Troubled Waters

by C. J. Cherryh

  Raj was in trouble; that much was beyond all doubting, no matter the source. Either with Mondragon or on his own. And Denny was going to have to see what he could do about it—if he could find out what the trouble was.

  The last person Raj had talked to—that he knew of—was Justice Lee. Denny reckoned he'd better pay that feller a little visit.

  So best to lie low for a little bit, then get across Bolado to Bent and then to Kass. He'd been to Justice Lee's room once; and Denny figured he knew of a way into the rooming house that wasn't by the door, and a way into Justice's room that was right in his pocket.

  TROUBLED WATERS

  by C.J. Cherryh

  "I couldn't catch him," Mondragon muttered, coming back down the steps, and Jones reset her battered brown cap on her head and frowned up at him.

  "Boy knows something," Jones said.

  "Boy doesn't trust me." Mondragon landed aboard, making the ship rock. "Dammit, Jones. Dammit to hell, where would he go?"

  Jones shook her head, steadying the skip with the pole, and gave a heavy sigh. "I dunno. I dunno. There's a singer I know—might know."

  "We haven't damn well time to go asking around over town. The boy's desperate, Jones, for God's sake, he's threatening to kill himself—"

  "He goes dealin' f drugs with Moghi, he's goin't' save 'imself th' trouble. Damn that brat Denny! He ain't got th' brains of a fish. Ye let me find Rif—"

  "Riff"

  Jones winced. "Yey. Raj's got some odd friends."

  "All right. Find her. But drop me at Moghi's."

  "Mondragon; ye don't go t' Kamat! Hear me, ye don't go t' Kamat! That's money, that's trouble, that's real trouble!"

  "Moghi," he said firmly. "You ask around. I'll get Moghi on it."

  "Moghi ain't no charity, he'll tell ye." She put the pole in and turned about, easy on the wide canal.

  "Damn kid. Damn Raj. Double damn Denny. Rif c'n find 'im if I c'n find Rif. Ain't so easy. Damn 'im."

  See, Mama said, taking shape on the bow, scratching her head and settling her cap to shade her eyes. Mama was in no way to feel the chill of the wind that cut through a body, coat and all. Retribution looked serenely disgusted with her daughter. See, ye take up with landers, and loo kit th' mess.

  Yey, mama, Jones thought to herself, and gave a furious shove of the pole as Mondragon took up the boathook to help out to starboard.

  Ain't no karma, Retribution said, 'cept th' one ye get for meddlin'.

  Yey, there is, mama. There's the one ye get fr bad-talkin' a boy till he runs off an' kills hisself. Damn, I knew he was carryin' somethin' heavy, I didn't need t' cuss 'im, did I, mama?

  Kid ain't yours. Th' world ain't yours f worry for, Altair.

  Shut up, mama.

  'Least I got somebody, which you never. Mama vanished. It was an unfair cut. I kept you safe, mama came back to say, having the last word. How're you doin', daughter?

  CHAPTER VI

  BY A WOMAN'S HAND

  by Nancy Asire

  Justice pulled the collar of his threadbare coat up around his neck, juggled his books in one arm, and headed toward Hilda's Tavern, the cold north wind blowing at his back. A heavy layer of clouds hung over Merovingen; the resultant dim light made late afternoon seem more like early evening.

  Crowds filled the walkways of second level Kass: shoppers headed home with their purchases; students, dispersing from the College to their homes and rooms; and other folk who had reason to be about in the chill. Dodging two saffron-cloaked priests, Justice made for the tavern door, shoved it open, and stood for a moment in the rush of light and warmth, the sounds of conversation and laughter, and the smell of the large oil stove.

  Shutting the door behind him, Justice shook tiny balls of sleet from his coat, fumbled one-handed at the buttons, and shivered in memory of the cold outside. Something soft and heavy bumped into his legs; he glanced down and smiled at the large golden cat rubbing against his boots.

  "Come on, Sunny," he said, and started toward his room which lay behind the common room of the tavern. Exam time for the next couple of weeks. Desperation was in the air. The study session he had just come from at the College had left his head full of questions and answers, rules and exceptions to those rules. Nodding to several acquaintances, he skirted the tables, his mouth watering at the smell of dinner.

  "Something for ye later?" a woman's voice called.

  He glanced toward the kitchen and waved at Hilda, who had planted her considerable bulk by the doorway. "Sure. I'll be out shortly."

  She turned back toward the kitchen, ready, no doubt, to place his order without him needing to tell her what he wanted. Limited funds meant limited variety, but everything that came from Hilda's kitchen was more than merely edible.

  Justice slipped behind the heavy curtain that divided the common room from the hallway leading to the small rooms he and other students occupied. Sunny danced between his feet, meowed once, and trotted tail-up toward a closed door. Only one oil lamp was lit in the hall, and by its dim light Justice was just able to see the keyhole into which he inserted his key. The door swung inward on inky darkness. Justice set his books at his feet, scratched Sunny's head as the cat sat by the doorway, and reached to his left for the lamp. In a moment, he had it lit, set it back down on the small table, stepped into the chilly room, and shut the door. Sunny rubbed up against his legs again, turned toward the bed and his usual resting place, and froze.

  Justice whirled around, his hand already on the hilt of the dagger he wore at his waist. The brightening glow of the oil lamp revealed a small dark-haired lad sitting on the edge of Justice's bed, wrapped tightly in one of the heavy blankets that lay folded at the end of the bed.

  "It's me," the boy said, dark eyes enormous in the dim light. "Denny. Raj's brother. 'Member me?"

  "I do," Justice said, easing the dagger back into its sheath. He drew a long breath, his pulse still pounding in his ears. "How the hell did you get into my room?"

  Denny shrugged beneath his blanket, and wiped the dark hair from his eyes with one hand. "Secrets," he said. "Don't ye worry. Yer room's safe. Ye got one good lock on that door."

  "Huhn." Justice took his coat off and hung in on the wall-hook. "Not good enough to keep you out." He walked across the tiny room, and eyed the oil heater on the floor with some longing. Though his room was windowless, the air still felt cold, especially since he had not had sufficient time to warm up after coming in from outside. "What do you want?"

  "Raj." Denny unwound from the blanket. "Have ye seen 'im?"

  Justice kept his face perfectly still. "Not since yesterday. He brought some more medicine to me."

  Denny's face clouded. "Truth?" he asked, a particular note in his voice betraying what Justice sensed as real anxiety. "Not today?"

  "No." Justice reached down, picked up Sunny, and stood scratching the cat's ears. "Has he gone missing?"

  "Yey," Denny murmured, his eyes downcast. Then, as if he feared he had said too much, the young boy bit down on his lip and met Justice's eyes.

  "I'll keep an eye out for him," Justice said, trying to keep his voice calm and friendly. "Maybe he's just late getting home. ..."

  "He didn't come t' work!" Denny blurted. His eyes shone in the lamplight. "He trusted ye ... I trust ye! I thought maybe . . . maybe he'd come here."

  "Not today," Justice replied.

  Denny's face fell; he unwrapped completely from the blanket, let it fall on the bed behind him, and straightened his shoulders.

  "I'll be goin' home, then," he said, getting to his feet. "Sorry if I startled ye by bein' in yer room. I didn't want anyone watchin' me."

  More enemies? Ancestors knew how many shadowy figures trailed Denny or his brother Raj, or for what shadowy purpose. After his nighttime ride to Petrescu, Justice did not want to know.

  "No harm done. I'm having dinner in a few minutes, Denny. Would you like some?"

  A flash of emotion lit Denny's dark eyes, just as quickly gone. "No. I'd better g
et home myself 'fore I'm missed. Thank ye . . . thank ye all the same."

  "I'll tell Raj you're hunting him if he does show up," Justice promised. He frowned at Denny's threadbare clothing. "You'll freeze on the way home. Do you want—"

  "I been colder," Denny said, lifting his chin a bit. Justice shrugged, knowing something of the pride that ran through both brothers. He turned, opened the door, and stepped back to let Denny leave. The boy did not move; licking his lips, he cast a forlorn look up at Justice.

  "Come with me, will ye? They'll stop me out there 'less I'm with ye."

  That was truth. How Denny got back into the rooming house hall remained a mystery. Not much escaped Hilda's sharp eyes.

  Justice nodded, gestured Denny into the hall, cut off the oil to the lamp, and followed the young boy. Setting Sunny at his feet, Justice inserted his key into the lock, turned, and heard the comforting sound of the tumblers falling into place.

  Not, he reminded himself as he turned toward Denny, that this would make any difference to this lad.

  Make a difference.

  Besides Raj, he wondered what did.

  TROUBLED WATERS

  by C.J. Cherryh

  Mondragon handed the note to Williams at the Foundry Bank and sweated while the banker went back to open the massive ledger which was chained impressively to the rear wall. He was not an uncommon client of Foundry Bank's sort—dark blue sweater, blue pants, mariner's heavy blue coat, the weight of which made the heating uncomfortable.

  Lord knew the bank had seen him in better and in worse, and knew his drafts came off Boregy. When he rang at the bank's iron-guarded door the teller had had qualms, but Williams had let him in, even at closing.

  Try not to look nervous. The last thing he needed was for old Williams the banker to send a runner to clear the check with Boregy's bank on White.

  Old Williams riffled massive pages, adjusted spectacles and came back respectfully. "Yes, ser, but that will run your balance down to, approximately, 3.10 Ss. Just to advise you, ser. I'll stamp your check. To whom do you want it?"

  "I need it in cash," Mondragon said.

  "We have a policy against large withdrawals in cash. For the customer's protection, ser. This neighborhood—"

  "Cash," Mondragon said. "My check is good. This is Boregy business, ser, please understand me. We are in a hurry."

  Old Williams gnawed at his lip and finally went and countersigned the draft and made out his receipts, then called his teller to hold the desk and went into the back, where the vault would be.

  It took a while, an interminable while for Williams to come back and count it out, 200 sols gold; and to make out his several papers for cash withdrawal and to have Mondragon sign his name on each.

  "I hope you've got an escort," old Williams said.

  "I've got an escort." Mondragon took the heavy, paper-wrapped packet like a lump of fish and tucked it inside his coat, pausing to nod an ordinary courtesy to the old banker, while the teller carefully unlocked the door to let him out.

  "Is that the man?" the teller said, peering out the barred glass before he opened the door.

  "That's him," Mondragon said; and slipped out quick as the cold draft came in; out and into the care of one of Moghi's own.

  Across the bridges to Ventani High level then, up in the cold and the sporadic sleet, and down and down to harborside, past the second-hand shop to the shadows by Fishmarket Bridge.

  The back way in, by the alley.

  Moghi counted the coins, stacked them up like shining towers on his desk and looked at Mondragon. "All here. You got a real fondness for that boy, 's all I'll say."

  "At these prices," Mondragon said, "I expect results."

  Moghi jabbed a finger at the desktop. "Bottom rate. You want I put my boys on it, they do top job, but they ain't got no guarantee that boy's alive. This is risk money, m'ser. You're the risk. Understand?"

  • Mondragon tightened his mouth and said: "I understand you very clearly."

  "Ye better. You an' your hightown friends. This money better have no trace-stamp on it."

  "There isn't any. It's clean. There's no Boregy money, nothing they can trace."

  "You got it, then. Go out front. Drinks come with the deal."

  He nodded bleakly, got up and went out to wait in the front room.

  So it was one more lie. The important thing was a kid out there somewhere in the city, scared and desperate.

  He took Moghi's whiskey, he sat down at the corner table to drink the chill and the sick feeling away. He ate a tasteless dinner, Jep's cooking.

  Jones was out looking. Every canaler in the Trade was at least keeping an eye out by now, since afternoon. Rif and her Janist friend Rat were looking, all of it in desperate quiet. Trade was off in Moghi's tonight. There was a trouble-feeling about the place, and only the canalside regulars were in, looked around once and twice to miss other regular faces and then, with the canny elusiveness of the knowledgeable on canalside, had a drink and vanished, quickly.

  No sign of Raj. No sign of Denny.

  There were, Lord knew, none of his own connections he dared so much as name the boy to. No way in hell he could help, except hire it done.

  So he hired it. Paid Moghi, for Merovingen's shadowy underworld to do the looking. Moghi's expense would be halfway reasonable—counting the places Moghi could look, and the kind of help Moghi had to pay and pay off and (sometimes) silence.

  But if the boy was dealing drugs, if he hadn't stopped with Moghi and gone on to peddle them elsewhere—it meant the underworld was the place to look.

  Or harbor-bottom.

  If it was not Kamat themselves who had taken the boy. And silenced him, to put an end to an embarrassment.

  A bridge-boy, an orphan—against the Kamats. He thought about presenting himself at Kamat, about confronting the Househead and m'sera Marina Kamat and asking questions.

  But Kamat had ties to Boregy. And if Boregy had started asking questions, and those questions had come up with a boy writing letters that linked Thomas Mondragon with Marina Kamat, to Kamat's embarrassment and the possible collapse of delicate negotiations between Kamat and Boregy, because of him and because of a very expendable boy—

  He had a second glass, against the chill. A few of Moghi's lads strayed in to report, with cold-stung faces, and to drink down a pint before they went out again.

  The night fell, the night passed, to a tavern cold and virtually lifeless—open the night long, for the traffic that came and went by the back door, to report and get new orders, none of which had turned up a damned thing. Lanterns burned, lanterns burned out. Mondragon spent the night leaning on the table, head on arms, waked from time to time as no-news came in; and from time to time drank himself back to sleep again. In rare charity, Jep left the bottle on the table, set up another for himself, where he kept station at the bar.

  By morning, headache added its own misery, and Mondragon's stomach rebelled at the greasy stench of Jep's cooking; but he tried an egg—fresh, Jep swore it; and dry toast. And he got the toast down, and the tea, in a room so cold the tea and the egg both sent up clouds of steam and his hands felt like ice.

  He heard footsteps spatter up the porch, from the direction of the porch-edge and the water, looked up as the door opened.

  Jones.

  No luck. He saw that in her face—saw the little hope in hers die when she looked at him. She came back to the table, took the whiskey-glass full of hot tea Jep handed her and said:

  "Ain't no word. They say Moghi's lads is out all night. You done 'er?"

  Mondragon nodded.

  "Damn," Jones said, and rested her elbows on the table and shoved her cap back, resting her head against the heels of her hands. "That damn fool— Mondragon, ye don't suppose—Anastasi—"

  He shook his head. "I've got no reason to think," he said, in that whisper she had used. "No reason. It's Kamat worries me."

  "Ain't no one seen 'im there. He doctored this kid fr Del this mornin' ..." />
  "Doctored a kid?"

  "Sick kid. Del brung 'er to 'im. Raj's been doin' a little practice on th' side. Fixin' up kids. He ain't takin' any money. Wouldn't have it. Del offered. That ain't a boy dealin' drugs, Mondragon. I dunno what he's in, but he ain't a bad boy—"

  "He's a damn fool!"

  "An honest fool. Listen, Mondragon." She put her hand on his on the tabletop. "It ain't impossible he's got friends hidin' 'im. Somebody into 'im fer big karma. Doctorin' those kids—he might have a big 'un he could call."

  He tried to think so. He kept thinking about Kamat, about Boregy.

  And Anastasi Kalugin, to whom he had sold things . . . that no money could buy, only the safety of one canaler-girl.

  He had brushed too close to the Sword lately—too close and too often. He had reported those contacts, dutifully. But perhaps Anastasi worried that there were more than that—worried, in his twisted, many-turning way, that his agent Mondragon was reporting some of them and not all, and that he had doubled again.

  Or that his agent was, after all, working for Karl Fon—that everything was a set-up, under the deepest cover.

  Anastasi would not, he thought, lay hands on Jones. Jones was his price and Anastasi knew it. But the boy—

  "I'll go out again," Jones said. She rubbed her eyes. "Jep! Gimme some eggs. 'Bout three. Put 'er on my tab. —This yours?" With a backhanded wave at the whiskey bottle.

  "Yes." He poured a shot into her breakfast tea, and fought his own nausea, seeing her take it down. But she was chilled through. The cold still burned her face. "I'll go with you this time. . . ."

  "Ne, ye stay here, Mondragon. One of us should be here—"

  "I'm not doing any damn good here!"

  "All right." The eggs arrived, a greasy mess from which Mondragon averted his eyes. Toast followed. Jones took into it with a vengeance, whiskeyed tea and all.

  "What about Del?" he asked. "Have you asked about friends? Anyone Del would know?"