"Boy—" May laid a hand on his arm, a gnarly brown thing like a root, and to Raj, beautiful. "Lissen—if Denny's got a way t'hide ye, take it. Don' come back here."
"But—" This was another old argument.
"No buts. Ye're young; this ain't no life fer th' young. Hell, ye've never even touched a girl, and all of sixteen! We'll be all right."
"She's got the right of it, boy." There was a suspicion of mist in Raver's slightly-crazed eyes. "The Words are complete now,' thanks to you. You go—"
Raver claimed the Words were complete about once a month.
"Look, I'll be back, same as always. Denny won't have any place safe for me, and I won't put danger on those as is keeping him."
For the first time in this weekly litany Raver looked unaccountably solemn. "Somehow—I doesn't think so—not this time. Well, time's wasting, boy, be off—or They might find Denny afore ye."
May's face twisted comically then, as she glanced between Raj and their dinner; she plainly felt obliged to offer him some, and just as plainly didn't really want to have to share the little they had.
"You et?" she asked reluctantly.
Raj's stomach churned; the adrenaline high he had going made the very thought of food revolting.
"S'okay; I'm fine."
She smiled, relieved. "Off wi' ye, then. Ye'd best hurry.'
Raj went, finding his way back to his raft, and poling it out into the black, open water of Dead Harbor.
Lots of lights in the town tonight—lots of noise. Raj blessed it all, for it covered his approach. Then remembered—and shame on himself for not remembering before this!—that it was Festival; Festival of the Scouring. What night of Festival it was, he couldn't remember; his only calendars were moon and Dogs these days, and seasons. By the noise, probably well into it. But that meant Denny would be delayed by the crowds on the bridges and walkways. That might prove a blessing; it gave him a chance to check all around their meeting place under Dead Wharf for more of Them.
He poled all beneath the Dead Wharf, between the maze of pilings, keeping all senses alert for anything out of the norm. There wasn't anyone lying in ambush that he could find, not by eye nor ear nor scent, so he made the raft fast and climbed up into their meeting place among the crossbeams out near the end of the Wharf.
First time they'd met here—after Raj had slipped into the town with his heart pounding like an overworked motor and passed Fedor a note to give to Denny—they hadn't said much. Denny had just wrapped his arms around his brother like he'd never let go, and cried his eyes sore and his voice hoarse. Raj had wanted to cry too—but hadn't dared; Denny would have shattered. That was the way the first few meetings went.
But small boys are resilient creatures; before too long, Denny was begging for his stories again, and the tears only came at parting—and then not at all. But now the stories included another set—how they would find more members of the Sword; get Mama's message to them. The original paper was long gone, but the contents resided intact in Raj's head—and what Raj memorized was there for good and all. That was why Mama had taken him everywhere with her—when she'd ask him later, he'd recite what had been said and done like a recorder of the Ancestors. And just as a precaution, Raj had made plenty of copies over three years, making a new one as soon as the previous copy began deteriorating, and keeping it with him at all times, mostly hidden on his raft. Well, they'd get that message back to the Sword— and the Sword would rescue them, take them home to Nev Hettek, and train them to be heroes. And both of them would earn their way to the stars. Denny hadn't liked that story as much as the starship tales, but it had comforted Raj.
When had Denny started scrounging for him? Raj wrinkled his brow in thought, and picked at the splintery beams under him, staring at the stars reflected on the wavelets in Dead Harbor. Must have been that winter—that was it; when he'd shown up as usual in nothing but his trousers, shivering, and pretending he wasn't cold. Denny had looked at him sharp, then cuddled up real close, and not just for his own comfort; he'd put his little body between Raj and the wind. Next meeting, Denny'd brought a sweater; one that Fedor's father wasn't likely to miss— old, faded, snagged, and out at both elbows. After that he'd never come to a meeting empty-handed, though Raj refused to ask him for anything.
Lord knew he needed those meetings himself; needed the comfort, needed to hold someone, to talk to somebody sane. Raver and May were only sane sometimes. He'd needed that more than the material comforts Denny brought, and he needed those desperately. Lately though, the meetings had left him a little troubled. Denny was evasive when Raj asked about Fedor and the family; and had become a bit distant. Raj guessed he was trying to act "grown up"—by pulling away, avoiding physical contact. Raj understood—but it was making him feel mighty lonely. He missed the cuddly child he'd been more than half parent to.
Pad of bare feet overhead—then tiny sounds that marked someone who knew what he was doing and where he was going climbing down among the crossbeams.
"Yo, brother?" Denny's whisper.
"Right here."
"Be right with you." A bit of scratching, rasp of wood on cloth and skin, and someone slipped in beside him; with a quick hug, and then pulling away. "Riot out there tonight."
"Denny—I got to go under again. One of Them nearly got me today. Assassin. He was waiting for me, Denny. He knew who I was and where I was going. Has to be Them."
Swift intake of breath. "God—no! Not after all this time! How'd you get away?"
"I just—outran him." Don't let him know what really happened. He'll think he has to share the danger, Raj had been careful never to let his brother even guess that he'd had to kill—and more than once.
"All right." The voice in the dark took on a new firmness. "That's it. You're not gonna run any more, brother. Running don't cut it. You need a protector, somebody with weight."
"Get serious!" Raj answered bitterly. "Where am I going to find somebody willing to stand for me?"
Denny chuckled. "Been thinking about that. New man in town—got contacts, got weight—canalers, Uptown, everywhere, seems like. Been watching him."
"Big fat deal—what reason is he going to have to help me?"
"Name's Mondragon. Tom Mondragon. Familiar?" Raj sucked in his breath. "Lord and Ancestors—" "Thought I 'membered it," Denny replied with satisfaction.
Raj did indeed remember that name—it went all the way back before their exile to Merovingen, an exile Granther Takahashi thought would take them out of reach of Mama's Sword of God contacts and her Sword lover. Tom Mondragon had been Sword— friend of Mama's lover, Mahmud Lee. Lee was (presumably) Denny's father—and that was probably why the name "Mondragon" had stuck so fortuitously in Denny's memory.
"You never forget anything, brother. What's the Mondragon you saw look like?"
Raj closed his eyes and rocked back and forth a little, letting his mind drift back—Lord and Ancestors, he'd been seven, maybe, eight—
"Blond. Pretty feller. Moved like a cat, or a dancer. Green eyes—tall, dressed real well."
"Dunno 'bout the eyes, but the rest is him. Same man. 'Pears to me he'd have reason to help. 'Pears to me you'd want to get Mama's message to 'im, ne?"
"Lord—" Raj said, not quite believing this turn of events, "It's—"
"Like that story y* used t' tell me? Yeah, well, maybe. I'm more interested in seeing you safe, an' I think this Mondragon c'n do that. Right then, we go find him. Now. Tonight."
Raj started to scramble up, but Denny forestalled him. "No way you're gonna pass in the town, brother. Not dressed like that."
"Oh. Yeah."
"You wait here—I won't be long."
Denny thought he'd managed that rather cleverly; he'd thought he'd remembered Mondragon's name when he'd first heard it, and he'd just been biding his time for the opportunity to get Raj to take the bait he was going to offer. That swamp was no place for Raj—sooner or later someone or something would get him. Town was safer, far. Besides, since he'd drifted away from
Fedor's family, he'd been getting lonelier and lonelier. He had friends—but he wanted his big brother back.
Well, now—first things first; a set of clothing that wouldn't stand out in the Festival crowds. Denny took to the rooftops on Southdike and thought while he climbed. Nearest secondhand clothing store was Fife, where he hung out—no go. That was off limits. He could hear Rattail now, cracking him over the ear for even thinking about it. "Never soil your own nest, boy. Rule one."
The air up here was fresher, carrying away a lot of the stink. Denny slipped around chimneypots and skylights and over rooftrees as easily as if he'd been on a level walkway. Okay, the next closest was Greely. Old man Mikles was a stingy son, too cheap to see to good locks on his windows. And wouldn't miss the loss. Greely it was.
He crossed the bridges on the support beams below, keeping a sharp eye out for watchers, finally getting himself up on the supports of the third-level ridge that linked Greely with Ravi. Mikles had a second-story window just below and to one side of it. Denny unwound the light rope and grapnel from his waist,spied a sturdy cornice, and made his cast.
Solid. He pulled three times ("Always three times, no matter how rushed ye are," came Rif’s voice from memory) and swung himself over, in the shadows all the way.
Within a few minutes Mikles' shop was lighter by a pair of britches, a shirt and a sweater, all sized for someone thin and not over-tall. And Denny was most of the way back to the Dead Wharf, dancing across the rooftrees and bridge-beams like a half-grown cat.
"Huh-uh," Denny said, keeping his grip tight on the bundle he carried and handing something small that shone white in the starlight to Raj instead. "Down, brother; in the harbor. Get clean first, or they'll know y' by the smell for a crazy."
Raj flushed with embarrassment—living in the swamp was changing him, and in ways he didn't like. He used to be so fastidious—
He grabbed the proffered soap and dropped straight down into the water next to the Wharf— trying not to remember the twitching thing that had so lately floated there. He was so used to being chilled that the cold water wasn't much shock to his system. He soaped and rinsed and scrubbed until he thought his skin would peel off, then washed his hair three times for good measure. Denny had shinnied down to his raft and handed him back up onto it with a sniff that held approval. "Better. Y' smell better than a lot of canalers now. Here—" a piece of sacking to use for a towel, and a comb. Getting the tangles out of all that hair was a job—Raj had to be content to just get most of the major knots out, and smooth down the rest, tying it back with the piece of ribbon (Lord—ribbon!) Denny handed him. Then into the clothing—oh, heaven, clean, and warm and not ripped in a dozen places—and even the right size. The precious Message went into his shirt pocket.
Raj stood up straight with one hand steadying himself on the piling, and felt like a human being again for the first time in years.
Denny grinned at him, teeth flashing white in his shadowed face. "Know what, brother? You clean up real pretty. I c'n think of a couple girls just might Like to share a blanket with you."
Raj blushed hotly, and was glad the dark hid it.
"Thought I'd warn you—'cause that's who we're gonna go see first."
They took to the rooftops, much to Raj's bewilderment; oh, he still remembered how to climb, he was fast and agile enough to keep up—but why not take the walkways openly? And—where had Denny gotten this kind of expertise in roof-scrambling?
It was even more of a maze in Merovingen-above than it was in Merovingen-below. If there was a level space up here on the roofs that was more than three feet square, it was a rarity. "Up here" was a patchwork of towers, cupolas, skylights and spires. Denny danced along the spines of peaked roofs and jumped from structure to structure as if he were half cat. Raj followed as best he could. He was just lucky that "above" also sported rain-gutters and collection-pipes on every surface, for without these aids he'd never have been able to emulate Denny. From time to time Denny would half-start toward something Raj knew was unclimbable—then glance back as if suddenly remembering his brother's presence and choose some easier path. Raj couldn't help but wonder what he'd have done if Raj hadn't been along.
Denny paused on the roof-edge overlooking the bridge to Fife from Southdike, balancing carefully and scrutinizing the bridge and attendant walkways. "Looks good—" he said finally, in a whisper. "If anybody followed us, they've lost us. C'mon." And he shinnied down a drainpipe to the walk below them. Raj followed suit. Shielded torches on the bridge danced and smoked, placed so far apart they did more harm than good. There seemed to be no one about in this area, and their bare feet made no sound on the bridge, which contributed to the gloomy atmosphere.
"From here we go to Salvatore, then Delaree—just in case we get separated," Denny said in an undertone, walking uncomfortably fast for one not used to walking, but to poling a raft. "The ladies I want to talk to should be in a tavern on Delaree—it's down on the water, it's called Hoh's. There'll be a lot of canalers tied-up at it. Got that?"
Raj nodded, saving his breath.
"Good, 'cause once we get to Salvatore, we'll be goin' up again."
They didn't get separated, but Raj was weary and aching by the time they stood in the tavern door. And confused, and lost. Only rarely had they crossed bridges by the normal paths—more often they'd scrambled underneath on the cross-beams, or worse, inched along the support-cables overhead. It made good sense in a way—for surely no one would ever have been able to follow them—but Raj was thoroughly exhausted by the time they reached their goal.
They descended to the walkway, cold and wet under bare feet, and walked decorously enough to the wooden porch that marked Hoh's front entrance. There were boats tied-up here, and lanterns everywhere; light and noise and confusion that dazzled Raj's eyes and made him more than a little nervous. The water of the canal looked very black and cold compared with all that light and warmth, and Raj found himself hoping they weren't likely to find out just how cold it was.
There was food-smell; fish frying and bread and beer. There was smoke, little wisps of it, from the lanterns. There was sound—people laughing, talking, arguing, and singing. Most of all, singing. Just as they got to the wooden porch a great roar of a chorus bounced out the open door and off the brick of the wall opposite.
"Hoo—they're rabble-rousing t'night, fer sure!" Denny grinned. "They best hope there ain't no blacklegs 'round!" Somewhat to Raj's surprise, he was talking just like the canalers, chameleon-like acquiring the coloration of his surroundings.
Raj began to make out some of the words, and Denny had the right of it. Skirting just the high side of treason—but, oddly enough, he couldn't identify what cult or faction the song was in favor of.
"Who is that?" he hissed into Denny's ear. "Whose side are they on?"
"Rattail and Rif, an' they ain't on anybody's side." Denny elbowed his way in the front door with Raj trailing warily behind. "They just like t' rile people up, I guess."
The tavern room was hot and redolent; crammed full, every table and chair occupied and people jammed in against the walls. The objects of their attention were perched on the bar, grinning insolently and singing for all they were worth. Their voices were amazingly strong and clear; Raj could hear them long before he could see them.
Denny finally wormed a place for them in behind the bar, and Raj managed to get a good view under someone's elbow. They were something to stare at, were Rattail and Rif, though which was which he couldn't guess. One was playing a gitar, her hands moving on the strings so fast he could hardly credit his eyes. She seemed to be the older of the two by ten, maybe fifteen years. The other was setting up a complicated pattern on a couple of hand-drums, but Raj could see another gitar leaning up against the bar next to her. Both had dark, nearly black, straight hair, tied around with red scarves. The older one wore hers long past her shoulders, the younger shorter than Denny's. Both had sharp features and ironic grins. Both were wearing black trousers, and dark sweater
s, the tightest Raj had ever seen, like they'd been molded on. Both had pale, pale skin as if they didn't see the sun much.
And both of them were wearing at least three knives that Raj could see.
"Hope they get the crowd calmed down 'fore they finish up," Denny muttered, "or with this lot, half-drunk as they are, no tellin' what they might do."
To Raj's relief they did just that, finishing up at last with something melancholy enough that one or two of the more sodden customers began sniffling into their beer. Then, ignoring demands for more, they picked up their instruments and hopped off the bar. Denny waved at them—the older one spotted him and motioned him over. Seeing that he'd been summoned by one of their darlings, the crowd parted politely so that the two boys could make their way to the singers' tiny table, crowded into a cramped nook to ore side of the bar itself. There was barely room for both women, the boys, and the instruments.
The older one reached over the table and tweaked Denny's nose. "Where've y' been, kid? Y' haven't been here since Festival started—we was beginnin't' think y' didn't love us no more."
"Out an' about. You tryin't' get yourselves invited down to the Signeury? What'f they'd been blacklegs around?"
"Huh, blacklegs are all dead drunk by now. 'Sides, that was classical—preScouring litra-choor, I'll have y'know. Kipling."
"With additions by you, Rif, I got no doubt," Denny snorted. "One of these days y're gonna find y'rself taking High Trade, an' not because of what y' do outside walls."
"Listen to the kitten, tellin' the old cats how to prowl!" the younger crowed. "Who taught you, hm? Ins and outs, ups and downs—"
Denny cleared his throat with a sideways glance toward Raj—and only then did the women seem to see him.
"Well! Who's this? Can't be related to you, kid— he's too pretty."
Raj felt his ears burning.
"This's m' brother Raj. You know."
"Oh-ho. Brought him out of hiding, hm? And y' need something; I don't doubt. Make him someone's cousin?" Rif—the older woman—caught Raj's chin in one long, sharp-nailed hand, and turned his face from side to side, examining it closely. "Just feeding him'd do for you, I'd think—a little flesh on 'im, and no one'd know 'im."
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