"Oh?"
Raj shifted in his chair. "Please, Father, try to understand. I swear I'm not doing anything dishonest."
"Then why can't you tell me ... or Justice?"
"Family secrets," Raj said at last. "Things that could damage Family."
Justice heard the emphasis placed on "Family" and read the capital letter on the word. Kamat or Takahashi? He sure as hell was not going to ask.
"Let's just say that I'm here to vindicate a friend of mine who's been falsely accused of dealing drugs. I know it isn't him, but ... but someone else is sure it is. I'm trying to prove that my friend isn't providing drugs to the man who's sitting with Krishna."
Father Rhajmurti stared at Raj for a moment. "Then why do you have Justice here?''
"So he can witness the transaction."
Justice sat up straighter in his chair. That was not part of what Raj had told him he wanted him to do. But then, he had never asked, had he?
"And. . . ?" Rhajmurti prompted.
"And, draw a sketch from memory after we get back to Hilda's as additional proof that we saw the right man."
A waiter drifted up to the table and took Rhajmurti's order for a beer, then left.
"Please, Father," Raj said quietly, "don't interfere. We shouldn't be in any danger."
"Dammit, Rigel, coming canalside is dangerous enough as it is. What if this man you're stalking sees you?"
Justice watched Raj's face carefully, but his friend's eyes were steady.
"He might be mildly surprised, but not enough to be thrown into a fright. He knows I'm a student—"
"—and the heir to House Takahashi, who's as out of place canalside as Krishna."
Justice glanced back to Krishna's table. Krishna and Raj's mysterious quarry had finished their transaction: the packet had disappeared from the table. Now the two men sat casually in their chairs, talking as if nothing had gone on.
Damn! I wonder if anyone else saw? And if so, did they care ? Is John's a drug house ? Does this go on all the time? If it does, how many men here would think nothing of killing someone who might be witness to their business? He squirmed in his chair, the hilt of the dagger in his belt rubbing his back. What's Krishna got himself involved in now? And how did I get mixed up in it again ?
"Have you looked long enough, Justice?" Raj asked. "Do you think you can draw the man's face?"
"I suppose I can. But we can't leave now. They'll notice us for sure."
"No problem. We'll stay until they've gone."
"Which could be some time from now," Rhajmurti inserted. "Are you willing to wait?"
"I don't think we have a choice, Father," Justice said. He quickly glanced across the room. "What are you going to do about Krishna?"
"What I promised I'd do the last time I caught him trying to deal drugs. I'm going to tell his father about it."
Lord and Ancestors! Krishna's father would have a stroke! Justice was glad for the thousandth time that he was not in Krishna's shoes.
Well, there was nothing to be done now but wait. Sooner or later, Krishna and the other man would leave. Justice knew little about drug dealing, but it seemed to him that it might not be terribly bright to sit around in public too long after making a buy. "Hsst!"
Raj pointed with his chin toward Krishna's table. Justice looked, saw the flash of gold on the tabletop, and knew that Krishna had been paid for his trouble. Where was Krishna getting the stuff? At the parties he attended? Or was he stealing it from his hightowner friends? That was always a possibility, because he had-
"He's getting ready to leave," Raj whispered.
"Who?" Rhajmurti sat up straighter in his chair; his back was to Krishna's table, and he could not see. "Krishna or—?"
"The man I came here to see," Raj said, his jaw clenched. His eyes glittered coldly. "I think I might be able to prove my friend's innocence now . . . if—" He glanced at Justice, "—you'd be willing to back up my story."
Justice spread his hands. "Sure. Why not? As long as I get out of this evening with a whole skin, I'll be happy.''
The waiter returned with Father Rhajmurti's beer, took the coins, and went off to pick up another order.
"I want the two of you to know I'm not very happy about what you're doing," Rhajmurti said, swirling the liquid in his mug. "You may think it's not dangerous, but let me assure you, it is."
"But, Father—"
Three things happened at once.
The man sitting with Krishna rose and took his leave.
Krishna happened to look directly at Justice's table, and recognize who sat there.
And the door to John's Tavern suddenly filled with grim-faced blacklegs.
* * *
"Damn!"
Justice's curse was whispered, but in the deadly silence that fell it seemed overly loud.
The man who had sat with Krishna stopped dead, as did anyone else who happened to be up and walking around. Justice was certain if someone had dropped a button on the floor, the entire room would have heard it.
For a long, agonizing while, the blacklegs merely stood in the doorway, sticks held in their hands, their faces showing absolutely no emotion. Then the tableau was broken.
The blacklegs entered the tavern; Justice counted seven of them, including their captain, big, burly fellows all. No one else in the room moved . . . everyone was staring at the blacklegs, afraid to draw their attention.
Justice glanced at the man who had been sitting with Krishna. He had to admire the fellow's presence of mind, for he stood relaxed, his face totally free of any emotion save that of curiosity.
Then, as the blacklegs came farther into the room, the fellow started edging toward the door, moving so slowly it seemed that he did not move at all.
There was a crash to the rear of the room: all heads turned as a small, dark-clad man leaped up from his table, tipping over his chair as he did so. He rushed toward the open doorway, knocking other patrons aside, and pushing the fellow who had bought drugs from Krishna out of the way.
Amazingly, the little man managed to bolt out the door before the blacklegs could catch him.
"Move!" the captain bellowed. "Catch that bastard, or he's lost!"
Four of his men raced after their quarry. In the mayhem that followed, the fellow Raj had wanted Justice to sketch followed directly on the heels of the blacklegs, sprinting off into the dark. The remaining two blacklegs made as if to follow, but were restrained by their captain. Obviously, they were looking for the little man, and had no time to spare for someone who had let their nerves get the better of them.
"Damn!" Raj whispered. "He got away! I can't believe it! That took guts!"
The blacklegs gestured to John who joined them at the bar. Their conversation was hushed, but the blackleg captain seemed satisfied with what John was telling him. He nodded, gestured curtly to his two companions, and they stalked out of the tavern.
An excited hum of conversation replaced the silence. Neighbor turned to neighbor, whispered their theories as to who the little man was, and what chances the blacklegs had of catching him.
Justice sat staring across the room at Krishna, whose face (seen in dim lamplight) looked decidedly pale. It paled even more, as Rhajmurti slowly turned around in his chair to fix Krishna with a steely gaze.
"Excuse me," Father Rhajmurti said, standing. "I think I'm going to have a little conversation with m'ser Malenkov." He glanced over his shoulders at Justice and Raj. "I hope I can depend on the two of you going straight back to Hilda's."
"Yes, sir," Justice said. Raj nodded fervently.
Rhajmurti smiled slightly and slowly walked toward Krishna, who was shrinking back into his chair as far as possible.
"Lord!" Justice breathed. He reached for his mug of beer. ' 'Why is it when we get together we always manage to get mixed up in something?"
Raj shrugged, but his face registered the relief he must be feeling inside. "I don't know. Lucky, I guess."
"The next time we go off anywhere on o
ne of your missions," Justice said, setting the empty mug down on the table, "I wish you'd tell me all you can about what we're doing before we get there, not after. Who the hell do you want me to bear witness to that Krishna is most likely the one supplying drugs to this man you're after?"
Raj dropped his eyes, then looked up again. "M'ser Kamat.''
"Richard Kamat?" Justice asked. "Why does he want—?" He lifted a hand. "No. Don't tell me. I think I've been through enough tonight without learning more."
"Sorry." Raj grinned slightly. "But you did get a free meal out of it.''
Justice glanced across the room to where Rhajmurti stood glowering down at Krishna. "True. And it's a damn sight better than what Krishna got."
The torches and lamps shed a flickering light on the slippery stone walkway. Rhajmurti stood waiting for a poleboat, Krishna Malenkov at his side. Krishna had said nothing when Rhajmurti had accused him of dealing drugs; his eyes had gone wide and frightened, he had nodded once, but that was all. The break in the young hightowner's composure had come when Rhajmurti had told him they were going to pay a visit to the Malenkov mansion on Rimmon Isle, and that Krishna himself would tell his father what he had done. Krishna had all but fallen to his knees, begging Rhajmurti to spare him that, but Rhajmurti had remained undeterred. Now, the two of them stood waiting by the steps to second-level Spellbridge for a poleboat to take them across town to Krishna's father.
Rhajmurti cursed silently. He did not want to face m'ser Malenkov with the news that his son had been dealing drugs. It would be a scene fraught with emotion, and Rhajmurti truly did not know what Krishna's father would do. Despite him all but giving up on ever making anything out of Krishna at all, Rhajmurti still believed there might be something in the young high-towner worthy of salvage.
He sighed. Events had gotten out of hand lately. Between the drug-dealing on campus and among the students, and the reformation movement inside the College itself, he wondered where he was going to find time to teach his classes.
As for Justice and Raj—no, Rigel—Rhajmurti could not help but be concerned. Unwittingly, Justice was being drawn into situations Rhajmurti knew he could not keep him out of. There was far too much going on in the young Takahashi's life that Rhajmurti did not know about. And yet he could not forbid Justice to see Rigel ... the two of them were rooming together now. He could only hope that the levelheadedness he saw in Justice, and felt hints of in Rigel, would keep them safe.
He turned his head at the sound of someone poling a boat in his direction. Krishna straighened at his side, his eyes fixed on the water of the canal. Those damnable green plants that had washed up from the canal during the day had made the stone walkway more treacherous than usual. Huhn. An additional problem facing Merovingen.
Rhajmurti glanced up, seeking empty sky, a futile attempt from where he stood. If, in this life or the next, he ever had a chance to meet the Ancestors who had doomed everyone to Merovin, all respect and his priestly calling aside, he would probably strangle each and every one of them.
And enjoy the hell out of it, too.
TURNING POINT (REPRISED)
Mercedes Lackey
Lunchtime for runners saw Denny draped over the lower railing of the Gallandry walkway above Port Canal, absorbing lunch and sunlight at the same time. He was blind and deaf to the traffic behind him, intent as he was on his study of the canal below, until an elegantly-booted foot nudged Denny's leg.
"Hey, kid," drawled a smooth voice, rich with amusement. "How's the Trade?"
Denny looked up sharply from his noontime perusal of the traffic on Port Canal, startled, his mouth full of bread. He knew that voice!
Wiry and thin, dark hair falling in a mass of curls to below his shoulders, Gregori Mendelov leaned elegantly on the walkway-rail beside him, grinning, looking very like a younger, darker, shorter version of Tom Mondragon. Denny took in the slightly exotic cut of his clothing, the well-worn hilt of his rapier, the sun-darkened state of his complexion at a glance, before bursting out with his reply. "Greg!" he exclaimed, scrambling to his feet, and throwing his arms around the older boy—boy still, for Gregori was"only a year or two older than his brother, Raj. "Where ye bin? I was thinkin' the Megarys got ye!"
Greg laughed, and ruffled Denny's hair, but did not attempt to extract himself from the younger boy's embrace. "Had to make a trip south, kid—for m'health." Denny let him go, and backed up a step, looking up at him in perplexity. Greg tapped Denny's nose with a playful fingertip. "Not to make a story out of it, laddy, but m'dear father turned me in to th' blacklegs. Hopped a ship one step ahead of 'em, and worked m'way to the Chat an' back. Didn't have much time for goodbyes."
Denny grinned in delight. "Truth?"
Greg turned his expression to one of unwonted seriousness, and placed his hand solemnly on his satin-covered chest in the general vicinity of his heart. "Truth." Then he dropped the pose, put his arm around Denny's shoulders, and returned the boy's embrace. "So what you been up to, kid? Still roofwalk-ing?"
Denny grinned. "Some. Mostly bin runnin'. Do an odd job fer Rat'n'Rif, fer—'nother feller. Some fer canalers, but that's bin a special—canalers got it in fer Megarys, I bin helpin', like. Mostly runnin' fer Gal-landry these days."
"Gallandry?" Greg pursed his lips in surprise, and sun struck red lights from his hair, green sparks from his hazel eyes. "Come up in the world, have we?"
Denny flushed with pleasure. "Hey, ain't no big thing. An' it's mostly on account of that feller, th' one I do a bit'f odd work fer. He got me th' job. I bin stayin' with Mm."
Greg grew silent, a silence punctuated with the distant clamor of voices on the canal below, the splashing of poles, the regular spat of wavelets on Gallandry foundations. "Denny—" Greg's expression darkened, and his grip on Denny's shoulders tightened. "Denny, this feller—he isn't—messing with you, is he?"
Denny's open-mouthed shock seemed to reassure the older boy, even before he spluttered out his reply. "Him? Hell, no, not in a million years! He likes girls. Got him one, too. 'Member Jones?"
Greg's eyebrows rose, and his tense expression relaxed. "M'sera Hellcat herself? And a lander? Lord and Ancestors, I don't know whether to congratulate the man, or pity him! Who is this paragon?"
"Name of Mondragon," Denny replied happily. "Tom Mondragon."
"That's not a local name, at least not one I know." The questions in Greg's eyes gave Denny momentary qualms, and he belatedly began to pick his words with care.
"Hightowner, Boregy bastard, half Falkenaer," he said, sticking to the "official" story. "They pay 'im t'keep hisself quiet an' do a job'r two fer 'em."
"To not make an embarrassment of himself, and to do what m'ser Boregy doesn't want to dirty his fingers with, hmm?" Greg mused. "I can see where a smart kid like you could be useful to him. Is he treating you all right?"
Denny nodded vigorously. "As good as you. 'Cept he tries t' keep me outa trouble."
Greg laughed. "Then I've got no quarrel with him. And how are my old pair of nemeses, m'seras Rif and Rat?"
Denny hid another grin. Rat did not approve of Gregori Mendelov, but Rif approved of him even less. She considered him far too reckless, far too careless— which to Denny seemed rather a case of pot calling kettle. She hadn't liked it when Denny had taken to hanging around with the older boy—she'd liked it even less when Greg had included him in on some of his escapades.
But Greg was something special—a kind of substitute-brother; with his own brother out of reach in the swamp, he'd given Denny someone to tag after, look up to, try to imitate. He'd initiated Denny into the no-longer-mysterious ways of Girls—or rather, Women—just prior to his disappearance. And he'd been something of a protector when there was trouble and Rat wasn't around.
Truth to be told, Greg was a great deal that Raj was not. He took risks Raj would not even have thought of, and took them laughingly. Raj was so serious—and Denny grew tired of seriousness, now and again. He didn't seem to know what a joke was—it was Greg
's easy, careless good humor that attracted Denny the most. Greg could always find something to laugh at, even when the job went wrong. Mostly, though, nothing went wrong in Greg's hands, and he did everything with a flair and style that Denny could only envy.
"Rat's okay—but yell never guess who Rif's playin' footsie with," Denny replied, smirking.
"Mischa Kalugin?" Greg laughed.
"Less likely'n that."
"Less likely—the only man less likely would be Black Cal—" He stopped dead at Denny's widening grin. "You can't be serious!"
"Dead serious."
"Dip me in batter and call me fried fish! If Rif's a-bedding with Black Cal, can Retribution be far behind?" His eyes were wide and gleeful. "I can see I've been missing far more than I dreamed!" He let Denny go, and regarded him with a lifted eyebrow and a grin that practically sparkled. "I can see that getting caught up is going to cost me at least the price of a dinner. So tell me, my young wage-earner—when do your employers release you for the day?''
* * *
The girl approaching the bench of Gallandry runners was definitely an enigma. Denny couldn't place her in the heirarchy of Merovingen-below or -above. Her clothing (pants and severe tunic-shirt, and boots), though plain to the point of severity, was of a quality— and the First-Bath blue—that fairly shouted money. Yet she walked with the slightly rolling, balanced tread of a canaler. In appearance she was like any one of a thousand other Merovingen girls of seventeen or eighteen; dark, curly hair, dark eyes, dusky complexion— but there was a personality behind those eyes that made you sit up and notice her. Denny chewed his thumbnail and wondered what brought her to Gallandry.
He soon found out.
She walked up to Ned Gallandry's desk like she owned him, desk, and all of Gallandry, and didn't need to flaunt the fact. The saturnine Gallandry cousin sat up sharp when he saw her, and put aside what he was doing. She spoke quietly to him for a moment, too quietly for Denny to hear what she was saying, although he strained his ears unashamedly. But then she turned away from Ned toward the bench, and crooked her finger, beckoning. Beckoning Denny.
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