Blacklegs forced their way through the crowd, and for a frightened, exposed moment Rhajmurti had felt like a target, but they shouldered past. A single boat did pass, a fancyboat, loaded with people, roared under Deems-Mansur Low, and throttled back sharp for the turn. Another pop of gunfire, a series of them. And the crowd on Bois was moving east, so Bois East must be open. Rhajmurti offered up a prayer of thanks to Rama, Shiva, Vishnu and all the gods above and below.
Came a sudden cracking of wood, a splintering sound over the noise of the crowd. Screams. Bodies hurtled past, hit the canal with a splash that drew screams from the crowd. More followed—a rail had given way above—the press of bodies up there shoving people over the edge. Screams proliferated, echoed off the shuttered faces of Bois and Deems—people who'd survived the fall were flailing out toward the canalside, trying to climb up on the bank past a tangle of floating wood.
"Those people—" Stella cried, trying to look back. But Rhajmurti saw Spellbridge ahead. And open bridges. The crowd spreading out, going around North—some poured off to Yesudian, but Rhajmurti took the chance and went around the corner for Spell-bridge. Something boomed, rattled shutters up and down.
More of Krishna's friends came in, white-faced and sweating—said they'd outrun a mob, lagoonside— fighting at the College and Kamat's shut gates eastside had sent panicked people trying to get around and home by lagoonside when Lindsey shut its gates. Justice listened to the gunfire and explosions that rattled out from the Archangel side of Kass and sipped his drink—on the house, Hilda said, for him and Sonja. Desire for a clear head fought an urge to down it and go numb. The worst of the fighting was on Archangel. Where Rhajmurti and Stella had to come to get here. Sonja sat in silence beside him watching every movement in and out the door.
Make a break for Rimmon, some of Krishna's friends were saying. "No," Krishna was saying, "no, fool, you want to get—"
Militia came through the door. Two of them, with guns, headed straight for the bar, demanding, "Is there a stairs here?"
"In the back," Hilda said, still washing glasses. "Wipe yer feet, ye crazies."
The one militiaman said, with a wave of his hand, "Students over against the wall. The rest of you clear out of here."
There was dead silence. Nobody moved, except two people came through the door—Rhajmurti and Stella, who suddenly had the whole attention of the militia. "Priest," one said, and a gun clicked.
Glassful of dishwater sailed out and the gun blasted at the far corner of the ceiling, raining splinters. A flash of silver and the second soldier arched his back and yelled, already in a tumble to Krishna Malenkov's feet. The first soldier was in a battle for his rifle. It went off and Samad Cohen went down, holding his stomach and yelling.
Justice whipped a knife out, the one from the collar-sheath—launched himself with a shove at the table. The soldier spun around with the gun leveled at his face.
Krishna lunged and the point came out the blackleg's chest. The gun went off and the wind of the bullet passed Justice's cheek before the gun fell, and a dozen hands scrabbled for it.
Justice caught his balance, stood there frozen, looking at Krishna. Krishna Malenkov, rich brat, drugrun-ner, duelist, and bully of the high walkways. And heir to Malenkov. "Not bad for a beginner," he said, a superior smile on his face. He flicked blood off the sword with a whip of the blade. Spattered the bystanders. "Not bad at all."
He thought Krishna might make it a third. The night was that crazy. They weren't friends.
"Karma's paid," the hightowner said then. He bowed slightly to the group at the door. "Father Rhajmurti. Apologies. Going on a trip, I see. Justice, too? Don't let me keep you."
Justice hesitated, in the silence in the tavern. Felt Sunny rub about his legs. With two dead men on the floor and weapons rattling up and down the canal.
Sammy Martushev ducked through the door, white-faced. "The launch's here, Krishna. C'mon, f’ God's sake! It can't stay!"
"My ride," Krishna said, and sheathed his sword with a single motion. He bowed to all and sundry, gathered his couple of friends, and strolled for the door.
Stopped, facing Rhajmurti, with that same smug attitude. "Drop you anywhere, Father? Dangerous out there tonight."
Rhajmurti made a nervous, small motion, inclusive of him, Stella, Sonja—Justice. "We're four."
"We seat eight," Krishna said, and nodded toward the door.
Damn, Justice thought, and felt someone bump his elbow, saw Hilda holding Sunny. Hilda pushed Sunny at him. "Ye go," she said. "Ye go. Ye take him, too."
He sheathed the knife, he took Sunny. He didn't know what else to do. There was a glistening track on Hilda's seamed cheek.
"Karma 'twixt us," she said. "I got t' see ye again. This life or th' next."
A lump in his throat stopped him talking. Sonja had grabbed the baggage. He mumbled a good-bye, ducked out after Sonja and Stella, holding Sunny tight in his arms, stuffed Sunny mostly into his coat as he scrambled after his family to step down into the big Malenkov fancyboat rocking there in the fog.
Hand grabbed his coat. He dropped helplessly into a too-cramped bench seat between Sonja and Rhajmurti, Stella next to the stern; and held Sunny tight as the boatman throttled up and took off with a roar. Krishna eeled his way back to lean on the boatman's station as the walls and walkways shot past faster than sane.
"Paid is paid," Krishna said. "Need a roof, Father?"
"If you could just let us off at the harborside—" "Ah."
Justice said, it almost choked him to say it: "We've got passage out. The Falkenaer ship. If you need to get out of town—"
Krishna rocked with amusement. Said, over the motor's roar, "Over that? They're our own damn faction!"
"Still—" Rhajmurti said.
"Mikhail's dead, Tatty's under siege—It appears we're in for interesting times here in Merovingen. Whatever wins—whatever works." They broke out into the Grand, wide expanse of black water. "Call it opportunity, Father."
Justice tucked Sunny closer under his coat, scratched Sunny's chin to calm him, and reached for Sonja's hand. Saw her looking back, profiled against a glow of fire, along the wide pattern of their outbound wake.
ESCAPE FROM MEROVINGEN (ACT ONE REPRISED)
by Janet & Chris Morris
When they reached the docks, Kenner saw boats— boats everywhere across the harbor, fancyboats with people in evening dress and nightgowns, skips towing strings of poleboats with scared passengers aboard.
And Mike Chamoun's Detqueen and Detrunner both at the end of the pier, just shy of a couple of Falken-aer deep-water craft.
Even Magruder couldn't anticipate everything. But he must've damned well planned this one ahead. Two riverboats waiting. Panting, the staffer put a hand on Kenner's shoulder and gestured. Kenner saw a little catwalk with a rope across it: Authorized Personnel Only.
They sure as hell were that.
And when Magruder, seeing him come aboard, left a knot of men, including Michael Chamoun, and came toward him, Kenner knew he'd done the right thing. He straightened his shoulders. He palmed his eyes. He tried to scrape the stains of vomit off his mouth and chin and shirt.
"How'd it go?" Magruder said. His face was sooty. The whites of his eyes were fluorescent in the firelit, foggy night.
"Good enough. Jacobs is dead—Mondragon killed him and took the boat when we brought it back through the watergate."
Magruder's bright eyes closed for a moment. "Get with Mike Chamoun, see if he can use your help. Stay with him. We can't have him wandering off."
"Yes, m'ser," said Kenner, using the Merovingen honorific for what he hoped would be the last time. Watch Chamoun. Make sure he doesn't break for his wife's place. You bet.
New orders. Kenner understood perfectly well what he was to do.
Magruder shook his hand and slapped him on the shoulder. "Good job, so far. I'm going into town to get something. When I get back, we leave. If I don't get back by midnight, leave without me. Understo
od?"
Kenner squared his shoulders. Magruder trusted him. Kenner was damned sure he'd be worthy of that trust.
Field promotions were one of the things that could come your way if you moved just right in times like these.
"Yes, sir," he said, and grinned at the ambassador as Magruder slid by him into the night.
Kenner stomped across the planks to take up his watch on Michael Chamoun, totally committed to his new purpose. Chamoun was his to watch over and protect. This time, he'd be more careful. One ghost was plenty for tonight. He'd keep Chamoun safer than he'd kept Jacobs. And the others.
As far as Kenner was concerned, the whole contingent of Nev Hettekers was his to watch and protect, if Magruder didn't make it back.
The staffer had heard Kenner's new orders, and fell in behind.
"M'ser," said the staffer, "anything I can do to help?"
"Yeah," said Kenner. "Get me a steak. And some clean clothes. And set sentries down here. Chamoun's wife and baby are back there in town. We can't have him sneaking off to find them."
Command felt good. Kenner knew that taking the initiative was risky, but it was also the only way to win, sometimes—and, in times like this, it might be the only way to survive.
And Kenner was determined to survive. Death had bumped against him tonight under the murky waters of the embassy water gate; death had come as close as he was willing to let it. He did a quick head-count and saw that Dani Lambert was also missing from the Nev Hettekers gathered for evacuation.
Then he thought he knew where Magruder had gone. And he knew damned well that Chance might not make it back alive. Otherwise, Magruder wouldn't have put the evacuees' lives in Kenner's hands.
But they were safe with him. Even Chamoun was safe with him. Kenner was determined. No more ghosts tonight. Everybody was going to stay alive. Kenner had never been more alert to danger in all his life.
And Mike Chamoun seemed to know it. Magruder's pet agent blinked at Kenner and said dully, "I suppose you're calling the shots?"
"Takin' orders, friend. Just takin' orders."
Chamoun, who was the agent around which all of Merovingen's destruction had been spun, went to the rail and looked into the deep water lapping there.
Kenner followed. "Don't get any ideas of jumping, Mike. I'm here to see you make it home alive."
"My wife and baby—"
"Magruder's gone back to town. He'll do the best he can. We don't want any more dead. Anyway, your wife predicted all this, didn't she?"
Chamoun looked up at him with sudden fury so intense that Kenner took a step backward.
"She did, yes. She predicted all of this, Cassie did." Chamoun's fury faded and he seemed near tears.
Kenner remembered that Chamoun liked drink more than a man should, and hoped the fool wasn't going to drown himself in some fit of inebriated remorse. Drunks were such a waste of time. But Magruder wanted this one alive.
"So, if your wife predicted it, Mike," Kenner said with savage cruelty meant to slap the other man back to reality, "then don't worry: it's all karma, right? Everything's working according to some higher plan, right? You must relax. Our higher plan says we get you back home in one piece. Everybody's going for themselves, out there. Even that scum, Mondragon, got away before the embassy fire started. So karma's on our side."
Chamoun stared at him, blinking.
Kenner stared back, until the other man looked away.
So far as Kenner was concerned, there was nothing more to say. Behind Chamoun's back, the flames of Merovingen reached toward the night with hungry fingers, crackling and muttering a song of revolution as they consumed all that stood in their way.
ENDGAME (REPRISED)
by C. J. Cherryh
The fires lit up the fog and rolled it away with smoke. The fires shimmered on the water and danced in the shimmer that age made in Mintaka's eyes. Oh, she was old, old as had seen a lot come and go on the water, but, Lord and her Ancestors, she'd never seen the like of this. She sat in her skip and knitted, because that was what she did, could do it in the dark, all the pretty bright yarns scraps that she got from weavers and a couple nice shopkeepers, nice 'uns, yey. And Jones. She did work for Jones now and again, special work, being as how her eyes might not be so good, but she put things together real clever sometimes—being as how she'd learned from her years, as some never did. Old Man Muggin now, he'd gone, just his boat turned up empty. And nobody noticed till the rope rotted and the boat come adrift, and nobody aboard. Old Man Muggin wouldn't have nothing to do with no one, and when he went nobody knew, and nobody found out till that rope just rotted off its tie-up.
Hell. Old Man Muggin was always like that. But people liked Min Fahd. Knit 'em gloves for wintertime. Lots of gloves. Poling wore 'em out. And socks. People needed socks.
Jones brought her this nice yarn. And that was real fine. People'd pay nice for them sweaters, yey. But in secret—Min never said it to Jones, because it didn't sound grateful—in secret Min liked the yarn scraps, because you never knew what you were going to pick up in the dark, always making splices, and when the dawn came you'd see what you'd done. All that pretty colors in those gloves. Kids liked 'em. Kids'd say, I want that pair, no doubt. Min knew why. Maybe when you got old you understood things again, like how beautiful the fires was. Other people were running away, but Min, she went uptown to look, in the color and the red shining on the water.
Because grown-ups, they'd be afraid, they'd see the city going down, they'd know they were losing all they had, but kids who didn't know better, even when they was looking out from some boat, all scared and cold, they'd see the water shine and they'd stare and stare, because kids could understand: kids'd remember the dying and the fire, but they'd remember how the water shined that night, and how the air was glowing, and feel confused, till they were old, why they'd thought that way, when people were dying.
The pretty, pretty sparks, that drifted over rooftops, wicked sparks, that laughed like snowflakes and whipped around corners and drowned themselves in the Det, that made them safe. Out they winked, one by one. Shimmered in Min's eyes. Stung, too. So she had another drink, the needles crooked in one arthritic finger, oh, the body went, yey, aches and twisting. And she didn't have to be pretty. She let the fires be that. She could be comfortable and mostly safe here in the deadend next to the towering Dike, at Romneyside. Folk wanted away from the fires, they went the other way. So she drank, and she knitted, and her heart ached so the tears spattered onto her fingers, but she just watched, and drank some more.
Boat came up out of The Hole, fancyboat out of Romney North, she figured, seeing that sleek bow. Just lazing along. Most folk hurried tonight. Them that was on the water did. The lookers, they just gathered up on Eastdike, but they didn't stay. Smoke drove them off. There'd be voices, faint and distressed, then they'd go away.
Boat would turn, yey, just come out to have a look—hightowner trying to figure how to route hisself to southside, maybe, maybe trying to figure if Grand End was open or if the fire had it blocked—she called out, "Ye can't make it in the boat!" being helpful. And maybe drunk. Wasn't always a good idea to talk to hightown folk. Didn't want to deal with them and their notions.
And it wasn't a good 'un now. Because the hightowner boat throttled down and then that bow come around toward her tie-up, real slow, real powerful engine on that thing, yey. Hightowner pulled up alongside, standing there in the fireglow, and he said, "Min? Is that Min?" in a voice real hoarse, like he had a cold.
Or maybe—he was all black and tall against the fire—maybe it was the Angel hisself calling her by name like that. She'd been expecting Him.
But she wasn't ready yet. She said, "I ain't. Ye got th' wrong one." Angel had a lot of work tonight—lot of work. He might forget. "Go 'way."
"Min, dammit!" He leaned out and grabbed hold of her skip's side tie that she wasn't using, to starboard side, and dragged the fancyboat closer real sudden, jolting the skip so she snatched up her bottle. Lord, tha
t wasn't the Angel, that talked like that, that was bang against her side, that was a mad hightowner asking, "Min, it's Mondragon. Where's Jones?"
Lord and the Ancestor fools! Mondragon? Jones' man was deep in trouble, locked up in the Nev Hettek embassy that was burning.
Maybe he'd died and the Angel had him out helping, tonight, looking for her and Jones. ...
Looked like the Angel, he did, pretty man, prettiest curly hair—
"Jones—" She had a hiccup coming, made it hard to talk. A lot of excitement for an old fat canal-rat. She thumped her chest. "Sorry. Ye give me a fright, Tom."
He gave a heavy sigh, still holding to the rope, was down on his knee inside the fancyboat, and she could see now he was closer how he'd got his pretty hair covered, the way he'd do if he was being discreet. "Min, Min, please, have you seen Jones?"
"Not since two days."
He kind of slumped down, said, after a moment. "D' you know where she is?"
"She was lookin' fer you, Tom, last I saw. She was goin' uptown. Said—said something—"
"What?" Mondragon asked, upset with her, and she tried to think, damn, she'd talked with Jones so many times, Jones was always in some kind of trouble, like her mama, Retribution.