It was becoming clearer why Demitri had commissioned his father's death. With the elder Gregori out of the way, Pietor would be in charge of the house, and that son's sentiments on the feud were well known. Yes. If little brother Demitri had wanted to bring a Hannon bastard into the house, Pietor would be far easier for Demitri to deal with as Househead than his father would have been. If anything, Pietor might have seized on the idea of legitimizing the Demetri-Teryl Hannon pairing as his chance to try to make peace between the houses. It was thoroughly logical on Demitri's part, but all for naught now, of course.
Terrosi wondered if Demitri would try to cancel his commission now. If he did, would he still be willing to pay the full fee, or would he try to haggle for half? There was only one way to be sure. The final dosage would have to be administered today, before Demitri had a chance to speak with him alone;
Fumbling in his bag, the physician happened to glance up, and met the eyes of the assassin. The man was watching Terrosi with the same calculating gaze that the doctor had directed at the killer when he first entered the room. Bottle in hand, the doctor gave a small nod of recognition which was mirrored by his colleague. Then the assassin excused himself as Terrosi turned to his ministerings ... two killers returning to their work.
FESTIVAL MOON (REPRISED)
C.J. Cherryh
It was up and down the canals on foot by day, listen to gossip; carry a little cargo by late afternoon, park and listen. It was maddening how a man that tall and blond and conspicuous could sink out of sight, but there was no talk at all to tell her where he had gone, it was all the business of the water and the rotten egg smell and the rumor about the Janes and how the blacklegs were stirring every which way hunting the Jane from the bridge. Some said it was a Nev Hettek plot to poison Merovingen. Some enterprising lander had taken to selling pills he claimed for an antidote. The Astronomer had gotten up on a podium up by Golden Bridge, pronounced it a hoax, reeled off tide statistics, and said the smell was only the seasonal bloom worse than usual.
A priest from the College decried the shooting as Adventist assassins and the stink as a diversion.
And thank the Lord and the Ancestors, Black Cal and whoever else knew about those barrels had kept mouths shut, for whatever reason.
So Jones prowled about glad enough it was a fine coat of brown paint covering those new boards and glad enough to have the skip smelling like bad beer and spoiled grain.
But in all that stir, little rumors were hard come by, and Mondragon was, she reckoned more and more, gone to Boregy: that was the likeliest place a tall blond Falkenaer (folk supposed) who happened to be (rumor said) an unacknowledged Boregy—could hide himself with no one remarking on it.
She even poled past Boregy, just to see if it raised anything, but it did nothing, and there was no Mondragon, and no news.
She poled past the Signeury too, and even past the Justiciary, that hulking mass that bulked so grim by Archangel, and past the College, fretting and worrying and thinking of those terrible things the Justiciary had inside, and what happened to folk who went in there and did not come out again, except sometimes they floated up, when the Governor wanted to have the rumor out, and make an example.
She picked at dinner at Tesh's on Foundry— sometimes he came there.
But she figured finally that it had to be the Room. The Room was where he had left from, the Room was where he would come to, quiedy, when he needed to find her.
Or when he knew he had damn well pushed her far enough and scared her enough and she would have his guts on a hook.
She slept once, maybe, in that expensive bed upstairs, on sheets sweat-soaked in a too-hot room, listening for every little sound, every creak of boards that might be a door about to open downstairs and him about to come in.
Then she would kill him.
But when the night-candle had burned down and she dressed, all bleary-eyed, and walked down to sip Jep's too-strong tea and eat Jep's eggs and toast:
"Hoooooo!" a voice said from the doorway. "They be floating this morning! Got four bodies from that shootup hung up down by Ramseyhead, got a skip dragging up some damn hightowner up by the Spur—"
Her heart stopped. She turned from the bar. She looked at the man, Teely, his name was, another skip-freighter. "Long dead?"
"Ney, pole hit the body. Damn fool hooked it up—it's that damn Mergeser, prob'ly hunting a ring or two, ain't that him?—but some lander seen 'im, an' raised hell, don't know him, sure, but there was canalers by, ain't no doubt who it was."
"Man or woman?"
"Didn't say."
"Where?"
"Over by Mansur, hell, you know, where they always drift."
She shoved the plate away. She felt her heart like to burst her ribs. She walked quietly out the front door.
"Something ridin' Jones?" she heard at her back.
She kept going. She untied the skip, ran out the pole, and shoved off, hard, hard out into the Grand and up the long haul for Port, by the West branch at Mars. Her arms ached. Her blistered feet hurt worse. But the unladed skip moved; moved right along in the stagnant water, as far as Gallandry and Gallandry Cut, where, there was a safe tie.
Then she left that dark hole for Gallandry Stair, bare feet pounding the boards.
Bolado Isle; Ciro; Novgorod, Yesudian, North— her heart was aching now. She saw the crowds that attended disaster to the rich. She saw the sleek police boats, the balconies and upper bridges of Mansur all full of onlookers.
"Who is it?" she asked someone, and had a shrug for answer.
"Who drowned?" she asked another one. She saw the body, draped in white, on the foredeck of the police boat below. But that was another shrug. She forced her way further, started down the steps and down onto the next level, and down again, canalside, the dangerous place, the place aswarm with blacklegs.
A hand grasped her shoulder. She spun around in fright, and stared right into Mondragon's pale face.
"You—"
He jerked her into the stair-underpinnings, in amongst the pilings and supports, and shook her and stared at her. "Dammit, Jones!—"
"Where you been?" She hit his arm with her fist and broke free. "Where in hell you been?"
"What are you doing down here?"
"What are you doin' down here? Where you been, dammit, scare a body half to death—"
"They said a woman drowned. Said she had dark hair."
"They said it was a hightowner."
There was fright left in Mondragon's face. Pure panic, gone to relief. He gripped her arms, she gripped his. Maybe her face looked like his. She thought so.
Then: "You damn fool," he said. "Where did you tie-up?"
"Gallandry." She mostly had her breath now. The blacklegs were still swarming about. He was in his uptown clothes, fine coat, fine breeches. "Come on. I fetch ye home, dammit."
"Can't, like this. Sense, Jones, for God's sake, sense. Go on back, get back to Moghi's—I'll pick up my clothes, I'll be there."
"Like you was in bed, you sneak?"
"Were."
"I ain't going!"
"Get back to Moghi's!" he hissed. "Damn it, Jones, don't balk on me. I'll get the clothes, pick up some other stuff, and I'll be there—I have to talk to you. This time I need your help."
"We get the clothes," she said. "Hell, I'm a shipper, carry yer packages wherever ye like, ser—-just gimme a silver, hey?—Or I follow you, damn your cheating hide, I follow you one end of this town to the next, how's that, hey?"
CATS TALE
Nancy Asire
The crowd inside Hilda's Tavern was loud and likely to get louder as the day wore on. The first few days before 24 Harvest were always this way: those whose natures were more subdued abandoned themselves to riotous living; those who lived in that state as a matter of course became wilder still.
From his seat at his usual table, one hand hooked in the handle of his beer mug, the other stroking the large, gold cat that lay curled up and purring in his lap, Ju
stice Lee looked across his empty lunch plate at the revelers. On the opposite side of the room, Hilda Meier stood behind the bar, her heavy arms crossed, watching her customers with a wary eye, A fight had broken out a few hours ago and, from the expression on Hilda's face, she was not likely to stand for another one.
Justice grinned slightly: Hilda ruled her tavern and adjoining rooming house with an iron hand, and there were few foolhardy enough to take her on. He had been living in that rooming house on the backside of Kass now for two years, and had never seen Hilda slowed down by much of anything.
There were other students in the tavern, dressed in Festival best: dark blue, gray or brown shirts, a few sporting a yellow sash emblazoned with the seal of the College. This, and their comparative youth, set them apart from the other customers.
Several fellows of indeterminate origin, probably small shop owners, sat at the table to Justice's right. Revenantists all, they were discussing an earlier public ceremony they had attended. Justice frowned and looked away; he had attended the selfsame ceremony, going through the motions like all the rest, though his Adventist soul rebelled at the notion. But the one condition (save receiving high marks) his patron, Father Rhajmurti, set on his entry to the College had been that he convert.
Justice had considered that step for days, had discussed it with the Adventist aunt and uncle who were his legal guardians, and had finally agreed, knowing that conversion and were patronage was the key to hightown society where an artist could make a living.
"Justus!"
He looked to his left: a stocky young man was threading his way across the crowded tavern, a mug of beer in hand. Hightowner, this one, dressed in student garb. The slim sword at the fellow's left hip, the set of his shoulders and head, his very way of walking, screamed money and position. Justice lifted his mug in greeting as the other hooked a chair out from under the table with his toe and sat down.
"Where you off to, Krishna?" Justice asked.
Krishna's face darkened and his brown eyes took on a sorrowful expression. "Me? Nowhere. I haven't got a libby that I can spare. And where I'd like to go isn't free."
"Huhn. You paid off your dueling damages, eh?"
"Oh, yes. Took the last of my ready cash to do it, too. Papa refused to help me out again."
Justice leaned back in his chair, sipped at his beer and stroked the sleeping cat. Krishna Malenkov, youngest son of The Malenkovs of Martushev of Rimmon Isle, once more (seemingly) at odds with his father. Karma had seen to it that Krishna had been born to money and power, but Krishna's father was making sure his youngest learned the responsibility of his position.
"How am I supposed to enjoy the Festival with no money?" Krishna complained, staring down into his mug with a morose expression on his face. "Everything costs more these few days."
"Oh, well. There are still a few things you can do for free." Justice finished his beer and set the mug to one side. The large, gold cat stirred, tucked his head under one outflung front leg and sighed. "Surely you can find something that doesn't cost you money."
"I'd like to know what!" Krishna studied the cat a moment, then took another drink. "Now Sunny there," he said, gesturing toward the cat with his free hand. "I'll bet any number of people would pay plenty for a truly domesticated cat! Plenty, don't you think?"
Justice shrugged. "I suppose so. But Hilda's got this one."
"Oh, yes, doesn't she. Fairly dotes on him, along with all the other half-wild cats she feeds." Krishna rubbed the end of his nose and peered down into his nearly empty mug. "And here I sit, Festival upon me, without the money to go where I want to, or do what I want to do. You'd think Papa could at least spare a demi."
"Huhn." Justice tried to look sympathetic. He and Krishna had rooms across the hall from each other in Hilda's rooming house, which made them acquaintances. Krishna complaining about his lack of funds was beginning to be a bore. It was always the same story: Krishna spent what allowance his father sent him nearly as fast as it came into his hands.
"Hey, 1 thought I'd find you here, Krishna!"
A thin, dark-headed student leaned on their table, nodded briefly injustice's direction, and turned back to Krishna.
"I'm going to the Grand to watch the boat parade. Are you interested? We could stop in a few of the bars uptown after."
Pavel Suhakai was another of the moneyed students at the College; he and Krishna had grown up together (both their parents living on Rimmon Isle), and often went to the places only those with capital and connections could go.
"I have no money!" Krishna muttered. "I spent the last of my ready cash paying off that damned bar."
"Ah, the duel." Pavel took a chair. "Cost you a bundle, eh?"
Justice took the opportunity for what it was worth and shoved his chair back from the table. "Sorry to run. I've got to get some fresh air. Will I be seeing you later?"
Krishna shrugged. "I'll probably be sitting here when you get back, unless a shower of gold falls on me from the ceiling."
Justice smiled, lifted the limp, relaxed cat from his lap and stood. "You'll figure out something, Krishna. You always do." He set Sunny down in his empty chair, scratched the cat behind the ears, and started toward the door.
And nearly ran into a group of blacklegs who filled it.
A pall of silence settled over the tavern. Justice stepped back from the door and stood leaning up against the wall, keeping his stance as relaxed as possible. He saw Hilda stiffen behind the bar; Guy the bartender moved uncertainly a few steps toward Hilda, his thin face going through a raft of expressions, finally settling on one of interested innocence.
The blacklegs, on the other hand, seemed to be satisfied with a brief look at the occupants of the tavern—two of them exchanged a few hushed words, then they all turned and hurried off.
A murmur of conversation flowed into the void they left. Justice straightened, drew a deep breath and glanced across the room at Krishna and Pavel. The two of them sat close together at the table now, their heads nearly touching, whispering to one another like nearly all of Hilda's customers.
The blacklegs had been stirred up lately, a fact everyone in Merovingen was aware of. What no one seemed able to agree on was why, never mind the hightowner drowned by Mansur. Festival might account for some of it: there was always trouble of one sort or another at this time of year, but the high profile the law maintained was unusual, even for Festival time.
Justice shook his head, turned and walked out of the door to Hilda's Tavern, and stood for a moment on the wooden balcony-walkway. He leaned up against the railing and looked off across the canal to the large mass to the southwest.
The Pile, everyone called it. A rock used as a connection point for bridges leading from it to Kass, Spellbridge and Bent. A three-tiered stairway, honeycombed with tiny shops, benches for sitting, and platforms where people could meet and talk. And standing on the second tier at the moment was a large group of blacklegs.
He shook his head again and set off toward Borg Bridge. It was axiomatic: in Merovingen, death of a most painful and gruesome sort often followed sticking one's nose into others' business.
Borg Bridge stood at the far end of Kass, three-tiered like many of the bridges in Merovingen. Justice took his time, walking slowly among the crowds on the Kass second-level walkway. Here was a true meeting of all three worlds: the under-city of canals, docks, wharfs and less savory places; the middle-city of small but prosperous residences and businesses; and the upper-city, that rarified world of those with money enough to afford a place that actually saw the sky.
Justice walked along, mingling with denizens of all three levels, though those of the upper city were rarer. He paused as he reached the edge of Borg Bridge and sought a place to sit down out of the line of traffic.
Out on the walkways, the sights and sounds and odors of Merovingen were overwhelming. And at Festival time, the ribbons and banners that decked the buildings and bridges added to the riot of color humanity provided. People called t
o one another, hucksters shouted their wares, and the steady beat of footsteps on wooden planks ran an ostinato beneath. Warm weather and a slight breeze wafted the ripe smells of the canals below to shops and residences above. Right before the bridge began, a fried-fish seller had set up his stand; a sweetseller stood across the way. People stopped periodically and bought themselves a treat and wandered off again, in search of excitement. Justice smiled at the frenetic scene, for it was home to him and loved.
His pocket sketchbook was always handy, along with drawing implements, in a small pouch at his side. Selecting a seat right up against the bridgehead, partially hidden from passersby, Justice took out sketchbook and pencil, chose another resting citizen at random, and began to draw.
Then, a familiar voice intruded on his concentration. Lowering his pencil, he glanced up from his brief sketch. There, not more than a few paces away, walking past him toward the Grand Canal, was Krishna Malenkov, accompanied by his friend, Pavels— Krishna with a large heavy cloth bag in his arms.
And, looking out of that bag, feline face bearing an expression of bewildered contempt, was Hilda's cat.
"Sunny!" Justice closed his sketchbook, shoved it and his pencil into his belt-pouch, and stood. Sun-ny's plaintive meows drifted over the noise of the bridge. What the hell was Krishna doing with Sunny?
Krishna and Pavel disappeared down the Borg Bridge and, hesitating only a moment, Justice started off after them.
The bridge was crowded, most of the traffic headed toward Borg; once across Borg, one came to the Grand Canal. As the first cross-over to the Grand from the upper-class neighborhood on the north end of the lagoon, the bridge leading from Kass to Borg was heavily traveled—at Festival time, always jammed, and today was no exception. Justice hurried along, trying to keep Krishna and Pavel in view, weaving in and out of other walkers, of standing groups of talking revelers, and staggering drunks.
He lost sight of his fellow students, but spotted them again over the heads of the crowd.
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