"Come on, Cassie," Michael pleaded to the trembling woman weeping against his chest. "It's not Retribution, it's just—"
"The sharrh?" said Vega Boregy bleakly, an interrogatory eyebrow raised, as the last tails of red and green faded into wisps in the moonless sky.
Chamoun didn't answer, but he knew what he'd tell Magruder tomorrow night. And he was no longer afraid that Chance was trying to kill him. Even if Cassie hadn't explained that it was Ito she was worried about, some ill will from the College, the fireworks display would have eased his mind.
Chance, you crazy bastard… thanks. Michael Chamoun kissed the top of Cassie's head and ran his hands slowly up and down his wife's back and looked over her shoulder at her father.
Vega Boregy's face was composed, but then, Boregy had been to Nev Hettek. He might well have seen fireworks before. Nowhere in the house was there an echo of his calm. Servants were screaming and sobbing and praying and begging forgiveness. People streamed toward the House's small chapel. Beyond, even through the fog, one could see lights in the Signeury and black dots like a mass of ants, headed for the Revenantist College.
Up from the water, on foot, and over the high bridges they hurried. Beyond the balcony, it was as noisy as midday in Merovingen tonight.
"When you get her calmed, Michael, I'll see you in my office," said Vega, and stomped away, slamming the balcony doors shut behind him.
There was time to deal with Vega; there was time to deal with Ito; there was time, even, to find Rita and console her, if she were as shaken and as guilt-ridden as Cassie seemed to be.
But right now, Michael Chamoun knew exactly what he had to do. He had to take his wife in his arms, carry her up the stairs, and help her find a previous life in which she wasn't afraid, a life which would help her deal with her present.
When that was done, Michael Chamoun could get back to helping the Sword of God. Not that Chance Magruder needed anybody's help now that the sharrh had come back again.
* * *
Cardinal Ito Tremaine Boregy had been personally punishing his failed assassins when the ruckus began. So it seemed to him at first that the flaming sky was some personal Retribution visited on him by an angry God for his failure—or for his foolishness at attempting to change fate.
But now, with people streaming into the great chapel in search of salvation, with all the faithful crying out for guidance, their trembling hands outstretched with gifts of atonement they begged the College holy men to take, Ito was once again composed.
If the sharrh had come, so be it. If this was some other manifestation—Instant karma for the attempt on Michael Chamoun's life, or for any other failing of Ito's, including failing in the attempt on Chamoun's life—then Ito would make the best of it.
The sharrh had not destroyed anything, the churchmen were telling the faithful as they logged in the gifts of gold and silver and oil and gasoline, of fish and textiles and ceramics and glass. It was a test of faith.
"Look around you," Ito told his multitude of aristocratic faithful, in the chapel reserved for the most wealthy and the most karmically flawed. "These are your brethren, the true believers. Whoever is absent this night, is lacking in faith, is a part of the reason we are huddled here together in prayer. Fail not to cleanse yourselves, and fail not to notice who is absent. For the absent are the guilty ones, who are not true believers, who do not pay the price of karmic debt, and who have brought this evil upon us all."
And just as Ito was finishing his lecture, in strode Vega Boregy and Anastasi Kalugin, shoulders brushing.
Which, in the long run, mightn't be so bad an omen: if no representative of the ruling house, or of Ito's own house, had arrived to share the guilt and do penance, then the College might have had an opportunity to take power. But power was up for grabs tonight.
Tonight, all of Merovingen, for perhaps the first time in history, truly believed. And true believers were what the College loved most.
"Perhaps we should go to the College with the others," Tatiana Kalugin whispered into Chance Magruder's neck.
"Like this? I don't think your family would ever get over it, m'sera Secretary." Her Excellency was lying under Magruder, naked, her legs wrapped around him.
She hated it when he got formal with her in bed. But in bed was where he'd made sure to have her when the fireworks started. And in bed was where he'd kept her, because if he could ever make the earth move under her, it was tonight.
She cursed him like a soldier, and then her ire dissolved into nervous laughter.
He simply stroked her, waiting for her distress to pass. She was tough, and before him she pretended to be tougher still. He knew she was frightened; he'd considered telling her the truth, but he couldn't risk it.
He looked into her hungry eyes and saw an urgency there that only fear could spark. She said, "Tell me it isn't the end of the world," in a voice hardly louder than a sigh.
"It isn't—not our world. I promise, if the sharrh come, I'll use all my influence to get you whatever tech protections you'll accept from Nev Hettek. Just you, of course, not your brothers.''
"And if the sharrh don't come?"
Then, honey, I'm going to use you to get the same result. Just you, the way I said—not your brothers. Relax, lady; play me straight and I won't let you lose. Out loud: "If they don't, we'll hear a lot about what it all means, and things will go on the same as before. We'll have to watch those cardinals—or you will. They could interpret this… event ... to their advantage. But so can you."
Then she chuckled, and locked her arms behind his neck. "You're a monster, Magruder. But you know that."
Despite her words, she was pleased. And beginning to pay attention to what he was doing to her. Which in turn pleased him.
There wasn't a place more dangerous in Merovingen to the health of Chance Magruder than Tatiana Kalugin's bed. And there wasn't a place, for that reason as much as despite it, that he'd rather be.
He'd told her the truth, tonight: he was going to do his damnedest to hand her Merovingen on a silver platter. And when it came time to hand her, in her turn, to Karl Fon.… well, that was a long time off.
Right now, he had all the trouble in bed with him that any man could handle, even a man like Chance Magruder.
And outside, tonight, Merovingen had all the trouble it could handle: Merovingen had just met the sharrh, courtesy of the Sword of God.
APPENDIX
Merovingian Songs
FEVER SEASON
Lyrics by Mercedes Lackey
Music by C.J. Cherryh
The night is hot and starless
And the moon won't show her face.
The walkways and the bridges
Seem as frail as half-burnt lace,
And if the city holds its breath
In silence, there's a reason—
Fever season.
She drifts along the bridges—
Or canalside she will go.
She's on the prowl for lovers
And this lady don't take "no."
Her lovin' leaves you burnin' hot
Her lovin' leaves you freezin'.
Fever season.
Now if she comes to take you
You will never see her face;
You'll only hear her laughter
As you melt in her embrace.
And if you wake next mornin'
Thank the Angel she was teasin'—
Fever season.
She takes 'em rich and hightown
And she takes 'em low and poor.
It don't matter—when you hear her
You cannot escape the lure.
The priest in all his holiness
The rebel steeped in treason—
Fever season.
The night is hot and restless
And the clouds hang dark and low.
You'll never see her shadow
But she'll take you even so.
And if you feel a breath of chill
Be certain ther
e's a reason—
Fever season.
MIST-THOUGHTS (A WALTZ WITH A LIMP)
Lyrics by Mercedes Lackey
Music by CJ. Cherryh
I have no reason to hope—I have no license to care—
It is no more logical far not to trust
Anything, anyone, anywhere.
Just taking each hour as it comes—and grateful to have one more day
Letting my guard down no more than I must
Never seek—never touch—never pray.
I should be watching my back—I should be just marking time—
Go through the motions, and know it is worth
Slightly less than a badly-made rhyme.
Why do I let myself wish? Why do I hear myself laugh?
Where is my reason for longing or mirth,
Who is helpless as wind-scattered chaff?
Who is this slip of a girl that touches the soul I thought dead?
What did she do when she saved me to share
In her life and her heart and her bed?
Making a wreck of my pride—or what little pride I had left—
Binding me up in the loom of her care.
Where bright hope is the warp and the weft.
I say I've nothing to give. She will not leave me alone—
She sees through evasions and futile disguise
As I try to seem harder than stone.
She searches for a way out; I give myself to despair—
Yet when she is done with her tricks and her lies
Then somehow an escape will be there.
What could I give her but pain? Or dreams that could never come true?
But—God help me—in unguarded moments I see
My traitor heart's dreaming them too.
I'll make no bonds I may break—or promises I might deny—
But—despite what has been—and for all that might be—
And my dear, foolish, Jones—I will try.
PARTNERS
Lyrics by Mercedes Lackey
Music by C.J. Cherryh
My mother worships money
And my father worships work.
My sister says that I'm a whore,
My brother, I'm a sherk
With such a loving family
There's no need to wonder why
At sixteen I determined that
I'd break away or die.
Well, die is what I nearly did—
Out singing for my cash;
They threw a little money
But they threw a lot of trash.
I tried a little acting
'Cause the bug was in my soul,
But acting couldn't keep me fed;
I starved, and then I stole.
Her name was Rif; she sang in bars;
Her hat was full of coin;
And she caught me quite red-handed
With what I tried to purloin.
She didn't call out for the law,
She didn't make a fuss—said:
"Rob from the rich to feed the poor—
And, partner, that means us."
She taught me how to pick gitar
And how to pick a lock.
She taught me how to kill
And where to bluff, and when to shock.
But being partner to Rif
Sometimes is a royal pain—
A singer-thief; that's fine—but she's
An undercover Jane!
She's a crazy rabble-rouser
And she wants to save the world.
I think she'd challenge God himself
With rebel flags unfurled.
And I love her like my sister—more!
'Cause I hate my sister's guts.
But I'll be the first to tell you that
I think my partner's nuts.
So here we are out singing
In some dark canalside dive—
And all I want to do is
Somehow keep us both alive
Between the priests and blacklegs
trying to send us both to hell—
And the scrapes she gets us into—Lord,
The stories I could tell!
She's a crazy rabble-rouser
And she's out to change the world
And with all she's dragged me into
I'm surprised my hair ain't curled.
But I wouldn't trade my partner Rif
For anyone I know—
And I sometimes think she might be right—
But, Lord,—don't tell her so!
Index of Isles and Buddings by Regions
Merovan Ecology
MEROVINGIAN EPIDEMIOLOGY 101
OR "THIS TOWN IS MAKING ME SICK."
There is only one thing keeping the entire city of Merovingen from being decimated—if not removed entirely from the map—by disease. That is that even the lowliest inhabitants have a thorough and practical working knowledge of the germ theory of disease. They all know to boil suspect water before drinking; to scald or sear dishes and implements before cooking; to throw out suspect food; to disinfect wounds however possible.
Nevertheless, there are still plenty of "bugs" to lay the unsuspecting low.
INFLUENZA:
By far and away the most common diseases in Merovingen are the upper respiratory influenzas—the true 'flu,' as opposed to what is commonly referred to as 'flu'—viral-bom gastrointestinal afflictions. For the native, these are usually non-fatal—only the old, the very young, or those weakened by something else are liable to become statistics. For the native, the symptoms include running nose, clogged sinuses, irritated throat, coughing, and low-grade fever.
For the non-native, however, the consequences of catching 'Influenza-M' can frequently be fatal. Within a few hours of the onset of the first symptoms, fever can be high as 104° F, congestion in the lungs can be life-threatening, delirium is a possibility and pneumonia is little more than a breath away.
VIRAL PNEUMONIA:
Without the drugs available to the rich, this disease is invariably fatal. The virus appears to be native to Merovin, and is probably the first to have 'crossed-over' to non-native hosts.
BACTERIAL PNEUMONIA:
Usually survivable, provided the victim is not allergic to whatever antibiotic is available. Bacterial pneumonia is known to hit whole islands, causing the priests to declare a quarantine.
TUBERCULOSIS:
Human stock is less susceptible to TB than in pre-Ship days, but the bacillus thrives in the damp, polluted air of Merovingen. While humans are less susceptible to the disease, the bacillus is far more resistant to antibiotics.
BACTERIAL DYSENTERY:
This is the 'fever' that commonly carries off those who drink canal-water; it is extremely resistant to penicillin, the most commonly available antibiotic for the canalers and canalsiders.
AMOEBOID DYSENTERY:
Another of the first 'cross-overs' to non-native hosts. Was invariably fatal until a vermifuge was discovered that killed it—ethyl alcohol. One of life's little ironies.…
TYPHIN:
True 'fever,' one of two; a mutated form of the typhus bacillus. Has the same symptoms as typhoid fever. Vector is the water. Resistant to most antibiotics. Can sometimes be survived with the help of blueangel.
BUBONIC PLAGUE:
Somehow this managed to make it into space; so far however it has been only a few isolated cases since the majority of citizens manage to avoid both the rats and the fleas that carry the disease. Canalers are uniquely 'immune' since they seldom come into contact with the above; the large number of feral cats keeps the rat population down and so helps prevent the spread of the disease.
HAKIM'S FEVER:
The other 'true' fever. This one appears to be either a mutated form of some otherwise harmless vims, or something entirely new; without electron microscopes it's impossible to say which. Vector is unknown, transmission is unknown. This is a real killer, and appears only in really hot weather. Symptoms are a
dangerously high fever, delirium, hallucinations, insatiable thirst. This is a cyclic fever; if the first bout doesn't carry off the victim, the second, the third, the fourth probably will. Named for the first person to survive it; has a 90% fatality rate.
MEROVINGIAN PHARMACOLOGY 101
OR 'HI!—NOT YET."
It is something of a commentary on life in Merovingen that the majority of the available pharmaceuticals are either recreational or fatal.
Since medicinal drugs are by far in the minority, we will begin with those.
MEDICINALS:
The range of medicinal drugs in Merovingen varies wildly with the state of one's pocketbook—there are some fairly sophisticated drugs available to the very rich—from up the Det, where tech is better tolerated.
Fever Season Page 26