The other three looked at each other. "Farren Delaney!" they all said at once.
"How was your day, dearest?" Ariadne asked as she poured the after-dinner tea. "Are they treating you decently at the office?" She didn't add: since the race.
Farren shrugged eloquently, not catching the implication. In fact, no one in the office seemed to know about his lowtown hobby. "Too decently, if anything. Aside from signing the papers the clerks bring me, there just isn't a blessed thing to do." He let his eyes wander to the windows and the view of slow sunset over the rooftops of Merovingen. "Of course- I've studied all the papers they bring me, trying to see the applications and implications, as Father always said— and blasted if I can find a thing. I've the sinking feeling that I've been shuttled from one dead end to another for years. Er, not that it's your fault, dear," he added hastily.
"But there are possibilities inherent in the position," Ariadne murmured.
Farren caught her tone and looked at his wife. "Ah, you have something in mind, my dear?"
"I did hear something this afternoon, though it quite slipped my mind until now." Ariadne put down her cup. "You know, there's a charitable fellow named Brecht who runs a tool shop down in the Tidewater, and he's made a point of hiring poor children—but not really to work much, certainly not at anything dangerous. What he really does is teach the children basic reading, writing and figures—and then he has them do a little assembly work, enough to justify his paying them, and also to teach them basic mechanics."
Farren laughed delightedly. "Oh, I can see it! A school, disguised as a workshop! Of course; canalers are too proud—hmm, or too nervous of their karmic debts— to take anything for free, but offer to pay them . . . How brilliant!"
"Yes, it's his way of paying some karmic debt or other. But in fact, he's been so successful that he needs room to expand."
"Hmm, hardly my jurisdiction, Addie." Farren guessed where this was going.
"Ah, but it might be." Ariadne leaned forward, the hint of a gleam showing in her eyes. "An ideal location for his shop-school would be the old DeGrasse barge at East Dike."
"Really?" Farren rubbed his upper lip, seeing possibilities. A school for poor children: he'd thought once or twice about founding something like that. Always before, he'd run up against two problems: first, any public school would be inspected and fussed over and eventually run by the College—which would not endear the school to Adventist parents; second, canalers and lowtown landsiders needed their children to work, rake in the copperbits—and couldn't see the use of spending/losing precious coin on sending their children to school, especially when they'd managed to survive without school themselves. This fellow Brecht, however, had neatly found a way around both problems. On-the-job training wasn't the same thing as an official school, really, and paying for the children's presence would mollify the parents. Very clever. One had to admire a mind like that. "A school on a barge? Isn't that rather a dangerous place to have children about?"
"Not for canalers' children; they're born and raised on their boats. The problem is getting the permits from the Harbormaster's office, which technically owns the barge. Now East Dike, and the barge, would fall under your jurisdiction, don't you think?"
Farren laughed heartily, seeing connections click into place. "Yes, it does. Oh, it does indeed. Who could argue with having such a reliable tenant as a tool shop? Hmm, and it wouldn't hurt for me to show activity in office once in a while. At the very least, I'd find out which of my clerks are obstructionists."
"Not to mention gaining more fame and popularity among the Shoeless," Ariadne put in. "They really appreciate anyone from hightown taking a kindly interest in them—especially these days."
"Lord, yes." Farren frowned and shoved his teacup away. "I don't know what the College thinks it's doing, encouraging that insane Boregy woman. She's preaching something close to class war, you know. As if the poor needed any more abuse! Can't the College see that it's actually alienating the faithful down in lowtown? Or don't those fools even care? I suspect that woman's damnable 'prophecies' are behind this fuel-alcohol ban the College is proposing; crush the poor, slap them into proper humility—as if that sort of thing ever worked. Damn that fool Ito! He has no idea what he's playing at. I rather wish he'd have himself an overdose of deathangel, and put us all out of his misery."
Ariadne pursed her lips and put that comment aside for consideration later. "No doubt the ban will simply draw lowtown farther away from compliance with the law—or any law. Someone has to heal that breach, dear."
"Yes, yes indeed."
Someone like you, dear. Ariadne smiled demurely and took another sip of her tea.
Moghi chewed his lip and studied the card for long moments after Jones had stopped talking. "The man's either a fool or smarter'n a whip," he finally said. "Same old tech, nothin' new, just simpler an' new-made, hey?"
"That's what 'is shill said," Jones agreed. "I think she's damn dangerous, Moghi. How'd 'e get the College t'approve them engines, put their stamps on 'em? Ye know 'e most likely didn't. That means, folks what get 'em, uses 'em, they're like ter get took up by the blacklegs fer unlicensed tech. Y'got ter warn folks, Moghi." She didn't tell him about the real danger, that the shill had been Rif, and these engines were most likely Janist work, tied in with the same plot that brought the damned tangle-lilies to Merovingen. And never mind my part in that! She shivered.
Moghi tapped the card on his teeth. "Maybe he did get 'em licensed somehow, maybe he makes 'em 'discreet' enough nobody'll find 'em. There used ter be ways, y'know, ter keep engines quiet. Mufflin', or bafflin or somesuch, I think they called it . . . Won't know 'til ... we actually see one." He cocked an eye toward Jones. "I got a friend'd like ter see one o' them engines. Ye interested in makin' a trip ternight, Jones?"
"Not ter Yossarian's!" Jones almost squeaked. "I'm jes' tellin' ye what's afloat, Moghi; I ain't gettin' mixed up in 'er. Get somebody else."
"Ain't like ye ter be so pusey, Jones. What's eatin' ye?"
"Goddammit, Moghi, someone's been followin' me around!" Jones slammed a fist on her thigh. "Noticed 'em days ago, but can't make out who nor why. Could be from Megarys; maybe they figured out who called vengeance on 'em after they snatched me. I got ter be careful, don'tcher see?"
Moghi thought on that awhile. "So what's t'see?" he said, unimpressed. "Ye go t'a shop, fetch a cargo, bring 'er here. Ye stay with crowds, he ain't goin' ter snatch ye nor anythin' like it. Do ye want, I'll send one o' my boys with ye. Jes' buy the engine, keep 'er covered, bring 'er back here. No sweat."
Jones squirmed, knowing she'd have to give away a dangerous chip of information to get out of this. "Moghi, ye got ter know; I think them new engines is Jane work. I don't want ter go near no Jane place."
Moghi raised an eyebrow again, then put it down. "Jane work, Rev'nantist work or sharrh work, what's the difference? They're just another seller, an' ye're just another buyer."
"I don' want ter get mixed up with no Janes!"
Moghi missed nothing. His eyes slitted, pinned her. "Ye had dealin's with 'em before, Jones?"
"Dammit, Moghi!"
"Yey or ney, Jones."
"All right, yey! I did! Just twice, simple fer-hire jobs, ferryin' folk aroun' the city—that's all, an' that's enough. I don' want ter get no more o' their business, specially not now with this tail on me."
Moghi nodded knowingly. "Simple fer-hire jobs, an' ye wouldn've known they were Janes. This have any-thin' ter do with them holes in yer skip last Festival Moon?"
"Moghi . . ."
"An' that stuff in yer bilges, smelled like the change in the water?"
"It was barrels!" Jones almost yelled. "They had me fetch some barrels, then they dumped 'em in the water. Somebody took potshots at us—I dunno who— but we spilled some in the skip." Rif. . . "They toF me what was goin' down, 'cause I didn' want ter risk my hide without knowin' what I was gettin' inter."
"What was in the barrels?"
"I dunno
, they didn' tell me—jes' said it was some-thin' ter stop the plague, kill the fever in the water."
"And there was no plague this fever season." Moghi rubbed his jaw, thinking long. "All right, I'll get someone else ter go. An' I'll keep eyes out fer this tail ye've picked up."
"Thanks, Moghi." Jones shivered again. Now Moghi knew about the Janes, and her connection with them. Maybe this meant her chances of living to flood-season had just gone down another big notch—or maybe it meant they'd improved. No way to tell, except that Moghi had hinted, just hinted, at a bit of protection.
Raven almost tiptoed down the corridor, package clamped nervously under his arm. He wasn't used to all these enclosing walls, the presence of so many people just out of sight, even though he knew that half this Isle—and certainly all this floor—was a Janist safe house. He glanced left and right as he came to the door, saw no one, knocked quietly.
Soft footsteps shuffled inside. The door unlocked, and May peered out. Raven was struck again by how different, how much better, how much younger she looked with decent washing, decent food, decent clothes. He ducked past her, turned and shut the door quickly.
"Somebody after ye?" she whispered.
"No." Raven ducked his head and grinned sheepishly. "Just old habits. I'm not used to . . . all this."
"Hell, neither am I. Sure is a lot more comfortable than the swamp, though." She led him back into the little apartment. It was sparsely furnished, but cozy. The abundance of lamps was reassuring. He noted that their flames burned blue at the root, that the fire in the little heating stove fed on blocks of pressed and dried tangle-lily. May rubbed her hands, appreciating the warmth. "So what'cher got there?" she asked.
Raven smiled and held out the package. "New sweater and pants," he said. "And some soap, and other things."
"Oh, ye shouldn't have ..." May pulled off the wrappings and dug through the contents. "Cookies! Oh, Lord and Ancestors! So long since I've tasted cookies ..."
"Some advantages to living in town. There's a bottle of wine there, too."
Crooning with joy, May spread out a threadbare cloth on the bed, brought two cups and a plate, and set them an impromptu picnic. Raven joined her, grateful for the softness of a real mattress under his knobby bones again.
Two cups and half the cookies later, May got around to asking him for the latest news.
"It's going fast and well, May. Our samples have gone north, and it looks like the school-shop will get the barge."
"Mhm," May commented around a mouthful of cookie. "I saw the boats lined up at Yossarian's shop when I poled 'round the city t'day. Looks like he'll have all the business he can handle—an' maybe better move soon. Seen Raj, too; he's doin' fine, really in good with Kamats, goin' t'school at the College an' all. Spotted Wolfling shadowin' 'im like a faithful guard dog. The cell got any plans fer him yet?"
"Not yet." Raven stretched until his joints crackled. "Let him keep on guarding the boys, and I'll keep an eye on him."
"We got to start buildin' our own cell pretty soon. I could go out on the water, work as a canaler herb-healer, collect a cell there. What'cher think?"
"Hmm, wait on that until you've gone the full course of Yarrow's medical classes. Then ask her. It sounds like a fine idea to me."
"Heh! I'm teachin' her and 'er other students as much's she's teachin' me!"
"That's the way it's supposed to go, my girly."
"Oh, hush. Heard any rumors from hightown?"
"Just more garbage about Crazy Cassie. Mischa the Clockmaker's going to see her again soon, which is probably bad news."
"There's got ter be a way t'lure him away from that witch."
"We're working on some ideas ..." Raven drummed his fingers together, wondering just how to put this. Cells had to communicate, spread information, but no one must mention names, dates, times or places of meeting: basic security. "We've got . . . a good contact in hightown, a good-family woman with a husband in . . . hmm, I can't tell you which office. He doesn't know anything about us, but he sympathizes without knowing it. She's certainly a sympathizer, though she doesn't know exactly who we are, and she's a . . . charitable type."
May only grunted, not terribly impressed. .
"Point is, she's got easier access to Mikhail than anyone else we've got. When we come with a workable idea, we can pipeline it through her.''
"So," May guessed. "Mikhail's the heir we're backin'?"
"Heh! Aye, you're still sharp, May. It's to be Mikhail."
"Why him? They say he couldn't find 'is bottom with both hands."
"Three good reasons." Raven ticked them off on his fingers. "One: Mischa's the apple of the Old Man's eye, but Iosef's worried for the boy's future and would bless any decent Hightowner who'd side with the boy, protect and guide and back him, and we've got a likely prospect. Two: despite his slobbering over Crazy Cas-sie, Mikhail favors tech; that means he'd give us more leeway than his sister or brother ever would. Three: right now he's low man on the political totem pole, despite daddy's favor; whether he knows it yet or not, he has the most need of allies—and again, we can provide that. Besides, if his star rises without help from the usual old fossils on The Rock, it'll throw the whole town's political games into confusion—and we can make use of that."
"Aye," May chuckled. " 'Aye, we're good at dancin' on the waves, Dancin' on the waves of the storm.' "
"Damn!" Raven sat up. "Where'd you ever learn a Janist hymn? I never taught you that!''
"Off'n a Falkenaer lad, when I was young. It always stuck in my mind. So did he, fer that matter. Pretty blond thing . . ."
"Easy, woman. I'm still young enough to be jealous."
"And I'm old enough not t'wait around fer sailors." May ran a ticklesome hand down Raven's chest,-making him smile. "Hmm. Tell me, d'ye think Mischa the Clockmaker's gettin' . . . hmm, sufficiently laid?"
Raven laughed shortly. "If nothing else, his daddy would see to that—even if he had to deliver willing women on the doorstep, along with the morning tea and news report."
"Then 'tisn't itching balls sends Mischa pantin' after Crazy Cassie; 'tis somethin' else. Hmm." She thought long, then grinned. "Y'know what I think would do Mischa the most good?"
"What, my toothsome wench?"
"Respect. A real friend—one what's practical, and sensible, and gets things done, and what actually respects the boy. That'd pull Mm away from pantin' after prophets an' mysteries, now wouldn' it?"
"May, my love," Raven murmured, seeing possibilities, "you're an absolute genius."
Black Cal stood waiting by the railing of Coffin Isle, a black silhouette against the dim-lit sky, when Rif came trotting over the bridge. They met, hands interlocking smoothly as fine gears, turned and strolled unhurriedly to the shadowed door and the stairs beyond.
They said no word until an hour later.
Lord, but I'm lucky, Black Cal thought, pulling a lock of Rif's hair away from her bare breasts. To find another artist in this ugly city, and one who loves—at least likes me . . .
No, he couldn't ask her for the word. But he had to ask her for something.
"Rif ..."
"Mmm?"
"Sing for me?"
Rif blinked at him, but gave no other sign of surprise. She thought a moment, hummed experimentally, then launched into a quiet song.
"Word came out of the sky
To our forebears long ago:
'Leave this planet or die.'
So many rose to go.
But a few were stubborn of soul
And would not quit their hard-won ground.
They hid and stayed through the winter's tide
When the Scouring-time came down. ''
Stubborn of soul, yes. Black Cal smiled to himself. Not necessarily smart, just stubborn. But then, so is life itself.
''And how do we survive?
How do we keep alive?
Where do we go from here ?''
Black Cal listened thoughtfully through the lines of the song, gu
essing it was a Janist hymn even though no names were mentioned. He'd grown good at identifying Janist themes.
There are worse factions to run with. You have to get into the boat sometime.
Rif finished the song, snuggled closer and ran her fingertips up and down his near thigh. "So, how've ye been?" she murmured, not expecting a specific answer, just wanting to hear his voice in turn.
Go with the tide. "I've been keeping my ears open. Word around the Signeury is that Iosef's going to sit on the alcohol ban, string it out as long as possible. You've got some breathing space; maybe until flood-tide, maybe only a month, depending on how hard the College wants to push this."
Rif sat up, eyes widening in amazement. "Ye really do want ter get involved, Cal? Enough ter run news?"
Maybe more than that. "I told you I liked the Janes' style. I suspect the Old Man's angry at Ito for letting Mikhail get caught up with Cassie Boregy's crap. No love lost there.''
"Mhm." Rif pulled her hair back from her shoulders and shifted mental gears. "Then he might do well ter hype the number of deaths from deathangel ODs, slap a ban on the damn fish, or ownin' or sellin' the same. Won't stop 'er, of course, but he'd jam a stick in Ito's wheels. Gods, if only somebody could slip Tatty an' her boyfriend an overdose of deathangel ..."
"Or Ito himself," Black Cal smiled. "It wouldn't do any good to OD Crazy Cassie; her harm's already been done, and that would clinch it."
"True. Better ter discredit the bitch somehow. If we could come up with a counter-prophet, or some other fashion-fancy miracle ..." Rif frowned, thinking. "We've been tryin' ter get our hands on some live deathangel, study 'em, figure out how that stuff works. Trouble is, with all the fashion fer the damned things, local waters're damn-near fished out. We haven't been able ter spare any long-distance fishin' parties ter go hunt 'em in deeper waters. Maybe by flood-tide ..."
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