He jumped up and bounced over to her; Ned Gallandry looked him up and down, speculation in his no-color eyes, then cleared his throat. "M'sera Bolado needs a runner—for somethin' special," he said, slowly. "She wants somebody as knows where Raj Tai went. I tol' her that he's not here no more, that he got proper leave to go, so he's not in any trouble with us, an' that you'd know where he is."
"Yes, m'ser," Denny said quickly. "M'sera, I—" He gulped. "I do know where he is, but—"
He wasn't quite sure what to say, and looked at Ned for some clue. It was no secret—at least, he'd not been told it was—that "Raj Tai" was now openly Raj Takahashi, and under Kamat protection and sponsorship—keeping the name "Raj" in obedience to the Re-venantist priests at the College, who had not much cared for his birth-name of Rigel. But it wasn't something that too many people knew, either. Ned knew—but that didn't mean he wanted the other runners to know.
"Why don't you an' the m'sera take a walk, kid," Ned said. "Make this the last run of the day. The Bolados is good neighbors—"
Lord and Ancestors—that "Bolado?" The ones that owned the next isle north?
"—an' can't hurt t' tell her what she wants t' know."
"Yes, m'ser," Denny replied faintly. "M'sera?"
She led him out, into the late-afternoon bustle and clamor on the shadowed walkway, maintaining a strained and complete silence. They moved with the flow of the crowd all the way down to the diNero bridge, without her saying a word. Denny kept glancing at her out of the corner of his eye; she had a funny expression, the kind Jones wore when she was baffled by what to do next. He reckoned by that similarity of expression that m'sera Bolado was an unusually competent woman—like Jones. And that, like Jones, it wasn't often that she found herself at a loss.
Finally she stopped in the little alcove where the bridge met the walkway, a nook built in the side of the building so that people with long burdens to maneuver from the bridge onto the walkway could do so. She finally faced him there, and cleared her throat, awkwardly.
"I'm Kat Bolado," she said, holding out her hand. Denny shook it, noting with surprise the amount of callus there. "Denny Diaz," he replied, keeping to his assumed identity. "Whatcha want with Raj Tai?"
She blushed, much to Denny's surprise. "I—I'd like to send him a note," she said. "But I haven't been able to find him. I—I have a lot of canaler friends—oh, hell, this is so awkward!" She flushed even harder, from her neck right up to her hairline, and worried at her lower lip with her teeth. Denny shuffled his feet, scuffing his bare toes on the worn wood of the walkway, not certain how to break the impasse they seemed to have reached.
"Would you like a drink?" she asked suddenly.
Denny managed a tentative smile. "Wouldn' turn one down, m'sera," he offered.
She smiled a little herself, and nodded at the bridge. When he hesitated, she led the way across the bridge, down through the thinning crowd, to a little second-level tavern. It was scarcely more than a hole in the wall, with a narrow entrance, a bar-hatch facing the walkway and four tiny booths crowded behind the bar-but it was on diNero, neutral territory.
The booths were in deep shadow, and none of them were occupied. She bespoke the one farthest in the back; the weary tapster nodded, and gave her the pitcher of beer and two mugs she'd asked for to carry back there herself. He took her money and turned his back on them both almost before she'd picked up the mugs.
She took the farthest bench, settled into her seat, and gave him a long and penetrating look over the top of her beer mug. "We're New Money," she said suddenly. "Bolado, I mean. My granddaddy poled one of his own boats. Mama says I take after him. I can't abide being—confined."
Denny nodded vaguely, wondering where all this was leading.
She looked, he thought, distressed. "I don't—I don't know, I don't seem to fit. Not with the Salazars, the Yans, the Old Money kids. They—spend all their time thinking of parties, who's sleeping with who. Not with the other New Money either, seems like they're busy trying to think up ways to get into the Residency, the South Bank crowd. That just seems so stupid. So I read a lot, and I got to spending a lot of time on the canals. I like the canalers; a couple of them kind of adopted me—now that they're getting on, I help them when I can. Poling. I like it; it's kind of fun. I s'ppose that's 'cause I don't have to do it all the time."
She offered him another tentative grin, like a gift. Denny grinned back and nodded agreement with that last statement.
"The canalers, though, they're tied to Bolado so they never minded teaching me. They do the light hauling for us. Nadra and Jimi Chen; Jose isn't big enough to be much help with a pole yet, so I'm doin' for them until he is. Mama doesn't much care what I do so long as I don't get into trouble doing it—I'm bottommost of six. She figures Nadra'd whop me good if I got out of line. So I know a lot of the canalers, at least to put names to faces. And that's why I was out on the water when I saw the girl Jones bringing Raj in. And—" she flushed again, visible even in the shadows. "And I—I thought he looked—I wanted to—" She hid her confusion in her drink for a moment, emerging only when her flushes had cooled. "Then I got all tied up in Family stuff for a while, and couldn't even talk to Nadra, so it took me a while to find out who he was, where he worked. I never did find out where he lived before he just dropped out of sight."
Now it dawned on Denny—this was The Girl In The Boat. Well, no wonder Jones hadn't been able to track her down—she wasn't canaler, she was Family! And no wonder no one would tell her where Raj lived— with every canaler on the water knowing he had Enemies.
"And now he's gone—" She took a long gulp of her beer, and looked at him pleadingly. "I think I saw you with him, that day. Do you really know where he is?"
"Ye, m'sera," Denny said slowly. "I know where he is, all right. An' I bet you know, too. 'Cause he ain't Raj Tai no more. He's what he was born as, now. Raj Takahashi.".
"Raj—" she went red, then white, then red again. "—Raj Takahashi? The one—Kamat—oh—" She hastily emptied her mug, refilled it, and half emptied it again. "Oh, my," she said, weakly.
"Ye, m'sera," Denny said, just to fill the silence.
She smiled, but it was shaky. Very shaky. Denny reckoned she would have gotten the same expression if he'd set fishhooks into the corners of her mouth and pulled.
"Well," she said, finally, "I guess I don't really need you to deliver this note. I could do it myself." Whispered. "If I can come up with the guts to do it."
"Ye, m'sera," Denny replied, but she wasn't listening anymore. She stared into nothing for a moment, then just left her mug and the rest of the pitcher of beer on the table, and walked away, in a kind of dream.
Or maybe, Denny reckoned, finishing his beer, a nightmare.
Moghi was watching them out of the corner of his eye, so Denny was doing his damnedest to act Virtuous.
"—I can't believe it," Greg said, leaning back in his chair against the wall, and sipping at his whiskey, his eyes alight with laughter. Jep cleared away their plates, with an odd look at Denny, but he didn't say anything. Denny concentrated on being very well behaved. This was Moghi's after all, and if he did anything, Jones would hear about it. He wasn't even drinking whiskey, though Greg had offered it, nor even beer; he was sticking to tea.
Outside Moghi's open door there were canalers lounging on his porch, mugs and glasses in hand, enjoying the balmy evening. He and Greg had the taproom pretty much to themselves.
"I just can't believe it," Greg repeated, chuckling. "I leave this town, and the very next day all hell breaks loose! And me not here to help it along!" He shook his head mockingly. "I can see I've got a lot of lost time to make up—"
Suddenly he leaned forward, and his tone grew conspiratorial. "That's where you come in, kid. If you want in. Because I need a lookout and a housebreaker for a little piece of work."
Denny brightened. " 'Course I want in!" he replied softly. "What'd'ye take me fer? What's th' action?"
Greg's eyes flamed wi
th glee. "Who's the richest, dumbest man in this city?"
Denny snorted. "No contest. Mischa Kalugin."
"And what does he love above power, wealth, women—every thing?''
"His toys," Denny supplied.
"Now—what would he do, do you think, if he'd gone and built a wonderful toy just for his daddy to send to Nev Hettek as a kind of present for m'ser Fon—and he'd sent it to the jeweler to get all gilded and prettied up, and get sparklies put on it—and somebody-borrowed it? And told him he'd get it back only if he left a great deal of money in a particular place—and didn't tell anyone about it. And told him if he did bring in the blacklegs, he'd get his beautiful clockwork toy back in a million pieces?" Greg settled back in his chair with a smile of smug satisfaction.
"He's just dumb enough t' do it," Denny acknowledged, answering Greg's smile with one of his own. "When and where?"
"Tonight, if you're game. Jeweler just opposite the Pile."
"Blacklegs?" Denny asked.
"Got a distractor. Gave Tree Vasoly a Chat-made coat like this'n when he drooled over it. He thought I was groveling." Greg chuckled. "Then this afternoon I sent a couple of messages to him and Sven Lenski concerning the coat and Tree's manhood. Send one more and I'll guarantee they'll play knife-talk on the Pile bridges tonight."
Denny chuckled evilly. "An' if anybody sees any-thin', all they'll notice is th' coat. So if anybody comes lookin' fer a thief—they go fer Tree. Yey. What is this thing of Kalugin's, anyway? A timepiece?"
Greg snickered. "I heard it's a clockwork whale he put together for his bath."
Denny sniggered at the notion of a grown man playing with bath toys. "Let's do 'er," he said.
There were more ways into the building than by the door, and Denny knew most of them. He and Greg began their operation with him going over roof and down air-shaft, an air-shaft so narrow even he, skinny as a hoopwee, had a tight fit of it.
But the air-shaft gave on a window that was never locked; the window gave on a storeroom holding cleaning supplies, and the storeroom was shared by both the jeweler in question and his neighbor, a perfumer.
Denny opened the outer door to Greg, just as all hell broke loose on the Pile.
Greg flitted in, Denny out. Crouched in the shadows by the door he kept his eyes and ears peeled for the approach of anyone, blackleg or no. Innocents could make as much trouble as blacklegs if they noticed the boy in the shadows, or that the door was cracked open.
Across the canal on the Pile, torches were flaring, waving wildly; there was a clamor of young male voices, shouting, cursing. A girl's scream cut across the babble like a knife through cheese—a scream of outrage and anger, not panic, and the horse croak of a young male in pain followed it.
And Denny saw, weaving through the walkways and heading up the stairs to a second-level bridge, a string of bobbing lights, moving at the speed of a man doing a fast trot.
Blacklegs.
"Greg!" he whispered. A slim shadow flitted out the door, shutting it with agonizing care to avoid the clicking of the latch, a sound that would carry, even with the riot going on across the water. A bundle under Greg's arm told Denny everything he needed to know.
He grinned, as Greg took off at a trot, heading away from the Pile, to the bridge that linked Spellbridge and Yesudian. He lagged a bit; his job to guard Greg's backtrail, delay any blacklegs.
Perfect, he thought with exultation. Worked this'un timed as perfect as any 'f Mischa's contraptions—
And that was when everything fell apart.
People were looking out of windows, coming out of apartments with walkway entrances, moving toward the Pile, attracted to the ruckus like skits attracted to food. He and Greg had counted on that, too—it would cover their trail—
An old man, looking angry, popped out of a shop door in his nightshirt, halfway between Greg and the bridge. He was holding something down by his side; Denny didn't even think about what it might be, just noted his presence and his anger, and planned to avoid him. He looked like he'd been disturbed and wasn't happy about it—he probably had a cudgel, and he'd take out his pique on anyone jostling him. A lantern carried by someone hurrying toward the fight glared up and caught the gaudy patchwork of the Chat coat Greg wore.
And the man let out an angry yell.
"You punk bastard!" he screamed, raising his hand. "Break my windows, will you! I'll give you 'protection'-"
Too late, Denny saw that what the man held was a flintlock pistol. Too late he yelled at Greg to duck.
Too late, as the pistol went off with a roar, right in Greg's astonished face. His head exploded, blood fountaining as he fell.
Denny screamed, his cry lost in the screams coming from the Pile, the screams of those around the madman and his victim. "Greg!" he shrieked, and tried to push his way toward his friend, past the people running away from the carnage. But something seized on him from behind, and when he struggled, hit him once, scientifically, behind the right ear, sending him into darkness.
He woke with an awful headache, in a dimly-lighted little room that smelled of whiskey, faint perfume, and greasepaint, with Rat bending anxiously over him.
"Here—" she said, helping him to struggle up, pressing a glass to his mouth. He grabbed for it-drank—coughed, his eyes watering at the strong whiskey in it.
"What happened?" Rat asked, as he took a second, more controlled swallow. "The ugliest brute I ever saw in my life dumped you at the back door. He asked for Rif, but she's not here—"
She shut her mouth with a snap at whatever it was she saw in his eyes.
He told her, anger fighting with tears, making every other word break.
She shook her head when he finished, her own eyes gone cold and indifferent. "Told you," she said, standing up and staring down at him. "I told you that would happen. And you know what? Tomorrow morning nobody's going to even remember his name.''
Denny screamed at her, rising up with clenched fists—and the only reason he didn't hit her was because he knew how much better she was. She let him shriek curses at her with her arms crossed tightly over her chest, and at the first pause, pointed to the door.
"I don't have to take that, not from you, you little punk, not in my own bedroom," she snarled coldly. "Get your ass out of here."
He didn't even remember hitting the door; the next thing he knew, he was charging down the walkways to Mondragon's, dashing hot, angry tears out of his eyes with his fists. He only slowed when he got to Petrescu because he had to talk to the gate-guard, and he wouldn't be crying in front of anyone, not if he died for it. So he composed himself, holding his sorrow and his rage under the tightest of masks; opened the door with his key—
Started to. The door opened at the first rattle of key in lock, and he found himself looking up at Mondragon himself.
He just stared, frozen.
"You're late," Mondragon said, grabbing his arm and hauling him inside. "You should have been back—"
"Let me got" Denny snarled, voice cracking again, pulling his arm away so fast his shirtsleeve nearly tore.
Mondragon gave him a startled look, then a measuring one. He let go of Denny's arm and turned back to the door, careful to throw all the locks—and only then turned back to Denny.
"What happened?" he asked quietly, neutrally.
He'd told himself, over and over, that he was not going to tell Mondragon what had happened—not after Rat's reaction—
But Mondragon was a skillful interrogator; he couldn't resist the steady barrage of quiet questions, not when Mondragon was between him and the door. Syllable by tortured syllable, the handsome bldnd man dragged the night's escapade out of him, as Denny stared at the floor, smoldering sullenly, determined not to break down a second time. He got to know every crack and cranny of the entryway floor before it was over.
Silence. Then, "I'm sorry," Mondragon said quietly. "I'm sorry about your friend."
Denny looked up. Mondragon's face was unreadable, but his eyes were murky with t
hought, memory, something. He looked past Denny for a moment, then at Denny again.
"But you know very well," he said, noncommit-tally, "that was a damned fool stunt."
Denny snarled and made a dash for the stairs. Mondragon made no move to stop him. He tore up the stairs, stubbing his toes twice, getting up and resuming his run—got to Tom's bedroom and through it, not caring if Jones was in the bed—to the roof-trap and out, slamming it behind him—
And out onto the roof, into the dark, the night, the sheltering night, where he huddled beside the chimney and cried and cried and cried. . . .
Dawn brought the return of sense, the return of thought.
Rat was right, he thought bleakly. She tol' me an' tol' me. Must 'a bin a million times. She tol' me Greg was a fool. She tol' me 'e wouldn' see twenty. She was right. Him an' 'is ideas—"gonna be rich, gonna be famous. '' So what's 'e come to ? Blown away 'cause some ol' fool thinks 'e's Tree. An' ain't nobody gonna remember 'im but me.
He crouched on his haunches, both arms wrapped around his knees, rocking back and forth and shivering a little. Ain't nobody gonna remember 'im but me. Coulda bin me. Coulda bin. Bin coastin' on m 'luck, just like Greg. Only one day th' luck runs out, . . .
He stared off across the roofs, to the steeples and turrets of the College. Raj mebbe got it right.
He sniffed, and rubbed his cold, tender nose on his sleeve. What I got? What th' hell good'm I doin' fer him, fer Tom? Granther's gone an' made 'im next in line, poor fish don' even know how t' be sneaky. Just honest—an' honest could wind 'im up just as dead as Mama. There's gotta be som 'thin' I kin do. There's gotta—
His thoughts went around and around like that for some time—until he heard voices below, and saw Jones shutting the door beneath his perch, saw her hop into her skip and pole it away into a shiny patch of sun and past, into the shadows on the canal—
And knew Mondragon would be up.
He unwound himself, and crept on hands and knees to the trap door; lifted it, and let himself down into the apartment.
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