Troubled Waters

by C. J. Cherryh

  "I don't—I mean I don't even know what they look like, how to find them!"

  There— she pointed, and something began forming out of the smoke and the dark beside her. The foggy image of an adolescent—sixteen, seventeen maybe. A dead ringer for Angela. That is Rigel—he calls himself Raj. And there— Beside the first, a boy about four years younger; Mahmud Lee as a kid. That is Denny—Deneb. Guard them, Ruin. Your life on it, or my curse forever.

  He had barely sworn to it, when she faded away, and his grasp on consciousness went with her.

  * * *

  Raven was pretty well pleased with himself; that had been one of the better vision-quests he'd sent Wolfling on. The former Sword hadn't fought him, had responded beautifully to all the suggestions. Bethany-root was obviously going to be the drug-of-choice in dealing with this convert.

  Wolfling came to gradually. He wasn't a particularly pretty sight, with half his head bandaged, and the rest of him splotchy with newly-healed skin. He coughed a good deal too; gift from the sulfur in the fireworks he'd set off, and the water he'd breathed. But he was functional, and functioning, and healing faster than Raven would have thought likely. He set up slowly, uncurling from his nest of reeds and rags and old blankets. He blinked at the sun, at Raven, eyes not yet focusing properly.

  "Well?" asked Raven.

  "I got—a thing—I got to do—" the man said through stiff lips, eyes still mazy with the drug.

  "Jane give you a job, huh?"

  "But I don't—I don't—I gotta take care of a couple kids—" his pupils were still dilated, but there was a certain despair in his voice. Raven kept his satisfaction shuttered behind his own stony expression as he crouched down next to Wolfling among the reeds. Jane's Hand should reveal nothing. Only Jane revealed.

  "So?"

  "But—how the hell am I gonna find her kids?"

  "What kids? Whose kids?" ."Takahashi. Rigel and Deneb Takahashi." If Wolfing was confused about why Jane would be concerned over the welfare of two Adventist kids, he wasn't showing it, but then Wolfling had never been strong on logic. "How the hell am I gonna find them?"

  Raven spread his arms wide with his hands palm-upward and looked to the sky, taking on dignity and power as he deepened his voice. This was the part he played the best—he knew, thanks to the suggestions he'd planted, in Wolfling's receptive mind, that the former Sword now saw him haloed in a haze of dim white light. Every time he took that particular pose, Ruin would see him glowing with the power of Jane. "Praise be th' Lady Jane in Her Wisdom, an' blessed be Her Hands what work Her will. Strange are Her ways, an' mysterious." Now he lowered his eyes to meet Wolfling's. "She has ye in Her plan, Wolfling; She's had ye there fr'm th' start of th' world. She's jest bin waitin' fer ye t' see Her. Rigel Takahashi is right here, Wolfling; in th' swamp. He's hidin' out, an' he's scared. He damn-well needs protectin'; he's a good kid an' this here is a nasty place. But he's nervy an' he's touchy; he don't let nobody near him but them as he knows, like me an' May. You wanta watch him, fine. That's Jane's will. But if ye show yerself, he'll run, I c'n promise that. If he even guesses ye're there, he'll run. You wanta keep him from runnin' further an' right inta more trouble, ye stay outa sight."

  As Wolfling nodded understanding, Raven rose, and stepped off the islet into the knee-deep, murky water of the swamp. Wolfling followed, showing no more discomfort than Raven. The Janist grinned; the convert was coming along nicely.

  "Come on, then. I'll show ye where t' keep watch on 'im without him knowin' yer there."

  CHAPTER V

  TROUBLED WATERS

  by C.J. Cherryh

  "I dunno," Jones said to Mondragon, still trying to make some sense out of the script-letters in the pages Mondragon had given to her. The wind ruffling the pages and the skip pitching and grinding against the stone edge of Foundry southside was no help. Mondragon had made a deal shorter work of the letter she had been bringing him when she had found him running for her usual morning route.

  What lady? had been high on her personal list of questions. But a scared kid dealing drugs and talking about gone was right up there at the top, and she had not even gotten to the matter of the lady, except the letter did:

  Dear Tom, it started off, and something about being a fool—(yey, she thought, ye got that right) and writing something to m'sera Marina Kamat—

  "Kamat? What's he talkin' about?"

  "Where'd you get this?"

  "Jep. Mondragon, that damnfool kid was in there at Moghi's tryin't' sell Moghi wiregrass an' deathangel. Lucky Moghi ain't broke his head for 'im, but Moghi said he was spooked, outright spooked—"

  "Who was? Raj?"

  "Moghi said 'e was all white and nervous-like, he said somethin' about never seein' 'im again—" "Who? Raj?" "Raj." "God."

  Mondragon looked as undone as she had ever seen him. Not a matter about ladies. She figured that. Or if it was it was bitter serious, and a life was first. Then she'd kill him. "Is it Sword business? Somethin' o' yours?"

  "I don't know. No. Not my business. Not Sword. The damn young fool—"

  She shoved the papers back at him. "I ain't made sense of it. You tell me. What's he done?"

  "Sending letters in my name to m'sera Kamat. Writing her poetry. ..."

  Jones stared at him with her mouth open. "Poetry?"

  "Jones, he's a kid, he's got himself in a mess— He started writing the lady poetry in my name— A Kamat. Hightown. He's got me in a damned mess, but he's gotten scared, he's left me this damn thing—" Mondragon rattled the papers in his fist. "—and he's talking about Take care of Denny when I'm gone. He's dealing drugs with Moghi—what in hell does he want money for, that he wouldn't come to me?"

  Jones drew several quick breaths, madder and madder, and feeling a knot at her own gut. "Well, he ain't likely t' come t' you after what he done, is he?"

  "We're not talking about a damn fool mistake, Jones, we're talking about money he's raising on the sly—for what?"

  Jones frowned at him. "He come up with that medicine." "When?"

  "When you was sick, dammit. I dunno how. He come up with it."

  "I figured he took something from the apartment."

  "Ain't none of us took from you, dammit, we ain't thieves!"

  "For medicine, dammit, what's stealing about that?"

  "Ye don't take without you ask, Mondragon, an' ye don't give what ain't yours t' give. Damn right he ain't took your stuff. He ain't took a penny. No more than me. Even Denny ain't. He's got that much, he ain't stealing from ye."

  "Oh, good God, Jones,—" ' "Maybe he got sera Kamat f give 'im money. Maybe he raised it somehow's else. Drugs is drugs, ain't it? He got the healin' kind. Maybe he's payin' for it with the other. Boy like that, somebody give him the healin' ones if he'll run th' other; and he ain't tellin' either of us, ne? Lord knows."

  "What in hell has it got to do with Marina Kamat?"

  She lifted a shoulder, huddled against the chill of the wind. "Hey, possible her folk could be after 'im. Or whoever's givin' him the drugs. I dunno, it don't make sense. He sure don't know what he's doin', goin' f Moghi. Moghi went easy with 'im. Somebody else—"

  "He's talking about gone, Jones."

  "Ain't unlikely if he's messing with Kamats and drugs and such."

  "Somebody went out after you did. —Get me over to Gallandrys. Use the engine."

  She scrambled, hopped up onto the half-deck and flung up the cover to start the engine.

  It balked. It would, in weather like this. "Damn near faster to pole," she muttered, on the fifth crank.

  It caught, a thunderous popping echoing off Foundry walls, and she put the tiller up and ran the pin through that held it while Mondragon cast them loose.

  A TANGLED WEB WE WEAVE

  by Mercedes Lackey

  Raj's hands ached with the cold as he worked without really thinking about what he was doing. He was trying to hold his mind in a kind of numb limbo, as numb as the rest of him was getting. He was doing his best to
avoid thinking, just to exist. The cold and damp were making his nose run, and the slap of water, the hushing of wind in the weeds, and the little sounds he was making while working were punctuated by his sniffles.

  His raft and hidey had been where he'd left them, and as he'd expected, they'd been stripped. The hidey was still in surprisingly good shape, all things considered; Raj was grateful. He hadn't had much good luck lately.

  With the water-level in the swamp at winter low, it had been cruel, hard work to pole the raft out of his old territory and into Ralf's, especially trailing the hidey on its bigger raft behind him. Ralf had ruled one of the best territories in Dead Marsh; right where the Marsh met the Rim and both met Dead Harbor—the very edge of the old spaceport, so they said. There was an unobstructed view of the city across the water, and a nice stock of food-plants, as well as two really good fishing holes and a couple of real, solid islets— the tops of huge chunks of concrete that had gathered mud and plants on them. Raj's arms and back were screaming with pain before he got his home to its new location, and if he hadn't been working he'd have been three-quarters frozen. As it was he was soaked to the skin, and glad of the change of dry clothes in his pack. He had moored the raft up against the islet nearest the Harbor and on the pathway from the Marsh Gate to the Rim; with the camouflaging hidey over it, it would look like an extension of the island.

  The sun was a dim, gray disk above the horizon when he'd gotten set up properly, and he was sweating with exertion; even his bare feet were warm. He'd been up since before dawn, and by now it seemed as if it should be nearly nightfall, not barely morning.

  From the islet he gathered rushes and sedge to weatherproof the hidey against the winter rains and wind. Then it was nothing but drudge-work; crouch over the framework and interlace the vegetation into it. Grass, then sedge, then reeds, then grass again, until it was an untidy but relatively windproof mound. With only his hands moving the wind was chilling, so he'd lost all the heat he'd gained by the time he was ready to thread new tall weeds into the top of the brushy hummock to renew its disguise. It was well toward midmorning when he'd finished to his satisfaction.

  He was exhausted and cold all the way through, still soaked to the skin, and more than ready for the sleep he'd lost last night. But he hadn't forgotten his old lessons. He made more trips to the center of the islet for old, dry grasses, stuffing the cavity beneath the hidey with them. He crawled under the basket-like hidey and stripped, putting his soggy clothing between his "mattress" of dry grasses and his bottom blanket to dry while he slept. Then he curled up into his grass-and-blanket nest to shiver himself into almost-warmth, then sleep the sleep of the utterly exhausted. It was a far cry from the cozy bed he'd left for Denny in Mondragon's apartment, and if he hadn't been so cold and tired, he might have cried himself to sleep.

  Denny hadn't worried when he'd awakened to see that Raj's side of the bed was empty. Raj had been going to work early, the past few weeks, working in a frenzy of earnest activity all day, and leaving late. Old man Gallandry himself had come down out of his office to see the handiwork of his new clerk. Too bad Raj hadn't been there at the time; he'd been out at lunch, and nobody thought to mention it to him when he came back. Of course, the other clerks were probably jealous—half of 'em were Gallandry hangers-on anyway, worthless cousins who weren't expected to accomplish much for their salary.

  Denny thought he knew why Raj had been working so hard; he might be hoping to get an advance on his wages. He'd spent all the cash he'd saved on Mondragon, and in a week the rent was due on their apartment on Fife. A runner earned about a quarter of what a clerk earned—Denny couldn't pay it. And if Raj couldn't raise the ready, it was back to the air-shaft for both of them, unless Mondragon would let them stay on. Which wasn't real likely. Jones was getting an impatient and irritated look whenever her eyes happened to fall on them. She'd been snapping at Raj for being underfoot, and it was clear to Denny that they'd worn out their welcome once Mondragon had recovered from the Crud. He had a fair notion that it was Mondragon overruling Jones that was keeping him and Raj in the apartment.

  And that despite Denny's being smart-mouthed with the both of them.

  With Raj too, which Raj hadn't much noticed, but he had noticed Denny's wise-ass attitude with Mondragon. That had gotten a rise out of him, more than Denny had intended.

  He'd backed—no, slammed—Denny into the wall night before last; and his face had been so cold, so tortured—Denny hadn't understood that, not by half, but Raj was hurting inside over something, that much he could tell. And Raj had never turned that expression on Denny before—and Lord, it had scared him a little. More than a little.

  You hear me, Denny, you hear me good. You're messing with a deathangel, I'll tell you once and not again! Tom's a gentleman, he's quiet—but he's killed more people than you have hair, and you'd better think about that hard before you smart him off another time. I dunno why he's puttin' up with you, but I won't, not anymore! I'll beat you blue next time—because I'd rather you was beat up than dead, and if Tom forgets himself some day, that's just what might happen. If you don't believe me, you think about what you told me about Mama; you just think about why They call Themselves 'Sword of God' and who murdered Mama before you open your mouth to Tom again.

  He'd sulked the rest of the day and most of the next, not speaking to Raj. But he had thought about it, and and he'd come to the reluctant conclusion that Raj had been right. Even if he was more'n a bit touched about some girl. And he'd started to make friendly noises at his brother again. « So all in all, he didn't think twice about Raj being gone. But when Raj wasn't at work, and didn't show up there by the time Denny got sent out on his first run, he began to worry just a little.

  He came around the corner of Gallandry on his second run of the day and saw a familiar skip tied up at the base of the stairs with a lurch of foreboding. No mistaking that particular tilt of a canaler's cap—that was Jones' skip down there, and Jones in it. And where Jones was—

  "Man to see you, boy," was the curt greeting at the door; sure enough, behind Denny's supervisor stood—

  Tom Mondragon. Wearing that impassive mask that said "trouble."

  "Denny," Tom barely waited for Ned Gallandry to get out of earshot before starting in, and Denny backed up a pace or two, until his back was against the office wall. "Denny, have you seen your brother this morning?"

  Denny decided to play innocent. "Ye mean he ain't here?" he replied, making his eyes big and round.

  Mondragon was not fooled, and the flash of annoyance in his eyes told Denny that he was not in the mood for this sort of nonsense.

  Aw, hell—Raj's in trouble—

  "You know damned well he hasn't been here," Mondragon hissed, grabbing Denny's arm before he could dart out of reach. "Your brother's in a mess— now I want to know what it is and where he is."

  "I dunno, m'ser Tom, honest—" Lord and Ancestors, the strength in that hand! Denny belatedly began to remember what Raj had told him when he'd read him the riot act—about what Tom was—and what he could do. And he began to wonder—

  What if the man had turned his coat a second time? If he was planning to use Denny to get Raj, and sell Raj back to the Sword? Raj was worth plenty to the right people.

  Paranoid, that was plain paranoid; there'd been no hint of any such thing.

  But—if the Sword threatened Jones? Would he buy safety for Jones with Raj's life? He might, oh God, Mondragon might.

  "Boy, I want you back in the apartment—" Mondragon was saying. "I've made it right with the Gallandrys." Denny had missed what had gone before; God, this did not sound good. There was no threat that Denny could read in Mondragon's face, but dare he take the chance that he could read an experienced agent? Denny was sizing Mondragon up now, with the eyes and attitude that he used to measure duelists, bridge-gangs, and blacklegs. He went cold all over, for he read dangerous in every move, and nothing in those murky green eyes.

  Mondragon still had his arm in that
iron grip, and was pulling him out the door with him. Denny's mind was going like a scrap of drift in a strong current. He couldn't take the chance that Mondragon was telling him the straight story; no way. He had to get away from Mondragon if he could.

  Besides, if Raj was really in trouble, Denny could likely help him better than some Nev Hetteker or even a canaler like Jones could; he knew the town, and knew most of the dark ways. And there was always Rat and Rif to call on if he had to.

  They were out on the balcony now, Denny playing docile, and Mondragon took that at face value. He relaxed a bit, and loosed his grip just enough.

  Denny whipped around, putting all his weight behind a wicked blow with his elbow, and he'd aimed it a bit lower than Mondragon's midsection—aimed at something more personal.

  Hit it, too; dead on target.

  Mondragon was wide-open and completely taken by surprise; he might have expected Denny to pull loose, but he plainly never expected an attack from a kid less than half his size.

  He doubled over with a painful wheeze, and dropped his grasp on Denny's arm.

  Denny lit out like a scalded skit, heading around the balcony and straight for the bridge.

  Mondragon recovered faster than Denny had figured he would, running after him. But Denny had gotten a good ten feet worth of head start, and that was all he needed. He made the bridge supports and jumped for the crossbeams, swarming up into the scaffolding like one of Merovingen's feral cats. From there he made it to the rooftops, and as he knew from long experience, there was no way an adult was going to be able to follow him up there—not unless the adult was another roof-walking thief like Rat.

  It was colder than Kalugin's heart up there, and doubly-dangerous with the wind so strong and unexpected patches of ice everywhere, and smoke blowing into his face when he least expected it. Denny didn't stop for breath, though, not until he'd gotten halfway across Bolado. Then he slumped in a warm spot between two chimneys for a bit of a rest and a bit of a think.