With a short-sword under her hands.
"Cardinal Boregy is dead," she said. "Murdered." She gathered up the sword and pulled it halfway from its black sheath.
A Takahashi blade.
Richard felt his knees go to water. He said, calmly, "Your Eminence, how can I be of help?" "You know this?" "Takahashi." "The murder weapon."
"Nothing from my House, I assure you. Nothing from Takahashi."
But he was thinking about Mondragon, who had such a blade.
"You know nothing about it."
"I assure you, Your Eminence."
Exeter stared at him a long, long moment, while the sweat trickled on his sides. She slid the sword into its sheath. Click.
She extended it to him one-handed. "Take it."
He took it. His hand was shaking.
"I don't know who did it," Exeter said, "yet. But I will. I do know who didn't."
'' Your Eminence?''
"Kamat. Takahashi. Leaving that—" She gestured to the sword he held, "—would be stupid. Neither Kamat nor Takahashi would be stupid. Whoever.killed His Eminence is either your enemy or Takahashi's."
"Thank you," Richard breathed, and bowed. "Thank you, Your Eminence."
"Fools are an abomination," Exeter said. "Good night, my son."
"Good night, Your Eminence."
The door closed.
Willa stared at infinity, a moment, then picked up a pen, dipped it, and wrote: I regret to announce— Regret, hell.
Kamat owed her major karma. Takahashi did. Even Adventists understood that kind of karma. Takahasi's grandson was in her reach and she gave the blade to his guardian. Takahashi would get the message.
She had thought of accusing specific agencies— Janist agents, Sharrists,—the Sword of God.
But she moved into Boregy's chair—and from that perspective, with real power to wield, a wider investigation was much more to her advantage.
—at the hands of some person, whether acting independently or with others, this Holy Office will seek to determine by inquiry . . .
POSTPARTUM BLUES (REPRISED)
Chris Morris
Tatiana had left the Boregys' with Chance and spent the night at the embassy, so she was still there when the College functionaries made their belated discovery.
Magruder had slept fitfully, waiting for the alarm that didn't come until the sun rose.
It was a glitch, but not a deadly one, that no one had discovered Ito until morning. Time of death could be determined.
And it meant that Chamoun and Kenner had gotten away clean, or Chance would have been awakened by blacklegs reporting crimes by his citizens.
Tatiana was shaken, pale. He handed her more tea. "Easy, love. Old Ito had lots of powerful enemies. Your father himself was telling me that some cardinal named Exeter was making a move on him through the Council. Something like this was bound to happen."
Wrong thing to say, that last. But it was too late to call it back.
"Bound to happen?" Tatiana said. "Nobody's bound to have his throat slit in his bedroom, except by karma." She put her head in her hands, sitting on his rumpled bed. Then she looked up, tousled and beautiful, and said, "Chance, what are things coming to? When will it stop? How can we dare to think that Nev Hettek and Merovingen can live in peace, when Merovingen wars upon itself?"
He said, "We'll manage, Tatiana. We'll manage because we must, because we're smart, and because things can't go on this way—you're right about that."
Without Ito, things were going to be lots easier.
Or at least, he was feeling so much better that he told himself he believed his own line.
Outside, the College mourning bells were beginning to toll.
SEEDS OF DESTRUCTION (REPRISED)
C.J. Cherryh
There was a nervousness over Merovingen: the Black Barge made that when it passed. Cardinal Ito Boregy made the trip to the harbor in better style than most, and the bridges were hung with white and with black, Merovingen's folk disagreeing even in the color of mourning.
So back came the official barges, and the Black Barge with all its oars, and back to town came all the hightown folk in their silk and jeweled finery, drifting along the high bridges or motoring back from the funeral in fancy-boats and launches, and back came the shopkeepers and the middle class folk on the middle bridges, not so much glitter there, but staunch respect.
And back came the canalers to get drunk, it being an official holiday and the bars all closed until the funeral was done and Ito Boregy slid off the barge to be fish food. There was respect there, too, if only for the blacklegs standing guard on the corners and the bridges, —to protect against thieves, the word was, seeing as how citizens were distracted by the funeral.
But once the doors at Moghi's were open and once the liquor started flowing there was holiday—
Boregy's got his! somebody yelled, and the blackleg standing guard at Pardee Bridge looked sharp for who had said that, but mostly because he was sort of lonely there, Jones figured. Rich folk had gone away to their parties, the College was running as usual, and deadlines were coming due, like their Permit was expiring this evening, and Mondragon had already had an exchange with that fellow, who didn't like the 'runner tied up . . . obstructing traffic, as he called it, and looking tatty as it did, on his beat, and today being a state funeral and all.
"Can't move it," Mondragon had explained to the man. "Engine's not in."
"What's that?" the blackleg had asked from the walkway, pointing aft.
"That's the engine. It's not in. We haven't got the tanks hooked up, we haven't got any fuel, the shops are closed—"
"Tow it!"
"My permit's valid till sundown."
"Your permit's expired when I say it is!"
"No, it isn't." Mondragon had stood up then, all sweaty and shirtless and holding this big wrench, looking down at this blackleg, and Jones had gotten up and put her foot on the rail looking down at this blackleg, just happening to have this big length of chain in her hand, and Mondragon had said, "Sundown. That's what my paper says."
"You're a public nuisance! We're going to have funeral traffic through here—"
"We were measured for clearance."
"You're an eyesore!"
"Can't fix that. We can drape the bow in black or something. Show our respect."
So off went the blackleg, and back had come a city crew with black crepe and hammer and tacks and hung the bow in black. Respectful-like.
So they had kept working. The blackleg had come back by just before the funeral to say, "No hammering during the procession. Hear?"
Mondragon had stood up and loomed over the rail again, wiping his hands with a lace handkerchief. "Absolutely." In his most hightown accent. "I assure you, officer, we'll respect proprieties. —What is your name?"
It was Beccard. He had had to give it. That was the law, Mondragon had said, which was funny, Jones thought, because she never had known that.
It had made Beccard real nervous, when Mondragon took on the hightown accent like that. It had made him real nervous when Mondragon asked his name.
"Should be done tonight," Mondragon had said then, all pleasant, wiping his neck with the handkerchief and lazing through the accent. "Promise you, officer, I'll try to hire some more help soon as the funeral's over and get this off your corner."
"No hammering till the last gun," the blackleg had said, and walked off whacking his stick on his leg, as the processional got closer.
Made Jones a little nervous, but Mondragon wasn't, Mondragon was all cool.
And now, the funeral being done, the walkways turning noisy with canalers drinking and hallooing at each other, the blacklegs had their hands full.
So here came some of Moghi's lads, and here came Tommy, and here came Rahman, all the way they'd promised; and here came—Lord! Gran' Min Fahd, bumping up against the hull in her skip and boohooing and taking on about how it had been a beautiful funeral, and how she'd seen fifteen cardinals
go. to the harbor, and Ito Boregy had had to go in two pieces.
"Cut his head right off—" she yelled, in case anybody could miss it, including the blackleg on the corner
"God, shut her up," Mondragon said, jerking at a bolt.
"Gimme a silver," Jones said. "I'll send 'er for food."
"She'll spend it on booze," Tommy protested, Tommy having come up to kibitz.
"That's the idea," Mondragon muttered, and fished out the silver. "Here."
The sun was going behind Gallandry, throwing a sharp shadow down Port Canal. She saw that and worried. She leaned down off the waterside rail and tossed a silver down into Mintaka Fahd's well. "Here, Min, ye want ter go down t' Moghi's an' bring us back some silerbits?"
"Yey!" Min exclaimed, rocking her skip prodigiously as she scrambled after it, agile for an old woman her size. "Sure will. Oh, thank'ee, Altair!"
"Praise Allah," one of Moghi's boys muttered.
She ducked back to get back to her hose-fitting. Damn, that sun was getting low.
"Ye goin' to make it?" somebody shouted from the Pardee walk. "Hey, Mondragon, how ye doin'?"
"Fine!" he yelled, pulling at the wrench, and muttered, "Damn, we don't need people on here. Jones, leave Rahman the hose, just keep 'em off this deck."
Because everybody on the Water knew that boat had to move today, and it had to move by sundown, and the blackleg was hovering out there on his corner ready to see it did—
"How ye doin'?" people shouted up, a little on the lit side.
"Oh, fine," she said, feeling like her stomach was full of eels. "Just fine." God! People might forget about it with the funeral and all; except she'd just sent Min off to Moghi's, and Min's mouth there was no stopping.
"How is it coming" she asked, looking back.
"Damn template's wrong," Mondragon said. "Damn that Yossarian! Got to drill again, this damn board's going to look like holey cheese, damn, damn, damn!"
"Pray she holds," Rahman said, who hardly ever said two words in an afternoon.
More drilling. More cursing. The sun got lower.
People came drifting up from Moghi's to see the show and drink and lay bets whether the boat would make it.
The blackleg didn't investigate. There were a lot of people up and down the walk. He was paying all his attention to the Grand, because if he turned around he had to see a lot of drunk and disorderlies and a lot of them were carrying hooks and knives and chains and bottles.
"Oh, Lord!" Min's voice shrilled from waterside, all bubbly with alcohol, "Altair! I'm sorry, I'm sorry—"
Min boohooing because she'd forgot the chips and drunk up the money.
And it was getting toward dark.
"It's all right, Min!" Jones yelled. "Just go on back to Moghi's, tell him send 'em, put 'er on my tab!"
Whole damn walkway was full of people. People were on Pardee's bridges and balconies. "How you doin'?" Jones asked, sweating, while Mondragon and the help were working away with the wrenches.
"Close," Mondragon said.
There was a hoooo-ooo! from the crowd. Something was happening. Jones bet on the blackleg before she ever looked over the rail, and it wasn't just one, it was four of 'em coming through.
"Your permit's expired," their original blackleg yelled up at them, waving his stick, and the crowd booed and hooted. "Move this hulk now!"
Mondragon stood up again. Applause from the bridges and the boats round about. He said, "Tanks're empty. Got to send after fuel!"
"Move this thing!" the blackleg shouted. "Or you're under arrest!"
"Hey" Tommy shouted high and clear, "I'll lend ye, Tom!"
"I got 'er!" Jones said, and yelled down at Lewises' boat, that was near her skip: "Hey, Lewis, gimme up that spare tank from the hidey!"
"That's not enough to start this thing!" Mondragon yelled. "I can't get to the harbor on that! Can anybody sell?"
"Yo!" somebody yelled, "I got 'er!"
"Your time is running!" the blackleg yelled.
"Hurry it!" Jones yelled. "Anybody what's got fuel to spare, just pass 'er up an' ye gimme the tally later! We got ter move this thing!"
Cans appeared from boats round about, the crowd cheered the cans, booed the blacklegs, and Jones and Rahman and Tommy and Moghi's lads made a chain so they passed cans and dumped chugger down the tank fast as it would pour, long as there were cans.
"You're overtime!" the blackleg yelled. "Move it!"
"All right!" Mondragon yelled. "All right! Cast us off! Everybody clear in front!"
Lines thumped inboard, one after the other. The boat began to drift. Mondragon primed the motor. He spun the crank. It died.
A moan from the crowd.
He primed and cranked again.
It took. It roared. Water flew up like a fountain astern and people screamed and the 'runner jumped so they all went sliding—
' 'Look out!'' Mondragon yelled as they shot right un-
der Pardee Low Bridge with all the people screaming
and cheering— Jones scrambled for the rail, yelled, "Jump!" and
planted her bare foot on the rail and dived as far from
those screws as she could send herself— Hit the water like it was pavement and went down
in the Det, fighting the wake that tossed her— Kicked and fought to the surface and saw other heads
bobbing in the trail the boat left on its track diagonal
across the Grand—saw that boat still going, and didn't
see the man she was looking for— "Mondragon!" God, it was going to hit-He hit the rail and dived out clear and clean as the
'runner plowed right into Foundry's canalside, right
up the boatskid of that new mek shop-Just carried the whole front in with it before all that
fuel went boom! and lit up the Grand like a second
sunset.
All them records, Jones thought cheerfully. All them debts.
Canalers cheered and nobody was running real fast to ring a fire-bell yet. They would. Nobody else on Foundry deserved to burn.
But Sword did. And the word was out what that bunch was.
She took a lift from Lewises' boat. They got Mondragon picked up, too, and Mary Gentry got her man Rahman and Tommy onto her deck, along with Moghi's boys.
Wasn't any need for them to hang around. Accidents happened. People scattered. People were real alert for that fire, them that were in on it, and Moghi was real quick.
Blacklegs came to Mondragon's apartment that night. They asked polite, respectful questions. They filled out their official forms. They said it was regrettable, but there was a fine and damages.
Mondragon said he'd certainly stand responsible for that: it was just the pushing to get through, of course. He had been terribly worried about the crowd and the drinking, and he had been trying to comply with the law.
The officer on the scene would be reprimanded, the sergeant said. Shook hands, wished Mondragon good night and hoped he didn't take the fever from his swim.
Jones held her heart when the door shut. She felt like she was going to faint right there.
Mondragon walked over to the counter and poured them each a whiskey.
Lifted his, chink! against the rim of hers. "Anas-tasi's men," he said, meaning the ones that had just gone. "Report's official now. Just jammed on us. Working too fast—"
"Damn ye f'r stayin' aboard—"
"Hey, I wasn't going to miss, was I?" A sip of whiskey, a whiskey-flavored kiss.
After which, no need of good sense.
RUN SILENT, RUN CHEAP (REPRISED)
Leslie Fish
Beyond sight of land the high sun flickered on the low waves of the Sundance Sea, throwing reflected fragments of light along the hulls and underside of the I'm Alone Two. She had no nets down, and was not really out fishing for deathangel.
Showered with light, rocked on the mild waves, Rif and Black Cal made love on the arrowhead-shaped deck. Much skill and patience that required, and they made the m
ost of it, timing every stroke with the swell and slide of the waves. The sun hung still at mid-heaven, as if to give them all the time in the world.
A good hour and more slipped past before Rif raised her head, noticing the prickle of warning heat on her bare belly, drowsily worrying about sunburn in embarrassing places. She turned to look at Black Cal stretched out beside her, sunlight reflecting silver off his long back and thighs, and worried that his pale hide might take damage, too.
"Where'sa suntan oil?" she mumbled in his ear, sliding a lazy hand down his washboard ribs.
"Mm, basket," he murmured, not turning his head. 318
Rif rolled over, stretched, climbed to her hands and knees and went hunting in the picnic basket. The oil flask was hiding in the bottom, under the empty containers and last half-bottle of wine. She hauled it out, rolled back to Black Cal's side, unstoppered the flask and poured out a handful of it between her breasts. Black Cal, watching with one eye open, offered a hand to help spread the oil. Rif purred, and let him.
It took a good quarter-hour to slick down all of her skin, after which Rif sat up to return the favor, worried that she might have taken too long already; Black Cal's skin was pale as steel, too easy to burn. She started at his heels, worked the oil up his long legs and buttocks, finally sat on his back to spread the rest on his shoulders and arms.
It was from that vantage point that she saw something odd along the horizon.
Some hundred meters ahead and a few degrees to port the flat line of the water was humped by something stationary—but not quite still. Rif studied the oddity while her hands worked, remembering that the Sundance was shallow here and sandbars were common. Some fisherman might be out there, crab-trapping or possibly beached. The current was bearing the I'm Alone Two steadily closer; she'd have a better view soon enough. Rif watched, hands still, task forgotten.
Black Cal lifted his head. "What's happening?" he asked.
Rif pointed. "Someone out there."
He frowned, annoyed at the loss of privacy, wriggled out from under Rif's thighs and reached for the tackle box tied to the mast. Inside lay a collapsible telescope. He pawed it out, extended it and put it to his eye.
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