will you answer me?"

  Rhajmurti gazed down into his own glass. "Because, Justice, it's now or never, and I'm tired of living a lie; I screwed up my courage to the extent I thought I could tell you without falling apart. Events outside this room made it necessary."

  "What events? Something in the College?" He recalled the incident on the walkway, wondered if someone else had seen. . . .

  "Nothing we trusted before is reliable. The situation's going to go from bad to worse, very soon now."

  A chill ran down Justice's spine. "Are you in danger? Is it something I've done?"

  "I'm not in danger—no more than anyone else of my rank and calling. But you are. Your mother is. Listen to me, Justice. Just listen. I've given your mother money to get the two of you out of Merovingen. There's a Falkenaer ship in port and its destination is the Chattalen. It sails in two days. You're going to be on it. I want you out of here as soon as possible."

  "But . . ."

  "That attack on Sonja—her family's troubles— they're contagious. Interest in her may have been on a subordinate level, do you understand me? And it might fall quietly if circumstances change. Or it might go higher, fast. And spread. We say there weren't any witnesses out there last night. But there were. There were people who got out of there. And some gossip moves on slower feet these days, but it does move, and it all gets to Exeter. Do you hear me?"

  "Then Sonja—"

  "Sonja's got her own resources. Trust the Families to make their own protective moves—above my ability. Or yours. You're my concern. Your mother is. She's balking. I want you to get her out of here."

  Sonja was still an issue. But he didn't like the other thing he was hearing. He asked: "What about you?

  Are you coming?" and for the first time since Rhajmurti had come into his room, saw Rhajmurti avoid eye contact.

  "I'll be there if I can. Or later."

  "If you can? What's that supposed to mean?" Tangles upon tangles. "You haven't given me the straight truth yet. First you suddenly have to tell me you're my father because you want me out of here, and now it's an 'I'll be there if I can?' Excuse me, but hell— Father

  "Calm down. There're many ways events can go, Justice, many paths into the future. I'm not saying I won't go."

  "So my—mother—is balking," Justice said slowly, "and that's why you've told me. You know everything Exeter's doing and you don't want them calling my mother in—is that what you're saying?"

  "You have a vivid imagination. No. I'm not involved in anything. That boat is a sure way out of here. I want you and your mother on it. I'll be there if I can."

  "You're not through holding things back. I want to know the truth, dammit, you're not going to escape me like that. Do you want me to come to the College after you? I will."

  "No. Let's not be irrational."

  "Irrational, is it?"

  "If I can, I'll meet you at the docks." An expression of intense sorrow passed over the dark, lean face. Which was his heredity, dammit. His own expression. "I don't see any way of saving things, Justice. I don't. But I can't turn my back on my fellow priests. They're my brothers ... my friends."

  "What about your family?" Justice demanded. "What about us? You stood up there on that walkway and watched, last night—"

  "It wasn't my kind of fight. This is. The same as I'd have been doing if you'd been arrested. I've have gotten your mother out. And you, if I could. Question of fencing styles, Justice."

  He had the niggling instinct he was hearing truth now. Not all he wanted. But enough to make this Rhajmurti agree with the one he thought he'd known.

  "So know when to quit. Get out with us. Or is there more I'm not hearing?"

  "Settle down, Justice. I'll do my best to go with you. I promise you. If it doesn't work out, if I can't join you, I'll follow you. I'll find you."

  "In all the Chattalen."

  "You and your mother are to disembark at the first port you reach. It shouldn't be hard to find you."

  "You've thought this whole thing through, haven't you? From beginning to end."

  "I've had to." Rhajmurti downed the last of his wine. "I'm going to visit your mother now. Gather everything you can that's portable and not obvious. I want you to be ready to leave on a moment's notice. I don't know how you're going to get to the harbor. Or when. I'll arrange something safe. Where's Raj?"

  "I don't know. Kamat, I suppose. God,—he's linked to me. ... Is it my trouble? Or whose?"

  "I shouldn't worry about that lad," Rhajmurti said, a smile softening his face. "He probably knows more about what's happening than I do. But if you do see him tonight, warn him. Tell him I'm afraid not even his ties to Kamat will protect him much longer."

  For a moment, Justice held Rhajmurti's eyes in silence. Then, as if at some mutual impulse, he and Rhajmurti moved and met in a fierce embrace.

  "Be careful," Justice whispered, and felt Rhaj-murti's lips on his forehead.

  "Always. And you, too, son. Take care of your mother. I'll send word when. But if anything goes wrong—if you feel anything wrong—get to Hilda's and stay put. No matter what. Hear?"

  What to take? What books, clothes, paintings, supplies, mementos to pack?

  Justice stood in the center of his room at Hilda's, taking survey of his possessions. Abundance was hardly the problem, but it would still be difficult to choose—no way to take anything out but the book-bag, maybe a parcel. Nothing to attract attention.

  Someone came down the hall. Knocked at his door. Su
ch sounds were to dread now. "Who?" he asked.

  "Package just come for you, Justus."

  Hilda's voice. Justice opened the door. Hilda said, extending a medium-size parcel wrapped in brown paper: "Letter with it."

  Justice took the package, blinked in surprise as he felt the unexpected weight of it, and took the letter.

  "You be wantin' dinner, lad? Ye've been in here past supper hour. Got to wash up soon."

  "I'll be out in a little while," Justice replied, and noting Hilda looking over his shoulder at the sketches laid out on the floor: "Picking out a portfolio. I've got a potential buyer."

  "So. Now ye come out soon, hear? I'll save ye some fresh greens."

  "Thanks." He broke the seal. Shut the door and gave his attention to the letter. Raji's hand.

  Time's now. Go. I send you the smallest and most valuable. I'll be all right. Maybe I'll look you up someday. We've had a good friendship. You've been more than fair with me and my brother. My House doesn't forget such things. Take care of yourself. Think of me often.

  Justice lowered the letter. A sudden, hollow feeling coiled in his heart. Lord. He might never see Raj again. Raj was the first close friend he'd ever had, the closest he might ever come to a brother. Even the revelation that Raj was Nev Hettekker and a Taka-hashi hadn't shaken the friendship. Nor had the strange friends Raj kept company with. Or his marriage in Kamat, to cover a friend's indiscretion. The future seemed a lonely place without Raj in it.

  Time's now. Go. Rhajmurti was right. Lord knew Raj had enough ties with the underside of Merovingen, and a warning from Raj after what Rhajmurti had said—was damned serious.

  He took a deep breath, tried to figure what to do with the letter, then decided to tuck it in a book: if the slinks got it there, they already had him. He would take with him only the most precious of his possessions. Take the best of his paintings off their stretchers. And get to his mother's shop—