At midafternoon he came back to the Harbor Public Affairs office, and this time went straight to Yelno himself.
"Get this permit signed and handed back to me in ten minutes," Black Cal said, smiling toothily in the overclerk's face, "And I'll forget that I saw your oldest boy picking a College professor's pocket today."
Yelno paled, but put on a good show of harrumphing and whuffling.
"It was a professor of Religion and Ethics," Black Cal added, unimpressed. "Lots of uptown connections. I'm sure he'd love to know who pinched his purse."
"All right!" Yelno caved in. "But look, it'll take more than ten minutes. The harbormaster—"
"Fifteen, then." Black Cal glanced at the office wall-clock. "Not a second more."
"Half an hour! Please!"
"Twenty minutes. Then I head for the College."
"All right! All right!" Yelno snatched the permit-form and scurried off with it. Black Cal hummed one of Rif's tunes and watched the clock. Yelno was back, sweating profusely, in just under nineteen minutes. The form was properly signed and sealed. "There," the overclerk panted, slapping the paper down on the counter. "But look, there's gonna be trouble from the family, y'know. Old Fife's crazy as a water-bug, and his heirs'll be yelling bloody murder about this. All the money he'll spend . . ."
"The heirs will be too busy with their own problems," Black Cal promised, flashing his wolfish smile as he tucked the paper in his pocket. He could guess now who did the spying for Old Man Fife's so-concerned children. "They'll have much bigger things to worry about than their Papa's fun—and so will you, if you tip them off and blow this bust for me."
Yelno retreated into terribly-compliant sweating jelly. Black Cal turned to leave.
"But why're you so concerned about the old man?" Yelno dared to ask, as the tall blackleg pulled away from the counter. "What's Old Fife's fun and games to you?"
"Helps me flush the game," said Black Cal. "Besides, I want to see the show."
Iosef Kalugin's office was huge, tastefully furnished, and wonderfully quiet. No sound intruded on the governor's concentration, except the clean wind through the barely-opened window and the ticking of the clock on the ornamental mantlepiece.
Still, Old Iosef considered as he set down his pen and rubbed his eyes, he could do with a little diversion right now. Checking copies of census-records against Tatiana's official reports was a dreary business. The discrepancies were greater than he'd expected, but no pattern had emerged from them yet.
Except, of course, that his daughter was unfit to rule a junkyard, let alone a city. She might, in time, make a competent battle-officer, but at the moment her talents fitted her for no better work than a common assassin. Iosef ran his fingers through his still-thick white hair and sourly considered the ironic fact that those who were most adept at seizing power were often the most incompetent at using it. And vice versa, he added, thinking of his elder son.
As if answering his unspoken wish, his secretary tapped discreetly at the office door. The governor smiled and called her in, guessing from the coded knocking that this was no troublesome crisis or even nuisance. M'sera Pardee, his confidential secretary of twenty-three years and more, padded to his desk and handed him a small cream-colored envelope of thick embossed paper. He smiled again as he took out the note, recognizing the seal, stationery and signature. Ariadne Delaney was, to his tastes, one of the most charming hostesses in the city. He always felt relaxed and entertained at her parties.
And yes, this was an invitation—to a small informal luncheon with m'sera Delaney, at her residence, day after next. It also promised "some delightfully interesting news."
How intriguing. Ariadne had far better sense than to waste a whole luncheon with him on some blatant advertisement for her husband, or on petty gossip. The woman had a fine sense of proportion, as well as taste. No, this would be exactly as promised: interesting.
He pulled out a sheet and envelope of his own personal stationery to pen a suitable reply.
It was late when Rif finished her last set at Hoh's, but still she chose to take the foot-tracks and bridges to Coffin Isle. No point letting even Old Min get suspicious, much less allowing some unknown pole-boatman to guess her destinaion. She used more than her usual care to be sure she wasn't seen or followed.
Coffin Isle was dark, save for the hint of lamplight behind the curtains on the upper story. She fumbled at the doorway for the hidden bell-pull. There was no sound she could detect, but a moment later the door whispered open. Even in the thick shadows she could make out the relief on Black Cal's face. He pulled her inside and shut the door behind her.
"Thought you weren't coming," he whispered, sliding his hands up her arms.
"Late night at Hoh's," she explained, reaching up for him.
That was all they said for the rest of the way up the stairs, and for an hour thereafter.
Eventually Rif pulled herself up from the tumble of quilts and pillows, and made a leisurely study of her astonishing bed-partner. He lay sprawled like a string-cut puppet in the rumpled bedclothes, still gulping air as if he'd run the length of the city and back, green eyes wide and soft and unfocused. He looked stunned, she thought—and no surprise, considering that long intense climax that had seemed to wring out his whole body. She'd seen men die with less struggle and frenzy. How long, she wondered, has he gone without?
Soft lamplight picked out his scars, as if he were covered with a fine, loose-weave, silver net. Those transverse lines on his forearms were easy to read; she had a few herself from blocking knife-attacks. The puckered, small, round marks were bullet-wounds. How had he survived that one in the chest? Ah, there: exit-wound under the arm—the bullet had turned on a rib. Lucky as well as tough, Black Cal.
Other marks were less explicable. Where did he get that chevron-shaped cut on his hip? Banging into a roof-corner, maybe? And who or what gave him that monstrous-long cut on the top of one thigh, leaving a small scar across his penis and continuing on the other leg? She ran a sympathetic finger down its length, pondering.
He flinched.
"Who did that?" Rif asked calmly. "He still alive anywhere?"
"Oh, no." Black Cal smiled. "He's probably drifted down to Dead Harbor by now. Pieces of him, anyway."
Rif laid her chin on his breastbone and blinked up into his deep green eyes. "Ye've paid one hell of a price f yer art," she murmured.
"Yes." Black Cal squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, then shook off the mood. "Almost forgot something." He rolled to the side of the bed, reached for his coat on the chair and pulled a thick envelope out of a pocket. "Here," he said, handing it to her. "Master Milton's permit, with ten copies. Tell him to keep the original in a safe place and hand the others out to any blackleg who asks."
"Nice," Rif breathed, looking through the papers. "Hmm, I got some news fer you, too. She got up, went to the tumble of her clothes on the floor, stuffed the envelope into her shoulder-bag and came back with a folded piece of paper. "We got a lunch date almost clinched in hightown, day after t'morrow, this address. I got t' see the lady first, afternoon tomorrow, prove I can look an' act hightownish, seal the deal."
Black Cal chuckled, "sure you can act like a proper lady?"
"Sure." She cuffed him lightly on the shoulder. "I've acted before—and fer my life as well's fer my living. Can ye tell me anything about this lady, anything that might help?"
"Not really. Only that her husband's one of the few honest bureaucrats in-city, so he hasn't gotten far." Black Cal sighed. "You'll have to win the m'sera over by yourself. Sure you can do it?"
"Hell, yes. I listened to 'er carefully from behind the curtain at—well, at a friend's place. Ye can tell a lot from how somebody talks. Besides, Rattail's coaching me; lending me some fancy clothes too. I'll do 'er right."
"Hope so," said Black Cal, studying the note. "This is ... a very hightown address, just short of The Rock itself. There's a lot riding on your performance."
"And yours, Black Cal." Ri
f gave him a long, somber look. "Tell yer story smooth and well. Old Iosef himself's coming to the party."
"Lord and Ancestors," Black Cal murmured, staring at her. "Rif, you're amazing."
"Ain't we a pair!" she laughed, snuggling into his neck.
"Damned right," he agreed, wrapping his arms around her. "Who would've imagined this?" And, the tactical corner of his mind added, what they can't predict, they can't prevent.
Ariadne entered Klickett's shop cautiously, first giving a quick backward look at the water and walkways to make sure she wasn't observed. She marveled at how quickly—and, dare one say it, happily—she'd adjusted to the mind-set of intrigue. Her boatman sat yawning at the tie-up, absently watching the small load of packages from her previous shopping, too thoroughly bored to remember half the stops they'd made that afternoon. There would be more tedious stops before he took her home. Nothing here to catch the attention, snag the memory, in the sight of a plainly-dressed woman going into a knitting-shop. She only hoped that Klickett's "friend" was equally discreet.
The interior was dim enough to make the eyes wait a few moments to adjust. Dimmer than normal? Probably. Yes, there sat Klickett, smiling acknowledgment, working her eternal needles. And there, an unfamiliar motion in a corner; just a young woman picking over some samples of yarn. Another shopper, or the contact she'd come to meet? The woman certainly didn't look like a blackleg. Perhaps a go-between?
"Ah, m'sera," Klickett purred, "Ye've come fer an order?"
"Possibly," Ariadne smiled, glancing toward the other woman. Smoothly, now. "But if you're busy with another customer . . . ?"
"M'sera Delaney, this is m'sera Alvarez—musician," said Klickett, not missing a stitch.
So, the game did have another level. Good, very good. "So pleased to meet you," said Ariadne, offering a polite hand and a genuine smile as she studied her new contact. Hmm, a medium-tall slender woman with long dark hair and sharp features, a generally athletic build and coordination to match, good polite smile and equally-acceptable handshake. Clothing quite acceptable: good-quality long overblouse in a rich but subdued maroon fineweave, matching tousers with fashionably-flared cuffs, modest but good-quality jewelry on the collar and cuffs, unobtrusive black shoes. An entertainer who could fit smoothly into a society gathering. Very good.
"Charmed, m'sera." The voice was perfect, too: accentless, faintly cultured, precise, just the right amount of warmth—and giving nothing away. In fact, the surface was so smooth that Ariadne could find no purchase on it. She'd have to make the first explorative move.
"Ah, do you play professionally, then?" Tsk. A weak move.
"Certainly," said Rif, actually enjoying the evaluation game, "Though I prefer to work in . . . more private circles."
Ariadne glanced briefly at Klickett, who only grinned.
No help there. No choice but to plunge ahead. "Marvelous. I wish I could hear you, er, perform."
"I regret I haven't brought my instrument with me." The intonation was ever so faintly stilted, hinting at a carefully-expunged accent, but the smile was letter-perfect. "Perhaps you could hear me sing at the College next month."
Actually, Rif smiled inwardly, she'd be singing in one of the taverns that students frequented, much to the annoyance of their professors. Not exactly a lie, but artfully slanted. Pity the Delaney woman didn't appreciate the illusion.
Still, Ariadne picked up enough significant facts to proceed. "Oh, you perform solo? Have you done the drawing-room circuit, perhaps?"
"Oh, on occasion," Rif tossed off, "but I've no appointments there at the moment." Perfect opening. Now wait for it.
Subtle offer, Ariadne considered. Yes, she'd do. Take the moment. "How wonderfully fortunate! I have a small luncheon gathering tomorrow, and I was just wondering what to do for the entertainment. Would you possibly be available . . . ?"
"Why, I'd be delighted," Rif purred. "Of course, I'll need to know when and where, how long to perform, what sort of mood to create . . . that sort of thing."
Ariadne maintained her smile without a twitch as she reached into her purse for a formal card. "Do come early," she added, "A good hour before noon, so we can go over the precise . . . arrangements."
"Certainly," said Rif, sliding card into a pocket.
Is that all? Ariadne wondered. No mention of the . . . other? For one horrid moment she thought she might have failed the test, wasn't to be trusted yet.
But then Rif added casually: "May I invite a gentleman friend?"
Ariadne blinked twice, but maintained her smile. "By all means, bring him with you," she said, reaching into her purse again. She took out a second card and handed it over, just in case the "gentleman friend" might need to come separately.
Rif acknowledged the subtlety with a beaming smile.
"Thank you so much," she said, tucking her second private passport away with the first. "Now I simply must run off to prepare. Tomorrow, then." With admirable speed, not losing an iota of poise, she swung an indigo cloak over her shoulders and swept quietly out of the shop. She left no sound of footsteps beyond the door.
Ariadne turned back to Klickett. "She's very good," she acknowledged.
"That she is, m'sera," the shopkeeper agreed. "Very talented."
"I hope she can perform that well in front of the governor," Ariadne let fall, secretly gratified by the rise of Klickett's eyebrows at the news. "And her friend . . . ?"
"Ah, he's the legendary Honest Servant, what needs no more skill than the plain truth, m'sera. You just tell'm the right time ter drop the news."
"I'll give them an hour's briefing and practice," Ariadne promised. "It's very important to get all the details right."
"Hmm, true."
"You know, Klickett, I must confess I'm beginning to enjoy this."
"Lord help us all," Klickett muttered, "what've I gone an' set loose on the world?"
CHAPTER XIX
TREADING THE MAZE
by Leslie Fish
"First you pick out a good vantage-point." Black Cal waxed downright talkative with the two wide-eyed rookies. "Say, here, along this wall. This gives you a good view of the main door, and if you lean your head against the wall itself you can hear a lot that goes on inside."
The two neophyte blacklegs dutifully ground their ears against the wall of the Sofia Island apartment, wondering what the legendary super-blackleg was planning. One of them dared to ask: "How do you know there's anything to watch or listen for?"
"That's the result of legwork," Black Cal purred, watching the walkway outside the Fife-junior apartment's front door. "No substitute for legwork. You spend enough time patrolling the canals, watching carefully, and you see patterns. You also pick up gossip. You overhear things. In time you learn when and where things are likely to happen, and you arrange to be there. —Ah, hush now."
It was the old man's daughter Rosita, and no mistake, overfed and overdressed, flouncing merrily out the front door. Now if she missed seeing the poster. . .
No, she saw it. The thing was rather hard to miss, plastered as it was on the railing just opposite the doorway. Something new, big and bold and messy on the elegant railing. She saw it, all right. She stopped and came closer. She read it.
Black Cal, watching her expression, could almost guess which lines she was reading. "Master Milton's Magic Show! Outdoor Extravaganza! East Dike,, foot of Pier 9! Room for All!" Puzzlement and annoyance there, deepening as she read through the date and time, turning to worry as she read the descriptions. "Magic! Music! Fireworks! The Greatest Show on Merovingen! Sights Never Before Seen!" Any second now she'd get down to the fine print.
Aha! She'd hit it! "A Rafael Fife Production." Oh, see the shock, hear the squawk. Right, she ripped the poster off the rail and went running back into the house with it, squalling loud enough to be heard without the ear-to-the-wall trick. Nonetheless, Black Cal pressed his head close to the plastered wood and signaled to the two rookies to do likewise.
They could hear the
whole thing: the yells of outrage, the wails of what'll-we-do, the frantic—and silly— plotting. Oh, these two fools were never designed for conspiracy! They probably never even looked out the window to see if anyone was listening. Amazing. The two rookies' eyes grew round as they took in the clear, damning conversation.
"Why didn't your inside-man warn us?" Rosita wailed. "Why didn't he stop the permit, or lose it? Lord knows, we pay him enough!"
"Must've slipped past him," a male voice—Pavel— rumbled. "Or maybe Pop figured it out and counter-bribed him, or blew the whistle. I don't know. Maybe we should just rip all the damned posters down."
"What good will that do?" Rosita shrilled. "He's already spent the money, if it's gone this far. You know this'll get worse! How do we stop him from spending the money?"
"Oh, Lord, I don't know." Sounds of a frustrated fist pounding a desk. "All we can do is hope he drops dead soon."
"We've tried before," Rosita considered.
"And you know what happened. His damned boatman fought off the thugs. Can't do that again; you can bet Pop's always got bullyboys around him now. I can't afford to hire a top-notch assassin."
The rookies' eyes grew bigger and rounder. They pulled out pads and began scribbling notes. Black Cal only grinned, listening.
"Maybe we should try poison this time." Rosita sounded desperate enough to be utterly sincere. "Go visit him, drop it in his wine, leave the bottle in some servant's room."
"Rosita, that's disgusting. Blaming some innocent retainer ..."
"But it would work."
"Hmm. Where could we get poison? Quietly?"
Both rookies were scribbling madly. Black Cal laughed to himself. If only all his cases could be this easy.
"We have some left over from the Cantry's," Rosita noted—as the rookies duly copied down the name. "I'll go get it."