Fever Season

by C. J. Cherryh

  Jones glared at her, angry with raised and dashed hopes, tired enough to be a little reckless. "All that damned trouble— the hole in my boat an' the stink after, an' I don't just mean that stuff in the water—an' fer what? You said you were gonna kill the fever in the water, ney?"

  Rif flinched, then rolled her eyes skyward. "This again?" she muttered to herself. Then, louder: "Shitfire, all I said was 'no Plague'—an' there's been no Plague! It's just the Crud. for Ja— Lordsake. Nobody dies of the Crud!"

  "Just my man, maybe!" The words slipped out before Jones could catch them. She tried to snatch them back, and choked on a sudden, explosive sob. Damn! Tired, worried, miserable—now I'm getting careless too!

  "Aww ..." Rif edged closer, voice gone soft and kindly. "How bad's he got it? How long? Y'had a doctor see 'em? Got medicine?"

  Jones nodded quickly, gulping back treacherous tears. "H-he's no worse, maybe a little better ..." And maybe not. Raj was good at nursing, and May's herbs had proved good too—so far. Still, how much could they really do? No worse, but no real change…

  "Well, there." Rif slid a comforting arm around Jones' bent shoulders. "So, he'll get over it soon. Just the Crud."

  "But it's been near a week!" Shut up, Jones kicked herself again. Damn that woman's kindness, loosening tongues. "...

  An' he's from out o' town, not used to it…" Yes, that was the worst: not knowing where his body's weaknesses were, whether he could survive the Crud, if May's herbs and Raj's care would help at all or had only slowed the inevitable.

  "Hey, I know this really good doctor." Rif squeezed her shoulder, a bit absently. "She c'n cure damn-near anything. One more patient won't hurt ..."

  "What'm I supposed to' pay 'er with?" Jones muttered, gouging tears out of her eyes. A fool's question: it meant she was seriously weighing Rif's offer, asking the price.

  "Don' worry 'bout that," Rif soothed. "Where's yer man staying?"

  Careful! Jones froze, balanced on the knife's edge. Tell Rif where Mondragon was, and maybe she'd sell the knowledge. Then again, Rif most likely didn't know who Mondragon was, or would much care. Besides, she wanted a favor, some more work done—and wanted it bad.

  Take her doctor, take her job… And you know what some of her work is.

  "... And who some of her friends are.

  Rif's doctor just might be good enough to guarantee that Tom Mondragon survived.

  "Petrescu. South-east comer, top o' the waterline-stairs," Jones gave in. "Got a kid there, watchin' 'im… Hey, you know Raj?"

  Rif laughed. It sounded like the first good laugh she'd had in days. "Right," she yukked and gasped. "Oh hell, yes, I know that kid. Hell yes, everything's gonna be all right."

  "Ye wouldn' laugh if it was yer friend sick," Jones grumbled, covering her retreat.

  "Could be worse, believe me." Rif sobered instantly, eyes looking on something far off, out of sight. "You could have a sick enemy. Or… ally."

  Jones barely heard, digging out her coins and counting them. Plenty there: enough for whatever was on the fire tonight at Moghi's. Her belly rumbled at the thought. Eat now, go to work after. Maybe buy some punk-charcoal and run another batch of fuel-brew through the kettle tonight.

  Bundle up beside the stove and keep warm, maybe catch some sleep by Mondragon's bedside in the slack hours after midnight. And tomorrow…

  "When an' where do I meet ye tomorrow?" she asked, resigned.

  Rif waited a moment, glanced back down the hallway, then rapped twice at the featureless door. Pause, then three knocks more. Wait and listen.

  Footsteps within padded close. A pinprick of light gleamed for an instant through a tiny hole in the wood, then shadowed, then gleamed again. The door swung open.

  "Come to help us pack?" Rattail asked, giving her partner a look that suspected otherwise.

  "Not exactly." Rif slipped inside, pushed the door shut and relocked it. "Uh, m'sera, I got another job for ye."

  In the room beyond, a short gray-haired woman paused with a half-folded shirt in her hand, and rolled a disbelieving eye at Rif. "Rafaella," she sighed, not quite yet in exasperation, "You know we have to finish this tonight."

  "Well, there really ain't that much. Rat could do it up while ye'r out."

  It was Rattail's turn to roll her eyes. "If you think you're gonna leave me with—" she started.

  "It's important," Rif plowed on. "Y'know I wouldn' haul y'away from this if it weren't. Somebody's sick, bad."

  The older woman finished folding the shirt and slapped it down on a pile of clothes. "I can't go to every sick person in the city. That's one reason why we started the school, remember? Go to Yarrow when she finishes class."

  "Ah, this is more'n just a sick-call. It's gonna need a… good political eye, I think." Rif chewed her lip a moment, then looked to Rattail. "It's Altair Jones' man—and a friend o' Raj."

  Rattail raised both eyebrows. "What's the kid's connection with Jones?" she asked. "I hadn't heard about this."

  "Dunno yet, just that Raj's keeping watch on Jones' man. That's prob'ly where he's been all week. Besides ..." Rif turned back to the older woman. "I been trying t'get you an' Raj together, ever since I found out he's got a secret wish t'be a doctor. This is yer only chance t' check him over, see if he's right for the school."

  Rattail opened her mouth, then shut it again, shrugged, looked away.

  The gray-haired woman rubbed a brown-sleeved wrist across her forehead, and frowned at Rif. "I really appreciate the recruiting," she grumbled. "But at this late date ..."

  "How long could it take? He's over at Petrescu. Old Min's skip could take us there fast, nobody t'see." Rif flicked another glance at Rattail. "She's tied up under the bridge here right now, ain't she?"

  "Yes," Rattail admitted. "I don't suppose anybody'd notice or recognize Doc in this light, not down on the water… " She grinned wickedly. " 'Specially not if you lent her that dark cloak of yours."

  Rif shrugged, yielding the point. It wasn't worth arguing about. "Right. And you could finish the packin' and mind the store while we're gone."

  The gray-haired doctor rocked back and forth on her toes, balanced, considering. "Suppose something goes wrong, any little thing that keeps me from getting back here, or on the ship tomorrow? We're so close now, Rif… There's so much more to this, to be honest, than one man's life or one boy's career."

  "M'sera ..." Rif raised her right hand as if taking an oath. "If ye're stopped somehow, going or coming back or whatever, I swear I'll take the package upriver myself. Just tell me where."

  The woman looked doubtful, but stopped her indecisive rocking. "And what if you get stopped too? It has to be on that ship tomorrow morning."

  "Then I'll do it," Rattail sighed, throwing a poisonous what-are-you-getting-me-into look at Rif. "I suppose I can get the details from Yarrow, right?"

  "Oh, all right," the doctor yielded. She went to a cabinet and took out a large, dark, oilcloth bag. The contents clinked as she picked it up. "I just hope this man's better tempered than the last one you dragged me off to see. Such a bitching, bullying, mean-mannered oaf I never met in my life." Rattail whooped with laughter.

  Rif shuddered. "Could've been worse," she muttered. "He could've been… really upset."

  Rattail was still laughing as the other two padded out the door and down to Mintaka's tie-up.

  A little after midnight Jones tied up under the water-stair at Petrescu and climbed to the door at the stairs-end, walking slowly, saving strength. Not much sleep last night, long day ahead, nobody but the kids to watch Mondragon while she was gone, and even that meant that Raj or Denny had to miss a day's work. Excuses could be made, of course, this being fever season. Money was another problem, but remembering how well Rif paid she could make it up to the boys on her own. Persuading them shouldn't be too hard.

  It was Raj who let her in. He rolled an eye at Jones, shushed her and pointed to where Denny lay asleep on a tangle of blankets in a corner. He padded back to the bedroom
. A quick glance as she came in showed Mondragon likewise sleeping, near-buried under more blankets. At least his breathing didn't sound too bad.

  Raj filled the cup with reeking herb-mix and set it aside, watching as Jones closed the door. "M'sera," he whispered, "Did you really send that doctor that came last night with Rif?"

  Jones froze, hand still on the door. "When's that?"

  "A little after dark. Rif said you'd sent her, so I let them in. Just the same, I didn't think I should use those medicines until I checked with you."

  "Yey, I sent 'em." Jones pulled away from the door, tiptoed to the bed and spent a long moment looking down at Mondragon's sleeping face. No better, no worse. Damn, his hair looked so pretty, spread out on the pillow every which way… "That Rif moves fast."

  "She's all right. Just her friends ... I don't know." Raj picked up a small dark glass jar and a smaller box of hand-pressed pills. "I can use these, then?"

  Jones read the labels, shrugged. Probably just what they seemed to be, and expensive if so. Rif still wanted her work done. "Go ahead. Cain't hurt. What'd the doctor say?"

  "That he'd be all right. That May's herbs are good for this. That ..." Raj caught his lip in his teeth for a moment. "That I'd make a good doctor, and… and there's a way."

  Damn again. Jones sat down on the chair and leaned her back against the wall. Damn that Rif, getting another hook into her, this time through the kid. Didn't have to threaten people, no; just find a way to offer their dearest dreams. "Say it."

  "There's a school for doctors, very new, very quiet. Won't even cost much. I'd just have to… take an oath, and no breaking it."

  To the Janes. Jones closed her eyes, seeing where this led. No, the Janes hadn't been idle these past weeks. A new medical school, and Ancestors knew what else, and now they were recruiting. Raj, and maybe even me.

  If so, they worked with a light, deft touch.

  "Jones?" Raj's hunger stood in his eyes. So did a solid fear of what he could be touching. "You know it's what I want, what I'm good at. But I don't know… these people."

  He'd said it. He'd guessed. Jones took a deep breath and opened her eyes again. "They done no harm as I can see. Maybe some good, even. Lord knows, there's worse ye c'n fall in with."

  Raj ducked his head, shivering. No need to mention what worse, or who. "I know. Believe me, I know. And I don't want to deal with religious fanatics, ever again. But…"

  Jones felt obliged to add: "I ain't seen 'em push hard on anyone yet. Ye could always back off, draw the line, if y'wanted to." Like I could've backed off this job. And won't.

  "Well, that's one more thing to keep quiet from… hightown." Raj smiled a too-old, cynic grin. "Snatching up a few fish, right under Kalugin's wing."

  "Shit," Jones whispered, seeing what the boy had guessed before she did. Blackmail could work both ways. She could sell Rif, and Rif's friends, to Kalugin. And she hadn't thought of it.

  Then again, Rif—and her partner—could be very bad enemies to make. Lord and Ancestors only knew what kind of enemies the Janes could be.

  Or what kind of friends, if Anastasi Kalugin should ever decide, for some reason, that he no longer had any use for Tom Mondragon. Or one Altair Jones.

  She badly wished that Mondragon was awake, and well enough to deal with a long serious talk.

  But that just wasn't the case now. "I cain't stay. Got a job this mornin', an' it may take all day. C'n ye stay here, miss a day's work? I'll make it up t'ye."

  "I know. Rif already told me." Raj shrugged. "I'll have Denny tell them I'm sick. Enough people are, they won't think anything of it."

  Damn Rif! One step ahead of her again. Jones rubbed her forehead in exasperation and levered herself to her feet. Is everybody else here super-smart, she wondered, or am I just a fool?

  Altogether, Jones was in a sour mood as she came poling through the dawn-pearled mist to Fife corner. The thinning fog revealed Rif's familiar silhouette coming toward her tie-up—and then a second figure, behind her. Jones watched, pole held cautiously ready, as the two came onto her skip.

  There was Rif, dressed in middling-good musicians' work-clothes—dark red with a little tinselly jewelry—under her familiar faded-indigo cloak, along with the same shoulder-slung bag that might contain anything. It certainly contained seeds today, and most probably her gun and flat-harp.

  There was a chunky little woman dressed in brown, carrying a big cloth bundle and a small bag of knitting, gray hair tied in a simple bun, kindly unremarkable face behind wire-rimmed spectacles.

  "Who's this?" Jones asked, trying not to sound rude, as Rif helped the older woman into the skip. "Thought the deal was fr just one passenger." "This is m'sera—" Rif started.

  "Fern Johanssen," said the little woman, holding out her hand. Kindly, unremarkable voice too. "We'll pay extra."

  "Going upriver to catch a ship," Rif explained. "North Flat, east bank docks."

  Jones stopped to wonder about that. The only docks on North Flat were three plain piers designed for grain-haulers; boats that serviced the wetland-rice fanners on the long river island north of the city. She hadn't thought any passenger boats put in there.

  She remembered that the last ship Rif had taken her to meet was up the Greve Fork again far outside Merovingen. Rif's friends didn't seem to want to come down near New Harbor at all. Maybe the docks there were a little too well watched for their taste.

  "She's gotta board early," Rif went on. "That's why I wanted ye for a morning-job.… Besides, I gotta work t'night, too."

  "Sit down, then," Jones shrugged, turning to pull out the ties. There was cold comfort in knowing that Rif wouldn't get much sleep either. There was uncomfortable familiarity in hauling Rif straight upstream to the river again. "We goin' t'pick up any cargo this time?" Careful, careful.

  "Ney, just leave some off." Rif settled in the bow and fumbled in her bag, raising a twang of flat-harp strings.

  Jones hesitated a moment, considering the full jerry-can of homemade engine-fuel sitting in the hidey. She could make more, cheap enough, but not quickly; her brew-kettle could hold only so much at any one time. She preferred to save it for emergencies if she could. "I c'n pole up there in less'n an hour. Traffic's light, and so's the load."

  Rif glanced pointedly toward the engine, gave Jones a hard look, then a questioning glance at the other passenger. M'sera Johanssen shrugged, reached into her small bag and took out a nearly-finished sweater, a ball of coarse brown yarn and a crochet hook. Rif shrugged too. "Try to make it less," she said, leaning against the gunwale.

  Jones stabbed the pole into the water and jigged the skip out into the Grand. There was a lot she wanted to ask Rif about, maybe yell at her about, and she couldn't do it with this nice little old lady sitting here crocheting a sweater. Damn. Well, there was always the return trip. Meanwhile, she took it out on the pole and the water, and the skip made good headway against the current

  The sun rose gamely, hoisting the mist into a barely-clouded sky, and a light wind nipped through the canals without snapping. It looked fair to being a decent morning: bright, almost cool, not too windy. Not too noisy, this time of day, either, and the breeze from uptown blew away much of the canal-stinks. Maybe the weather would hold all day.

  Between the good wind, good time and heavy effort, Jones felt her foul mood sliding off. Hell, Rif wasn't so bad. Paid well, anyway. A quick trip upriver and a leisurely voyage back, no weight but two passengers and then one: not such hard work for good money. She could complain later.

  "Rif! M'sera Rif!" yelled demandingly from a dock at Mantovan corner. A man, carrying a sheaf of papers, well-dressed, waving urgently.

  Oh, hell, what now?

  Rif snapped her head up, looked, frowned briefly, then shrugged. "Damn. Put in there, Jones I know this dry-foot: won't take long."

  "Sure," Jones grumbled, poling the skip over. Complications already. Best keep an eye on the man's hands.

  Then she noticed a slight movement inboard. Johan
ssen had casually slipped her offside hand into her knitting-bag. Her land-visible hand kept working the crochet-hook, back and forth, back and forth: not actually catching the yarn, just keeping up that soothing, hypnotic movement. No fool, that old m'sera. Maybe a good bit more than she seemed.

  The skip bumped at the narrow quayside. Rif quick-tied the bow and climbed out, looking expectant, hands resting on her belt almost-accidentally close to her visible knives.

  But the well-dressed man made no threatening moves, only passionate ones. For all that he kept his voice low, his urgent look and stressfully flapping hand gave a good picture of his intentions. Rif listened, her frown deepening slightly, then shrugged and nodded. The man handed her the topmost sheet of paper from his bundle, clutched her indifferent hand for a moment, then scurried off. Rif climbed back into the skip wearing an absorbed expression, and pulled the quick-tie loose.

  "Move on," she said. "Just some high-house flunky soliticin' fer a job."

  "Not music, I'll bet," Jones commented, leaning into the pole. She noted that the old woman's hands were both back at her crocheting, filling out the last sleeve on the sweater.

  Rif glanced at her companion, then opened out the paper and held it where Jones could see. "Ever laid eyes on that face before?"

  Jones squinted at the paper. It displayed a printed hand-drawing of a man's face, followed by information about his size, weight, age and so on. Yes, it did look familiar.

  "Seen 'im around, not lately. Not since… hmm, Festival. Ran a skip then, an' piss-poor at it. No born canaler, that's f'r sure."

  "You know his name? Hangouts? Anything like that?"

  "Hmmm, Chuz… No, Chud. Never seen 'im much, he just hung around a bit. Why? Who wants him?" And for what? Money in this, or trouble?

  Rif gave her a long look, then hitched closer on the boards until she was sitting next to Jones' position on the deck.