Just once, Jones glanced up toward the end of Dead Wharf, but saw nobody there. No doubt Black Cal was walking away, back toward the wharf's end at Southdike. No doubt....
Rif upended the barrel and shoved it back against the hull, not bothering to tie it. Jones picked up her pole, cut away the stone anchor, and turned back toward Wharf Gate.
"Holes in the damned barrels," she griped as she poled, trying to keep from thinking about how tired her arms were, how close she'd come to dying, or Black Cal in general. "Can't sell 'em now."
"The wood's still good," Rif reminded her, running slow fingers over the skip's hull, checking for more damage. "Use it to patch your boat."
"Got to dry-dock her, any case," Jones sighed. "Get that rotten water out, and those damn seeds."
"Remember to throw 'em in the canal. Hmm, the gate's still open."
So it was. There was no sign of Black Cal, but he had to be around somewhere. Neither of them wanted to talk about him.
"Just drop me off at Fife Corner," Rif yawned. "Goddess, I could do with a hot meal and a hotter bath, and a fast dive into bed."
Goddess... ? Jones remembered a few details she'd wondered at earlier. Safe to ask now, after all this. "So, plague-killer and water-cleaning weed, and what else've we done tonight?" "Hm?"
Jones nudged the packet in the hidey with her foot. "That pickup back at Mars said "cheap fuel," not "clean water." What'd you give him? And me?"
Rif chuckled. "That's maybe the biggest changer of all. It's yeast-starter and instructions for making fuel-alcohol. Burns in every kind of engine. Make-it-yourself fuel. See?"
Jones glanced at her silent motor, and thought about that.
"Hell. Cheap fuel?"
"Damned right. And the yeast grows when you feed it. We'll be selling those packets all over the lower city. People'll use 'em, grow more yeast, sell it, spread it around. Soon everybody'll have it."
"You mean, anybody can make it?"
"Right here on the skip, if you wanted. Teeny-tiny brew tanks and stills could make enough to keep you in good money. Nobody could tell it from cook-pots. Hah! Not even the sharrh!"
Jones felt her jaw drop as the implications hit. "Damn, it could make us all rich!"
"Right." Rif reached about on the deck, shoving odd items back into her pack. The mallet twanged faintly against the flat-harp's strings. "Except the petroleum-sellers wouldn't like the competition. The rich and powerful don't want any change they can't control. The anti-tech types in the College don't want any change on general principles. Hell, it's safer to be a crook than to openly try and improve the world! In fact, safest and surest way to do it is to be a crook. Heh!"
Layers and layers, Jones realized. Rif worked as a musician to push her insurrectionist songs, used the rebel pose to cover her thieving and smuggling, and used the crooked work to cover her real business. She really was a revolutionary—maybe the kind that succeeded, the kind that nobody would suspect. Except maybe Black Cal.... But he'd helped.
"Tell me this. Why in hell are the Janes, of all people, doing this?"
Rif laughed again, not cynically this time. "The Janes want what everybody really wants—a way off Merovin. They also hate poverty and disease. The
only way to get what they want is through tech— smart tech that won't attract the notice of the sharrh, and can't be bottled up by the rich and powerful. That means, it's got to be something that they can spread far and wide among the poor, something even the poorest can get and understand and use."
Jones thought about that as she pulled up at Fife corner. The Janes, secretly producing a hideable tech-for-everybody: plague-prevention, water-purifying, even cheap fuel. The sharrh, the College—hell, not even the high town of Merovingen would see it before it had spread too far and wide to stop. And if it worked, if the Janes' plot could keep on like this....
Hell, it was scary. It was real scary. Anything hopeful was.
Rif climbed stiffly out of the skip, turned and pulled some money out of her pocket. "Here: five pieces."
"We agreed on four."
"The extra's for damages and repairs."
"All right." Jones took the coins—damn, it was half a dece, gold. "Hey, when you want to take those seeds around, call for me at Moghi's."
"Sure thing," Rif promised, a quick smile flashing her teeth in the shadows. "Serenade you all over the city, and pay for it, too."
She turned and walked off, feet padding light on the walkway, trailing a short song-chorus after her.
"How do you make an underground In a town that's under water? Make your peace with the deep canals, And kiss the boatman's daughter.
Jones smiled, and poled off toward Ventani.
FESTIVAL MOON (REPRISED)
C.J. Cherryh
It was the low side by Moghi's and the dark by Fishmarket Stair, where a skip in trouble could haul up; and a damned great mess, engine-heavy as she was and with the fuel all to be drained before she could be hoisted on the tackle Moghi's lads rigged under the stair amongst the pilings, and a draggled and a sweating Jones and a sodden and a much be-cursed Daoud (the new boy) to work the sling under the wounded skip.
Then it was out with the holed board and a damned great hole into her credit with Moghi, who had roused out old man Gilley, got him sober, and got him to work in the back-entry shed back in the alley, where near-dawn sawing and planing and hammering produced the precise few hull-planks to fit.
"We paint 'er?" Gilley had asked.
"Damn fool question," Jones had muttered with ill grace. "It's the damn night, Gilley!"
Meaning no one who had to hoist and patch in the small hours under Fishmarket at Moghi's prices was going to wait on dry paint. It was patch now and fix it right later, and Gilley was one of the best when he was sober.
Right now she sat in the dark with her rump on cold damp stone and her toes cold (but toes were always cold in Merovingen-below) and her aching arms pressed between her knees, hard, hands about her ankles, and watched Gilley waist-deep in the water tapping the patch in.
Damm, she wanted sleep. Damn, her back hurt enough to bring tears to her eyes. Damn, damn, and damn, she hurt from her worn feet to her aching head, and she had got holes in her skip and a stinking mess in her well that Moghi had already been asking about.
"What's that?" Moghi had asked.
And she: "Oh, I dunno, Moghi, damn, bad cargo, had to dump 'er."
"The hell. It smells like rotten eggs. It smells like the damn water, Jones—"
A shadow drifted up out of the black, one of Moghi's lads, she thought: here in Moghi's own armpit and tired as she was, she had her guard down.
When the feet turned out to be booted, the sound muffled in all Gilley's damned pounding, she scrambled and grabbed for her knife; but it was pale, fine hands on the man who dropped down by her in the dark, hands she knew before she even looked to the face.
"Damn ye, sneak up on me, why don't ye? We going to kill each other?"
"Sorry." He had a scarf about his head, dark clothes, that was why he was all face and hands in the night. "What in hell happened out there? What in hell were you doing?"
She sat down again, legs flat. "Ain't nothing. Just a damn fare."
"Ain't nothing. Jones—" There was the sound of a long breath. "Jones, just lie low. Stay out of sight. For God's sake."
"Hey, I figure whoever's after you is after me, right? So I confuse 'em. Make this little smuggle-run, throw this damn stuff out—"
"Good God, Jones!"
She ducked her head and winced. "Well, so, I didn't figure it. But, hey, ain't it? They get so busy to watching me, you c'n maybe kind of slip by 'em."
"So now the blacklegs are swarming like spawn in a corpse, the governor and the College are going to be asking questions—damn it all—you stink like the whole damned town!" "Thanks."
"Like rotten eggs. You're all over with it. My God, the reek off your boat—"
"Moghi's got some bad beer he give me. Going to sluice
'er down when we get 'er back in. She'll smell different." She gave a sniff at her sleeve and wiped her nose. "Maybe I spill it on me too, huh?"
"Do that. Lie low."
"I ain't going to lie low."
"That was noisy, Jones."
"So we found out something, huh?" Hopefully.
"Noisy. Listen. You get those patches painted. You lie low. Hear me—"
"Hey, lots of boats got a new plank 'r two. Ye stave a side now and again down by the Gut, that current's real fierce—"
"Explain it to the blacklegs. Damn it, Jones, paint it! And lie low."
She dropped her head into her hands and tucked her knees up.
"Hey," he said quietly, gently, and rubbed the back of her neck. "Come on, up to the Room. I'll get you a bath, put you to bed."
She shook her head.
"Jones."
"Ye don't buy me off, Mondragon, an' ye don't put me off."
"Let's go talk about it." Both shoulders now. "Come on."
Third shake of the head. "I ain't out of it." "Talk."
She gave a great and weary sigh.
So did Mondragon. He squeezed the shoulders, leaned his head against hers. "Come on, Jones. All right, we've got some figuring to do."
There was a low spot in the bed and Jones rolled over trusting the warm body that ought to be there. And kept going a fraction as there was no body in that spot. She moved her hand on the one side, wondering where she had gotten to in the bed, wondering where Mondragon had gotten to, and felt after him with her leg.
Then she opened her eyes on total dark and felt with a wide sweep of her arm.
"Mondragon?"
Panic set in. She threw herself out of bed and fumbled after the night-light that had gone out in the windowless Room in Moghi's upstairs, then gave that up and grabbed after her clothes in the pitch black, pulled on her breeches and her sweater in a desperate hurry and felt her way toward the door knob. She shot the bolt back and cracked the door.
One breakfast was on the tray on the floor outside. One half slice of toast.
She hit the stairs running, bare feet spatting down the boards, down to the hall where Gilley was curled up among the rags, a bottle in his arms.
She made the main room in more calm, walked up to the bar where Jep was dicing fish, turned her shoulder to the few patrons that (O God! it was that late!) had meandered in. She leaned right over the scarred wood counter and caught the wrist of Jep's knifehand with a hard and nasty grip.
"Where'd he go, Jep?"
Jep had a resentful and nervous look. "Hey, I dunno." He jerked the arm back. "He left out, I dunno, boy said he'd took out the back—"
"When?"
"Hell, I dunno, well 'fore light." "How 'well', dammit?" She was too loud. She choked it down. "Where?"
"I dunno, you got to ask Daoud." "Well, get him!"
"He's to market, be back, oh, half hour—" "Damn! I want my skip launched, Jep, get the
boys, I want my skip."
"Boys is sleeping, Jones. You want ter wake 'em, I
got ter wake Moghi, ah' you know how Moghi don't
like that."
"Jep." She drew a careful, a quiet breath. "I want my skip down. I don't care if you got to wake the governor, ye get my skip down an' ye get me a fuel can and ye get me runnin'."
"I got ter wake Moghi." Jep scowled distressedly and wiped fish-tail off the counter with a stained rag. "We roust a crew 'fore breakfast, broad daylight, ye got talk up an' down. Just give 'er a bit, Jones, we get ye in, all easy like... 'less ye got real reason t' be out of here faster."
She leaned her elbows on the counter and slumped against it.
Damn, no knowing where he had got to, no damn reason to go off panicked and making a commotion.
Noisy, Mondragon would say.
Hang around the canalside, he had said. Listen for what you can hear.
Mama, ain't that what you said? Man wants his own damn way. Holes in my boat, town gone crazy, man sneaks out on me and Ancestors know where he's at.
Damn! he done it to me, all sweet in bed and give me the damn whiskey and out with the light and all.
Mama, your daughter's a fool.
TWO GENTLEMEN OF THE TRADE
Robert Lynn Asprin
House Gregori and House Hannon were not particularly noteworthy in Merovingian hierarchy. There was old money behind each to be sure, but not enough to rate them as exceptionally rich. They had not specialized in commerce as so many other houses had, and therefore were not a controlling or even influential force in any given commodity or market. They were not old enough or large enough to impact the convoluted politics of either the town or the local religions. In fact, it is doubtful they would have been any better known than a fashionable shop or tavern, were it not for one thing: The Feud.
No one in town knew for sure how the feud between House Gregori and House Hannon began. Questions brought widely varying answers, not only from the two houses, but from different members of the same house as well. Some said it had something to do with a broken marriage contract, others that it was somehow related to a blatant criminal act involving either a business deal or a gaming wager. There were even those who maintained that the feud preexisted the settlement of the town and had merely been renewed. In short, almost every reason for a feud to exist had at one time or another been touted as the truth, but in reality no one in Merovingen really knew or cared. What mattered was that the feud existed.
Violence was common enough in Merovingen-above. While differences were not always settled by physical confrontation or reprisal, the option was always there and never overlooked in either planning or defense. Feuds were also fairly commonplace, but they were generally short lived and nearly always limited in their scope by unspoken gentlemen's agreements. In direct contrast, the Gregori-Hannon Feud was carried on at levels of viciousness that made even the most hardened citizen uneasy. There were no safe-zones, no truces. Women, even infants were as fair targets as the menfolk. It was said that both houses retained assassins to stalk the other, as well as offering open contracts for the death of any rival house member. Whether it was true or not, it made each member of either house a walking target for any local bravo who believed the rumors.
If anything, the feud doubtlessly saved many lives in the overall scheme of things—by example alone. Many a dispute in Merovingen cooled at the last moment with the simple advisement of "Let's not make a Gregori-Hannon thing out of this." And while the more sane edged away from the Gregoris and the Hannons, the feud raged as the two houses mechanically acted out their obsessive hatred.
Festival time was usually Gregori-Hannon open season, each house stalking the other through the celebrations, each never pausing to think that they themselves were the bait that lured the other side out. This year, however, House Gregori remained barricaded in its holding. The elder Gregori was ill, perhaps dying. So for the moment, at least, natural death took precedence.
"It's the Hannons! It has to be!"
The doctor paused in his ministerings and scowled up at the pacing man.
"Pietor Gregori!" he intoned in a stern voice. "Again I must ask you to keep still! Your father needs his rest, and I cannot concentrate with your constant prattle."
"Sorry, Terrosi." Pietor said, dropping heavily onto a chair. "It just doesn't make any sense. You've said yourself that Father's never been sick a day in his life. The only time he's spent abed is recovering from wounds. He was fine when you gave him his yearly check-up last week. It has to be poison .. . and the Hannons must be behind it. The question is how did they do it?"
"Of course it's the Hannons." The elder Gregori was struggling to rise on one elbow, waving aside the hovering doctor. "You know it, and I know it, Pietor. Never mind what this doddering fool says. It's poison. I can feel it eating at my insides. Now quit fretting at what we already know. The question isn't how they did it, it's what you're going to do about it! You're the eldest since your uncle was killed. The house will look
to you for leadership. I want you out hunting Hannon blood, not sitting around here trying to hold my hand."
Pietor looked around the room uneasily, as if looking for allies in the furniture, then, as was his habit, ran a hand nervously through his unruly hair.
"Father ... I don't want to argue with you. You know I fear for what this feud is doing to our house. We can't afford to lose you, much less anyone else if the Hannons see them first in the crowds. As for me, I've never killed anyone, and. ..."
"Then it's time you did!" the elder Gregori broke in. "I've pampered you in the past, Pietor, but it's time you woke up to the facts of life. Get it through your head that this feud will only end when either the Hannons or we Gregoris are ail dead. You owe it to the House to be sure it's them and not us who face extinction. Kill them, Pietor. Kill them all, or they will certainly kill you as they have killed me!"
Exhausted by the effort, he sank back in his pillows as Terrosi leapt to his side.
"That's enough... both of you!" the doctor snapped. "Now listen to me. I don't want to have to say this again... though I'll probably have to. It isn't poison. Believe me, in this town I know the symptoms. More likely one of the marketfolk sold you some overaged fish. You'll be up and around in a few days, if you get your rest and if certain parties can refrain from airing old arguments and getting you so upset my medicines get negated. Am I speaking clearly?"
Pietor shrank before the physician's glare.
"Terrosi's right," he said, rising. "I should be going."
Reaching the door, he hesitated with one hand on the knob.
"You're sure it's not poison?"
"OUT!" the doctor ordered, not looking up from his work.
Terrosi was genuinely annoyed by the time Pietor had closed the door behind him. It was obvious that the son loved his father, but his concerns didn't make the physician's work any easier. Most annoying of all was the reluctance on everyone's part to believe the diagnosis.
The doctor had served the Gregoris his entire career. In fact, the Gregoris had financed his training and education to insure his loyalty to their house. His retainer was sufficient to guarantee him a comfortable life without seeking other patients. Everything possible had been done to see to his needs, and the Gregoris' strategy was successful. His loyalty was total and unquestioned. Terrosi would never dream of accepting commission from anyone outside the house, whether or not it was potentially harmful to the Gregoris. His skills (and they were considerable) were solely at the disposal of the house. Over the years his treatments were accurate and effective, so that now it was unthinkable to have his diagnosis challenged. Unthinkable and annoying, for Terr.osi knew that the elder Gregori had indeed been poisoned. Terrosi knew this for a fact, as he had been the one who had done it.
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