Festival Moon

  There he was on the bridge, catching the last of the sunset-glow in his cat-green eyes: a long, lean silhouette wearing an almost equally long pistol openly on one hip. He wore a plain black suit with very non-regulation black oiled-leather boots. It could only be Black Cal.

  "Hello, Rif," he said, polite as anyone could ask.

  It was unnerving to hear such a quiet, light voice coming out of something that big. There were rumors that Black Cal was the tallest man in the city, but nobody would dream of trying to measure him and be sure. Nobody wanted to get that close. He was the kind of legend best appreciated at a distance, the sort everyone loved to see going after somebody else. He was famous for treating rich and poor exactly the same and always getting whoever he set out to get, much to the dismay of his fellow blacklegs, officers and city officials.

  He was said to be the only honest cop in Merovingen. He couldn't be bought off, scared off, or stopped. Nobody knew what to do with him, except avoid him.

  Jones grounded the pole, kept still, and tried very hard to be just another piece of the scenery.

  "Hello, Black Cal," Rif chirped up at the silhouette on the bridge. "You taking a break, or is it just a slow night?"

  Jones shivered. One thing to act innocent with Black Cal, another thing entirely to ask him questions.

  Black Cal ignored that. "Where're you going, Rif?" was all he said.

  "Up Lagoonside, to sing for my supper." Rif caressed another chord out of the flat-harp.

  One could barely see the wry smile on that long-jawed face above. "Sure. And maybe try a break-in or two?"

  "What, with all the guards up and ready for Festival?" Rif snorted. "No way. I'll make better money singing under the windows of the rich."

  "Mhm. Where's your partner?"

  "Working the same trade up in South Bank. Why?"

  Jones flinched, hoped it wouldn't show. Those birdcalls, and the glances back: she was sure that Rif’s partner was anywhere but South Bank tonight.

  Black Cal was silent, thinking that over while the whole hushed canal waited. The slightest of ironic smiles flickered across his face and vanished. He reached into a pocket. "Sing one for me," he said, pulling his hand out. His fingers fanned, tossing a silverbit over the bridge-rail.

  Rif leaned over and snatched the twinkling pale coin before it could hit the deck, and dropped it neatly into her shirt-top. Carrying on with the same motion, her hand arched down to the flat-harp's strings and called up a heavy, marching, minor chord.

  She's really going to do it. Jones shook her head in admiration at such nerves, such quick-thinking cool.

  And Rif sang.

  "See him stalking, day or night, the islands of the bay

  Like some veteran tiger come to hunt his chosen prey.

  He'll never lack for targets here,

  for scum will always rise—

  And to the man who guards your streets,

  that comes as no surprise."

  On the bridge, Black Cal smiled ever so faintly, and tapped his fingers in rhythm on the rail.

  "And who will be the guardian, to take your

  dangers on? Who will guard your streets at night when old Black Cal is gone?"

  Passing feet rattled, paused, on the adjacent building walkways. Nearby voices muttered in admiring, hightown accents. An audience, growing. Black Cal ignored them, and listened. Rif ignored them and played on.

  "For one in ten's a predator who treats the rest as prey,

  So someone's always needed here to drive those

  wolves away. We never left the jungle, we just brought it into

  town.

  The leopards took on human form, and follow us around."

  Jones wondered what a "wolf" or "leopard" was.

  Legendary animals, she'd heard said, but with no exact descriptions: How old was this song, really? How much had Rif tailored it for Black Cal, on the instant's notice? Fast-witted, Rif.

  And Black Cal was smiling. Definitely smiling.

  The song went on, verse after verse, while more feet shuffled and stopped overhead. How many, Jones wondered, were drawn by the music, and how many by the bizarre sight of a woman serenading Black Cal?

  "Evolution never stopped; we always have to choose.

  The thug who waits to mug you is collecting

  Darwin's dues. And you can't drive hyenas off by kneeling down

  to pray,

  So who will raise the weapon, then, to keep the beasts at bay?"

  Black Cal visibly hitched his shoulders and sighed. Rif thrummed into the last chorus.

  "Run like deer, or die like sheep, or take your dangers on,

  For you must guard your streets yourselves when old Black Cal is gone."

  A final ruffle of chords, and the flat-harp was still. Rif waited, looking up.

  A rattle of applause wafted down from the walkways and balconies, and a thudding hail of coins fell. Jones snatched off her cap and snagged the ones within reach, made sure that none were wasted on the water. Rif never moved her head, kept watching the man on the bridge.

  Black Cal sighed again, tossed them a wave that might have been a go-ahead sign or a salute, turned and walked away down the bridge. His thick boots made no sound, but the planks creaked under his weight. Shadows of the walkways swallowed him up.

  Rif took off her finger-picks and put the flat-harp back in its bag. "Let's go," she said, calm as before.

  The crowd above sighed and dispersed, now that the show was over.

  Jones poled the skip under the bridge and onward, shivering a little. A long stroke sent them skimming into the Mansur intersection, and she paused to pick up the remaining coins scattered on the deck and drop them into her cap. "Here," she held out the prize to Rif. "Your singing-money."

  "Keep it," Rif waved the cap aside. "Count it as hazard-pay." Her eyes were back on the rooftops, watching. Another bird-call sounded, off to the left. "Steer west around Bois. Can you duck out around Ortega?"

  "Not this time of year," Jones shrugged, stuffing the coins into a pocket. "Too shallow. We'll hang up on mud-flats."

  "Hmm. Between Ortega and Yucel, then." Rif glanced back once more. "But into the Lagoon as soon as you can."

  Jones complied, dancing the skip around another lighted poleboat decked with flowers and stuffed with party-goers, the only other craft here but tricky to avoid in the narrow passage. It was a relief to get around Ortega's northeast corner, under the last bridge and out into the open space of the lagoon. The blossoming lights of Lagoonside buildings speckled the water heavily, then lightly, less, then gone. Last pale sun-streaks blazed low on the world's edge, most of the sky gone deep blue shading into violet. The smell of the air changed, thinned and freshened.

  "Go further out," she said, "And let's make some speed."

  Jones frowned, feeling for the bottom. "Too deep. Further outT I can't pole." And damned if I'll use up my emergency fuel.

  But Rif didn't ask for the engine. She glanced back at the city-edge and sighed. "You got oars?"

  "Only if you can row, too."

  "Deal."

  Jones shrugged, racking the pole and pulled out the oars, a luxury she had got after she took on a partner—and took to running his errands. She noted Rif pulling heavy gloves out of her pack. Well, a musician had to take care of her hands, right enough. Also, she knew where to sit on the deck-rim and how to brace her feet and, yes, how to work an oar. Jones sat to the other oar, feathered it up and chanted quietly: "Pull ... pull..." The unladen skip moved smoother than seemed likely out into the depths of the lagooon.

  "Far enough?" Jones finally asked, watching the city's lights dwindle behind them.

  "All right," Rif breathed on the upstroke. She pulled hard while Jones backed, and the skip turned north. "Just keep out of sight, out of reach, and get us north of the Rock."

  She looked back toward the city, frowning, and Jones realized that the bird-calls had stopped when they passed Ortega. There was a faint distant sound t
hat might have been another set of oars, or maybe a pole bumping, back toward the city, but no way to be sure. Best to make distance, and speed. Jones leaned to the massive oar, saw Rif match her, and admitted to a grudging respect.

  There was nothing else afloat on the lagoon, nothing they could see. The working boats were busy in-city, and the rich folks' pleasure-boats were tied up at the Lagoonside wharves for the night. They had this black stretch of water to themselves, save for the fish and night-bugs. The rising fog was cool, like a good wine after the day's soggy blanketing heat. Only curiosity itched and annoyed. Jones ignored it, and rowed.

  The Rock loomed into sight and slipped past, dark and glittery against the fog-lighted sky. "Much further? ' Jones asked, wiggling a beginning cramp out of one shoulder.

  "Dunno." Rif sounded a little winded, not much. "Watch the west bank."

  Jones watched, rowed, finally made out a faint glimmer of shuttered candlelight against a darker bulk some thirty meters off. "There. That it?"

  Rif looked, paused, chewed her lip. "Not sure," she admitted. "Pull closer, but quiet."

  The questions gnawed, sharp and demanding. It's too damned dangerous, running blind. Jones realized she was tired to death of too-well-kept secrets. "Look, who's after you? It's my boat and my neck. Who do I look out for?"

  Rif shrugged uneasily. "Sword, sharrists, robbers, blacklegs—take your pick."

  "That's a nice stew of enemies! Why'd you pick me to drag into this?" Remember her gun. Watch her hands.

  Rif rattled her fingers on the oar, but left them there. "Word is, you got .. . protection, from high places."

  Kalugin! Jones could have kicked herself for not thinking of it sooner. Of course. Everyone in Merovin-gen-under knew that.

  "So, ain't likely trouble'd dare come after you in big, noticeable numbers—only a few sneaks here and there. Those we can handle."

  "Oh, thanks much," Jones grumbled, not just at Rif. "Nothing we can't handle. Right." What did Rif think she could handle, anyway? How far had Kalugin's carefully placed rumors spread, and how much had they grown in the retelling? What kind of business had they brought her? Rif’s story sounded too heavy for comfort, and that from a woman who could smile and chirp and sing for Black Cal Halloran. Still, there wasn't much to be done about it now, except to go on, and watch, and wait.

  The dark shape resolved itself into a big riverboat tied up at the west bank of the Greve. Its sole light hung low by the waterline, off the port stern. Rif breathed a sigh of relief and steered toward it.

  They were almost on top of the light before anyone onboard noticed. Then there were quick sounds of running feet, and unmistakable sounds of weapons drawn and readied. Rif pulled in her oar, fumbled the flat-harp out of the bag and fingered a whispery bright chord from it.

  "No plague this Festival," she called up, softly.

  "Right," a masculine voice answered. Ropes rattled down the sides and plashed into the water. "Tie up cargo-ready."

  Rif grabbed the nearer line and tied on with respectable speed, an equally respectable jury-knot. Jones did the same with the line aft. No sooner were the knots on than a crane creaked overhead.

  "Light," the man complained. "Give us some light down there."

  Jones ducked into the hidey, feeling for the candle-glass, but Rif got to her bag-of-surprises first and came out with a sturdy dark-lantern and a match. Its light caught several scarf-hidden faces above and the descending bulk of a loaded cargo-net. She swung the lantern down, marking a clear space on the deck, and the net lowered. It touched almost gently, barely rocking the skip. In it was a standard-size barrel.

  "C'mon, help," Rif said, then set the lantern on the half-deck and wrestled the barrel off the net. Jones helped her roll it, noting that the contents were heavy, and they sloshed.

  The net whisked back up, disappeared, then came back a moment later with another barrel. Again, they rolled it off the net and secured it on deck while the crane pulled up. Rif took her fair share of the weight and rolled it with a nice economy of moves. Jones noted the muscles working in her arms, and doubted that she'd gotten those playing gitar. Curious.

  A third barrel came, and then two small crates, just as Rif had promised. As the empty net went up, the ropes twitched.

  "Cast off," the sailor whispered down. "Don't waste time."

  Rif grunted disdain and yanked off the forward tie. Jones freed the aft one, and the ropes hissed back up the hull. An instant later, the lamp did likewise. Rif shuttered her dark-lantern.

  "All right," she said, sitting down at the oarlock, "Let's get out of here."

  "Which way?" Jones grunted as they pulled off from the darkened hull. The skip was sluggish with weight; rowing it back to town even downcurrent would be a monster's bitch.

  "Mouth of the Grand," Rif panted. "How soon can we get poling?"

  "Right past the Rock," Jones grinned in relief, glancing over her shoulder at the distant lights. Not too far, not too long to row.

  "Just don't be seen," Rif muttered, bending over the oar.

  Behind them, the riverboat was firing up. Sparks flared above her stacks. She was pulling out fast, back north, wasting no time. Hot, hot cargo, Jones guessed, eyeing the barrels. Take no chances.

  Her arms were sore by the time they passed the tip of the Rock and moved into the eastward channel. It was a real relief to stow the oars, unship the pole, stand up and push for a change.

  Rif rubbed her arms, worked carefully between the tied-fast barrels and crates, and took up watch at the prow. Hard to tell if she was looking for friends or enemies in the dark ahead. Probably both.

  Jones dutifully hugged the east shore, keeping out of the growing lights of the Rock's residencies, watching for signs of anyone else on the water. There were none. She poled quietly into the mouth of the Grand Canal, almost under the windows of Tremaine House.

  "Stop here," Rif whispered, casting her eyes around at the clustered lights ahead.

  "Here? .. . Sure." Jones poled to a smooth stop, wondering what in all the hells of Merovin was so important about this particular spot. There were no craft near, no wharves, nothing but empty water flowing smooth and steady into the Grand.

  Rif got up, reached into her trick-bag and came up with a heavy mallet. She padded to the nearest barrel, spread a corner of her cape on the lid directly over the king-piece, and quietly hammered it in.

  Jones leaned on her pole and stared.

  Rif tucked the mallet back in her bag and pulled her cape away. She tugged the slats of the barrel-lid into the gap left by the broken king-piece, pulled their ends out of the catch-groove under the barrel's rim, hauled the freed lid away and dropped it on the deck. The barrel was filled with thin fluid that gave off a sharp and bitter smell. Rif freed the barrel from its ties and heaved mightily, trying to tip it over the side. It was too heavy to lift.

  "Come on," she panted at Jones. "Help me dump this."

  "Sure." Jones reached for the short-anchor, tossed it overside and racked the pole. "All this trouble to get that barrel, and now you want to dump it in the canal. Right."

  Nonetheless, she went to the other side of the barrel and got a solid grip on it. "Where do you want it dumped?" It was a good, new barrel, well made, fine wood.

  "Just overside. And quiedy." Rif strained at its sloshing weight.

  "I got a better idea." Jones thought fast, adding coins in her head. "Just tilt it." She rolled the barrel backwards a foot-length or so, then heaved. The barrel tipped over against the gunwale, pouring a good quarter of its contents overside. "You can't sink 'er; she's too well made. She'll float like a buoy. Don't want that, do you?"

  "Uh ... No." Rif gave her a respectful look. Good to see that. "You got a better idea, you say?"

  "Yey. Just empty it." Jones muscled the bottom of the barrel a little further back on the deck, letting more of the dark fluid spill out. "Afterwards, turn 'er over and put 'er back, tied fast and all. Nobody'll know from looking that she ain't still ful
l."

  "True," Rif considered. "Cover ..."

  "Let me have the empties when you're done." She could sell them later, with only one question asked.

  "Deal," Rif laughed. "They're yours, after."

  "Just one thing..." How to phrase this politely? "I ain't asking what's in 'em, just where the whatever-it-is stands on the Barrel List."

  "List?" Rif puzzled, tilting the barrel further.

  Jones snorted, strode fast to the hidey and pulled out an ancient piece of paper, flipped the cover on the dark-lantern and displayed the scrap under Rif s nose. "C'n ye read that?"

  The Barrel List was one regulation that Merovingians usually obeyed, if only for practicality's sake. It simply listed cargoes commonly carried in barrels, starting with flour at the top, ranging through foodstuffs and packed crockery down to tar at the bottom. Rif studied the list, then turned mystified eyes to Jones.

  "She's real simple." Jones couldn't help a tiny grin of triumph, catching Rif at something she didn't know. "Pack a barrel with anything on there, and afterwards you c'n use it for anything the same or below it on the list—but nothing above. See?"

  Rif studied the list again. "Why?"

  "Aw, think! Would you put wine in a barrel that's just carried arsenic salts?"

  Rif laughed. "Yey, I see it." She paused a moment, then jabbed a finger at a point halfway down the list. "Here. It's right about here."

  Jones looked. Rif was pointing at "industrial chemicals."

  Shit. No wine or beer in these barrels, ever. Who'd buy them now? Still, they were too good to throw away, chop up or burn. Maybe sell 'em to Foundry. "Well, I'll still take 'em."

  Jones took the list, shoved it back in the hidey and shuttered the light again. Behind her, Rif heaved the barrel onto the gunwale to drain out the last of the mysterious fluid. Jones came back and helped her turn it bottom-up and retie it in place. "Same with the rest?"

  Don't ask why Rif should be dumping "industrial chemicals" into the Grand Canal, under cover of darkness, with trouble hunting her. Damn, nothing worse than what went into the water every day, that was sure. Nothing could hurt Det-water. Damn lunatic. Crazies. It was a set-up, had to be.