Divine Right

by C. J. Cherryh

  The nearer of the two men drove his fist into Rafe's stomach. The second hit him from behind. The last thing that Rafe heard before he blacked out was the gentle lapping of canal water against pilings.

  Rafe's breath came in harsh gasps. There couldn't have been more than a few square inches of him that didn't hurt. Tanith Rohan's bodyguards had done a very professional job.

  Common sense said that the best plan would be for him to forget the whole thing. Drowning his pain with some of Moghi's whiskey seemed quite inviting at that moment.

  Pride and anger, however, had very little to do with common sense.

  Instead of going down a drainpipe as he had earlier in the evening, this time Rafe shinned up one, the gate being shut and guarded on Rohan's third tier.

  They started it, but I am damned well going to finish it, he repeated to himself as he risked a look through an unshuttered window of the Family residency; resort to a small square-ended blade and a certain skill with windows tripped the aged latch.

  The window gave, the sound muffled with his shoulder. Rafe lifted it ever so quietly and slipped into a darkened hallway. The air from inside was musty, smelling of dust and incense. He dropped to the floor in a crouch, holding the jimmy in a clenched fist.

  He had not planned on anyone being awake.

  But light came faintly from a room far down the T; a guard, perhaps. Or simply a nightlight. He padded along the boards and put his shoulder against the doorframe to sneak a look.

  The far end of the room was dominated by a huge desk. A tiny oil lamp sat on one corner: its flickering added as much of shadow as light to the room.

  And fell on a woman's bowed figure, sitting at the desk with her face resting in her hands.

  She did not react; she did not look up; in fact, she barely moved. In the silence Rafe could almost hear her breathing.

  An empty brandy glass was on a corner of that desk. So was the gold box from the harbor. Rafe watched for a long time; and knowing the open window was not that far and that surprise and the burglar's iron in his fist were advantage enough-He entered the room: he walked to the desk; but . before his fingers could do more than brush across the surface the woman looked up.

  Rafe found himself staring into Tanith Rohan's startled eyes.

  "I've been waiting for you," she said.

  Only this wasn't Tanith Rohan! This woman was thinner, a webwork of deep wrinkles criss-crossed her face. The same face—the same crown of braids, deep black, eyes so pale they seemed colorless.

  "M'sera?" he asked.

  "I know you." Pale eyes stared at Rafe, unblinking. A hint of a smile crossed her face and rearranged the wrinkles.

  "Know me?" Rafe said.

  "My memory was never that bad. You've come for this," she said, tapping the box. "And what's in it." Rafe nodded.

  Either this elder m'sera Rohan was crazier than a swamp rat, or she was as wily as any of the hightowner Families that he'd ever met. Right then he wasn't that certain which.

  "Open it, then," she said coolly.

  Rafe sighed; he'd tried that almost as soon as he'd found the box, only with as much corrosion as the years had laid along the silver fittings, the thing was effectively sealed. But the look on m'sera Rohan's face was impossible for Rafe to resist. He applied the jimmy to it. This time the lid came free.

  A rotted cloth lined the inside of the case. In one corner was a tangled ball of metal; a knot of gold chain wrapped around a half a gold coin. Picking the thing up with two fingers Rafe had to shake it several times before the chain gradually began to untangle. The half coin twisted freely in the air in front of them.

  "Put it on, Klive, put it on."

  Rafe looked at her, but demanded no explanation for the name. She was clearly crazed. She made no shout for the guards. He played her game. The metal was cold as the Det itself. But the chain felt right around his neck.

  Smiling, m'sera brought a second box from inside the desk, a box except for the corrosion identical to the one Rafe had discovered . . . was it only hours ago? Watching her produce a second necklace and jagged half coin, Rafe realized he'd been holding his breath.

  "You promised that you'd come for me, Klive, and you have." A protest about that name died in Rafe's throat. M'sera slid the chain over her head as she rose and stepped out from behind the desk.

  M'sera's eyes never left Rafe's as she slid her arms tightly around him. In spite of her aged appearance, this was a sensuous woman whose lips sought his—a woman in love and a woman who knew what she wanted.

  And as suddenly as the kiss had begun, it ended. M'sera went limp. Rafe had to catch her—panicked suddenly, with the notion of a dead hightowner oh his hands. He dragged her back behind the desk, set her back into her chair. If it were possible, m'sera's face looked paler than it had before. Her head fell as he propped her up. "Is she dead yet?"

  Tanith Rohan might have been inquiring after a lost scarf rather than the m'sera's life. Rafe suspected by that look that she had fantasized it so often that the actual doing of the deed seemed a letdown to her.

  "Your work?" he said, standing up and gesturing at the m'sera.

  "Of course." Tanith smiled as she took a pair of tumblers from a nearby cabinet. She filled them both with amber liquid from a dusty carafe. "I think we both can use one of these," she said, returning, and handed one of the drinks to Rafe.

  He hesitated. Tanith laughed and took a sip from her own drink. "Really, you should be more trusting," she said. "If I wanted you dead, there are a lot better ways than wasting sunwing on the likes of you."

  "That cost you a pretty penny." Sunwing was native only to the deserts of Canberra. People said it was deadlier than deathangel, without any of its hallucinogenic side effects—and virtually impossible to detect afterward.

  "Oh, yes, it did, a fortune. The results were worth it, though. A few months of it, mixed in with the brandy to cut the taste, and she's been getting weaker and weaker. The shock of having that necklace returned—surely speeded things up a bit. I'm sure her doctor will agree."

  "She thought I was Klive."

  "Her one true love. I imagine you made her happy for a couple of minutes," grinned Tanith as she refilled her glass. "All that stress; heart attack, you know. Mama was getting so fragile."

  "A mortal dose. And in one quick sweep it leaves you as Househead."

  "That was the whole point." "Who was Klive?"

  "The other half of a love story. My grandfather was planning to marry her off to Klive Straun, to cement a trade alliance with his family out of Nev Hettek. But there was brother Gerrard, my uncle; seems that he and Klive hated each other. Klive Straun disappeared. No one could prove it, but they knew Gerrard was behind it. Gerrard died. They never found the body either. —Of course, it wouldn't be the first time that a body disappeared in this city. Would it?"

  "What about these?" Rafe said, touching the chain.

  "Klive had them made by an uptown jeweler, one for him, one for my mother. As for the boxes, they came from her.''

  "And she thought that I was him."

  "You just helped make me Househead that much sooner."

  "I think not. "

  Rafe and Tanith both turned back to stare at the huge desk. The chair behind it was empty, still moving slowly. Rafe heard a gasp from Tanith.

  It was no ghost that stood near the bookcase, holding a single-shot pistol. M'sera Rohan was still as pale as she had been, but now she radiated an air of strength and certainty that had been missing before.

  "You were dead," Tanith stammered. "The sunwing, there's no antidote."

  "That was always your problem dear, believing in absolutes when there are no such things. I've known about the sunwing since the second night you ruined my brandy with it. I' m afraid that it didn't cut the taste quite as much as you had hoped. By the way, I must thank you, dear, for arranging to get the sunwing. I can definitely put it to use. Will you leave this House? Or do you want to dispute the case tonight?''


  The younger woman, who had gone as pale as her mother, turned slowly and walked out of the room.

  M'sera Rohan stared after her daughter. And eased down the hammer of the pistol.

  "You've definitely got style, lady, definitely." Rafe had eased himself toward the door. This seemed as good a time as any to make an exit.

  "I wouldn't do that if I were you." M'sera Rohan's voice cut the air like a knife.

  "M'sera?"

  "You might have been in my daughter's hire. I thought that might have been the case. By rights I should turn you over to the blacklegs. However, I am willing to discuss that point, —Klive." Her tongue traced the edge of her lips as she spoke. "You are Klive. You'll have everything you want, dear boy. And I've waited for you—so very long."

  SEEDS OF DESTRUCTION (REPRISED)

  C.J. Cherryh

  Jones poured more sugar on the tea, stirred it vigorously, added some more—early on, with Mondragon, she had had real qualms about extravagance, but, Lord! it was damn Anastasi's money, and if she could cost him, she cost him good and proper. She had butter and berry jam on her toast, she had ham and not fish, she had a few fresh berries with the ham, too—sweet, stay in your mouth a long time kind of taste, so she just shut her eyes and thought about it. She had been sixteen before she ever tasted berries or ham or butter, and she never did gulp them the way Mondragon would, who thought they were ordinary—who could eat like this all the time, except he was real irregular about cooking—man would wash a best iron skillet, for Lord's sake, in soap and water—and he kept only plain stuff in the apartment for when he had to cook.

  But when times were slow and the mood was on him and he was tolerably sure she was going to be there to do the cooking, back he came from hightown shops with stuff like this.

  So he'd come down to Moghi's last night to tell her, just showed up on Moghi's porch when she picked up to go, said he'd go partners on the run if she'd go partners later and besides, he'd bought groceries.

  Ye got 'er, she'd said, wondering then exactly what kind of mess he was in and what news he was getting her softened up for.

  But they made the run to Harbor, they made the run to Hafiz' Brewery, they made the run back to Moghi's with the whiskey (and the stuff that wasn't whiskey, too, but came in barrels) and she asked him finally flat out what he was into and if she was supposed to be mad at him.

  Hurt his feelings, she did.

  But they made it up, in his bed with the starchy fine sheets, trail of clothes all the way to the bath and trail of towels all the way to the bed, there was, Denny being the only houseguest now, Raj being off somewhere between Kamat and the College and Denny being out with friends, the little sherk—I'll break his neck, was what Mondragon said, after he had to let them both in and he found the note that said Gon With Frens. OK—Deny.

  But that was near the door, they were both wanting a bath real bad, and if Denny was off catting around, then, good riddance, was Altair's own brief thought in the matter—brief, because directly she and Mondragon had other interests than a skinny bridge-brat.

  Except this morning, that every noise outside and every bird that landed on the roof got this little twitch from Mondragon, just this little dart of the eyes: he was plainly thinking it was high time Denny was putting in an appearance.

  "He'll be back," Altair said, around a tiny, savored last bite of ham. Damn 'im, the kid was doing his best to spoil breakfast. She wiped the grease off her plate with her finger and licked it. "Hell, I tried to drown 'im once. Couldn't. Kid floats."

  "I've told him," Mondragon said. "I'll break his neck." Lord, he was pretty with his jaw set like that, pretty hands, hair all curling around his face—

  Altair sighed over her tea, and thought maybe they could be just a touch later getting about the day's business. Morning rush was past. She could afford a layout, or lay-in-bed, or whatever-Getting damn comfortable, was what, having ham and berries and sugared tea and all: Mondragon wanted her off the water, wanted her under a roof, and that she wouldn't do, couldn't do, couldn't live that way—but she worried about herself sometimes, that she really got to like a mattress to sleep on and a tub of clean rainwater to scrub in, and clothes that smelled like sunshine instead of mildew.

  But if Mondragon was there with her the best thing in the world was the heave of the water and the stars over the Rim, and them making love on the half-deck, so far out from anybody it was just the warm wind for a sheet and the moons for a nightlight—

  And ham and berries couldn't outdo that.

  But that was rare, that she could get Mondragon out of town to the Rim—last night, for instance: "Pack up the groceries," she'd said, "and we'll sail out to the Harbor and I won't even work t'morrow. . . .

  And Mondragon: "Can't. Can't, Jones." With a kiss, a straying of his hands, a hasty, breathy, "I've got things doing, I can't leave right now—"

  She'd tried to ask. He'd stopped that cold. So it was Anastasi's work, or Richard Kamat's, which was where his money came from—a lot of it, which worried her sick in one sense.

  And she never had taken money from him, but nowadays when he wanted to give it to her, she said all right, and she took it right down to Moghi and put in on account there, good as any bank, for when he might be broke again and desperate: then she'd say, Well, I got it, —and hand him enough this time, that it might mean something. More than a skip-freighter got in a year she had tucked away in that account, and it might not stand Mondragon to a clean shirt of the kind he wore uptown, but it sure as hell would buy somebody dead on waterside, or buy a stay in Moghi's upstairs Room and a run to the Harbor if Mondragon got himself in that kind of situation.

  You listen to me, she'd said. You save yourself a bit of that, dammit, Mondragon, ye spend like a Falken sailor, ye got no notion yet what money's worth—

  I know better than most, he'd said back, in that kind of tone that said there was values and values, and what bought him wasn't money.

  Wasn't what bought her either, so she understood; but the damn fool hadn't missed enough meals in his life, when the shaded canals were near frozen and the Trade wasn't moving and the fish weren't biting, and you only had enough oil for heating up the stove an hour or so in the night. Money was what kept you from that. But in Tom Mondragon's mind, being hungry was just temporary, and it didn't scare him; and in hers summers were for storing up against winters you knew would come sure as the Retribution—surer, since she'd seen sixteen of them for certain and the priests just promised the other.

  So here they were in the kitchen with as good a breakfast as the governor himself, and Mondragon just ate his ham like it was ordinary.

  And worried about a damn kid.

  Which he wasn't saying, particularly, but she saw him twitch again—you got these little sounds when somebody would walk by, boards creaking and all.

  And she wasn't going to get him back to bed when he was like that, distracted at every damn bird landing on the roof. So she sighed and put her teacup down and said, "I'll find 'im. Probably he's showed-up to work—" Over at Gallandrys. "—swear like a bishop he was only thinking not t' wake ye, the damn sneak. Probably was drinking and knew you'd catch it on him."

  "I'll go—" Mondragon began; but there was a thump! from upstairs, that was the roof fire-exit, and another thump! in the kitchen as Mondragon shoved his chair back.

  Denny was late to work, was what he was. Denny sounded to be moving in a hurry, pounding down the stairs—Denny and shoes being unacquainted, the same as any canaler; and Altair put herself on her feet and went right behind Mondragon to the hall as Denny came pell-mell down the steps-Out of breath and scared out of his mind. "Tom!" Denny gasped. "They're after Raj—" And as Mondragon grabbed him by the arms and Denny got another breath: "The blacklegs—they're going to arrest him!"

  "For what?" Mondragon asked, giving him a shake. "Where is he?"

  "K-Kamat. He's at Kamat. We was just standing down by John's—"

  "College district," Altair said.


  "—an' we was talkin', Tom, I swear, we was just jokin' around—an' this sherk of a blackleg come up and said, 'What's yer name?' an' this fool said—"

  "Who said?" Mondragon asked.

  "I dunno, this girl, she was from the College—she said she didn't have to give 'im anything. Then this other blackleg come up, an' asked what was goin' down, like we didn't need help, and Jimmy—"

  "That skuz!" Altair said, and whacked at him with the back of her hand. "I told ye not to hang out with that 'un!"

  "—Jimmy said shut up, she was bein' a fool,-but she was, anyhow, she said as how the blacklegs was Insti-gatin' and ever'body on that walk was witnesses—" "God," Mondragon said.

  "So most ever'body got scarce right off, and they was shovin' her up against th' wall, and Raj— Mondragon, I toF 'im, come on, I says, —while she was screamin' at 'em and they was bashin' her, but my damn fool brother— 'Let her go,' he says, like they was going to, and she says, 'You better listen to him, he's close with Richard Kamat—' "

  "God!" Mondragon said.

  "An' we run, I got 'im safe t' Kamat topside an' he got in—but he's in trouble, Tom, he's in bad trouble, they was writin' down what ever'body was sayin', an' they're goin't' show up there, m'ser Tom, they're goin' to take 'im to the Justiciary and that room in the basement—"

  Mondragon let him go. Mondragon was headed for the living room, looking for his boots, and Altair grabbed a fistful of Denny's sweaty, sooty shirt.

  "Ye damn fool! What was ye standin' around for? What was ye doin' with them damn College fools?"

  "They was friends of Raj's— We just met up and I was goin't' get back home, but Raj was at John's and I just-"

  Mondragon had found the boots; he was halfway into them. Altair shoved Denny off and said to Mondragon, "I'll go down there, f Lord's sake—if they're lookin' for him, they don't need to see you show up."

  Mondragon looked up, looking scared, just plain cold scared, the way he could admit to that with her, sometimes, when things were coming too fast for good sense.

  "You're right. You'd better. Get down there, see if you can talk to Richard. ..." Surprised hell out of her with that.