Fever Season

by C. J. Cherryh

  Mondragon's table had a candle over it, not a lamp— candlelight was even dimmer than lamplight. The two boys moved up to the side of that table like two thin shadows. Raj had brought his week's worth of recollections, neatly folded into a packet. Maybe it was the dim light—but they stood beside the table for nearly a minute before Mondragon noticed them. Raj bit his lip, wondering if he'd offended Mondragon in some way, and the man was paying him back with arrogance—but, no; it was almost as if he was having such trouble focusing that he could only tend to one thing at a time. As if he really wasn't seeing them until he could get his attention around to the piece of floor they were standing on.

  When Mondragon finally saw them, and invited them to sit with a weary nod of the head, Raj pushed the sealed packet across the table towards his hand. Mondragon accepted it silently, then stared off into space, like he'd forgotten they were there.

  Raj sat there long enough to start feeling like a fool, then ventured to get his attention: "M'ser—"

  Now Mondragon finally looked at them again, his eyes slowly focusing. He did not look hungover after all; he looked tired to death and ready to drop. "You asked me to come here, remember? There something you want us to do?"

  "I—" Mondragon rubbed one temple, slowly, as if his head was hurting him; his eyes were swollen and bruised-Iooking, and there were little lines of pain between his eyebrows. "There was—I know there was a reason—"

  This was nothing like the canny Tom Mondragon Raj was used to dealing with! Alarmed now, Raj took a really hard look at him, eyes alert for things May had taught him to take note of, and didn't like what he saw.

  A thin film of sweat stood on his forehead; his green eyes were dull and dark-circled—and Mondragon was fair, but he'd never been this white before. His hair was damp and lank, and not from the fog, Raj would bet on it. And his shoulders were shivering a little as if from cold—yet Moghi's was so warm with closely crowded bodies that Raj was regretting he'd worn his thick sweater! And now Raj was remembering something from this morning and the gossip among the other clerks at Gallandry—a rumor of fever in the town. Maybe brought in on that Falkenaer ship. Maybe not.

  Raj's bones said whatever was wrong with Tom had its roots here—because Raj's bones had once shook with a chill he'd bet Tom was feeling now.

  "M'ser, are you feeling all right?" he whispered under cover of a burst of loud conversation from three tables over.

  Mondragon smiled thinly. "To tell you the truth, boy—no. Afraid I've got a bit of a cold, or something."

  He broke into a fit of coughing, and his shoulders shook again; and although he was plainly trying, not all of his iron will could keep the tremor invisible. Raj made up his mind on the instant.

  "Denny—go find Jones. Get!"

  Denny got. Mondragon looked at Raj with a kind of dazed puzzlement. "She's probably on her way. What—"

  "You're drunk—act like it!" Raj whispered harshly. "Unless you want Moghi to throw you in the canal for bringing fever here! I don't much imagine he'd be real happy about that."

  He rose, shoved his chair back, and seized Mondragon's arm to haul him to his feet before the other could protest—or react. And that was another bad sign; Mondragon had the reactions of any trained assassin, quick and deadly. Only tonight those reactions didn't seem to be working.

  Raj had always been a lot stronger than he looked—with a month of regular meals he was more than a match for a fevered Tom Mondragon.

  "Now, m'ser Tom," he said aloud—not too loudly, he hoped, but loud enough. "I think a breath of air would be a proper notion, ne? 'Fraid m'ser Moghi's drink is a bit too good tonight."

  There were mild chuckles at that, and no one looked at them twice as Raj half-carried, half-manhandled Mondragon out the door. Which was fortunate, for they both discovered when Mondragon tried to pull away that his legs were not up to holding him.

  They staggered out the door, weaving back and forth, Raj sagging under Mondragon's nearly-dead weight. Out the double doors they wove, narrowly avoiding collision with an incoming customer, and down onto the lantern-lit front porch. Down a set of stairs were the tie-ups for small boats, only half of them taken tonight. And pulling up to those tie-ups was a skip poled by a dusky girl in a dark cap. Altair Jones, and no mistaking her.

  They were just in time to see Denny catching the line Jones was throwing to him. Light from Moghi's porch-lantern caught her eyes as she stared at them. There was something of a mixture of surprise and shock—yes, and a touch of fear—in the look she gave them.

  "I think we need to get this feller home, m'sera," Raj said loudly, praying Jones would keep her wits about her. She might not know him well, but she knew that Mondragon had trusted them to spy for him, and guard his back, and that more than once. He just prayed she'd trust him too, and follow his lead.

  She did; playing along with him except for one startled glance. "Fool's been celebratin'?" she snorted, legs braced against the roll of her skip, hands on hips, looking theatrically disgusted. She pushed her cap back on her head with a flamboyant and exaggerated shove. "Ought to let 'im walk home, that I should. Ah, hell, hand 'im over—"

  Mondragon was in no shape now to protest the hash they were making of his reputation. He was shaking like a reed in a winter storm, and his skin was tight and hot to the touch, as Jones evidently learned when she reached up to help him down the ladder onto her halfdeck. "Look—you—" was all he managed before another coughing fit took him and Jones got him safely planted. She gave no real outward sign that she was alarmed, though—just a slight tightening of her lips and a frightened widening of her eyes.

  "Think we'd better come along, m'sera," Raj continued in what he hoped was a bantering tone of voice, for though they seemed to be alone, there was no telling who had eyes and ears in the shadows or above the canal. "Afraid m'ser is likely to be a handful. Won't like being told what to do." That last was for Mondragon's benefit. While he talked, he stared hard into Jones's eyes, hoping she'd read the message there.

  Go along with this—he tried fiercely to project. I can help.

  "Ye think so?" The tone was equally bantering, but the expression seemed to say that she had understood that silent message. "Well, guess it can't hurt—"

  "Right enough then—Denny, give the m'sera a hand with that line—" Raj climbed gingerly down into the skip to where Mondragon sat huddled in misery, as Denny slid aboard, the tie-line in his hand.

  "What th' hell—" Jones hissed as soon as they were out of earshot of the bank.

  "He's got fever—you got something to keep him warm?"

  Without the need to guard her expression, Raj could read her nearly as well as one of his books. First there was relief— Thank God, it could have been worse, he could have been hurt—and that was quickly followed by anger and resentment. He couldn't guess at the reasons for those emotions, but that expression was chased almost immediately by stark, naked fear. Then she shuttered her face down again, and became as opaque as canal water. At her mute nod toward the hidey, Raj ducked in and out again, and wrapped the blanket he'd found around Mondragon's shaking shoulders.

  Mondragon looked up, eyes full of bleary resentment. "I—" cough "—can take care of—" cough "—myself. Thanks."

  Raj ignored him. "First thing, we got to get him back home and in bed. But we gotta make out like's he's drunk, not sick."

  Jones nodded slowly; Raj was grateful for her quick grasp of the situation. "Because if people figger he's sick—they figger he's an easy target. Yey. Damn!"

  "Will you two leave me alone?"

  This time Raj looked him right in the eyes.

  "No," he said simply.

  Mondragon stared and stared, like one of the piers had up and answered him back; then groaned, sagged his head onto his knees, and buried his face in his hands.

  "Right," Raj turned back to Jones, swiveling to follow her movements as she poled the skip into the sparse traffic on the Grand. She wasn't sparing herself—Raj could tell th
at much from what he'd learned poling his raft. Which meant she was trying to make time. Which meant she was worried, too. "Second thing is, we need money. I got some, but not much. How 'bout you? Or him?"

  "Some. What fer?" Suspicion shadowed the glance she gave at him as she shoved the pole home against the bottom, suspicion and more of that smoldering anger and fear. Touchy about money, are we, Jones?

  "Medicine," he said quickly. "Some we send Denny for; people are always sending runners after medicine, 'specially in fever season. Nothing to connect Tom with that."

  Raj fell silent for a moment.

  "Ye said, 'some'—"

  "I'll decide the rest after we get him back—" Raj said slowly, "And I know how bad it is."

  Petrescu at last. Up the stairs at water-level they went, stairs that led almost directly to Mondragon's door. Mondragon tried to push them off, to get them to leave him at that door. But when his hands shook so that he couldn't even get his key in the lock, Raj and Jones exchanged a look—and Jones took the key deftly away from him.

  He complained, bitterly, but weakly, all through the process of getting him into his apartment and into bed in the downstairs bedroom—not even with three of them were they going to try manhandling him up the stairs to the room he usually used. Ominously, though—at least so far as Raj was concerned—he stopped complaining as soon as he was installed there; just closed his eyes against the light, and huddled in his blankets, shivering and coughing. Raj sent Denny out with orders for asprin, menthil-salve, and blueangel; not that he expected the latter to do any good. This wasn't that kind of fever. He knew it now; knew it beyond doubting.

  "I hope you can afford to lose a night's trade, Jones," he said, pulling her out of the bedroom by main force. "Maybe more—I'll tell you the truth of it. M'ser Tom's in bad shape, and it could get worse."

  "It's just a cold or somethin', ain't it—?" Her look said she knew damned well that it was worse than that, but was hoping for better news than she feared.

  "Not for him, it isn't," Raj said, figuring she'd better know the worst of the truth. "He's not from here, remember? Our germs are gonna hit him, and hit him hard. I know—it happened to me." Raj paused in thought. "Bet he was taking pills before this, ney?"

  Jones nodded, slowly.

  "And I bet his pills ran out not too long ago. You can't get 'em here, not without connections upriver. You need tech for medicine like that. Same thing happened to me, when I had to hide in the swamp. I caught every damn thing that you could think of." Raj shook his head. "Well, he needs something besides what we can get at the drug-shops. Now listen; when Denny gets back, you rub the salve on his throat and chest, you give him the asprin and a dose of the blueangel. Then you mix him some hot tea with whiskey—make it about half whiskey—and lots of sugar in it—that should help him stop coughing enough to sleep. Looks to me like he needs sleep more than about anything else right now. You stay with him; don't leave him. That might be enough—right now he feels like he wants to die, but he's not exactly in any danger, so long as he stays warm. But—" Raj paused to think. "All right, worst case. If he gets worse before I get back—if his fever goes up more—if he starts not bein' able to breathe—''

  That was an ugly notion, and hit far too close to home. He steadied his nerves with a long breath of air and thought out everything he was going to have to do and say. What he was going to order Jones to do wasn't going to go down easy. She didn't like being ordered at the best of times, and this was definitely going to stick in her throat. ''—I know maybe more about our friend than you think I do—I'm telling you the best—hell, the only option. If he starts having trouble breathing, you send Denny with a note to that Kalugin. You tell him if he wants his pet Sword alive he better send his doctor. And fast."

  Jones' eyes blazed, and she opened her mouth to protest. Raj cut her short.

  "Look, you think I want my brother going up there? You think we're in any better shape than Tom is in this town? I dunno what you know about us, Jones, but we got as much or more to lose by this. I dunno if Tom's let on about us, but—"

  God, God, the chance! But they owed Tom more than they could pay.

  "Look at me—believe me, Altair. If Kalugin—any of 'em—ever found out about me 'n Denny, we'd—we'd wish we were dead, that's all. We know things too, and we got nobody but Tom keeping us from getting gobbled up like minnows by the hightowners. Tom they got reasons to keep alive—us—well, you can figure how much anybody'd miss two kids. So trust me, the risk's a lot more on our side; if he gets worse, it's the only way to save him."

  "Damn, Raj—" she started, then sagged, defeated by his earnestness and her own fear and worry. "All right. Hell, though—what ye been doin'—I dunno why we'd need a real doctor. Yer as good's any doctor I ever seen—"

  "Like bloody hell I am!" he snapped, more harshly than he intended. He saw Jones wince away, saw her expression chill a little, and hastily tried to mend the breach.

  "Look—I'm sorry, I didn't mean the way it sounded— Jones, Altair, I'm scared too—for ail of us." He managed half a smile when he saw the hard line of her lips soften. "And you just—stepped on a sore toe, that's all. See, I'd give my arm to be able to go to the College, to learn to be a doctor. And I've got about as much chance of that as your skip has of flying." He sighed. "That's the problem with having things get better, I guess—when I didn't have anything, I didn't want things, 'cause I knew I'd never get 'em. But now I got a little, seems like I want more. Things I got no chance for."

  He hadn't really expected Jones to understand, but to his surprise, she gave a little wistful glance back toward the bedroom, sighed, and nodded. "I reckon we both got a notion how that feels—" she agreed. "But—I dunno, Kalugin—he's a sherk—that doctor could just as easy poison 'im as cure 'im."

  "So I just gave you what to do in worst case, hey? Worry about that when the time comes. Tom's luck with skinning through, he'll be all right. But if not—I'll tell you now—you might just as well chance poison, 'cause if you want Tom alive, you get him a real doctor as soon as he starts getting worse—if he does before I make it back."

  "Back? From where?" She only now seemed to realize that he wasn't planning on staying.

  "I told you, I know this fever—I had it once, too. And Tom needs more'n what we can get from the drug-shop. So I'm going to get the medicine he needs—the one place where I know I can—where I got what saved me. The place I spent the last five years. The swamp." He smiled crookedly at her stunned expression.

  "How ye gonna get there?" She stammered. "I—"

  "I said you had to stay here, didn't I? And keep Denny here to help when he gets back. I'll get in the same way I did the last time. Walk."

  He could hardly feel his feet, they were so numb and cold. He was just glad that it wasn't quite egg-season for the dragonelles, or he'd have had to worry about losing toes, instead of just feeling like he'd lost them.

  He was halfway out to Raver's territory, and he was already regretting the decision he'd made, with the kind of remote regret of one who didn't have any real choice. The pack on his back was large, and heavy; the kind of goods he meant to trade to old May for her 'weeds' tended to be bulky. Blankets didn't compact well, no more did clothing.

  The cold was climbing up his legs, and his britches were misery to wear, wet and clinging and clammy, and liberally beslimed with mud and unidentifiable swamp-muck. He'd forgotten how much the swamp stank; it was far worse than the canals. The reeds rustled, but otherwise there wasn't much sound but the wind whistling and the water lapping against what few bits of solid stuff poked up out of the surface.

  The wind was cold, and ate through his clothing. And there was a storm brewing, which meant that he'd be soaked before the night was out, even if things went well.

  He was half-soaked already. Just because it was possible to walk into the swamp, that didn't mean it was easy. He was just grateful that his memory of the 'trail' was clear; so clear he could find his way in pitch-dark—he
was only mud-caked to his knees instead of his waist.

  Overhead the clouds blocked stars and thunder rumbled, cloud-shadows taking the last of the light. But now the swamp itself flickered with an eerie phosphorescence, making it almost like dusk out here. There seemed to be more of the glow than there had been before—and a kind of odd, sulfu-rous, bitter smell he didn't remember as being part of the normal odors. The thunder came again, accompanied by flashes of lightning, and the wind off the sea began to pick up, bending the reeds parallel with the water.

  Raj had just enough time for his nose to warn him, then the rain came.

  The first fat drops plopped on the back of his neck and trickled icily down his back, adding to his misery. This morning he'd been sure there was no way he could even up the karma between himself and Mondragon. At this point he was beginning to think that the scales just might be tipping the other way.

  "Hee hee he-he-he! Well, lookee what th' storm washet ep-"

  The voice that brayed out of the dark and the rain was one Raj had hoped never to hear again.

  "I heerd ye gone townie on us, Raj-boy." The speaker was little more than a dark blot against the phosphorescent water—a large blot. "I heerd ye niver come back t' see yer old friends. I heerd ye figger yer better'n us now."

  It was Big Ralf, and he had the next segment of the trail completely blocked. To either side was deep water and dangerous mud—some of it bottomless, sucking mire-pits.

  "C'mon, Raj-boy—ain't ye gonna run from Big Ralf? Ain't ye gonna give 'im a race?" Lightning flickered once, twice. The blot shifted restlessly.

  Raj fought panic. "Get out of my way, Big Ralf," he shouted over the thunder. "Leave me alone. I never hurt you."