Troubled Waters

  "I doubt it. I took the foot-path from the bridge," Ariadne said. "I sincerely hope there will be no unpleasant aftermath for you."

  "Or where would you get your sweaters?" Klickett said with a grin. "Ne, I'm in no danger. If the lady insisted on buying a shirt of skit-fur, and wearing it bareskin-under when she was warned .,.'?" Another eloquent shrug.

  "They couldn't even get it off the body," came the voice of the lady's maid on the dock. "And she was all swole up, and blue with it, and her throat raw from screamin' in pain!"

  "Ghouls," Ariadne said, dispassionately.

  "Perhaps," Klickett said. "But she brought it on herself." Her powerful contralto voice rang out over the water, as the last of the cortege vanished around the bend and the crowd dispersed:

  Way-hen, the water's risin',

  Way-hen, the water's risin',

  Way-hen, the water's risin',

  Ear-lye in th' mornin'. . . .

  CHAPTER XVIII

  TREADING THE MAZE

  by Leslie Fish

  Waken in darkness to sounds of close water, far voices, sad birds' cries, the distant tapping of the undertaker's shop below opening for the day's quiet business. Not much noise on Coffin Isle.

  And isn't that fitting, you creature of dark dreams?

  Eyes open, eyes shut: no difference. The vision's still there: hawk-sharp face, dark wing of long hair, sardonic eyes and taunting smile. Long, slender, supple hands—of a musician? Acrobat? Thief? All those and more, and a body to match.

  Rif, she calls herself.

  Remember that first sight of her: poised on a dark roof, thieves' bag on her back, scaling-rope in her hands, caught in the act beyond all excuses. . . . Looking straight at you, right into the gun-muzzle. And she smiled. And saluted.

  And dropped.

  Twenty-five meters down, straight into the canal, you thought; better dead than captured, better dead her own way than yours, courage and resolution enough to catch the breath in your throat. Such purity, but no fanatic's grimness. Gone with a merry smile, and how in the cold Merovingen hell could that be?

  Then the ear catching the whine of rope running through a pulley, remember that scaling-rope, and the snap of the line coming taut. The long fall changing to a long swing, swooping like a bird across the canal. Feet catching nimbly, just so, on the railing of a walkway full seven stories down. Perfect landing, the reckless beauty of it branding the eyes. Had she planned that, measured and calculated, before she climbed that hightown roof? Or did it all run through her hawk's eyes just before she plunged? Either way, the artistry was beautiful beyond belief.

  And she knew it. She stood there at the railing and reeled in her line, coiling it neatly around her arm, knowing full well that you saw her, had a clear shot, plenty of time to aim and any reason you needed to shoot. ("Right, m'ser. A burglar, caught breaking into Elgin House.") And she knew you wouldn't shoot, would stand there watching as she reeled in her line, tossed you another salute and disappeared into the walkway's shadows. She was right, and you never told anyone.

  That was when you fell in love with her.

  Caelum Alpha Halloran, you're a romantic idiot.

  Black Cal sighed, pulled his eyes open and glumly sat up. Wan light straggled in through the shutters, showing dawn and little else. Normally that would mean nothing—his feet knew every centimeter of the floor—but today he needed to see something. He picked up the narrow mirror from the clothes-chest top, went to the window and pushed the shutter open to let a handspan of daylight in.

  The weak light spitefully picked out his random scars and nakedness, but he ignored that. Nobody could see, nobody was looking—not at Coffin Isle with its so-apt business. Perhaps a dozen builders even remembered that there was an upstairs apartment over the lone shop on the narrow islet. If so, they would think the undertaker himself still lived there. Not so: the whole family had moved to more respectable quarters westward. Black Cal had arranged for the lease with the owner's blind old grandfather, using a false name, paying cash by mail-drop every first of the month. No one in all Merovingen knew he lived here. No one wanted to venture or look close, either. Privacy and silence: just what he wanted.

  Black Cal studied himself in the mirror, in the merciless gray light. Long lean face and body and limbs, not a speck of fat anywhere. White scars everywhere, like ragged lace, over girder-stark bones and cable-long muscles. Bizarre, but not ugly. A hard-worked but well-maintained machine. Nothing but slight grimness showing in the expression. The eyes, though . . . Was that a flicker of yearning, of loneliness? A flicker too much.

  It's finally caught up to you. You're in love. He gave a long resigned sigh, and put down the mirror.

  So, what are you going to do about it?

  Black Cal turned back to the dark apartment, went to the tiny washroom and scrubbed thoroughly, dried off, went to the clothes-chest, pulled out the day's clothes and got dressed.

  And went out to look for Rif.

  "Name?" said the bored census-clerk. He'd been at this for days, and all the faces had begun to blur.

  "Morgan Partera," said the gray-haired woman in drab middletown garb. "And these are Niki and Rey." She pointed to a pair of children, similarly dressed, who giggled as if snaring some inane secret.

  "Ages?" yawned the clerk, scribbling on the endless forms.

  "Thirty-seven, ten and eight." The woman sounded equally bored, had probably been standing in line for hours. "I sell cordage, live behind the shop, at Yan North, Aisle B, Number 11, Suite C."

  The kids giggled shrilly again. The woman gave them a quick glare.

  "Cordage merchant, Yan North . . ." the clerk repeated, scribbling.

  The woman hiccupped, just once. The clerk didn't bother to look up from his papers. The kids noticed, peeked silently, and saw that the woman was staring up at the walkway beyond the census-taker's station. They stared too, puzzled, seeing only passersby and a few people lounging at the railing. One of the loungers, a very tall man dressed in black, seemed to be looking back at them—but then he glanced away. The woman turned her head, aimed her attention at the clerk again. The kids gave up the mystery, and started a half-hearted game of got-you-last.

  "Is this going to take much longer?" the woman asked, aiming light cuffs at the kids. "I've got to get back to the shop."

  "Just a minute, just a minute," the clerk grumbled, scrawling a last quick signature on an identity-card. "Here. Don't lose it. Next?" He shook out his cramped fingers and turned his attention to the next in line.

  The woman hustled the two kids off down the walkway, toward a pastry-seller's booth just around the corner. The girl, seeing the payoff coming, clamored for a greenberry tart. The boy took up the howl, demanding a cream-cake.

  The man on the walkway pulled himself off the railing and sauntered after them.

  The woman saw him waiting as she turned away from the pastry-booth. She nodded once toward him, then snagged the kids' attention away from their treats. "Can ye get home a'right from here?" she asked.

  "Yey, we're just down there," the girl pointed. The boy nodded preoccupied agreement, mouth busy with his cream-cake.

  "Get on, then. See ye later." She gave the kids a parting pat, watched briefly as they strode off toward the nearest bridge, glanced automatically up and down the walkway, then paced over to the railing and took a slumped pose beside the waiting man. She said nothing.

  "Hello, Rif," said Black Cal. "You don't look yourself today."

  Rif scowled, wringing flakes of gray powder out of her eyebrows. "Thought my own mother wouldn't recognize me in this."

  "I'm not your mother. How many ID cards have you picked up that way?"

  "Nearly a dozen." Rif smiled briefly. "Must be a slow day if ye're busting folk fer that."

  "I'm not." Black Cal looked away for a moment. "You just collecting ID's, or is there more to it?"

  Rif shrugged. "Mostly just that. Also buggerin' the census. Make the town look bigger and tougher'n she rea
lly is."

  "Tougher nut for Nev Hettek to crack?"

  "Or any damn tyrant," Rif snapped, a glare of real outrage snowing in her eyes. "Whadda ye want, Black Cal?"

  Not this, he almost said. Instead he glanced at the strip of sky showing between the roofs. But what could he say to her? "That piece of info you gave me: I'm having some trouble using it."

  "Piece ... Oh, Tati's boyfiend? What's the trouble?"

  "I can't trust my commander. Who do I tell it to?"

  "Well, go over his head. Go all the way ter Old Iosef himself, if ye have to."

  "Easier said than done." Black Cal dared to turn and look her straight in the eyes. "I'm not exactly well-liked up at the Justiciary."

  Rif stared at him. ". . . nor the Signeury neither?"

  "No. No friends in hightown." He studied his shoes.

  "Damn," Rif whispered, making good guesses. "You're stuck out here alone?"

  Black Cal nodded. The silence stretched.

  "Hell," Rif finally muttered. "There's gotter be some way. Somebody in the net's gotter have a lead inter hightown. ..."

  "Find it for me. Find someone who'll use this right."

  Rif gave him an odd look, but dutifully considered the problem. "Anastasi . . . Hmm, no. He'd be happy ter pull Tati down, but that's all he'd do. Wouldn't stop the Swords. Damn! Only Old Iosef himself would, but how d'we get 'er safely t'him?"

  "You tell me." Black Cal grinned sourly. "I can't just walk into the Signeury and make an appointment."

  "Hell, why not?"

  "Because nobody there would give me one."

  "Oh." Rif looked at him for a long minute. "So ye don't get far, nor make friends in high places, bein' the only honest blackleg in the city, do yer?"

  "No, you don't."

  "Ye need friends in hightown. Hell, who der we know what has any friends in hightown, let alone reliable ..." Rif stopped, blinked a moment, and chuckled. "I suppose the back door gets yer inside as well's any other, maybe better."

  "You know someone?"

  "Maybe." A calculating smile twitched her mouth. "But she won't be easy, and—"

  "And you want another favor done." Black Cal sighed. This wasn't what he'd wanted. Still, it. was contact, and he'd play the game out. "Name it."

  Rif took a deep breath. "Clear the permit fer Master Milton's Magic Show ter perform on East Dike," she said, all in a rush.

  Black Cal laughed in pure surprise. "Master who's what?"

  "Master Milton's Magic Show." Rif punished her lower lip. "It's harmless, I swear. Just a bunch of entertainers, friends. Make some money, amuse folks, liven things up a little. That's all."

  "That's all?" he gave her a warning look. Don't lie to me. I don't like people who lie to me.

  "Harmless!" Rif insisted, daring him to think otherwise, but not giving anything away.

  Black Cal drummed his fingers on the rail. "Then why can't Master Milton just go the usual route? Why do you need me?"

  "Because . . . Because the only patron we could get was Old Man Fife." Rif frowned out at the water. "Ye know what rep he's got, and how his kids try ter stop him at every turn."

  Black Cal sighed again. Couldn't anything in this world be simple? "No, I don't know. Tell me."

  Rif gave him an almost-pleading look, thought a moment, took a deep breath and plunged ahead. "He's . . . what ye call 'eccentric' That means he's willing ter try new ideas, play around with things, experiment. His kids're grown, married, and stuffy as a College bookroom. They're crazy on the thought that he'll spend all his money on toys and games, leave 'em nothing when he dies—not that they'd need it, the rich turds. But anyway, they've gone and bought some clerk somewhere in the Signeury, get ter hear 'bout anything big Old Man Fife tries ter do, anything needs official permits. They're blocking this, fer no better reason nor it'd cost the old man some money ter do it, and they don't want 'er spent."

  Black Cal nodded understanding. "Which of his kids are in on this? What clerk do they pay, and where's the permit stalled?"

  "Just Pavel and Rosita, both up in Sofia with their families. I don't know who the clerk is, or where the permit's gone—maybe pitched inter the water by now. Can ye find out? Do something?"

  "Hmm. Why doesn't Master Milton just get himself a better patron?"

  "Can't. Old Man Fife's the only one he could get ter, talk inter it."

  "Why?" Black Cal threw her a sharp look. "And what's so important about this Magic Show, anyway?"

  Rif rolled her eyes heavenward, then automatically checked for possible listeners, saw none. No excuse. She sighed. "The show . . . she's got lots of fireworks in 'er. Ends with a big fireworks display."

  "Fireworks?"

  "Theater trick, from Chattalen way." Rif groped to explain. "They're pretty fire-flowers, flashes of colored sparks, fire-trails, pretty light. They don't last long, and they take lots o' room fer proper safety— which is why they want ter do 'er on East Dike, but there's nothing like 'em while they last."

  "I've heard of fireworks, once," Black Cal added up what he'd heard, what he'd remembered, and something that he'd been worrying about for weeks. "Like that sharrh-scare? Fires in the sky, you mean?"

  Rif gave him a long, thoughtful look. "You got 'er. Like that, only smaller. Pretty and harmless—but she'll make people think." Then she held her breath, waiting to see if he got the rest of it.

  He did. He smiled. Not his legendary hunter's grin that so few saw and lived to tell about, but something much gentler. On his face, it was an incredible sight. "So that sharrh-scare really was Swords' work? And this is the—your friends'—cure for it?"

  Rif nodded solemnly.

  Black Cal laughed softly, delighted. Damnation, but he liked the way the Janes' minds worked. If there was one faction in Merovingen's tangled politics that he could admire . . .

  He stopped there, sobering fast. "Politics. I hate politics." He'd survived this long by, among other things, scrupulously avoiding anyone's politics. Why get involved now? On the word of a professional thief and admitted revolutionary? Because he liked the Janist style, and hers? Because he wanted her? Not,good enough. "I need some guarantees," he said. "I don't work blind."

  Rif rolled her eyes at that, remembering how well Black Cal could shoot in the dark. "Lord and Lady, what do ye want? How'm I supposed ter prove any o' this? My friends can't exactly go around leaving footprints, y'know." She paused, glanced nervously at him. "Ye asked, and I told. Everyone knows what happens ter people what lie ter you."

  Black Cal looked away, shivering in the light breeze. He didn't want her afraid of him, complying out of fear. This was going all wrong. There had to be some way to change this, at least arrange to meet with her again, talk again, take another chance.

  "Take me to meet these friends of yours," he said. "I want to see the fireworks, and who's handling them."

  Rif sucked a hard breath and rattled her fingers on the railing. She'd only wanted a way around the clerical bottleneck; this was bringing Black Cal in too deep. He could shoot them all, bust them all, set back the Janes' plans by months that they couldn't afford. But if he agreed to help, as he seemed half willing to ... Ye gods, what an ally he could make!

  Besides, he already knew who some of the Janes were, and hadn't done them any harm. He'd helped with that water-purifying incident. He was notoriously honest, and none of the Janes had yet committed any crime in front of him.

  Except, of course, for herself collecting fake IDs and falsifying the census. But he hadn't done anything about even that.

  "Well, I can take ye ter meet Master Milton," she offered. It was a risk, knowing where she was to meet the crew next. Still, there would be only the one crew endangered, not the whole Jane network. And Milton's friends could take good care of themselves.

  At worst, they might even be able to take down Black Cal.

  Surprising, how that thought grieved her. Merovingen just wouldn't be the same without Black Cal.

  "Set it up," he said. "To
night, if you can. I'll go get the permit form."

  Rif chewed her lip. "All right. Where can I find ye, and when?"

  "Sundown. Foundry-Coffin Bridge."

  "Sundown, then." There seemed to be nothing more to say. The ID card felt heavy in Rif's pocket, and the drying makeup itched unbearably. She got up, waved a brief farewell and ambled away, feeling his eyes on her back. Quick now, being late already, down to the tavern and its washroom to get out of this disguise, then off to the contact-point to hand over the ID cards, and then . . . Hell, enough ID-farming today. Let Rat take it all day. Next stop, Klickett's place.

  Black Cal watched her go, sourly calling himself six kinds of an idiot. But no use: he'd gone and committed his word to this. He got up and headed off toward the Signeury to get the permit-form.

  The last of the sun disappeared below the roofs, leaving the sky blue-gray with fast winter evening.

  She's not coming, Black Cal told himself. Good thing you picked a meet-point close to home. Short walk to your own door, own room, empty bed. . . .

  No, he'd be patient. It was barely sundown; give her time to get here. Dusk could last awhile, even at this time of year. Patience.

  She's not coming. You've fooled yourself. He shifted his weight from foot to foot and stared moodily down at the dark water. If she has any sense, she'll be halfway to the Chattalen by now.

  But he leaned on the bridge-rail and watched the water, knowing he'd stay there until it was too dark to see. Then he'd be sure. Then he'd leave.

  A battered gray skip slid quietly around the Foundry corner. A woman in a long indigo cloak was poling it. She had long black hair, held back by a kerchief-cloth headband.

  Black Cal remembered to breathe, then caught his breath again as she looked up, saw him, and smiled. He pulled himself away from the rail and went down to the tie-ups at the foot of the bridge. Rif bowed elegantly and waved him into the ancient skip. He got in without comment, not trusting his voice just now.

  "Careful with those big feet," she grumbled, awkwardly turning the skip around in the channel. "Don't poke holes in this boat; she's not mine."