Flood Tide

by C. J. Cherryh

  "Probably what you think. She's found out about the baby swap somehow. Try to clean yourself up. The last thing I want her to see is a bereaved mother who's manipulable."

  "I'm not manipulable. I'm tired. First I was up with the baby last night. Then there was that sloppy murder—your doing, no doubt—at Boregy House. Then Mondragon. I haven't slept for—"

  "I don't care how long it's been. Clean up, I said. Take a shower. Make it quick."

  "I don't need one."

  He pushed past her into the room and somehow got hold of her wrist on the way. "You go in there and do it yourself, or I'll hold you under cold water and you'll wish you'd done it the easy way."

  "Chance—" She bit off the half-sob that snuck out with his name.

  He pulled her in against him and held her while she shivered.

  She knew it didn't mean anything. Magruder's actions never meant anything—not the gruff ones or the gentle ones. Chance was all professional. But her body leaned against his as if it were hungry. And when he stroked the back of her neck and ran his fingers through her greasy hair, she nearly wept.

  How could she be so hungry for human comfort that the touch of a man like Chance Magruder—a man you knew would sell anyone and anything for advantage—would feel so welcome?

  He kissed the top of her head, after awhile, and gently pushed her away, both hands on her shoulders. "Take the shower. I'll wait. If we stay here any longer, we'll never get out of here without—"

  "I know," she said.

  She couldn't even hate Magruder. That was one part of her troubles here in Merovingen. If he'd really cared, though, he'd never have let things come to this. ...

  The shower was a blessing. He'd been right. When she came out, Chance was gone but he'd found her some clothes, somewhere: clean pants and a brocade shirt.

  When she put on the pants, she realized they were his: she'd always been able to wear his pants, if she rolled up the legs. Today, she tucked them into boots.

  When she looked up, Magruder was standing in the doorway. "Much better. Ready?"

  "I suppose."

  They didn't have far to go.

  Tatiana was in the downstairs reception room of the embassy, dressed like a stormtrooper with shoulder-length red hair.

  The woman looked Dani up and down and said, "I'd like to ask you a few questions, m'sera Lambert. Alone."

  Chance closed the double doors from the inside. "I'm not leaving."

  Tatiana nodded. "If you insist, Ambassador. M'sera Lambert, do you have anything to say about Cassiopeia Boregy's child?"

  "Professionally, I can't comment," Dani said. "Physician/patient relationships are privileged."

  "And you consider yourself physician to both, is that it?"

  "That's it," said Dani, wanting desperately to sit down but not quite daring to while the other woman was standing.

  Chance moved between them. "I got Doctor Lambert from her much-needed nap for this, Tatiana. Can we speak plainly?"

  "I read the note in your desk, Chance—the other night."

  Magruder looked at his boottops, rubbed the back of his neck with a hand, and said, "So, what do you want?"

  "I want Mondragon back."

  "Physically? Impossible. He's here under Doctor Lambert's care. Brutalized. Starved. He's one of our citizens officially, after all. ..."

  "Access to him," Tatiana said in a voice that told Dani that the other woman knew she was winning a point and glorying in her triumph. Gloating is never a pretty thing to watch.

  "When he's up to it, which only Doctor Lambert can determine, you'll be welcome to see him, of course."

  Chance was too mild. Dani wondered which letter Tatiana had read. Then she thought of the last, depressed, despairing one she'd written Chance, and she did sit down, putting her head in her hands.

  "M'sera Lambert?"

  "Tatiana, she's just exhausted."

  "I can see what she is, Chance. M'sera Lambert, when will I be able to speak with Mondragon for an hour or so?"

  "Two, three days, at least."

  "That's not the right answer," said the queen of the blacklegs.

  Dani didn't answer.

  Tatiana called Dani's name again, and Chance actually stepped in front of Dani. "Tatiana, you don't want to talk to anyone but me about this."

  "I needed to see if she was the baby's mother. Now I'm sure. And you're mine, Magruder. You and all of yours. What a wonderful, stupid, dangerous risk to have failed at taking." She laughed throatily. "I truly love you, Chance. You've given me exactly the hole card I need."

  "Only good until you play it," Chance reminded her. "And then, only once."

  "Just let Mondragon know that he's reporting to me, and I'll be back. As long as you and your slut-cum-physician behave yourselves, the baby can stay where it is. As a matter of fact, I'm going to enjoy knowing it's there in Boregy House."

  She moved toward the doors and Chance turned on his heels to watch her go. He didn't say a word, just stood there, a living shield between Dani and Tatiana Kalugin, in blackleg uniform with a gun on her hip.

  When Tatiana reached the doors, she said, "Oh, by the way, just tell me who the father is—you or Karl Fon?"

  "Get out, Tatiana."

  "Oh, Chance. Don't growl like that. You really ought to tell me. I have a right to know, don't I?"

  "I'll come see you later," Magruder said.

  Dani stared at her boots and they blurred. The doors slammed.

  Magruder wasn't going to tell Tatiana what he didn't know for sure. Dani knew. Magruder should have known.

  But men like Magruder ignore what they don't want to see.

  And since the baby, her baby, was a Boregy now, a time bomb ticking in the very heart of Merovingen-above, it didn't matter who the real father was.

  Belle Boregy was the child of Michael Chamoun and Cassie Boregy. The last time she'd seen Michael, he was drinking himself into a torpor. The last time she'd seen Cassie, she was chewing deathangel and trying to breastfeed another woman's child.

  What difference did it make, whose baby was at that breast, really?

  She kept asking herself the question, and not liking the answer.

  It was going to make a difference to them all. It was already making a difference.

  In all her life, Dani Lambert had never expected to see Chance Magruder knuckle under to blackmail.

  She just watched her boots, and a few pathetic tears fell onto them from her tired eyes. She was all hunched over and she couldn't straighten up or her aching stomach would give up its contents then and there.

  And then, from somewhere, Chance was there, crouched down before where she'd have to look at him.

  "It doesn't mean anything. Tatiana's made her first mistake. She's just become part of the revolution, though she doesn't know it yet. Don't worry. Don't worry about Mondragon, or the baby, or me. Or yourself. It'll be all right. I promise. And I've never lied to you, have I?"

  "No, Chance," she said wearily, somehow able to straighten up at last. "You've never lied to me."

  And that, at least, was the truth here where nothing ever seemed to have the slightest bit of truth to it.

  Suddenly she didn't blame Michael Chamoun for turning into a drunk. "Chance, I know it's before lunch, but I'm prescribing a drink for myself—a strong one, if you'll be so kind."

  "Good girl," he told her, and went to get it. "Prescribe one for me while you're at it," he said from the bar. "It's been one hellish night."

  Two truths from Magruder in one sitting. It must, Dani thought dreamily, be a lifetime record.

  FLOOD TIDE (REPRISED)

  by C. J. Cherryh

  They came, held guns aimed at her when they brought her food, and in the beginning they had said, the chief of these blackleg-bastards, that if she broke any of the furniture or scarred any of the walls of Anastasi Kalugin's yacht, Anastasi might take offense at it, and if he did, it might go very hard for certain people.

  That was the way
Anastasi was, Jones believed that, except Mondragon was business, and business was more important to Anastasi than anything she could do to his fancy woodwork; but the threat still bothered her; and she spent her days going slowly crazy. There were books. There was one called The Odyssey that she read, page at a sitting, because though it was spelled odd and was real old, she could make sense of it more than the others, that she couldn't read half the words of. It was about places she thought must be down by the Chattalen, because they talked about wine. Except there were sheep, and islands, and that was the Falkens. It was confused as hell. She skipped around in it a lot, and when she got to the part about the pigs she was sure 'Stasi was crazy; but she thought—I'll ask Mondragon when I see him. Mondragon would be proud she read a book.

  Mondragon would give her hell for being here, in this mess. That was all right. She was still alive. Every morning she woke up in that soft silky bed and every night when she went to sleep she thought, I'm still alive, and he is—because ain't no way 'Stasi'd keep me around if there wasn't a use, ain't no way he'd want me alive t' tell what I know, ain't no way in hell he'd turn me loose. . . .

  But she kept thinking, when she was sitting in the fancy, soapy bath—Where's he right now? And when she was eating their fancy food and drinking Chat wine—What're they feedin' him, Lord? and when she felt the motion of the water under the ship, that told her she was still where tide moved and a body could breathe—Stone don't move, stone just sits, stone ain't alive, it's dark and it stinks and he's got all of that damn building between him and the outside. Lord, how's a man to think and breathe in all that stone?

  And at night, when the electrics went out, and she was lying there in that fancy bed—Lord, what's happenin' t' him? What's happenin' and what in hell's Tatty Kalugin got t' do with 'Stasi and what's 'Stasi up to, that ain't got Mondragon out of there yet?

  Mama, why ain't I dead?

  But Mama didn't talk in this place, wasn't any way Mama was coming in here, Mama was thoroughly disgusted with her daughter.

  Mama'd say, Fool.

  Mama'd be oiling up that gun of hers and puttin' the bullets in and she'd say, the way she'd said when Jones was a little girl scared of that gun: Altair, this ain't t' handle careless, and ye don't let anybody know ye got it, and ye don't ever make a threat of usin' it. Ye make up your mind before ye ever take it out. An' ye know how many shots you got and you never get into anything that's got more fools than you got shots—and you count 'em less one. Ye always keep one, Altair. Ye never plan t' let this gun empty." Yey, Mama, she'd said.

  Damn gun was in her skip right now. If there was anything left of her skip right now. And she'd broken one of Mama's Rules, walked right in with no shot saved back, no more plan than that. That was why Mama wasn't speaking to her.

  That was all the help she'd been to Mondragon.

  Maybe she should have gone to Kamat, maybe she should have gone inside and talked to Richard and begged him—

  And maybe Richard was doing something, maybe Richard was working with Anastasi and they had ways they was getting Mondragon talked out of that damn place.

  But sometimes in the dark she saw Hanging Bridge and the crowds and the drummers and all, and she'd get up and walk the floor and have a light on, because it was too real, she'd seen it too often lately, seen a body drop, and the crowds go away, and the body lowered down on a rope to that boat that took it away under Coffin Bridge.

  She told herself, They ain't never hanged a canaler, and he's that—

  If the cardinal knew that, which she wasn't sure.

  She thought, in those hours, If he's dead, maybe 'Stasi'll still let me go, if I tell 'im I'll go find

  Exeter. If he's dead, I'll find 'er, just real quiet,

  find myself a spot an' wait for a sight o' that woman

  an' blow 'er t' hell-She was thinking that when she heard the engines

  start, like this big heart beating; and the whole ship

  change its moving. She thought— Oh, Lord, something's happened. We're moving. And because they were down at Rimmon, she

  knew it was into Merovingen proper they were going. She threw her clothes on, she was washing her

  face when the door opened and 'Stasi Kalugin was

  standing there.

  "Sera Jones," he said, "your skip is still at the

  dock."

  "M'ser?" she asked, very politely, with this sinking, poisoned feeling in her stomach.

  "He's in the Nev Hettek embassy," he said, after which she heard things all muddled.

  "Is he all right?"

  "In the Nev Hettek embassy," he said again, and this time she heard it with everything he meant. "It's public now—who he is, what he is—it'll be all over town by noon. No, he's not all right. I've a message for him."

  "Yes, m'ser?"

  "You're the message," 'Stasi said, this dark-eyed, dark-hearted bastard. He said, "Go on. Go to him. Tell him—I've work for him. Tell him—see me. Soon."

  APPENDIX

  MEROVINGEN FOLKLORE 102

  OR

  SIGNS AND PORTENTS

  by Mercedes Lackey

  Even the most devout Revenantist is not immune to the need to know, to the search for a Sign that will tell him what is in store in his future, or the future of the entire city. Perhaps this is merely a reflection of Man's never ending search for ways to control his future; for whatever the reason, there are Portents associated with things and places all over Merovingen that the most orthodox, and most devout, still believe in their deepest hearts are nothing less than true and infallible.

  THE ANGEL OF HANGING BRIDGE

  The statue of the Angel Michael, copy of that stolen and lost, stands on Hanging Bridge as if he was watching over the entire city. And indeed, many believe this to be the case. The principle Portents associated with the Angel are concerned with Fire, Flood, and Earthquake.

  It is said that when a Fire grows large enough to threaten the city, the Angel's wings move. The meaning of this Portent is unclear; the devout claim it is because he is fanning the fires to hasten the destruction of Merovingen and bring on Retribution; the hopeful claim it is because he is trying to put them out, and the cynical claim it is because he is trying to fly away and escape.

  Obviously there is a purely physical cause for this apparent phenomenon; the flickering light, reflecting from the uneven surfaces of the Angel's gilded wings, could easily make the wings appear to move. It is noteworthy that those who claim to have seen this Portent also say that the Angel's garments (also gilt) stirred in the breeze created by the movement of his wings.

  When a great Flood is about to descend on the city, it is said that the Angel can be clearly heard to weep and lament. Once again there is a purely natural explanation. Most devastating floods come after unseasonable rains, when the normal prevailing winds have shifted from out of the west to out of the east, holding back storms that would otherwise spend themselves at sea. When the wind shifts to this unusual direction, the Angel, being high enough to be affected by it, might well "cry" in the manner of an Aeolian harp, causing consternation among those hearing it.

  When a devastating Earthquake is to strike the city, the Angel is said to groan out loud, as if in pain. This is a sound unlike the soft "lament" on the occasion of a flood, but is very loud, and quite unmistakable. It is said that once the Angel groans, the earthquake is heartbeats away.

  The natural explanation for this phenomena lies in the Bridge and the Angel itself; it is gilded metal hammered over a carved wooden form. Most major earthquakes are preceded by minor temblors. Such temblors would most affect insecure structures such as bridges, or islands set on mud and wood rather than rock. During such a temblor, the Bridge itself would move, groaning under the stress. The Angel might well also groan under the stress of being twisted, as the metal rubs over the wooden form, which is doubtless beginning to suffer rot.

  THE HARBOR ANGEL

  The Harbor, or Lesser Angel, also has Portents associated
with it. It is said to weep in Fever Season, weep poisonous green tears, symbolizing the poison in the veins of Merovingen. Again, there is a natural explanation. The Lesser Angel is bronze, which is well known to corrode to green verdigris. Although the Harbor Angel is kept polished, verdigris will collect in folds, such as those around the eyes. Fever Season is always marked by increasing fog at night—said fog will naturally collect on the surfaces of a metal object (by its nature cooler than the surrounding air) and drip from it. Hence, green tears.

  THE WHEELS OF KARMA

  The walk to the College is lined with representations of the Karmic Wheel. These are said to spin in the night when great change is to take place. There are some who even attempt to keep records on the positions of the Wheels in order to say whether or not they have moved.

  The wheels being mandelas in which every sector is like every other sector, it is very difficult, if not impossible, to tell one sector from another. It would not therefore be possible to say whether the Wheel had not moved, and it would be impossible to convince the credulous that they had not.

  THE GHOSTS OF DEAD HARBOR

  During the worst storms, the specters of all the ships lost during the Great Earthquake and all their crews are said to rise and sail again. This is the "Ghost Fleet," and it is something no sailor or canaler wishes to see—for it is said that anyone who lives by the water that sees the Fleet in sail will die before the month is out. No amount of cajoling or explanation that what the superstitious person saw was likely swamp-fire, St. Elmo's Fire, or lightning on mist will convince him. Any number of Falken sailors—and more especially canalers—have pined themselves into death because they thought they had glimpsed one of the Ghosts.

  M'SERA

  She is known only as M'sera; no canaler will call her otherwise. She is only seen during Fever Season. She wears only scarlet; cloak, fine silk shirt, pants, boots, gloves. She appears only at night, but can be seen in any part of town. Her face is in shadow beneath the hood of her cloak—but the long hair which escapes is also red.