Festival Moon

by C. J. Cherryh

  "Easy, boy." And, to the al-Bannas: "Back. Back off, I say."

  They did, three paces, muttering together. Magruder's divided attention could still pick up the argument going on between Romanov and someone female, out of line-of-sight at canal-level where their borrowed Boregy fancyboat was tied.

  "Thanks." Mondragon's nod was caustic with cynicism. "I just go on my way now, right?" The accent had thinned. The trapped traitor's eyes were nearly devoid of pupil, despite the bad light.

  Man's ready to jump, any way will do: one surprise too many, tonight. "Not right, you're smart enough to know that—aren't you, Tommy?"

  Eyes closed for an instant, not long enough for even Magruder to step in and disarm him. Then Mondragon said warily, "Your boys? Your play? To what do I owe the pleasure?"

  He'd heard that tone elsewhere, this night. Magruder showed empty hands, raising them slowly: "No weapons, see? But we can't have you running through the streets yelling 'The Sword is come' now, can we?"

  "That's it?" Now the rapier did waver, lowering until it was pointing at Magruder's belly.

  This man before him had plenty of hell in his face, his entire family's eradication on his soul. And a girlfriend running cargo on the Grand. The question was, kill him or play him? Mondragon ought to know that. The rapier's angle said he probably did. Magruder laid it out: "That's not 'it.' 'It' is return to active duty, m'ser. Because we're moving in here for a long stay."

  "You're dreamin'," again in the gutter style, a small defiance. "You can't push me any harder than I'm pushed already, Chance. I won't say who you are, no matter what you do here, if you leave me alone."

  "Can't do that, Tommy. We hear you're privy to Anastasi Kalugin and his buddies, especially the Boregys. We want reports. Bi-weekly. It'll keep your girl, Jones, from finding out how long it can take to die. You got your parents killed; they weren't Sword— your whole damned family, because of you. You don't want another noncombatant hurt on your account, especially not your m'sera Jones." Card played, offer made. Take it, fool; you'll do no better, anywhere. By rights and for Fon's sake, I ought to kill you. But you don't deserve an easy out.

  Both Mondragon and Magruder heard the scrape of the al-Bannas' feet as the Sword muscle edged in closer. Magruder raised one empty hand higher: Halt.

  The shuffling stopped.

  Mondragon's face was expressionless, but his gaze darted from one opponent to the next.

  Magruder had the distinct impression he was considering breaking for it. Magruder's midsection was directly in the rapier's way. "Talk to me, Tommy, while you still can."

  "What's the use?" Mondragon's weapon retreated with the rest of him as he took two steps backward and leaned against the wall. He lay his head back against the timber, as if for support. His lips seemed stiff when he said: "You can't do her any more harm than Anastasi Kalugin can, and he's threatening me with her, the same as you. So she's dead, isn't she? From one of you or the other? Which does me a favor, in a way."

  No, no. Vm not making it that easy for you. "Don't think you can pull some stunt and I'll let these boys kill you quick. And don't tell me you're more afraid of what Anastasi Kalugin will do to her—and to you—than what I'll do. Because you're not that stupid. And neither am I. Say 'Yes, m'ser, I'll hand over every shred of news, report every question that Kalugin asks, and every answer I give.' Say, 'And when I don't know what the Sword wants me to say, I'll keep my mouth shut until I find out.' "

  "I—Yes. All right?" Mondragon's eyes sparkled. "Whatever you want, Chance. Just call off your crazies and leave Jones out of it."

  Boy's tired. "Minister Magruder, Nev Hettek T&T, to you. After we're introduced. Until then, you don't know squat. On your way, then."

  He motioned the al-Bannas and they retreated, obedient to learned signals if not to him personally. "Go on, Tommy, go. We'll find you again when we need to set up reporting schedules."

  Mondragon eased forward, rapier carefully angled away from Magruder's gut; then sideways, inching around a barrel, eyes on the al-Bannas who turned with him as if on the same axis.

  Magruder watched the ex-Sword as the duellist walked quickly, with jerky steps, toward the chips boat. Then the Nev Hettekker gathered his al-Bannas. "Put those revolvers away. The boat, let's go. Move."

  They moved, but by the time the three of them got to the boat there was no sign of whatever argument had been under way there.

  There was no sign of Dimitri Romanov, either, which could mean a number of things, the best of which was that he was belly-up in the harbor by now, riding on the currents out to sea.

  Magruder didn't care to speculate. He didn't care to search or to wait around for trouble to find him, if trouble had found Romanov. If he saw Mita Romanov again, he was going to kill him anyway. There was no other way to assure a smooth-running operation, or to get the al-Bannas under control.

  In the fancyboat, he took the tiller, putting the al-Bannas in front where he could see them. They didn't say anything about leaving Romanov high and dry, if that was what the Sword was doing. And they wouldn't say anything about what they'd witnessed here tonight.

  The engine caught on his second try and he headed the fancyboat up the Grand. There wasn't much night left, and he had to ditch the al-Bannas and get back to the Boregys' with his borrowed fancyboat before morning.

  If he was going to make sure Michael Chamoun got married and the Kalugins allowed Minister Magruder to establish a trade mission here with a re-opened embassy, he had lots to do before the governor's party.

  The Sword of God had lots to do here, one way or the other.

  The pants Cassie Boregy changed into for the party she was taking him to were so tight that Chamoun had trouble taking his eyes off them.

  And off what was under them, as she climbed down into the Boregy launch waiting at the water-

  gate to take her and her friends to the party. It was an elegant launch, steered by a retainer; elegant friends, four of whom had come knocking at the Boregy's front door when aperitifs were being served in the drawing room.

  Chamoun tried not to stare at the rich folk's kids in outrageous clothes, once Cassie, giggling, had dragged him by the hand to greet them at the door.

  Michael Chamoun's head was spinning, and not just from the wines, as he followed Cassie down into the boat with the others and the steersman cast off.

  The other two couples, in riotous, layered Festival garb, fondled each other openly, sprawling on velvet cushions as if the servants were blind and deaf. Cassie went forward, seating herself in the bow, and Chamoun followed, ignoring all else as if the ritual of the water gate were something he saw every day.

  It wasn't, by a long shot. Chamoun hadn't expected Cassie Boregy to be attractive, flirtatious, or charming. It hadn't mattered. It still didn't matter, he told himself. Don't be too sure of yourself, Det-man. You've got a long way to go. Interloper, that was what he was here.

  Out in the Harvest night, he cast surreptitious looks back at the other two couples. They seemed so young. So carefree. One of the boys waved at him.

  These were all children, but children who'd accepted him at face value.

  And that face value had stunned Chamoun nearly senseless more surely than a well-placed blow to the head during Sword training.

  When Cassie had dragged him to the door to greet her friends, she'd introduced him as, "Captain Michael Chamoun, everybody, heir to Chamoun Shipping of Nev Hettek. Captain Chamoun's a riverboat captain. And a convert."

  A chorus of approving "ahhs," had come from the throats of the Boregy girl's two young women friends. From their escorts, he'd sensed a certain bristling, the distrust of young men feigning sophistication faced with their vision of it.

  Then Cassie had added, sparkling eyes mischievous as she took his arm and laid her cheek against his shoulder, "Captain Chamoun's come all the way from Nev Hettek to be my escort at the Governor's Ball. And we may have a surprise for you there...."

  And left it hanging, so
that her girlfriends squealed and begged to know what, what surprise.

  No one was as surprised as Chamoun, and he'd been in a daze ever since. Did she mean what she'd said? Did she know what she'd said? The implications? The innuendo? Or had he misunderstood, what with all the fancy wine, smooth as silk and so cultured he'd misread its potency, drunk more than he ought.

  Lord and Retribution, what was he into? A fast crowd, hers. Fast the way only the very rich or very poor could afford to be. Boys' hands under girls' blouses, back there, and a tangle of hands between velveted thighs.

  Cassie was looking at him with those huge brown eyes expectantly. He lay back on his elbows, not quite sprawled on the cushions in the bow, and watched the bridges pass overhead.

  Fast times, fast crowd. What was he supposed to do, with so much at stake? What had she meant, in the house with her friends? He was supposed to be courting her for marriage. Did she expect him to paw her? Was that good manners here? Would she be insulted if he did, or insulted if he didn't?

  She lay back too, in a perfect mirror-image of his posture. Good sign, his training told him: mating-ritual mimicry, he'd been taught. He put one hand behind his head to see if she would; she did.

  He'd never been so uncomfortable. He watched the bridges, asking about the first one: "Is that Golden Bridge, then?" so she'd have small talk to make.

  When they came to Hanging Bridge, he didn't need her running commentary to recognize it, or the Angel there, sword partly drawn, to remind him how much hung in the balance.

  Months of preparation—years, for all he knew. Money and time and all he could see was Chance Magruder's unreadable face, and Romanov's perpetual sneer, and the al-Banna brothers hovering over him in his mind's eye.

  Better do it right, Chamoun, whatever right turned out to be. It was a sobering thought, sobering like the Angel sliding back into the distance and the past.

  ". . . tell me, Captain Chamoun, about Minister Magruder. Daddy was quite taken with him," Cassie proposed, sliding across the cushions until her hips were near his head and her hand trailed on the launch's prow.

  "Tell you what?" He sat bolt upright, looking for treachery in her face, startling her. Easy, son. Don't scare her. "Chance Magruder's the best... and the worst. . . man I know," he said. God, where did that come from? "Look," desperate, rushing on, "call me Michael, at least in private, or I can't call you Cassie and feel right about it."

  "Michael," she said tentatively, as if tasting it. She licked her lips. "Michael, if you find Kika's party boring, we can just leave. My friends will stay all night; I'm not responsible to provide their transportation home. But we'll need a secret signal." Again, the mischief.

  They devised one, heads together. Her loose, dark hair tickled his cheek. He reached up to brush it away, got his hand tangled; her fingers closed around his.

  Their eyes met and he had to ask her, or kiss her....

  "Cassie, do you understand what you said back there? I mean, did your father . .. what did Vega tell you about me?"

  They were so close he could feel the warm puffs of her breath on his face. Remember, it's Sword business. You can't care what she's like, just if she'll agree. If she'd been a fat, hairy-faced cow, it would be the same. But she wasn't. She was firm with youth and round with health and she had her father's coal-fire eyes.... Suddenly, superimposed, he saw Rita Nikolaev's face. Rita wouldn't have let him slide his hands up her thigh. But Rita wasn't Sword business....

  Her hand reached out and touched the fish knife in its dress sheath, then ran along his belt. "Captain... Michael, my father told me you came to sue for my hand in marriage. And about your offer to stay here, in Merovingen, bringing Chamoun Shipping with you." Carefully phrased, words chosen slowly, she took a deep breath and continued. "It's good for my family, for my father. I love my father. Boregy power is very important to me. I meant what I said back there."

  "God, girl, I haven't even kissed you yet."

  "We can remedy that." She closed her eyes and leaned forward.

  Her breasts touched him at the same time her lips did, and then he was at pains to show her he was as sophisticated as she thought he was.

  When they sat back, he said, "Are you always this impetuous?"

  Her chest was heaving. "Never." She smiled tentatively. "Again?"

  He realized then that she was trying to impress him, afraid she'd do something wrong.

  That makes two of us, girl. Whatever you think you've got at stake here ain't nothin', compared to what's really going on.

  He let his arms slide around her and his body press against her, faking passion until he could find some, because this had nothing to do with the malleable girl in his arms, or free choice, or whether she was as soft as she seemed or as charming. Rita, I've never done this with you... ain't my fault.

  Her healthy young body did its work and everything he was afraid of not being able to feel came rushing over him.

  By the time they got to the house where the party was being held, he was worked up into a near frenzy, like the teenagers in the stern.

  He took his hands off her and said, "Ain't no reason we can't leave early," on short, sharp breaths, forgetting his grammar. "If your boat'll oblige, I'll take you over to the Detfish and show you what you're getting. Got a present for you, too—" He swallowed. "A betrothal gift, if you'll have it... and me."

  She closed her eyes and bent her head, laying her cheek on his shoulder. "Oh, yes, I'll have it... and you."

  And that was that, unless he screwed it up some way. Elation flooded him as the launch started to dock.

  And then, for the first time, he paid attention to where he was, and where the launch was docking.

  "Rimmon! Angel's flames, you didn't tell me..." Panic. Rimmon Isle! Rita! Maybe, he told himself quickly, not Rita. On Rimmon, the mercantile elite made their homes: Yakunin, Khan, Raza, Balaci, and more. Seven families in all, he remembered from his briefing.

  The kids astern were laughing, coming forward, silver flasks in the boys' hands.

  Cassiopeia Boregy looked at him quizzically. "A problem, Captain Chamoun?"

  Call him "Captain," where her friends could hear. Rub it in how exotic he was, what a catch she had in hand. Her cheeks were aflame, though. "No, no problem, I guess. It's just that I came in this way, and saw a Rimmon boat, a black yacht—serious trading money, up here."

  "That was a Nikolaev yacht, silly, our hosts. Don't fret, dear Captain, we'll probably have as fine a pleasure boat, if you want one—Daddy will give us anything we want for a wedding present." Whispered, this last. Then, louder: "The Captain wants to see Kika's father's pleasure yacht close at hand. Let's not forget to ask if we can."

  Everyone chorused that that was a fine idea, and one of the boys said knowingly that if Kika was in a bad mood, then Cassie would deny him nothing, and all the youngsters tittered.

  Chamoun followed Cassiopeia Boregy woodenly, off the boat and onto the property of their hosts, the Nikolaev family.

  He was a pretender, a thief and a cheat. It was all he could think of, once they reached the Nikolaev stairs and started climbing. He was almost home free; he couldn't give himself away. Cassie had said they'd leave if he wanted, and he wanted—already.

  He focused on the luxury here, contrasting it with the misery perpetrated on Merovingen-below by Revenantists such as the Nikolaevs. The price of one of the paintings hung on this landing, in carved frames covered with gold, would have fed a canaler family for a year, maybe two.

  Soft life, if you were born lucky. Hellhole here in Merovingen, if you weren't.

  The Revenantists explained their good fortune and their oppression of the less fortunate by the construct of karma.

  It was going to be Rita Nikolaev's karma to be nice to him, polite to him, whatever her feelings. If she had any. If she even remembered the man she'd met at Karl Fon's inauguration where she'd been because she was going into the family business.

  "But aren't the Nikolaevs rivals of your
s?" he asked when they'd reached a dazzling hall alive with crystal and flowers—flowers!—and music and pampered children. The smoke hurt his eyes and they were smarting by then. One arm around Cassie, he leaned down to hear her murmured reply.

  "Don't be silly, Michael—not yet, we aren't. At least, not until you came. Everyone's friendly, as friendly as the Rock can be with Rimmon Isle." Her voice lowered even further: "Kika's pregnant, but don't say anything. Her parents don't know yet, so maybe she won't nave it."

  Cassie explained it all: Kika didn't have any idea who the father of her child was; probably the Nikolaev poleboat-man—to the scandal of her well-bred, ambitious and Revenantist house. But maybe Kika would get it fixed....

  In the marble-floored drawing room there were too many youngsters, dancing to a loud band of horns, drums, gitars, and sithers. And the smoke was making him light-headed.

  It made him more than light-headed when a pipe was passed to him by Cassie and he tried some.

  Then things became completely disjointed. His only salvation, the only thing he recognized, was Cassie's hand clamped on his, dragging him from group to group, introducing him always as "Captain Michael Chamoun from Nev Hettek, my escort to the 24th Eve Ball."

  There was food and he was hungry. Unrecognizable food in little bits on silver trays. "Here, Michael," said Cassie, her face swimming into view, "try some deathangel, it'll wake you up."

  He didn't know how much he'd eaten before her words percolated to his reasoning mind. Then he stopped eating. Deathangel: a stimulant, a euphoric. It could kill you. He wasn't used to it. Deathangel poison was another thing; he was used to dealing with that.

  She'd left him, gone somewhere. He was alone with his senses reeling in a room full of strange children, some of whom were rolling on the floor in couples, wearing less than they must have worn to get here.

  Then there she was, another blurry face saying things he couldn't quite hear in an accent suddenly hard to decipher. The face came closer and it wasn't Cassiopeia Boregy's face. Rita!

  "I'm here with Cassie," he mumbled, intoxicated beyond measure. "And I've lost her somewhere..."