Fever Season

by C. J. Cherryh

  Beside a black hull that cast back the light in faint glistening, and towered over them.

  " 'Stasi's still here," Rita said, clutching his arm for steadiness as they got up. "Won't you come up to the house, Tom, have a little brandy?"

  "Thanks, no, I have to get back."

  He saw her ashore. He stood there wrapped in his cloak while Nikolaev servants with lanterns came and retrieved m'sera and wended their way in a snake of lights up the steps that led to the Nikolaev mansion, on the edge of Rimmon Isle. He turned then and slipped into the shadow under the bow of the black yacht, and walked around the slip to the gangway, while the launch throttled up and backed, on its way back to Boregy without him.

  He came up onto the high deck of the yacht and met challenge from the watch, instantly. But he had the right pass, a face and a voice they knew; and their orders'let him below very quickly, into the companionway and into the warmth of Anastasi Kalugin's own shipboard quarters.

  It was all red cushions and blue carpet and fine wood inside. Electrics burned, powered from the ship's generators. The man who owned it all was hardly more than thirty-five, pale-skinned, with a black, close beard. He did not resemble his auburn-haired sister Tatiana in the least; was probably not like his elder brother Michael either; Iosef Kalugin had had no wives, just offspring. Two too many of them. Anastasi wore a loose-sleeved tunic, black, with rubies at the collar; plain black trousers and boots; red embroidery on the belt, but minimal, everything a shade under flamboyant. It was his style in Kalugin. Or here. Or wherever he held court with his own adherents.

  Anastasi had one servant, his doctor, Iosef—same name as his father. Which probably gave him a certain pleasure. And Iosef stayed during all interviews, a shadow in the peripheries: Mondragon had ceased to be anxious about him, only knew that he was there.

  "Do you have it?" Anastasi asked.

  "I brought everything," Mondragon said, and carefully took the packet from under his cloak, knowing that Iosef's hand was momentarily out of sight. He handed the papers over. "The Rajwade papers. The others. I finally made contact with Rosenblum. I'll get to him again Monday next. He says he'll have something by then. He's a very nervous man. He thinks he's working for your sister."

  Anastasi laughed, shortly. "Sit down. Iosef, Mondragon would like a brandy."

  Anastasi never asked. He assumed. Mondragon sank into the nearest chair and studied the far wall, the floor, answering Anastasi's questions. He took the brandy when it arrived, felt the ache of last night's fall in his back and his neck and wished to hell he was home in his own bed.

  Which he would get to only when Anastasi was satisfied. If Anastasi was satisfied. He mumbled answers and thought of Jones and the weather out there, that was the main thing gnawing at him. It was a damned small boat. The engine had always been chancy. He drank and he felt the brandy sting his throat like fire. "Yes, ser," he said to one question. "No, ser," to another.

  When he was away from Anastasi he had his doubts whether this man would survive. The odds were high against him. When he was in the same room with him he had no doubt that Anastasi would survive. Anastasi's stare and his questions were alike, razor-edged, quick, his presence full of a force more than ordinary. Anastasi affected him in a way that he had at first not understood, until he realized it was an old feeling Anastasi roused in him, the same projection of assurance and cold sane efficiency that Karl Fon had projected. The same game. The same promises.

  Mondragon's skin crawled.

  The wind came down across Rimmon Isle and the bay was white-capped, the skip pitching like a living thing as Jones came up on the dark bulk of the Falkenaer ship. No standing up on deck in this blow: she used the engine and managed the tiller sitting down, the tiller bar tucked under her arm, the other hand gripping the deck-rim, while the rain soaked her to the skin and she wished she did have socks on.

  Filthy weather. But it was dead sure there were no blacklegs out here tonight on patrol. Good as fog for her business.

  The Falkenaer ship loomed up like a wooden wall—a ship of sail, like all its kind, lean and sleek and full of foreign mysteries, come in from the high seas and all around the Chattalen.

  But it was a bolt of Merovingian lace and two bolts of Kamat's best in the oilskin packet in the bow, a few kegs of Hafiz' whiskey, and a sizable keg of salted fish—Lord knew what kind and Jones asked no questions, if the painted lords of the Chattalen or wherever else wanted to sample a dangerous delicacy like deathangel and risk the hereafter: rich folk took damn strange chances for their amusement, and she took hers for credit with Moghi—monetary and otherwise. It was brandy and Chattalen silk supposed to come back again, duty free. And everybody was happy. Even the lords of the Chattalen, who would pay plenty for a taste of Merovingian fish and a moment of life-risking bliss.

  She let go the deck-rim and pulled a whistle up to her mouth, blew once loud and shrill, reckoning on the wind to carry it to the ship and no one out here to hear it except those that should.

  And sure enough a light showed on the Falkenaer's deck, toward the stem, where they were tied up at the deepwater wharf. Thank the Lord and the Ancestors, no crossed signals, no need to do more than snug in among the pilings and wait for the Falkenaer to send a few men down to the dockside: easier for them to do than for her to try to steady the skip enough to offload and take on cargo from a sling.

  She eased the skip around the stem, close, but not too close, and gave it all the room it needed as she came around toward the pilings in the dark, where the big ship heaved and groaned at its moorings.

  Then it was fast work—cut the engine, scramble down into the well while the boat pitched in the chop, ran out the boathook and snag herself a hold on the rope-buffered pilings. Damn! Bang into a piling hard enough to rattle her teeth, and a wave over the side that sloshed about under the deck-slats.

  She got the hold all the same, wrenched the heavy boat closer and closer and snagged the buffer-ropes with the barrel-hook in her left hand until she could lay down the pole with the right and get a special line snubbed about the barrel-hook handle. Damn sloppy tie-up, but it was hard enough to get anything close to the waterside steps with the surge coming in like that and carrying her head up dangerously close to the underside of the dock.

  She heard a whistle sound faintly. She answered it, and in a little while heard a still fainter hail from the direction of the stairs that gave the deep-sea sailors access to Merovingen's water-transport. Or the use of their own dinghy on Merovingen's waterways, if they had a mind to.

  Now came the serious dealing. She took a good bight about the piling with a main-tie, then stood up and kept track of the up and down pitch with a hand on one of the support beams overhead, seeing men on the stairs, faintest shadows in the deeper shadow of the big ship's hull.

  This was the dangerous part. There was always the chance of someone trying to take advantage and claim the goods defective or outright steal them. Or her. There were slavers, mostly rivermen, never Falkenaers. Moghi generally made the deals himself, and he had this time.

  "You Moghi's?" the query reached her across the water.

  "That I am," she answered back.

  It was a damned long fussy business, them getting their goods overside, down the stairs, her working in close: the waves and the water depth made the pole useless and it was a matter of hooking along the overhead without cracking one's skull or cracking the skip's seams on the pilings. She was warm enough when she finished, sweating and drawing the dank air in huge gasps.

  "Ye're alane on that 'ere boat?" a sailor hailed her.

  "Hey, she's just a little run. You want I help ye with them barrels?" Bravado. She ached right down to her gut; but she made fast in good order. "I got ever'thing in the list, got 'er writ fair."

  "Cold night," a sailor said. "F' a gel alane."

  "Shut up," said another, female. "He an't been th' same sin' we et th' wooly." General laughter. "Ye offload, we onlade. Yey?"

  "Fair deal.
"

  "Ne, ne," a young man said, and skipped aboard, landing on the bow and making the skip rock and Jones reach for the barrel-hook at her belt. But he kept his distance, held up a hand. "Shulz's me name. 'At's Finn, wi' th' mouth. She ain't bad. But the wooly wa' better." He picked up a barrel and passed it off the bow. More general laughter.

  "She don' talk much," someone said. "Hey, canaler, ye got a tongue?"

  "Hell, no, I'm just letting this man unload my boat while I catch my breath."

  "Got a bottle for a cozy."

  "No, thanks. I'm sure ye're right fine, but I ain't buying t'night. I got a long way back and Moghi don't hold with it. Sorry."

  "Hell, Finny-gel, we're stuck wi' ye." More laughter. And, thank the Lord and the Ancestors, they started loading on their own barrels. Jones drew a quieter breath.

  "Aft, aft, some of that, ye deepwater sailors, leave me a walk: I got to push this skip in the canals, and I got to have free walk for'ard."

  "Gotta be Finn's own sister," one complained. "Bitch, bitch, bitch."

  Damn, it was a heavy load. She felt the skip riding lower than before, fussed with the trim, ordered a shift in the barrels. And the Falken sailors shifted them.

  "I don' like how she's riding either," one said. "Hell, gel, gi' up a few barrel."

  "Damn Moghi can't count," she muttered. But there was that big boat up there, that big fine ship that could glide like a seabird in the wind, and she felt a twinge of envy. It was no small amount of pride that made her say: "Hell, I'll make 'er, no worry."

  "That's all I know," Mondragon said, "all Vega knows. Chamoun announced it tonight. It wasn't a situation where we could ask questions—his wife was there. And Rita Nikolaev. I'd suggest you ask Ito Boregy what went on. I'd suggest a real caution with Chamoun. And Vega should keep a nightwatch on him… before he wakes up with his throat cut some night. I think Magruder is trying to lever Vega away from you. He's putting pressure on me." "What sort?" Anastasi asked.

  "Threats. Not half as attractive as what you pay me. Like protection. He can't outbid you. I think you should know that."

  Anastasi smiled. "You want me to know that." "I'm quite faithful."

  "What about Chamoun? You said you'd bought him."

  Mondragon glanced down, thinking that there was coin to use, that in Vega's eyes Cassie was expendable. He thought of Jones. And did not want to make any suggestion involving Cassie. There was very little edge left to this Sword. Very little nowadays. And he reminded himself that he could lose everything by caring for anything. But the edge was gone, that was all. He did not know where or when. "I don't know. I don't like what's going on. I'm going to talk to Vega. If all else fails I'm going to talk to Chamoun. Maybe one of the cardinal's sessions. Who knows?"

  "You keep in touch with me about that."

  "Chamoun was still high when he said it. Eyes dilated. Voice up. I don't know who talked to him, I don't know when he got this assignment, I don't know why the cardinal let him out in that condition. Or whether someone else got to him. All this came up at the last minute. I haven't had time to trace it."

  Anastasi nodded, thinking, and looked at him, so much like Karl Fon in that little mannerism it caught at his gut. "Do that," Anastasi said.

  The skip plowed its way through the chop, logy as a three-day drunk. She took a little water, but very little: Jones kept her bow to the waves and chewed a piece out of her lip every time a gust rocked the boat.

  Then the engine sputtered.

  She hit the engine-box with her fist. "Dammit, not now!"

  Second sputter. Same with her heart. If the engine died and she lost way, there was no way to keep from going broadside to the waves, which meant water and more water and the bottom of the harbor.

  She throttled up a little, knowing that tank was going to go down fast at that rate, but the sputters smoothed out.

  More water over the side.

  Damn.

  Damnfool stunt.

  She twisted round, still fighting the tiller's tendency to go off to starboard, got the bottom of the engine-box open and reached in by feel and started working the hand-pump, moving fuel over from the second tank, a rig that had cost her a goldbit, and worth it all now, in the dark, in the wind.

  There were oars. That was well and fine, but the skip was too wide for one rower. Took two.

  Dammit, Mondragon ain't ever going to know, is he? Damn grease slick'll wash out to sea and they ain't never going to find the boat.

  Sputter.

  Sputter. Up with the throttle again, hope to hell there was no clog in the line. Sometimes it was the filter-screen did it, picked up some damn bit of weed. Sometimes it was the damn intake. And she was running out of hands.

  Put the pin in to hold the tiller steady on, never mind the damn water coming in, never mind the fuel drain. She felt after the stick she used and poked at the filter through the access while the engine went on sputtering and water washed over the port side.

  Engine was running hot. She felt it. She could not tell whether there had been anything in the intake. Maybe it was just the load.

  She pulled the pin out to free the tiller and took it under her arm, fighting the skip to avoid another wash. You lose my boat, Altair, I ain't thanking you. Damn, mama, I know, I know. What in hell're you doing out here? Good question, mama.

  Man stung you in your pride and look what ye gone and done, look what damnfool thing ye did.

  She thought that over awhile. Having bitten her lip till it bled.

  Ain't a bad old engine, mama. He's still running. Listen to me, Altair.

  Yey, mama. I hear ye. That's Ramseyhead up there.] think she's going to hold. Hear me?

  Yey, mama. Your daughter's a fool. But I ain't going to lose this boat.

  You got to be a fool. Altair, be it for something worthwhile.

  Yey, mama. He is. Most-times. —Damn!

  A Rimmon yacht was out and underway, dark and sleek, needing no sails, and low enough to make the bridge at Ramseyhead, which meant low enough to make Fishmarket and Golden and any bridge between Ramseyhead and Archangel, where boats like that had to do their turn and come about again.

  She thought she knew which one that was.

  She had seen it ride down a skip once, the night the Signeury had come under attack. Folk said after tempers cooled, well, she's a big boat, she don't see too good.

  But the master of that black ship didn't damn well care— not a spit and a damn did he care.

  Mondragon, she thought, clinging to the tiller. Mondragon's there. With him. I hope.

  Oh, damn, going up to the Signeury tonight. Going up near Boregy. And the Justiciary, and wherever.

  Maybe he's home by now, instead. Safe in bed. Wondering where in hell I am.

  Can't go no faster, Mondragon. I ain't going to get t' Moghi's much before dawn.

  "Easier," Anastasi had said, "if certain people come aboard… rather than having you out knocking on doors."

  Certain people meant Vega Boregy. And Cardinal Ito Tremaine Boregy. And Chastity Rajwade, cloaked and muffled and carrying a sword she very possibly could use. Mondragon flinched at the latter presence: it was one more person to whom his cover became transparent.

  "My cousin," Vega Boregy said of Mondragon.

  But Rajwade, a long-faced, sober woman with enough jewelry on her collar to have bought a hundred lives, quirked a brow and said: "Of course. How nice—" in a way that said she believed none of it. There was something predatory in her, something that said blackmail was nothing and what she wanted was all-important.

  At the moment she had her hand on Vega's, on his hip, and looked at Mondragon at the same time as if she were wondering what his price was and what it bought. While Mondragon wondered, knowing that Vega had sheltered in Rajwade before a Sword attack killed his cousins and put him as acting head of Boregy, whether Chastity Rajwade had been the shelter and what the Rajwade mortgage that Boregy had handed to Anastasi really meant, in terms of who was going to end
up head of house in Rajwade.

  But that was not the question at hand. That was not something he was privy to, and he reckoned that his uneasy peace with Boregy would be better served by silence. "M'sera," he said at that introduction, with all courtesy. He was all right for the moment. He had drunk enough to numb him and soothe his throat, not enough to fog him, no matter the lack of sleep: stark terror could keep a man awake.

  Jones was back at Moghi's by now, surely. Or at tie-up under Petrescu, wondering where in hell he was. But he could not help that. He gathered his wits, such as he had left, and added up the questions he had for Vega and for the Cardinal, regarding one Michael Chamoun.

  "That's got 'em," Jones said. She saw the last of the barrels off at Moghi's landing, and staggered in for hot tea. It was all she could do. There was just no more strength in her, not without the tea, not without the bit of bread and fish and eggs that Jep set in front of her.

  "Damn late," Moghi commented, coming out of his office to stare at her, hands on hips, a huge man.

  But he got real quiet when Jones looked up at him and scowled.

  He knew what the weather had been.

  "You got full count on them barrels," she said after a moment. "You owe me, Moghi."

  "Bed's upstairs." The Room, Moghi meant. Safest bed in Merovingen, and no callers. "No charge. Boys take care of your skip."

  "Ney, got to find Del. Seen 'im?"

  "No. Ain't."

  "Unnnh," she said, and polished off the eggs and tea with a few gulps.

  It was a damned long push over to Petrescu. She made it. But Del and Min were already gone, and if Mondragon had come home last night he had gone out again. Not unusual. She tied up and curled up in the hidey with mama's pistol under the rags at the back end, because in Mondragon's vicinity a body never knew.

  It was going to be one of the steamy days after the cold of the night before. That was the way of autumns in Merovingen. And she was grateful for the warmth.

  A PLAGUE ON YOUR HOUSES