That meant small jobs, or sneaky jobs. It meant getting deeper and deeper into that dark, vast water termed "illegal," and "underground."
It also meant that chugger was here to stay.
Just like the tangle-lilies.
Damned Janes thought of everything!
Yes, there was a knot of the damned lilies right here in the slip, dead and turning brown, ripe for brewing in the still or drying and burning in the stove.
"Cut 'em, Jones. Harvest an' use 'em. That's what they're for. "With a whispered oath, Jones yanked the stuff up with her boat hook and threw it on the bow of her skip. Still it or burn it, she'd deal with it later. Have to deal with it later.
With another blistering curse she got up and untied the skip, and set off for Moghi's.
Rif wakened slowly to the feel of long fingers combing gently down her back. She stretched, purred, -rolled over and looked up into Black Cal's green eyes. He was smiling. It wasn't his usual fleeting smile, certainly not that toothy hunter's grin: more playful, secretive.
"Y'got somethin' in mind?" she asked, expecting anything from political news to kinky suggestions.
Black Cal smiled wider, and nodded. "Get dressed," he said. "I have something to show you, over at East Dike."
Intrigued, Rif raised an eyebrow at him and reached about for her scattered clothes.
Fifteen minutes later they were out on the waterside of East Dike, pacing along by the short docks south of the big shipping slips. A small wharf lay there, and at its far end, overshadowed by the height of the piers, almost impossible to see from anywhere else, was an odd low boat under a worn tarpaulin. Black Cal went to it and hauled the tarpaulin away.
Rif gasped in recognition as she saw it plain. Three narrow hulls joined by an arrowhead-shaped deck, three raked masts with drawn-up booms, furled water-gray sails, all painted water-blue-gray above and surface-silver below the waterline, small and light and inexpressibly graceful, built totally for secrecy and speed: it was the perfect smuggler's boat.
"There are three of Yossarian's smaller engines inboard," Black Cal pointed out. "They're well hidden. You can reach them only through a false bulkhead, which may cause problems with coordinated steering. She'll run well on the central engine alone, certainly well enough on sails alone. The still, brewing tank and fuel cans are hidden in the hulls."
"... Master Milton's boat," Rif whispered, remembering. She didn't dare to add: you got engines that you know damn well aren't approved by the College, don't carry real tax-stamps or seals; you did that, Black Cal. "D-did ye get the designs from him?"
"No. I just remembered what I'd seen, made sketches, found a . . . discreet and willing boat-wright." He didn't add: not one who works here in town, and might gossip.
Rif shook her head in amazement. "Ye do have talent, Black Cal, and fer more than shooting." She gnawed her lip for a moment, knowing her next question was dangerous but had to be asked. "... Cal, ye didn't . . . compromise yerself ter pay fer this, did ye?"
Black Cal smiled again, a quiet and peaceful smile. "No, I didn't. Even an honest blackleg makes enough pay to live on. I had years' worth of savings, and nothing to spend it on . . . until now."
"Still, a boat like this ..." She marveled again at its smooth lines, perfect joins, metalwork. Metal-work? "Cal?"
Black Cal shrugged. "Besides, I finally got a reward for being good and faithful." He turned to meet her eyes. "A messenger—in Signeury livery—came up to me a few weeks back and gave me a package. No note with it, just a seal."
"Whose?" Rif whispered.
"Iosef Kalugin's."
"Oh."
"He appreciated my warning about Tatty's boyfriend."
"I . . . see."
"He appreciated your part in it too, Rif. Inside the package was a copy of your songbook." "My ... my book?'''
"Right. And there were a lot of coins set between the pages of a certain song." "Which one?"
" 'The Ballad of Honest Rowan.' " "Oh," Rif said again, and hurriedly looked away, blinking back a sudden rush of unexplainable tears.
Someone, where it mattered to him, had finally appreciated Black Cal. Not to mention herself, which just might be a valuable ace in the hole someday. She turned her gaze back to the trimaran. "Does she have a name?"
"Not yet." Black Cal glanced away, almost blushing. "I was thinking of calling her . . . the Rafaella."
Rif drew a sharp breath and turned to face him. This was an incredible love-gift, and it was too much: dangerously too much. "No," she said. "Cal, she can't be just mine, not considering ... how she was bought. She's got ter be . . . ours. Not mine alone. Give 'er a different name."
Black Cal thought that over for a long time while the words "honor among thieves" rolled back and forth in his skull. "All right," he said finally. "But you name her, then."
"I'll think on 'er ... Wait." An idea blossomed of its own accord, a beautifully ironic sequel to a scrap of ancient history. "Call 'er the . . . I'm Alone Two."
Black Cal cocked his head and puzzled at the mystery. That name had resonances he didn't understand, but somehow guessed he would appreciate if he knew them. Rif would doubtless tell him at some quietly appropriate time. "Wait here," he said. "I'll go get some paint and a bottle of wine."
"Moghi," Jones said as soon as the door was closed, "the Deiters already got one o' them Discreet engines. Lord knows who else does. It's starting."
' 'Yey, I know.'' Moghi turned a bland smile on her. "That all ye got ter tell me?"
"Moghi, this is deep trouble! Does th' College find out folks got them new engines, folks're goin' ter get their engines confiscated, maybe their boats, maybe get themselves disappeared. Somebody's got ter warn folks, stop this!"
"Ye think it's a problem, go tell it ter the Trade." Moghi shrugged.
"Dammit, Moghi, I know ye got plans with yer 'friend' ter sell them engines! Ye want ter get folks arrested, make trouble with the Trade?"
"Maybe no trouble at all." Moghi smiled wider, a grin that made Jones shiver. "Tell me, how'd ye know the Deiters got a Discreet engine?"
"One o' their big skips nearly run me down, is how."
"So. An' did ye hear 'er comin', Jones?"
"Ney, there was jes' splashin', an' somethin' like a deep drum-rattle when they was right a-top o' me. That's how I knew."
"No engine noise. Right. So how'd ye know they was under power? "
" 'Cause they was goin' so fast, an' had only a couple poles out, an' nobody makes that kind o' speed without a damn-sight more poles! Any canaler knows that! Besides, there was that funny deep rumble . . ."
"Any canaler would know. But would a blackleg? Or those Crazy Cassie-kissin' fools up at the College?"
Jones felt her jaw drop. "Th-the canalers'd know ..." Her words trailed off. She guessed what Moghi's next words would be before he said them.
"Can ye see any canaler tellin' a blackleg—or the College—how ter spot, an' screw, another one o' the Trade?"
"Right, right." Jones rubbed her forehead. "Some landsider might, though. Might know enough, have a grudge, maybe 'bout all the boat-wash . . . Moghi, ye've seen one o' them engines, an' workin', ain'tcher?"
Moghi ignored her second question. "So, somebody squawks an' the College sends blacklegs ter check 'er out. How many times've ye said it? "Black-legs'll turn fer a penny. They turned fer what canalers could pay, over that fun an' games with Megary's."
"Lord," Jones almost wailed. "That was diff'rent, Moghi. Nobody loves Megary, an' they're doin' illegal work anyway. This is goin' right up against the damn College! Damn few on the water can 'ford ter pay what a blackleg'd want fer turnin' on that. There's folks goin' ter be hurt bad on this."
"Maybe not," Moghi said again. "So somebody squawks, the blacklegs come lookin', they don't turn, an' they manage ter find what they're lookin' fer. They get that far, finally see one o' them engines, ye know what else they're goin' ter see? Nice, neat seals of approval from the College, right there on th'engine h
ousings, every last one."
"Lord," Jones whispered this time, feeling the blood drain from her face. "College seals ... on them engines? How ..." The implications were awesome.
"Yey, I seen 'em myself. Pretty things. Either somebody's paid off really big up ter the College, or somebody's the best damn forger I've ever seen." Moghi's smile turned tight and ruthless. "Either way, that's . . . interestin' action. There's profit in gettin' a piece of 'er."
Lord, Lord, who'll they rope in next? "Moghi," Jones tried feebly, "they're Janes. Ye can be hung from the bridge jes' fer bein' a Jane."
"Aye, an' it ain't unlikely we'll get shot jes' fer bein' lowtowners, way the College is goin' with Crazy Cassie's prophecies. Y'ever think o' that, Jones?"
She numbly shook her head.
"I ain't goin' ter tell ye my life story, but let it be, I've seen blood-crazes get started before. Never mind where, neither. Crazy Cassie's whompin' up another one; I know the signs. This time, by all the Ancestors, I don't mean ter hide in the bilges 'til the fire burns out, hopin' it won' get me." Moghi was no longer smiling. His face was as tight and ruthless as a sherk's. "Way I see it, Yossarian or Janes or whoever, they bring us a way ter get out fast or light back when the blood-craze comes, an' I don't care who they are—I'll deal with 'em. All I see is, they come jes' in time."
Jones shook her head again. What would he say if I told him I think they brought the tangle-lilies, too? Hell, he's in the brewing business! He d probably laugh and thank 'em.
"Don' worry 'bout me, Jones. I can take care o' myself. An' I'll keep watch fer yer watcher."
". . . Right. Thanks, Moghi."
Jones wandered out into the growing night, wondering who she could turn to now, who she even dared talk to now. Mondragon, maybe? Lord, not yet!
And there were still those weeds on her skip. Dry them or brew them? She had chugger enough for all the use she expected to need in a good while. Where could she dry the damned things?
She glanced automatically at Moghi's place, up at all the protruding gables and porches of Ventani Isle— and saw the edges of drying tangle-lilies hanging over the nearest gutters.
FOGGY NIGHT
Bradley H. Sinor
A smooth white stone went flying out, struck the water, skipped twice and disappeared into the fog. A second and a third followed, leaving uneven ripples on the murky surface of New Harbor.
"Not bad, not bad at all." Seventeen-year-old Rafael Ceti Morgan, Rafe to his friends, had a deliberate hint of pride in his voice, not that anyone was about to hear him down here beneath the piers on the edge of East Dike: the number of people who normally would have been abroad above and harborside at this hour of the night was cut to almost nothing by the heavy fog that had wrapped itself around Merovingen.
From his pocket Rafe pulled a crumpled sheet of paper. In the dark it was nearly impossible to read it, not that he needed to, the message being brief and simple, and several hours past.
Eight o 'clock.
L.
Sitting on a rock beneath the pier at East Dike was certainly not the finish Rafe had foreseen to this night. He held the paper up and sniffed it. Just the slightest hint of perfume clung to it, a scent that belonged to none other than m'sera Leanora Jherico, of the almond eyes, short brown hair, and enticing smile. They had met when she had stepped out of a shadowy corner at a walkway wedding this evening up at Kass second-tier—when he had been at some odds with a gate-guard over an invitation.
After which, pleading illness, the m'sera had packed her contract husband, one m'ser Hardin White, off to the subsequent reception. The problem was that a few minutes after midnight m'ser White had come walking through the bedroom door.
With the safety of an hour's time and several isles' distance, Rafe could chuckle about the whole thing. Hard to say which of the three of them had had the most surprised expression when Hardin White had walked in.
"But is climbing down a drainpipe at midnight the way a true gentleman should leave his lady?" he asked himself, picking up a handful of loose gravel. He let fly with the stones.
Most of them splashed into the water and were gone, some skipped several times, while a few clattered short, on the stones at water's edge. Mixed in with those sounds was the quite distinct chink of one of them hitting metal.
Rafe got up, walked out, searching along the edge, kicking stones. The water lapped close here. Summer and low water exposed long-drowned stones.
Perfect ending for a perfect night, he mused. Step on a dragonelle or a skit out here, most like.
That there might not have been anything at all but his own imagination had occurred to him more than a few times in the past several minutes.
But it had to be fairly straight-line along the dike. The pebbles hadn't scattered all that far.
So let's make another try, old thing. . . .
While the dike was more solid than any construction in the city, much of it near the water was rubble covered in mud and ooze. That forced Rafe to search more closely than he would have preferred, crouching and peering under old rocks, a little from putting his foot in the water.
But he spotted a golden shine from that angle; a little metal corner poking free from the ooze, under a rock inches away from the water. He reached. The first time he tried to get a grip around it, he came away with a handful of mud and very nearly sent himself into the water. The second got it.
For a couple of deep breaths Rafe squatted there, hefting the unexpected weight of the thing. The chill from the fog, the wind, and the water cut through his thin clothing so he had to fight to keep his teeth from chattering. Only after several long breaths did he dip it in the water and rub it with his sleeve.
Gold, beyond a doubt. Rafe lifted it to the faint harbor lights. A thin smile crossed his face when he saw the engraving on the lid.
The evening proved profitable after all. And not alone in the pawn value.
From the shelter of a doorway, Rafe watched Rohan. The affair seemed fairly straightforward. Drop off the box, collect a reward and then head for Moghi's.
But dealing with hightown—one was careful.
No lights showed in Rohan, no guards, nothing. For the better part of a quarter hour the only thing he'd seen from this vantage had been a pair of cats, one gray, one black and white, hissing and growling at each other as they dashed in and out of the mist.
Wait till morning, maybe.
But there was the wedding uptown. Rohan might well be in attendance—only servants left to keep the door; and he had no notion of dealing with servants. A poleboat glided past, with well-dressed partiers. Voices grew loud and diminished.
He heard approaching footsteps on this second-tier walkway then and pulled himself tightly back around the corner. A woman with two bodyguards emerged from the fog and the timbers at Rohan Middle Bridge. One of the men walked a few steps ahead of the others, the lantern in his hand marking their path.
Rafe caught only the briefest glimpse of dark hair as the woman and her companions passed within a few feet of where he stood. She was small, wrapped in a heavy cape against the chill, but she moved with a sureness and an entourage that meant hightowner; and stopped at the door that meant Rohan beyond a doubt.
"M'sera!" said Rafe, stepping out onto the walkway.
The two bodyguards were on him, swords drawn, alert lest this prove a thieves' diversion. Rafe walked slowly forward, hands held open for their inspection.
"What's the likes of you doing here, boy?" one of them spat out at him.
Rafe relaxed, but not by much, and forced his voice to show the calm his gut didn't feel. "Got business with Rohan."
"What kind of business could you have with Rohan?" demanded the other bodyguard—while the woman stood silently at the door.
The first man gestured with his sword. "At this time of night, the m'sera got nothin' to say to the likes of you or anyone. I don't care if it were Governor Kalu-gin himself. If ye really got business with Rohan, then come round in th
e morning, like any honest gentleman would."
"The m'sera is Rohan?" Rafe asked.
"You might say that," laughed one of them.
"M'sera Tanith Rohan," the woman said from the doorway. "You, m'ser?"
"This is personal. Can we talk inside? I have something of yours." Moving very slowly, so as not to alarm the men, Rafe brought the box out where they could see it.
The m'sera held out her hand. One of the men accepted the box and carried it to Tanith Rohan, who studied the box, her face betraying some reaction, but Rafe couldn't tell what. The slightest of nods was the only gesture he could see.
"She wants to see ye, boy," said the man who'd remained next to him.
Rafe's stomach twisted in knots as he walked toward the m'sera and the door. He stopped several feet in front of Tanith Rohan and bowed. He could feel her eyes moving over him, taking in his mud-stained breeches, the shredded remains of his silk shirt.
"I see that I am not the only one who keeps late hours this night," she said. "What's your name?"
"Morgan, m'sera, Rafael Ceti Morgan."
"Of what House?"
"None lately, m'sera."
"And you know this mark?" she said, holding up the box.
Rafe nodded. "They still tell stories about your grandfather. Some say that he could sell Janist bibles to Sworders and leave 'em wanting more."
"That he could. Two silver bars with a gold between. Yes, this is ours," Tanith Rohan said. "And where did you steal it, Rafael Ceti Morgan?"
"I've done many things, m'sera. But by every karmic mark that stands against me, I didn't steal that box."
"Where, then?"
"East Dike. Beneath the pier, near the water's edge."
Tanith Rohan stared at him, her eyes pale in the lantern light. "Marcus, Norman," she said, "teach him a lesson."
At which she turned and went into the house.
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