Festival Moon

by C. J. Cherryh

Vega Boregy, silent and a discreet few paces off, edged into the conversation: "I'm about to announce the contract of your Captain Chamoun to my Cassiopeia, Minister Magruder. Care to share the honor?"

  "I'd be delighted, Lord Boregy." And off we go, thick as thieves, to seal the doom of all of these. Up to the podium, or whatever you call it here, and get the band to give you a drum roll, Vega.

  "Ladies and Gentlemen," Vega Boregy began when the crowd had come to attention, "I'm pleased to announce, this evening, with the kind permission and blessing of Governor Kalugin and his family, one more reason to celebrate."

  While Boregy droned on, making sure that no one, especially the Kahigins, thought Vega was trying to steal their thunder by announcing his daughter's wedding as if it were as important as Anastasi's promotion, Magruder surveilled the room, looking for Romanov.

  Romanov was nowhere in sight, which made Magruder want to check his weapons. Probably the only weapons in the room except on other government types—thank the Lord for his diplomatic status—since he was assuredly going to need them when the Sword went into action. Which it would.

  He saw the Chamoun boy and the Boregy girl edging toward the podium in front of the band, and watched them climb it, distracted the entire time because he'd noticed Tatiana Kalugin staring at him again. Got to do something about that woman.

  But first he had to say his little piece about better relations between Nev Hettek and Merovingen being the first step toward a better, richer Merovin for all, and commend the youngsters on their bravery. As emissary from Nev Hettek, it was part of his new job.

  Then he slid into the background and off the podium, stage left, hoping to reconnoiter until he found Romanov, and found Tatiana Kalugin instead.

  "Ah, our new foreigner-in-residence," she breathed over her wine glass.

  A smile like the biggest fish in the Det. Ready to swallow me whole. "You don't entirely approve of me, is that it, m'sera Secretary?" Bold as brass, but that was her nature, too.

  "Oh, I wouldn't say that, Minister Magruder."

  "Call me Chance. What would you say, m'sera Kalugin?"

  "I would say, Chance Magruder, that the jury is still out on you." "Then maybe I'll have time to compromise the jury's foreman—curry favor. It's my intention to try." You read me, lady'? You want friendly, I'll give you. friendly. You want adversarial, I'll give you that. You want either or both in bed, you got it. In spades. "There are too many Nev Hettekker hopes riding on how I fare here for me to give it—and you—less than my best."

  "I imagine that's so," said Tatiana Kalugin with languid, grudging, surprise.

  She liked the game, so far. Good. He liked it, too. Maybe Mike Chamoun wasn't the only one who'd be unsheathing his Sword tonight, for the good of the cause. Tatiana Kalugin was nearly as tall as he, lean and well along in her thirties, with a woman's softness right where it ought to be. Get her out of the sequins and the damned official ribbon and she might be just the kind of hellcat she was telegraphing to him she was. And the danger of the mind behind that perfecdy aristocratic and marble-cool face added spice to it.

  C'mon, lady, touch my arm, move on in, show me how it's going to be.

  She did just that, a professional's move—her fingers light to direct his attention to the door, through which a retainer in the livery of the Nikolaev family was hurrying, his face pale and his gait jerky with control.

  "Let's see what the trouble is, shall we, before that fellow disturbs my brother. After all, this is Anastasi's big night."

  He held out his crooked arm and she slipped a hand through it. Together, decorous as all hell, they intercepted the Nikolaev retainer before he could reach the new Advocate Militiar or anybody else.

  "Yes?" said Tatiana in a whiplike voice that had started concise reports out of any number of men like this.

  "The House—it's been attacked! Nikolaev House. Two casualties, m'sera Secretary, besides one house-girl. But the other..."

  "Go on," Chance Magruder said, because this was man's business, death and violence, and he wanted Tatiana to know he was chivalrous.

  She cast him a haughty, sidelong glance as the retainer said, "m'sera Kika's been killed. The Sword of God, we think... assassins in the night; black-clad men. Pathati-gas and poisoned stars."

  "That's enough. You may go find a captain of the guard and report all this. Don't bother my brother. We will inform m'ser Nikolaev for you. And don't spread this around among the help. It will ruin our party."

  "But m'sera... m'sera Rita's been wounded, as well. It's an affront and their mother demands more blacklegs."

  "The lady said," Magruder said in a clipped, impatient voice, "Get lost, keep your mouth shut, do your job.' Now do that, or we'll find somebody to replace you that knows how to take a direct order."

  Pushin' it, Magruder. But the man scuttled off and Tatiana Kalugin raised an eyebrow at him: "Nicely done, Chance Magruder. If your stint as a Nev Hettek representative comes to a close, perhaps I'll make you a Merovingen citizen. We could use a few more intelligent men who know when and how to speak plainly."

  "Whatever pleases you, m'sera Kalugin."

  Now, at last, she said, "Tatiana will do, though not in public, of course. Perhaps, considering the violence abroad tonight, you will be my escort when I leave for home?"

  Home wasn't here, then, in the Signeury; home was on The Rock, where only the very oldest and best Houses flourished.

  "My honor and pleasure to do so," he said, wishing he could get away from her to see where the retainer had gone.

  "Certainly one, if not the other," she said, and disengaged her hand from his arm.

  Has her own agenda tonight, he thought as she eased away.

  He wanted to find Chamoun before the news did. Chamoun didn't know they knew, maybe, but the Sword was aware of his interest in Rita Nikolaev.

  Probably the reason she'd been hit, if Magruder knew Romanov like he thought he did.

  "Mike," Magruder said when he reached the boy and his fiancee, letting the form of address cue the boy to the urgency here, "I need to see you for a moment."

  Chamoun's face drained of color and emotion. He muttered to his betrothed and went Magruder's way, out onto one of the balconies.

  "What is it, Magruder? What have I done wrong?"

  "Nothing. The Nikolaev House has been hit; Kika Nikolaev's been killed; Rita Nikolaev's been injured. And you're not to go to her, not to ask about her—no more than's natural for a Boregy-in-the-making like you are. It's probably Romanov's doing. Trust me, I'll take care of it. That's a promise."

  Chamoun blinked like a startled animal. His face worked.

  That's right, Michael boy, you heard me: I'm fighting your battles for you, from now on in. "Did you hear me, man?" Softly, because Chamoun was hurting, thinking the bloodshed at Nikolaev House was his fault— and not mistaken.

  "I ... I heard you, ser. I'll be fine. I'll do my job. I'm doing my job, damn it, best as anybody can."

  Pain and defiance, par for the course. "You want me to reassure you that it's worth it? It is." That was all Magruder dared say, here and now. It would be enough; Chamoun could add and subtract. Lots of people paid for their mistakes the hard way; one thing Chamoun knew for certain was bound to be that he didn't want to end up like the Nikolaevs, or like Romanov—with Magruder on his track.

  He left the boy on the balcony and smiled at Cassiopeia Boregy, who looked at him with huge eyes. Somebody'd told her, then.

  "M'sera Boregy, why don't you go out there and help Michael through this? We don't have these sorts of incidents in Nev Hettek. He's going to have you on the Detfish by morning, headed home to his family where he can protect you, if you don't convince him otherwise."

  Utter fabrication, but the sort to appeal to a romantic young girl. And the sort to take her mind off the death of one friend and mauling of another. Damn Romanov, Magruder was thinking when all hell broke loose in the Signeury function hall.

  Black-clad men were dropping fro
m windows on ropes; pathati-gas all over so that Chance ripped the front of his shirt off and bound it around his mouth and nose even before he went for his gun.

  Tables and chairs upended, people running, people falling flat to the floor.

  You'd think it was a damned army come in here, instead of half a dozen Swords with the al-Bannas coordinating—easy to spot if you knew what to look for.

  He got off one good shot before the gas made his eyes smart—one less al-Banna to worry about: the black figure slid limply down the rope in which it had tangled in death.

  Yelling and surging, the crowd of elite was a real problem. He knew what he ought to do, and he did it: pushing past bodies, shoving people down out of the line of star and bullet fire, he headed toward where he'd last seen the Kalugins.

  And found them, when he got there, surrounded by blacklegs: some militia had been in plainclothes, which was a handy datum. Magruder filed faces and realized Tatiana wasn't among the brocaded pile of dignitaries on which the militia were fairly sitting while they fired back, and kept searching.

  He grabbed a bottle of sparkling wine as he passed a table, and then saw a leg sticking out under it. Getting off one more shot through tearing eyes, ignoring the coughs that racked him and made him miss, he dived under the table.

  Tatiana Kalugin was heaving her guts out. He knocked the neck off the bottle and tore a strip from her blouse, wet the strip, tied the whole mess around her resisting head and face: she couldn't see him through her streaming eyes. She thought he was the enemy.

  Well, he was, just not acting like it right now. The carbonation in the sparkling liquid, and the liquid itself, poured on cloth, provided a filter for the poisonous effects of the gas.

  He couldn't tell her—she couldn't hear him over all the screaming, anyhow. He just pinioned her arms to her side and got on top of her, holding her until she realized that she could breathe, that she wasn't being abducted, that she could even see through the wet cloth.

  Then he rolled off her and doused his own, dry mask from the bottle before he wriggled out from under the tablecloth to start shooting.

  Wouldn't do to be caught with any ammo unexpended when it was time to analyze what had happened here. He ran through the four shots left in his revolver and the twelve additional bullets in the back of his belt in short order, then started dispersing his stars and pathati-ampules, looking back once to make sure Tatiana didn't see him with weapons attributable to the "enemy"—to the Sword.

  Having added to the carnage, he went back to her. She was huddled but still fighting bravely to recoup, trying to breathe, to clear her eyes, to get the vomit out of her nose and throat.

  He put both arms around her, yelling into her ear, "I've got to get you out of here," and went about doing that, dragging her out from under the table and toward one of the inner doors.

  The militia had killed one more Sword, the others had gotten out okay, and all that was left in the reception hall was confusion: gas residues, spilled blood and food and drink, wounded and terrified guests, and militiamen scurrying around, hoping like hell they hadn't injured any civilians in the fray.

  He dragged Tatiana Kalugin through a door he'd never seen before, one arm inarguably around her waist, and half-threw her onto a handy couch in the dimly-lit anteroom.

  "Water?" he yelled at her, realized he didn't need to yell in here, and modulated downward: "Water, you need to clean up and so do I."

  She's not sure she's alive yet, Magruder; easy.

  She was still hacking; with a valorous effort he could appreciate, she straightened up and pointed, croaking something unintelligible.

  He found the water on a sideboard and brought it; ripping his own blouse further, he poured the water on a sleeve and started cleaning her up.

  She didn't object too much, and then not at all.

  Eventually, when they were both free of vomit and most of their clothes, she reached for him.

  "Thank you," she said hoarsely. "Chance . .. you saved my life."

  "Possibly," he said as he reached for her in return.

  From here on in, for better or worse, it was history in the making. He'd get Romanov eventually; if Mondragon had come to the Ball, Magruder hadn't seen him, which meant Mondragon had sensed which way the wind was blowing; young Chamoun was well on his way to becoming everything the Sword wanted him to be, and this evening's little demonstration had not only made multiple impacts on those whom it was intended to impact, it had gone down without a hitch.

  With his credibility now established as best could be—a man who'd fought with the Kalugins against a Sword attack wouldn't be suspected as Sword without proof—it was time for Magruder to deal himself the best hand he knew how. And, for better or worse, Tatiana Kalugin was the first card he'd drawn—a Queen.

  FESTIVAL MOON (REPRISED)

  C.J. Cherryh

  It was quiet again on the Grand, after so much of fire and smoke going up; quiet, except the hundreds of boats that lined the Grand and Archangel and every canal around—folk wondering was the governor still alive; was Anastasi, was Tatiana or feckless Mikhail.

  And Mondragon.

  O God, Mondragon.

  Stay put, he had told her, on no uncertain terms. Jones, if I come out of there in a hurry I don't want to have to find you—-just be here.

  So she stuck it out, standing on her halfdeck, as most everyone on the canals were standing, black figures against the glare of fire, huddled together in speculation what might have happened to Merovingen in there, or to their lives, or their livelihoods.

  There was a Nev Hettek riverboat in the harbor. There was fire and gunfire in the Signeury and trouble down by Nikolaev, and the hooks were out and the poles were ready in Merovingen-below, for any trouble that came, be it inside or outside. The big bells were tolling alarm and disaster and still the issue of it was in doubt.

  A shout went up near the Signeury walls, where no one was supposed to tie up. Something was happening; and Jones clung to her pole and tried not to let her supper come up in sheer fright. There was lantern-light, the brighter glare of electrics; the crowd nearest started yelling as if there was someone to yell at—Lord, the answers were all over there, and she was here, and she was dying inside.

  O Angel, keep 'im out of it, bring 'im back, get us out of here—

  If he's hurt I'll gut the governor himself I will, him first and all the rest. O God.

  Engine-sound then, big one. The murmur grew over the crowd-noise, and the monstrous sleek shadow of a Rimmon yacht nosed out from Archangel Cut and cornered to the peril of boats all along that side. Canalers swore and scrambled to their poles as that dreadful engine got itself underway and headed at them.

  That's Anastasi. Anastasi's away.

  As the towering prow came closer and the engine-noise thundered off the walls of the Signeury. It blotted out the lights. It had none of its own. It was just there, like the barges in the night. No more Festival lanterns. It was black and it was deadly and it owned the canals by sheer force.

  Wood splintered. There were cries of rage and panic. Some poor sod had not been fast enough.

  "Ware, hey," went up. And: "Hey, hey, bo-hinnn-nnnnnn!" that was the direst cry on the canals. "Haneys underrrrr!"

  Haneys had kids. One a five-year-old. The monster passed, leaving its wake churned white, leaving flotsam, leaving a wake that hove like a wall in the confines of Archangel, and Jones leapt to the well and shoved hard at the wall as the wave hit and near capsized the skip. There were screams. Curses and the grating of wood as boat ground against boat, and the wave and its backlash battered at would-be rescuers.

  Haneys is under. God help 'em. I can't. I can't, I got to be here— Damn 'im, damn 'im to bloody hell. Footsteps raced down the Archangel walk, people running past, some in hightown clothes, some glittering with jewels.

  And one of them leaped for her well and landed wide-legged on her deck slats with a thump of uptown boots. "Jones. Come on."

  "We got a
boat down, damn Kalugin rode the Haneys down, I got to help, dammit! Lend a hand!"

  "Move it!" Mondragon yelled at her, heedless of witnesses, and ran and jerked the bow-tie loose. She jumped up on the halfdeck, squatted to clear the other and shoved off, the skip still rocking like a cork in the churn of the yacht's boil-up. But Mondragon came up by her and caught her arm. "Out of here. Go."

  "I got to—"

  "Now!" He grabbed the pole from the rack and shoved with it, all in ball finery as he was, all uptowner, and his blond hair shining plain in the firelight as the glitter on his collar and his cuffs.

  "Dammit, they're Trade!"

  "There's boats to see to it. Come on, Jones."

  "Ye live on the water! You want help of the Trade, ye damn well don't stand off when a boat's rode below—help me, dammit, we got a family boat down out there." She grabbed his arm. "Where d'you live, hey? What are you?"

  His face was stark and pale in the fire-glow from the Signeury, in the swing of lights out over the heaving water as boats set out to probe the bottom. He had a wild, a desperate look.

  Then he turned and pushed with the pole, shoving the skip out where he wanted it, out into the chop and the chaos of boats; and she shoved from her side, steering hard. The firelight broke up in glitter. There was a knot in her throat and a bad taste in her mouth. They were Trade, all around her; and Mondragon stopped the skip with a push of the pole, out in the middle of the chop with the rest of them. There was a cry went up. One Haney was up on shore. Somebody had another.

  There were bits and pieces all about. A doll floated in the light, eyes wide.

  "Who's that?" a voice yelled when a skip bumped them in the search. "Who is that?"

  Meaning the blond man in the evening shirt, wielding a pole and hunting the dark and the currents of Archangel to see what Old Det might give back, like all the rest of them.

  "That's Jones," someone yelled, "that's her feller—"

  It was all they could do. Someone called down they had found the Haney eldest, a broken arm and all, but holding the baby when they got him up.