Fever Season

by C. J. Cherryh

  "I'd be prime target for anyone to take on."

  "But books are so expensive. I can't imagine you taking some out on the canals at night."

  "Those books cost me next to nothing," Justice explained. "They're old, dog-eared, and thoroughly marked up. And, if necessary, I can always get more."

  "All right," Raj said. "Books it is. I can put the papers inside one of them."

  "What's your message?"

  "Once you get to Petrescu, you'll have to give a password to Denny, or he'll never let you in the door. It's simple: Rif just sings cute little ballads. Have you got that?"

  Justice' stomach had knotted at the mention of a password. Now, he was sure he was into something he very much did not want to know about. "Rif just sings cute little ballads," he repeated. "I've got it."

  "Good. When Denny lets you in, you'll meet another one of my friends, Altair Jones, she's a canaler… operates a skip. She and my friend are—" He waved his right hand and looked somewhat uncomfortable. "You know..."

  Justice kept silent, waiting for Raj to go on. A canaler, a message runner, an accountant who longed to be a doctor. What Raj's other friend was, Justice did not want to know.

  "Anyway… tell Denny and Jones that I couldn't get the papers through and that I'm holing up here for the night." Raj stopped suddenly. "That is all right with you, isn't it? If not, I'll try leaving sometime around third watch."

  "You can stay here. Don't worry about it."

  Gratitude showed in every line of Raj's face. "I owe you again, Justice."

  "Anything else?"

  After a prolonged silence, Raj nodded. "Tell Denny and Jones that assassins might be loose and may try to make a move tonight, or very soon."

  Justice stared. Assassins? He had second and third thoughts about the trip to Petrescu and nearly voiced them. But Raj needed help and, for good or ill, Justice could not ignore such a request.

  "Don't ask," Raj said. "If you don't want to know any more about things… don't ask."

  "You needn't worry. Now, tell me if I've got it straight," Justice repeated Raj's message and the young man nodded at the end.

  "You've got it. And for Lord's sake be careful, Justice."

  "Huhn." Justice stood, reached out and scratched the sleeping cat, then walked to the standing closet. He took out a heavy biack sweater, pulled it over his head, then sought his sword. Buckling the swordbelt around his waist, he considered taking his dagger, rejected the thought, then— remembering the fight in the cut—picked the dagger up from the floor by the head of his bed.

  "Here." Raj stood and picked up the pile of five tattered books, handling them as if they were gold. He opened the book halfway down the pile, reached inside his shirt, and pulled out a rumpled sheaf of papers. Glancing once up at Justice, Raj slipped the papers into the middle of the book. "You might want to tie the books together," he said, "to keep the papers from falling out."

  Justice nodded, shoved the dagger into the swordbelt at his left side, took a heavy poncho down from the hook behind the door and wormed into it. He knelt, reached under his bed, and pulled out a ball of twine. With Raj's help, he tied the pile of books firmly together. "If I were you, Raj," he said, standing, "I wouldn't go out into the common room. I'll have Hilda bring you something to eat."

  "I can't let you—"

  "You can pay me back later." Justice walked to the door, unlocked and opened it, then turned to face Raj. "Now stay put."

  "Justice," Raj said, as Justice turned to go. "If anything happens ... if you are attacked, throw those books in the canal and go in after them!"

  It was not fully dark yet when Justice left the stairs leading down from second level front-side Kass to canalside. Across the way, hidden now in the fog, the Signeury loomed up, looking ominous in the gloom. Poleboats always gathered at the landing: traffic here, as in other student areas, was good and frequent. Justice scanned the three boats that had tied up to the pilings of the landing, and breathed a sigh of relief as he spotted the boat tied at the far end. Sergei.

  The small, compact poleboatman looked up as Justice walked out to the end of the landing. "Good evening, m'ser," he said, his white-toothed grin visible in the fading light. "Chilly night, no? Might snow soon, I'm thinking."

  Justice lifted his head and sniffed the air. Sergei could be right: there was a change coming and the air smelled of it. Thankful that he wore his heaviest socks with his soft-soled shoes, Justice nodded.

  "Don't like to think about snow," he said, "but if it comes, it comes."

  "Where ye be going?"

  His heart pounding, Justice flourished the books so that anyone watching could see. "Making a delivery from Father Rhajmurti—semi-official College duty." Lord! If Rhajmurti finds out I've used his name, he'll skin me alive! He grinned at Sergei. "A little extra money never hurt anyone."

  "Huhn." Sergei waited until Justice had climbed down into the coat, then unloosed her from the piling. He jumped lightly into his place at the rear, and took up his pole. "Where to?"

  "Petrescu," Justice said over his shoulder. "The most direct route."

  Sergei nodded, set his pole and the small, narrow boat nosed out into Archangel. "Heard ye sniff some, m'ser," he said, guilding his craft along close to the shore. "Something's going 'round. Could be bad."

  Justice nodded, not really in the mood to talk. Sergei was one of the poleboatmen he had known the longest, and it had been a stroke of luck to find him waiting this evening. "Maybe. The change in weather might stop it."

  "Could be," Sergei replied, planting his pole and letting the boat slide across the still water toward Borg.

  It was never truly dark on the canals at night—water held light and reflected it amazingly well. And with tonight's fog, the poleboat glided through a close, luminous cloud.

  Lord and Ancestors! What the hell am I doing out here? I hardly know Raj, and now I'm off on some fool's errand Lord knows where with something Raj considers highly dangerous. What's in those papers, anyhow? He snorted quietly to himself. Best not even ask that question. What I don't know could save me if I'm caught and questioned.

  "So, how ye been doing in yer studies?" Sergei asked.

  Justice shook himself from his thoughts and looked over his shoulder. "Sorry, Sergei," he said, roughening his voice. "Got a sore throat. Hurts to talk."

  "Understand."

  The trip proceeded in silence from there on. Palms sweaty despite the chill, Justice carefully watched the shoreline. Past Borg, under Junction Bridge and into the Grand. The buildings on either hand loomed up, oppressive in their dark bulk.

  There was little traffic now, save other poleboats and a few skips. Sergei hugged close to the buildings where the water was shallowest, the steady rhythm of his poling sending his boat along in practiced smoothness.

  Bucher passed, nearly unseen in the fog; then Spellman, though there were a few more lights shining from windows at canal level. Justice tried to keep from looking up as the poleboat slid under the bridges—a quick glance under his eyebrows would have to suffice. Ambush, Raj had said. Maybe.

  The Foundry stood to their left now. Justice had seen the canalers tied up in small groups around each of the bridges the poleboat had passed; the Foundry-Pardee Bridge was no different. Five or six skips had clustered about the edge of that bridge and, in the silence with aid of the fog, Justice could hear the canalers talking. Their presence meant nothing: if an ambush did take place, he and Sergei could expect little help from the canalers. Sergei seemed to sense the urgency Justice felt, for he poled along at a pace a bit faster than what was normal.

  As the poleboat glided under the Nayab Bridge, Justice could have sworn he saw several figures leaning over the bridge, watching as he went by. He drew a deep breath, surreptitiously loosened his sword in its sheath, hoping Sergei had not noticed.

  Sergei pulled a hard left at Fishmarket, fighting against the stronger Grand current. Justice sat up straighter, his eyes straining to see through the fog. He sh
ivered, felt the sweat beginning to run down his sides. Hagen was coming up in a short bit to his right, and Raj had said that an ambush could come from Hagen Cut that lay opposite Petrescu.

  But, no. Petrescu Cut opened before them, and Sergei brought the poleboat to an easy stop at the landing. Justice heaved a sigh of relief, stood, wobbled a bit, and reached out for the piling.

  "Be a while?" Sergei asked, nimbly jumping up to the landing and securing the rear tie.

  "Shouldn't be." Justice kept his voice rough. "Be out shortly. Wait, if you would." "Ye got it."

  Justice looked for the set of stairs he sought and walked toward them, the books he carried held in plain sight. Knees trembling, trying to appear to be only another dull student making a College-related delivery, he took the stairs two at a time, shivered once in the chill, and came to the second level landing.

  To face the door that led to the apartment Raj's friend occupied. Shifting the books to his left hand, Justice knocked softly on that door.

  For a long moment nothing happened—no sound, no sense of movement on the other side. Justice's heart sank: what if no one answered? He could not even use Raj's password then.

  He lifted his hand for a second knock, but a voice spoke from the other side of the door. "Who's there?"

  "Delivery from the College," Justice said loudly. He leaned closer to the door. "Rif just sings cute little ballads," he said in a hoarse whisper.

  Another long moment of silence. Then Justice heard the squeak and rattle of locks. The door cracked open a bit, and Justice had a glimpse of Denny's dark-eyed face.

  A look of recognition flooded that face, immediately replaced by an expression bordering on fear.

  "Who?" asked another voice, a female voice, from close beside Denny.

  "I know Mm," Denny said. "He's okay. Gave the password. 'Sides, he's the one who saved my skin t'day."

  Another pause. "Let 'im in, then."

  Justice waited until Denny had opened the door wide enough for him to slip in. The interior was dark, lit by only one small lantern. Facing him was Raj's brother and a dusky-skinned woman clad canaler-style, who must be the Altair Jones Raj had spoken of.

  Another Adventist, with a name like that. Lords! What had he stumbled into?

  "Raj?" Denny asked, shutting the door, and throwing the series of locks. "Where's Raj?"

  "Back at my place," Justice said, all too aware of the look he was receiving from Jones. He felt the weight of the sword at his side, remembering that these people might be as dangerous as the men who had followed Raj. "He asked me to bring you a message. He's all right. He was on the way to deliver some papers for a friend of his who's sick, and was chased by six men who kept him from his destination."

  "Damn!" That was Jones. She shifted her compact body in the semi-darkness. "Never got through?"

  "No."

  "Where's them damned papers? He still got 'em?"

  Justice extended the books. "Raj put the papers inside the book in the middle of the pile."

  Jones snatched the books, stood holding them to her chest. "Why'd he come to ye?"

  "We had lunch today. I guess after I beat the thugs off Denny, he trusted me. He remembered where I lived, momentarily lost his pursuers, and came to me, looking for a place to hide. He knew you'd be worried about him, so he asked me to let you know he was all right."

  Denny's face had brightened as Justice told his story. "He's all right, " Denny murmured. "He's all right."

  Justice looked at Jones. "Raj had more to say. He wants me to let his sick friend know that—" He licked his lips. "— assassins might be loose, and they may try to make a move tonight. If not tonight, then very soon."

  "Dammit all!" Jones' voice shook and she darted a glance over her shoulder into the apartment. She looked back. "Ye followed by anyone?"

  "Not that I can tell."

  "Come by poleboat?"

  Justice nodded.

  "Who brung ye?"

  "A fellow named Sergei."

  Jones thought for a moment, then nodded. "Good man." She hefted the books. "Papers is small. What'd ye bring these for?"

  "My cover. I wanted everyone to think I was making a delivery from the College. That's what Sergei thinks too."

  Denny was staring at the books. "Ye'd leave 'em here?"

  "Raj said he'd return them." He met Jones' eyes. "And if anyone is watching me, I can't very well leave with books I'm supposed to be delivering."

  Jones stared at Justice. "Where d'ye live?"

  "Backside of Kass." Justice gestured to the books. "My address is inside."

  "Anything more? When's Raj coming back?"

  "He asked if he could stay all night at my place. He's afraid to go out. He'll leave in the morning."

  "Huhn." Jones' dark eyes flickered in the lantern light. "When ye going back home?"

  "Sergei's waiting for me."

  The silence stretched out until it felt uncomfortable. "Ye mind me, now. Ye've done us a favor, an' ye done Denny one t'day. Raj, he'll pay ye back. An' me 'n.…" She gestured briefly "Ye take the straightest way back, hear? Don't stop for nothin'. Ain't nothin' worse'n t'be caught canalside when ye don't know the territory. Hear me?"

  Justice nodded, his heart beating faster. "I planned to do just that."

  "Good. Now, git… 'fore the traffic clears off the canals."

  Justice met Jones' eyes for a moment, saw the unspoken thanks there, and nodded again. A touch came at his hand.

  "An' thank ye again," Denny said, "for savin' me t'day. When y'see Raj… tell 'im we'll figure out what t'do at this end."

  "Git," Jones said in a friendly voice, brushing Denny aside to unlock the door. "Go safe!"

  Justice slipped out the door, heard it shut firmly behind him, the rattle and squeak of locks loud to his ears. Drawing a deep breath, he trotted back down the stairs toward the landing where Sergei waited. The damp fog hit him in the face again and he shivered in the chill wind. Snow. The orderly change in seasons. Maybe snow would make things seem normal gain. Normal? Justice snorted a laugh, and looked carefully around, alert for the slightest hint of trouble. After tonight, he doubted he would ever take anything at its face value again. Sergei stood up as Justice walked out on the landing and began untying the poleboat.

  The water slapped against the side of the boat as Justice crawled in. He drew the poncho closer, sneezed once, and thought of the medicine he had left at home. Sergei guided the poleboat back out into Fishmarket; Justice peered ahead into the murky darkness, and smelled a new rawness in the wind.

  FEVER SEASON (REPRISED)

  CJ. Cherryh

  The front door opened and closed again, and Mondragon leaned against the bedroom door frame, the pistol fallen to his side as Jones came down the hall toward him, waving a battered set of papers.

  "Raj's all right, he couldn't get 'em through, but he's all right." As Denny arrived in her wake.

  Mondragon let out a breath, felt the hall spin round, and held onto the doorframe until he had got another to steady him. Good news and disaster all at once. He had not killed the boy. Thank God, he had not killed the boy.

  Jones held his arm, pulled him loose from the door, guided him back to the bed and sat him down. He put the pistol back into the reading rack of the nightstand and swung one leg up onto the bed, leaning back against the pillows, trying to think past the ebb and flow of blood in his brain.

  "Could be worse. Denny, get out of here. I've got to talk to Jones."

  "I don't want to."

  "Denny, —" Jones clenched a fist, grabbed for the urchin, and Denny ran.

  Mondragon coughed and recovered himself while Jones sat down on the bedside and pulled a blanket over him. It had been hell getting home again—pick up a couple of Moghi's bullylads to ride with them and see him up the stairs and watch the boat till Del and Mira showed, and Min came back with the damned pot, drunker than a sailor for sure. Thank God he had shed the knit hat and the padding and sopped off the powder with cana
lwater by the time they got to Moghi's, and looked no worse than a poor fool in a smelly sweater and pants three times too big and full of holes—with his face and hands and feet all splotchy with brown stain. He had had a bath since. He had had to have a bath. He was covered with bites from something in the clothes.

  "I c'n try—" Jones started out predictably. She would, too. He had known that when she tried to worm his situation out of him. Raj was supposed to have gone into the Justiciary. Raj was supposed to have delivered a quiet message. Jones had double-crossed him, and said, cheerfully: Ain't no problem. What's he going to do? You got that paper out here.

  "No," he said.

  Odds were high it was a setup. That someone had gotten to Rosenblum. And God knew whether the papers they had risked their lives for were forged.

  No, gut-level instinct said. If the men who had sprung the ambush were Tatiana Kalugin's, they might well have been blacklegs. If arrest with state papers was the game, if the game was hauling a band of fools into the Justiciary for questioning that would turn up the name of Anastasi Kalugin— then best those papers be real. And Rosenblum might or might not have been in on it. It was even possible that it had been House Rosenblum's own hired muscle, commanded by Constancy Rosenblum, trying to save his reputation at both ends—get the note and the papers back. Mondragon had feared some such move and tried to dissuade it with threats: the Families, and Rosenblum was from one of the Families, ran their own police actions.

  Mondragon took the papers from Jones. He spread them out on his knees and looked them over. There was the Trade Ministry seal on them, that he had insisted on, though they were copies. There were the activities of the investigating arm of the Ministry. There were the warehouse inspections, and the name of the inspector. There were the waivers granted regarding Nev Hettek shipments. And who had granted them.

  If they were not real, whoever held these pages could force a comparison with the official record.

  And there was, damningly often where it regarded waivers, the name of a certain inspector Nadya diNero. Who also had invested to the hilt with one Sulie diNero, who was into speculative investments on which one Anatoly Kuzmin, the Kuzmin, had had the notes, but Boregy's banking operation had done a lot of note-buying lately, offering the holders a small profit a month ago when liquid assets meant a chance of bigger profits on pre-winter cargoes.