Festival Moon

by C. J. Cherryh

  "It is you, Michael, yes? Michael the angel from Nev Hettek?" She held out her hand and he took it.

  Then he just stood there, remembering he mustn't do anything wrong, but not remembering what "wrong" might consist of.

  Rita Nikolaev was cool and collected, older than most of her guests, an ice sculpture with a blazing heart he could feel across the distance. Her hair had golden highlights, her smile was perfect, dazzling. She said, "Again, you bring my karma with you, is this so? Cassie told me to come and find you, and I never thought I'd find such an omen. Come..."

  He went, helpless, but fighting for control. The deathangel was winning out over the smoke, and his heart was beginning to pound. He had a headache, suddenly. He let his hand fall from hers and followed the woman in the black tights with a sheer, hot-colored acre of silk wrapped about her rump.

  Revenantists feared entanglements. Cassie had told her—what? That they were getting married? That he was Boregy property? She remembered him, damn and all, did Rita Nikolaev.

  In and out of three rooms, and into a fourth, some personal sitting room of the family where the velvets were dark and flocked and the blue walls gaudy with gilded moldings. Another damned palace; all that was wrong with Revenantist-controlled Merovingen, sported without humility in this palatial lair.

  Easy, Det-man. That's what you're here for. You bet, the Sword's ploy wouldn't have worked with Rita's family. But a few nights here and there with Rita Nikolaev, later, consorting with the enemy for information—that was good Sword tactics.

  Suddenly he was afraid that those few nights might begin on this night—until he saw Cassie sitting grace- fully on a dark lounge, her feet up and arms curled around her.

  "Ah, success, then, Rita! You've got him. Isn't he wonderful?"

  "Wonderful," agreed the older woman. His age. His type. God, you're in over your damned head, Chamoun! "But I knew that," Rita finished.

  "Rita told me, Michael"—proprietary—"that you'd met briefly in Nev Hettek. I shall go to Nev Hettek, once we're married, and be presented to Karl Fon, too."

  "You want, no sweat," he said before he got control of his tongue. "On our honeymoon, of course. When you come to meet my family." Did that suffice?

  It must have. Cassie uncurled, rose and stretched, showing him everything, promising him a better look at what lay under those tight pants. "Rita's arranged for us to board the yacht you wanted to see. Then we'll leave, before these children drug you into a stupor."

  And you're not a child, oh, no you're not. He almost sat down; he wanted to sit down very badly.

  But Rita Nikolaev was talking to him: ". . . any time, the hospitality of our house is extended to you, Captain Chamoun. Anastasi's partisans must stick together. Perhaps a business venture or two, to get your shipping company off to a good start? Your Nev Hettekker connections, our... other assets."

  Oh yeah, Rita. Just let me out of here, please God, before I step in it. Anything, anywhere, as long as I'm married first. "Vega and my fiancee are my guides in all matters Merovingian, m'sera Nikolaev, but I'll transmit your kind offer—"

  "Oh Michael, don't be so stuffy." Cassie came over to rescue him. "Rita's just Rita, when we're alone. And of course we'll do something with the Nikolaevs. Now come on. Let's look at that ship you liked. Rita has promised to put us in touch with the builder, if Daddy agrees." She tugged on his arm and he followed, getting just a glimpse of the pensive frown on Rita Nikolaev's angelic face.

  Once he'd toured the Nikolaev yacht, he was no longer in a hurry to show off the Detfish.

  "It's not this fancy, it's a working riverboat ... I hope you won't be disappointed."

  Cassie looked at him probingly, up on deck with the wind in her hair. The sky, out beyond Rimmon Isle where the wild water was, showed his over-stimulated Det-man's eyes traces of night's end.

  If he was taking her to the Detfish, he'd have to hurry. "It's getting late. Your father might take offense if I keep you out until dawn. .. ."

  "Captain Chamoun, you promised to show me your riverboat, and to give me my betrothal gift. Unless, of course, you're no longer interested?" Arch and combative.

  He reached for her, intent on proving that he was still interested.

  When they'd broken the clinch and walked hand in hand to the waiting Boregy launch, she said, "You mustn't trouble yourself about Revenantist displays of wealth, or about what I will think of a working riverboat. What's attractive is just that: you're a self-made man, a ship's captain, new blood and new strength for us."

  If only she knew. But she didn't know, couldn't know, who and what had made him. He cuddled her with what was the best mix of control and affection, of drug-stimulated passion and gentlemanly consideration, that he could manage, letting the retainer plot their course to the Detfish.

  It was a wonder, still—a wonder because it was his. More of a wonder than any of what he'd seen tonight, for exactly the reasons Cassiopeia Boregy claimed to understand: because he was its captain and he'd never dreamed to reach even that high; because it and he had a reason to be here; because, without it and him, the Sword would be back at Square One, sending out al-Bannas and counting on Romanovs and their blackleg militia connections to disrupt Revenantist Merovingen as best it could.

  He took her aboard and thought he saw common sense, understanding, satisfaction and excitement in her mercantilist's eyes. It would be hers too, and all it represented: freedom, her own say. Power, as she'd said—hers, not her family's.

  He took her down into his cabin and agonized over what to do next. He knew what he wanted to do: if he made love to her, would it help or hurt his cause? Things were not as simple as they seemed.

  So while she asked nervous questions he opened his seachest and rummaged in it, coming up with a black box. In it was the betrothal gift he'd promised her—not pearls or emeralds or gold such as he'd seen on women here, but something only a Nev Hetteker could give.

  And he might get in trouble with Chance Magruder for offering it, but the Sword had slipped up and brought him in here empty-handed, in the personal sense. They'd neglected to suggest what token he might give to his intended bride.

  He held the box out, standing at arm's length. "Here's my gift, to seal it."

  "It?" She feigned ignorance. "You'd best be more specific, Captain Chamoun." A teasing smile, to let him know she wasn't rejecting him. And, when he stood dumbly, holding the box out to her, she prompted: "Go on, Det-man, propose to me."

  "Ah .. . will you marry me, Cassiopeia Boregy? Really marry me, not like these marriages of convenience?" And he couldn't help that. He wasn't the sort of man to look the other way while his wife caroused, the way the Nikolaev women obviously did. The way Rita obviously did. Or re-negotiate after three years. It shouldn't bother him, but it did. Obviously.

  She took the box, finally. Before she opened it, she said, "I'll talk to Daddy. Maybe. I might. But you must say you love me, if that's what you mean."

  He said it but he didn't mean it.

  She repeated it and it sounded like she thought she meant it. A child was what she was. Then she said gravely, "After I open this, you must prove your love." And her eyes flickered to the captain's bed, narrow and rumpled from Romanov sprawling on it, giving Chamoun his orders.

  "Fine. Open it." He knew what to do now, at any rate; what was expected of him.

  She lifted the box's hinged lid and gasped, then shook her head: "It's tech, I know. And I'm thrilled, truly I am. But. . . what does it do? Is it illegal?" Her voice was breathless with excitement.

  He chuckled, then choked it off when he saw the hurt in her face. "Not illegal, just uncommon. Valuable. It's a flashlight, a... personal... light. So you won't trip in the dark. Here, let me show you."

  And that brought them close together, so that he could feel the way her flesh seared his through their clothes. The flashlight was battery powered. The batteries were experimental, the acid in them citric, the rest copper and pottery. He explained that there was n
o cord necessary and promised he'd refurbish the batteries when, as must happen, their power ran low.

  Her brows knitted as he explained and when he showed her how to turn it on, she gasped and hugged it to her. Then she looked up at him with tears in her eyes. "This is the most wonderful present anyone's ever given me, Michael Chamoun, my ... love."

  He reached for her, and eventually he had to take the flashlight from her unresisting fingers and turn it off. No use wasting the light.

  And they didn't want light for what they were doing—she was shy. He'd thought she was profligate, perhaps more experienced than he, and when he realized that he'd been wrong he stopped halfway into what he was doing to her.

  "Lord, Cassie, you've never been touched. Why didn't you tell me?" His breath was short now and his soul was aching for her. But the Sword's needs hung over his head.

  She turned her face away on his pillow and said, "Michael, go on, don't stop. Please. We're almost married. It's all right."

  From then on, it was Retribution on wings of flame.

  Only when he lay beside her, feeling her sweat dry and her limbs tremble and explaining that she shouldn't be frightened if she found a bit of blood— only then did he hear footsteps coming down the stairwell.

  "Up, quick." He moved like he was trained to move, grabbing her clothes, shoving them at her.

  "What?" She was a huddled gray statue in the predawn dimness.

  "Somebody's coming. Get dressed. Fast." He was pulling on his own pants, buckling his belt and the fish knife in place. Who was it? Coming down his private hatchway, it wasn't crew. The nightwatch had seen him come aboard, they wouldn't dare disturb him, unless there was trouble—

  He was almost certain there must be trouble when the door opened without a knock and he saw a specter there, dim and backlit.

  Cassiopeia Boregy aimed her flashlight at the doorway and turned it on.

  In the spotlight stood Dimitri Romanov, bedraggled and wet, his face a puff of bruises. He threw a hand up to fend off the light.

  Whether he'd seen the Boregy woman, Chamoun wasn't certain. He knew damned well Romanov couldn't see her—or him—now. Cassie had the makings of a revolutionary. He could have made love to her all over again.

  But there was no time. He and Romanov spoke simultaneously: "What is it, Mita? Your timing is terrible."

  "Chamoun, is that you? You bastard, you'd better watch yourself. And give Magruder this message— the blacklegs here are still mine. Tell him to watch his back. One false move, and he's past tense." "Lord, Romanov, I've got company here—" But the door was already slamming, and Cassie was swallowing gasps of terror on his bed, and wanting to know "who that man was and what did he mean?"

  "Nothing, love, nothing. Just a drunken riverboater, that's all. Don't worry your sweet self about that— worry about what your Daddy's going to say if I don't get you home by sunrise."

  She was dressing with awkward movements by the flashlight's glow. He flipped on the electrics. "Turn that off. Save the juice. I'll help you. I'm sorry..."

  She came into his arms and he was almost certain that she was rattled enough and exhausted enough to forget the intrusion—after all, she'd had her first night with a man—when she said, "Michael, he mentioned blacklegs. The militia. Are you sure we shouldn't tell someone? Minister Magruder? Someone?"

  "Right, I'll tell Magruder." He seized on that, the only safe thing he could tell her. "Tell 'im first thing after I get you back. Cassie, honey...." He took her elbows, held her hands from the buttons she was struggling to fasten. "We don't want to know, either of us, what that was about. Chance has enemies by the score. He's trying to do a difficult thing, setting up that trade mission. Plenty of people don't want better relations between Nev Hettek and Merovingen. So we give Chance the message and then we forget the whole thing, hear? Even your father oughtn't to know what happened here. Understand?"

  "Yes." A very small voice.

  "Promise?"

  "I said, yes." She broke away from him to cradle her flashlight against her throat. "I still... love you, Michael. I won't tell anyone. But if you're in trouble, Daddy can help—if you ever want me to ask."

  That was a relief. All he needed was her running secretly to Poppa about this to protect him from some imagined bad guys. "I told you, it's Chance's trouble, and he's always got some. For the sake of everybody, we forget this, both of us, by the time we walk up on deck."

  She understood politics; she must have heard something similar from her father or mother, one time or another, for she squared her shoulders and raised her chin high: "You don't have to worry about me, Michael. I understand. All that matters now is us .. . our family, our new life. We'll tell Daddy only that we've pledged to marry and that he can announce it tomorrow night. If you agree?"

  "Oh, love...'" He hugged her against him, genuinely grateful for her good sense and the way her father had raised her. He'd hate like hell to have to murder his wife because she knew too much on their honeymoon, before he even got to know her.

  It wasn't that Magruder hated parties particularly, he just hated crowds. And this bunch, at Governor Kalugin's 24th of Harvest Eve Festival Ball, was a crowd easy to hate: Revenantist bigwigs, a few Adventist compromisers, all the money and power in town.

  You needed a diagram to tell who was in whose pocket. Magruder made the practical assumption that everyone was in everyone else's, here, and walked his mental tightrope from one clique to the next, listening and making his presence felt where it might do some good.

  It did some good with Mike Chamoun, who was spooked beyond Magruder's ability to affect in the time he could allot to the young Sword. "Yes'ser," Chamoun had come to him this morning saying, "it's all set—the marriage. They're going to announce it at the Ball, her father says. A. five year contract."

  Good boy, real good, Magruder had thought, until he heard the rest, about how Chamoun had decided to lay the Boregy girl on the Detfish and run into Dimitri Romanov there.

  Couldn't be helped. Romanov was more and more of a problem, though, and when, as the band took a break, Magruder sighted the pale head of the Sword's Merovingen tactical officer, he headed straight for Mita's brocaded back.

  I'd take him out right here and now on some pretext, if it wouldn't get me a reputation as a duellist. But it would, and Romanov was flying his own flag, tonight—some Sword disruption was on the agenda.

  During, or after, buddy; that's a promise.

  Romanov made Magruder a promise of his own, once they'd taken their drinks off into a corner, hiding behind a clutch of women chattering about their fashions. "Magruder, you ever leave me adrift like that again, you're dead meat. Understand?"

  You're not going to live that long—not long enough for any 'ever again's,' Mita. "The way I heard it, Dimitri," use his whole name, drawl it slow, let him know what's coming; "you about blew everything, spouting off in front of Michael Chamoun's intended."

  "What?"

  Romanov hadn't known the girl was there, hadn't realized. Reason enough, in a sensitive venture like this, to retire him—the Sword couldn't afford sloppy, and Romanov was real sloppy on that riverboat. "Don't 'what' me, fool. Spouting off about blacklegs. Whatcha' think the pawn made of that? You want me, you come get me. Otherwise, stay on your side of this gambit and I'll stay on mine." Now, louder, loud enough for a few of the ladies to turn their heads: "Anytime you wish combat, in memory of your personal honor such as it's shown itself to be, m'ser Romanov, I am at your disposal."

  Turn on your heel and stalk away, push right past those scandalized ladies with their gloves and see how long it takes for word to get around.

  Now to Anastasi, who's pretending he didn't see; Boregy right there with him, looking like a couple of mannequins in their fancy dress. "My apologies, Your Honor—" Probably not the right title for the baby son, but flattering and boy, he'd like to be just that: top boss and rat-trainer of this show. "I have a short fuse with meddlers. Some people, it seems, don't favor a tradin
g mission from Nev Hettek being established here."

  "One of your own citizens, I believe, Minister Magruder. One has to expect a certain amount of resistance, after all." Anastasi Kalugin was black-haired, fairer even than Romanov, like a marble come to life. He knew the strength of his impression and used it like a sculptor's chisel. "Change doesn't come without disruption, even change for the better."

  Kalugin, you're going to bullshit yourself into an early grave. Change for the better, that's the official line.

  Behind Anastasi, Magruder caught sight of Tatiana, with her brother Mikhail and her father Iosef, all three with damned red ribbons draped crosswise over their torsos like royalty, ribbons just like Anastasi's. The oldest kid, Mikhail, was into locksmithing or something harmless; a dimwit, a dullard here, where tech wasn't accessible; would that the other two were as harmless.

  "Change for the better," Magruder answered after a long, assessive pause, "won't come until my people and yours are ready to put away these outmoded prejudices. And Romanov's not the only one—isn't that one of your militia commanders he's with now?"

  Set the hook, and maybe Kalugin'll take Romanov out for me. If Kalugin was as smart as his sister, the natural assumption that Magruder was Sword had to be stifled. Giving Romanov up as Sword would do the trick, if Romanov was dead by the time suspicion solidified.

  Kalugin puffed out his chest as he looked past Magruder, toward Mita Romanov: "As of this evening, Minister Magruder, I'm Chief Advocate Militiar, as you know. I'll look into your Nev Hetteker friend's connection with my blacklegs, and let you know. In the meantime, try to avoid a duel if possible. We of the government must attempt to set civilized standards for our constituents."

  Point taken, and you bet I won't say "Sword" if you don't. "I'll do my best, but you must realize that, between two Nev Hettekkers, Nev Hettek codes apply, especially if Your Honor grants us the mission, which will be Nev Hettek territory, however small." In other words, I won't kill him on your turf, promise. So if he gets it elsewhere, don't look at me.