Troubled Waters

by C. J. Cherryh

The crowd in front of Ma Klickett's stall at canalside gathered to stare at the highly polished boat tethered to the docking-post. This was no ordinary skip, reeking of fish and worse dragged up from the Grand Canal; this was a private luxury-boat with the owners' Arms emblazoned on it, a man in dark green livery to pole it and another to escort the two m'seri into the tiny shop. Ma Klickett sat calmly, her fingers busy with the needles and the yarn, her eyes drinking in the sight, squat and dark on her little stool.

  The two high town women swished through the shop, filling it with their finery and their perfume. One was tall and fair, and one was tall and dark, and both wore many rings and tinkling bracelets and cloaks of heavy silk trimmed with fur.

  "Are you sure this is the place, dear?" the fair one asked the other. "I mean . . . here?"

  "Oh, yes." The dark one had that air of authority of one who always knows what's what and who's who. "M'sera Klickett, how do you do?" She extended a hand that had never seen the inside of a washtub of clothes, or the outside of a cooking-pot. "I was quite satisfied with the last sweater you made for me."

  "Glad to hear it, m'sera." The rhythm of the needles punctuated her words. "See you brought a friend."

  "I had to see where Ariadne got those simply fabulous sweaters," the fair one said with a laugh. "I never thought they'd come from here." She indicated the shop with a scornful shrug that took in the gray-brown walls and the wooden pegs, each with a hank of yarn.

  Klickett's eyes widened a fraction, then flicked back to normal, unseen. "Each one different, each one made to order," she said. "And a song with each, if ye like."

  "Really?" the fair m'sera drawled.

  Ariadne frowned slightly. "M'sera Klickett's knitting is known throughout the city," she said. "I wanted to order three more sweaters: one for myself, one for each of my daughters. They've outgrown the last ones you knit. Children grow so fast, you know ..."

  "Aye, m'sera. They do," Klickett murmured, looking down. Her Little Jo would never grow, would never pole a skip with his father across the Grand Canal. . . .

  The fair m'sera fingered one of the sweaters lying on the tiny counter. "These are quite inappropriate," she said. "Not at all fine enough, fit only for bargemen. Ariadne, I wonder that you dragged me down here!"

  Klickett's eyes narrowed, but she never missed a beat with her needles. "If m'sera wishes, I've finer yarns in the back. I can show'm to ye. . . . 'Course it'll cost ye extra, fine-work like that."

  "No matter," the fair one yawned. "Let's see them." - Klickett heaved herself off the stool with a grunt and waddled to the curtain that divided the shop in two. Behind the curtain she nodded at the two rangy women who were thumbing through the books tidily stacked on wooden shelves.

  "Hightown clientele?" said the one with the long black hair and red head-band. "Soak 'em good, Klickett."

  "They get what they pay for," Klickett said softly. She pulled a bundle down from the highest shelf. "Business, Rif. Don't come out till they're gone, hear?"

  "Wouldn't soil our hands on 'em," said the other woman, shorter and curly-headed.

  "They can be of use, Rattail. Just remember that." Klickett grinned and stepped out into the shop again. "Here y'are, m'seri. Finest of yarns, finest of colors. Never seen anything like this, hey?" She lifted up the sweater by its shoulders to display the iridescent colors that seemed to shimmer in the fading light.

  Ariadne made an "ooooh" noise. Her friend's eyes gleamed, but the perfectly painted mouth was still petulant. "Anyone can knit this," she said. "I could find the same in one of the shops in the upper markets."

  "Try it." Klickett shook her head. "This here's special yarn, spun fine, and mixed with a special down. The colors are part of the yarn. Got to be spun from one strand. Can't be got in the markets; can't be made—not by the Kamats, not by no one. Gotta know just what critter's hide makes the fur. Can't hurt the critters, either, or no more fur."

  "Betsina, dear ..." Ariadne sighed. "I hope you're not going to take it, because I want it."

  Betsina's mouth took on a predatory curve. "Well, dear, it seems to me that I asked to see it first. And Pyotr can certainly afford it more than Farren can. . . . after all, a Deputy Prefect's stipend can't go too far these days, and there's no extra pickings in the Harbors Office."

  Klickett's voice cut through the polite sparring. "M'seri, this here's a sample piece. Can't be sold. Just for show . . . But I can work yez up one to order, if ye like. Pick yer patterns, take yer measure, and come back in a week."

  "Oh, but I must have it sooner than that," Betsina whined. "The Governor's Ball ... I must have it for that. I'll even pay in advance!"

  Klickett's round face revealed nothing. Ariadne glanced at the shop-woman, then at her friend.

  "Cost yer a full piece," Klickett finally said. "Two days' work it'll be, an' nothing else for no one till it's done."

  "An exclusive design, mind! No one else will have one before I do?" Betsina was gloating already, picturing the envious looks of the other women as she entered the Governor's ballroom clad in this gossamer wisp that almost seemed to float, so fine were the stitches and so open the lace pattern. "No one else will have anything like it," Klickett promised.

  The fitting, measuring and pattern-choosing took very little time. As soon as it was done, Betsina strolled out the door, laughing merrily; apparently she'd forgotten her promise to pay in advance.

  Ariadne followed her friend out the door and onto the dock, feeling uneasy. She impulsively turned back and re-entered, staring for a moment at the two women who had emerged from Klickett's back room. They turned away, carrying books, appearing busy.

  "Yes, m'sera?" Klickett drew her attention.

  "I wanted to say ..." the hightown woman began, then stopped, considered, and spoke again. "M'sera Betsina tends to get her own way. You may bring the sweaters for me and the children when you can. You will be paid, of course, on delivery."

  "Aye, m'sera, and I thank you for the custom," Klickett said, but her eyes were on the door, on Betsina, as she spoke, and her look was far away. She scarcely noticed as Ariadne left.

  Rif and Rattail looked at the door, then at each other, then at Klickett. "Hightown contacts?" Rif asked, quietly.

  But Klickett didn't answer. She was thinking of that day, so long ago, when she had been on the Grand Canal with Big Jo and Little Jo. They had been enjoying a rare treat: a day of sunshine, and a full meal. Little Jo tumbled off the skip. They had reached out the oar to pull the boy in before he got too much of the poisonous water into him . . . canaler children learned to swim as soon as they could walk. Then that launch came roaring down at them, full throttle, with the hightown youths shrieking at the fun of running close on the canalers' boats. . . .

  And Little Jo, right in the path of the launch, and Big Jo diving down to get the baby out of the way, and the girl in the front of the launch laughing and laughing, her fair hair blowing in the wind. . . . "Go, go!" in that same, petulant voice.

  Klickett had never forgotten that empty laugh, that voice, that fair hair, nor that empty, pretty face. Now the face was painted and the hair was dyed, but the laugh was still as empty and the voice was still as shrill.

  Ariadne and Betsina were poled off to their island homes. Rat and Rif stared after the departing skip.

  "Getting up in the world, Klickett?" Rif asked. "No more room for our books?" She hefted the one she was carrying, displaying a page that showed an intricate knitting pattern. The text had very little to do with knitting.

  "Oh, always room for another book, or another song," Klickett said. "Got a new one . . .

  Rat and Rif sing songs down in vile cafes,

  Help the poor folks out of their plights.

  They've got sacks of seeds of poison-eating weeds,

  Sown on dark Merovingen nights.

  Rif s hand went to her nearest knife. "That's dangerous talk, sera. Some songs are better sung alone."

  Klickett shrugged. "No one listens to me, dearie. I'm n
o professional singer; I just make 'em up for fun."

  "Ha." Rat handed Klickett a few coins, and the books. "We'll bring some more tomorrow," she promised. "These look good. When can you get the new ones printed?"

  "Gotta do this sweater first," Klickett told her. "Gimme three, four days. You'll get your book out then, no fear."

  Rif shook her head. "I don't get you. You've got to hate them more than anyone. Now you make their fancy clothes, getting a toe into their circles. Why?"

  Klickett picked up her knitting again. "Gotta eat, gotta have fire. Can't get 'em with books, not around here."

  "Traitor," Rat said evenly.

  Klickett shrugged. "You fight 'em your way, I fight 'em mine. Your books'll be ready next week, after I finish this little piece for m'sera Betsina. Her fine sweater'll pay for the paper and ink."

  The women shrugged too, and left. Klickett closed the door behind them and shuttered the lone window. Then she pulled out the bag with the fine iridescent yarn, spun from the nests of skits, those ratlike creatures that infested the Flats up the canal past Zorya.

  She made a few mental calculations, then pulled on her heaviest sweater, her thickest boots and the gloves with the fewest holes. Her tiny boat was tied under the dock, just big enough to pole one hefty but determined woman up the Grand Canal before darkness. She hung a lantern at her side and set out for the Flats.

  The canals were almost empty at that hour; lovers weren't out yet, most business had finished for the day, night work hadn't started yet, the canalers were busy at dinner. She slid across the still waters, just another ragged woman on the canals, unnoticed. Once on the Flat, she struck a light and shone the lamp on the foliage that lined the bank. Skit-nests would be under the weeds.

  She parted the grasses carefully. Skit-nest fur could be collected only in the breeding season; once the nest was empty, the fur would blow away or be matted into the soil. Skit-nests contained skit-pups, who were as nasty as their parents and even more inclined to snap, since they had yet to learn what was and was not edible. Klickett's gloves were badly slashed before her sack was full, and she was bleeding from a dozen needle-puncture bites.

  Only one more chore to do. She picked her color-weed very carefully, then stepped back into the little boat and tied up her bleeding hands so the blood-smell would not attract any more skits, or anything bigger.

  Once back in her shop, Klickett set about preparing her yarn. The pattern was easy: lace, of course, in diamonds-within-diamonds. Skit-nest fur would be soft, like floating down, barely settling on the soft skin of the hightown woman. It would need a little something else, something to bind it together. . . . Klickett's mouth tightened in determination. She had waited for this day, planned for it, and now there was no hesitation at all.

  The next day found Klickett at her post, needles working away, in front of her shop. Rif strolled by and looked critically at the object taking form on the needles.

  "Interesting," the musician commented, "But why the bandages around the fingers?"

  "Got rat-bit last night," Klickett replied, couqting stitches. "Gotta be careful of those little buggers . . . ten, eleven, twelve, over, slip, knit two together, over... Got it!" She straightened out the piece, unwound more yarn from the sack at her feet, and started another row. With a sly look at Rif, she started to sing.

  What d'ye do with a drunk Canaler?

  What d'ye do with a drunk Canaler?

  What d'ye do with a drunk Canaler,

  Ear-lye in the morning?

  Rif took up the chorus:

  Dunk 'im in the Swamp and make 'im drink it.

  Dunk 'im in the Swamp and make 'im drink it.

  Dunk 'im in the Swamp and make 'im drink it,

  Ear-lye in the morning!

  It was an old song, but a popular one. There was a small crowd around the shop, mostly children but a few adults, and all grinned as they listened. Rif spoke quietly to one or two, who moved into the back of the shop and soon came out with small books in their hands, dropping coins into the box next to Klickett's stool. The knitted piece grew as the yarn wound out of the bag.

  By dusk the first half of the sleeveless sweater was done. The second piece would be easier, then the beaded neck and the fine lace of the sleeve-edges. Klickett's needles worked faster at the thought of Betsina and this particular sweater.

  Klickett had knitted steadily through the third day, with one eye out for the gaily-painted skip and the two m'seri. There were the usual customers, in and out of the shop, but no one from hightown. Perhaps she's decided against it, Klickett thought. Hightown women change their minds. . . .

  Klickett wound the last of the yarn into her bag, and sighed. Time to close up, she thought. The sound of the skip nudging the dock made her turn sharply. This time Betsina was alone, except for the man poling the skip.

  "Thought you wasn't coming, m'sera," Klickett said. "I thought I'd never get rid of Ariadne,", Betsina pouted. "But I wanted to see it first." "And pay for it?" Klickett hinted.

  Betsina stepped eagerly into the shop. Klickett lit the oil-lamp against the coming nightfall.

  "Here she is," the stout woman said, laying the finished garment on the table. The irridescent yarn seemed to shimmer in the flickering lamplight, and the beads cleverly worked into the neckline emphasized the fragility of the design.

  Betsina's mouth took on an avaricious curve. "Oooh!" She barely touched the delicate thing. "It's ..." she realized that Klickett was watching. Immediately she resumed her cusomary petulant pout. "It's quite nice," she said. "I shall send my steward around in the morning with the payment."

  Klickett shrugged and picked the sweater up by the shoulders. "I'll wrap it for ye," she said. Then, she added, almost as an afterthought," Ye'll be wearin' this with a liner? For if ye wish, I can line it for ye. T will take another day. . . ."

  "But the Governor's Ball is tomorrow night," Betsina said. "I can't possibly wait. And a lining would spoil the effect . . . just wait until they see me in this!" She reached out an arm to see the shimmering yarn against her white skin. "Even that stick, Farren, will open his eyes!"

  "Ah." Klickett nodded sagely. "But this yarn's sometimes a mite ticklish . . . 't were better if you wore something beneath."

  "For propriety's sake?" Betsina's empty laugh rang through the tiny shop. "Really! You canal people! Such prudes!" She picked up the carefully-wrapped package and swept out of the shop, onto her own skip. The boatman poled her off into the night.

  Klickett watched them go. She wished she could be there when that sweater was worn, but it was enough to imagine what would happen. If she had read the woman rightly, she would not heed the warning . . . but she had been warned. Even Mother Jane could do no more than that.

  Klickett waddled back into her shop humming to herself. The rest would be in the hands of whatever gods were watching. . . .

  * * *

  It was a bright morning on the Grand Canal. Klickett was hard at work, outside her shop, while the local population used her dock as a fine vantage-point to watch the parade of barges and skips, all solemnly draped in purple and black ribbons, as they headed out to the Harbor.

  "Nothing like a high-class funeral for show," commented Rif. "Give the people what they want ..."

  "They say she died slow and horrible," contributed one of the women on the dock, Some House's maid by the look of her outworn finery.

  "She was warned," Klickett said to herself.

  There was a step behind her. She turned to see Ariadne, dressed for the funeral, in a fine steel-gray sweater that Klickett had knit just that season.

  "I thought I should tell you," Ariadne said softly. "I was asked where she got the . . . the garment."

  "And?" Klickett's needles didn't miss a beat.

  "You'd shown her something similar, but that she hadn't paid for it," Ariadne said slowly, "that, I know. . . ."

  "Nor did she," Klickett said. "Nor would she have, ever, m'sera. She was a bad lot, she was. She done for
my Jo, and she'd an eye to your man, too. 'Just wait till Farren sees this,' m'sera said, in this very shop."

  "Did you know what it would do?" Ariadne asked.

  "I heard about skit-fur," Klickett admitted. "All us on the Grand Canal knows better than to mess with skits. Didn't know what would happen, though. But it must have looked a treat."

  "Oh, yes. It was quite . . . spectacular." Ariadne stared over the water at the largest of the barges, the one with the coffin. "She wore it with a pair of skintight trousers, as if she were a sixteen year old." The tall woman's mouth tightened in distaste. "And not a stitch under it, either."

  Klickett glanced up. "Not even a bodice?"

  "One could see . . . well, all!"

  "And then what?"

  Ariadne spoke slowly, seeing it all over again: "She was basking in everyone's admiration, and then she seemed to become uncomfortable . . . and then she started to feel some sort of pain . . . and had to be taken home. ..."

  "Yey, m'sera. I warned her, I did, to let me line it." Klickett's knitting needles seemed to pick up pace. She knew what would happen when the tiny barbed hooks of the skit-fur found their lodging-place in that soft white skin. It would be like a thousand thousand tiny needles pricking their way in, while the itch weed so carefully wound into the yarn would irritate the skin even more, and the little barbs would drive farther and farther, until they reached the nerve-endings, where the miniscule drops of skit-venom would begin their work. No, it had not been the easy death for that one, Klickett thought to herself.

  "She had an eye to my husband, you say?" Ariadne's well-bred tones cut through Klickett's thoughts.

  "She did."

  "Then . . . perhaps ... it was just as well things ended as they did,"

  Or you'd have had her hide yourself, Klickett thought.

  The two women watched as the cortege disappeared behind ordinary traffic, bound down the Grand Canal to the harbor proper.

  "I thank ye for coming," Klickett said softly. "Were ye followed?"