Flood Tide

by C. J. Cherryh

  "In th'water?" the woman gasped. "Somebody? Who?"

  "Turns out she was a hightown lady, an' 'twas 'er word 'gainst 'is that 'e didn' fall in by himself. An' she gets better." Uki nudged the woman with her elbow, and grinned wider. "So 'e hauls himself outta the water an' tries t'arrest the lady, an' who should come by but . . . Black Cal himself."

  The woman shivered in appreciation.

  "Black Cal takes one look at this big, blusterin' blackleg threatenin' this little hightown lady, listens ter both their stories, an' makes a righteous guess that the blackleg's lyin'. He tells the blackleg ter shut up an' go back ter mindin' 'is proper business, or go on report. Black Cal sees the lady home, an' the blackleg's too scared ter do anythin' but keep on guardin' the warehouse. So comes mornin', and he's got one awful case o' the Crud. All he can do is crawl home an' report in sick. He never comes back ter bother me, an' they say . . ." Uki dropped her voice a fraction lower. "They say he's been sick, on an' off, ever since. Never got 'is full strength back, never enough ter go out hustlin' poor folk in lowtown, not ever again."

  Now sit back, wait, watch for reactions.

  The woman slowly nodded her head. "What the hell," she sighed. "She can't hurt. Where d'I find this cat, again?"

  Uki pointed out the door and watched while the woman plodded away toward it. Once she was alone on the walkway again, she reached for the pole and tapped out a code on the standing pipe down in the water.

  Willow, Dr. Yarrow's night guard and secretary, heard the tapping clearly. By the time the tentative knock fell on the front door, she had everything ready. When she opened the door, wearing her too-large bibbed apron over rumpled clothes, she looked like a perfectly harmless servant.

  "Yes?" she said politely to the hollow-eyed woman on the doorstep. "Do ye need to see the doctor?"

  "Er, not the doc exac'ly ..." The woman seemed on the verge of turning back, but then shrugged almost fiercely. "I'd . . . like ter see . . . yer cat."

  "The cat?" Willow blinked innocently for a moment, then smiled. "Oh, that one. Lost of folk come t'pet the cat for luck when they're sick. I think 'tis the medicines really do 'er, but aye, come on in." She waved the guest into the dimly lit waiting room.

  The woman hesitated a moment, then followed.

  "Ye can sit here," Willow pointed to an ancient but comfy armchair in a corner, near a raveling but still handsome wall hanging. "Ye can have some tea if ye like, while I go fetch Mouser."

  "Aye, thanks," said the woman, sinking gratefully into the chair. "I'd like that."

  Willow poured a good cupful of the strong herb tea kept constantly ready in the waiting room, and went to pass the word to the proper ears.

  The woman warmed her hands on the mug, then sighed and drained it.

  A few minutes later Willow came back, toting a large and faintly-annoyed-looking black tomcat in her arms. "Here, now," she said, plucking the animal down in the visitor's lap. "Ye just pet 'im all ye like, an' get warm if ye need ter. I've got ter go ter the John, so watch the door for me, will you?"

  "Oh, aye." The woman's look of delighted bewilderment, as she watched Willow leave the room, was priceless.

  Willow grinned to herself as she clomped out the doorway, then quickly kicked off her shoes and tiptoed down the hallway that ran behind-the wall of the waiting room. A chair sat near the wall, waxboard and stylus waiting on it. Willow took up the board and stylus, sat down in the chair, and put her ear to the conveniently-placed hole in the wall.

  From behind it, at first, came nothing but the creaking of the armchair and the growing, thunderous purr of the tomcat. Then words:

  "I s'pose this is crazy, but I've done crazier things . . . Ey, hello, cat. My name's Hope Blenski, an' I live on Ventani Isle, second door west, bottom level, fourth room down the left corridor ..."

  Willow scribbled quickly, in Janist shorthand. Very good; she wouldn't have to send someone out to track the woman home, or get her name from unreliable neighbors.

  "... I got this trouble, cat," Hope Blenski went on. "There's this damn under-priest . . . Y'know, one o' the kind they send out ter check on ever'thin' ye make or sell, name o' Prossa, carries a holy-stick. Well. . ."

  Pause, no sound but the cat's purring and the faint whisking of what was probably a gentle hand on sleek fur.

  "Well," the voice resumed, "He's blackmailin' me. Business-license crap, y'know. I make rope, buy the fibers cheap, soak an' wind an' dry 'em meself, go out an' sell 'em ter the Trade. Simple, ney? No harm, ney? Not what Prossa says."

  A long heartfelt sigh. The cat meowed sympathetically, as if on cue.

  "Damn, if I don't think ye do understand," Blenski marveled. "Well, like I'm sayin', all I do is buy fibers, wind 'em, go out an' sell 'em. What records'm I gonna keep, hey? I sell down by waterside, dunno who-all I'm sellin' ter nor what they're gonna do with 'er, and how'm I s'posed ter know anyway? That's what I says ter Prossa when he grabs me offn a walkway an' wants ter see records an' College stamps an' all."

  "Mrrrrp," commented the cat.

  "Aye, 'tis no more nor common sense. But Prossa leans on me. 'Show records'n stamps,' he says, 'or get locked up.' Now what'm I gonna do? I begs an' pleads an' crawls like dirt, an' don' think 'e don't like seein' that, the scumball."

  "Wrrraaa," growled the cat.

  "Damn right. But 'e finally says t'me, 'Two dece an' I'll overlook yer past follies'—follies, my bleedin' ass! —'just have yer paperwork filled out next time we come 'round.' I ask when 'e wants the two dece, an' 'e says, 'Tomorra.' "

  "Urrrrh," said the cat.

  "Right, tomorra. I don't get 'im two dece by then, I go ter the bad room in the College basement. That's why I was 'bout ter throw meself in the canal. My luck's been bad fer the past year, an' this is the cap on 'er. So tell me, cat—witch-Jane's cat—can ye help me? Or should I just walk back ter the water?"

  There was a long moment's silence, broken only by the purring of the cat. Then a rustling, and a louder purr. Then a whistle of surprise.

  Willow stifled a giggle. Mouser, feeling comfortable with the kind-handed visitor, must have pulled his party trick of rolling over, staring up soulfully into the human's face, and bobbing his chin vigorously. It looked remarkably like a human nodding yes, and never failed to win Mouser more"attention and petting.

  "Damn," whispered Blenski, awed. "I never seen a cat do that b'fore! ... Is that a sign? . . . Hell, gotta be a sign ... All right, cat. I'll trust t'yer witch Jane, go home an' ferget the canal. Maybe tomorra, things'!! be different. Hey?"

  Willow entered the final note, set down the board and stylus and got up quietly from the chair. She tiptoed down the hall, slipped her shoes back on, made a few increasing foot-clomping noises, then walked around the corner and into the waiting room.

  There sat Hope Blenski, petting the ecstatically-purring cat, with her expression at last fitting her name. She looked up almost guiltily as Willow came in, but didn't leave off petting the cat.

  "Thanks fer mindin' the door," said Willow. "An' was Mouser a good boy? Did 'e let ye pet 'im for lotsa luck? Aw, was urns a good kitty-kitty?" She said the last while tickling the cat's chin, which made Mouser wriggle with joy.

  "Oh, aye, he was real good, m'sera." Hope reluctantly handed over the happily-limp cat to Willow's waiting arms. "I think I got lotsa luck from pettin' 'im."

  "Ye sure ye don' need ter see the doctor?" Willow offered, settling Mouser on her shoulder. "I can wake 'er up, if 'tis an emergency . . ."

  "Ney, I'm fine now." Hope Blenski got up and edged politely toward the door. "All I needed was a bit o' luck, an' I think I got that now."

  "Take care o' yerself, then." Willow opened the door and let the visitor out into the night, and watched her walk rapidly away. Then she put the cat down on the still-warm chair and headed for a certain back room.

  "Raven," she said to the gray-haired man bent over a desk full of papers, "I think we've got a live one off the cat-tale circuit."

  Ra
ven stretched until his joints cracked, grateful for the chance to do some active planning. "What distress-story have we got this time?" he asked.

  "A blackmailing priest named Prossa. And—"

  "Prossa? I know that name." Raven fumbled through various papers and cards. "Nasty piece, that one. Shakedowns, worse'n most blacklegs."

  "This time he's blackmailing a poor rope-maker who sells to the Trade. A good lowtown connection there. Trouble is, the victim needs relief by morning; either Prossa gone or two dece to pay. What can we do?"

  Raven leaned back in his chair and thought hard, saying nothing.

  "I've got the victim's name and address, if we want to do the moneybag-through-the-window trick again ... if we've got the money to spare." Willow paused, looking doubtful. "We don't have a black kitten handy either, do we?"

  "It's not that," said Raven, rousing himself to decision. "We only give a black kitten to somebody who's already gossipping regularly with one of our reporters. Otherwise, when they tell their troubles to the kitten and nothing happens, the legend loses power. Besides, I've a better idea."

  He pulled out a particular list of names and studied it, frowning grimly.

  "The College's bullying has roused enough resentment for this to work now,"he said, quietly. "Also, our . . . termination team needs practice."

  Willow pressed a finger to her mouth, and said nothing.

  "Go out and beat the pipe, Willow. Send the code, and Prossa's name—also his description and probable whereabouts, here, from his card. Be sure to stress the time factor."

  Willow took a deep breath and stood up straighter. "Prossa, dead by morning," she said. "So it'll go."

  "Hmm, and when you've finished with that, do a report for Yarrow. She'll need it first thing in the morning to set up the recruiter in time."

  "Recruiter? In time for what?"

  "In time to catch and work on our night visitor, when she comes back tomorrow to thank the cat."

  WHERE'S THE FIRE?

  by Roberta Rogow

  Merovingen was suffering from a lack of gossip.

  The list of safe topics of conversation was rapidly approaching the point of terminal silence. There was the weather, but after a while even the most literate student ran out of synonyms for "wet." There was the building program at Megary's, which was rumored would replace the burned-out structure with one to rival the Justiciary for impregnability, and the Signeury for grandeur—but no one really wanted to discuss Megarys in these days of too many mysterious disapperances: no one wanted a firsthand look at the interior.

  There was the burgeoning pregnancy of Marina Kamat, and the inevitable speculation as to the father of the prospective Kamat heir, but one of the three most likely candidates had just thrown a magnificent ball in honor of his Third Contracting, and the other two candidates were very close to Kamat. After a few hostile glares and puzzled stares the witticisms stopped.

  No one wanted to be clever at the expense of either the College or the Militia. Lord, no!

  This left only one safe topic for conversation in Merovingen-above: Farren's Folly, the Firewatch.

  Plenty to chortle over, snicker about, speculate on, and generally chew up and down at dinners and parties and small gatherings above and below Merovingen's thousand bridges.

  In the first place, the very idea of hearty, genial Farren paired with feckless Mikhail Kalugin in any endeavor was beyond belief: and the two of them coming up with this elaborate bureaucratic arrangement of a permanent paid firefighting squad added to the exquisite humor of the situation. And, Lord and Ancestors, the squad consisted of Red Moze and his bridge-boys! The laughter resounded as far as midtown and below.

  Merovingen had watched as Farren and Mikhail struggled with their supplies. Farren poled himself all over the city, cornering the market in sail-canvas and tar. Mikhail himself, dogged by scores of anxious blackleg security, haunted a canalside carpenter's shop, bringing in elaborate diagrams of ladders and clamps—every one of which had had to have the seal of the College (another nervous attendance of harried security, on both sides)—and more diagrams and more visits to a sailmaker's shop on harborside (security was apoplectic).

  Meanwhile, the Trade had had its own thoughts about a gang of erstwhile bullyboys and ruffians who put themselves into the hands of a hightown penpusher and the governor's feckless firstborn, and who, discarding their flash and raffish style, let themselves wear bright red sweaters. The Trade had watched and snorted derisively as Moze and his sister Liz the Snitch and the rest of them ran up and down those rickety ladders, hauling heavy sacks, while the rain poured off their backs. Rumor was all over town that Moze was gallows-bait, that a certain injudicious prank about the aforesaid carpenter's shop had gone too far, the dumping of a barrel of sawdust on Mikhail's over-nervous guard— Moze himself had been caught up along with his ruffians, and a most humorless Signeury had damned the wretches to swing—except—except Mikhail's deciding aha! here was an organized, hale, and agile lot that might be spared to better purpose—

  So from Hanging Bridge to Mikhail's employ had come Moze and crew—from clowning ruffians to raffish clowns: and all that long, wet grim summer Merovingen had watched and laughed at Farren's Folly and its salvaged crew. A firewatch? In this sopping, drenching summer and soggy fall? And with bridge-boy riffraff for a crew? Never! said hightown. Wear those bright red sweaters, and those silly looking caps, tied under the chin? Take orders from Mischa the Clockmaker, idiot savant, whose practical sense was nil, and Farren Delaney, whose brains were all in his wife's head? Never! said the Trade: Moze and his crew were born to hang: they were only biding their time till they filched fool Farren's wallet or Kalugin gold. Hightown and canalside were agreed on one thing: The Firewatch would never work.

  While Merovingen snickered, Farren and Mikhail had slogged on. When the hose split (titters from the sailmakers' apprentices) under the pressure of the water, Mikhail had tested thickness of canvas and tar until he got a hose that would withstand the force of the pump. When the merchants cavilled at paying for the bridge-bully Firewatch, fearing pilferage and arson, Farren had knocked on doors in the Second Tier, pointing out to shopowners that they were the most vulnerable to fire, should it break out—and whether some signed for fear of Moze and some for Mikhail's promised patronage, the list had grown.

  Farren and Mikhail had drilled their crew in person, wonderful sight! They had demonstrated hose-holding, ladder-climbing, and basic life-saving until spectators rolled laughing on the boardwalk. But the squad had persevered, Farren and Mikhail against the snickers, and Moze and Liz and crew against the nighttime hoots and taunts from their old rivals around the town.

  And at last the Day, the great demonstration: Farren and Mikhail had decided to let the governor and his advisors see how things were going. And suitably surrounded by his blackleg guards and with attendant hangers-on and entourage genteelly snickering behind their hands, Iosef Kalugin dutifully watched from Golden Bridge as Moze fired up the pump and Liz took the hose. Josh and Axel hauled the ladder up, clamped it to the bridge-struts, nipped up and slid back. The ladder folded back down, the hose came reeled in sans disasters, and the Firewatch stood to motley attention as the governor and Cardinal Exeter conferred.

  "Well?" Mikhail asked, unable to keep still any longer.

  Governor Kalugin nodded. "Not bad," he said slowly—personal triumph, this: Mikhail his heir, Mikhail the notoriously feckless, had evaded public debacle. The disappointment in the crowd was palpable: and dare one hope—there might be some public reassessment due?

  Cardinal Exeter nodded. "Acceptable," she declared. "The technical questions—"

  "Only what we already have," Mikhail said, eager to show off his ingenuity. "And there's a bell to clear the way, once the boat is on the water."

  "We can go operational when you give the word," Farren said.

  "Then consider the word given," Iosef muttered. "I'll have notices posted today. The Firewatch is official. Mind—
if there's one bad report on this crew of yours—"

  "Not that there's any likelihood of a fire," Cardinal Exeter said, considering the dripping, still soggy bridge-timbers. "For all the College officially determines, all the tech is legitimate. —And, ser Delaney, do tell your wife I'll attend the reading of the next cantos of Lukhacz's Epic. I'm very interested in the depiction of Delaney's's Last Stand. . ." Exeter promoted Mikhail's causes: delicately supported his patrons and his attachments—carefully kept lists and investigated each and all contacts ... for purity of thought and associations.

  Farren smiled as the governor and the cardinal marched off. Once they were out of sight he whooped out, "We're chugging!"

  Moze smirked at his bridge-bullies. "What next, m'ser?"

  "We float the fireboat out to the dock, right next to the Firewatch barracks," Farren began.

  "Eh?" Liz said suspiciously. "What's this barracks?"

  "It's that big barn I had them build next to the dock," Farren explained hurriedly. "It's part of your pay. A lune a week, and found. That's a dry bed, a roof over your head, and staples on the stove. You want anything fancy, you'll have to come up with it yourself."

  Liz shifted uneasily on her feet. "You didn't say nothing about found. Just the money, you said. Put out the fires, run the boat. That's all. We don't like takin' without givin' back."

  There were snickers among eavesdroppers. A more critical sort might have doubted this nobility in Liz the Snitch—and Liz cast a foul look in those directions. " 'At's so," she said, fingering her knife— and it was, one knew: it was one thing to take and snatch, but nobody liked to get charity.

  Farren understood that. "This isn't charity," Farren was quick to tell her. "I want you to be on that boat when the call comes in—" ("Not out lifting wallets on the bridges," someone whispered in the crowd.) "I want you fast to answer. Once the weather dries up you'll earn that lune."