"You've been busy lately," Krishna pushed on. "Haven't even see you babying Sunny."
Justice glanced down at the sleeping cat, and bit back a scathing retort. The sword that hung at Malenkov's side was not there for show: Krishna was one of the young rowdies (they liked to call themselves duelists) who hung around the bridges, picked fights, and generally made a nuisance of themselves. Unlike most of them, Krishna was an accomplished swordsman and, armed though he was with his own sword, Justice had no desire to let Krishna push him into a fight. Malenkov was too damned good.
But today it would not come to swords. Something had happened to Krishna recently, besides coming down with a cold… something that made the young hightowner less eager to physically bully other people. Justice smiled slightly. Perhaps Krishna had run into someone who had taken him down a notch or two.
Or, a situation that even his father's money could not handle.
And, if the priests at the College heard that two students had been dueling, expulsion for one or both of the offenders loomed as a frightening possibility.
Rising to his feet, Justice left his table and headed toward the door.
"Something bothering you, Justus?" Krishna called. "You're leaving so soon."
"The air," Justice said over his shoulder. "It's getting rather foul in here and I don't like my lunch ruined."
Laughter came from behind, punctuated by Krishna's coughing. Justice nodded to Hilda again as he went out, answering her unvoiced question with a roll of his eyes toward the rear of the room and Krishna's table.
Damn. Now what? I've let Krishna chase me away from lunch. Don't have many choice places left. Justice walked to the edge of the wooden walkway, leaned on the railing and stared down at the foggy canal below. Lunch. Though he had a good allowance from his aunt and uncle, Justice was, in a word, frugal. Since he lived in Hilda's rooming house attached to the tavern, he and the other students got a discount on their meals. Now that Krishna had made eating in the tavern unbearable, Justice had few places left to get a wholesome meal he could afford…
He straightened and considered the alternatives. There was a small tavern called John's on Spellbridge canalside that students frequented. Somewhat dangerous, that tavern, but the food was good and cheap. He started down the outer walkway of Kass toward Spellbridge, sniffling a bit himself as he walked. Ancestors keep him from getting whatever Krishna had. Some kind of bug was loose in Merovingen, likely brought in by the Falkenaer ship.
When Justice reached the Kass Bridge, he was able to see workmen rebuilding the Signeury. He frowned and walked on, lost in the noontime crowd. The less he knew about dark goings on in town, the better he felt. As it was, rumors ran everywhere, including some tale of crazy Janists dropping something in the canals at Festival time.
A steep set of steps led down to canalside from the second level of Spellbridge. Though it was high noon, visibility on this cloudy day would be very low in the manmade twilight below. Justus kept his eyes moving over the crowd as he descended the stairway, alert for anyone who looked intent on causing trouble.
The stench of canalside hit him as he exited the steps. Taking care for his footing on the damp stone walkway, Justice turned leftward toward John's. The foot traffic canalside was less than on second level, most of the lower level denizens being at lunch. Justice stepped around a suspicious pile of something in his path, then angled back toward the buildings again, approaching the first of the Spellbridge cuts. John's sat right on the corner of that cut: Justice saw the tavern's gaily colored sign now, and heard the muted roar of its customers from within.
And from the cut that ran darkly off to his right, just beyond John's, the sound of taunting voices.
Justice stopped, cursing himself for a fool, edged to the comer of the cut, and peered into the deeper twilight. Five— no—six figures were backing a slighter figure farther into the cut. Damn! It's none of my business. Get back to John's… don't get involved. Justice snorted. He no more could do that than jump in the canal and think to come out dry.
Unsure as he was of his footing, he hurriedly pulled off his shoes, clutched them both in his left hand, and with his right drew his sword. No duelist, Justice was still a capable swordsman and, if he played this right, surprise would be on his side.
After a quick look around to see if he was noticed, Justice carefully walked forward, testing the soggy walkway with his stockinged feet. The six figures resolved in the dusky light: shabbily dressed toughs, carrying knives and clubs. Facing them, white-faced in the gloom, stood a young boy of no more than thirteen.
Such odds made Justice's stomach turn.
And curse himself doubly as a fool.
Lifting his sword, Justice took a deep breath and ran toward the toughs. His stockinged feet made no sound as he rushed forward—the thugs' taunts and the boy's shrill cries would have drowned out his coming anyhow.
He took the first tough on the side of the head with the flat of his sword; the second he caught in the temple with a heavy shoe heel; and the third he shoved off toward the canal with a sharp kick to the kidney. Justice heard a startled yelp, immediately followed by the rewarding sound of a splash. Now the thugs turned, confused, their attention distracted from the youth they had cornered.
"Run, dammit!" Justice yelled. "Get us some help!"
But the boy merely wiped at a trickle of blood running down into one eye and hefted the heavy stick he had been carrying. Justice cursed, and smashed his sword flat against the face of the tough who stood closest, spinning him off to one side. Blood spurting from his nose, the thug yowled and fell heavily to the damp pavement. The boy grinned, his teeth bared, and jabbed the stick he carried up into another tough's groin. Justice stopped being so concerned for the lad's safety: fighting like that was learned in the hardest of all schools— the canalside.
"Behind ye!" the boy yelled.
Justice spun in time to dodge the sixth man's knife stab. A cold chill ran through his gut: this was for real. Death stalked the slippery walkway, unconcerned who would wind up at the bottom of the Det.
"Lord and Ancestors!" Justice breathed. He had never killed anyone before and the prospect unnerved him. The fellow he faced was an accomplished knife fighter; his stance and the way he held himself showed that. But Justice stood at least four inches taller and wielded near three feet of gleaming steel.
Another thump and a groan came from behind, but Justice dared not take his eyes from his opponent. He circled to his right, away from the knife blade, all too aware of the murky waters of the canal at his back. The tough lunged, knife coming up in a disemboweling stroke, and Justice dodged to one side. His stockinged feet betrayed him: he lost his footing and slid to one knee. Instinct took over—he slashed out where he thought the thug's legs were, trying to hamstring him. His opponent jumped back, then came in again, knife held low and aimed for Justice's chin.
Lord.' It's over now! Justice tried to scramble to his feet, but the walkway was too slick. In total desperation, he flung up his sword, his shoes held out as a shield, lurching to one side at what he sensed as being the last possible moment.
A sudden meaty whack. The thug wavered on his feet, then fell heavily onto his side. Justice blinked the sweat from his eyes and glanced over his shoulder. A youth near manhood, with distinct Oriental features, stood a few paces behind, a slingshot in his right hand.
"Ware!" the young boy cried, and Justice turned in time to see one of the men lurch to his feet and run toward him. He rolled to one side, saw the thug rush past and knock the newcomer with the slingshot right off his feet.
The youth yelped in pain, and the thug disappeared out of sight around the corner of the cut.
Justice stood up as the young boy ran to the newcomer.
"You all right?" the boy asked.
The young man nodded, his face tight with pain. "You, Denny?"
"Aye." Denny ran a hand through his curly hair. "Wouldn't be 'cept for this 'un. Saved my skin, he did." "Get, Denny!
Now! Get back!" "But.…"
"I'll be fine. This fellow's all right. Look at his sash, Denny… he's a student. Now get!"
The boy glanced up at Justice, his eyes narrowed, then nodded, sprang to his feet, and bolted out of the cut.
Justice stared after the fleeing boy for a moment, then looked around and assessed the situation. He had knocked three of the attackers senseless with his swordblade and shoe heel (though one had revived in time to beat a hasty retreat), and kicked one into the canal; the boy had taken the fifth in the groin: the man now lay unconscious, more than likely put out by another application of the stick. Justice looked down at
the unconscious thug at his feet, at the pool of blood that had formed under his head—a sling and rock had done that deed.
The newcomer youth rose to his knees, cradling a bandaged left hand to his chest; lines of pain scoring his face, he shoved his sling inside his shirt and stood. A few steps brought him to the still body of the man he had brought down with his sling; he stooped, reached out and touched the fellow's throat as if searching for a pulse. An expression of relief relaxed his face, and with a small sigh, he turned and faced Justice.
"For what you've done," he said, the hint of hightowner accent, mixed with some other speech pattern, odd coming from one so plainly dressed, "my thanks. Are you hurt?"
"No." Justice sheathed his sword and dropped his shoes at his feet. The next time he came canalside, he would definitely carry a dagger as well as his sword. Overheated in the clammy air, Justice stuffed his wet feet into the shoes and looked up at the young man who faced him. "I'll be fine. Just need some fresh air."
The fellow darted an anxious glance up and down the cut; his face tightened again. "Damn!" he muttered, holding his left hand with his right. He looked up at Justice. "Do you know somewhere we could go sit down?"
Justice started at the young man's hand: a faint trace of what must be blood had stained the bandage. "John's," he said. "A tavern. Right around the corner to the left."
"Busy?"
"At this time of day, yes."
The young man grimaced, either in pain or in response to Justice's answer. "I'm Raj Tai," he said, introducing himself. "Justice Lee."
Something flickered behind the young man's black eyes. "Adventist?" "No. Name's confusing. It's J-U-S-T-U-S." "Huhn. Let's get out of here."
Justice let his companion lead the way back out of the cut. "You know the young boy?" he asked. "My brother."
The terse reply shed no more light on what had happened than what Justice already knew, which was a sum total of nothing. Raj hesitated at the edge of the cut, looked quickly up and down the canal, then hurried toward John's. Justice shrugged his shoulders, and followed.
Raj had already set off across the crowded room, aiming for a comer booth that sat far to the rear. Justice spotted John, the owner of the tavern, and wound his way through the tables and chairs toward him.
"Friend of mine's got a cut that's opened up. Could we get a bowl of hot water and a clean cloth?"
One of John's bushy eyebrows rose, but Justice had been coming here to eat long enough that what he said would not be questioned. "Sure. Where you sitting?"
"Booth in the far corner. We'll order in a few minutes."
As John turned away, Justice walked back to the booth. It was dark enough in this corner that he despaired of reading the menu, but since he knew it by heart, it hardly mattered.
He seated himself, noticing that Raj had taken the place that allowed full view of the door and anyone who entered. Not that John's dealt with ruffians; today's gathering was quiet ordinary—a clientele consisting of an even blend of students and canalsiders, with a few small shopkeepers from second level thrown in as an aside. The roar of conversation and laughter was nearly deafening.
Justice looked across the table at his companion, seeing the young man's face hidden by shadows, for John, like other canalside shop owners, tried hard to conserve on fish oil for the lamps. A chorus of greetings to some newcomer made Raj glance up in startlement. Justice took a deep breath, wiped at his runny nose, and looked at the noisy diners around him: why the hell was the young man so jumpy?
John himself brought a bowl of hot water and a freshly laundered cloth to the table; casting a wary eye at Raj, the tavern owner set the two items before him. "Ready to order yet?"
"The usual," Justice said, watching Raj watch John.
"And you?" John asked Raj.
"I'll have whatever he's having."
John snorted something and turned away.
Raj looked quickly at Justice, then down at the bowl of steaming water. He carefully stretched his hand out on the table and began unwinding the bandage.
"Your idea?" he asked, nodding toward the bowl, teeth clenched against the obvious pain.
"Thought you'd need it."
"Huhn." Raj finished unwrapping his hand and dipped the cloth in the hot water.
Justice could see why the young man was in pain: the hand was slightly swollen, the fingers bearing old bruises. But the puncture wound in the palm of Raj's hand made Justice wince in sympathy.
"How the hell did you do that?" he asked.
Raj glanced up from under his eyebrows, then looked back at what he was doing. "Gutting a fish. Damned clumsy of me. Knife went clear through my hand."
Like hell. Justice kept silent, watching as Raj cleansed the wound, then wrapped it again in the bandage.
"I owe you," Raj said suddenly. "Saving Denny's life like that isn't something I can lightly forget."
Dignity permeated those words, direct and unfeigned. Justice shrugged. "I couldn't very well turn my back on the boy. No one should face odds like that alone."
"And for bringing me here.…" He gestured with his good hand. "Like I said, I owe you." Raj's eyes flicked from side to side as if judging how much attention he and Justice were receiving from their nearest neighbors. He shoved the bowl and bloody cloth away, and leaning closer to Justice, he spoke in low voice, nearly lost in the noise.
"You're Adventist."
Justice stared back, trying to keep all expression from his face; the abrupt change of subject threw him. "I told you I wasn't, outside in the cut. Why should I change in here?"
"No Revenantist would get into somebody else's trouble unless they had karma in it," Raj said, his eyes very steady.
Justice looked sidelong across the crowd. Damn! Slipped out of character and this smart one sees it. What's he want, this Raj? He's either out for something, or he's trying to discredit me and Father Rhajmurti. Whichever—I'll have to be more careful next time.
The touch of Raj's hand on his arm brought Justice's attention back to their table.
"I'm not after anything," Raj said softly, as if reading Justice's mind, "or at least not after anything you can't give me freely. And I owe you, like I said… owe you a lot for saving my brother, and helping me."
"Then what can I give you?" Justice asked, allowing a hint of coldness to enter his voice.
"First, I can give you something," Raj replied, digging inside his shirt pocket. He extended a medium-sized packet to Justice. "Couldn't help noticing your sniffles. There's something going around town, and this will cure it if you've got it."
Justice took the packet, his eyes never leaving Raj's face. With mid-term exams coming, this medicine could be invaluable. "You a doctor or something?"
A look bordering on wistful yearning crossed the young man's face. "I only wish I could be. But to become a doctor I'd have to enter the College and I've got about as much a chance of doing that as walking across the lagoon."
"Huhn." Justice laid the packet down on the table. "So?"
"You're a student," Raj pointed out, eyeing Justice's saffron sash emblazoned with the College seal worn over the black shirt and black pants he favored. "And you're an Adventist. Somehow, you've managed to fool all the priests or you wouldn't be studying at the College."
Justice motioned for silence as a waiter came to their table and
laid out a simple meal of silverbit, greens and beer. He dug in his pocket and came up with two pennies for the price of his meal; Raj produced two pennies of his own, and the waiter walked off.
"All right." Justice began cutting up his fish. He leaned forward again, lowering his voice to a near whisper. "For sake of argument, we'll say I'm Adventist. What does that have to do with your getting into the College?"
"You pass," Raj said quietly, lowering his beer mug. One-handed, he attacked his meal, using his injured hand as little as possible. "I want to know how."
Justice stopped chewing long enough to stare at Raj. He swallowed, took a drink of beer. "It's not that simple."
"Then you admit that you are Adventist. Look, Justice." Raj's face was openly earnest. "I don't want you thinking the wrong thing about me." He glanced around, and quieter yet: "I'm Adventist too."
"With a name like Raj?"
"Rigel."
Rigel turned into Raj… Justice corrupted to Justus. Huhn. Not much difference. "Truth?"
"Truth," Raj said, with the same open expression. A long pause. "And, even more damning—from Nev Hettek."
Justice knew his face must have shown some surprise, for Raj smiled, a thin, bitter smile.
"So you want to get into the College," Justice said, taking another bite of fish and following it with a forkful of greens. He met Raj's eyes. The young man's head had jerked up again as a group of four students entered the tavern, but he had looked back again; a subtle relaxing of Raj's shoulders told Justice the newcomers posed no threat. "Even if you're Revenantist," Justice said,"you'll need a patron. Or more money than I think you have."
Raj chewed and swallowed. "A patron, most likely. You're right. I have hardly enough money to live on."
Justice shook his head. "I wish I could help you," he said, "and I really mean that. But I'm studying art, and don't know anyone who's planning to become a doctor."
"You have a patron?"
"Yes. But he's not… " Justice stopped. What this young man wanted was beyond reach of most aspiring Merovingens, yet something about Raj made Justice trust him. And judging from the short conversation they had shared so far, Raj was hardly stupid. "I suppose I could talk to Father Rhajmurti. He knows the other priests." His locked eyes with Raj. "But you'd have to convert, you now. I had to. That's the price I had to pay to get Father Rhajmurti as a patron."
Fever Season Page 15