Endgame

  Stella's lips thinned. "Are you in danger?"

  "Me?" Rhajmurti snorted. "I'm not nearly powerful enough to worry the College."

  "But you and Trevor—"

  "That business is under wraps. It'll stay that way." He glanced toward the door. "But not even the Househeads are safe these days. Exeter's people are everywhere. The least little infraction and ..." He let the sentence die, gestured futilely.

  In his mind's eye, he saw the gaps that had recently appeared among the priests and, yes, even the cardinals, at the College. Some of his colleagues were reported as 'off visiting family,' while others had taken supposed sabbaticals. Such was the official word, the image Exeter and her cronies wanted to convey to the world at large, to the cloistered world of the university itself. Rhajmurti knew better. So did everybody else, devout as they might be.

  How to explain the absence of those priests who'd had a reputation for open-mindedness? How to rationalize the disappearance of many of his friends who taught in the arts and go on believing in the holiness of the church, if not its servants? He mourned the lost, not knowing if it was loss of a permanent nature, or whether these men he had known for years would reappear, chastened, fallen in rank, and echoing Exeter's policies and politics.

  His own caution and careful footwork had saved him until now. But tomorrow?

  Why can't I just come out and say it? What's holding me back? I can't lose trust in everyone or I'll go mad!

  "Stella." He reached out and took her hands in his. "I want you to think of leaving this place. Not maybe. Really. I want you to start cutting loose. Now."

  Her eyes widened. "This shop, or—"

  "The city itself. Adventists aren't high on Exeter's list of favorite people right at the moment, though she's concentrated on dissent in her own flock. No . . . I don't mean leave today, nor tomorrow—gods forfend. Just make sure that if the time comes, you're not caught without an escape plan. I want you able to walk out that door at any moment, no hesitation and no question where you're going and what you're going to do."

  "Are you serious?" she asked, her voice gone very, very quiet. Her face hardened in the fading light. "You are, aren't you?"

  "Stella." He dug in his wide sash and shoved a small leather purse toward her. "Take this, and hold on to it."

  She lifted the purse, heard the clink of metal and frowned. "Alfonso ... I don't need—"

  "Yes, you do, and you know it. You make enough to keep this shop going and to maintain a modest lifestyle. Tell me truthfully, how much have you saved? Enough to get you and Justice far enough from this city in case all hell breaks loose?"

  "How far is far?" she asked, opening the packet. The glint of gold made her gasp softly. "Lord and my Ancestors! How much is in here?"

  "Sufficient to buy you and Justice passage on a ship headed for the Chattalen—don't look so puzzled. That's the best place. Down there, they don't seem to care what religion one adheres to, and we have no involvement in their politics. They value the arts. The government's stable—at least steadier than this one. With your knowledge of shop-keeping and Justice's talents, the two of you could look forward to more than just a living."

  Stella drew the purse shut. "Why not Nev Hettek? At least we'd be with civilized people."

  "Ah, Stella, Stella, you're smarter than that. If Merovingen goes—with Fon in power in Nev Hettek, civilization isn't what we'll have. Gods only know what's going on with the Sword of God—but they're here. They're already in the city. People are going to die, Stella."

  She weighed the packet in her hands. "There's more in here than necessary to buy us passage, Alfonso, if it's all gold. It is all gold, isn't it?"

  "Yes, it's all gold." He reached out and touched her cheek. "Do you think I'd send you off without a chance at a decent future? You'll have to live on something, get established somehow. And you're not going to do it without something to line your pockets. Money gets respect and respectability. I intend for you to have that. You and Justice."

  "But you must have saved for years to—"

  "Stella . . . we've been over this time and again. I could never marry you, though I wanted to. The College frowns on such things. But I'll never stop loving you or Justice. He's turning out to be more than I'd ever hoped. The two of you are my family ... do you understand? And, by Rama, Vishnu and all the gods, I'm going to do my damnedest to help you. Don't worry about me, I'm more than taken care of at the College. What do I need money for? All my meals, my clothing, my room ..."

  "Aren't you coming with us?"

  His heart gave an odd little twinge. "If I can," he said. "But I don't see how that will be possible. I'm hardly a big fish when it comes to College politics, but I do have a position of some power. I'm stuck in the middle . . . not important enough to be 'noticed' by Exeter and her friends, but not insignificant enough to be ignored. I'll be watched. I may not be able to get out. But I'll manage. And you have to get our son out of here."

  "Alfonso." Her chin lifted. "I won't leave you behind . . . if things turn bad. I'm not going to a new life somewhere and leave you here, not knowing whether you're alive or dead. Don't put me in the position of having to choose between you and Justice. Don't do that to me."

  "You won't have to choose, love." He smiled slightly. "When the time comes, you'll know it. And then, my darling Stella, you'll do only what is right."

  Back on the walkway of second-level Kass, Justice heaved a very real, though quiet, sigh of relief. He shifted his backpack on his shoulders, ran a hand through his damp hair and tried to look to all the world like nothing more than a College student going home after a long day at the books.

  Books.

  He cringed inwardly. In all his life, he had never, never, contemplated dishonesty. Being honest and truthful were as much a part of him as breathing. Between his aunt and Father Rhajmurti, he had learned the lesson well: don't lie, don't cheat, don't steal. Don't do to other people what you wouldn't want them doing to you. If you find yourself placed in a position where another person would lie, keep your mouth shut. Diplomacy is a pardonable escape from utter honesty. But now. . . ?

  The backpack seemed to weigh heavier on his shoulders. Oh, he understood why he was thieving . . . understood all the reasons for his dishonesty, understood that if they were right in what they feared they were saving something that was in deadly danger, but the whole pattern of subterfuge and fear still rankled. He and Raj had sat up late night after night discussing the alternatives. Theft was the least dangerous and the least damaging solution to their problems—because the time was coming when anyone who wanted to pursue a career in art or science would have to do it outside Merovingen. Cardinal Exeter was making sure of her grip on the city by an intellectual reign of terror. Even the high and mighty were not immune, to say nothing of the students, like himself, who had no Family connections above the middle tier.

  So he and Raj had taken to thieving books from the Library, books they could later sell for a handsome price—books that might be in deadly danger from Exeter—or be a deadly weapon themselves in other hands: there were plastics in those books. There were electrics. There was space travel and physics and chemistry. They were getting these things out to sell to those that would pay. And they had no foreknowledge to tell them whether what they were doing was good or bad, or utterly, wrongly foolish. It was their way to survive. They'd argued their way into it as a moral act. They had snatched a goodly few already, being above suspicion as top students and daily frequenters of the Library. With the Librarian himself off for an alleged 'vacation,' many of the books from the off-limits, secret room of the Library had refiled themselves in places no student would have expected them.

  Tech books, some of them.

  Worth their weight in gold in certain places.

  Worth death, if a student happened to get caught reading them.

  Never in his life had the atmosphere of Merovingen seemed more stifling, and the dismal weather was hardly the culprit. The students at the
College had grown uncharacteristically silent as of late. He had seen the furtive glances among the students when a new priest had turned up at a class to teach—sometimes a class got an explanation for the former teacher's absence . . . sometimes not. But everyone, from the lowliest beginning student to those like himself, on the verge of graduation, knew whose were the hands that moved people like game pieces on the College board.

  Justice shivered. He and Raj had passed their catechism classes with flying colors, and thereby removed themselves from the list of the 'most watched.' All the study, the God-given gift of intelligence, and the 'luck' of having Father Rhajmurti instead of the dreaded Father Jonsson as their examiner, had gotten them past that. They were devout Revenantists on the College records—thanks to Sonja's intervention (and her wealth) without which Lord only knew what might have happened.

  He crossed the last bridge, walked down the steps and along the board walkway to Hilda's, territory in which he felt a bit more secure—on an even keel, so to speak. If Exeter had spies in Hilda's, they would hear nothing damning from the patrons: when storms, real or figurative, blew into Merovingen, most folk knew how to keep their heads down and their mouths shut—and Hilda tolerated no fools. "Justus."

  Sonja was sitting at Justice's usual table, a limp and sleeping Sunny sprawled on her lap. Justice waved at Hilda, lifted a finger to Guy the bartender in an order for beer, and turned aside from his direct course to his room. But as he took a chair beside Sonja, his smile froze. Her eyes were shadowed and unhappy.

  "What's wrong?" he asked in a hushed voice, placing his money on the table top as Jason deftly deposited the beer and swept up the fee with one practiced hand. "Gods, Sonja ..."

  She shook her head, mutely instructing him to keep silent. He sipped at his beer, glanced around the room, but found few patrons occupying the tables who weren't known to him as regulars. No chance for Exeter's secret police here, unless one of his acquaintances had been suborned.

  What could be bothering Sonja? She was out of Family—the Keisels and the Borgs, good Revenantists all. She had passed the Testing, as he had known she would, with far less coaching from Rhajmurti than the other students had needed.

  Sonja, meanwhile, sat nursing her own drink, listlessly stroking Sunny with one hand. The large gold cat's purr was so loud Justice could hear it from where he sat.

  "Justus," Sonja said in a voice very little above a whisper. "We've fallen under the Eye."

  Justice nearly choked on his beer. The Eye? Code language among the students for Exeter and her slinks. He licked his lips and kept his own voice low. "K or B?" he asked, meaning Keisel or Borg.

  "Both."

  He tried to make the connection that would make that reasonable, handicapped by his less than perfect knowledge of the web of hightowner Family interconnections. Borg he would have thought above reproach; fine Revenantists, they had been pillars of Merovingen society for generations. As for the Keisels, Sonja was the Borg/Keisel link. He knew only that . . .

  The connection snapped into place.

  Beef.

  Dealings with Nev Hettek.

  O Lord and Ancestors! No . . . now even thinking in Adventist terminology was dangerous. Gods, gods, gods!

  "Mother made a Trip," Sonja said. Translated: Nadia Keisel had been summoned to talk with Exeter.

  Justice asked, "Did it come off well for her?"

  "So-so." Sonja took a long sip of her beer. Her dark eyes met his. "Some of her business partners are having a bad year. You know how that goes. Father says she shouldn't worry."

  Translation: Nadia Keisel was under suspicion because she dealt with cattle ranchers to the north who had ties to Nev Hettek. Sonja's father, Vladimir Borg, in Borg, had caught Exeter's eye because of his ties to Family Keisel. Nonetheless, he had offered his support to the woman he loved, and implicitly, to their mutual daughter.

  "I hope he's right," Justice said. "Would you like some dinner?"

  Sonja made a face. "I suppose so."

  "Let me treat," Justice said before she could offer. "I sold another painting today. I feel flush."

  He lifted a hand and Jason came to their table, took their orders and disappeared into the kitchen.

  For a while, the two of them sat in silence, Sunny's purr all the louder for that. Justice shifted position in his chair and his foot bumped the backpack he had placed beside his chair. Gods! He had totally forgotten about the books. If someone were to catch him here with—

  "Have you seen Raj?" Sonja asked.

  "Not today. He's probably in Kamat."

  "You might want to tell him about Mother."

  He nodded. Raj had become somewhat of a specialist on the hightown Family alliances since he had entered House Kamat. Maybe Raj could see something he'd missed.

  "Storm's coming," Sonja said. "A bad one."

  "It might hit sooner than we think."

  Jason brought their dinners, set plates, knives and forks on the table and, taking Justice's coin, returned to his place behind the bar.

  "But you're well protected, all the same," Justice said, cutting into his fish. "Better than those on canalside."

  "This storm may have little regard for addresses," she murmured. Sunny had lifted his head at the scent of fish and Sonja pushed him from her lap. He gave her a totally disgusted look, hopped up into a chair next to Justice, and commenced his silent begging.

  Justice lowered his eyes, took a drink, then looked up again. "I know this will sound stupid and presumptuous . . . but if there's anything I can do to help. ..."

  For a moment he thought he had insulted her—he, a nobody from second-level Lindsey, offering help to one of the Names of the city. But, no . . . she smiled slightly.

  "I'll keep that in mind, Justus," she said, "and you might be surprised one day to find me collecting on that."

  They finished their dinner in silence, Justice finally relenting and giving Sunny the last few bites of his fish. The books at his feet called out for attention, or at least removal to a safer place. He glanced at Sonja, weighed in his mind the ramifications of telling her what he was doing and why, and made his decision.

  "Come to my room with me," he said, pushing his chair back from the table. "I've got a new painting to show you."

  Sonja lifted one eyebrow, but followed readily enough. Once in his rooms and after nearly shutting the door on an appreciative Sunny, Justice set his backpack on the couch.

  "Raj isn't here," he observed, nodding toward the dark doorway to his right. "We're as safe from observation as we can be."

  "What's all this about?"

  He shook his head, opened his bag, and pulled out several textbooks, which he set to one side. From the very bottom, he pulled out an old volume, battered by time and worn by the many hands that had held it. Sonja's eyes widened.

  "Where—?" She reached for the book, ran her fingertips over the old cover. "Justus . . . where did you get this?"

  He told her, told her what he and Raj were doing, and why. Told her his fears for the future, his concern that if he had to make a run for it, he wouldn't have the money to get himself or his aunt out of Merovingen—or live once they did. He told her where he and Raj had been stashing their hoard—skips tied up at the repair docks of the Bolado family. And then he waited for her judgment.

  Waited.

  And waited.

  "Justus," she said, and sat down in one of the two chairs that graced the small sitting room. "Do you realize the price one of these books could command— elsewhere? Do you realize the danger you're in merely having this book?"

  He swallowed. "Yes. But they'll never be missed, Sonja. No one even knows their location anymore, the Library is all upside-down." He spread his hands. "My aunt's no more than moderately comfortable, and gods know I don't have much. If the whole city goes to hell and back, it's going to take more than we could ever put together ourselves to get out of here with a whole skin. I know this sounds idiotic, but I won't resort to doing anything flagrantly d
ishonest . . . this is bad enough. I won't rob, I won't deal drugs. I won't cheat people by asking ridiculous prices for my artwork. And Raj won't take it from the canalers, either, for his medicines."

  "The Kamats should take care of Raj," Sonja said, her face expressionless. "By now, he should have saved quite a bit on the allowance they've given him."

  Justice nodded. "And he has. But if the break comes suddenly he can't get at it: it's tied up in the Kamat accounts, not easily accessible. And you, yourself, said that this 'storm' we both see coming won't respect addresses."

  "If you needed money," Sonja said, "why didn't you come to me?"

  Justice felt his ears go hot. "That's . . . that's taking advantage of our friendship! I could never—"

  "What the hell are friends for?" she demanded, setting the book down. "Without sounding conceited, I've got enough money to fund both you and your aunt's passage out of Merovingen—without noticing."

  Justice stared at her for a moment, then sat down on the floor at her feet. "Sonja," he said, "try to understand. Our friendship means more to me than— well, than just about anything. And when one friend takes money from another friend ..."

  She smiled, reached out and touched his shoulder. "You silly man. Do you think I'd offer if I didn't care for you?"

  Justice remained silent, his heart beating so loud it was a thunder in his ears.

  "What you're doing—" She gestured at the book. "—borders on the foolhardy. If you happened to be caught carrying it, or the others you say you've got hidden safely away, you could be hanged! And I don't want to see that . . . gods know, I don't want that."

  "What I owe you already I can't—"

  "A debt is only a debt if the lender expects it back."

  Justice scrambled to his feet and turned away from her. He closed his eyes, calmed his breathing, and rubbed his sweaty palms on his trousers. "I've been called a lot of nasty things in my life," he said, hearing the choked sound of his voice and hating it, "and I've long since achieved the ability to ignore them. But lately, I've had people say that I'm nothing more than a social climber, that I've become friends with you merely for your connections with a world I could never enter on my own. And that hurts, Sonja. It hurts bad!" He folded his arms and turned to meet her eyes. "I have some pride, and that pride won't let me take advantage."