Festival Moon
Page 4
"Not here. Further downstream. Butt of the Spur."
Sure! Jones jabbed the pole almost viciously into the canal-bottom. Right under the eyes, ears and noses of the blacklegs! Maybe this trip wasn't worth the money after all. Maybe she could catch Rif with a fast pole-swipe, knock her in the canal, and be sure she couldn't come up with that long hard shape under her cloak.
Maybe toss the cargo after her, and hurry away safe. Maybe, but the odds weren't good at all. Wait, wait and watch.
The bird-calls had picked up again.
Jones paused under Tremaine-Kristna Bridge to light the lamp, just to look proper. Lots of poleboat traffic here, ferrying the rich about, distracting the eye with lights, and no doubt lots of blacklegs watching from the upper levels and bridges. Be cool, look harmless, keep to the canal-sides like a proper skip-freighter carrying perfectly harmless cargo and a passenger for hire. Don't attract attention. Just stay humble and keep going.
Except that by the time they passed the end of Carswell, she was sure there was another boat following them. Hard to tell, among the press of poleboats, but she could swear there was another skip back there keeping the same route and a fixed distance back. Rif didn't seem worried, or—less likely—hadn't noticed. Her friends? Never mind. Keep calm, keep going.
The bird-whistles faded out at Carswell, which wasn't surprising. None of Rif's friends would want to go onto the Justiciary, or the Signeury, let alone the Spur. Leave that for the tracking skip. Friends in high places, and low.
At feast hereabouts they didn't have to worry about attacks from the bridges.
Unless maybe Black Cal was up there, and feeling ill-tempered.
As the skip cruised into the wide stretch of water between the Justiciary and the Spur, Jones felt a thousand imagined eyes at her back. The thick traffic ahead was almost as bad. It was crowded here on the north fork: skips, poleboats, canal-haulers, even the foamy wake of a rich man's fancyboat rocking the water. And noise, and tossing lamps, and festoons and fancy Festival-trim everywhere. Noisy and jolly as only the second-biggest intersection of uptown could be, thick with rich folks' guards and blacklegs and Lord-knew-what else.
And here I am carrying an insurrectionist and hot cargo, right through it. Jones clenched her teeth to keep them from rattling as she poled her way through the mob.
"Get under the bridge between the Spur and Spellbridge," said Rif, utterly calm. "Tie up at Spellbridge-side, if you can."
Jones nodded, and breathed a little easier. But only a little. Spellbridge was where the blacklegs went for fun, odd tool-repairs, boat-storage, and to meet their informants. On first night of Festival, they'd likely be on the upper levels or else out on the town. With luck, there'd be nothing at the under-bridge tie-up but a few empty boats. Maybe.
Rif studied the bridge as they passed under its edge. "Now," she said quietly. "Nobody watching."
After that they said nothing, for the dark cavern under the big bridge echoed every sound. Jones turned the skip and poled quietly for the tie-up, seeing nothing but a few police boats chained at the rings. She steered between them, softly, softly, and the skip's prow bumped the wall with no more sound than a child's footfall. Rif was ready with the line, and had it jury-tied before Jones finished racking the pole.
But opening the barrel made noise. The first muffled mallet-blow echoed in the thick shadows, made Rif glance around nervously. How much noise before the king-piece snapped? Swearing silently, Jones went to the barrel, pushed Rif away and studied the lid. Damn, as tight and well-made as the rest of it. Think, think. Muffling. ...
"Give me that cape."
Rif raised an eyebrow, but complied. Jones darted back to the freeboard near the hidey, groping in the thick shadows. She could swear she'd seen it here just a few hours ago.... There. A long thick dowel, too good for burning, kept in case she needed a new short gaff or hatchet-handle: perfect. She wrapped the cape around the dowel, padding double-fold at the ends, then held the dowel upright on the barrel-lid, just over the king-piece. Rif handed her the mallet without comment. Jones hit the padded dowel hard, once, twice.
The king-piece broke soundlessly, dropping most of the dowel and a good bit of the cape into the reeking fluid below.
Rif sighed as she pulled the cape back out, unfolded it, made a half-hearted try at wringing it out. She shrugged and put it back on.
Jones pulled off the lid, stuck it and the dowel safely off under the freeboard, and untied the barrel. The two of them tilted it quietly, quietly over the side. It seemed to take hours to drain.
Every sound of foot-traffic overhead, every bump of the tied boats nearby, made them flinch and glance around. Damn, what was that patch of shadow over there, just beyond the bridge? A big rat? A crouched watcher, waiting only to see how much news he had to sell? An ambush planned? Damn! Hurry.
The barrel finally emptied. They overturned it and lashed it tight, fast as they could without making noise. Rif pulled the tie loose, and Jones poled them back out toward mid-channel. Turn, now. Quickly. Noise approaching from behind, a boat-pole: maybe harmless traffic and maybe not. They'd been lucky to have no passing witnesses this long, though doubtless Rif had some story ready if anyone asked. Move out fast. The skip glided into the open water between North and Spellbridge.
More traffic here, and more bridges ahead. All busy with passengers, nobody looking, at least not that Jones could see. Edge of the wealthy neighborhood, nobody looking twice at a "trade" boat, nobody pausing on the bridges. A few familiar faces, though no real friends, working poleboats and a few skips, mostly carrying passengers. Enough neutral eyes, enough light on the water, that maybe there'd be no trouble here. Jones guided the skip, riding easier now, down toward the Novgorod crossing as fast as she could without looking hurried.
Rif came picking her way back between the remaining barrel and the crates, just to say quietly:
"Mars next, under DiNero Bridge." Then she returned to her perch at the bow.
Jones nodded agreement, and some relief. Down among the Residencies and into West End, canals good and wide, traffic steady but light on a night like this: too many eyes about for a direct ambush, too few boats for a jam-up where mysterious damage could so-accidentally happen. Good.
Except that the whistles were back, and there was definitely another skip following them. All right, Rif s friends, but still nervous-making.
And the stink of that nameless "industrial chemical" (dye? soap?) was all around them, off the barrels, maybe off Rif's cloak, and maybe from the water, and sooner or later somebody had to notice. They'd been lucky, staying unbothered all this way, but luck wouldn't hold.
Still, it did until they reached Mars island. They tied up at the corner under DiNero Bridge, Jones not quite believing they'd made it this far, and Rif whis-tling some damned cheerful tune into the shadows.
A darkness moved there, and Jones nearly jumped out of her skin. Rif spotted it, waved one casual hand—the other was under her cloak—and called in that quiet/aimed voice: "So, what's good tonight?"
A man stepped closer to the lantern Rif held up; dressed in dark pants and shirt, bare feet, dark canaler's hat, he could have been anybody. "Cheap fuel," he said, just as quietly.
Rif nodded, turned to one of the crates and pried it open. Jones glimpsed several wrapped packets inside. Rif pulled out one of them and held it out to the nondescript man. He took it, and handed back a small purse-bag that jingled. "Note inside," he whispered, barely audible. "Best read it before you go on."
Then he shoved the packet under his shirt and hurried off into the dark. A moment later a door shut somewhere near, then silence.
Rif pulled the purse open, took out a small folded piece of paper, scanned it, frowned fiercely and tossed it into the water. "Port Canal, east," she snapped to Jones, stuffing the small purse into a pocket. "Get to Foundry, fast as you can—and stick to crowds."
"What trouble?" Jones asked baldly, poling the skip out. Curiosity be damned, she was sic
k of running blind through dangers nobody would warn her about. "Damn, what is this business?"
"Some rich bastards, this time," Rif growled, hitching her shoulders forward. "Don't want anyone rocking their fat fancyboats. Move it, can't you?" She kept her eyes on the bridges ahead.
Jones ground her teeth and pushed for the Port Canal.
A few long strokes brought them to the big intersection of Port and West, and the traffic here was thick and noisy. Bobbing party-lights on half the boats danced with their reflections in the pole-churned dark water. Smells of flowers, perfumes, sweat, food, drink and odd cargoes fought with the growing stench of the water. Nobody here would notice the faint bitter smell of Rif s soaked cape and empty barrels. Cackles of laughter, fragments of conversations, shouts of warnings, steering-calls, curses and arguments racketed off the water in a steady din that filled the thickening air. An odd sight would be noticed here, but yells for help could be missed.
At least there were some known and friendly faces here. Jones exchanged passing nods and hails with half a dozen canalers before she got past Salazar bridge. Expect plenty more ahead, too. That was something.
Rif tucked her gloves in her belt, pulled out the flat-harp and finger-picks again, strummed loudly and started up a cheery song about a blacksmith. She even stuck out a basket on the blunt bow, as if to collect tossed coins. It added just the right touch of cheerful Festival lunacy.
"Bide, lady, bide! There's nowhere you can hide.
The lusty smith shall be your love, for all of your mighty pride."
One corner of her cloak was folded over a long, narrow lump right within fast reach.
The bird-calls couldn't be heard in this racket, and there was no way to tell if the following skip was still following in this crowd, but Jones guessed that Rif’s friends were still pacing them. Bless crowds. She leaned to the pole, trying to keep the skip out toward central water and watch for suspicious neighbors. Let Rif sing and watch the bridges.
The entry to the Grand Canal was a mob-scene. Half the city's boats seemed to be there, trying to cut across, turn in or pull out, all at the same time. Already there was a small jam-up at the Ventura corner, curses and poles flying thick and fast. Avoid that, certainly. Jones darted between two poleboats and shot out toward the center of the water, right in the wake of a big canaler's barge. The walls of Foundry lay dead ahead, less than a hundred meters away.
There was a different shout to port. "There!" A snap of satisfaction, excitement, and hunting hunger. Jones glanced that way and saw a big poleboat peel away from Ventura-side and come darting obliquely across traffic. Straight toward her. No accident. The craft was stuffed with passengers, maybe five plus the boatman: really too much for a poleboat in this traffic. They were all dark-clad and heavy-set, and didn't look as if they were going to a party. They were bent unusually low, as if hiding something in their hands below tne gunwales. Oh shit, shit, shit!
"Ware port!" she snapped to Rif as she leaned harder into the pole. Hook and sheath-knife were ready at her belt, come to that, but best hope now was the pole.
Rif shook back her hair—taking a fast sidelong glance as she did—then neatly pulled off her finger-picks and set her harp down. Her freed hand slid under the fold of her cape. Under pretext of combing back her hair with her fingers, Rif kept her eyes on the pursuing poleboat as she leaned back casually among the barrels in the well and made less of a target.
Fine for you. What about me? Jones gnawed her lip and looked around for something to duck behind. Damn, but that poler was coming on fast! And, Lord, one of those big bastards had a hand under his shirt. At this distance he wouldn't be reaching for a knife. Would he dare haul out and shoot in a crowd this thick?
Ah, there ahead: a big canal-hauler turning, and an empty poleboat trying to swing around him. Go!
Jones darted to portside of the skip, jabbed the pole in and leaned hard in a half-turn, aimed sharp across the bow of the oncoming canaler. No time to shout warning, or the pursuers might hear it. Another jab on the pole, hard and fast.
The two boatmen on the canal-hauler yelled in shock and scrambled to shove away. The blunt bows crossed, less than a meter apart. Rif, fast as always, lunged to the rim, stuck her hand out, and shoved bodily at the canaler's hull.
The boats missed scraping by less than an arm's length. "Sorry!" Jones yelled at the boatmen's gaping faces. "Ware port! Port!" She waved back toward the loaded poleboat, perforce looking toward it.
At that moment the empty poleboat at the outside of the turn was scrambling to get away from the canal-hauler's sudden change of course. He just missed hitting the bigger craft, but shot right across the loaded poleboat's bow.
The thugs had been too intent on their prey to watch for other boats, and their combined weight made the craft unwieldy, hard to stop. Their bow hit the empty poleboat.
The booming impact could be heard across the canal, along with the screeched curses of the boatman. The empty craft rebounded sideways, tilting high while the boatman threw himself across the gunwale, and banged helplessly into the turning canal-hauler. The canaler's crew all screamed and swore together, flailed poles and tried to shove clear.
The thug-laden poleboat, stopped at last, wallowed and shimmied while its boatman tried to pull back and turn. His passengers, cut off from their target, snarled and cursed and tried to push off from the tangle of hulls. Those in front shoved with their hands; the ones further back pulled up the assorted gaffs they'd been hiding, and tried to push off with those. More often than not, they got in each other's way. A man in front, frustrated beyond his meager patience, took a spiteful swipe at the poler's boatman. He missed, but just barely.
"Bastard!" the boatman shrieked. "Assassins!" He got enough footing to make a good swing with his pole, and one of the thugs went overside.
The gang's commander lost his head, yanked his pistol out from under his shirt and took a quick shot at the poleboat. It went wide and high, and thwacked into the canal-hauler behind.
"Ware hey!" the canaler's crew yelled together. They stopped trying to finish the turn, and jabbed their poles across the empty poleboat at the loaded craft. Their aim was better than the shooter's. Another thug hit the water, and another slumped in the bilges with a cracked skull.
"Ware! Ware!" familiar voices took up from astern. Other skips: friends, or neutrals at least. They'd seen most of the squabble, if not all of it, and considered the pistol-shot a dirty blow in a pole-fight.
Besides, the overloaded poleboat was blocking traffic.
Two skips and another poleboat converged on the belabored gang, and added their poles to the general melee. The pistol-man was next to go into the water.
Jones glanced back at the fight as she skimmed under the Pardee-Foundry bridge, and grinned from ear to ear. No more trouble from that quarter, at least not tonight. Rif was laughing like an idiot.
"Which way?" Jones remembered to ask. "Lots of tie-ups here."
"Nayab Bridge, under,'" Rif barely made out through giggles. "Tie to port.... Ah, that was gorgeous!"
They laughed all the way to the bridge tie-up.
* * *
Here a woman was waiting for them, face hidden under a hat-brim's shadow. The exchange was fast and silent this time, though the purse seemed smaller. The woman hurried off with her packet while Rif got the tie loose, and Jones poled them back out into working water.
"Where now?" Back to business.
Rif scratched her chin for a moment before deciding. "Hmm, down the Grand. Cut into the Tidewater just at Fife's Corner and tie up. We'll wait there."
Fife, no less. All around the city and back again. Jones sighed as she leaned into the pole. Her arms were tiring, and the job wasn't over yet. "You keep me working all night, the price goes up,' she grumbled.
"Maybe, maybe." Rif reached into the top crate and pulled out one of the packets. "For you," she said, tossing it neatly into the hidey. "Extra hazard pay. Look it over when you've got time."
The bird-whistles paced them along the Grand. Traffic thinned, and there was no further trouble. Still, Rif put her harp away and watched the bridges as they passed.
They turned down the reeking channel of the Old Grand and around Fife Corner to the Tidewater, seeing no one ahead or behind. Rif set up the dark-lantern as they tied up under the Southdike Bridge, but kept it shuttered. Jones racked the pole, sat down on the halfdeck and rubbed incipient cramps out of her legs and shoulders. But for the scurrying rats and the stench of the Tidewater, this rest in the dark was almost a pleasure. Rif was silent, and Jones thought it best to imitate her, leaving no sound but the distant roar of the upper city and the faint slap of the oily water against the hull.
No, wait. There was another sound: the thump and plash of a skip's pole, a woman's voice singing, both coming closer.
"I will the wind shall never cease,
Nor flashes in the flood, 'Til my three sons return again
In earthly flesh and blood...."
Jones knew where she'd heard that voice before: Hoh's.
Rif’s lantern opened, low overside, casting a small circle of light on the water. "Here, Rat," she called quietly.
Damned if a fat rat on the piling didn't sit up and take notice.
"Hey, hey, Rif!" echoed under the bridge. A dim shape floated near, shadowy without running-lights, then caught in the raised beam of Rif's lamp.
Jones gasped as she recognized the craft. It was Mintaka's skip, and there was old Min herself, riding like a passenger, while a tall woman with short dark hair poled the boat for her. That was Rattail, Rif’s singing partner. Tonight, partner in this lunatic smuggling too: their water-escort, all this time. She pulled alongside and tossed over bow and aft lines. Rif grabbed one, Jones the other, and they jury-tied the hulls together.