Troubled Waters

by C. J. Cherryh

  They'll think I got raped, that's what ever'body in the whole damn town'll think, and they won't believe not, not if I say it till the Angel flies. So what? So my mama was. She done all right. She shot that man. She had me. She brought me up right, and wasn't anybody in the Trade wanted to get aslant of her.

  Ain't no shame, if it happened. Shame's if they get away with it.

  Megarys is rough. Megarys is a way to get some people hurt, people with kids on their boats and all. What do I do, mama? What do I do about it?

  She tried really hard, this time, to see mama sitting there. It was hard to bring her. She lifted her head and tried till sweat ran, and finally she was there, dimly, in the corner chair.

  But Retribution Jones took possession of it then, folded her arms, leaned back, and put her bare feet out.

  Hell of a lot warmer in here, Retribution said. Smells better, too. Mama, he bought me out. Yey. He ain't done bad.

  She didn't trust it when mama got friendly and agreeable. Like it wasn't mama, and she couldn't trust it.

  They ain't touched me, mama.

  Ain't nothin' you did. They didn't, is all.

  Odd, something said, in the back of her brain.

  Mama, it ain't like I'm not going on the water again. Mondragon understands. He ain't keepin' me. I just don't feel so good t'day.

  . . . an I'm scared, mama.

  Retribution frowned.

  You goin' to take into me about Mondragon and that Kamat, mama? It ain't like you to be so quiet. . . . Don't be dead, mama. . . .

  Mama stood up. Like she was leaving. But she came and leaned on the end of the bed, and her face was like Jones had never seen it, grim and shadowed, and her eyes like light, like the fire of God.

  Like mama was going to come over the end of the bed and take her by the throat.

  You get 'em. You get 'em, Altair, you don't come whinin't' me! You got a name in th' Trade, an' it's my name, and you ain't runnin', Altair. You get yourself back on the water, you hold your head up, you tell it like it happened an' you make 'em believe it, Altair.

  They won't, mama.

  They will when you clean your mess up, because you say, an' it's your word, an' it damn well better mean somethin', Altair, it damn well better mean somethin', an' it don't mean shit until you straighten yourself up and look folk in the eye and take Megarys f layin' a hand on you! That's the cost of it. Ye don't whine t' me, ye do it! Ye do it!

  Mama left. Left nothing but the end of the bed and the bare wall where she had stood. That and a heat that made her sweat, and a strength that had her head up even with her shaking, had every muscle in her hard and tense.

  Can't do it yet, mama. I got a man in trouble. I got to wait.

  There was no anger from the shadows. Just a comfortable, biding mad.

  And the sound of Mondragon coming up the stairs.

  He brought her tea. He settled the pillows behind her.

  "Your color's better," he said, and took her hand before he gave her the cup. "Hands are warmer."

  "I'm doin' fine," she said, and pulled her feet up. "Sit. Sit an' talk t' me, huh? Tell me what you think I better hear."

  He sat. He talked to her. There was blueangel in the first cup of tea. She tasted it. Her nose was starting to run for good and all, and she sniffed and wiped it on her hand, drank her tea and listened, sober and plain, while he said how he had looked for her, and how he had thought she was mad at first, and was still worried, and then got scared, and worried sick. How he had gone to old Min and asked for help, because Min was the only canaler he knew was going to understand without blaming him.

  "I'd have slept with Min," he said, "if it could have gotten you back."

  She thought that was halfway funny. If it was not so grim all around it.

  And then he said, with a terrible look on his face: "I'd rather, than deal with the Sword."

  "They're tryin't' get ye back," she said. "Back up that river. Mondragon,—whoever you deal with—don't trust 'em. Don't trust 'em f' nothin'."

  "I don't," he said. "But don't ask me who I'm dealing straight with, Jones. For your sake—I don't want you to know that."

  "Don't go back on Anastasi," she said. The cold feeling was back at her stomach, a lump of sickness. The empty cup in her hands nauseated her with the memory of the blueangel-taste. "He's th' one c'n save ye. He's th' one Boregy swings on. That's more power 'n all the rest, in this city. Politics an' money. The governor's son and th' banks. Don't trust Kamat. I'm tellin' ye, not because I'm jealous, because there ain't nothin' right about that set-up, an' that woman don't run the House. If you get aslant of who does, they'll turn on you, they'll do you hurt, an' if ye took their side against Boregy and Anastasi, ye ain't got nothin' left____"

  "Don't ask me what I do. Don't ask me who I deal with. But you've got damn good sense." He took the cup, bent and kissed her on the forehead. "Get you another?"

  She shook her head, jaws clamped. "No. 'M fine." The shivers wanted to come back. The fear did. She gave him a jaws-clenched smile, her stomach trying to turn inside out. "Ain't goin' t' worry about ye. 'M scared silly, Mondragon. Ever' time you go out—I'll be scared. Ye take care. All right?"

  "All right," he said.

  Which was as much as she thought she could get.

  STRANGE BEDFELLOWS

  by Lynn Abbey

  Richard sat alone and uncomfortable in a barely reputable tavern at the Ventani waterline. Mohgi's. It had a certain reputation with the hightown thrill-cravers, and Marina had assured him it was a place where Thomas Mondragon could be found—eventually. Moghi himself had agreed, or he hadn't disagreed which in this sort of place passed for agreement, and said he thought Mondragon would show sometime before third watch.

  Richard toyed with a brandy he'd ordered but could not bear to drink. Three short days, and nights. The Samurai offering was two-thirds subscribed before it had been published in the daily mercantile report. Kamat's partners and subordinates had come aboard first: Balaci, Yakunin, Wex, but others had followed. Even Zorya, which also finished wool, and craved the secret of First-bath dye like a starving man, had anted up the minimum fifty sols.

  Vega Boregy had opened his private club to his new ally, inviting Richard to dine with Ito and Exeter, Romney and Rosenblum: men and women who had been power in Merovingen when Kamat still chased and sheared sheep by hand. They praised him to his face and asked the same question: When do you start hiring?

  He gulped the brandy and wiped his mouth. His old nurse's purgatives tasted better than the sheepdip Moghi poured. Lord, sheepdip probably tasted better. Richard guessed he'd have an ulcer from the brandy or from nerves if Mondragon didn't show soon.

  "M'ser Kamat?"

  Richard beheld Thomas Mondragon staring down at him. Unlike Marina, he knew danger when he saw it, and knew he'd been wise to come unarmed. Mondragon might hesitate to kill an unarmed man. There was no doubt he could kill, no doubt—looking into those unreadable eyes—that he could have been Sword. Richard could go through the motions with a sword, but he was no duelist and he'd never shot a gun. He could defend himself nicely with a canaler's pole, but he could scarcely use a pole in a tavern—even one as rowdy as Moghi's

  "Have a seat."

  Cat-supple and still staring, Mondragon eased into the chair opposite Richard's. "I got your message. I have no intentions, honorable or otherwise toward your sister, m'ser Kamat."

  "I assumed you didn't, but Marina has intentions toward you."

  "She came to me. I told her it was unwise—" "As you took her money."

  "Which is long since spent, m'ser Kamat. Gone and spent; you won't see it again. Not from me. State your intentions, if you think I'm in your debt."

  The man was cold as a sharrist hell. His eyes were veiled; his posture so relaxed it bordered on insolence. And there was the whisper of threat behind his every word. Richard tried to imitate him.

  "My sister has never loved a man before."

  "I gathered that much."r />
  "I don't want to see her hurt."

  "Then you should have locked her up, m'ser. She's reckless and unwise, and attractive in the bargain. It's a combination that makes for hurting."

  Imitation wasn't working. Richard couldn't outcold the Sword. He let his anxiety rise naturally to the surface and leaned forward on his elbows.

  "What did she promise you, Mondragon? She thinks you'll be her lover; she thinks she wants your child. You're not the man for that sort of thing, I think. So is she an utter fool, or did she promise you something? Gold?"

  "She promised me everything, Kamat; I took the gold because I needed it." "You care nothing for her?"

  "I care nothing for anyone. You know that; you told me so yourself." "But you'll still need gold."

  Mondragon said nothing. He did not look away from Richard's challenge, but he did not answer it. As with Moghi, the lack of disagreement tokened agreement.

  "You might understand, m'ser, that I wouldn't interfere with my sister's lovers, and, as you imply, a certain amount of pain is one of love's most exquisite pleasures. Still, I would prefer that lust, if not love, be the only currency involved."

  "What are you getting at, Kamat?"

  "I don't want my sister paying for your feigned affection."

  "So you'll pay instead? You Kamat are such a considerate family."

  The barb cut close to the bone, and Richard winced visibly. He had thought nothing could be worse than sitting in Vega Boregy's office, feeling immature and inferior while the older man spun his webs. He'd been wrong. Sitting with a man not too many years his senior, and feeling the same thing, was worse.

  "I found myself covering my sister's promises to the boy: We will sponsor him. Regrettably, it seemed a similar notion to consider her promises to you the same way."

  "That would, I think, be very unwise." There was no trace of humor in Tom's voice.

  "She tells me you're poor. That the gold went to cover your rent—"

  "Among other things."

  "And certain parties would take it amiss if you went back to your regular trade, I dare say."

  There was no humor in Richard's voice, either, and Mondragon's expression went absolutely blank.

  "I have a proposal to make to you, m'ser Mondragon. Marina suggested it first, and I thought it foolish at first, but I think there might be some wisdom to it after all. You may have heard that Boregy's bank has underwritten the charter for a new security force in Merovingen."

  Tom remained impassive. "So?"

  "They're fronting mercantile money: Kamat money and gold from a fair sampling of other houses. Enough gold to employ fifty men on annual contracts, and more later."

  "I'm not interested."

  "I've got to hire those fifty men and, on careful reflection, I expect that certain men who cramp your style will present themselves to me. Now, I won't know them by sight, and you haven't been able to find them—"

  "If there were such men, I'd hardly consider sitting down in front of them, Kamat."

  "You've spent little enough time in a Merovingen hiring hall, then. No one would see you, but I'd be most grateful if you could assure me that I'd hired no Nev Hettek ringers for the Samurai."

  Tom's facade slipped a little. "You say Boregy and your peers are behind you? I wouldn't think that's enough to set up another security force when the blacklegs are in all the right places."

  "Even on the Rock there are places the blacklegs are not invited to go, and places where the Samurai will be invited."

  "You seem pretty sure of yourself for a man who knows nothing about security."

  Richard tipped his mug and found he'd drunk all the so-called brandy. His mouth was gluey and his tongue felt thick. For a heartbeat he thought he'd been drugged, but it was just the adrenalin pounding through his system. He had mentioned needing additional expertise to Vega Boregy; the man hadn't blinked. He knew Boregy had ties to Anastasi now, and it was rumored that Mondragon had ties to Anastasi Kalugin as well. If he could get Mondragon to take the bait, he'd have hired expertise, all right, but who would it really be working for?

  "We're merchants, m'ser, every season we risk ruin and collapse. Perhaps you haven't been here long enough to see a House fall, or a new one rise to take its place. The only security we want is for our docks and our warehouses. And, I assure you we know the value of gold."

  "I'll consider it, Kamat, but my back grows itchy when I sit in one place too long." Mondragon pushed his chair from the table. "I'm not cheap to hire, and I follow no one's rules."

  Tom did not offer his hand, and Richard ordered another brandy once he'd left the tavern.

  It was Sunday, the day when wealthy folk went praying or slept late. It was a day much like the others for the rest of Merovingen. The sun was shining and the wind was, for once, quiet. Ashe paused at the end of St. John Bridge and took a final drag on his tabac before flipping the butt into the canal below. He was about to light another when he noticed a messenger on Kamat Bridge bearing for the front door.

  Sunday mail was always private, always personal. Ashe pushed away from the rail and headed for the mid-door. The day underporter, reeking of Satterday gin and Sunday incense, let him in.

  "Messenger coming," Ashe explained, tossing his jacket on the peg. "Saw him from the bridge."

  The dayman grunted and went back to staring across St. John Bridge. Ashe heard the big bronze bell upstairs. The messenger was in the vestibule with Eleanora Slade when he completed his climb.

  "I'm here, no need for you to deliver that," he informed her, deftly inserting himself between them.

  "I'm to deliver it to m'sera Marina Kamat, personally," the youth said.

  "The family's in the diningroom," Eleanora replied. "You'll not go in there."

  "Then I'll wait. I got my instructions clear."

  "I'll handle this." Ashe dug into his pocket for a silver libby; he'd get it back from the butler, later; the butler'd be reimbursed from the cook, and the cook would shave his from the household allowance. The tied and sealed message fell easily from the youth's hands.

  "You'll deliver it yourself?" Eleanora asked. "Of course."

  Richard, Andromeda and Marina were drinking tea when Ashe followed the butler into the diningroom.

  "A message for m'sera Marina from Petrescu," the butler announced, taking the paper from Ashe's hand.

  "Petrescu?" Marina asked breathlessly. She broke the seal and let the string fall to the floor. Her face began to glow with happiness as she scanned the lines. "It's from Tom," she said—as if the other two hadn't guessed. "He says," she paused, her forehead wrinkling slightly, "he says to be remembered to you, Richard, and ... oh, Mother—he's invited me to dinner! What shall I wear?"

  "You're on your own, Ree," Andromeda said with an indulgent, but slightly thin-lipped smile.

  Marina left the diningroom at a run. So did Ashe and the butler, though only after they'd been dismissed. Andromeda and Richard locked stares and the tea between them grew cold.

  CHAPTER XII

  SAYING YES TO DRUGS

  by Chris Morris

  Mike Chamoun was a riverboat captain from Nev Hettek, nothing more. Whenever he went aboard his beloved Detfish, he could believe that again. Even to stand on the Detfish's poop was more honor, privilege, and unattainable luck than a poor boy like Chamoun would have dreamed of, a 5'ear ago in Nev Hettek.

  But this wasn't Nev Hettek, and it wasn't last year. It was this year in Merovingen, and Chamoun wasn't the son of a poor Nev Hettek Adventist family any longer. He was Michael Chamoun, scion of the instant dynasty called Chamoun Shipping; husband of Cassiopeia Boregy and resident of Merovingen's noble Boregy House; officer of the census by special decree of Tatiana Kalugin Herself; convert to Revenantism under the personal tutelage of Uncle Ito—Cardinal Tremaine Ito Boregy.

  He was also the favorite pawn of Nev Hettek's Ambassador in Merovingen, one Chance Magruder, and more. Michael Chamoun was a Sword of God agent, a revolutionary, if you l
iked; a terrorist, if you didn't. He was, in plain fact, a Nev Hetteker spy under deep cover in the very bosom of his enemy—in Boregy House.

  If that weren't trouble enough, Michael Chamoun was slowly falling in love with the wife he'd married for the Cause, young Cassie. He hadn't meant it to happen. It wasn't supposed to happen. When he'd came here, he'd still been in love with the unattainable Rita Nikolaev.

  Maybe, he told himself fiercely, he still was. That was the reason for this meeting, the real reason Chamoun was on the Detfish tonight. He was going to tell Chance, when Magruder got here, that Chamoun wasn't anybody's boy anymore as far as personal stuff went—that he was going to see Rita, and do what a man did in a situation like this.

  He had to. He was too damned confused. He'd gotten in too deep here and had to straighten his thinking out, at least. Before he made some foolish mistake—or another one—that cost people's lives.

  Dockside, the Detfish had only a skeleton crew, and Chamoun moved dreamily off the poop toward the captain's cabin. When he'd come here, he'd brought Sword agents other than just himself and Magruder. Dimitri Romanov had been with him, and Rack and Ruin al-Banna, the vicious twins. Now all but he and Magruder were dead. It ought to be a sign to Magruder, who was trained to calculate odds in such things.

  But Magruder was making himself scarce, and the last time Chamoun had seen him, the meeting hadn't gone well. Michael had been forced to explain that he'd gotten himself compromised by the ex-Sword Mondragon and Vega Boregy, his wife's father. That Chamoun was up to his ears in a second channel meant to sever Magruder himself from the Sword of God.

  It hadn't gone down well. Chamoun wasn't a tactical genius, a strategic planner like Magruder, but he knew he had to do something to restore Chance's confidence in him. People Magruder didn't trust—like the al-Bannas, like Romanov—didn't live long.

  Chamoun had to tell Magruder how he felt, and what was going on in Boregy house . . . especially with his wife, Cassie . . . before it was too late.