"Make sure it's in a small enough bottle," Pavel called after her retreating footsteps.
"Yes, yes. And we'll go on foot, so the boatman won't talk."
The conversation ended in a thumping of moving feet, rattling of cabinet doors, whispers of cloaks being taken down and tied on. Nothing more to learn here. Chuckling softly, Black Cal led his two worshipful rookies around to the front door and placed them neatly on either side of it. He took up his own position farther down the walkway, just on the off chance that the two fools tried to run.
Ten minutes later, Pavel and Rosita Fife strode out their front door, cloaked and muffled for a long foot-journey across the city. They got all of two steps before the heavy hands fell on their shoulders, making them jump in unison.
"You're under arrest!" said the rookies together.
Smiling, smiling, Black Cal strolled up with the cuffs. "Folks," he purred, "you really ought to know your limitations."
The rookies made a fine show of handcuffing the dismayed Fife siblings, searching them, finding the fatal little bottle and stuffing it ceremoniously in an evidence-bag—all in front of a growing and appreciative crowd of neighbors and passersby. They were also hyper-efficient at marching the two prisoners straight down the shortest route—which happened to be the main walkway—to the Signeury, and swatting them righteously with batons when they protested too much. Black Cal brought up the rear of the little parade, content to let the rookies have their moment of honest glory. It all made quite a show for passing citizens, of whom there were many.
At the Signeury, the duty-officer took one look at the oncoming procession, and almost formally waved the handcuffed and disheveled couple into one of the better-quality cells. He had the forms ready and his pen out, clearly expecting this.
"How did you know we were coming?" Black Cal asked him. "We took the shortest route here. And how did you get the blue-ribbon cell clear so fast?"
"Aw, hell, Cal," the turnkey laughed, "we knew it this morning, when you took the rookies out."
"Really? Who told you?"
"Needed no telling. You only volunteer to train rookies when you're goin' out to bust hightown perps." The duty-officer gave a knowing wink. "The kids're too green to be bought up already, and there's too many of 'em f'r the perps' hightown lawyers to discredit. Real predictable, eh?"
Black Cal only laughed.
The sun was peeping out through the cloud-deck when the governor's small informal poleboat pulled up to the Delany slip. His lead boatman hopped out to secure the craft and follow the old man in, but Iosef Kalugin waved him back and strolled to the front door alone. He knew very well he was as safe here as on The Rock proper.
The door opened noiselessly, and a liveried doorman bowed him in. Inside, an immaculately-dressed maid took his coat, ushered him to the glassed-in east balcony, announced him at the door and discreetly vanished.
Ariadne rose to welcome him, dressed in a delightfully casual and form-fitting suit of heavy wheat-colored cotton, surmounted by one of those marvelous sweaters she almost always wore. She introduced him to the only other guests, and the governor's eyebrow—and estimation of his hostess—rose noticeably.
"Black Cal, no less," he smiled, shaking the tall blackleg's hand. "Of course I've heard of you. You're quite a legend, you know."
"I only hope I can live up to it, m'ser," Black Cal replied in that unnervingly quiet voice.
"And this is m'sera Alvarez," Ariadne neatly turned to Rif. "A musician, who'd like to entertain us today."
"Charmed," said Iosef, formally taking her hand. He noted the calluses, and the good-quality—if well-used—gitar held in the other hand. Yes, quite the professional. Ariadne always chose the best entertainment, always perfectly fitting to the occasion, even if the artists were sometimes quite obscure. Not that he kept track of the entertainment world, really; no time for it. "I look forward to hearing you perform."
"Delighted to oblige, m'ser." The woman smiled prettily and stepped back to her chair, discreetly pulling her instrument to the ready position.
So much for the hired help. That meant the only other guest here was Black Cal. He must have the "interesting news" that Ariadne promised. Intriguing, indeed.
"Shall we sit down?" Ariadne said, guiding them to a roomy arrangement of thick-cushioned wicker chairs, set about a circular glass-topped table.
Iosef sat, noting the unobtrusive comfort of the chairs, the understated elegance of the peach-toned tableware, the nice accents of tall potted plants that were actually thriving in the uncertain winter light. In fact, it was warm enough up here on the sun-heated balcony that he almost regretted having worn his woolen suit. Well, no harm to unbutton his jacket in this setting. Only Black Cal was watching him; m'sera Alvarez was tuning her gitar, and Ariadne was ringing a sweet-toned little brass bell for the maid. Iosef unfastened his jacket and pulled it open.
Drinks arrived, another of Ariadne's superb wine-and-fruit-juice concoctions, with a round of small spiced rolls and a cheese assortment. The entertainer took a ritual mouthful of her drink before commencing on a quiet romantic piece, very well played: a good background for light conversation, which Ariadne managed splendidly, as always.
After one and a half glasses of the fruit-punch, half a dozen assorted cheese canapes and the usual round of polite questions and answers about unimportant doings of friends and family, Iosef felt sufficiently assured to ask about the "interesting news."
"Ah, that you should hear from the source," Ariadne crooned, swirling her free hand elegantly toward Black Cal. And pray he can say this right, she added to herself. One hour's coaching might not have been enough.
All but forgotten, Rif switched to another song: a long classic ballad from the fabled Reconstruction era.
Honest Rowan was a hunter, good as any in the north.
But the game were few and scattered. To the city she set forth.
Who would have an honest servant? Ill the master that she found.
Ill the day that wicked Tymann to his service had her bound.
Black Cal fiddled quietly with his empty glass. "You know my reputation," he began.
"Oh, yes," Iosef encouraged. "Quite the legendary egalitarian."
"I'm interested in justice, actually." Black Cal looked up. "It's the law that sometimes gives me trouble. The two aren't the same."
"That's a rather widespread problem," the governor noted dryly. "I take it you've stumbled on an interesting conflict of interest."
'As I see you are a hunter, I command you hunt my foes
In the streets about the city, in the alleys no one knows.
Militiar and money-lender and the high priest I would choose.
Go you forth and do my bidding. By your oath, you can't refuse.'
"I've come across something too big to go public without ironclad proof," said Black Cal. "I can't get proof enough to push this past some, ah, prejudiced parties among my superiors."
"Too big?" Iosef leaned back in his chair, seeing where this led. "Politics, is it?"
"Politics," Black Cal agreed. "Very big politics. Very damned dangerous politics."
The governor nodded sympathy. Another police scandal, obviously. "How far up does the . . . problem
go?"
"Right to the top." Black Cal locked eyes with him. "Your daughter's in it. In fact, she's half of it."
Iosef laughed. Tatiana again. What, something connected with her laughable mishandling of the census? Some juicy scandal with that Nev Hettek trade-pimp she was bedding these days? Another damned coup attempt? "Well, how bad is it?"
"Pretty bad." Black Cal shoved his glass aside. "I have some canalside sources who're refugees from Nev Hettek. Some of them recognized Tatiana's new lover."
"Indeed?" Oh, a household scandal, then. How bad could that be?
"He's not just pushing for Hettek trade. He's a very high-placed Sword of God agent, probably commander of all the other Sword agents in the city. Lord knows what he can do f
rom his ... new position. Lord knows what he's done already."
"In . . . deed." Iosef sat back to consider that. His own agents in Tatiana's offices and household hadn't learned this much. The implications were appalling.
'To the high priest Rowan went. 'Oh, Father, my confession take.
I am sent to slay a priest, bound by an oath I cannot break.
What now can an honest servant to an evil master do?
I must bring your head to Tymann; for my target, ser, is you
"I can't trust my own officers with this," Black Cal went on. "Who else could I tell it to?"
"Yes, I see." The governor absently wiped his mustache with a napkin, plotting rapidly in his head. The one thing he did not doubt was that the information was good; Black Cal's reputation was legendary, and Ariadne's—though known only to a few—was equally sound. What a pity that the news had been obliged to take two steps, at least, and Lord knew how long, to reach him. He really needed more informants canalside. But remedy that later; for now, he would need every warm body to shadow and study the Nev Hettek man. Meanwhile, say something appropriate.
"Ah, yes. I find it distressing that there are no reliable routes whereby the, er, lower echelons can file complaints directly to the top of the system." Iosef hoped that didn't sound too pompous to his co-guest and hostess. It sounded laughably trite to him.
"That is something of a problem," Ariadne murmured.
"Yes, I've often thought that our time-honored patronage system had serious flaws." Oh, platitudes! Get out of here and deal with the problem at hand. The governor looked out over the water, apparently taken with the view. "Something really must be done about this." Tatiana, you idiot!
Out then sprang the high priest, angry, pistol
drawn and spitting lead. Three times fast and sure he fired, and shattered
wicked Tymann's head. 'Go you free now, Honest Rowan, for your service
here is done. Wicked master's honest servant, take the freedom
you have won.'
"Would you care for some more cheese?" Ariadne offered, neatly allowing for a change of pacing.
"Ah, no thank you, my dear." Iosef turned back to her, smiling his public smile. "A man my age really must watch his weight. In fact . . ." He drew out a gold pocket-watch and studied it briefly. "I really should go take my afternoon walk before heading back to work. Sorry to cut short this most excellent luncheon, but duty calls."
Black Cal glanced, bewildered, from one to the other.
Ariadne rang for the maid, who appeared with the governor's cloak almost before he'd pulled himself out of his chair. He made polite apologies and farewells all around, spending a few seconds longer with Black Cal. "Do come chat with me again some time, won't you?" he offered, pumping the taller man's hand. "I'm always happy to visit with the delectable Ariadne."
"Right," said Black Cal, catching the implication. Meet here. No direct contact otherwise. "Good health, governor."
"Ah, and to you, too." A last smile, and Old Iosef departed in an elegant swirl of cloak. They heard his footsteps gathering speed as he retreated through the house.
Ariadne held up a silencing finger, stepped quietly to the edge of the balcony and looked down. The other two followed her example. Below they could clearly see the boat-slip, Old Iosef's poleboat, and himself getting into it with uncharacteristic speed. They could all see his sharp command-gesture that sent the boat away at the best pace the polemen could make without drawing undue attention.
"You'll note that he isn't walking," said Ariadne.
"He's heading toward the Signeury," Black Cal added.
"Is that it?" said Rif, setting down her gitar. "Did he get it all? Will he move on it?"
"My dear," Ariadne smiled, "You can see that he's already moving."
Rif and Black Cal traded a look, a flickering smile of dawning hope, and the slightest brush of fingers.
Ariadne caught that, and marveled. So, even legends had a private life. How delicious. What an intriguing bonus to the afternoon's success. I not only like political intrigue, she realized, I'm actually good at it!
Instantly, she thought of Farren. She could open doors for him now. And what had the governor just said about needing more direct channels of information between the highest and lowest echelons? Who was in a better position to do it, to communicate with the vast ranks of the Shoeless? Farren, my love, this will make your career.
"Ah, well," she purred, dropping back into her chair. "My dear friends, if you have no pressing engagements, why not help me finish this excellent luncheon—and enjoy a small victory party?"
"Why not?" Rif grinned, looking at Black Cal.
He nodded agreement, guessing as well as she did where this could lead.
* * *
When the day burned down to lamplighting time, Tatiana Kalugin thankfully quit her office desk and its mountain of dreary reports. Time to go home, relax, change clothes and plan dinner with a certain merchant-captain. What a pity that she'd have nothing new or interesting to discuss with him tonight, but they could always amuse themselves in other ways. They could always play, over dinner, at inventing new embarrassments to spring on the pious old frauds of the College. . . .
As she passed the outer door, she noted that the usual man wasn't on duty. Corday, the night-shift guard, was there early.
"Where's Yovannan?" she asked in passing.
"Down with the Crud, m'sera," he said. "A lot of the staff have it."
"Hmm. Well, rework the roster. Just don't leave us short-handed up here." Thoughts elsewhere, she strode on down the hall.
"Aye, m'sera," Corday answered dutifully, watching her go. He waited a few seconds, then ambled to the nearest window and casually looked out. And rubbed his nose.
Down below, a waiting boatman caught the signal and scratched his ear in acknowledgment.
The guard went quietly back to his post.
Large outdoor entertainments were rare in Merovingen, particularly in the wet winter months, and therefore drew large crowds when they did occur. This one had been widely advertised, also. By sundown, the crowd on East Dike was huge. Fife-house retainers, selling tickets at the openings of the roped-off viewing area, rapidly filled their cash-boxes. Pushcart peddlers did a hot and fast trade in food, drink, drugs and souvenirs.
Old Man Fife, seated comfortably at the roped-off top of the central staircase to the dike's upper level, smiled benignly at the crowd. He was making a mint off this show, and his worthless brats would never see a penny of it.
Below him rippled the crowd, dress identifying everything from hightown to canalside. Pickpockets were busy there. So were the blacklegs assigned to crowd-control for the event; they'd asked surprisingly low bonus payment to do the extra work.
Black Cal strolled through the sea of bodies, stopping briefly to purchase two mugs of wine, looking as affable as anyone else in the audience. No one watching him would have noted that he had a specific goal in mind, but eventually his meandering footsteps led to the top of the northern stairs, far above the main body of the crowd.
Rif sat there, on the topmost step, one end of her indigo cloak stretched out almost accidentally beside her. Black Cal made sure no one was watching, and sat quietly on the spread cloak. He handed one of the mugs to Rif and leaned close.
"We won't hear much up here," Rif told him, "but we'll have the best all-around view, of everything."
"Right." Black Cal took a pull of the wine. Not bad at all. And the sky was clear, and the wind not bad, and the weather generally warm for this time of the year. "Master Milton couldn't have picked a better night."
"The Janist weather-scholars picked 'er." Rif eased a little more of her weight against him. "That's why the timing was so important, couldn't wait ter hunt up another patron. —Hey, she's starting."
It was time. Master Milton's four assistants came out to the edge of the surprisingly high stage they'd built on the pier's foot, and blatted noisily on cheap trumpets. The oversi
ze sleeves of their gaudy costumes flapped in the light wind. The crowd cheered, then quieted and watched. The fantastically-garbed assistants picked up megaphones and brayed into the opening spiel of the show. The crowd listened awhile, chuckled a bit, mumbled softly with private comments and conversations.
Black Cal frowned. The show already looked cheap and tinselly to him, and not just to him, to judge from maybe ten percent of the crowd's reactions. The rest of the crowd seemed to like it, though. Too bad he couldn't hear the pitch from this distance.
The assistants retreated around the ends of the s'tage-curtain, and then the central portion opened to reveal Master Milton, wearing a ridiculous sequined outfit. Behind him, what appeared to be an almost-equally-gaudy coffin lay on a cloth-draped bier. Leaning against it was a huge two-man saw.
"The sawing-the-woman-in-half trick, with all the trimmings," Rif purred. "The crowd ought ter eat that up."
The crowd did. Voices gasped and moaned appreciation as the saw cut noisily into the box, screeched in delighted horror as fake blood splashed out all over the stage, groaned and shivered when Master Milton pulled the two coffin-pieces apart to show the red-drenched ominous gap where the shapely female assistant's torso had been, then screeched in surprise when he made his Mystic Passes with the sparkly Magic Wand—and the two huge decorative urns on either side of the stage shot up sudden tongues of odd-colored fire.
"There's the first flash-paper," Rif noted. "Watch how he'll use 'em at the climax of every trick."
"Priming the pump," Black Cal guessed. "Getting the crowd used to fireworks."
The trumpets squawked, a noisy drum banged, the coffin opened up and the shapely female assistant jumped out smiling from ear to ear. The crowd roared and cheered while the troop took exaggerated bows. There was more inept-but-loud music while other assistants rolled out an oversized sea-chest.
"That's fer the trunk-vanish trick," Rif explained. "She'll have two flares o' flash-paper fer that. One when he makes 'er disappear, the other when he brings 'er back."
Troubled Waters Page 27
