Festival Moon

by C. J. Cherryh

  "That won't help you, traitor." Crazy, with hostiles behind him, but Chamoun didn't have much to lose.

  "You mean it won't help the family you're marrying into. I'm beyond help, fool. Just going through the motions. And you're wrong: let Romanov know your friend Chance is jeopardizing this whole gambit by Magruder's move on Tatiana—or let Chance know, doesn't matter to me. I need a contact with the Sword of God, and brother, it's you. Is that clear?" "I'm not in any position—"

  "Then get into a position where you can, fool. Your life's on the line." Mondragon took one step backward. "These people'll get you back to your boat, or to Boregy House, which might be smarter. I won't tell anybody the name of my Sword contact, won't give you up. But let this be clear: I'm dealing with no one but you. I need assurances, papers to shove under Anastasi's nose, and I need them quick. By morning, something to show. Or I'll show you and you won't like how it feels."

  "Impossible. I can't—"

  "—can't fail. That's right. Go on, go with them. You've got lots of work to do... traitor." There was a glimmer of brightness, as if Mondragon had smiled a full smile, before the outlaw turned away arid slid back into shadows.

  Chamoun took half a step forward before those on his track warned him off and the sharp thing was back, tickling his spine.

  He remembered little of the trek down endless winding stairs, or of his pole-boat ride that ended where another boat waited, a boat which took him unerringly to the Detfish.

  He didn't start shaking until he'd swung aboard, but by the time he reached his cabin he was dizzy with reaction.

  Maybe that was why, when he unlocked the cabin door and found resistance, he pushed harder, instead of thinking what that might mean.

  Inside, the electrics were doused. He stumbled over something, fumbling for them. Then he flipped on the lights and realized what he'd tripped over.

  Dimitri Romanov lay sprawled on the cabin floor amid everything that had once been neatly stowed or carefully secured—clothes, provender, charts, maps, books. The blood from his slit gullet was all over everything. The evisceration was so complete that Chamoun barely made it to the window before he heaved his own guts over the side.

  Then he sat there, head in hands, elbows on knees, on his bunk, staring at the blue-green-white-bloody corpse of Romanov, thinking that Chance shouldn't have been so sloppy.

  And then thinking that Chance wouldn't have been so sloppy.

  And then thinking that, with the exception of Ruin al-Banna and Chance Magruder, Michael Chamoun didn't know another soul in Merovingen by name or sight who was an agent of the Sword of God.

  Finally, after too long staring at the corpse of Romanov, Chamoun moved stiffly to begin cleaning up the mess. He had no purpose, at that moment, beyond getting rid of the evidence. He wasn't about to try to explain to authorities here how a man happened to be dead and cleaned like a fish in his cabin, not tonight. Not any night.

  After the first fear ebbed, he admitted he needed help and got two deckhands who knew from his face what was required, and from what they saw on the floor that breathing a word of it would get them similarly dead.

  Together, they cleaned up the cabin and fed Romanov and his giblets to the fishes. Once that was done, relief washed over Chamoun like a riptide.

  But in its wake, clear and sharp, lay another corpse: a phantom corpse, his own—a forewarning in his mind's eye of what was going to happen if he couldn't satisfy Mondragon's demands.

  The only way to do that, now, was through Chance Magruder, by whatever means. Deceit might work, or the truth might do it, but somehow Michael Chamoun, agent of the Sword of God, had to bring Mondragon what he wanted by morning.

  His own life, and the lives of too many others, depended on it. And Magruder was the only way. But Magruder was in with Tatiana Kalugin.

  He couldn't march up to the Kalugin's ancestral home, demand to see Chance, and state his problem, not when Chance was working on an opposite solution.

  And yet, Magruder needed to know what had happened to Romanov (assuming Chance hadn't made it happen). And Michael Chamoun needed to know the name of somebody he could trust with this, some agent of the Sword in Merovingen (assuming that man wasn't Chance Magruder).

  Both of those assumptions were made on too little data, on a crest of fear that moved the young Nev Hetteker out of the Detfish and back toward town, trying to think of answers.

  And all the way there, Chamoun kept looking behind him, waiting for Ruin al-Banna, or one of Mondragon's men, or whoever else it might be who had gutted Romanov, to try the same with him.

  FESTIVAL MOON (FINAL REPRISE)

  C.J. Cherryh

  It was Raj came scuttling in by the Stair, there by Jones' skip, in this noisy, bloody night. "Over by Factory," Raj panted, dropping down on his heels by the boat. "M' brother still got his eye on him—"

  "Which way headed?" Jones asked.

  "Tidewater."

  "Megarys," Mondragon said, and edged out from the hidey.

  "Damn," Jones said. "That'd be."

  "What'd be?" Raj asked. "Who we following?"

  "Do you have another run in you?" Mondragon asked.

  "Yes, ser." A gasp after air. "I c'n do another."

  "Get back after your brother. Pull him back. Both of you go home."

  The mouth stayed open. It was not what the boy had expected. It was advice any fool ought to take.

  Jones stood up and unracked the pole, while Mondragon untied.

  "Right to the other contact point," Mondragon said when they were clear of the bank and young ears. "Damned nice of him."

  "What in hell are we going to do about it?"

  "Just pole, Jones." He ran out the other, the long hook, and used the butt end on the bottom. "Down by Factory, like the lad said."

  * * *

  It was right down by the dead gates, was Megary.

  Slavers. Illegal as hell and still running, quiet-like, which meant someone was paid off. Fined since they ran afoul of Anastasi himself on a certain run after a prisoner named Mondragon. But that was all that appened to them.

  Just quieter, this summer, quiet as they used to be, here on this stinking backwater where the sea-gates had frozen dead in a quake and half-drowned the whole damn Tidewater End. No lights here, just black warehouses, the glisten of water, the sometime slink of a cat after something edible.

  All shuttered up and not a chink in the windows.

  Damn well no back balcony either. Megarys learned.

  A skitter ran along Ulger's failing bridge, that was no cat.

  "Hey," Jones muttered, and poled down and braced a little.

  "Megary," the whisper came down from that bridge.

  "Get home, boy," Mondragon whispered back. "Get! —Ya-hin. Yoss t' West 'n hin."

  "Yoss." Jones eased forward, easy and quiet.

  Down to West and stop, right where the canal ran by Megarys.

  Bad memories hereabouts. Bad ones. It was a long wait, on the hard slats of the skip at tie-up, and they propped each other, back against back, weight against weight—easiest to watch all ways, like that.

  And Mondragon was all tensed up, no give to him.

  "Easy," she said. "He's got to come out soon or late. You isn't going in there. No way." She ran that past several times and counted on her fingers. "Ye ar-en't."

  "You aren't."

  "You—" Of a sudden she caught the way he had said it, felt the move, and turned round with a thump on the slats and caught his arm. "Damn, no, ye don't."

  "Just get me closer."

  "I'll lay ye out cold first."

  He pressed her hand with his. "Jones. No arguments. Get me over there. No noise. Remember what I told you. About Kalugin."

  "Which side're you on, hey? Mondragon? F' God's sake—ye can't deal with 'em. You ain't Sword." She gripped hard. "Are ye?"

  He drew in a long breath. "Whatever pays, Jones. Whatever pays."

  "Thought ye'd lost your senses," she muttered, and l
et go a little sigh. "Ye ain't going in there...."

  "Did I say? Go."

  "Yey." She stood up and ran out the pole, ever so softly. Mondragon got up beside her on the halfdeck, as she brought the skip round and gently across by the boat-slips on Megary's dockside.

  He left at the doors there, just stepped up onto the landing and stopped by the lock.

  And yanked the bell-pull.

  "Damn!" she yelled out. She grounded the pole in the skip's drift. "Get back here!"

  He paid no attention at all. Only stood there, while inside of Megary was probably a whole house in panic; and there was nothing to do with a damnfool who stood there with his arms folded.

  Except pull the skip over across the canal behind him, and hold hard with the hook into the rotten pilings there to keep her in place, while she got down into the drop-bin with the other hand for the pistol she kept.

  Mama, you told me, you told me, and here I sit with the damn Megarys, and alt-Mama, I ought to have hit him other side of West. Damn, they're coming—

  Light flared on Mondragon's face. The gardeporte had opened. Someone challenged him. He stood fast.

  "Fm Chamoun's pickup," he said out loud: she heard that much.

  The gardeporte shut, taking the light.

  He half-turned then, damn him, and looked at her sidelong, and swung back again to face the door as it opened, as two men with guns beckoned him inside.

  "Stand there!" she yelled across.

  Mondragon lifted one hand to motion over his shoulder, toward her. He told them something. He sauntered into the doorway and stopped again, blocking it wide.

  Lord and my Ancestors—they don't think he's alone. She waited, her arm shaking so she could hardly hold the boat against the drift.

  "Jones," Mondragon called out then.

  Oh, thank ye, Mondragon 'less they was in any doubt.

  "Yey?"

  More figures showed in the light. One was Cha- . moun. Others had guns. A lot of guns. She got down into the well, behind solid wood.

  But Mondragon backed out. Chamoun came out. The door shut, taking the light again.

  She started shaking like the fever, till she nearly squeezed the trigger by mistake.

  Then she got the hook loose and got up and shoved off across the canal, where her two passengers waited at the corner.

  "Name's Baritz," Mondragon said, when he came back to the skip from Boregy's door having delivered Chamoun and a certain paper. "The contact is Baritz. One of Romanov's boys. Megarys are damned worried."

  The door inside Boregy Cut had swallowed Chamoun, all in dark. She held the skip by Boregy's canalside door, and Mondragon stepped up on the halfdeck, picked up his pole again. The watergate was still open, this gray dawn with the iron bells ringing across the town.

  Day of the Scouring. The solemn day. The day of fasting and thinking on karma gained.

  "Ain't no name I know," she said as they eased out the gate.

  "The Sword cell here is in a tight place," Mondragon said. The gate-chains rattled and hinges squealed over the Signeury bells. "Now they know they are. They just had to believe it was really Anastasi's offer."

  "Damn, damn, how long can we run this thing?"

  "Long enough," he said. "Long as any other."

  APPENDIX

  Maps

  MEROVINGEN ECOLOGY

  PRACTICAL MEROVINGEN AQUATIC ECOLOGY 101 OR "WHAT'S TO EAT?"

  Mercedes R. Lackey

  The aquatic ecosystems of Merovingen and its surroundings are influenced primarily by the following two factors; (1) the cold arctic current that travels down along the eastern coastline and cuts in through the Strait of Storms (which, cold current meeting warm, is why the Strait has so many storms) (2) the relatively narrow continental shelf. These two factors give the area around Merovingen a climate a great deal like Northern California (as opposed to the Eastern Seaboard).

  The current is fast and pretty much constant, carrying away silt and sand. As a result the shellfish and crustaceans found in the area around Merovingen are either of the "rooting" variety (i.e., they anchor themselves and let food come to them), or they are large enough (around a meter in size) when full grown that the current can't pick them up and carry them off. They are intolerant of changes in temperature and salinity, hence for the most part cannot live in the harbor or estuary. Because the continental shelf drops off so quickly, their preferred habitat is below ten meters—this makes them nearly impossible for anyone but trained divers to retrieve. This keeps them rare, expensive, and prevents them from being fished out.

  The one exception to this is a tiny "crab" of about three inches in diameter that lives among the reeds in the swamp. These are edible only in summer when they emerge from hibernation in the mud. After the 15th of Quinte they have ingested enough insect larvae to give them an extremely disagreeable taste—and worse, very powerful purgative properties. A favorite punishment among the swampy gangs is to force a malefactor to eat a double handful of them after they've gone inedible.

  DINNER TIME IN THE SWAMP

  Spring (Prime, Deuce, Planting):

  Edible are the very young shoots of reeds and marsh-grass (edibility can be judged by the color), either raw or boiled. Fish, of course, provide protein— but the springtime staple is the "mud-pup." Mud-pups are the juvenile form of a remarkably ugly, tough, and vicious oceanic reptile called the "dragon-elle." Dragonelles (not entirely reptilian as they are endotherms and do not hibernate, and have a warty hide instead of scales) are sea-going creatures that range from one to two meters in length, and are possessed of a mouthful of needle-teeth, long, tearing claws on webbed feet, and poisoned ventral and tail spines. Their flesh is very unpleasant to the taste, and quite poisonous. In late summer they mate at sea, and the gravid females take to the marshes to lay their eggs in the mud at the foot of reed-clumps. The mud-pups emerge all three months of spring. Mud-pups are plump, stupid, and easy to catch, having only the urge to get to salt water on their dny minds. Their flesh is fairly tasteless, but nourishing, and most of a mud-pup is edible. And there are fats of them, presumably to make up for their stupidity, as one adult dragonelle can produce up to a thousand eggs per season, laying them over a period of one to two months.

  Summer (Greening, Quartin, Quince):

  Sometime in the beginning of Greening the crabs begin to emerge from hibernation. They are not overly large, and they are not as easy to catch as a mud-pup (they defend themselves) but again, there are lots of them. Fish, as usual, provides the rest of a swampy's protein. Vegetable material is provided by one of the few things seeded by the Ancestors; several varieties of edible deep-sea kelp. By Greening the kelp beds have grown up to reach the surface and long pieces are constantly being broken off and carried in to the beach. A hungry swampy need only stake out a section of beach for a few hours and sooner or later an oceanic salad big enough to stuff him and several friends will come floating in. If he's really lucky, clinging to the kelp will be one of the oceanic crabs, but he'd better keep such a piece of great good luck to himself—

  Fall (Sexte, Septe, Harvest):

  These are the lean months for the swampy. The kelp beds have died back down, the mud-pups are gone, the crabs can't be eaten, and the reeds and grasses have all gone woody and fibrous. The only vegetable material he can get is the pith of certain rushes; knowledge of those rush-beds is carefully guarded. About all there is for the hungry swampy is fish and river-eels. Things can get very unpleasant in the fall—

  Winter (Falling, Turning, Fallow):

  Things just got better. The seeds of the marsh-grass and the seed-pods of the reeds have ripened and are now edible, either raw or cooked. As soon as the seed-pods have hardened, the change in the sunlight triggers a chemical change in the reeds, and their roots fatten up with stored starch and go edible. And an oversized marsupial mouse called a "swamp-hopper" makes an appearance, going after the seeds. There are also tart berries something along the line of a cranberry that ripen dur
ing Turning. And of course, there's always fish and river-eels.

  MEDICINALS AND OTHER RELEVANCIES:

  Although most of the vegetation in the swamp is either poisonous or disagreeable in quantity, in small amounts quite a number of the plants have medicinal properties.

  Redberry bush bark: contains salicylic acid and acetylsalicylate (aspirin). Useful for headache and fever-reduction.

  Wiregrass: contains quinchona (quinine). Knifegrass: root acts as a vermifuge for intestinal parasites; leaf as a laxative. Marshcress: an expectorant.

  Nodding Tom (a reed): seeds produce a mild tranquilizer; root, a sedative.

  Numbvine: sap has a benzocaine-like-substance; a local anesthetic; also speeds clotting.

  Potchbush: sap has a very powerful antibiodc effect, but only externally.

  Rainbow weed: stimulant.

  PRACTICAL MEROVINGEN ECOLOGY 102 OR "WHAT'S EATING YOU?"

  In sober fact, most of the wildlife of Merovin finds human beings (a) inedible or (b) as poisonous as humans find the wildlife. This is fortunate for the humans, especially those in the swamp. However, there are any number of things out there that are perfectly willing to defend themselves/territory by taking a bite out of you, provided they can spit it out afterwards.

  JAWS 3, SWAMPY 0

  The single largest dangerous critter a swampy is likely to encounter is the gravid female dragonelle. They are between one and two meters long, have short tempers (you'd be peeved too, if you had up to a thousand eggs to lay), are highly territorial and aggressive, and are possessed of poisonous ventral and tail spines and a mouthful of needle-sharp teeth.

  They swarm into the swamp in the winter months, coming in after dark with the high tide and leaving with the ebb (like grunion) before dawn. They have been known to take a whole foot off an injudicious swampy, and will certainly extract the proverbial pound of flesh if they get the chance. The main rule in dealing with dragonelles is, NEVER, EVER, PUT ANY PART OF YOURSELF INTO THE WATER AFTER DARK IN WINTER. While they are amphibious, they don't really like "dry land" and much prefer to grumble down in the mud underwater. They will not climb up on rafts or into boats.