Fever Season

by C. J. Cherryh

  "Krishna, hmm?" Rif purred, smiling thoughtfully. "Yey, I remember him, all right. You too, from those gigs around the College. When I passed the basket, you put a good bit in. Him, he took somethin' out."

  "I'm really sorry," the student panted.

  "Hey, don't be." Rif smiled, smiled. "Ye don't have to be a Retributionist t'believe in justice."

  "It's Justus!" the young man insisted, sounding anxious. "And I've converted."

  "Shh, don't worry." Rif craned her neck back and called up to Jones. "Hey, pull up under Porfirio-Wex Bridge, can ye? I've a friend there can put up Justus here for awhile."

  "Lord and Ancestors, another game." Jones sighed and looked heavenward, but poled duly east around Cantry.

  "Now go up to the fourth floor," Rif explained to the panting Justus, "And ask for Scarritt's studio. He's a portrait artist, has lots'a work, needs help preparing canvases, he says. For a few hours' work he'll give ye some good money, also show ye some tricks'a the trade. Good as any College lesson, I guarantee. You keep outa sight 'til Krishna's cooled, and won't miss any learning from yer classes. Right?"

  "Oh, yes. M'sera, if there's any way I can thank you…"

  "Yey, sure. Talk me up at the better-paying places around College, see if y'can get me some work there."

  Jones almost whooped at that, held it back to a barely audible snickering. Trust Rif to twist money out of this, profit out of anything. Had to admire a mind like that, devious or no.

  They let Justus off on the Wex side, nestling in between two poleboats, and he scampered away toward the stairs. Rif smiled again, watching him go.

  "Did ye notice," she purred, "How much he resembles Black Cal, seen from the back?"

  "No more damn games!" Jones snapped. "Not now, not on my skip! Let's get done with business, cain't ye?"

  "Right." Rif looked back to port, eyes half-closed, calculating smile turned subtly ruthless. "Go back up past Borg. We didn't seed there yet."

  The customer's always… What the hell is she up to? Jones wondered, poling back out into the water. Well, whatever it was now, it hadn't threatened her skip or her hide yet.

  Back under Borg, through the rising mist. Rif dropped seeds with a casual, practiced hand and studied the passing island. Between polings Jones watched too, wondering what Rif was looking for. Nothing but hightowners, walking to and fro, some in College dress.

  "Hah, there!" Rif sat up sharply. "Pull under."

  "What, again?"

  "Pull under an' wait. Won't take long."

  "All right, but this better be the last damn stop…" Jones tied up under Borg-French Bridge and watched while Rif hopped out. This time she could follow the woman's progress up the stairs, up onto first level. There: she was hurrying after someone, some swaggering student with a sword clanking at his side. He looked more than a little heavy with drink. Jones held quiet and strained to catch the words, couldn't make them out but could watch.

  There came Rif, shoulders hunched and head bent, looking amazingly like a hightowner's doting footman, plucking at the drunk student's sleeve. He tured his flushed face toward her, half-eager, half-wary. Rif said something fawning and held out one hand, clearly begging for a coin. The sword-wearing student frowned, but dug into a pocket and came out with a silverbit. He dropped it, with a contemptuous flourish, into her hand. She clutched it, bowed quickly, and said something close to his ear. Then she pointed southward, downstream. A distinctly nasty smile spread across the youth's face, and he hurried off southward, pushing past her.

  Watching him go, Rif straightened up—no longer looking like anyone's servant. She tossed the coin in her palm, stuffed it into her purse, and trotted quietly back down the stairs to the skip.

  "That anythin' important?" Jones grumbled, poling back toward Bent and Ciro.

  "Worthwhile, anyway." Rif smiled, reaching for more seeds. "He was looking for Justus. Well, he'll find Justice, right enough. Heh! 'Specially if this fog thickens a little more. Oh, that he will!"

  Jones didn't ask anything more, not until they'd gone past the West Canal and under Bruder-Hendricks Bridge. The smell of swamp-grass from beyond Bruder and Golden reminded her of Raj.

  "Tell me one thing," she prodded. "This doctor-school you told Raj about: what's it goin' t'cost 'im?"

  Rif didn't so much as twitch. "Oh, very little. Probably nothing, if he'd good enough." She glanced up, smiled reasuringly. "Seems the boy's got talent. The school prizes that. They'll want him much's he wants what they got."

  "That ain't the cost I mean! What do they really want 'im fer, after?"

  "Healing. No more, no less." Rif tossed another finger-full of seeds into the water. "Ye may's well go all the way down to Racawski before turning back north. Be sure to get Hendricks' slot."

  "Damn it, don't you hold out on me, Rif! They'll want 'im to turn Janist, won't they? Do their work?"

  "Maybe turn Janist, if he's willing. If not, then just heal an' bless in the name'a Jane, spread the word around that Janes make good doctors for poor folk. Where's the harm in that?"

  "He's only a kid! Thirteen, maybe fourteen— That's a little young fr these games."

  "He'll be a good bit older before he finishes school." Rif looked up, catching Jones' eyes. "How old were you when y'first took to working this skip alone?"

  Jones ground her teeth. Twelve. Maybe less. "All I had ter worry 'bout was runnin' my skip, keepin' alive. This is big trouble yer into. Ye know that."

  "Jones, that boy was raised the son of a Sword agent, and a stupid agent at that. He's spent the last few years hidin' out in the swamp, surviving there. You think he can't handle this?"

  There was no easy answer. Jones poled her way silently around Racawski Island and back up toward Hendricks, watching as Rif flicked doses of seed into the waiting, quiet water.

  "… Besides," Rif added, "It's what he wants. Where else's he gonna get that schooling? The College?"

  "Shit," Jones sighed, seeing the sense of it. "Just take care o' that boy. Don't ran 'im into deep trouble. That's all I'm askin'."

  "No worry, Jones. I know that kid, an' I like 'im. I wouldn't drag 'im into something'd really hurt him." "All right."

  They steered back up into the West Canal, toward Bolado. The fog was thickening steadily.

  By the time Krishna reached the foot of the Wex-Spellman Bridge, the fog was so thick it was hard to see more than two body-lengths ahead of him. Damn weather, anyway. Damn Justus for running like a coward, making him work the euphoria off of a good booze-buzz. Damn that woman and her informant—what was his name:—Chud?—if this turned out to be an empty chase.

  Puffing with exertion, Krishna started up the bridge. The few pedestrians coming down it took one look at his tight-gripped sword and suffused face, and quickly got out of his way.

  Ah, there, just at midbridge: tall lean body, dark suit, dark hair, generally slumped and weary look about him, gazing down into the canal, back conveniently turned. Oh, it was Justus all right.

  Krishna started to draw his sword, then thought of something better. Just push him over, into the water. Yes, yes, that would be perfect; no mark of weapons, no suspicions, no new dueling-fines. Just an accident, nobody to blame. He suppressed a snicker as he lunged forward.

  His running footsteps thudded softly as pattering rain on the boards.

  At the last second, the tall man dropped low and spun away to one side. Fast, so fast he seemed to blur.

  When'd he learn that?! Krishna wondered, scrambling to stop his forward momentum on the fog-wet wood. Justus was usually so clumsy…

  Then his chest hit the top rail.

  A heavy hand slammed between his shoulderblades, push- -ing him forward. Krishna's feet shot backward, out from under him, and his own weight sped him out to-ward empty air. He squawked and scrabbled for hand-hold on the rail, caught it, swung precariously balanced a full five meters above the sullen, fog-hidden water,

  That hand again, too heavy, far too strong for Justus, press
ed down on his back, pinning him belly-down, butt to the breeze, on the bridge-rail.

  Krishna briefly considered kicking at his opponent, then thought better of it. He felt around with his feet until he found one of the lower rails, and tucked his toes under it. Only then did he dare to turn his head and look up.

  Less than an inch from his nose, absolutely steady, was the muzzle of a huge, long-barreled revolver. The aperture looked as big around as his thumb.

  Beyond the pistol was a long, lean black-clad arm and shoulder, and beyond that a face that Krishna recognized all too well. He'd never wanted to see that face this close, and surely not ever smiling like this, showing so many gleaming, perfect teeth.

  "Punk," Black Cal smiled. "You just made my day."

  * * *

  Close upon sunset, between Ulger and Calder, the seeds ran out. Rif pulled the small oilcloth seed-pouch out of her bag-of-tricks, turned it inside-out and trailed it in the water just under the Ulger side of the bridge, then sighed and tossed it back in the bag. "Ah, hell, that'll do 'er. Drop me back at Fife, will you?"

  Jones stifled another yawn and poled slowly eastward, arms tired, everything tired. "Y'got only half the town," she noted.

  "Rat's takin' the east side again. Probably done by now." Rif stretched, rubbed knuckles into her back. "Gotta ask 'er if she's seen that Chud anywhere, or got a copy of that handbill."

  Connections finally clicked together in Jones' sleep-slowed mind. "House Hannon printed those up, spread 'em everywhere, ain't they?"

  "Right."

  "So all o' low-town an' half o' High's goin' ter be out lookin' fer'im. Sure ye want ter swim in that kind o' competition?"

  "Not really." Rif shrugged. "Still, Hannon's offering five sols. If I get a chance at that money, I'll grab it."

  Jones stared thoughtfully at the spangles of low sunlight on the passing water. "I don' think I could kill anybody just fer money," she said. "Nor religion n'r politics, either."

  "No more would I." Rif crackled the joints in her knuckles, then wrists. "Besides, it's not just the money. That's what this Chud killed that girl for, an' that's what makes him worth killing."

  Jones chewed that over. So, Rif did a lot of things for at least two reasons, maybe more. Maybe she never did anything for just one reason. "Ah' this seedin' job t'day? There was more'n one reason fer that, too, ney?"

  Rif flicked a thoughtful look at Jones, then pulled her bag-strap onto her shoulder, reached into a pocket for some coins and started counting them. "We did five good deeds today, if y'wanta count 'em up."

  "Five?"

  "We planted the seeds that'll clean up the water," Rif ticked off on her fingers, "Helped Justy get away from a nasty beating, got Krishna what he deserved, cheered up Black Cal a bit… and maybe even prevented a war.''

  Jones pricked up her ears at that last. "How'd we prevent a war, just floatin' around town?"

  Rif half-turned, and gave Jones a heavy-lidded smile that made her shiver. "No harm telling ye that m'sera Johanssen's a Jane priestess, as well's a doctor."

  Jones kept quiet as they passed under Mendez-Calder Bridge. Rif had left too much dangling; it didn't add up. "But we took 'er out o' town ..."

  "Mhm." Rif thought for a moment, then pulled open her shoulder-slung bag and drew out a crocheted sweater, now complete. "Here," she handed it to Jones. "That's for Raj, or 'is brother. Tell 'im what you like."

  Jones took the thing as if it were made of thorns, looked at it carefully. It was small, made for someone about Raj's size—or a little bigger. Meant for him, or me, from the start…

  The Janes had been keeping an eye on her, or Raj, for however long it took to hand-crochet a sweater. Maybe since Festival first-night. She shivered again, but didn't put on the sweater. Another thought connected. "She was that same Jane what made the speech from the bridge, first Festival night?"

  "Right. Her work's done here, so she's goin' elsewhere." Rif kept back a small count of coins and put the rest away. "Pull up under Fife southeast, same's before."

  "Yey." Jones poled slowly under the Calder-Fife Bridge, thoughts grinding like reluctant gears. "She's goin' ter stop a war? All by herself?"

  "Not quite by herself." Rif glanced at the walkways above, listening for footsteps or breathing. There was none. "Y'know, those Nev Hettekers wanta take Merovingen, any way they can. Your Kalugin wants war with Nev Hettek, but he can't push it past his big sister. Tatiana wants no war, but she's got that Sword lover what just might sweettalk'er into opening more'n just her legs to Nev Hettek. Now maybe Black Cal knowin' about that might change things, but I wouldn't wanta bet the whole—"

  He knows? How?! Connections made, fast;

  Jones yanked the pole out of the water, braced her feet and whipped it up to ramming height, aimed at Rif. "You told 'im?!"

  Warring calculations struggled for balance: Rif had valuable connections, Rif was dangerous, Rif's friends were dangerous, and valuable—and now Rif couldn't be trusted.

  "Lord an' Ancestors, first chance ye got after I told ye, an' ye spilled it all ter a blackleg!"

  "To Black Cal." Rif turned to face Jones, both hands resting on her knees—plainly far from her knives and from whatever was in the big bag. "Do you know anyone else could maybe do something about it?"

  "Anastasi Kalugin," Jones whispered, lowering the boat-pole a fraction, already wondering.

  "You think your friend hasn't told 'im already? A big piece of news like that?"

  Raj. She thinks it was Raj that saw… Jones let the pole end sag. Of course Tom would have told Kalugin everything he'd seen, heard, guessed. Probably before—and more than— he'd told her. If Raj had known, he probably would have done the same. But if Rif were to question Raj about it… "Don't ye go botherin' that kid on this. Don't even ask 'im. Ye got 'im pokin' inter enough trouble already."

  "I won't. I got no reason t'hurt the kid."

  Jones dropped her pole-end back into the water.

  "I like that boy, Jones. He's smart as a whip, knows how t'keep his eyes open an' his mouth shut. Don't worry about him." Rif took her hands off her knees and eased back against the gunwale. "Y'can bet he made good money selling that story to Kalugin, but he's left no sign that he's got it."

  "Yey," Jones shrugged, poling smooth around the upcoming Fife corner. "He's smart, right enough."

  "So Kalugin knows," Rif went on, "But that Nev Hetteker's still alive an' waltzing with Tatiana. That means yer Anastasi hasn't done anything yet. Y'can bet he would if he could, so that means he can't."

  "Well ... not yet, maybe." Fife-Southdike Bridge slid overhead. Its shadow felt heavy and cold in the fog.

  "Meanwhile, who do we know that can get close enough to Tatiana to maybe do somethin' about her Sword sweetheart?"

  Jones chewed that over, not seeing any sense here. Black Cal? What did he have to do with Tatiana Kalugin? She shrugged.

  "Aw, think, Jones!" Rif snorted. "Tatiana's in charge of the city law-keeping, which means the blacklegs. She's Black Cal's boss!"

  "Hell!" Jones whispered, poling the skip to a halt. "He might get close enough…" No, stop right there. Best not to speculate on what Black Cal could do, if he wanted, on his home ground. "But still… that wouldn't hold off a war, would it?"

  "Ney, not alone." Rif glanced again at the walkway, kept silent for a moment as a half-drunk couple tottered past, then reached for the tie-up. "That still leaves Nev Hettek, plotting war, pushing the Sword down here. Nothing to hold them back, 'cept for a little advance planning. Nothing 'til now, anyway."

  Jones waited, silent. She wants to tell me. Why?

  Rif flashed that chilly smile once more. "Jones, you got a lead t'Anastasi Kalugin, one he'll believe if word ever has t'be got to 'im."

  Jones nodded understanding. Rif had guessed that her connections could work both ways. And also knew that Jones had someone to protect and worry about, though she didn't really know who it was. Maybe knows my hin and haw, but uses a light touch.

&
nbsp; "I'll leave it t'yer judgment when and how t'use this, just in case I'm not handy for advice." Rif tossed a quick look over the water, then back. "The Janes don't want war either, nor Nev Hettek to take over. And now they've got a way t'stop Nev Hettek cold. You helped deliver it, in fact."

  "That Jane doctor?" Jones guessed, keeping her hands busy with the aft tie-up. "She's… goin' ter Nev Hettek?"

  "Not empty-handed" Rif slid smoothly off the skip, and held out her hand. Five lunes twinkled there. "You want?"

  Jones hesitated, knowing there was more here than she'd earned just ferrying Rif around all day, more passing to her than hauling fees. But she took the coins, all five. "Say it."

  Rif hitched closer, voiced pitched to that low, carrying, tight-beam range. "She was carrying some… 'cultures,' they're called. Breeding-stock, like with the fuel-making yeast—only they're not for yeast. They were taken outa Dead Harbor."

  It took Jones a second to understand, and then there was only one question left to ask.

  "Before or after we dumped them barrels o' Plague-killer?" "Before"

  "Oh." Jones edged away, feeling the hair lift up on her neck. "Breedin'-stock fer ..."

  "Right." Rif smiled somberly into the thickening shadows. "There's no plague in Merovingen. But there will be—in a few special places—in Nev Hettek."

  FEVER SEASON (REPRISED)

  C.J. Cherryh

  Del and Min were not at tie-up yet. It was no safe place to leave the skip, at Petrescu, with so much wrong in the world, but Jones had no patience for waiting. The front room lamp was on in Mondragon's apartment, the signal she had arranged with the boys, left side of the couch one night, then right, then left, more complicated than with Mondragon, but then, things were, lately. Complicated.

  She skipped up the stairs and onto the landing, breathless, knocked the special knock, and stood and fretted in the chill while she waited on one of the boys inside to see who it was.

  Denny. The eye had a little to do to reach the garde-porte grate inside. The grate snapped shut again and the latch rattled back. Jones dived in and shut the door herself.