("Lord," some said, "honest work. What's Moze an' his sister comin' to?" And others: "Arson, most like. What's wrong with the volunteer brigade, ain't never asked f money . . .")
Moze took off the hated red cap and scratched his head. "Make it two?" he asked.
"Two," Farren conceded. "All I want is to make this Firewatch work. Just be on the boat. Tomorrow."
"Tomorrow," Moze said, as Farren and Mikhail loped up the stairs to the Signeury. Above them, the sun struggled to send a few watery rays through the thinning mist.
The firebells rang at sundown.
For the first time in months there was no rain, not even a wisp of mist hanging over the canals.
Axel was dishing out supper in the new barracks when they heard the sound.
"A'ready?" Moze asked aloud. "Damn!"
"What do we do?" Axel asked. "Soup's hot."
"We gotta," Moze said. "I ain't goin't' Hangin' Bridge, damn, I ain't! Josh, get up and spot 'er. Where's the fire?"
The rail-thin pickpocket trotted up to the sighting-station "Moze, it's Megary's."
"What? You sure?"
In answer, Josh pointed to the plume of black smoke that hung over Rimrnon.
"Now what do we do?" Axel asked. "We can't save Megary's. The Trade'll lynch us theyselves, wi'out no judge!"
It was a moment of truth, for sure and all. Even Axel sensed it. And Moze smacked his cap on his knee. "Damn, damn—we got no choice, lads!"
"So," asked Liz. "What do we do?"
"We go out and fight that fire," Moze declared. "But not too hard, boys. Not too hard."
With deliberate speed, the bridge-bullies fired up the engine of the pumpboat. Bell clanging, motor chugging, pump wheezing, they steered into the thick of the traffic on the canals, well sure that the Trade would do everything in its power to stop anyone giving aid and comfort to Megary's.
Every canaler seemed to be on the water that evening, and none of them would give way to the sweating, cursing Firewatch. They passed the Delaney dock, where Farren was already in his red sweater and cap, and it took them five precious minutes to get through the crush to reach him. More time wasted while a barge-load of kegs turned completely around in the narrow channel under Fishmarket Bridge. By this time the plume of smoke had begun to spread into a haze. The afternoon strollers on Ventani High Bridge saw the fireboat and its red-backed crew, and pointed down and laughed.
"It's Farren and his Hanging Bridge Ferry!" someone called out. The word was picked up and followed them down the canal. Farren grabbed the tiller from Moze.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he hissed. "Get over to that fire!"
"I'm doin' my best, m'ser, but it's too crowded."
"Just get through!" Farren muttered, through clenched teeth. One skip left a gap of a few inches. Farren nosed the fireboat into the gap, while Liz rang the bell on the bows.
By the time they reached Megary's, there was only a charred ruin left of what had been a brand-new building. Old Megary glared at Farren in disgust.
Mikhail was there on his sleek polished-wood powerboat. With his blackleg escort. "Where have you been?" he asked, while Megary raved and cursed and called his ancestors to witness he had paid the fire-fee, and where was his protection?
"We ran into a little traffic on the canal," Farren said uncomfortably, trying to evade eavesdroppers. "We'll have to do something about that. I hope no one was hurt ..."
"He hopes nobody's hurt!" someone took it up, and relayed it to the crowd. There were hoots, wishes for all Megary to perish, with anyone who would deal with them.
Megary howled: "I want my money back, Delaney!
I didn't pay your Firewatch to get jammed up on the water!"
Farren smiled blandly. "We'll discuss that in the morning, when we've had time to reflect a bit. In the meanwhile, is there anything the Firewatch can do to help?"
"You and your red-backed Firewatch can go . . ."
"We'll try, m'ser Megary. Moze, back to barracks!" Farren pushed the boat back into the canal. Moze fired the engine. Liz did not clang the bell. They cruised back through Archangel, under the bridge, to the hoots of Trade and hightowners alike.
Once they were there, Farren waited until they were all back in the barracks, staring at their cold bowls of soup before letting loose on them.
"What the hell was that about?" he began, his voice dangerously gently. "I thought we had a deal. I paid you, I trained you, you get the boat out and fight the fire. That was the arrangement, wasn't it?"
Moze stared at the floor. "Ay, that was it. —But you didn't say it would be Megary's."
"What difference does it make if it's Megary's or some swampy's hidey? I don't care if the fire's in the Grand Castle of the sharrh! It is our job to go and put it out!"
"The Trade'll carve us in fishbait," Liz said flatly.
"Liz," Farren said, "if I had my way, I'd see Megary and his ilk at the bottom of the Det before I lifted a finger to save their worthless hides. But they paid their insurance fees, and I'm bound to honor it. Personal feelings have nothing to do with it."
"What's the odds, then?" Moze asked. "The Trade don't want Megary's, you don't want Megary's—"
"Don't you people understand? We do not have the right to pick which fires we put out and which we let burn. We fight all of them! Megary will want his fee back, and soon all of them will, and the whole Signeury will call it Farren's Folly. D'ye know what your choices are? Do you remember your appointment on Hanging Bridge? Or do you think they won't blame me for your mistakes?"
Farren stopped for breath.
"We got the rope on this side," Moze said, "we got the Trade an' their hooks on t' other. We got to walk th' canalside, m'ser, an' it don't matter what Megary's money says, ever'body knows what them Megary boats do, I mean, we snitch a few wallets an' all, an' we got Hangin' Bridge—and them Megarys snitch kids and sell 'em, an' they bought th' judge—"
"And Karl Fon doesn't have to march against us," Farren said bitterly. All he has to do is wait until hightown and low tear each other to pieces, and then he can take over what's left."
"Eh?" Liz said, wrinkling her brow. This was too remote a connection. "What's this about Karl Fon?"
"What have we got?" Farren began to pace around the central table, scattering the bridge-bullies as he moved. "Bought judges, people arrested for a joke in a bar . . . that Boregy woman preaching class against class—don't you understand? This isn't about Megary's . . . it's about the way things are in Merovingen. How do I make you understand? We can do more than just sit here and wait for the next turn of the Wheel! There's got to be a way to get out of this swamp we've gotten into!"
Moze and Liz edged closer together. "Cardinals say we wait for karma," Moze said with cautious and currently advisable piety.
Farren ran a hand through his hair. "Karma? Hell, we can rearrange our karma!"
Liz spoke in the dead silence after Farren's ringing words. "That there sounds a scary lot like heresy, m'ser."
"Then turn me in to the College," Farren said, slumping against the table. "You do things the same damn old way. No change. You sit here and let Megary's burn and they just build back. Don't you see there's a way to put a stop to 'em?"
"How?" Moze asked. All this religion and politics was a scary idea. He liked smaller problems. "How'd you deal with Megary's, m'ser?"
"I wouldn't burn 'em out," Farren said. "I'd tax them! I'd find a dry rot in their roof and mildew in their cellars. I'd fine 'em for dumping garbage into the canals, and I'd run inspections on their damned boats. By the time I was finished with 'em they'd have a hell of a lot of judges to buy. My office can do it. Can do a lot of things, 'long as I stay in it. That's the way to deal with Megary's!"
"Maybe, m'ser. But you got not to talk that way." Moze found himself unaccustomedly worried about his patron—found himself with an honest hightowner on his hands, and the sure knowledge if this man went down, so did Moze and Liz and the boys. "You got to be car
eful—"
Farren smiled ruefully. "I know."
"Way-hen?" came a voice from the door—canaler cant in a hesitant, hightown accent—Mikhail Kalugin himself, with his blackleg guard. Mikhail was-smudged with smoke, his hair wildly waving in the wind, his face flushed with fire-burn or good-natured excitement. "Well, well, first day problems, but all in all a success, eh?"
"M'ser Kalugin," Moze greeted him respectfully.
"Why did you leave me there?" Mikhail asked peevishly. "I had to explain to that disgusting Megary why we couldn't get to his fire on time. Just as well, just as well—the reputation of the Firewatch and all. My security tells me the whisper is, the Firewatch has to be honest, eh? I mean, the whole canalside's buzzing with it."
"Has to be honest?" Farren asked.
"Why, sure it wasn't any accident, but wasn't the Firewatch that did it; and them coming late—that's marvelously politic, as my brother would say. Anastasi himself couldn't time it better. Sister Tatty's just going to be livid. She so wanted me to be a fool!"
"That's . . . quite fortuitous," Farren said.
"Ah, yes." Mikhail had an unaccustomedly smug look on his smudged face. "And since of course we did show, eh? I maintained there's no question of a refund. And since it's clearly arson, we won't pay a silverbit until we prove where culpability lies. Eh? Most of all, the equipment works! It works and the whole town's seen it does!"
"It did that," Farren said, more cheerfully.
"It must! It's going to stop the burning, you see." A feverish look came into Mikhail's eyes. He assumed a conspiratorial tone, including Moze and Liz as well. "It has to work, to stop the burning."
"The burning," Farren said. Moze and Liz seemed to draw closer to him, as if to seek protection from a possible madman.
The words tumbled out of Mikhail: "Cassie's seen it all. There's going to be burning, and the canalers will try to come up and kill us all, but if there's a Firewatch, then we'll stop the burning, and if the Firewatch is mine, then they won't kill me or Cas-sie, because I won't let them, you see, and she'll love me for it!"
With which Mikhail sailed out of the barracks, gathering his guards as he went.
"Is he daft?" Moze asked Farren as the footsteps left the boards outside.
"Only about Cassie Boregy," Farren told him. "But you see what's happening up there?" He jerked his thumb upward again, implying hightown, and hightowners, and the Signeury. "Give it a chance. Trust me!" Farren's blue eyes held Moze for a minute. "You've got a chance, Moze, you and yours. Do you want it? Or do you want to throw everything away?"
"We'll do it your way fer a bit," Liz the Snitch said finally. There were nods all round, a sober, worried lot of rogues.
It was, Farren thought, at least a hope of a beginning, a single sandbag laid, against the deluge.
WHEELS WITHIN WHEELS
by Bradley H. Sinor
"Kali!"
Kali Duquesne stirred in her bed and rolled to one side, not all that certain she was even awake. Outside her window a thunderstorm was venting its wrath on Merovingen. That was like any morning this week. If it were morning—which it wasn't.
"Kali!"
This time the sound of her name brought Kali fully awake. She pried her eyes open to stare at a dim candle, in the hands of someone standing a few feet from the side of her bed.
"If it's anything short of Jane herself returning or a personal message from the sharrh, why don't we just leave it all until morning?" she muttered, and pulled the sheet halfway up over her face.
"I really wish I could do that, little one."
Kali smiled. There was only one man, Miles Quin-cannon, security chief for Greely House and Greely and Company, who called her little one.
For a long moment the big man stood there, staring at Kali. "Come down to your father's study as soon as you're dressed," he said finally, then turned and headed out the door.
Kali lay there staring at where Quincannon had stood for several minutes. At that moment all she wanted to do was listen to the sound of the rain.
"Damn it." She shook her head angrily. Surely it couldn't all be starting again. In the six months since her return to Greely House, nothing—nothing of the intrigues she had married to escape. Kali realized she should be used to this. It had been going on all her life. Only with Darius it all had taken on the aspect of a bad dream.
"Darius, Darius," she muttered as she groped around on the floor for the sweater and trousers she had dropped hours earlier. "Damn—if we'd ever had a chance ..."
"Do you m'sers know what time it is?" Kali demanded as she came down the circular staircase into the main room of Greely House.
Quincannon looked up at her briefly. In this light the big security chief looked older than she had ever seen him. The left sleeve of his shirt was ripped and bloodstained.
He stood to one side of the study door with two of the security staff whose names Kali hadn't bothered to learn. A few feet away was her older brother Simon Greely, looking bleary-eyed from too little sleep—or too much drink.
The big study door was a bastion of childhood memories and challenges. No one was ever permitted inside without a direct invitation from Marcus Greely himself. Kali could well remember several very painful reminders of that rule.
On the fingers of one hand Kali could count the number of times she had been admitted to her father's sanctum. Once had been the night, three years ago, that she had informed him she was defying his wishes and contract-marrying Darius Odell. The last occasion, a scant six months before, the day of her return to Greely House after Darius' funeral, when Marcus Greely informed her that the Family would do nothing to find out who had killed her husband.
The door itself was a huge piece of carved hardwood, hung on the strongest hinges available ... a sealed, windowless sanctum beyond that door—which was exactly the way that Marcus Greely liked it.
"It's just into second watch, Kali," said Simon. "It's Father. No one's seen him for hours."
"So?"
"He'd returned from a meeting with Kamat, about that merchant's association thing, just before sunset. He was madder than I've ever seen him. I don't think it was anything to do with Kamat, it was something else. He wouldn't say what was the matter and when I asked him he seemed almost on the point of slugging me."
It couldn't have happened to a nicer person, Kali told herself.
"About a half hour ago this arrived," Quincannon said, holding up a leather portfolio case. "Your father's been expecting this case for days. He'd left orders to have it brought to him no matter what the hour, so I went to his rooms. The bed hadn't been slept in. I knocked here. I even checked the kitchen. The study door is locked, apparently from the inside. Ten minutes of yelling and we still haven't gotten an answer."
"And you haven't gone in there yet?" demanded Kali.
"I wanted the two of you here before I broke in on him." Quincannon held up a slim silver key. "I do have this."
That surprised Kali. "So," Simon said, "let's do it, dammit."
Kali Duquesne stared at her father's body. He lay half across the huge desk that stood at the center of the room. From this angle it might have appeared that he was only taking a moment to rest.
Kali leaned against the edge of the table, not all that certain what she was feeling just then. She and her father had never been all that close. Marcus Greely hadn't been all that close to anyone. The last time they'd faced each other in his study they'd ended up screaming. Now the only thing left was a queasy feeling in the pit of her stomach.
Quincannon lingered near the door. He walked forward finally and bent over the desk. Kali heard him speaking but couldn't tell what the words were. Then he reached out and closed the dead man's eyes.
The killing had been done with a single blow to the side of Marcus Greely's head, a blow that had caved in the side of his head.
"Whoever did it," Simon said from beside the door, "he had to have let him in himself."
"Someone he felt comforta
ble with, even trusted," said Kali. "—As much as he'd ever trust anyone."
"Including us," said Simon, turning toward Quincannon. "What kind of a security chief are you, old man? It's your job to keep things like this from happening."
Kali heard the distinctive sound of a wrist sheath spring: she knew that it had deposited a stiletto into her brother's hand.
Quincannon didn't wait for Simon. He closed the gap in two strides, his fist slamming into the younger man's chin. The stiletto clattered onto the floor and he kicked it away.
Before anything else could happen a small figure appeared in the doorway, staring at all three of them. Except for a bushy mustache the newcomer was clean shaven, and dressed in a heavy sweater, pants and knee-high boots, all black.
"God," he said, "I thought I was walking into a tavern brawl."
"A blackleg, that's all we need now," said Simon. "Just who are you anyway, and who let you in, dammit?"
The officer stared at Simon for a long moment, then turned toward Kali. "M'sera, I'm officer Ian McVoy. Here at the request of Marcus Greely. The storm, unhappily, delayed me."
"Father called for you?" said Simon.
"Under his own seal."
Kali saw Quincannon grimace. "It seems m'ser had more planned for tonight than we knew—I'm afraid, officer McVoy, that there has been a slight change in plans."
"So I see, so I see," nodded McVoy. "M'sera Duquesne, if you would be good enough to escort one of these two m'sers somewhere to cool off. I'll have questions for you all, but they can wait awhile— one killing at a time is more than enough for me."
"I must be doing something right," said Quincannon. "Counting Simon, it's the fourth time someone's tried to kill me in the last few weeks."
Kali rummaged through the medicine and bandages in the small wooden box she had taken from the cabinet. She had the ruined shirt sleeve off. The cut on Quincannon's arm wasn't deep, and not even an inch long, a lot of blood, hardly deep enough for a scar.
"You keep pulling stunts like this thing with Simon and we'll be having to plan your funeral, not to mention hiring a new chief of security."