". . . the subject of religion?" Rafaella puzzled. "Subject? Object?"
"Well, there are lots of sooongs abaoout it," Rattaille offered. "The problem is getting sooomeone to paaay you to siiing them."
"Oh, yes," Rafaella brightened, assuming she understood. "If the church would like to hire us, I'm sure we can come up with scores of religious songs."
The cardinal took another deep breath. Lord, not this again! Did these fools think of nothing but singing and money? . . . "I mean, m'seras, what are your religious beliefs?"
Another swapping of blank looks, mutual shrugs.
"I was raised Revenantist."
"Sooo was I."
"And do you attend services regularly?" This was like pulling teeth; hard and slow and painful, with damned little gold to be found therein."
"Oh, not regularly. Too often, we have to work on Sunday."
"And uuusually the hoooly days, tooo. Thaaat's when you find sooome of the best paaaid jobs."
Not much silver in that tooth. The poorer half of Merovingen could say the same. "Do you remember your catechism?"
"Oh, suuure!" Rattaille brightened.
"We even have a tune for it." Rafaella took that giveaway deep breath again.
"Not now!" Exeter ran a hand through her gray hair. "Have you ever sung religious songs other than Revenantist?"
"Oh, suuure. We've been aaasked for Adventist hymns just scooores of times."
"Just all over lowtown. You just have to learn some, you know, singing for pennies and silverbits canalside."
Exeter looked ceilingward, searching for inspiration, for some question that would uncover a shred of real political meat. Some of those songs she'd heard at Ariadne Delaney's were so close to heretical, she'd been sure there was more beneath the surface, something more than artistic whoring, singing anything for anybody who paid . . . "Have you ever come across songs defying or ridiculing religious beliefs?"
To her amazement, the two women laughed knowingly.
"Lord, yes!"
" 'Revenantist Maaan'! Oo-ooh, you want to hear it?"
Before the cardinal could think to stop them, Rattaille hummed a starting note, they both drew deep breaths, and then they took off.
"He was a Revenantist man, lived a Revenantist life,
He surely was a Revenantist with a Revenantist wife.
He had Revenantist karma and it piled up by the day,
He drowned and came around again, and it
was all to pay. He was a . . ."
Exeter listened, with steadily glazing eyes, while they sang through verses that proclaimed their collective victim to be Adventist, Old-Church-of-Goddist, Retributionist-With-Janist-Tendencies, and Sharrist-With-New-Worlder-Leanings, but when the increasingly sprung lines got to Sword-of-Goddist-Infected-With-Immaterialist-Revisionism she slammed her hand down on the desk and bellowed: "Enough!"
The two singers stopped and gave her puzzled looks.
"But isn't that what you wanted?" Rafaella asked.
"It's the fuuunniest religious sooong we knooow," Rattaille promised.
"Enough of this!" the cardinal roared, feeling the headache spring to full bloom behind her eyes. "Get out of here! At once! And no, before you ask again, you will never be hired to sing at the College, or any where else in the city, if you cross my path again. Out!"
It must have been the last sentences that got through to them. The singers drooped like wilted hothouse flowers, sighed monumentally, shoved their music-folders back in their shoulder bags and picked up their instrument cases.
"We've blown it," Rafaella murmured to her companion as she pulled on her cloak. "If only we could've hit on the right song."
"Ohhh, maaaybe we should've triiied 'When Retribution Comes.' Thaaaat's got a looovely melodic mine."
"Out!!" Exeter insisted, jabbing a finger toward the door, which the cleric waiting outside quickly opened.
The two singers shambled away, the picture of dejection, still humming the tune Rattaille had started.
"Your Grace," the cleric offered timorously, "Shall I order the boat?"
"No, let them walk home," Exeter snapped. "And shut that door."
Sad voices harmonized faintly down the corridor: " 'Oh, when Retribution comes. Oh-oh-ohhh, oh, when Retribution comes . . .' "
The door mercifully closed. Exeter rubbed her throbbing temples and snapped off a few epithets that would have startled her household staff. "Artists!" she muttered.
There was, she remembered, some good brandy in the side cabinet. She got up and went to fetch it, not bothering with a glass.
Rif and Rattail plodded on down the walkways, looking tired, miserable and harmless as any entertainers might who had just lost a chance at a really big contract. Passing clerics and blacklegs gave them scarcely a look. Down the lower walks through the Signeury they went, around the boat-slip and across the bridge to Borg, then on to Porfirio and Wex, among thinning crowds, without once breaking from the role.
Only when they reached the shadows of the Wex-Spellman bridge did they stop, look to see that no one was watching, then wrap their arms around each other and stand for a long moment, shivering in the thin early morning rain.
"Oh Mother, oh Mother," Rif panted, as they eased apart. "That was so close. I damn-near lost the accent once'r twice."
" 'I'll have you whipped,' " Rattaile quoted, giggling hysterically. "I thought I was gonna lose everything, right there. Oh, Goddess . . . Heh! 'O Tannenbaum'!"
"Na, it was 'Revenantist Man' that did it. Mother, did you see her eyes bugging out?"
"I wish I had a picture . . . Ah, damn, can we flag a boat this time of night? My feet are killing me. These damned boots—"
"Be careful with 'em. They gotta go back t-yer friend without bein' too badly messed up."
"They will, they will. Just let me take them off." Rattail sat down where she was and tugged at the high-heeled boots. "I can't wait to get out of this whole crazy get-up ..."
"The de Niro kids loved it. Hmm, I hope they have the sense t'tell the others that story 'bout goin' ter Tremaine's was a fake."
"Oh, they will. I just hope they remember, if anyone asks, to sing 'Baby, Baby' for example of all the, heh, dance tunes."
"They should. That one's dead-easy t'remember. All the dangerous ones're really complex . . . Hey!"
The two women crouched fast, reaching for hidden knives, as a silent walking shadow detached itself from the darkness of the walkway and moved toward them. A very tall, slender shadow.
"Rif," said an unmistakable quiet voice. "Are you all right?"
"Oh. Yes." Rif sagged in relief.
Rattail didn't. She stared at the oncoming silhouette as if unable to believe her eyes. "... never wanted to see him this close," she whispered.
Rif frowned at her partner, then walked toward the speaker. "Ye shouldn've come this close, Cal," she said quietly. "Anyone could've seen ye."
"Didn't your partner know about me?" Black Cal stepped out of the darkness and took Rifs arms.
"She guessed, but I didn't confirm." Rif cast a warning glance back at Rattail. "Now she's seen."
Rat shook her head fast, fingers semaphoring promises: I see nothing, I know nothing, I don't want to get involved.
Rif grinned, turned back to Black Cal, then frowned again. "How'd ye know where t'find us?" she asked.
"A little black cat told me about the scene on de Niro's dock. I went to the Signeury bridge and waited 'til I saw you come out, and then followed you here."
Rif leaned into his arms, grateful at the thought of the unseen escort, shivering at what he'd just revealed. "A little black cat, huh?"
Black Cal smiled faintly. "One of Master Milton's minions. He owed me for that East Dike permit I got him, and I took it in, hmm, news service."
"I wish ye'd told me ye were gettin' inter this so deep!"
"I wish you'd told me you expected to be grabbed by the priests tonight."
"We were prepared. I didn' w
anter worry you ..." Rif leaned back in his arms and looked up at him. "Cal, what would ye've done if we hadn't come outta there t'night?"
A hardness swept over his long elegant face and shadowed green eyes. "I would have come in and gotten you," he said.
Rif stared at him. "What, blowin' away the guards an' the cardinal an' all?"
"Yes." He said it so calmly, as if he were talking about the weather, as if he knew as sure as sundown that he really could do that.
Rif shuddered. "What a load o' damn foolishness," she grumbled. "Rat n' me talked our way outta there, an' the cardinal doesn' wanter ever see or hear from us again, an' maybe she'll even lay off botherin' other singers, an' that's what we pulled off with words an' music an' these stupid getups—an' without riskin' yer life, Black Cal!"
She hugged him, very hard. He hugged back. Rattail looked away, anywhere else, at the rain, at the canal below, as if anything were more interesting.
Rif wiped her eyes and coughed. "Y'know, we gotta go home an' get outta this crap ..."
"I have a boat waiting." He slid his hands slowly down her arms, reluctant to let her go.
"Aw, Cal, if I come back t'yer place afterward, we won't get any sleep before dawn. . ."
"Tomorrow's my day off." He kept his grip on the ends of her fingers. "Besides, I want to hear the whole juicy story—and also how the search for the cat-whales is going."
"All right," Rif gave in. "Hey, Rat, we've got a free ride home."
"Free ride . . . with a dynamite keg," Rattail muttered. But she got up, and came along.
All the long ride down to Fife she sat in the prow and muttered to herself about the crazy stunts Rif got her into and how she really ought to take a safer career, such as fishing for deathangel or preaching pacifism to the Swampies.
Rif and Black Cal, in the stern, paid her no attention at all.
Old Uki—it was short for Eucalyptus, but only a select few in Merovingen knew that—sat huddled at her usual spot in the niche between the old and new support pillars on the lowest level of Calder Isle. There was room here for a handmade awning to keep out the rain, room under it for a stool to sit on and an earthenware firepot to tend, room on the firepot for a small brewing kettle, and space enough besides to store the clay jugs of chugger that the old woman sold to any passersby who were interested. The tiny brewing booth provided excuse for old Uki to be sitting here all night, warming her hands at the fire, muttering about the rain and cold, and incidentally watching the walkways and bridges from an excellent vantage point. There was also room to reach to the waterline—and the upright clay pipe sticking out of the water—with a long enough pole, which Uki also had. Not a boat or pedestrian passed this corner of Calder Isle but that Eucalyptus McLandon noted, recorded, and often transmitted the fact. She was one of the best reporters, and night watchmen, in the Janes' network.
Just now, there wasn't much to see or report: no boats had gone by in an hour, no pedestrians in longer still. A quiet night in lowtown, but still old Uki listened and watched. There could always be something, at any time.
Ho, there was something. A figure: female, barefoot as a canaler, pants-cuffs ragged, walking slowly, stooped—as if with pain or illness rather than age— wandering indecisively down the walkway, and unconsciously wringing her hands. Aha, a poor lowtowner in trouble.
Uki slipped quietly out from behind her simmering brewing kettle and slid closer to the walkway, watching.
The woman fumbled her way close to the water's edge and stood there, rocking forward and back, as if trying to make a decision, or as if trying to summon the will to act. Oh, yes, all the symptoms were clear.
Uki glided forward and tapped the woman on the shoulder.
The woman flinched violently, almost slid over the edge into the canal, recovered her footing and whirled around. Her face was pale, hunger-pinched, hollow-eyed and, at that moment, startled half out of her wits.
" 'Ey, m'sera," Uki offered, showing her kindliest benign-granny face, "Ye wouldn' be thinkin' o' throwin' yerself inter the water, now would ye?"
"I—I— None o' yer karma!" the woman gasped. "What ye mean, botherin' me? Lemme 'lone, an' go 'way."
"Ah, hush, now," Uki spoke to the woman's distress, ignoring her shield of words. "Yon's no way ter clear yer karma. Whatever yer trouble, there's better ways ter deal with'er nor a quick jump inter the canal."
"Oh, t'hell!" The woman turned to look back at the dark water, hands clenching into fists at her sides. "Where's the cure fer bein' poor? Ain't no end ter that, this side o' the water."
Uki clicked her tongue. "Tush, there's-plenty o' ways outta poverty, do ye bother ter work at 'em.
And there's plenty o' folks live poor without divin' inter the water. An' don' tell me yer trouble's so bad that nobody can help."
"Help. . . ?" the woman considered, then shook her head. "There's no help down here."
"Ney? Now, how would ye know?" Uki chuckled. "There's more ter luck an' karma an' all nor any scholar nor cardinal could tell. Help can come from the damnedest places. ..."
"Luck!" The woman spat. "My luck's been nothin' but bad, this whole year'n more. Karma done shot me down. I wish t'hell I could remember my past lives, like them fancy uptowners with their deathangel drug, so I'd know what I did last time 'round t' earn bad luck like this."
"So bad nor that, ey?" Uki ventured to pat the woman's rigid arm. "Why not c'mon over ter the fire, warm yerself a bit, an' tell me what the trouble is. I'm an ol' woman, an' I've seen much. P'raps I can think o' somethin' or someone as could help ye."
"Ney, I've karma-debts enough." The woman pulled away, face cold and desolate with hopeless pride.
Uki clucked her tongue again. Ah, dear: too miserable to live, too proud to take help . . . but believing a lot in luck. Possibility there. "Well, then, tell me now, m'sera; y'have any sportin' blood?"
The woman glanced back, surprised but not offended. "Ey, sure," she admitted. "Jus' no luck."
"Why then, I'll offer ye a wild gamble ter get yer luck back. 'Twon't cost ye anthin' but a bit o' time an' silliness. Ye game ter listen, at least?"
"What gamble?" the woman asked, intrigued in spite of herself.
Careful now: reel her in slowly. "Did y'ever hear the old legend o' the black cats?"
"Black cats? They're s'posed ter be bad luck ter cross."
"Bad luck ter cross, good luck ter speak ter." Uki grinned. "Ye've heard th'old tales o' the witch, Althea Jane, ain't ye?"
"Oh, aye. Hanged in the north, weren't she? And didn' she curse 'er judges, sayin' they'd all die within the year? An' they did?"
Good, good: that tale had made the rounds. "Aye, that an' more. It seems she had the gift o' speakin' ter animals, an' even plants. She got along best with cats—black cats—so before she died, she blessed 'em with somethin' special."
"What's that?" The woman took an unconscious step nearer.
"A strange power o' luck," Uki said. "Do ye cross a black cat, an' yer luck goes bad. But do ye make friends with a black cat, an' yer luck goes good. What's more—an' this part may int'rest ye—if yer luck's already bad, then do ye tell yer trouble ter a black cat. Just tell 'er all, out loud, like ye was speakin' t'a person—an' yer luck will change fer the better. Whatever yer trouble is, she'll get better—or even go 'way alt'gether. Yon's the power o' the black cat."
The woman stared for a long moment, then burst into laughter. "Lord, Lord," she sputtered, "ye really had me on there, fer a bit. I oughtta thank ye fer the laugh. Talk ter black cats . . . Oh, my flamin' bunions, that's good!"
"She gets better." Uki didn't cease to smile. "D'ye see yon doorway there?" She pointed at the building across the canal. "Down by the water, third from the right. Ye see 'er? Well listen now: back o' that door lives an herb-doctor, a right good doctor, too, an' if anyone's got luck, she does—fer all her patients come out better nor they went in. An' she's got a big black cat."
"So?" The woman shrugged. "That proves nothin'."
/> "There's more. I meself had real trouble not long back; a dirty blackleg 'e were, tryin' ter drive me
outta my little shop-hole here, er else squeeze every penny outta me."
The woman grunted sympathy. She'd seen that, often enough.
"I was run near distracted, didn' know what ter do, desp'rate enough ter try drinkin' chugger—"
The woman winced, likewise in sympathy.
"An' then I got this crazy idea. I'd heard the tale o' the cats, an' I knew 'bout the herb-doctor's cat, an' I had nothin' ter lose, so I says ter meself, why not? I went an' found the cat, lured 'er close with a bit o' fish an' coaxed 'er inter my lap with a bit o' pettin', an' then I told 'er all my trouble—aye, talked t'er like she was a person, an' damned if the cat didn' listen."
"Just sat an' listened?" The woman marveled, edging a little closer.
"Aye, she did. When I was done, the cat got up an' trotted off, jus' like she was off on business. I figured, hell, that's th'end o' that, an' went lookin' fer somethin' ter drink. Fergot 'bout it . . .'til next mornin' ..."
Uki stopped to roll her eyes in a dramatic pause.
"Well, what happened next mornin'?" the woman insisted.
"I went ter work as usual." Uki waved a modest hand toward her firepot and still. "An' I waited fer customers or that blackleg ter show up. Customers did, he didn't. By noon I had almost enough ter pay 'im off, but he still didn' show. Come afternoon I got worried an' started askin' around. Guess what I heard." Pause again, and smile significantly.
". . . That 'e was dead?" the woman asked, eyes wide.
"Better nor that." Uki grinned triumphantly. "It seems that with the Crud goin' 'round, the blacklegs was runnin' short o' muscle, so's he got extra work guardin' some warehouse that night. Now that would'a been good luck fer him, with the extra pay an' all, an' bad luck fer me, since he'd've got off work come dawn an' come lookin' fer me real early. But somehow, right 'bout an hour after I'd talked ter the cat, his luck went an' changed."
"An hour after. . . ?"
"Aye, maybe as long's it would'a taken fer a cat ter run from where I'd been ter where he was." Uki hitched nearer and dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "About then, it seems, somebody came by an' knocked 'im inter the water."