She was right. There were also loud drum-rolls while Master Milton poked big shiny imitation swords through the trunk's slats, and more fake blood ran out on the stage.
"I hope they don't slip on that crap," Black Cal yawned. "Does it get any sleazier than this?"
"Not much. They can't afford ter look too clumsy."
"Afford to?" Black Cal frowned at her. "Wait, Rif. All that effort for a show this cheap-looking . . . Are you telling me it's deliberate?"
"Hell, yes." Rif grinned. "Don'tcher see it? He's using fireworks fer a style-trademark, fer a tinselly-sleaze magic show—and everybody that sees it links those two things together." Black Cal felt his jaw drop.
"Ye see?" Rif insisted. "Get the crowd ter make the connection: fireworks equals cheap trick."
Black Cal stifled a whoop of laughter. "That's why the costumes look so silly? And the tickets are so cheap? And— Lord, it's brilliant! The style's part of the message. Every detail thought out. The sheer art— Rif, I love you!" He froze as he realized what he'd just said.
Rif thought it over for a handful of seconds, while onstage the trunk opened and the assistant hopped out. "What the hell, I guess I could love you too, Black Cal."
Almost shyly, he took her hand. "What a hell of a team we make," he said, watching the urns flare while Master Milton pulled all manner of ridiculous objects— including his shapely female assistant—out of a supposedly-empty barrel. "No one could expect anything like us. Nobody can predict us . . ."
"You an' me, Black Cal," Rif murmured, running her thumb across his long fingers. "Hell, we've got connections all the way from Tidewater ter The Rock, and we know every trick in the book between us. What in hell can't we do?"
Black Cal bent close and kissed her. Rif kissed back. They necked like teenagers all the way to the Grand Finale.
The crowd was ecstatic and restless when Master Milton, in a final horn-blare and drum-bang fanfare, turned his back to the audience—displaying a cloak patterned with sequined star-symbols—yelled his long-est-yet mouthful of mystical mumbo-jumbo, and gestured theatrically at the horizon.
From the far end of the darkness-hidden pier, the first rockets leaped for the sky. The crowd gasped, shrieked, howled, and stared in fixed-eyed fascination at the whistling spark-trails that burst into multicolored fire-flowers. Master Milton smoothly continued his Mystical Passes. More rockets went up, bigger and noisier. Their thunder interrupted the growing noises of shocked recognition from the crowd. Whistle! Boom! Gunpowder stinks and rainbow spark-showers flooded the night.
"Now! Now comes the Roman-candle!" Rif had to shout. "Watch!"
At the end of the pier a tall fountain of gold, red and white sparks shot skyward, illuminating its accompanying black-powder cloud.
It also clearly picked out Master Milton's assistants at the end of the pier, running about with fuse-lighters on the ends of long poles, busily firing the wicks of fat rocket-tubes that sat in an orderly rack overhanging the water. By now, everyone could recognize the growing, acrid smell of gunpower.
Everyone also saw one of the fresh-lit smaller rockets break free—accidentally?—from the rack and go bucketing across the pier. In the multiple spark-shower they saw one of the assistants chase after the runaway rocket, swatting at it with the end of his pole, until a—deliberately?—lucky blow booted the fugitive off the pier and into the dark water, where it hissed and sank to oblivion.
Master Milton continued to gesture theatrically and shout impressive gibberish, but no one was paying attention anymore. Crowd-voices stopped keening in fright and began rumbling and bellowing in recognition, relief and outrage. The words "sharrh" and "cheap trick" were repeated often and loud enough to be audible up to the top of the stairs.
"It's working!" Black Cal laughed like a kid. "They've caught on."
"We did it!" Rif sang. Then she caught at Black Cal and kissed him furiously.
The knowledge brought the crowd to action, but none of it unified. One batch of bravos tried to storm the stage—and discovered why it was built so tall. Confused blacklegs spotted them, saw something they could take action on, and swatted the mob back with riot batons. A larger section of the crowd condensed into a noisy brawl. Blacklegs waded into that, too. Smaller knots of onlookers—arguing, guessing, calculating, swapping theories—formed spontaneously all over the dock-level. One knot of religious opportunists tried to start up an obscure hymn. They were shouted down before finishing half a verse, and another brawl started. Quick-thinking lovers grabbed each other and ducked behind any available objects for quick sessions of frantic groping. A small gang of well-soaked drunks or druggies sat on the edge of a loading-dock, watching the whole spectacle with placid smiles. A wedge of mixed College students and priests struggled toward the nearest exit, eyes gleaming, some of them even jotting notes on their tablets as they fled. On the central steps, safely encircled by his defiant bodyguard, Old Man Fife laughed so hard that a few of his retainers worried about the possibility of heart attack.
Rif and Black Cal laughed until they fell over. They came up wheezing and gulping, to note that the stage-curtain had closed and Master Milton was nowhere in sight.
"Smart of him," Black Cal chuckled. "I hope he had the sense to shed those robes and jump off the pier."
"How'd you guess?" Rif panted. "Actually, the boat's waiting at the end o' the pier."
"Can he get safely out of town?"
"He ain't goin' ter. He'll show up in a couple days ter collect his money from Old Fife. Then the blacklegs'll catch 'im and take 'im ter the College t'answer lots of angry questions. No worries; he's got his answers all ready. He'll teach 'em lots about rockets while he's talking."
"Brilliant! Everybody learns, every detail planned. Damn, Rif, that's two Sword of God plots we've spoiled, in as many days."
"And more t' come," Rif promised. "Oh, the last salvo's coming up."
Black Cal laughed again. "What a crazy alliance we make. But hell, it works." He hugged her shamelessly. "Swords or sharrh, crooks or priests or politicians—all hell can't stop us."
"To the stars," she whispered against his neck. "All the way to the stars."
They sat sprawled on the top stair, hugging like a pair of romantic kids, while the crowd roared and tangled below, and the last salvo of fireworks whistled and boomed and lit the sky like the blaze of day. Nobody noticed them at all.
EPILOGUE
TROUBLED WATERS
by C.J. Cherryh
The sky lit. Jones saw it go, figured every eye in Megary was turned toward those windows, the few windows there were at all in Megary.
And she skimmed right close to Ulger's side, silent as a whisper in the water.
Then she edged back to the crank. The pin was already in, securing the tiller. Awkward as sin to pole with the bar up and the engine fixed. But she had worked on that damn crank. She shoved it over and this time it caught on the first try.
Fast, now. No shakes. Get home to Mondragon, before he took to panic and started searching. He was out on his business. She was out on hers. It's all right, she had told the boys. Ye c'n go up, sit on the roof, watch th' show. A'right?
Maybe she had made it downstairs and away from the tie-up without the boys seeing at all. Probably not. Probably they had heard the boat moving and taken a look about then. But by then she was well away and they had to get off the roof.
The match flared, warm in her hands. The fuel-soaked rag was brighter.
Crash! The bottle broke on Megary's doorstep and fire blazed up.
A bullet spanged off something solid.
About the time she shoved the throttle wide, keeping low to the deck, the way she had run with Moghi's cargos with the harbor patrol in pursuit.
Fire in the sky.
They were ringing the bell somewhere by the time she was passing Calder Bend, and crowds were still thick everywhere this close to the harbor, people pointing toward the sound of the bell, with the big bell of the Signeury tolling— Fire
! Fire! Fire!
Not a big one. Megary would have it out in short order. Pity to scare folk.
But the first time it had been a dead fish, in Megary's fancyboat.
The next time that fancyboat had had its bilge-plug bunged right out.
And a window had gone. Denny wasn't the only one could shoot a stone.
Mondragon was going to raise hell about her sneaking off. But he knew, damn right he knew—he couldn't hold her.
And Megary—Megary was going to come crawling to the Trade, or do something foolish. She knew that, sure as she knew the waterways and the dark places and sure as they knew what it meant when things like this started happening to a House.
You could do a lot of things in Merovingen.
But nobody laid hands on the Trade.
APPENDIX
MEROVINGIAN PHARMACOLOGY 103
/OR/
"POISON IN JEST"
(An exerpt from the lectures of Father Ignatius Singh, M.D.)
Young m'sers and m'seras, the subject I deal with today is one which, if it has not already impinged on your life and karma, is one that, as a doctor of medicine you will be dealing with on a regular basis. This is the subject of poisons.
Accidental poisoning is a fact of life on Merovin. Even after many centuries of life here, we are still finding new substances which are incompatible with human biology. That a great many of these discoveries are as a result of man's regrettable never-ending search for new ways in which to intoxicate his body and further complicate his karma goes without saying. The borderline between intoxication and toxemia is often a narrow one—and I point out to you that the two terms spring from the same root as evidence that this has been long known. We are fortunate that our bodies are as resilient as they are.
But accidental poisioning is not my topic; you have already covered that particular lesson under the heading of "emergency medicine and first aid." No, the subject of this lecture is deliberate poisoning.
For all of the outre toxic substances available to the poisoner of this city, you will find that in seventy-five percent of the cases he has resorted to the old favorites of arsenic, lead, strychnine, or cyanide. Why? It is quite simple; they are still the easiest to dispense, the most readily obtainable, the hardest to trace. The poisoner in this case will almost always be an amateur, rather than a professional. And in spite of the old saying that "poison is a woman's weapon," is as likely to be male as female. Administration will usually have been by ingestion, although there have been some ingenious cases of contact poisoning by means of irritation of the skin and subsequent application of the poison in a soothing ointment. I will not trouble you with the symptoms of these four old favorites; you will find them in your Toxicology text. To judge whether your client has been poisoned by one of these four, look for the following: an unhappy lover, a low-to-moderate level business rival, a contractual partner wanting out, hostile sibling rivalry, an aged and demanding parent. In short, look for someone with an emotionally based reason for eliminating your client, and access to your client.
The professional poisoner will use more sophisticated means, often administering the poison in several doses so as to counterfeit disease. Frequently the only clue that you will have will be the fact that no one else in the household is suffering from this illness. The motivation here will be one of three possibilities: political, economic, or emotional. Professional assassins are not inexpensive, especially those employing the more sophisticated means of elimination that poison provides, and you are unlikely to find them practicing their trade anywhere other than hightown.
In the case of a political motivation, there are three main sources of poisons: the sharrists, the Sword of God, and the Janists. The sharrists are the least subtle and are likely to use poison gas; you will know that your client has been poisoned. Here the main problem will be solved for you; if your client lives past the first twenty-four hours, it will mean he has enough lung-tissue intact to guarantee a recovery. Since the chemicals are volatile, they will eventually be purged simply by continuing to breathe. Inhalation of steam, particularly the steam from water in which threadstem is being boiled, seems to help. The Sword of God normally employs contact or injected poisons (most notably deathangel spines) and again, it will be obvious that your client has been poisoned. Their chosen toxins are most frequently neurotoxins; recovery is unlikely, but some physicians have had a certain amount of success in marginal cases by keeping the client very quiet and—when the toxin has reached the respiratory system—employing CPR until the effect begins to wear off. This will require having a half dozen assistants trained in CPR; I would suggest picking out several of the most trustworthy family servants and expanding their education should you find yourself employed in a politically active household. The Janists prefer to utilize ingested poisons, and they prefer subtlety as well. It is to their advantage that the death seem to be an Act of Jane. But if your client has been involved in action against Janists and suddenly falls ill, it would be wise to assume that he has been the victim of an assassination attempt. It is fortunate that most of the poisons employed by the Janists are native in origin; they are thus survivable. Use of purgatives, diuretics and emetics can be very effective and win your client's unending gratitude. We now come to the unusual poisoner— When an unusual poisoning occurs, the motive is usually revenge. When the poison causes great pain, it is especially wise to look for the motive of revenge. Most poisons of this nature are such that they require a specific antitoxin; often they are venoms of one sort or another. It is possible to save your client through the use of stimulants; particularly cardiac stimulants. It is quite likely, however, that brain damage will have occurred; you may wish to consult with your client's family on whether heroic measures are in order. For a culprit, look for one who will have contact with, but is not himself, a Janist—insofar as truly sophisticated employment of native toxins goes, the Janists have no peers.
Now—m'seri, this last piece of information is strictly confidential. It is to remain with you. The second most common poisoner using very sophisticated means is the ambitious family member. In this case, you would be wise to step back a pace and examine your options. Your oath as a physician requires that you do all in your power for your client—but you may serve a higher karma by throwing in with the rising power. The decision is between you and your conscience. You should be aware, however, that the ambitious family member may be capable of removing such an inconvienient obstacle as the family physician. You should also be aware that such a family member may approach you as the vector of his ambition. In the case of a crisis of conscience on your part, you must consider yourself bound to seek out your spritual advisors here at the College and inform them of your suspicions—or your certainties. We are your best protectors; we are your friends and instructors. We alone are in possession of the larger picture and can effectively guide your decision. And you must rely on us to guide such decisions for you.
Thank you for your attention. Class dismissed.
RAJ’S LETTER TO MARINA
(Page 1)
Most Gratious and Beautiful lady Marina Kamat— Without ever intending to, I have Tricked you in a Cruel and Unforgivible way. I, who you thought was only the Hand that delivered Another's message to you, am actually the True Writer of those messages. I let you continue to believe the Lye, because I was too much of a Coward to tell you the Truth, and because I selfishly thought this would allow me to continue to see you. I am a fool. I am Worse than a Fool. I am a Worm. I am a Devil. I have No Right to Live. I am not Worthy to sweep the water-stairs of your house. Please do not vent your Just Anger upon that Other; he knows Nothing of this, it is All My Fault. Let your Anger fall upon me.
(Page 2)
I know you must be feeling both Betrayed and Hurt; I know you wish Never to see me again. Rest assurred, Fair Lady, your Wish shall be granted. You will never again need to Bear the Agony of chancing to Spye one who has caused you such Pain. I, who should By All Rites be thrown fr
om the Highest Bridge in Merovingen for the Suffering I have caused you, am making certain you will Never See Me Again. I am going where you shall never follow, if God is Just.
(Page 3)
My punishment is in my hands; my punishment is that Never Again shall I Look upon your Face, alas. And that is Agony enough, Fairest Lady—oh believe me, it is. It is an Agony that shall be with me through all Eternity and Beyond. Although I should be Tosst into a fire, although I should be Made to Suffer Forever, yet I should rather endure any Torture,than this—but because I have caused you even more Pain with my Foolishness and Cowardice, I shall Endure it, for however small time I have yet to live, and Beyond that into Death Itself.
(Page 4)
It may be that you do not even yet Believe the Magnitude of the Fraud I have created. Therefore to convince you, I offer you this, the very last of my poor Poems, that You may Read it and know that it came from the same Damnd Hand:
(Page 5)
O shining Lady, clear and bright,
O you who turns to day my night,
O ever-perfect, diamant light,
Forgive me, if you can.
I, who am mud beneath your feet
I am a villian most complete
I who have hurt a heart so sweet
And then turned tail and ran.
O do not turn your eyes away
For you shall turn the blue sky gray
I shall no more darken your day
Let tears not stop your breath
But if, despite of all my lyes
There is forgiveness in your eyes
Then as my sorrowing soul then dies
I shall most welcome Death.
Yours Forever,
Raj
Troubled Waters Page 28