Fever Season

by C. J. Cherryh

  "SHARRH! SHARRH SHIP, SIX O'CLOCK!"

  Michael Chamoun was on the bridge of a ship, only his name wasn't Chamoun and the ship was like nothing he'd ever seen afloat on Merovin. It was a space-going vessel, the memories that weren't Chamoun's were clear on that. On other things, too, though the body he was in was damaged beyond repair, dying on that bridge amid the smoke and the sirens.

  He knew he was an electronics specialist in the Merovin Defense Force, and he knew they were up against an enemy they weren't prepared to handle— the sharrh! The sharrh—who weren't just a legend— were very real and very near and very sure to win…

  C.J. CHERRYH invites you to enter the world of MEROVINGEN NIGHTS!

  ANGEL WITH THE SWORD by C.J. Cherryh A Merovingen Nights Novel

  FESTIVAL MOON edited by C.J. Cherryh

  (stories by C.J. Cherryh, Leslie Fish, Robert Lynn Asprin, Nancy Asire, Mercedes Lackey, Janet and Chris Morris, Lynn Abbey)

  FEVER SEASON edited by C.J. Cherryh

  (stories by C.J. Cherryh, Chris Morris, Mercedes Lackey, Leslie Fish, Nancy Asire, Lynn Abbey, Janet Morris)

  Title

  C.J. CHERRYH

  DAW BOOKS, INC.

  DONALD A. WOLLHEIM, PUBLISHER

  FEVER SEASON © 1987 by C.J. Cherryh.

  All Rights Reserved.

  Cover art by Tim Hildebrandt.

  Maps by Pat Tobin.

  "Fever Season" Copyright © 1987 by C.J. Cherryh.

  "Hearts and Minds" Copyright © 1987 by Chris Morris.

  "A Plague on Your Houses" Copyright © 1987

  by Mercedes Lackey.

  "War of the Unseen Worlds" Copyright © 1987

  by Leslie Fish.

  "Night Ride" Copyright © 1987 by Nancy Asire.

  "Life Assurance" Copyright © 1987 by Lynn Abbey.

  "Instant Karma" Copyright © 1987 by Janet Morris.

  "Fever Season" lyrics by Mercedes Lackey,

  music by C.J. Cherryh, Copyright © 1987.

  "Mist-Thoughts (A Waltz With a Limp) lyrics by Mercedes Lackey,

  music by C.J. Cherryh, Copyright © 1987.

  "Partners" lyrics by Mercedes Lackey,

  music by C.J. Cherryh, Copyright © 1987.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious.

  Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

  "Merovingen Nights", "Merovin", "The Signeury", "The Det", "Moghi's Tavern" are registered trademarks belonging to C.J. Cherryh.

  DAW Book Collectors No. 722.

  First Printing, October 1987

  23456789

  PRINTED IN CANADA

  COVER PRINTED IN US A.

  Map

  FEVER SEASON

  C.J. Cherryh

  It was fall in Merovingen, nasty fall, when old Det approached his winter ebb: snows fell to the far north, up far above Nev Hettek, and the river that reached Detmouth, at Merovingen, was a sullen, quiet river. The bog up on the Greve widened, the water lay in stinking pools up there and on the north side of the lagoon, where river-weed rotted and small fish that had thrived there in the early stages dried out and fattened the bugs and the vermin. Merovingen of the Thousand Bridges, poised on its pilings and shored up precariously above the waters, smelled it when the breeze came off the mudflats, a stink predictable and faithful as sunrise. The skips and poleboats moored a little lower, that was all, at pilings that showed water-stain a handspan up, and had a little less current to fight in the winding Gut, and up on Archangel.

  Then Merovingen began to think toward winter, from the uppermost levels of the wooden city, where the hightown wealthy lived in splendor, to the middle tiers where merchants began to haul winter goods out of warehouses, to the lowest levels where the canalsiders and the skip-freighters and the bargemen began to think in much more basic terms— like bartering for socks and sweaters, or a paper of blueangel, to fight the fever and ease winter aches in the cold nights ahead.

  Fall, when the days varied between balmy warmth and treacherous chill, and fog wrapped the town about at night, hazing the lights that shone, making the lightless world of the canals beneath the bridges dark indeed.

  That was the rhythm of things. It always had been. And Altair Jones, sixteen and on her own since she had been barely able to handle the skip pole on her own, found herself strangely out of step. She smelled the change in the air, and blood and bone, she felt the sense of take-hold and take-cover in her gut: time to store and hoard and time to think what little of all she owned in the world she could possibly trade— time to work hard and save the tiniest coppers, and think protective.

  But for the first time in her life she was comfortable, for the first time in her life she had not one extra sweater, but three, had shoes, and two changes of socks, had a full tank of fuel, the skip's ancient motor in prime condition, the hull painted, had a couple bottles of good whiskey in the number one drop bin, and full store of food, besides a candle and cookstove and all. For the first time in her life she had everything she could think of to have. And the feeling bothered her, a kind of karmic something-wrong that would not let her alone even in broad daylight and got worse by dark.

  She brooded on it—brooded on it increasingly as the nights grew colder and the putting-away started… canaling was her life, dammit, even after she had pulled one Thomas Mondragon out of a canal and got herself tangled in hightowner affairs. Out of which she stayed as much as possible.

  Except she tied up at Petrescu most every night now, left her skip to the watching of old Mintaka and Del Suleiman and Mira and Tommy, who had tie-up rights there nowadays… all friends, all folk she would trust with her life (and had) so that she knew that there was nothing going to go missing off her boat, and nobody going to mess with it or come up Tom Mondragon's stairs past that hour that honest canalers took to their hideys and slept.

  She climbed up the stairs to the second level and Mon-dragon's door, gave the knock and waited for him.

  The lamp was lit in the front room. Which was his way of saying it was all right, he had no visitors, he was waiting for her.

  She heard him inside, heard his whispered: "Jones?" "Yey."

  She would not answer that if she had trouble with her. He took a quick peek by the tiny garde-porte and then opened up the door, let her in; and she stepped quickly into the light and the warmth, pulled off her battered river-runner's cap while he was locking the front door again.

  A handsome man, pretty as the Angel Himself, as Retribution, who guarded the town from His post on Hanging Bridge. Mondragon never let on to folk where he was really from: Falkenaer was his ordinary story, a Falkenaer offspring of the Boregys… and maybe that was true, somewhere back of it all, there being nowhere else on Merovingen that hair came that blond, or skin that fair—Jones' own short, straight hair was black as was the rule in Merovin, her skin dusky, her eyes dark as canalwater. But Mondragon's real home was Nev Hettek, up river, where Adventists were the rule and Revenantists were the exception. His real connections were less with the Boregys he pretended to be related to than with Anastasi Kalugin the governor's son. His skills as a spy were another thing he did not let on about, and he was always nervous about opening doors.

  Why he kept opening his to her she wondered about every time she saw him like this, handsome and gold as the Angel Himself, and fine, fine in all his manners. She would have understood if he had sort of drifted away and come less and less to the lowtown; she would have understood if he had found some hightown woman to take up with—she would have wanted to gut that woman, but she would have understood it was natural: Lord, he was what he was, and she had herself all braced for it, just—someday—he was going to find somebody else.

  But he more than took up with her on his get-abouts
on the canals, where he needed someone with brains, someone who could watch his back, someone who would keep her mouth shut: he said it was safer she should come sleep at his place and tie up down below—he would let her know if things got unsafe, as they well could. But meanwhile there was a soft bed to be had and breakfast in the mornings: his hours were like hers, late.

  The bed in question had him in it. And there was no other woman: Jones had kept an eye on that the way she kept an eye on his place and his whereabouts—for his safety's sake. Not that she would have stopped it. But she would have been madder than hell.

  He tipped her chin up and kissed her, gave her a hug before he went and blew out the light in the sitting-room. "Good day?"

  "Fair," she said. Which was what she generally said.

  She shared a bedtime snack with him in the little brick kitchen, backstairs, while water heated, and she had her bath (Lord and the Ancestors, she was getting so she smelled the canal-stink she had never smelled before, and she took her clothes to laundry right along with Mondragon's, every Satterday). She wrapped up like him in a robe he lent her before they headed up the front-hall stairs to his upstairs bedroom and the brass bed with the fine smooth sheets.

  Then he made love to her the way he had from the first, fine and gentle, and worked the aches out of her bones and the canal cold out of her gut before he fell to sleep the way he usually did, on his face, one leg tangled with hers and one hand on her shoulder, which she liked, except sometimes he got heavy and sometimes he had bad dreams and scared hell out of her—

  Karl! he had yelled once in her ear. And rolled over and fought to get clear of the bedclothes while she scrambled to get clear of him.

  Another time he had yelled No! and shoved her right out of bed, thump! Which had waked him up. Jones, he had said then, Jones'! And put his head over the side of the bed, asking anxiously whether she was all right.

  Sure, she had said, from flat on her back, why nor?

  He never told her what he dreamed about, but she had developed a certain consequent wariness when he took to mumbling in his sleep.

  As he did this night, waking her from a sound sleep. "Stop it," he murmured into her ear, and: "No. O God, no more—"

  She tried just to unwind her leg, but he jerked away, he ~ rolled aside, and went, thump! over the side.

  "Mondragon," she exclaimed. "Mondragon!" But she was not going to put her head over the edge of the bed looking for him. She got up on her knees to look, in the light of the always-burning night-lamp. "Ye all right?"

  "God," she heard, softly uttered. And saw him lift his head. He levered himself up on the mattress rim and hung there on his arms with a terrible bemazement in his eyes.

  "I didn't push ye," she said, afraid he would think that way.

  "God." He lowered his head against the mattress and crossed his arms over his neck; but then he got up and helped her straighten the covers and got back into bed.

  Lay down by himself then, face up and staring at the ceiling. So she edged over and put her arm over him. He patted her. And shivered. She felt it go all through him.

  "Sorry," he said. "I'm sorry."

  "What was that 'un?" she asked. And when he said nothing: "Dammit, Mondragon, ye could say, ye know?"

  "It's just a dream. I'm sorry. I'm really sorry, Jones. You don't have to put up with this. I'll go sleep on the couch."

  "You don't. Ye ain't going anywhere. Ye want t' make love t' me?"

  "God, Jones, what do you think I am?" He shivered again and drew a long breath. "Damn."

  "Want I should make love t' you?"

  "Couldn't hurt," he said after a moment. "But it won't do you much good."

  "Hell if it don't." She edged on over a little and started massaging tight muscles. "You c'n go on to sleep, I don't mind." She gave him a kiss at the pit of the throat, which usually made him react. It did. His arms came up around her, he pulled her down, and for a long time just held her like that, skin against skin, so tightly it all but hurt.

  "You ain't going to sleep," she said.

  "No," he said.

  And did nothing for a moment. Just held her. Then: "Jones," he said. "I don't want to hurt you. I don't want to hurt you."

  "Well, that ain't real likely. You want to go to sleep or you want to do something or you want to tell me what that all was?"

  He rolled her over. He was halfway rough, and all too quick, and she sighed and put up with him collapsing on hen she hugged him, and wound her fingers into his hair and tugged at it gently.

  "Mondragon, ye want to tell me? Ye want to say what that's about?"

  "No," he said, and moved his hand on her stomach, gently, sleepily as a child with a doll. Then: "Prison," he said. "Sometimes I dream about prison, Jones. You don't want to know about that. Sometimes I'm there, that's all."

  Nev Hettek's prison was bad. She knew that much. They said things about that place she never would ask him about and he would never want to tell.

  "That's past," she said. "You ain't never going back. You're here. Ain't no way you're going back."

  "No way," he murmured.

  But after a little while he said: "You can't ever get too safe, Jones, you can't ever get too safe. Don't take chances. I wish you'd get off the water. At least after dark."

  "My best trade is after dark." Now it was her heart beating hard and fast and her muscles going tight. Damn, mama, you told me, didn't you? Damn man gets me into his bed and here it comes. Off the water, he says. Off the water!

  "You're running too late," he said.

  "Takes a while. Just takes a while. I had a barrel pickup. I told ye."

  "Down there in Megary territory. Dammit, Jones—let Moghi hire somebody else for those runs. You don't need to do that kind of work any more." "The hell!"

  "You don't. You can work the evenings, if—"

  "You can swim next time. Hear?"

  "All right, all right." He rubbed her shoulder. "Forget it. You were late; I worried; is that any wonder?"

  She thought about it. Decided not. She heaved a sigh and rested on his chest, fingers winding in his hair, which was longer than hers, and curly and fine. And sighed again, dredging up the bad news she had saved for going out the door in the morning. "Well, I got a late 'un tomorrow. One of Moghi's. Mondragon,—" She felt him draw a breath and stopped him with a hand on his mouth. "Right down the Grand and back, ain't no problem. I just got this load to get—"

  "Moghi's load," he said, and took her by the arm. "Dammit, it's Harbor, isn't it? Isn't it?"

  "Listen, friend, I been getting along right fine before you come into my life."

  "Jones, let's not be so damn touchy. Let's use a little sense. For God's sake, you're not just any damn canaler, you're tangled up in my business, and what am I going to do if somebody grabs you some night and gives me a choice I haven't got? I just haven't got too many ways to turn, you understand me? And you're putting me at risk, you ever think of that?"

  She did not like that kind of reckoning. It backed her against the wall, and took away her choices. And left her nowhere, because there was nothing else to be but Jones, and a canaler, and a skip-freighter with her own boat; there was nothing else she ever wanted to be, because nothing else made any sense.

  Nothing else was worth anything. She had had her days of sitting at tie-up because of Mondragon's business; and waiting for bad news or worse news, with her gut in a knot. And watching canalers pass who were a hell of a lot happier, with a boatload of crates or barrels and a partner or so to help, not to be off about uptown in a lace-cuffed shirt and fancy boots and risking his damn neck for Anastasi damn-him Kalugin.

  She had done one cross-town race when a hightowner body turned up floating: she had been mortally sure it was Mondragon. And she had never forgotten that feeling in her gut that morning.

  Talk about 'held hostage,' mama, lookit this man. Lookit what he does to me.

  She saw Retribution Jones sitting—Lord, right over there in Mondragon's chair, hat
pushed back on her head, her bare foot swinging the other side of the chair arm. See, her mother said. Told you so.

  She scrambled off Mondragon, rested her elbows together under her, and stared at the chair, but her mother was not there to argue with.

  Only the feeling in her gut was.

  And the other feeling, that was Mondragon's hand stroking her shoulder, Mondragon leaning on his elbow by her and trying to have his way by confusing hell out of her.

  "Sorry," she said. "Some things I ain't going to trade."

  "I'm not asking you to give up the boat. I'm asking you to give up those damn smuggling runs! I'm asking you to use your head, dammit! and not put us in trouble."

  "Not put us in trouble! Who was doing all right before some fool man got himself throwed in the canal in front of her boat, and then she gets him safe and he gets himself caught again—"

  He stopped what he was doing. Then he rolled onto his back and was very quiet.

  Damn.

  Damn the man. Hurt his feelings, she had. And he hurt her gut.

  She slumped down on her arms, bowed her head against the tangled sheets and bit her lip till it hurt as much as she hurt inside.

  My, we're touchy, Mondragon.

  She had said worse to him. But when people got too close they hurt each other, that was the way of it.

  "I can't change," she said. "Mondragon, you been in prison. Where ye trying to put me?"

  Silence, a long time. Damn, that was really the wrong thing to have said. It hurt too much. They could not help it with each other.

  "Jones," he said quietly, then, "I only want you to be safe."

  "Locked up. Same as walls."

  Another long silence. Finally he snaked his arm under her stomach and turned over against her, holding her tight. "Jones," he said, "Jones, Jones, Jones. Just be careful."