And guards, three men with guns, the sight of which made Jones near turn an ankle on the carpet-edge. Mondragon's arm was there, steadying her. She felt her face go red; and her heart was hammering.
Every weapon she had brought was back in the room. Mondragon's idea.
No choice, he said. Now they had none.
"M'ser," Kalugin said, and with a look up and down that sent the blood hotter still in Jones' face: "m'sera Jones. Amazing. Sit down."
Mondragon steered her to a chair. She let herself into it, never taking her eyes off Anastasi Kalugin, glowering the while.
Damn arrogant sherk, him with the white teeth, look at him smile.
Mama, I listened to this man of mine. Ye told me.
But we're easy to drop in the canal. He wants something.
It was something, Mondragon had said, which brought Anastasi in from Nikolaev; something which had brought him into Boregy, to associations he did not make public.
"You have problems," Anastasi said, leaning back in his chair, themselves sitting across the table from him. "How are they, Thomas?"
Mondragon shrugged.
"Do you want help?"
A second shrug. "If you found it convenient. Yes. I could use a little help. I don't think it's going to go away with Festival." .
"I might build some nuisance to distract her. My sister can be very difficult. I warned you, didn't I, Thomas? And where she interests herself, my dear father follows. I did warn you. You're very close to being an inconvenience. Do you follow me?"
"Yes, m'ser." Short and clipped.
"Why should I do this?"
"Because I ask you to, m'ser. Because I am useful."
"Ah. Because you've held things back from me?"
"No, m'ser. I trust you have your reason."
Kalugin's face acquired harsher lines, and eased again. "So readily you understand me, Thomas. M'sera Jones—I do trust you have scrubbed more than your face... like the well of your skip, m'sera."
The breath she had sucked in on the first half of that came out again, and her wits went with it for a moment.
He knows. Damn.
How does he know?
Then: "I keep her clean, ser," she said. "Real clean. You got a cargo in mind?"
"Just Thomas, here."
"And your help, ser?" Mondragon asked.
"It does require you expose yourself," Kalugin said, "to certain agencies."
Long silence, then.
"What's he mean?" she asked.
"That we stir the waters," Kalugin said, "and you deal with—shall we say—whatever comes of it. That's all. Not a public exposure, no, no, never fear that—as long as you're discreet. I'll try to handle your other problem. And yours, m'sera. You know that I do watch over you. Thomas knows. Thomas knows the price of things. Do stay out of trouble."
She clenched her hands. "Yes m'ser."
Like Mondragon. Like Mondragon had no choice but say, like this snake put them both to.
And someday, someday they could turn up like that poor woman off by Mansur. There was no forgetting that.
DEATHANGEL
Mercedes R. Lackey
It was a deathangel. The only catch of the day, and it had to be a godforsaken deathangel!
Rigel Takahashi—called "Raj," since Advendst names weren't terribly healthy for anyone in Merovingen to own up to, and most particularly not for him—stared at the fishtrap (the best and newest one he owned) and the contents (flopping around and getting the long poisoned spines nicely wedged) and cursed a curse long, literate, and alliterative. The words did not match with the speaker; a painfully thin, ragged sixteen year old, dressed only in tattered breeches, balanced on his haunches on a scrap of raft cobbled together from waterlogged flotsam. A swampy—the townfolk and canalers said "crazy". His dark hair was nearly waist-length, indifferently clean, and held back in a tail with a twist of marsh-grass; his lean, tanned face smudged with mud above the almond eyes and along the cheekbones. This was not the sort of creature from which one expected anything intelligible, much less intelligent.
Raj was flat out of patience, with the day (which was hot and stank), with his luck (which smelled almost as bad as the day), with the world (which smelled worse than his luck). For anyone else on this mudball of a planet, for anyone else in this wreck of a city, a deathangel would mean cause for rejoicing— all you needed were gloves to keep the spines from etting you and a good sharp knife. Then you had a ilo of pure intoxication worth plenty to an Uptowner, plus the poisonous by-product, which any number of people would be willing to take off your hands . ..
But Raj hadn't even seen a glove in five years, and his "knife" was a shard of glass with one end dipped in tar and wrapped with string. All he could do was stare at the three-times-damned-and-burned thing wedging itself more and more tightly in the depths of his fish-trap and try not to cry. The only catch of the whole day, useless, and he hadn't eaten since yesterday morning. Damn the Ancestors, damn the trap—his only hope of recovering anything was the chance that the fish might relax when it died, enough to let him slide it out. Or if he could find a mark.
He poled the raft toward the Dead Wharf in hopes of one; there was just the barest possibility there would be someone with a bit of coin or something edible to trade out there—he'd willingly swap fish, trap and all for a little bread. He hadn't had any real bread in months.
Real bread—the smell of bread baking—used to drive him nearly out of his head. Mama would laugh at him—tell him he'd never be a fighter, he wasn't carnivore enough.
Mama had been; but bigger carnivores got her.
He almost missed the shadow under the Dead Wharf pilings that moved wrong. Almost. But living with the swampies gave you paranoia if nothing else, and when it lunged down from its perch on a crossbeam he already had in his hand the only thing on the raft that could count in a fight.
The trap full of deathangel.
The trap wasn't much more substantial than a swampy's promise; it shattered as it hit the man (all dressed in dark colors he was; real clothes and not rags, and his face covered) and he got a spine in one eye and the rest in the hands that came up to fend it off. He was dead when he hit the raft; which prompdy capsized, but Raj had been ready for that. He dove with the push of the raft behind him, took deep water and shoved off the mucky bottom, and came up with a rush that got him halfway back onto it before his attacker finished his death agony. The man floated, a dark bundle that twitched and rolled, being slowly pulled back under the Wharf by the current. No more danger from him, for very sure.
Raj got himself back onto his raft—and started to shake.
Man—waiting there, like he knew it was part of Raj's regular circuit. Man dressed all dark, with his face covered. Man that came down on him like he knew exactly what he was doing, who he was going for. Assassin. Had to be. They were after him—after five years, They were after him; now They'd found him and They'd get him like They'd got Mama. Oh, God.
He poled back to the swamp in a fog of panic, hunger forgotten, casting glances back at the Wharf to see if anyone had found the body; if there were any more of Them after him. But all he could see were the rafts of the other swampies out bobbing in the Dead Harbor—most of them too busy fishing or dozing in the sun to take notice of anything, the rest not wanting to notice trouble lest it fall on them, too.
Got to hide; that was what he knew, his pulse pounding in his ears and his knees getting wobbly with weariness. He pushed the scrap of raft into the swamp, in where the high, yellow reeds made a maze you could get lost in, easy. He brought it in up against a particular reed-islet—which only he and May and Raver knew wasn't an islet at all. He looked around again; then crouched and listened—nothing out of the ordinary. Sea-birds mewling, reeds whispering the stories the Dead told them, nothing else. He jumped off the raft—water was just a bit more than waist-deep here, though the bottom sucked at his feet—and picked up an edge of the islet. It was a kind of basket made to look like a humm
ock with reeds sticking out of it, resting on a much larger (relatively speaking) raft. Raj heaved his little raft atop the big one, climbed onto them, and lowered the basket down to cover himself and his "home" again.
There was maybe enough room under the "roof" to sit hunched over, with your chin on your knees—but it was safer than anywhere else in the swamp, especially with Them out after him. Only he and old May and Raver had these hideys that he knew of. Raver taught the two of them how to make them, swearing they were called "blinds" where he came from, and you used 'em to shoot birds from. Raj's hidey was the reason he was still alive; he'd waited out many a crazy-hunt in his, and no few searches by Old Ralf.
But would it hold against Them?
Whoever They were. Mama had had plenty of safeguards, but none of them had helped her—
Ends of reeds tickled his back and arms as he pushed the thought of discovery resolutely away. No. He wouldn't think about it, he needed to think of something else. But songs weren't any good—the only ones he could remember right now were all grim. Think. Get calm. Keep your mind occupied, or you'll panic.
He began breathing deeply and quietly, willing his pulse to slow, making himself a bit calmer, telling imself he had nothing to worry about. The raft bobbed a little; if anyone came by he'd know it by the disturbance of the water. No way anyone could get near him without him knowing. Now—if you started with a load of salt fish; say forty barrels, say two hundred thirty seven fish to a barrel, and you started up the Det, with your costs going up but the worth of those fish going up the farther you went...
The heat under the basket, the bobbing of the raft, the close air and exhaustion all conspired to put him to sleep.
It began again.
Deneb tugged at his elbow. "Yo?" Rigel responded absently; he was doing Mama's accounts, and there'd been a lot of business today.
- "Mama said I could stay with Fedor overnight— Raj, can he be on the ship? Please?"
Rigel smiled at his nine-year-old brother (just barely nine—which was the reason for the special treat of overnighting with a friend). The starship was their special, secret game—Victory it was called, and Rigel had been making up stories about it for Deneb since Denny was old enough to understand him. Forbidden to mention starships, forbidden even to think about them—but weren't they Adventist? Wasn't Mama Sword? It was their duty, almost, to remember that they belonged in the stars. So Denny was First Officer now, in the game, and as proud as if it had been a real starship they were talking about.
Rigel made himself look serious—Captains are always serious. "Well, First, we have a real problem on our hands."
"Aye, Captain," Deneb responded, waiting enlightenment.
"The Engineer is hurt bad—we've just—uh—had an accident. We've gotta find a replacement or we're not gonna be able to take Victory out! Any ideas who to recruit on this station?"
"Aye, Captain," Deneb replied eagerly. "A real good man—uh—uh—"
"Wouldn't be Fedor off the Harmony, would it? Now that Harmony's been scrapped—"
"Aye, Captain!"
"Then see to it, First. And have a good time."
Deneb hugged his brother with artless enthusiasm— he'd been an affectionate child from his very birth, always responding to cuddling. "Raj—you're the best!"
"Sure, kid. Just so you remember it's you an' me—"
"—against the world—" Deneb made the response.
"—all the way!" they finished together, raising clasped hands.
Rigel turned back to the accounts, smiling.
Now, as it always did, the nightmare skipped ahead—past when Mama came running up the stairs, fear on her face, a paper in her hand. Past when she pushed him out the back bolt-hole window that led to the fire ladder in the air shaft, telling him to guard that paper with his life. Past when he hid under the eaves of the building until dark. Past when he came back to the shop and apartment, to find both wrecked, and Mama gone. And blood—lots of it. Even in nightmare he didn't want to face that—
He made a sack of the remains of a curtain, fear drying his mouth as he searched the wrack for anything useful that an eleven-year-old boy could carry. The place had already been pretty thoroughly looted; there wasn't much. He daren't stay too long, and daren't go to Denny—They might be watching, waiting, and he would put Denny in danger if he did. No, he had to find some place to hide, and quick. Mama had entrusted that paper to him, and it was his duty to see it stayed safe until he could put it in the hands of a Sword of God agent. And hope the Swords would get Mama out of Their hands—whoever They were. But surely they would—
He slipped out of the splintered door and padded barefoot along the walkway, around the corner to Hanging Bridge. He was about halfway across when he saw three men, cloaked and hooded, following him and making no pretense about it.
Panic then—and a race across town, hiding under bridges, losing them, then finding them back on his trail—all of it in dark or half-dark, all of it clouded by blackest terror. He thought about trying to make Gallandry—he knew, even if Mama didn't, that Gallandrys were supposed to be keeping an eye on them. Otherwise why send a bargeman down once or twice a month, just for things they could have gotten a lot easier on their home island—and why the casual questions about how the family was doing? Rigel smelled Granther Takahashi's hand in that—he might have sent Mama away and told her never to come back to Nev Hettek again, but he really didn't mean it when he'd told her he didn't care if she lived or died. He cared. Cared enough to have Gallandry set them up quietly in Merovingen; cared enough to want to know they were still all right.
But Gallandry weren't Sword, though they were Adventists. They weren't necessarily safe territory. Only one place he could think of, one place no one would ever follow: the Marsh.
Dream-skip again; stumbling 'round in water and mud up to his waist, lost in the dark and crying— that was how the swampies found him.
And beat him up, and robbed him of everything but his britches and the paper he kept clenched in one hand. He lay in shallow mud and water; freezing, dazed, hurting, and crying, ...
And woke crying—but silently, silently, he'd learned never to make noise since then. He wiped the tears from his face with the tail of his hair, and listened. Nothing. And getting on sunset, by the red that filtered through the basket, and the go-to-bed sounds the marshbirds were making.
O God—tonight was the night he was supposed to meet Denny. He had to warn him that They were on the hunt again—Denny could be in as much danger as Raj. But first he had to find May and Raver.
They were out on their usual squat—the bit of dry sand beach along the end of the Seawall that had formed during the last really big storm. Old May and Raver—as unlikely a couple as ever decorated the face of the Dead Harbor—May about forty and looking four hundred, Raver ten years older and looking thirty. She who'd been a canaler until a barge ran down her skip and took her man and kids and everything she owned down to the bottom—he who claimed to be everything from a stranded spacer (ha!) to the Prince of Kasparl. She who was the closest thing to a medic the Harbor boasted, and so was inviolate from most of the mayhem that raged among the swampies—he who proclaimed himself to be the One True Prophet of Althea jane Morgoth, herself. They'd found Raj, all pain and half delirious—and for some reason known only to themselves picked him up and carted him back to May's diggings, and nursed him back to a semblance of health. They taught him how to survive, during that vague six-month period during which shock had kept him pliant enough to adapt. He'd paid them back for their care, though—sharing the scoungings Denny got to him; writing down Raver's "prophecies"—for Raver induced "visions" by drinking swamp-water and obviously was then in no condition to record his prophecies himself. Why he wasn't dead twenty times over—well. It was a mystery, like where Raver got the paper was a mystery, and what he did with it after Raj filled it with the "holy words" in his careful, clear hand. Raver kept him safe, too—Raver wasn't big, but he was all wire and m
uscle, and even the Razorfins were afraid to tangle with him. And only Althea Jane knew why he did that—for he'd put himself into a bit of risk by protecting Raj. The Razorfins wanted Raj as their slavey; Big Ralf wanted him for—other things. All of them were crazies, and no telling what they'd do to someone between them and what they wanted. But Raver stood by him until he was big enough to fight back and canny enough to hide from what he couldn't fight.
Raver and May had lit a small fire of driftwood and were grilling fish spitted on reeds over it. They looked like images out of Hell; red-lit, weather-and-age-twisted faces avidly watching what cooked over the flames.
Raj didn't make much noise, but they heard him anyway. "Tha' you, boy?" Raver called into the dark.
"Yo—" Raj replied, "Raver, I got trouble."
"Boy, the world got trouble. Neveryoumind. What's the trouble this time? Big Ralf? Them Razorfins?"
"Wish it was—Raver, somebody jumped me out to Dead Wharf—a man dressed all in dark clothes, with his face covered, and waiting like he knew I was coming. I think They found me."
"Damn! That be trouble, and more'n ye need!" May coughed. "Ye got any notion who They be?"
"No more than I ever did. Could be anybody; sharrists, blacklegs, even—"
"Sword," Raver growled.
"Damn it all, no Not Sword, never Sword. Sword would be trying to help me, not kill me!'
"I'll believe that when I believe—" May hushed Raver before he could say any more.
"Fine, Raj said, "But whose Mama was Sword, huh? Who saw Sword coming and going? So who should know?" It was an old argument.
"And whose Mama was probably killed by the Sword she served, hm? Ah, leave it, boy; got less polites than you—I notice ye may ha' thought "Jane" but ye didn't say it. You off to give Denny a warning?"
"Got to. He's in danger too."
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