Divine Right

by C. J. Cherryh

"Take too long." Black Cal eyes focused on the ceiling, then beyond. "Maybe I can do something about that ..."

  Farren Delaney came home for lunch, which was unusual enough in itself. He was also whistling cheerfully, which was odder still. He also had a small gift for his wife, which he handed her—with an elaborate flourish—over the lunch table.

  Ariadne took out the little gift with fingers that trembled in awe and bewilderment. "My dear Lord, Farren, these are rainbow-shells—and already set—and enough to cover a whole collar and cuffs. What in the world. . . ?"

  "That, my love, is merely the introduction." Farren settled on the nearest chair and reached for the basket of rolls. "The real gift is, your beloved school now has its barge. Right here—" He pulled a thick, folded sheet of official paper from his inside pocket, "—is the lease-form, signed and sealed and about to be delivered. Could you do that, darling, when I go back to the office?"

  "Of course, of course . . ." Ariadne took the paper, opened it and stared at the writing in amazement. "But how on Merovin did you—"

  '' Hah, sheer overkill.'' Farren happily broke and buttered his sweet roll. "I went to Punabi's Office with arguments enough to storm The Rock, but he crumbled without a fight. He was so grateful to find anyone who'd take that wreck off his hands, he practically kissed my feet. I dare say he thinks of me as the man who can answer his prayers about all such similar headaches in the harbor. And no, I had no obstruction from the clerks at all. Yes, I'm making friends and allies in the Harbormaster's office. Pass the jelly?"

  "Oh? Yes, yes. Here it is. Farren, this is utterly wonderful. M'ser Brecht will be overjoyed, and doubtless so will the families of his students. Dearest, by flood-tide you'll have a reputation as the True Friend of the Poor. Everyone in Merovingen will know it, I swear."

  "Hmm, gently, my dear." Farren's gaze swept out the window again. "Give me a reputation like that, and I'll have to live up to it, every blessed day. This is a small thing, but what can I do for an encore? It will have to be bigger and better, and at the moment I haven't the least idea what it should be."

  "You'll think of something," Ariadne promised. "Hmm, I really would love to see these on my new formal sweater. I'll have to take them out to be sewn on professionally . . . and I can stop by the shop on my way back from Brecht's."

  Farren cleared his throat. "Ah—my dear, I don't have to be back for a while. I was thinking ..."

  Ariadne demurely set down her teacup. "The children won't be home for hours," she hinted.

  Smiling delicately, they rose and moved toward the door that led to their sleeping quarters.

  Just then a servant entered the door behind them and coughed discreetly. "A messenger has arrived, m'ser— from the Signeury."

  Ariadne and Farren turned toward the servant, identical thoughts darting through their minds. What's so important that it can't wait ?

  "Oh, let him in," Farren grumbled, flicking an apologetic look at his wife.

  The messenger turned out to be a harried-looking youth with a stack of vellum envelopes under his arm. "So sorry to disturb you, Sub-Prefect," he dithered, "but I was told—by the governor himself—to deliver this to you, in person."

  Farren took the proffered envelope as if it would explode at any moment. Ariadne watched as he opened it and read the message, barely daring to breathe.

  Farren's face lit up with a triumphant smile. "Tell the governor," he said, "that I have received his message, and I will be delighted to accept the post."

  The messenger bowed, turned and trotted off to his next port of call.

  Ariadne waited until the room was cleared before pouncing on the seal-encrusted letter. "What position, Farren? Your promotion? Has it finally come?"

  Farren beamed at her. "My dear, you are looking at the new Prefect of City Waterways," he chortled.

  Ariadne looked blank. "Waterways? Oh, that isn't another backwater, is it?''

  "No, Addie; it's freedom—freedom and power." Farren began to pace, across the room and back, across and back. "It's a full Prefecture, and my own Department, with no interference from anyone but the governor himself. Addie, love, I don't know how you did this, but it's all I need. Now I can show what Merovingen can do, if we but put our minds to it."

  "Oh, yes, dear," Ariadne breathed, watching her husband with adoring eyes.

  FARREN'S FOLLY: MEETING OF MINDS

  Roberta Rogow

  Mention the name of Farren Delaney in Merovingen and you would get an amused smile, a contemptuous snort, a blank look, or a knowing smile, depending on the status of the individual questioned. In the eyes of fashionable Merovingen, Farren Delaney was the adjunct of Adiadne Delaney, thrower of parties and espouser of charitable causes. In the world of merchants and traders he was just one of the many bureaucrats in the Signeury whose seals were necessary on documents before business could proceed. To the canalers, Farren Delaney was an eccentric sportsman who could hold his own at boat-poling. In no case was Farren Delaney considered a thinker (save possibly by a handful of devotees of Mother Jane, and they kept their opinion to themselves. . . .).

  Merovingen considered Farren Delaney (when it considered him at all) to be a lightweight chair-warmer without an idea of his own—unless that idea had to do with pretty shop-girls or boating. His cousin/wife Ariadne's maneuvering on his behalf had landed him in his own office with the high-sounding title of Prefect of Waterways—his predecessor now being Prefect of Docks and Harbors, a much more lucrative position, since no vessel could use Merovingen's public facilities without that all-important Docking Permit, and the fee for the permit could run quite high, under the table, as it were.

  All that the Prefect of Waterways controlled was the water in the canals, the Det, and the currently lily-logged lagoon . . . and that, as everyone knew, was virtually uncontrollable except by the slow process of sweeping and the hope that the bloom was a fluke of nature, to vanish with first frost. . . .

  Brought in on some Falken ship, perhaps. An unintended import from the Chattalen.

  Winter would kill a soft-leaved plant: spring and first sprouting was the time to attack the problem, perhaps with oil, who knew?

  So Farren sat in his new office and considered his options, and smiled grimly at the canal below him— well knowing, to be sure, how he had arrived at his present position: his wife had a luncheon for the old and ailing governor Iosef Kalugin, shortly after which m'sera Secretary Tatiana had found herself outmaneu-vered, her man shunted out of the office she wanted a thumb on and into Docks and Waterfronts, while he, Farren, had the office, the title, and the stipend of a minor prefecture—far above his former position.

  He could, of course, continue to do as he always had—which is to say, to do nothing. For most of his thirty-six years Farren had done that and done it very well—smiled his way through his schooling and managed to marry his cousin Ariadne, no beauty, but through her mother possessing Connections to most of the important Families in Merovingen-above . . . and from her mother possessing this fascination with Culture. (Ariadne's latest fancy had been to present a pair of canalsider singers to Merovingian society as artists and poets: she had, over the ten years of their union, taken up the causes of neglected canaler orphans and bridge-brats and stray cats—and between Children (they had five), Charity (innumerable), and Culture (of all sorts), Ariadne Delaney-Delaney had left her husband more or less to his own eccentric amusements.)

  Farren glanced out the window, a mere slit in the wall, but a major perk nonetheless—his previous office having been a cubbyhole scantly screened from other cubbyholes, windowless and very nearly airless, where he had read documents by the light of a flickering lamp and shoved them on to the next cubbyhole. As Prefect of Waterways, he possessed an office, a desk and two chairs, had the use of an official boat—had (Farren checked out his supplies) papers, pens, ink.

  All he needed now was something to do.

  Farren started to doodle on the cheap newsprint (someone, he thought, was trying to sa
ve a pennybit or two by giving the lesser offices inferior paper) and wondered how to apply himself—

  The plants, perhaps.

  The rash of fires in the last months—about Megary's reconstruction: so far no one had been seriously hurt, but there was always the possibility one of those malicious fires might not be minor; might skip into the upper tiers of this wooden city that was so vulnerable to fire.

  Farren scratched busily at his growing doodle, unaware that the door had just opened. The new Prefect of Waterways shared the secretarial services of a Bright Young Girl with the elderly Prefect of Ceremonials and the Prefect of Standards. She was obviously not available for watchdog duty, otherwise why would the Prefect of Waterways be interrupted at his labors? Farren glanced up—

  Then jumped to his feet. The governor of Merovingen was not in the habit of paying social calls on his underlings in the Signeury.

  "Governor! Forgive me! To what do I owe this honor? —Please, sit down!" Farren pushed the spare chair toward the governor, who smiled gently and stepped aside so that Farren could see the younger man in the doorway.

  "Delaney, have you been introduced to my son, Mikhail?" Iosef Kalugin nodded at the lanky young man who was trying very hard to melt into the wall.

  Farren assessed Mikhail: rumored as more than slightly eccentric, considered by some to be an idiot and by others to be the Last Hope of the Kalugins. Whatever Iosef wanted, Farren decided, he would get, —although it was hard to see what use the Prefect of Waterways could be to the governor and his son.

  "I haven't had the pleasure until now," Farren said, bowing.

  Mikhail smiled back, briefly and faintly.

  "He's been solitary for too long," Iosef said. "Time he got out of that damned workshop and got to know people. I thought he could start here in the Signeury, learn the offices. Your wife tells me you do a good, conscientious job—show Mischa how to go on. Introduce him 'round. Let him get to know people, let them get to know him."

  Farren glanced at Mikhail. The prospect of meeting a hallful of minor bureaucrats did not seem to thrill him: he was edging around behind the visitor's chair and over to the window.

  "I'll do my best, m'ser," Farren said, as Iosef muttered, "Good luck," and let himself out.

  Mikhail slumped into the chair.

  Farren's smile faded. So much for having a wife active on one's behalf: this, then, was the price of the fine new office and its fine title—nursemaiding this gawky nincompoop through the mazes of the bureaucracy. As for the Idea, the brilliant Idea that had come on him this afternoon as he sat . . .

  "What's this?" Mikhail asked sharply, turning Farren's doodle-sheet around.

  "Oh, —a small idea."

  "Mmm?"

  "The fires we've been having . . . you're aware—"

  "I know. Mostly Megary's. One of m'sister's lovers got caught in that one." Mikhail giggled. "I don't like him, not a bit. —What are you going to do, mount a pump on a ship? Draw out of the canal?"

  Farren blinked. "Yes. That was the idea. Plenty of water—but what we have to do is get it higher, up to second tier and third. I thought a pipe and hose ..."

  "Won't work," Mikhail said flatly, reaching for a pen and an inkwell. "Not enough give, too much pressure and flex with the boat bobbing around, no way to control it. . . ." Gone was the giggling, awkward hobbledehoy. Farren nodded as Mikhail sketched out his refinements on the Idea with quick, sure strokes of the pen.

  "What you need is something flexible, long enough to reach, hoist it up—can't be pipe, you'll tip, for one thing—and how do you clear the bridges? Has to be light, else you have a lot of weight on that skip, water-weight when she draws . . . maybe brace on the walls, hold her steady— How many crew?''

  "Six, seven . . ." Farren was impressed. "More ashore, of course."

  "Take training to use this thing. Lot of gear, small space, y'know, like as not bump into each other—"

  Farren stared at the sketch. The skip now held an oversized pump amidships. Two large wheels flanked the pump. Ladders rested on a rack to the side.

  "Beautiful!" Farren breathed. "Mikhail, my friend, you're going to be an asset!"

  Mikhail shifted his position in the chair and coughed. "I don't know anything about Waterways."

  ' 'Waterways includes what goes on the water,'' Farren reminded him. "We're just expanding the meaning a little."

  "Are you going to build this boat?"

  "I have access to city vessels," Farren reminded him. "Of all classes. All I have to do is remodel one. Redesign it, so to speak. And I can tell you know all about that."

  He did indeed, Farren said to himself. Mikhail may have a reputation as a gormless tinkerer, but he's been studying, watching the way things work. .

  Mikhail rubbed his nose. "I'll need materials," he said. "I'm not sure about the hose. Canvas reinforcing, maybe? Tarred between layers, to keep it watertight? I can requisition most anything. A pump that size is pretty major, though—"

  Farren chortled. "And they call you a fool! My friend, you build the hose and the couplings. Let me worry about the pump."

  RUN SILENT, RUN CHEAP (REPRISED)

  Leslie Fish

  There was someone pacing behind her on the walkways. Damn!

  Jones dug in her pole, shoved a little harder, listened for the footsteps above and weighed her choices. If she could reach some safe patch of shadow, hide just long enough to rack her pole, get to the engine, pour in the chugger and start it . . .

  But that old engine was noisy, and the unseen stalker could follow her by the sound.

  She could pretend to ignore the tail, go right ahead past Calliste Isle and Ventani, then to Moghi's place and safety . . .

  But did she really want to lead that shadow to Moghi's again? He just might be from Megary's after ail-maybe Megary had figured out who was behind all that fire and damage, which had cost them a pretty penny to repair, and more money for all the guards on Megary's Isle these days—and that could be really bad trouble.

  No, not toward Moghi's. Somewhere else, but where?

  Calliste Isle lay close now. Could she swing hard around the corner without being seen? Try it.

  Jones leaned hard into the pole, wishing for just a little more speed as she darted her skip around Calliste corner and into the narrow Calliste-Ventani canal.

  Damn, no, there was the echo of hurrying footsteps above her again. Whoever that shadow was, he was good and he followed close. How to lose him? Where?

  Under Pardee-Calliste Bridge? No, no good hiding place under there, and besides, he'd guess where she'd gone.

  There was a narrow slip beyond that bridge, though, unseeable from this side or above. If she could get into that, she could wait the scumsucker out—or tie up, sneak out on the lower walkway, cut through Pardee and walk the rest of the way to Moghi's. That'd work.

  But how to lose the shadow in that stretch of open water between here and the bridge? From the footsteps, he'd be to her right; too much easy viewing from there. If only some traffic would come, some boat big enough to duck behind, block vision long enough. Or if only she could get her engine started quick, take off . . .

  Or if I had one of them "discreet" engines ...

  Jones squelched the thought, slowed her skip as the bridge approached—as if she were planning to tie-up under it—and waited for any change, any break of luck.

  There— Lord and Ancestors, was that the sound of oncoming boat-wash? Yes, and a large one, to judge by the echoes. But coming so fast and quiet? She must be powered under several poles, but where was the sound of poles dipping? And what was that deep thrumming sound, so low it was felt in the bones more than heard?

  No matter. Use the chance.

  Jones set her pole, jigged the skip sideways a bit as if making room, and watched for the first sign of oncoming bow-wave.

  There, under the bridge—and wide. A damn big skip, and moving fast, fast. The deep thrumming sound hung around it like a cloud of mist.

&nbs
p; Jones jabbed her pole down with all her strength and shot straight across the canal, right under the oncoming bow.

  A screech of surprise and a furious obscenity followed her as she scraped past, missing collision by a handspan. She recognized the cursing voices: Deiter clan, one of their big boats. But where were the poles? How could their boat make such speed? And what the hell was that bone-deep noise around it?

  No matter, not now. Jones shot under the bridge and past it, pole jabbing bottom for all she was worth, past the Deiter boat and the bridge, through the shadows on the black water and there, going by memory more than sight, into that shadowed slip beyond.

  Safe—and a final jab of the pole to stop motion, still the skip. She turned to look back at the darkened canal, just in time to see the Deiters' boat fade into darkness. Just in time to see the faint but steady turbulence at the stern, and only two poles visible—just enough for steering.

  The Deiters got one of them Discreet engines. Already.

  Jones tied up in the slip with hands working automatically, ears strained for the sound of footsteps, mind working on something else altogether.

  The rope pulled tight, holding the skip safe in darkness.

  The distant footsteps echoed across the canal, slowed, baffled. They paced halfway up Calliste-Pardee Bridge, paused a long while, then turned and went back again.

  Jones sat very still in the skip, thinking about that big Deiter boat with its new engine already, probably bought from Yossarian's the very day of the boat race, probably within an hour of the first sight of those cards.

  So much for the Ban.

  Boats as big as the Deiter clan used, already supplied with those chugger-burning engines that stayed hid, gave no sign, ran fast and quiet in the dark. The Ban wouldn't slow them down. Any advantage the small-boat canalers had hoped to get from the Ban was doomed before it started; big boats carried engines the same as little ones, ran them after dark just like the little ones. Maybe by daylight, when nobody dared use the engines for fear of Ban and blacklegs, a small boat could get the advantage of poling-speed and maneuverability, but after dark all bets were off. No advantage then in being small, except maybe negotiating the smaller waterways.