Smuggler's Gold

by C. J. Cherryh

  She snorted, and pushed off from the bank. "Tell me m'own job, lander," she replied scornfully. "Just you tend t' what I give ye."

  "Yey, m'sera," Denny executed a mocking little bow, then danced back along the ledge to the first water-stair up to a walkway.

  Behind him he heard Jones swear halfheartedly at him, and grinned.

  Treevor Vasoly had been trailing that canaler Jones for hours—just-as the Megarys had paid him to do. Then he saw her duck under Nayab Bridge—and a moment later, saw that bridge-brat Denny do the same.

  He snickered to himself; keeping tabs on the brat after he dropped out of the bridge-gangs and into "respectability" had been well worth his while after all—

  "Tree" Vasoly had graduated from bridge-brat to bullyboy in the two years since he and Denny had last tangled; he sported a sword (that he used like a club) and silk scarves and a constant sneer. There were dozens like Tree on the walkways of Merovingen, and "work" enough to keep all of them in whiskey and scarves, if you weren't too particular about who you worked for. Tree certainly wasn't. Megary coin spent like anyone else's.

  No one had ever beaten Tree at anything—no one but bridge-brat Denny, that is. Denny had gotten to Tree's girl, gotten her off the walkways and out of the gang and into the purview of his mentor Rat—

  Which wasn't what the brat had intended, but before you could say "surprise," Jessie had gotten installed in an acting group and acquired a very expensive patron. And had no further need or desire for Tree and his gang.

  It still rankled, and Tree had never forgiven the little bastard for what Denny had done to humiliate him.

  But this looked like a chance to pay Denny back and turn a little profit by way of a couple of Megary bonuses—

  He watched Denny moving in the shadows under Nayab Bridge; he squinted, but couldn't make out anything more than a brief exchange with someone on a skip—just a meeting of a pair of shadows within the shadows. Then Denny squirted out again and scrambled up the water-stairs to the first level, and on over to Callista.

  So—Jones had transferred whatever it was she'd picked up to the boy's hands—likely because of the blacklegs stirring on the water.

  He grinned with absolute satisfaction, and headed up the walkway on the brat's backtrail. In a few more moments, he'd have whatever it was Jones had been carrying, and he'd have the boy as well to sell to Megary.

  Wolfling spotted the swarthy bullyboy trailing Denny with almost no effort whatsoever. The scarfaced low-life was so clumsy in his attempts to shadow the boy that Wolfing snorted in contempt. This inept brawler wouldn't have lasted five minutes in the Sword.

  Once Wolfling saw that the boy was on the bridge from Callista to Ventani, Wolfling had a fairly good notion where he was bound: Moghi's. Jones must have passed something on to him.

  The bullyboy evidently had a shrewd notion where Denny was going as well, as he increased his pace a trifle. It looked to Wolfling like he was planning on ambushing the boy down on the water-level walk, before he could reach Moghi's. Wolfling gave up trying to be inconspicuous—there wasn't anyone much down in this decayed slum anyway—and hastened his own steps.

  He was almost too late—he hesitated a moment at the shadows under Little Ventani Bridge, his eyes momentarily unable to adjust to the darkness of the little backwater after the dazzle of sun on Fisher Canal—

  Then he heard Denny shout in anger and defiance— and a second time, in pain.

  He saw a bulkier shadow on the walkway ahead of him, and that was all his trained body needed to respond with precision and accuracy.

  A few heartbeats later the bully was unconscious at Wolfling's feet, and Denny, huddled beyond, was peering up at the face of his rescuer with shock and stunned recognition,

  Wolfling gave him no chance to say a word. "Move, boy," he said gruffly. "An' next time don't go down dark places without checking to see if someone's followin'."

  The boy gulped, and scrambled to his feet, favoring his right arm. "Yessir!" he gasped, and scampered down to his destination as if someone had set his tail on fire.

  Wolfling considered the body at his feet, thoughtfully prodding it with one toe. He rubbed his knuckles absently; he'd almost forgotten to pull that last punch; and if he hadn't the bullyboy wouldn't be breathing. He wasn't sure why he'd held back, now; he was mostly inclined to knife the bastard and push him into the canal—

  But that wouldn't keep others of his type from dogging the boy's footsteps. On the other hand, if he made an example of the bully, he might well save Denny (and himself) some future trouble.

  Some half an hour later, Tree dragged himself, aching in every bone, from the cold, foul water of Fisher Canal. He was lighter by sword, dagger, purse, cloak—at least the terrible, scarred madman had slapped him awake before tossing him in. He clung to the ledge that ran around Callista, clinging to the sun-warmed, rotting wood, not thinking much past the moment. He hadn't swallowed any of the deadly water; he was bruised all over, but the crazyman hadn't smashed bones. For now he was just grateful to be alive enough to hurt and shiver.

  Never, for the rest of his life, would Tree forget that masklike face, those mad eyes. Or the carefully enunciated words, spoken in a voice like the croak of a marsh-bird.

  "Touch that boy again," the lunatic had said, "and the next time you land in the canal we'll see how well you swim with both legs broken."

  One casual question to two independent sources— Jep at Moghi's, and Hoh's cook Kyla, had given Raj one simple—and damning—fact. The cheapest place in town for spices was indeed Deems. The prices weren't enough different to make it worth a cook's while to go out of the way for just one item—but when you bought in bulk, nearly every tavernkeeper and restauranteur bought from Deems. That penny or two difference in the price was slowly giving the Deems family a monopoly in the retail spice market.

  Justice Lee had been Raj's source on Father Har-mody. Raj had plenty of reason to go visit his new friend—his good news, for one; some keep-you-awake tea-weeds for Justice to use through exam time, for another. And while Raj was visiting, he'd asked Justice if he could find out something about a "Father Harmody's" background.

  Through the art student had been a little puzzled by the question, he agreed'—especially after Raj told him that if it became any trouble to learn, he wasn't to bother. As things turned out, it was easy enough for him to resolve with a couple of casual questions to his own patron, carefully spaced out over several days.

  It seemed that Father Jermaine Harmody could easily have claimed the hyphenated surname "Harmody-Deems" as he was a contract son of one of the younger sisters of Ivan Renfro Deems. And most interestingly, Father Harmody was one of Cardinal Ito Boregy's proteges.

  Well, that sure as hell explains the Deems connection, Raj thought to himself, as he hurried to reach Ramsey-head Isle and the Ramsey Bell before the lunch crowd did. But it doesn't explain how he's getting a Nev Hetteker captain to go along with this. So there's a connection here I'm missing, and it's a Family connection, or politics, maybe. It's not enough to give Tom— yet—

  He scampered in at the back entrance; Mikey Weeks, one of the busboys, had agreed to let Raj take his place at noon for the next several days. It hadn't been hard to convince him, not when Raj had offered to split the tips for the privilege of doing his work for him. Mikey had no notion who or what Raj was; Raj let him think he was a student with some gambling debts to pay and a short time to pay them in. And Lord and Ancestors knew that a few of the patrons of the Ramsey Bell were quite good tippers.

  Raj joined the milling lot of a half dozen other boys in the shabby back hall, claiming Mikey's apron from its wooden hook and bobbing awkwardly to the burly owner. "Mike still got th' bad ankle?" the square-faced man asked gruffly.

  "Yes, m'ser," Raj replied, scuffing his bare feet in the sawdust on the wooden floor. "Says he's mortal sorry, m'ser, but it's still swole up."

  The man actually cracked a smile. "I ain't, boy. You lookin' fer a job, yo
u check by here regular. I get an opening, you got a place."

  Raj contrived to look grateful. "M-m-my thanks, m'ser," he stammered, and slipped past him onto the floor of the tavern proper.

  After that it was nothing but scurry and scramble and keep his head down so that nobody could see his face enough to recognize him later; bringing orders of food and drink to tables, clearing away the dishes after, bringing more drink when called for—and keeping his ears open and his mouth shut.

  For the Ramsey Bell was where the second sons of the Families met—and where they met, there was gossip aplenty. And where there was gossip—

  Lord, it was wearing him down, though. He leaned around a patron's bulk to snag the empty plates before the man could holler for them to be taken away. He was beginning to be very grateful for his sit-down job at Gallandry's. He was so tired when he got home at night that he was bolting a little dinner, going straight to bed, and sleeping like a stone, Mondragon had been worried enough at that anomalous behavior that he'd actually asked Raj if he was all right—which had surprised him. He'd explained—he thought; his mind wasn't too clear on anything after sundown anymore. At least Mondragon seemed satisfied.

  Two days ago he'd learned that Deems was one of Tatiana Kalugin's supporters, and as such, was not welcome at the Ramsey Bell. Which made him fair game at the tables.

  From Dao Raza yesterday, Raj overheard that Deems was getting very cozy with the new Nev Hettek Trade Mission. From Franck Wex he learned that this cozi-ness with Nev Hettek was nothing new.

  And just as Raj was hauling a load of dishes to the back, he got the final key piece from Pradesh St. John.

  Somebody asked if Deems was still courting the New Hettekers. The scar-seamed merchant considered the question thoughtfully before replying with the carefully worded bit of information that, indeed, they were. And that one Father Harmody was conducting the negotiations—which presumably put the seal of College approval on the whole thing.

  Raj's head buzzed, and his gut went tight with excitement. So—the College might be involved in this new Nev Hettek policy!

  Or part of the College was. Raj was no longer so naive as to figure that what one priest wanted, the rest did too. Father Harmody could be working for a pro-peace party within the College. Or his patron, the Cardinal. Assuming, of course—which those at the Bell did—that the good Father's superiors were aware of his visits. Which might or might not have been the truth. In either case, it was something Tom Mondragon would find fascinating indeed.

  Raj hustled the last of the dishes into the kitchen, took off his apron, and hung it up for the last time. He had what he needed; time to give Mikey back his job. Now only one thing remained: for Raj to verify with his own eyes exactly what was going on down at the Gallandry warehouse and how it was being conducted.

  Mondragon was beginning to have a feeling of déjà vu every time he looked up from dinner to see Raj hovering like a shadow around the kitchen door.

  "Something wrong, Raj?" he asked, beginning to have that too-familiar sinking feeling. The last time the boy had that look on his face, that—creature—had moved in across the canal. And the time before—

  The time before was what had gotten them all into this mess.

  "M'ser, —" the boy stammered, and brought his hands out from behind his back. "M'ser, —this is—for you."

  Mondragon took the slim package from the boy; a long and narrow, heavy thing, wrapped in oiled silk. He unwrapped it, and nearly dropped it in surprise.

  It was a fine—a very fine—main-gauche, the like of which Tom hadn't seen, much less owned, since Nev Hettek. Watermarked steel; plain, but elegant hilt of goldwood—balanced so well in his hand that it already felt part of him—

  He was so surprised that his first thought was that the boy must have stolen it. The Lord knew it wasn't the kind of thing the boy could afford! But Raj spoke before he could voice that unworthy thought.

  "It—it's from my Granther, m'ser," he said, his face and voice sounding strained. "He says it's by way of thanking you. He sent me one for m'ser Kamat too— seems he wrote an' tol' them who I really was!"

  "He what?" Mondragon tightened his hand involuntarily on the knife hilt.

  "He says," Raj continued, "that he Aggers they oughta know, an' that I'm safer with 'em knowing 'cause they'll put me where hurtin' me would cause a big fuss, hightown. 'Hide in plain sight,' is what he says."

  "The man has a point," Mondragon conceded, thinking better of the notion. Relaxing again, he checked the weapon for maker's markers, and sure enough, on the blade near the quillons found the tiny Takahashi symbol. The old man was a shrewd one, all right—he hadn't kept the clan intact through upheaval and revolution without having more than a few active brain cells and a real instinct for which way to jump. Besides, if Kamat now knew what station the boy really was, the obligations would be turned around. Kamat would now be in the position to negotiate favorably with the silk-and-steel family of Takahashi, Raj would no longer be the object of charity, and the Kamats would actually wind up owing Mondragon for bringing the boy to their attention. Altogether a nice little turn of events.

  "He says," Raj continued, a little relieved looking but still plainly under strain, "it's by way of a bribe, m'ser, t' keep Denny. He says he don't think we better let Kamat know 'bout Denny at all, not that he's m'brother."

  Mondragon thought about young m'ser Lightfingers loose in Kamat and shuddered. "I think he's right."

  Raj had carefully calculated his day off to coincide with the day that the Deems hirelings picked up their consignment from the Gallandry warehouse. By dawn he was down at the warehouse dock, ready and willing to run just about any errand for anybody. This wasn't the first time he'd been here—he'd played runner before, when he wasn't playing busboy at the Ramsey Bell; he wanted his face to be a familiar one on the dock, so that he wouldn't stand out if Father Harmody became suspicious. He even had Gallandry permission to be out here; they thought he was strapped for cash, and he was supposedly earning the extra odd penny by running on his day off.

  He'd run enough of those errands by just past noon that no one thought or looked at him twice when he settled into a bit of shade and looked to be taking a rest break. The sun was hot down here on the dock; there wasn't a bit of breeze to be had, and Raj was sweating freely. One friendly fellow offered Raj the last of his beer as he went back on shift; Raj accepted gratefully. He wasn't having to feign near-exhaustion; he was exhausted. He was mortally glad that the remainder of his self-imposed assignment was going to allow him to sit here, in the shade of a barrel, and pretend to get splinters out of his hands while he watched the Deems skip being loaded twenty feet away.

  The Deems skip was a neat little thing; newly painted and prosperous-looking. The skipboatman who manned her did not, however, look like the run-of-the-mill canaler.

  In point of fact, that carefully dirtied sweater looked far too new; the man's complexion was something less than weathered—and those hands pushed pencils far more often than the pole of a skip, Raj would be willing to bet money on it. This was no canaler, hired or permanent retainer. This was likely one of the younger members of the Family.

  This notion was confirmed when Father Harmody put in his appearance. There was something very similar about the cast of the nose and the shape of the ears of both the good Father and the boatman. Even in inbred Merovingen features that similar usually spelled a blood relationship.

  It didn't take long to load the tiny casks onto the skip; Raj didn't bother to get any closer than he was. He wasn't planning on trying to see if the articles were stamped or not. He was doing what only he could, with his perfect memory.

  Even amid the bustle of the dock, he was keeping absolute track of exactly how many spice casks—and only the spice casks, nothing else—were going into the bottom of that skip.

  Three days later, when the bundle of tax stamps came in, Raj had his answer. Three more casks had gone into the skip than there were stamps for.
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  That night he intended to give Tom Mondragon his full report—but that afternoon he got an unexpected surprise.

  A creamy white and carefully calligraphed note from House Kamat.

  The boy Raj finished his report to Mondragon, given while he was finishing his dinner in the kitchen, and Tom was both impressed and surprised. The kid had handled himself like—

  Like an adult. He'd thought out what he needed to know, he'd planned how to get it without blowing his cover, and he'd executed that plan carefully, coolly, and patiently. Mondragon pondered the boy's information, and concluded that no matter how you looked at it, it was going to be worth a great deal to both sides of this messy and treacherous game he was playing. He nodded to himself, then looked up to see that the boy was still standing in the doorway, looking vaguely distressed.

  Mondragon's approval did nothing to ease the boy's agitation; if anything, it seemed worse. "Raj, is there something wrong?"

  "Tom, —I mean, m'ser, —" the boy looked absolutely desperate. "I—got this today—"

  He handed a square of creamy vellum to Mondragon; feeling a terrible foreboding, Tom opened it.

  It proved to be nothing more than a simple invitation for Raj—and a friend, rf he chose—to come to dinner at Kamat, to be introduced to the Family.

  Mondragon heaved a sigh of relief. "One may guess," he said, handing the invitation back to Raj, "that m'ser Richard Kamat has received your Grandfather's letter." The boy's expression didn't change. "So what on earth is wrong?"

  "It's—it's me, m'ser Tom," the boy blurted hnhap-pily. "I've tried and tried—but I can't remember—I can't think how to act, what to wear, what fork to use—"

  He looked at Mondragon with a pleading panic he hadn't shown even when he'd known his life hung in the balance. "Please, m'ser Tom," he whispered, "I don't know what to do!"