Flood Tide

  All of which Mondragon was sure had Iosef Kalugin's full backing. The aging governor wanted to die of natural causes—and that meant making it unprofitable for his two stronger offspring to assassinate him, by the simple expedient of nominating his feckless eldest son as vice-governor and signaling the old moneyed Families, like Boregy, of course, that he planned to pass power not to a strong successor, but to a cabal of the same moneyed interests that had kept him in power lifelong. If Tatiana or Anastasi got to power, Iosef would tell them, the world would shake. Tatiana favored trade with Nev Hettek; Anastasi promoted war. Not so with Mischa. Mischa would be no more than a puppet, the Families in question knew that: Mikhail the clockmaker, they called him—brilliant in his own crazed way, at inventing gadgetry of wheels and valves and such that (irony among others) his chief partisan the cardinal would have called anathema and unapproved tech had any of her enemies proposed it. Mischa was also involved to the ears in the Cassie Boregy lunacy, which Exeter would otherwise have denounced as heresy—nothing powerful was useful to Exeter unless Exeter controlled it, and it was certain Exeter was watching Boregy closely on that account and figuring what to do about it. One needed no theology to explain Exeter's moves. Fanaticism and religious zeal was not her motive for the purge. Power was.

  An ex-Sword understood that game very well. And he had an idea at least why Anastasi was sending him to deliver a personal message to Tatiana Kalugin: approaching Tatiana was absolutely reasonable at this point. It was the timing that made Mondragon anxious—that it coincided with Delaree's arrest by Exeter's agents—which meant threads that led back to Anastasi's own organization.

  So Delaree died; and Mondragon, who had moved, until lately, mostly in the middle and nether tiers of Merovingen, had a cover that involved Boregy, a situation that Boregy might find . . . embarrassing. Ordinary Merovingians had no connections upriver to tell them that Mondragon was no Falkenaer name, and that he was no bastard Boregy—but rich Families with upriver connections and extensive intelligence in the government surely knew the whole story, how he had fled Nev Hettek, how Karl Fon wanted him back—

  Iosef Kalugin himself knew those facts. Tatiana did. One or the other of them (Mondragon's own suspicions leaned to Iosef lately) had had him beaten and thrown into the Grand, when he had first come to Merovingen looking for Boregy help—a quiet little signal that whoever had done it wanted no quarrel with Fon, and no dealing with possible factional feuds inside the Sword of God hierarchy— Thomas Mondragon could vanish without a trace, and Fon could simply wonder whether he was still alive somewhere.

  But he had frustrated their hopes by surviving and falling into the hands of Anastasi, the Advocate Militiar, head of the army, who wanted no negotiations with Karl Fon. So he had skipped, using Anastasi's money, from Boregy House to the Pet-rescu apartment, and mingled in hightown society at least by day—always a jump ahead of disaster.

  He did not understand, for instance, specifically why Richard Kamat had taken him in, though Richard had offered him plausible reasons. He had his own guess—that it was his relationship with Anastasi rather than that with Marina Kamat, who had paid his rent and taken it out in trade. Kamat, Nev Hettek ties and all, could very easily have exposed him: pregnant Marina's tantrums reminded him that she still had the means for blackmail or, failing that, revenge on him, if not for Richard Kamat's protecting him. And Richard, head of Kamat, head of the mercantile association, head of the second tier of Families in Merovingen, and ally of the Takahashis in Nev Hettek, had a great deal to lose if weak-handed Mischa and a cabal of Old Money came to power.

  So Richard preserved a fugitive's life, forgave him Marina's pregnancy, and thereby signaled Anastasi that he might deal—which put Anastasi, who took a hard line with the Fon government in Nev Hettek, in unlikely alliance with a Family whose Nev Hettek connections were ungodly public—

  All of which was an exposure that put Mondragon at a giddy, dangerous height in this city. Mondragon went to the meetings, attended the soirees and the dinners, wore velvet and Chattalen silk, unarmed. He did his fencing with words, these days, while he imagined behind every pair of eyes a sure knowledge who he was and a cynical calculation of his value to Anastasi and to Richard Kamat.

  Ye're crazed, Jones had cried on a certain night— he could remember the look on her sensible, sun-browned face, the plain reckoning of another survivor in rough waters, who knew the law of her Trade and the waterways, and who, as she would say— knew a fool when she saw one.

  They're goin't' kill ye, Mondragon! Ye go in an' out o' them fancy Houses an' ye smile at them sherks, and someday somebody's goin' t' lock a door an' ye ain't got no help! Ye got friends on the water, Mondragon, ye ain't got none in them places— Kamat'll sell ye as fast as Anastasi will, don't matter if he's your heart's own friend. Hightown folk just got different laws, Mondragon, friend don't mean nothin' to him, not if you ain't profitable. . . .

  And Jones professed to know nothing at all about politics.

  But she knew her city and she knew Kalugins and Kamats, and how once upon a not so long ago time, when someone fell afoul of the Families, most particularly the Kalugins, a body turned up floating in the Harbor—very discreet and quiet. Nowadays Exeter disposed of her enemies on Hanging Bridge, sometimes two and three at a time this summer past, and the governor, who had the power to assume jurisdiction in capital cases, declined to do a damned thing about it.

  Kalugin's executioner was the tag the canals hung on Exeter—only in whispers, God knew. Bloody Exeter. The lower tiers understood Exeter's religion better than the upper tiers gave them credit for.

  Three men hanged for "heretical thinking" and "forbidden technology" because of a warehouse alarm common as doorbells in Nev Hettek.

  A doctor driven out of practice for "unorthodoxy."

  A teenaged girl beaten and left on the canalside walkway over on Foundry, for asking why another was being arrested . . .

  That was the climate in Merovingen nowadays. Fear was working its way so deep into Merovingian thinking that very few were willing to object to arrests or question charges, or to speak of the disappeared.

  So Anastasi sent to his sister, who had attempted Anastasi's life by knife and poison and subversion, a sealed envelope, in Mondragon's pocket.

  And Mondragon presented himself to the grim and lately anxious blackleg guards at the Signeury's mid-level doors, with the more than slight idea he might be a deliberate sacrifice, in one sense or another. He had had that damned letter in his rooms at Kamat for hours, thought of ways to break the seal and read it—but he much doubted what he could gain that way was worth the risk of detection. He had two good and not mutually exclusive ideas what it held, and knowing it exactly made no particular difference.

  So it was up to the offices where Tatiana held sway—chief of city and police operations as Anastasi was of the military arm of the blacklegs. He got as far as the front desk in that office where a blackleg officer looked him over and asked his business.

  "Courier," he said, "from the Advocate Militiar."

  The man got up, called aides from the office inside, and insisted on a body search. That was the level of trust between the two staffs. He said, 'I don't object. But in advance of that, give m'sera the choice."

  "Of what?" the blackleg asked.

  One took a chance sometimes. Mondragon said, folding his arms and assuming a cold confidence he did not feel: "M'sera may say. Or not. Ask her."

  The man went. Mondragon stood still, relaxed only to change his stance and the blacklegs followed every move. Footsteps sounded, returning, the door opened, the man came back and Tatiana Kalugin came with him, red-haired, elegant, and armed, a blackleg military issue.

  "M'sera." Mondragon pulled his coat back delicately with two fingers, extracted the envelope, and offered it to the blackleg at his left.

  "McHugh," Tatiana said. The man brought her the envelope and the attention of the other two never left its proper target. Mondragon watched her br
eak the seal with a paper knife, not touching the seal itself, watched as, with a crisp unfolding of vellum, she read whatever was written there.

  Her face did not change expression. She looked directly at Mondragon then and said, "Come into my office."

  Mondragon walked past the desk. The blacklegs made to follow, but Tatiana said, "Wait outside."

  Inside, she went to her desk, sat down and wrote an answer in her own hand, folded an envelope and sealed it.

  She said, offering it to him, "How is Anastasi, by the way?"

  "Healthy," Mondragon said, and took the envelope.

  Tatiana laughed, quite pleasantly. "I trust," she said, and looked him over with a cold, critical stare, from the desk up. "Give him my love."

  He said, refusing any interpretation, "I will, m'sera."

  He wanted out of this room. He wanted to be back on the canals, far from the Signeury and its plots and its trading in human lives. He stood there while Tatiana Kalugin looked at him with God only knew what estimation of old scores, murders, attempted murders, and present opportunities.

  Finally she folded her hands in front of her on the desk and said, "Do you like my brother?"

  "I'm indebted to him."

  "Of course," she said, with a slow deliberation that made him think—God, she'll wonder, she'll ask, she'll look for leverage. . . .

  Jones—

  She said, quietly, "All his best people are. Indebted to him, that is. Good day, ser. Do be careful."

  THE TESTING (REPRISED)

  by Nancy Asire

  Rhajmurti sat on the end of one of the benches by the stairs, watching the flow of students and priests pass by him. The halls were growing emptier as the last classes of the day wound down. The change in the atmosphere of the College struck him stronger than before he had talked with Trevor Bordinov. A feeling of repression permeated the hall: students talked quietly to each other and left immediately after their classes, while the priests went about their business all but ignoring the non-ordained.

  When Willa Exeter had come to power after Cardinal Ito Boregy passed on to a new rebirth, Rhajmurti had grown concerned, not only for himself and other priests he considered moderates, but for priests like Bordinov who were reformers at heart. He should not have worried; Trevor might be called a hothead, but he was too smart to make an example of himself.

  Rhajmurti straightened, smoothed his saffron shirt, and stood. His quarry was in sight.

  "Alexiev," he said, stepping out into the hall.

  The heavyset priest changed course and joined Rhajmurti by the bench.

  "Rama's blessing," he said. "How are you, Alfonso?"

  "Outside of a headache, not bad. Do you have plans for supper?"

  "No. But why don't you join me for something to drink first?"

  Rhajmurti smiled and followed Alexiev up the stairs. He disliked what he was doing, but sometimes one had to undertake unpleasant duties for a worthy end.

  "Hard day?" Alexiev asked, opening the door to his room and ushering Rhajmurti in.

  "Actually, no. But you look like you've been through the mill."

  Alexiev snorted as he poured himself and Rhajmurti each a glass of wine. "It will take more than this to get me down. Sit, Alfonso."

  "How's Krishna doing?" Rhajmurti asked. "He's still in your literature class, isn't he?"

  "Better. I think you scared him out of ten years' growth when you dragged him home that night. His father's still upset, but Krishna seems to have settled down a bit."

  "I think the College getting involved in punishing drug dealers and drug takers is helping calm things."

  Alexiev lifted a heavy eyebrow. "What do you want, Alfonso?"

  "What do you mean, what do I want?"

  "I've known you too many years not to recognize that expression in your eyes. Don't try to hide things from me."

  Rhajmurti gestured briefly. "I'm worried, Pytor. About some students I know."

  "Ah-h-h. The testing. Well, I can tell you right now, I don't know how soon it's going to be."

  "Or who will be administering it?"

  Alexiev took a long sip of his wine and met Rhajmurti's eyes. "Why?"

  "I'd like to be one of the testers."

  "You're qualified. I'm sure you've already been selected."

  "But you don't know for sure?"

  "Alfonso—"

  "I don't want you to name names, but if you know, tell me. It's important."

  "And why do you think I'd know anything about it?"

  "Don't try to hide things from me, to quote a wise man I know. You've always been close to the circles of power, and I haven't noticed you backing off lately."

  Alexiev wiped his forehead and frowned. "Gods, Alfonso. No one's sure which direction to jump now. So I've kept myself in good graces with the powerful. What of it? I might be able to do some good."

  "I'm not criticizing you. I need your help, that's all. I'm trying to do some good myself."

  "You're being considered as a tester," Alexiev admitted, "and that's straight from Cardinal Tremaine himself. But you never heard it from me. Swear it, Alfonso."

  "I swear." Rhajmurti sipped at his wine. Tremaine. Head of the intellectual wing of the College; brilliant, cold, immersed in theory and theology.

  Rhajmurti had studied with him and managed to come away with some of the highest grades Tremaine had ever given out. "You're working with him on this, aren't you, Pytor?"

  Alexiev squirmed in his chair, quite a sight for someone of his build. "Do you have to ask all these questions? Especially when you've figured out the answers?"

  "If events weren't on such a breakneck pace, I wouldn't be so pushy. You know I've got several students who could be singled out by the testers for no other reason than they're brilliant and full of the fire of youth. I don't want to see that happen, and I'm willing to take a risk to see that it doesn't."

  Alexiev paled. "What kind of risk?"

  "It's nothing that could come back on you. And I don't think it's really a risk now, after what you told me. What I'd like you to do is—"

  "Now wait a minute, Alfonso. I don't want to get involved in something that could—disadvantage me."

  "I'm not asking you to endanger yourself." Rhajmurti leaned forward, keeping his eyes locked with Alexiev's. "Convince Cardinal Tremaine that I should be a tester, which shouldn't be hard since you say he's already considering me. Once that's done, set me up with certain students early on in the testing."

  "I don't know if I can do that. I honestly don't. Cardinal Tremaine hasn't compiled the list yet—of testers or students."

  "Even better," Rhajmurti inserted smoothly before Alexiev could go on. "This is exactly where you can help me . . . and help yourself. Offer Tremaine your services for setting up both lists. I'm sure he'd be more than pleased to have that mundane task off his back."

  Alexiev's eyes narrowed in thought. "That's all? Nothing more?"

  "Nothing more. I want to make sure I'm able to test certain students early on. It's a little thing, Pytor, but it will elevate your importance in Cardinal Tremaine's eyes."

  "Are you sure that's all?" Alexiev asked. "You're damned tricky, Alfonso."

  Rhajmurti placed one hand over his heart. "I swear, by Rama, Shiva, Vishnu and all the gods above and below that I'm not doing anything nefarious or injurious to the College or Revenantism. Is that good enough for you?"

  "Well, you didn't have to go that far." Alexiev finished off his glass of wine and stared out his window. "It's Justus you're worried about, isn't it?"

  "Yes, but he isn't the only one. I don't think one should be assumed a threat because one was born an Adventist. Converts are equally precious in the sight of the gods, perhaps more so. Converts make a choice."

  "All right . . . I'll try. I don't see how it could hurt me. But I can't guarantee anything. And if I do succeed, I think it would be best if I scattered these students out, don't you? Having too many of your proteges in one session might seem suspicious."
/>
  "I don't care how you do it, as long as it's early in the testing and I'm the one who questions them." Rhajmurti emptied his glass. "And for godssakes, let me know as soon as you can if I'm chosen—and when the testing begins."

  Alexiev stood and looked down at Rhajmurti. "You drive a hard bargain, Father."

  "And you. Father, are a pompous ass!" Rhajmurti shot his compatriot his most disarming smile. "Let's go to dinner."

  Justice looked around the large classroom at the students who had gathered for the first of Father Rhajmurti's emergency evening catechism classes. Raj sat to his left at the long table, and to his right sat Sonja Keisel, though he could not for the life of him figure out why a good Revenantist like her would be included in this crash program. But then the same could be said for the other students present, good Revenantists all: Kalivera Chavez, Thomas Cromwell, Ramadanje North, and Ivan Dorjan. The only thing he could come up with that linked them was the fact their teachers considered them above-average in intelligence, and more than above-average in diverse intellectual pursuits.

  Ivan was the College radical; there were times Justice swore Ivan was atheistic, at best agnostic. He very quietly made a point of questioning everything taught concerning religion. Of all the students present, Justice feared the most for Ivan. His brilliant musical career might be brought to an abrupt end if he continued in his past patterns of behavior.

  "All right," Rhajmurti said, leaning back in his chair and surveying the room. "Now that we've established why we're here this morning, let's consider the questions you might be asked."

  "Do any of the cardinals know you're giving these classes, Father?" Cromwell asked.