Not that Justice wanted names. He was totally satisfied to know as little as possible about the entire thing.
But the fear in the boy—indicated something more than Raj had said. As for Marina Kamat, he knew the lady only by reputation. Granted, since he had started College he had found himself among the offspring of many of Merovingen's oldest Houses. He knew—on a speaking basis—most of those heirs to wealth and power. But, m'sera Kamat he did not know, more than her reputation. What she had done when she had found out that Raj had written the poetry in his friend's name. . . .
Justice shrugged. He had done all he could, had given Raj the best advice he had at the time. The entire situation was out of his hands now. Raj was safe—had dropped by to say so—a conversation painfully uninformative. One remembered a certain midnight errand—and other mysterious goings-on. . . .
"Justus."
The hoarse, nasal voice brought Justice out of his studies. He looked up: facing him from the other side of his table stood Krishna Malenkov.
Krishna. Justice's part-time tormentor; hightowner son of The Malenkovs, doomed by his father to live in this near-to-shabby rooming house close to the College on a monthly stipend that could not come close to meeting Krishna's needs. The stocky hightowner looked less than impressive now; the color of his nose rivaled the red of his shirt, and his eyes blinked slightly out of focus.
"Sit down, Krishna," Justice said, gesturing at a chair. "What's wrong?"
"I need some more of that medicine you sold me."
Justice lifted one eyebrow. "What did you do? Drink it like water? You had enough in that packet to get you through a week of the Crud."
Krishna's dark eyes wavered. "Dropped most of it," he admitted in what seemed a suitably embarrassed voice. "Had the shakes. Bad."
"Well, you don't look much better." Justice sighed quietly. "You still owe me for—"
"And I'll pay you back," Krishna snapped, lifting his chin and assuming a haughty expression. The impression was shattered in the next instant by a noisy, soppy sneeze. "There . . . you see?" Krishna drew a lace handkerchief from his shirt pocket and blew his nose. Several of the diners close by turned toward the noise, then looked away, offended. "I need it bad, Justus."
"Oh, all, right." Justice stood up, left his book open to guard his place at the table, and started back toward his room. Footsteps came from behind him; Krishna was following.
"Where do you get the stuff?" Krishna asked, as Justice unlocked the door to his room.
"Friend of mine. He owes me, too, and he's paying me in medicine."
"Huhn." Some of Krishna's old sarcasm surfaced. "Playing the lender, eh? Going to set up your own bank?"
Justice ignored the comment, got the lamp lit, and opened a drawer on his table. Pulling out a packet of Raj's herbal medicines, he turned to Krishna.
"There. See if you can keep from dropping it this time. I'm running low." He handed the medicine to his fellow student, hoping his voice did not reflect the lie. Raj had left plenty of medicine behind the day he had stopped by to ask Justice's advice. But given half the chance, Krishna would use up what supply Justice had.
"Thanks. I'll make sure you get paid back." Krishna walked into the hall and turned left toward his own room.
Justice aimed a growled curse after the hightowner. Sure you will . . . but in what year? He shut the drawer and turned off the lamp. Senseless waste of oil, oil he had to provide himself, not only for the lamp, but for the heater. Fellow students complained that Justice had the coldest room in wintertime they had ever visited. Justice grimaced. Maybe so. But he was of no House to have the money to afford more.
Closing and locking the door behind him, Justice returned to the common room. His table waited for him, but it now had another occupant than the somnolent Sunny. Father Rhajmurti sat there, giving his order to Jason the waiter.
"Ah, Justice," Rhajmurti said. "I hope you don't mind if I join you."
"Certainly not." Justice sat down, closed his book, and turned to the priest. "May I help you, Father?"
"No. I've been sequestered in the College all day and needed a change of scenery. How are your exams coming?"
Justice shrugged. "I've been prepared for them all," he said. "Hard studying pays off."
A wide smile touched the priest's face. "Good lad. You haven't failed me yet. You get marks as good as any student I know. You've only one test left, right?"
"Two days from now. And it's going to be terrible. Accounting. Fah! I'm terrible with numbers."
"But you realize how much you need those numbers if you're ever to succeed as a painter, don't you?"
"Oh, yes. But that doesn't mean I have to like them."
Rhajmurti rubbed his chin. "You don't mind studying with other students, do you?" "No."
"Good. I think I have a perfect partner in mind for you. She's a genius when it comes to accounting."
She. Justice lifted one eyebrow. "Do I know her?"
"You might. Sonja Keisel. She's in her third year, like you."
Sonja Keisel. The name rang a bell, but Justice could not bring a face to mind.
"Sure. I'll study with her. If she's as good as you say, I certainly won't be hurt by her help." He grinned and spread his hands. "And I need all the help I can get."
"Good. I'll be seeing her tomorrow. Should I set up a room for the two of you?"
Justice leapt at the chance to save even more on heating oil. "If you would. As long as it's not too much bother."
Rhajmurti nodded. Justice wondered briefly why the priest was going out of his way to help him prepare for a test. He knew himself in Rhajmurti's debt and had always tried to keep the scales in balance by performing to his best, but at times the priest's concern for his welfare seemed a bit out of proportion. If what the Revenantists taught about karma was true, then Rhajmurti was heaping up a powerful lot of it.
Oh, well. Justice had never turned down a gift given in friendship, and he was not about to start now.
The College still teemed with rumors of the incident in the harbor some weeks back. Justice heard the subject bandied back and forth among groups of students standing in the wide, drafty hallways. Was it the sharrh? Or—even worse, to some minds—was it the sharrists? Ancestors know, the sharrh seemed totally disinterested in mankind, as long as mankind avoided certain levels of technology. But the sharrists?
And all Justice knew was that he had had the fear of Something put into him when he had seen the lights and fire blooming over the harbor.
He shrugged, hurrying down the hallway toward the room where Father Rhajmurti had told him he would be studying with m'sera Keisel. His face felt hot, a reaction, he knew, that did not come from the exertion of his quick pace.
Ancestors! He had never been at ease around women!
Women he drew portraits of he did not find intimidating, or, if he did, he was able to sublimate the feeling beneath his concentration. Women priests who taught at the College impressed him with their learning and their expertise. And women he met in passing hardly bothered him at all.
But women of his own age, with whom he was expected to interact, put him in such a state of mind as to make him tongue-tied.
He could imagine Krishna off in some dark corner close by, snickering at it all.
He straightened his shoulders and hurried on. A late start this morning had forced him to forego breakfast if he expected to be on time. As it was, he knew himself to be late. The quick poleboat ride from Spellbridge to the College had chilled him; the icy wind still blew down the canals. What a condition to be in when he first met this hightowner lady.
And she, a genius in accounting.
He stopped by the door that led to the room where she would be waiting, straightened his coat, wishing it had been less threadbare. Drawing a deep breath, he walked into the room.
Only one person sat there.
Father Rhajmurti.
"Good morning, Justice," he said, gesturing to one of the chairs that flanked
the small table he sat beside. "You're right on time, as usual."
Right on time? Lord and Ancestors . . . I'm late! Or ... I think I am.
"M'sera Keisel should be here at any moment," Rhajmurti continued, seemingly unaware of the state Justice was in.
"Huhn." Justice sat down, arranging his book and papers in a neat pile before him. He turned to the priest, and risked all in one throw. "Father . . . you know I'm clumsy when I'm around ladies. Do I look all right? I want to make a good impression on her . . . she could make or break me to her House by what she thinks."
Rhajmurti smiled. "Don't worry about it. This is one lady who doesn't put much store in first impressions."
"No ... I don't," said a voice from the door.
Justice looked up. A small, delicately built woman stood in the doorway, her black hair ruffled, and the expensive, fur-bordered cloak she wore shoved back over her shoulders. Her sweater was finely woven, the collar of her blouse tastefully decked with small jew- els. Her trousers were of soft wool, worn tucked into boots the cost of which put those Justice wore to shame.
"I'm Sonja Keisel," she said, smiled disarmingly as she walked to the table, "although Father Rhajmurti has probably already told you my name."
"Justice Lee," Justice said, and stood to give her a slight bow. He gestured to the other chair. "Please, m'sera ... be seated."
She set her books down and unfastened her cloak. "M'sera, be damned, Justus. If we're going to be studying together, I'll get sick of the title before the hour's out. Call me Sonja."
Justice swallowed, exchanged a quick look with Rhajmurti, and nodded. He took her cloak and hung it on one of the wall hooks next to his utilitarian coat.
"I'll leave you two alone," Rhajmurti said, standing and heading toward the door. "If you want to break for lunch, you know where my office is. We'll go together, if you like."
Sonja laughed softly. "We'll look you up then," she replied. "But I hope we'll be so deep in numbers that we won't notice the passing time."
Justice nodded again, afraid his voice would fail. Numbers? Lord and Ancestors! Sitting next to such a woman would tax the concentration of a yogi.
When lunchtime finally rolled around, Justice felt more pleased with himself and the situation. He had not disgraced himself, but had managed to keep his mind on his studies. He was, as Sonja said, hardly stupid; he simply had small aptitude for math.
She seemed to be totally relaxed around him, at ease with the situation, and more than helpful with her observations on the finer points of accounting. Yes, she knew he was an artist, studying under the patronage of Father Rhajmurti, but his lack of hightown birth bothered her not in the least. In the few breaks they had taken, she had told him some of her life in the Keisel household.
Her mother, Nadia Keisel, imported beef from the cities that lay north of Merovingen. Her family had held a monopoly over that trade for generations, and consequently, to say they lived quite well would have been an understatement. She had two older half-brothers born of contract marriages, but her parents had married before her birth.
Though she spoke of her family life in an easy tone of voice, Justice sensed something sad about her, a touch of the melancholic.
Now, hurrying behind her down the walkway on second-level Kass, Justice wondered what was troubling her, and if she would ever confide in him. A small voice laughed in his mind. You? Confide in you? Surely she has better companions, ones who understand her station in life, more than a struggling artist with delusions of grandeur.
He held the door of Hilda's tavern open for her and Father Rhajmurti, and followed them into the common room.
They were early, well before the sixth hour, so the true lunch crunch had not hit yet. No sooner had they started for Justice's usual table than Sunny came trotting across the room, golden tail held stiffly aloft, with just the slighest curl to its tip.
"Oh . . . she's gorgeous!" Sonja said, kneeling down to offer her fingertips for Sunny's inspection. Her dark eyes glittered in the lamplight as she looked up at Justice. "Is she yours?"
"He," Justice corrected. "No. He's not mine. He belongs to my landlady, Hilda Meier. She's also owner of this tavern."
"That cat might as well belong to 'im," a voice said from behind them. "Way he loves this man. . . . Huhn! Swear he takes after Justus here more'n he do me!"
Justice turned to face Hilda, who had come from her usual place by the kitchen door, drawn no doubt by the appearance of the definitely high-born.
"Will you be havin' lunch, m'sera?" she asked of Sonja, "or only somethin' t'drink?"
"Both," Sonja smiled, standing. Sunny had already passed judgment, despite mistaken gender, and was rubbing back and forth from Sonja's legs to Justice's.
Father Rhajmurti led the way to the table and seated Sonja, while Justice laid their wraps out on the fourth chair, making sure there was room for Sunny to curl up. Jason was at their sides immediately, ready to take their orders. Justice smiled slightly. He could not remember Jason moving so fast in months.
And lunch, when it came, put everything Justice had eaten in Hilda's for more than months to shame. Sonja had insisted on treating. And treat it was: white-tail, not silverbit . . . and very, very expensive. He glanced up at Rhajmurti, but received the slight headshake that said, don't question. So, with watering mouth, Justice began his meal.
He might as well have died and gone to heaven . . . or (with deference to the Revenantists) been born into the highest of all Merovingian Houses. The fish in its sauce was beyond description, the greens fresh and delightfully seasoned. And to drink—not beer, mind you, but wine . . . expensive, imported, slightly dry white.
Sonja ate as if she found nothing unusual about the meal and so, Justice thought, she probably would not. More than likely, such fare was a common sight on her table. He took a sip of wine, set his glass down, and covertly studied the woman.
Damn! There was a lot to study. He had liked her from the first words she had spoken, and she had not proved him wrong. Though possessing all the manners, class and style of her upbringing, she seemed totally unaffected by it all. That she would even consent to come to this place to eat said more than words could tell. Krishna ate here because he lived here, and because, if he could save on his meals, he could frequent the upper level bars and be seen in the "correct" company. Justice had the impression that Sonja would come back here to eat if she found the food and service good . . . come back unselfconsciously as she had entered the tavern first.
"Well, now ... if it isn't Justus."
The drawling voice cut into Justice's warm feeling of contentment. He looked up from his plate: Krishna Malenkov stood a few paces away, hand on one hip, looking somewhat better than last night. The stocky hightowner sauntered forward, coming to a halt a pace away. "Father," he said, giving Rhajmurti a short bow. He moved to one side so he could see who else sat at the table.
Justice came close to laughing out loud at the change in Krishna's face.
"M'sera Keisel." All manners now, Krishna swept a graceful bow in Sonja's direction. "What are you doing here?"
The expression on Sonja's face was hard tor Justice to read. She lifted one eyebrow slightly, and nodded her head in greeting the barest degree.
"I'm having lunch," she said in such a neutral, controlled voice that Justice would not have recognized it. "That should be obvious, don't you think?"
Krishna's face reddened. "What I mean to say, m'sera, is that it's surprising to find you here in this tavern when there are far more suitable places for one of your station to eat."
"Oh?" Sonja lifted one hand and beckoned to Jason who had never been more than a few steps away all through the meal. "I find the food and the company both excellent." She reached into her sweater and drew out four silver lunes. Justice stared at this wealth, so casually handled. "For the meals," she said to Jason, smiling, "and the rest for your fine service."
"Thank you, m'sera . . . thank you." Wide-eyed, Jason bowed several times, eac
h bow lower than the last.
"M'sera—" Krishna began.
"Shall we return to the College, Father?" Sonja asked, ignoring Krishna as if he had not spoken. She pushed back her chair and stood. "We'll be late for our studies."
Justice rose to his feet, purposely keeping his face averted from Krishna's eyes. He extended Rhajmurti's cloak to the priest, and helped Sonja slip into her fur-bordered wrap. With a farewell scratch of Sunny's head, Justice shrugged into his own coat.
"So sorry to be in such a rush, Krishna," Sonja said, smiling an empty smile. "Perhaps we'll be seeing each other soon."
As he turned to follow Rhajmurti and Sonja from the common room, Justice throttled the childish urge to yell out for joy.
CHAPTER XV
TROUBLED WATERS
by C. J. Cherryh
It was tribunal, deep in Bogar Cut, under Bogar's foundations, a place where water was close and brick and pilings sent cold to the very bones. The candle on the slab of rock was the only light, except that gray that came dimly from Bogar Cut's shadow, noon-light, but overcast. Sleet again. Mist that slicked decks and stone.
Tribunal, canaler-law. And this time it was Jones who sat on the rock in front of the slab—not in any coat, not warm as Mondragon wanted her to be. She wore three sweaters, a pair of pants thick enough to keep the joints from chilling, and to keep her feet warm when she tucked them up with the poncho a skip-freighter wore on a day like this—still rich, as that went, but not the way a coat would mark her.
And alone. Damn well alone.
"What I got t' tell ye," she said. "—is what Megarys done. It wasn't f slave-runnin'. It was pure damn blackmail. I be honest wi' ye. I tell ye ever'thing they done an' I tell ye right off they could o' done worse. But them that bought it done, that's my man's quarrel. Them that done it, done it to the Trade, and that's my quarrel. So if you tell me, ferget it, Jones, ye got what was comin't' ye, I'll take it an' shut up and I'm sorry I bothered ye. I put it t' majority rule."
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