Flood Tide

by C. J. Cherryh

  "I haven't made it a secret, and I'm not the only priest who's doing so."

  Ivan leaned forward in his chair and propped his chin on his hand. "Why us, Father? I know why I'm here, but I don't understand the reason for teaching these other birds to fly."

  "Everyone in this room is a Revenantist, that's true, but some are newly converted. The rest of your families have been of the faith for so long now you probably take its tenets for granted."

  Justice briefly shut his eyes. The "newly converted." Lord! And let's all guess who that is.

  "Here's a question likely to be asked by the testers. Listen to it carefully, and don't give me a quick, ready-made answer. Think before you speak. Will a good person who is not Revenantist, but who lives an exemplary life, advance through the Karmic wheel at the same rate as a Revenantist?"

  The room fell silent. Justice sneaked a glance at his fellow students and saw by their expressions how truly difficult the question was.

  "Yes, Kalivera?" Rhajmurti prompted.

  "If this person acts according to his conscience, and he has never done anything evil, how could the gods not reward him after death?"

  "But what if this person is Adventist? What if he doesn't believe in the gods?"

  "Why are you posing a question that can't be answered?" asked Ivan. "Who really knows what happens after death? Has anyone come back to tell us?"

  Rhajmurti fixed Ivan with a level stare. "If you give an answer like that, m'ser Dorjan, you won't live to see another semester! Now listen to me, all of you. Right now the only thing I'm interested in is teaching you how to think your way through the pitfalls of Revenantist theology. What you believe in your hearts is between you and the gods, though I could wish each of you lived your lives by their laws."

  "Why should the cardinals care how we respond to trick questions if we obey those laws and give the Church due honor?" asked Ramadanje North.

  Sonja stirred in her chair. "Something's going on, isn't it, Father? Something that we don't know about?"

  Rhajmurti looked at Sonja, then let his eyes travel up and down the table. Justice sank a bit lower in his chair, wondering if they would all survive these classes.

  "That isn't for me to say. I can say: if you let me help you, I'll teach you how to succeed in the testing. If you fight me. ..." The priest shrugged. "Remember, not all your families' wealth, power, or influence can alter what is written down after the testing is complete."

  "I agree with Ramadanje," Kalivera Chavez said. "Why should anyone care what we believe if we're decent people and obey the laws?"

  Rhajmurti sighed softly. "Let me tell you something," he said, making a steeple of his hands and resting his chin on their tips. "You have grown up in a time of greater freedom of thought than has been seen for years. You've been allowed to think things that would have doomed your grandparents. The circle's come 'round, children. Times have changed. And if you value your careers, to say nothing of your lives, you'll listen to the questions I ask, and learn how to answer them."

  "That's being dishonest," Ivan protested, lifting his head. "How can the gods love us if we lie just to save our skins?"

  Justice caught Ivan's attention. "Remember the hanging? That poor man was drunk when he cursed the cardinals."

  "All right. I'll grant you that, but where do we draw the line? If we acquiesce on this, if we allow someone to dictate what we think and say, the next time we'll give way on something else until all our freedom to think what we want is gone."

  "Besides, the hanged man was a nobody," Thomas Cromwell said. "He had no position, no—"

  "What did I just say about that?" Rhajmurti demanded. "None of you is safe by merit of position. And if you don't believe me, may the gods have mercy on your souls."

  Silence fell heavily on the room. Justice glanced at Sonja, saw her face had gone white, then looked at Raj. Raj lifted one eyebrow in eloquent agreement to what Justice was thinking. Learn now, and learn well. Like the moment of one's death, no one knew when the testing would be.

  "It's not working, Trevor," Rhajmurti said not two hours later. He sat slumped back in a chair in Trevor's room. "I got through to most of them, but I can't seem to penetrate Ivan's rebellious attitude."

  Father Bordinov shrugged and turned away from the window. A morning storm had swept into Merovingen: the windowpane rattled in a gust of wind that sent raindrops running across its glass.

  "He can be obstinate," Bordinov said, "but he's one of our smartest students."

  "Smart could be dead. He looks up to you as a role model of sorts, you know."

  "Oh?"

  Rhajmurti smiled. "You're young—one of the youngest of the teaching priests—and everything you do has a certain flair to it. Of course he looks up to you. What student wouldn't?"

  "Flatterer. I assume you want me to talk to him."

  "Clever man. I don't seem to be making any headway."

  Bordinov took the chair facing Rhajmurti. "What of your converts . . . Justus and Raj?"

  "Everyone did quite well, once we settled down to business. Ivan's the problem." Rhajmurti spread his hands. "Look what's facing us, Trevor. The governor is aging; the government is in a flux. Iosef sees the Church as a staunch ally and possibly his eldest son's supporter. The way I see it, he'll let the Church—" He lowered his voice. "—meaning Cardinal Exeter, go on about its business without interfering. We've already seen canon law taking precedence over the secular, or at least working hand in glove with it."

  "And what's the life of one student who gets caught up in the whirlwind? Is that what you're saying?"

  "Yes. Exactly."

  Bordinov sighed. "I never thought I'd see the day . . .me, who believes the Church should be cleansed down to its foundations, telling a student to toe the line and give answers he doesn't believe to questions he deems pointless. I know, I know. Survive.

  The key word here is survive. I'll talk to him, Alfonso. Maybe he'll listen to me."

  The window rattled suddenly in another gust of wind. Rhajmurti jumped at the noise, saw Bordinov react similarly. What's happened to us that we take fright at the slightest noise? He drew a deep breath. Not even priests are immune to the power of reactionism.

  "What of your plan to get yourself set up as a tester?" Bordinov asked.

  "I found out I'm already being considered. If things go right, I don't have to worry."

  Bordinov smiled slightly. "I congratulate you on your source. It couldn't be Alexiev, could it?"

  "You're too clever for your own good," Rhajmurti said. "If I don't tell you, you can never say you heard it from me."

  FLOOD TIDE (REPRISED)

  by C. J. Cherryh

  Day went to dusk and to night again, and Jones paced and fretted and slept in catnaps, thinking, variously: He's in trouble, or: It's that damn Marina Kamat, she's the trouble—

  At which times she thought—What if that damn Richard puts it to 'im with bribes an' all?

  Man needs money, her Mama said, sitting cross-legged at the foot of the bed. Mama's ghost hadn't bothered her for months and months, but let her be alone and worried like this and Mama got more and more forward, she did—Mama herself, Retribution Jones, sat there with that old river-rat's cap they shared (in Mama's day it had more shape) tilted back on her head and with a kind of worried I-told-you-so in her eye.

  Hard on a hightown man like that, Mama said, —livin' on charity. Altair, daughter, I told ye, I did tell ye, di'n't I?

  She thought at her, Mind your own business, Mama.

  But Mama got nervier, and got into the matter of the engine (Ye damn fool, Altair! Ye traded 'er? Off my boat?) and the tangle lilies (Lord, Altair, you been drinking Det water?) till she said, out loud, "Shut up, Mama, ye ain't no damn help ..." and went downstairs to whisper at Jep through the curtain, "Gimme a bottle, Jep. Whiskey."

  Jep came back with the whiskey and a glass.

  "Ye ain't heard nothin'?"

  "Not since mornin'. Ye want we should ask?"


  "Ney. Not yet." Mondragon went places best not looked into. Lord, she wanted to know; but the chance of disturbing something and getting Mondragon hurt was too much risk.

  Be downstairs next dawn, she would, catch him when he came slipping by.

  Damn 'im.

  She took the bottle and the glass upstairs, she poured herself half a glass and drank it, she poured herself another and she and Mama had themselves a long, long talk.

  Problem with being dead, Mama said, you missed things like good whiskey.

  So she drank another one, by which time she was feeling no acute pain, just a lot of heartache.

  See? Mama said. Told you so. See what men's good for?

  A little more went into the glass. Mama went away, disgusted, maybe, and Jones sat there and stared at the wall and drank, thinking down her list of enemies and Mondragon's. That was the kind of mood she was in.

  Supper came. She picked at it and had some more whiskey, because otherwise she was going to go crazy. She hated roofs over her head, damn! she hated it, she was boxed in this damn little room and outside there was a storm going on, with the Det running high and the thunder and the lightning skipping around the wooden towers and bridges and dancing on the water—that was where she wanted to be, out finding out where a certain damnfool man was, which she could do on a night like this.

  Another whiskey, the supper mostly untouched on the table. She rolled herself into the rumpled bedclothes, felt after her knife that was on the bedside table, along with her belt and the barrel-hook—never forgot where those were, no, Mama, never forgot that. . . .

  But sleep escaped her, and she had a bit more, till she was hard put to hold the glass.

  Then came this tiptoeing up the steps, not the way a body walked who was supposed to be in Moghi's back hallway, and her heart pounded. She thought she might be dreaming, she was so tired and had so much whiskey in her, but she heard the steps reach the door and stop. Just stop—like a fool.

  She got her breath and her balance, put her feet off the bed and reached after her knife. "Mondragon?" she asked in a voice none so steady, and then thought that was stupid: speaking out let someone with a gun figure where she was, so she got up fast and lurched for the wall, where there was a bureau between her and gunshots.

  The latch moved and this fuzzy door opened and this fuzzy drowned shape stood there looking at her.

  "Sorry," Mondragon said.

  "You sherk!" she cried, as her heart started this slide from her throat to her stomach. "Wha's matter, ye can't speak up?"

  Mondragon slung off a wet cloak and hung it on the chair, looking so tired she was sorry she'd yelled. He came and put his arms around her, and she had this stupid knife in her hand, so she could only use one arm.

  "Ye all right?" she asked him, when he just stood there holding her. He said nothing at all, and that scared her. "Mondragon?"

  "Ketch is dead," he said. "Rani Spence, too."

  They were all right folk. Mondragon dealt with Ketch, something to do with business. It made no sense, or it made a bad kind of sense, that he walked in like this and said something like that in that shaky kind of voice. "You all right?" she asked him again, and held onto him very gentle, the way he seemed to want just now. "Mondragon?"

  "They were good people," Mondragon said. It was as broken up as she'd ever seen him.

  She said, "Ye're cold. I got a bottle, got a warm bed. I'll pour ye one, here."

  He sat down on the bed, she got him the drink. He took a good mouthful of it and swallowed it down with a grimace. That wasn't like him. She sat down sideways on the bed, watched him while he took another swallow, while the whole room was turning around, and wondered what Ketch dying meant, or why Mondragon was so shaken up.

  "Ye want t' say?" she asked. "I'll listen."

  He gave no answer, only took a third big drink, set the glass down, put his arm around her and kissed her, which with the whiskey made things turn around and around, she had no idea how long.

  After that they fell back on the bed. He ran his hands through her hair—it was clean, she had washed—and whispered, "Jones, I've left some money on account with Moghi. He'll do you fair—"

  "What's fair?" Her heart was beating hard of a sudden. Her mind made instant, elaborate constructions, Mondragon with some damn notion of going somewhere safe, somewhere only rich folk could go, folk with polished manners and connections that could help him. "What's this 'fair,' I don't need any damn money—"

  His hand went over her mouth. He looked down into her eyes and said, "Jones. Listen to me. If anything happens to me—"

  She wanted to say that was nonsense, that he was flat broke, moving into Kamat meant a whole lot of fancy expenses, she knew that. She shoved him.

  He said, "—I want you to go straight to Moghi, tell him get word to Kamat, and just figure things will happen, hear me? Kamat's got a place—"

  He moved his hand. She got a whole breath.

  "Hell with Kamat! Nothing's going to happen to you!"

  He leaned over her, so that all she could see was his eyes and all she could feel was his weight. He said, "Jones, if it does. If it does. That's all I want to know."

  "Can't promise that. Somethin' happens to you—I told you long time back what I'd do—"

  "My enemies are out of your reach, Jones."

  "Anastasi ain't out of my reach. I'll get 'im. So you can quit makin' your fancy plans, Mondragon, I ain't goin' anywhere on Kamat charity—"

  She hurt him somehow. She had no idea how. She just stared and he looked like hell.

  Eventually he wound a piece of her hair around his finger and pulled, enough to sting. "Just do what I tell you. All right?"

  "I ain't. Anything happens to you, I got an account with Anastasi, is what I got, Mondragon. And I'll pay 'er. I ain't lyin'."

  "Jones. ..."

  "You want t' go out t' Harbor a while, just drop out o' sight? Ain't no damn Kalugin comin' out t' the rim. Do a little fishing ..."

  "Jones—"

  "Well?"

  "It's a dream, Jones."

  "Ain't no sayin' ye can't have one work."

  "Not for me." He kissed her on the mouth, but it did nothing for the lump in her throat. He made love to her, gentle and slow, said, the bastard, when he had her all out of breath, "Promise me. Promise me you'll do what I say."

  She said, "The hell!"

  And passed out.

  THE TESTING (REPRISED)

  by Nancy Asire

  A member of College Security had posted the Notice of Public Execution on the entry hall bulletin board of the College. As such, it was impossible to ignore, and Justice was able to read between the lines enough to realize this meant students would be expected to attend.

  He and Sonja had posted themselves close enough to the Hanging Bridge to see, but far enough away so as to avoid the crush of the crowd. Justice remembered the first hanging: the man had been a ruffian with little public sympathy. The crowd that had gathered then took some delight in seeing a no-good bastard meet his end.

  Today was different. Lord, how different.

  The people who stood around Justice and Sonja were silent for the most part. A cold wind blew down the canals now that the storm was gone, making the noonday sunlight glitter on the choppy water. Sonja drew her cloak closer, glanced up at Justice, and grimaced. He read the look: I don't want to be here any more than you do.

  A ruffle of drums. Justice turned, his greater height allowing him to easily see over the heads of the people around him. A slow procession wound its way through the crowd; banners snapped in the brisk wind, and sunlight glittered off bared swords carried by the College Guard. Justice could not see who was being led to his death on the windy bridge, and the Notice of Execution had not given the condemned's name. "Justus."

  He looked down at Sonja who had spoken and followed the line of her stare.

  Krishna! Lord and Ancestors! He had not seen Krishna in days, and here he was at the hanging, come like
all the other students to fulfill his civic duty. Some of the swagger had gone from Krishna, some of his old haughtiness. In fact, in the noonday light, Krishna's face might best be described as pale.

  The drums ceased. The crowd grew silent and soon there was only the sound of the wind, the snap of the saffron banners, and the slapping of water against the pilings.

  "For crimes against Church and State," boomed out a voice that carried well in the wind, "for dealing in forbidden drugs and endangering the lives of others by their sale, here today will end this incarnation of Stefan Dunham."

  Justice's knees began shaking; he heard Sonja gasp softly. Ancestors! One of the College's own ... a student he had seen not more than three days ago in the halls. And, one of Krishna's partying friends.

  "Gods, Justus," Sonja said, gripping his arm. "Do you—" -

  He nodded and stared at Krishna who stood as if turned to stone, then glanced quickly away, as if in some strange fashion he could not continue watching Krishna's personal agony. He looked back toward the bridge.

  The chief of College Security gestured and two of the Guard dragged a young man toward the gibbet. The executioner, clad in traditional black, with ribbons in the colors of both the governor's family and the College tied to each arm, stepped forward and fit the noose over Dunham's head.

  "May your next life be wiser than this one, young Dunham," the Security chief intoned loudly, "and may some of your karma be lessened."

  Sonja turned her head, unable to watch. Justice put an arm around her shoulder, bent his head and offered up a prayer in Stefan's behalf. He heard the sudden thump, the ghastly sound of snapping bones, and the soft moan that ran through the crowd. When he looked up, Stefan Dunham's body swung from the Hanging Bridge, still twitching after death.

  "Gods, Justus," Sonja said, her voice hoarse. "Take me away from here, please."

  The crowd was silent; the drums began their steady beat again. The Guard quickly and efficiently removed the body from the bridge to take it off down Coffin Canal for burial.

  It was over ... the example made, the lesson taught.