Fever Season

by C. J. Cherryh

  Mercedes Lackey

  A piece of plaster bounced off Raj's nose, accompanied by a series of rhythmic thuds from overhead. By that sure token he knew, despite the utter darkness of his 'bedroom' that it was around oh-six-hundred and dawn was just beginning.

  He reached over his head and knocked twice on the wall. He was answered by a muffled curse, and the pounding of Denny's answer. He grinned to himself, and began groping after his clothing.

  Thudathudathudathuda—pause—(Raj braced himself)— thud. A series of plaster flakes rained down. A professional dance-troupe had the studio above their 'apartment' from dawn to about ten hundred. From ten hundred to eighteen hundred it was given over to classes—noisier, but less inclined to great leaps that brought the ceiling down. From eighteen hundred to around third watch—

  Nobody on Fife talked about what went on then, and nobody watched to see who went in and out. Raj knew, though; at least what they looked like—thanks to Denny's irrepressible curiosity, they'd both done some balcony-climbing and window-peering one night. A dozen or so hard-faced men and women had been there; and it wasn't dancing they were doing. It was some kind of hand-to-hand combat, and all of them were very, very good. Who they were, why they were practicing in secret, that was still a mystery. Raj smelled 'fanatic' on them, of whatever ilk, and kept well clear of them.

  Then from third watch to dawn Rat's old acting troupe had the run of the place, which meant less ceiling-thumping but a lot of shouting. ("Jali deary, do you think you might pay less attention to Kristo's legs and a little more to your linesl All right children, one more time, from the top")

  Raj had learned to sleep through it all, though noise generally made him very nervous. It was friendly shouting, for all the mock-hysterics.

  Being directly below the studio was one reason why this place, technically a three-room apartment, was cheap enough for two kids to afford. Now Raj hurried to pull on his pants and shirt in the black of his cubbyhole bedroom, wanting to be out of it before the other reason evidenced itself. Because the other reason was due to start up any minute now—

  Right on time, a hideous clanking and banging shook the far wall, as Raj pulled open his door, and crossed the "living room," the worn boards soft and warm under his bare feet. He stood blinking for a moment in the light from their lamp; after pitchy dark it was painfully bright even turned down to almost nothing. He reached over and turned the wick-key, and the odor of fish-oil assaulted his nose until it flared up; then he unlocked the outer door and slipped down the hall to the bathroom shared by most of the apartments on this level. That incredible ruckus was Fife Small Boat Repair. It started about now, and kept up till second watch, and sometimes later. There was another apartment between them and the repair shop, but it didn't provide much in the way of sound-baffling. Fortunately (for him) the tenant of that place was deaf.

  Denny still hadn't turned out by the time Raj got back, so he pulled open the door to the other "bedroom" (just big enough for a wall-hung bunk and a couple of hooks for clothes, and identical to Raj's) and hauled him out by the foot. There was a brief, laughing tussle (which Raj, by virtue of his age and size, won) and Denny betook himself off to get clean.

  There weren't any windows in their home, so there was always the oil-lamp burning up on the wall. It was a curious blend of cast-off and makeshift; the brass base had once been good, and still could be polished to a soft golden gleam, but the chimney had been constructed out of an old bottle with the bottom cut out. That lamp came with the place. So had the wood-stove—another makeshift made of the metal base of an old chair and a metal barrel with stovepipe and door welded on. It sat in a half-barrel of sand for safety's sake, and gave them a bit of heat and a place to cook. The 'main' room was a little bigger than both the 'bedrooms' put together; all of it bare wooden-floored and sooty-walled, but warm and without drafts, and too many floors below the roof to get leaks when it rained. On the wall opposite the oil-lamp and next to the stove was a tiny fired-clay sink—scarcely big enough to wash a cup in, much less them; but it had a safe water-tap that was fed from the tanks on the roof. Everything else was theirs, and compared to the little Raj had owned in the swamp or what Denny had had in the air-shaft, it was paradisiacal. They now boasted a couple of cushions to sit on, a vermin-proof cupboard for food, and a second cupboard for storage (it currently held two tin plates, two mugs, two spoons, a skillet and a battered saucepan, and assorted odds and ends). They also owned their bedding and three changes of clothing, each, and a precious box of a dozen or so battered, dirty, (mostly) coverless books. The last were Raj's property; some bought at second-hand stores, most gifts from Rat, a few from Denny. He knew the ones Denny gave him had been stolen; he suspected the same of Rat's—but a book was a book, and he wasn't going to argue about the source.

  All that hadn't come out of nowhere. Word had gone quietly upriver with a Gallandry barge that Raj and Denny still lived—and a special verbal message had gone to Elder Takahashi from Raj as to why they weren't coming home again. Back down again just as quietly had come a bit of real coin—not so much as to call attention to the recipient, but enough to set them up comfortably. With the coin had come another verbal message to Raj from his grandfather. "You salvage our Honor," was all it had said—and Raj nearly cried. Granther had clearly felt that Angela had impugned the Family by her activities with the Sword of God—he had said as much when he sent them into exile. There was honor, and there was Takahashi Honor, which had been something special even before Ship days. All Nev Hettek knew how dearly the Takahashi clan held their Honor.

  And now Granther had said with those few words that he felt Raj had redeemed what Angela had besmirched.

  That—that had been worth more to Raj than all the money that had come with it.

  Raj hoped that the rest of what he was doing was worthy of that Honor—although he was fairly well certain in his own mind that it would be. Honor required that debts be paid, and he owed a mighty debt to Mondragon. So hidden under the books was his secret, beneath a false bottom in the box. Pen, ink, and paper; and the current 'chapter' of Mama's doings, back in the Sword days. When he had five or six pages, they went off to Tom Mondragon, usually via Jones. He was up to when he'd turned ten now; how much of what he remembered was useful he had no idea, but surely there was something in all that stuff that Mondragon could turn to a purpose. Something to even up the scales of debt between them—

  Raj boiled up some tea and got breakfast out—bread and cold fish, bought on the way home last night. Denny bounced back in the door, fighting his way into his sweater.

  No one would ever have guessed, to see them side by side, that they were brothers. Raj strongly showed his Japanese ancestry, taking after his mother, Angela. Straight black hair, sunbrowned skin fading now into ivory, and almond-shaped eyes in a thin, angular face made him look both older and younger than his sixteen years. Had he been back with the clan, nobody would have had any trouble identifying which Nev Hettek family he belonged to, for Angela had been a softened, feminized image of Elder Takahashi as a boy. Whereas Dennv round-faced and round-eyed, with an olive complexion and brown hair, looked like a getting-to-be-handsome version of the Merovingen 'type'—and not a minute older than his true age of thirteen.

  "Need t' get clothes washed t'night," Denny said, gingerly reaching for his mug of hot tea, "or t'morrow."

  "Spares clean?" Raj asked around a mouthful of bread, inwardly marveling at the fate that had brought him full circle to the point where he and Denny actually had spare clothing. Of course things had been a great deai better back at Nev Hettek—but no point in harkening over that. To go back home would put the entire Takahashi clan in danger, and with the worst kind of enemy—Sword of God. In no way was Raj ever going to do that.

  "Yeah. I'm wearing 'em, dummy."

  "So'm I. Tomorrow, then. That's my day off; 'sides, I gotta see Tom tonight." Washing clothes meant getting the bathroom after everybody else had gone to work; clearing it with the
landlord and paying the extra three pennies for a tub full of hot water besides what they were allowed as tenants. There was an incentive to Raj to volunteer for laundry-duty. Denny was still kid enough to tend to avoid unnecessary baths, but Raj used laundry-day as an excuse to soak in hot, soppy, soapy water when the clothing was done; soaking until all the heat was gone from it before rinsing the clean clothing (and himself) out in cold. After five years alternately freezing and broiling in the mud of the swamp, a hot bath was a luxury that came very close to being a religious experience for Raj. Hence, Raj usually did the laundry.

  " 'Kay. I'll clean the damn stove."

  "And the lamp."

  "Slaver. And the lamp. Whatcha seein' Mondragon 'bout?"

  "Dunno. Got a note from him at work yesterday. Just asked me to meet him at Moghi's, 'cause he was calling in favors and had something for me to do."

  "Hey, c'n I come 'long?" Denny never missed the opportunity to go to Moghi's or Hoh's if he could manage it. Unlike Raj, he loved crowds and noise.

  Raj thought. "Don't see why not, he didn't say 'alone,' and he usually does if that's the way he wants it. Why?"

  "Gotta keep ye safe from Jones, don't I?"

  Raj blushed hotly. He'd had a brief crush on Jones; very brief. It hadn't lasted past her dumping him headfirst in the canal. He hadn't known she and Mondragon were pairing it at the time. Denny still wasn't letting him live it down.

  He hoped profoundly that Denny never found out about Marina—he'd rather die than have Denny rib him about her. He much preferred to worship her quietly, from afar—without having half the urchins Denny ran with knowing about it. He still didn't know too much about his idol—the only reason he even knew her name was because he'd overheard one of her companions using it.

  Oh, Marina-—

  Enough of daydreaming. "Get a move on, we're going to be late," he replied, while Denny chuckled evilly.

  There had been plenty of gossip among the other clerks today, and because of some of it, Raj made a detour on the way home—to Kamat.

  So here he was at Kamat's gatehouse, facing the ancient doorkeeper through its grate. He was glad that it was nearly dusk; glad his dark sweater and britches were so anonymous, glad beyond telling that the shortsighted doorkeeper of House Kamat couldn't see his face. It took all his courage to pretend to be a runner with a message to be left "for m'sera Marina." He moved off as fast as was prudent, eager to get himself deep into shadows, once the folded and sealed paper was in the doorman's hands. His heart was pounding with combined anxiety, embarrassment, and excitement. Maybe— well, probably—Marina would get it, if only when the head of her household demanded to know "what this is all about"—

  And—Ancestors!—they'd want to know what it was about, all right. Because it was a love-poem. Anonymous, of course, so Marina would be able to protest honestly that she had no idea where it had come from, and why. And Raj's identity was safe. He'd written and erased it twenty or thirty times before it seemed right. And the only reason he'd found the courage to deliver it was because today he'd finally found out just who she was.

  M'sera Marina of Kamat. The daughter of the house. Not above Rigel Takahashi—provided that the hostilities between Nev Hettek and Merovingen could be overlooked—but definitely above the touch of Raj Tai.

  Raj had buried Rigel Takahashi quite thoroughly, and not even for the sweet eyes of Marina Kamat was he going to resurrect the name he'd been bom to. But even if he couldn't touch, he could dream—and perversely, even if she were never to learn who her unknown admirer was, he wanted her to know how he felt. So he'd spent three hours struggling over that poem.

  Just two weeks ago it was, he'd seen her. At Moghi's, with a couple of companions. Until then his daydreams had been confined to something just as impossible, but hardly romantic.

  The College. Lord and Ancestors, what he wouldn't give to get in there—but he had no money, and no sponsor, and the wrong religious affiliation on top of it all. Not that he gave a fat damn about religion anymore, but in no way was he ever going to pass for Revenantist. He didn't know the creeds, the ceremonies, the doctrines—

  But he was young enough that sometimes, sometimes when the day had gone really well, it almost seemed possible. Because a long-buried dream had surfaced with this new life. Raj wanted to be a doctor; a medic, anyway.

  The patrons of Mama's drug-shop had teased him about that—but right along with the teasing they'd asked his advice, and taken it too. That perfect memory again; he remembered symptoms, treatments, alternatives, allergies—he'd helped old May out in the swamp, later, with her herbs and her 'weeds,' dispensing what passed for medicine among the swampies and the crazies.

  Of course, since seeing Marina for the first time, she'd crowded out that particular daydream more often than not.

  He wondered if he'd see her tonight at Moghi's.

  His feet were chilled as he padded along the damp wooden walkways. He couldn't get used to shoes after five years without them in the swamp, so he generally went as bare of foot as a canaler. The temperature was dropping; fog was coming up off the water. The lines of the railings near him blurred; farther on, they were reduced to silhouettes. Farther than that, across the canal, there was nothing to see but vague, hulking shapes. Without the clatter of boot-soles or clogs, he moved as silently in the fog as a spirit—silent out of habit. If the walkway-gangs (or the swamp-gangs) didn't hear you, they couldn't hassle you. Breathing the fog was like breathing wet, smokey wool; it was tainted with any number of strange smells. It held them, fishy smell of canal, smell of rotting wood, woodsmoke, stink of nameless somethings poured into the dark, cold waters below him. He hardly noticed. His thoughts were elsewhere—back with the inspiration for his poem. Oh, Marina—

  She tended to show up at Moghi's pretty frequently. Of course Raj was under no illusions as to why. Tom Mondragon, naturally—-hell, Tom even had Rat and Rif exchanging lustful jokes and comments about him. Raj wondered hopelessly if he'd ever have—whatever it was that Tom had. Probably not.

  His feet had taken him all unaware down the walkways and the long, black tunnel-path through Fife to his very own door, almost before he realized it. He started to use his key, but Denny had beaten him home, and must have heard the rattle in the lock.

  " 'Bout time!" he caroled in Raj's face, pulling the door open with Raj standing there stupidly, key still held out. "Ye fall in th' canal?"

  "They kept us late," Raj said, trying not to feel irritated that his daydream had been cut short. "There any supper? It was your turn."

  "There will be. Got eggs, an' I promise not t' bum 'em." He returned to the side of the stove, cracked an egg into the pan, and began frying it with studious care as to its state. "They give me tomorrow off too, like you—somethin' about a Falkenaer ship—ye got anythin' ye wanta do? After chores, I mean."

  "Not really," Raj replied absently, going straight over to the wall and trying to get a good look at himself in the little bit of cracked mirror hung over the sink. Denny noticed, and cocked a quizzical eye at him as he brought over a dented tin plate holding Raj's egg and a slice of bread.

  "Somethin' doin'?"

  "I just don't see any reason to show up at Moghi's looking like a drowned cat," Raj replied waspishly, accepting the plate and beginning to eat.

  "Huh." Denny took the hint and combed his hair with his fingers, then inhaled his own dinner.

  "Hey, big brother—y'know somethin' funny?" Denny actually sounded thoughtful, and Raj swiveled to look at him with surprise. "Since ye started eatin' regular, yer gettin't' look a lot like Mama. An' that ain't bad—she may'a been bird-witted, but she was a looker."

  Raj was touched by the implied compliment. "Not so funny," he returned, "I gotta look like somebody. You know, the older you get, the more you look like Mahmud Lee. In the right light nobody'd ever have to guess who your daddy was."

  Denny started preening at that—he was just old enough to remember that Lee had been a fair match for Tom Mondr
agon at attracting the ladies.

  Then Raj grinned wickedly and deflated him. "It's just too bad you inherited Mama's vacuum-brain too."

  "Hey!"

  "Now don't start something you can't finish—" Raj warned as his brother dropped his empty plate, seized a pillow and advanced on him.

  Denny gave a disgusted snort, remembering how things

  had turned out only that morning, and threw the pillow back

  into its corner. "No fair."

  "Life's like that," Raj replied. "So let's get going, huh?"

  * * *

  Moghi's was full, but subdued. No clogging, not tonight; no music, even. Nobody seemed much in the mood for it. The main room was hot and smokey; not just from Moghi's lanterns, either. There was smoke and fog drifting in every time somebody opened a door; which wasn't often, as it was getting cold outside.

  Lanterns tonight were few, and turned low. Customers bent over their tables, their talk hardly more than muttering. Dark heads under darker caps, or bare of covering; no one here tonight but canalers. Raj looked around for the only blond head in the room, but had a fair notion of where to find him. Mondragon preferred—when he had a choice—to sit where he couid keep an eye on everything going on. Pretty paranoid— but normal, if you were ex-Sword. Raj had been known to choose his seats that way.

  There he was—black sweater, dark cap, golden blond hair that curled the way the carved Angel's hair curled. Not surprisingly, Mondragon was ensconced in his usual corner table. But as Raj and Denny wormed their way closer, Raj could see that he was looking—not quite hungover, but not terribly good. Limp-looking, like it was an effort to keep his head up and his attention on the room and the people in it. Minor mental alarms began jangling.

  Still, if the man wanted to binge once in a while, who could blame him? Gallandrys had plenty to say about him, not much of it good. Raj picked up a lot just by keeping his mouth shut and his ears open, doing the accounts they set him and staying invisible. What he heard didn't exactly seem to match the Tom Mondragon that had given two dumb kids a way out of trouble when it was more logical for him to have knifed them both and dumped them in the canal. He had a feeling that someday he'd like to hear Tom's side of things. He also had a feeling that if that day ever came, it would be when Mondragon was on a binge. If he ever lowered his guard enough.