"No it ain't. He was dead and gutted in my cabin, is what he was. Where we found 'im, and tossed his ass overboard."
"Grammar," Magruder reminded Chamoun mildly, to hide his shock. "I see. And you would have told me sooner, but I wasn't available, right?"
The youth nodded stiffly.
Kid, don't do this. Whatever you're into, it won't mean squat compared to what I'll do if you so much as look sideways at me. I've got too much on the line here now to risk you blowing everything. A dead husband wouldn't be insurmountable; we'll just create you a brother to administrate your holdings here…
"Me and the boathands, we did well enough. Nobody knows. But if you didn't kill him, then who?"
"That's to the heart of it. Who? I dunno." Magruder ran a hand along the mantlepiece and lifted a humidor's lid. Another present from Tatiana, whom he didn't trust as far as he could throw the Signeury. He picked two smokes, rolled them in his fingers against his ear to test their dryness, and offered one to Chamoun.
"We'll find out, Mike. Next time, use your emergency fallbacks sooner—"
"I… did," said the young Sword agent as if the two words were an agony to articulate.
"You did? You went to Megary? By yourself? Why wasn't I informed?"
Chamoun shook his head miserably. "M'ser, I just did what I was told, and the Swords there did the rest."
"Anyone in particular who was helpful?" Who the hell had aced Romanov? And why? And how deep did this go? He stared at Chamoun's open face, at the green eyes wide with palpable fear.
The youngster said, "They weren't giving names. But they were giving hard times. Bastard named Baritz was one. I didn't see no al-Banna, even though that was where all the loose Sword talent was supposed to be."
"All right, that's enough. Let's drop it. I'll work on finding out the hows and whys of Romanov's death—if it was an inside move, we'd better find out about it. Meanwhile, I've got something I need your help with—"
Young Chamoun didn't look relieved, as Magruder had expected. He looked positively distraught. He looked constipated. He looked like somebody had just slammed a door on his tail.
But then, he had a cushy berth, a slick young wife, all the money he could dream of, and, thanks to the Sword of God, a hell of a lot to lose. You couldn't blame him for being nervous that the Sword would play him too openly. He could find himself swimming for his life in the general direction of Nev Hettek as quickly as he'd found himself the captain of the Detfish, putting in to port here with Sword-given prospects and an arranged marriage on his horizon.
"I want you to do what Tatiana suggested: help with the census matter," Magruder said implacably. "I want you to put together a team of… four… Nev Hettekers—not all Sword, for God's sake. I'll get you names. Some of them can be Merovingians of Nev Hettek descent, as long as they're good at the local dialects. We'll be working with Tatiana to make sure that her father's decree is obeyed—that everybody registers."
"Is that—good for us?"
Us. The Sword of God. "I think it sucks, but I can't let on. Old Iosef sprang this damned trap on everybody—probably to tame his wild children; maybe to put a leash on me. You've seen the trick, I guess, or you wouldn't have asked that question."
"Uh… well, if everybody's registered, then they—the government—know how many we are, and where. Whoever doesn't register is an outlaw."
"That's right, Michael. And though I can use the list of Nev Hettekers to prune the Sword factions, I already have such a list: it's the Kalugins who don't. But we've got to help, or appear to be helping. It's possible the whole thing will fail. Merovingen-below won't like the idea of queuing up and taking a number. But you come around here tomorrow, and we'll put together a team for you. It'll look good for your family—the Boregys—to take a leading part."
"All right, sir. That's if you'll square it with the College— in case I'm not really suspended for the next week—until further notice."
"Fine." Chamoun hadn't lit his smoke. Magruder lit his ostentatiously and exhaled a blue cloud with obvious satisfaction.
Still, Chamoun didn't move. Magruder prodded: "Something else?"
"No, m'ser. But—"
Magruder threw Chamoun matches. The youth caught them and lit the smoke, his eyes darting everywhere but Magruder's face.
"What if," Mike Chamoun said, "Romanov's faction was… is hooked up, somehow, with Boregy House?" His voice was trembling.
"Then you've warned me," said Magruder casually. "I'll check it out." The youth was probably seeing enemies everywhere. Romanov gutted on the Detfish—it was a wonder the youngster hadn't cast off and been headed home to Nev Hettek by morning. "Give your wife my best—and your best." Magruder had other things to do, and a meeting with Tatiana for which he had to change clothes.
Merovingian etiquette was a pain in the ass, time consuming and foolish. But Tatiana called the shots here, literally and figuratively. Magruder was surviving on her patronage.
And that thought made him look up at Chamoun, poised halfway to the door like a dog who didn't know whether it was going to be beaten or petted next. "Mondragon part of your problem, son?" Not that wild a guess...
Chamoun stared at his feet. "Sir," he said, shedding the patois so many had spent so long drilling into him, "I gotta talk to you. About Vega Boregy and Mondragon, and what's goin' on out at Megary."
The tone of Chamoun's voice and the words he spoke told Magruder that he wasn't going to like what Chamoun said next, and that when he got to Tatiana Kalugin's dinner party, if he managed not to be late, the census was going to be the last thing on his mind.
But then, he already knew what he wanted to do about the census. What he didn't know was what he was going to do about whatever compromised position this Chamoun had got-
ten himself into. But he'd do something. That was why he was the Sword's strategic officer in Merovingen. And its action officer, whenever he decided action was called for.
He said to Mike Chamoun, "Look, sonny, whatever mess you're in, we can turn it to our advantage as long as you tell me everything. There's nothing Mondragon can do we can't counter. Just trust in the Sword, and the Cause." And put your life in my hands willingly, Chamoun, because that's where it's been all along. "We're here to win the hearts and minds of these Merovingians," Magruder continued with a feral grin when Chamoun didn't respond, "and we're going to do it if we have to put the fear of sharrh in heaven into 'em."
Chance had promised Michael that he'd "be part of the Sword's tit for tat," whatever that was going to be. Some sort of retribution for the census decree, Magruder had alluded. And while Chance had been talking, it occurred to Michael that both Cardinal Ito and Chance Magruder had used the phrase "hearts and minds" to him that night.
But now it didn't matter. Now he was coming up the water-gate stairs into Boregy House, and he could hear Cassie's tinkling laughter as he made the main floor landing.
He couldn't wait to see her. He couldn't wait to tell her about his wonderful previous life ... not just because Mickey had been a warrior against the sharrh and a hero, but because he, Michael Chamoun, had had a previous life.
There was nothing more wonderful he could share with his new bride than the revelation that he, too, believed in reincarnation. Now they wouldn't have to avoid the topic of religion so carefully, now they could share even more together.
And although Ito had warned him not to tell anyone, not Vega Boregy or any of his ilk, surely that prohibition couldn't extend to Chamoun's wife...
Cassie was in the blue room, a formal parlor, and there were other voices emanating from it. One of the liveried Boregy servants minced up to Michael and took his cloak, damp with the chill mist of imminent winter. So exhilarated by his spiritual revelation was Michael Chamoun that he smiled at the retainer, who blinked in surprise.
Normally, the Boregy servants made Chamoun so nervous and guilty that he tried to ignore them. In Nev Hettek, his parents had been barely better off than any of these m
enials, until the Sword had lifted them out of poverty for reasons of its own...
In the blue room, when the servant opened the door for him with a flourish, announcing him as if he were a stranger because there were non-family members within, was a sight that nearly drained the joy from Chamoun's soul.
Sitting around an inlaid card table were his lovely wife Cassie, all peaches and cream in a low-cut blouse; Rita Nikolaev, the woman whose body called to Chamoun in a way Cassie's never could—a woman forbidden by every law of Sword and common sense; and the pale duelist known as Mondragon, traitor, ex-Sword, master spy.
"What are you doing here?" Chamoun blurted before he could stop himself. And then held his ground. He was a Boregy man, master of this house more than Mondragon. He had a right to know.
Cassie said, "Michael?" and pushed back her chair, a flush rising in her cheeks. "We're having a game of cards, please join us."
Cover the lapse, she would. Decorum was all to these people. Somehow, he found himself sitting at that table, one of his knees brushing Rita Nikolaev's, her dark hair rinsed with something that made it glow red as a beating heart. Somehow he found himself making small talk and picking up his cards and then, finally Cassie asked him, in front of both the guests, "Is something wrong, Michael? You look… pale."
"Not as pale as our friend Mondragon," Chamoun snapped. But it was true. Mondragon's handsome head seemed greasy; his skin was waxen; his eyes were red-rimmed.
"Not feeling my best tonight, Chamoun—you're observant. But then, we knew that."
We. Mondragon and Cassie's father, Vega Boregy, were thick as thieves; together, they'd compromised Chamoun and tried to use him against Magruder. Chamoun didn't need to be reminded of that. At that instant, Rita Nikolaev shifted and more of her thigh touched Michael Chamoun's than could have, by accident.
So he said, to answer his wife's question and put Mondragon in his place and impress Rita, whose every breath was a wonder and a miracle, even under a high-necked blouse of the sort Chamoun's wife should be wearing, "Nothing's wrong, Cassie—not wrong at all. I was going to wait until we were alone to tell you, but ..." He looked to his right, at Rita; then to his left, at Mondragon. Then at his wife again.
"Oh, come on, Michael. We're among friends. Tell us. We've been bored to tears all night, playing this stupid game—and losing all our allowance to Thomas." Cassie Boregy's sweet young face turned pouty. "Tell us."
And he was glad to, by then, because he saw the smirk dancing at the comers of Mondragon's lips and he wanted to wipe it away at any cost. "Tatiana Kalugin personally chose me to head a team of four people who'll be preparing the citizens of Merovingen-below to register for the census."
Thomas Mondragon's face went even paler. His eyes, opaque, stared steadily at his hands. Cassie beamed with delight, gave a squeal of joy, and came rushing around the card table to embrace him. Rita Nikolaev said in her throaty voice, "We're coming up in Merovingen society at a rapid rate; your karma must be excellent, m'ser Michael."
"Oh, please, Rita—Michael's family," Cassie insisted, her arms still around his neck. "We don't need to be so formal."
"But we do need," interjected Mondragon, "to get Rita home before the hour grows later. Tell your father, Cassie, that I'll drop by again. And thank you for a pleasant evening."
There was an interval of coat-getting and leave-taking and all the while Chamoun measured the stiffness in Mondragon's spine with satisfaction. Got the bastard, that time. Scared the snot out of him. Chamoun knew he might pay for this moment of pleasure later, if he were called to Vega's office, where the scheming of the house was usually done. But now, it was sweet to see Mondragon so pale, as if he'd taken ill.
If Chamoun found out that Mondragon had put a hand on Rita Nikolaev, he'd be worse than ill, Sword cover or no Sword cover. And then Chamoun remembered that he'd finally been able to warn Magruder of what was afoot in Boregy House, and the glow of well-being that had followed him ever since his lesson at the College suffused him once again.
He was even able to say farewell to Mondragon and Rita as if he meant it. He was bold and brazen; he kissed Rita Nikolaev's hand.
Which irked Cassie, but not for long. Up in their aqua and peach bedroom, with its high bed and its deep quilts, he waited until she was brushing her hair before he began casually, "Cassie, you'll never guess who I was in a previous life…"
"Don't tease me, Michael," she said with a sad little frown he could see clearly in the mirror. "I know you're just converting for me… that you don't believe any—"
"But I do. Ito put me in a trance so that I could experience a previous life, and I was this warrior in a space battle against the sharrh. It was so real. I was there. It was glorious. And I died—"
"What?" Cassie tossed her brush to the vanity and came to stand before the bed. "You what? Ito what?"
"Don't act like you've never heard of a regression before. Surely—"
"But I haven't." Lines appeared on her forehead, and then smoothed. "You'd better tell me everything, Michael, from the beginning."
And when he was done, she was lying in the crook of his arm with tears streaming down her face. At first he didn't understand her tears, but she said, "Ito was trying to do something terrible to you, Michael, but he did something wonderful instead. Instant karma of the best sort. You were meant to be my husband and bring this wonderful news to me. Oh, Michael, you remember a past life. How I wish I did."
"You can." "No, I can't."
"I remember how to do it. I remember what to say. Just get some deathangel, and we'll do it together."
She sprang up and straddled him. "You will? You promise? Oh, it's so wonderful. Wait till I tell—"
"You'd better not tell anyone, at least not your father or his friends. Not now. Or they won't let me help you find your past lives. Promise."
"I promise."
"Good," said Chamoun. "If it's so important to you, we'll do it tomorrow if we can get the deathangel."
"It's not as important to me as you are, husband and lover—Officer of the Census," whispered Cassie as she brought her lips down to cover his.
And the pleasure of that was so intense that it almostly completely blocked out the phantom he kept remembering, the vision he'd seen as he shook Mondragon's hand in farewell: Romanov's ghost, hovering over Mondragon's shoulder, in the stairwell that led to the watergate.
There were some who'd never be counted in the Merovingen census—some who never should be. And Michael Chamoun had just chosen his side publicly in whatever was coming. It was the side of Tatiana Boregy, by default. By Magruder's ultimatum. And, if Cassie and the rest of the Revenantists were right, by karmic debt.
Whatever the truth of it, Chamoun had a feeling Cassie's father was going to be about as pleased as Mondragon had been to hear his news. But he didn't have to sleep with Cassie's father.
And he didn't have to go out into the mist tonight, as pale Mondragon had just done, with Romanov's paler shade following close behind.
So he took his warm wife in his arms and closed his eyes and pretended that she was Rita Nikolaev, the forbidden nymph of his dreams, while about him Merovingians went on their secretive missions through the dark, cold night.
FEVER SEASON (REPRISED)
C.J. Cherryh
The wind was blowing a steady mist as the Boregy launch approached Nikolaev's slip on Rimmon Isle, a mist that spattered on the windshield and fractured the harbor lights beyond the shadow-shapes of Boregy crewman. Rita Nikolaev chattered steadily about the weather and the winter, and asked Mondragon whether he was used to weather like this.
Of course. Because he was Falkenaer, to the Nikolaevs as to most everyone. Mondragon dragged his eyes back from the dark beyond the side-windows of the launch, his mind having wandered toward a certain Falkenaer ship and a small skip that might be out there on this unfriendly water, that bucked and pitched the powered launch and rattled cold mist on the canvas weather-canopy. A very small skip and a woman work
ing solo tonight in the wide waters of the harbor, because she was damned stubborn and a damned fool.
"Very much so, m'sera. The Isles have very little to stop the wind."
So he had heard. He had little more notion than she did, what the Falken Isles were like.
"Why do people live in such a place?"
"M'sera, because people are bom there." He did not intend to be rude. He was aware of her sitting closer than the cabin space demanded, was aware of her trying to draw him out, perhaps for her own reasons, for Nikolaev's, who knew? Perhaps she was even Anastasi's, testing him, or being perverse, or trying to snare him romantically.
Who knew that either? He was exhausted. A day of back-and-forth between Boregy and Nikolaev had had him out in the weather more than he had planned: and the cold and the damp had gotten into his bones.
He still did not know what reception he had waiting at Nikolaev. He had thought he was through—take a briefing from Vega Boregy, do an errand, see the Nikolaev daughter home, deliver the packet that he had tucked under his cloak, which contained, not coincidentally, a mortgage that Honesty Rajwade had yet to discover had been sold to Boregy and thus to Anastasi Kalugin; a minor thing, the purchase of a soul—Anastasi traded in things like that. Mostly he had spent his day trying delicately to make contact with a very nervous younger cousin of Rosenblum, who had gambling debts; and who was willing to do anything to evade the wrath of his creditors.
Foul and filthy business. But it led into the Justiciary offices where Constancy Rosenblum held a post. And ultimately to Rosenblum's willingness to work after hours making copies of documents, securing a flow of information that Rosenblum thought was going to an agent of Tatiana Kalugin, and the blacklegs.
Let him commit himself. Then what Rosenblum found out he was into would be only one more lever against him. God help the poor bastard. Mondragon sneezed again, heard Rita Nikolaev chide him about night air, and wrapped his cloak about him as the launch nosed its way into the Nikolaev slip.
Fever Season Page 5