Endgame

by C. J. Cherryh

"Can you get the door open?" he whispered back. She rose to her knees, and felt along the doorframe. He suppressed a sneeze as she stirred up dust.

  "They took th' hardware," she said, "an' they nailt a couple 'a boards across. But that frame's rotten. Bust 'er open!"

  So it's down with the door after all, he thought, and rose and balanced for his best one-legged kick.

  Wood splintered: the door held—but as Lady-o had observed, the frame didn't. The whole door tore away and fell on the floor with a boom like thunder, startling a scream both from the baby in her crude, makeshift cradle and the woman in Kamat livery who rocked her.

  Though there was only a single lantern in the room, its flame turned down to almost nothing, to Raj's eyes the place was as brightly lit as any of the Family rooms below—and no doubt of it, she was one of the Family servants; he remembered her vaguely, an odd little mouse with a plain face and hungry eyes—and now he knew what she had hungered for.

  She snatched the infant up from the cradle, retreated holding it so tightly against her that the baby howled in protest.

  Raj froze where he was. She edged away from him, step by step, until her back was against the rotting door that had once led to the bridge. Before Raj could stop her, she shoved the latch up and dashed out onto what was left of the walk.

  Torches and lanterns lit her eerily from below. Rev-enantist, Adami, and believing implicity in karma and the wheel of rebirth. "Get away," she cried, looking back to the light, her eyes wild. "Get away from me!"

  Raj edged across the rotten floor of the bridge-house, then out onto the creaking stub of the bridge, one slow step at a time. "I won't hurt you, sera," he said as quietly and calmly as he could and still be heard over the baby's screams that echoed now off the walls of Foundry. "I've just come for my little girl. I'm her papa, you know—"

  His heart pounded painfully in his chest, and his throat was too tight to swallow as she backed up another step. A cool, reasoning corner of his mind was calculating footing, the length of his own lunge, the amount of planking still behind her. The rest of him wanted to shriek and grab for his baby, now.

  "You can't have her!" the woman said, shaking her head violently. "She's mine, not yours! You'll leave the Isle—you'll run away and leave; but you'll not take the heir! She was meant for me, I saw it—I saw it in my dreams—"

  "What dreams, sera?" Raj asked, edging another foot closer. The wood creaked dangerously underfoot, Kamat Isle groaned on its pilings, and the whole building swayed again—

  "The dreams, the holy dreams," the woman babbled, clutching her hand in her hair while the baby subsided to a frightened whimper, as if she somehow sensed the danger she was in. "She's mine, she was meant for us. It'll be Adami Isle again . . . and my little one, my little m'sera will never go away."

  He was almost within reach.

  Boards cracked. Her eyes fixed wildly past him as bright lamplight streamed from the door behind him.

  "Raj!" Kat called. There was a murmur of shocked and frightened voices, and someone stifled a cry of despair.

  "Stay back," he warned sharply, not taking his eyes from the woman, who took another two steps backward onto wood that moaned under her weight. "Sera," he said urgently, recapturing her attention. "Sera, the dreams. What did they tell you?"

  She transferred her attention from whoever was behind him to his face. "You don't care about the dreams," she cried. "You just want my—" The wood gave.

  Raj made a desperate lunge as the woman shrieked and teetered on the brink of the black gulf over the canal, one arm flailing wildly, the other still clutching the baby. He reached her—she fell, just as his hands brushed cloth—

  He grabbed for it and held, as he was falling himself. His gut meeting the bridge planks knocked breath and sense from him, but he had a handful of linen fabric, and he held onto it past all pain and sense. The universe spun, then came to rest again.

  He was dangling face-down over the canal, so far below that he could only sense it was there by the errant flickers of light on the black water, and the murmur of the tide around the foundations. With one hand and both legs he held to the bridge-timber that had saved him. The other hand was clutched in the linen and lace gown of his tiny daughter, who was likewise dangling head-down over the empty darkness, wailing at the top of her lungs.

  He edged back until his chest was supported by timber, then drew her up. Only when she was safely cradled against his chest did he breathe again.

  And held her, carefully, like the tiny precious thing she was, murmuring her name over and over, hardly daring to believe he had her back safe. He might have wept tears of his own at that point, but suddenly the others were on him, hauling him to safety, praising him to the skies. Kamats, Kamats everywhere, pounding his back, touching his sleeve, exclaiming over the baby—Richard foremost among them, his mother Andromeda beside him, her face as white as fine porcelain—Marina was conspicuously absent.

  He ignored them all. All but one, the only non-Kamat in the lot; Kat, standing at the edge of the crowd, her eyes shining with tears and pride.

  They traded a look that said more than words could have, and a smile bright with relief and promise.

  Then Raj gave Morgan the wailing infant, and let the Kamats carry him away.

  Raj put his arm about Kat's shoulders, as much for support as for affection. It was past midnight, and he was too tired to think clearly. All he wanted to do now was get home to his rooms behind Hilda's tavern.

  He shook off the last of the Kamat cousins, and got the door closed before anyone else took it into his or her head to follow him out and tell him how brave he was—again. If this was being a hero, he'd far rather be anonymous.

  "Well," drawled a voice, slurred a little with drink, out of the shadows beside the tie-ups. "Ye're sure th' man of th' hour."

  A dark shape uncoiled itself from a larger darkness of piled-up tangle-lilies. It staggered a little, then walked unsteadily into the light of the single lantern over Kat's poleboat.

  Rattail, Rif's partner, looking oddly naked without her gitar, a bottle in one hand. Raj could smell the whiskey on her even before she came close.

  He let go of Kat and backed up a step.

  "Hey, it's all right, boy, I didn't mean it sarcastic." The raven-haired singer ran her free hand through her short cap of tangles. It looked as if she'd been getting into fights again. "I watched that last bit from Foundry-side. That was quite a save."

  "Thanks," Raj replied, not sure of what else to say, doubly unsure of what she wanted.

  "I—I came over here looking for ye, boy," the musician said, looking vaguely past him. "When's that brother of yours coming back?"

  "Any day now," Raj told her, a chill deep in his throat. What's she want? Is she going to get him in trouble? He—

  "Lord." She looked at the bottle in her hand, as if she hadn't expected it to be there, and took a swig. "Listen, you keep him away from Rif, you hear? She's gone clean crazy, an' Black Cal with her, and she's nothin' but trouble. She was bad before, but now—" She shrugged, and her eyes showed the pain that must have driven her to the bottle tonight.

  That was the last thing he expected to hear from Rif s erstwhile partner. "What happened?" he asked, unable to help himself. "What do you mean?"

  "She's just—I dunno. Religion, I guess—I mean, every time somebody gets religion, seems like his brain turns to muck." She shrugged again. "Me, I don't believe in nothin'—Revenantist God's a cosmic accountant, Adventists' is a maniac, Janes' is just a pack of cheap tricks and a sweet line. But Rif, I guess she bought into it even if she knows the tricks. Took to dosin' herself with the stuff that Raven crazy brought out of the swamp—next thin' you know, she's got Black Cal on it too, and they're both babbling about talkin' to cat-whales. Shit, when a cop falls, he falls hard."

  "Talking to cat-whales?" Raj could hardly believe his ears. Rat laughed, but it sounded like a sob.

  "Yey, they got themselves some old hulk, got themselves talked in
to thinkin' it's a real ocean-goin' boat—they're tied up out on the Rim right now, convinced they're out on the Sundance, talkin' to cat-whales. I—"

  She turned her head away for a moment, and rubbed the back of her hand angrily across her eyes. "Shit. And I get left holdin' tangle-lilies. She can't make the bookin's, 'cause she's stoned out of reality, and nobody wants me alone—I'm part of a set, and not even Hoh wants a solo act. I've been livin' on savin's—anyway, kid, you just tell that brother of yours that Rif s gone clean bad, and t' stay away. I'm gettin' out of this town, gettin' somewhere they don't know I'm supposed to be half of a duet. The Chat—"

  "But—" Raj knew the cost of passage to the Chatta-len, and his mouth dropped open. "But—"

  "I know what you're thinkin'. An' I don't have it— yet." She held up her hand to forestall him. "I didn't come here to put the touch on you. I'm gonna do one last job. A special job. There's a captain down in the Harbor that'll do about anythin' for what I'm gonna bring him. I just came to tell ye, 'cause in the mornin' I'll be gone. And to warn ye to warn your brother. Aye, and that Jones, too. Keep 'em away from Rif; she's steerin' for the reef, she's gonna run aground, an' I don't plan on bein' here to see it."

  With which, she finished off the bottle in one long swig, threw it into the canal, and vanished into the dark.

  ENDGAME (REPRISED)

  by C. J. Cherryh

  The rim was a spooky place these days—and at night damned dangerous, not mentioning the crazies that lived out in the marsh near this spit of rock and sand and straggling weed. There were skips and poleboats hereabouts in every nook of the Rim, campers on that Rim that weren't fishing, no, not, at least, on take-five from hauling freight. There were fires where people didn't want to be approached, where another skip pulling up was like as not to get a bullet into the bow.

  And finding somebody that didn't want to be found wasn't damned easy, on an island with one face to the Ghost Fleet and one face to the crashing sea, and it large as all Merovingen. She'd collected one bullet today, she'd outrun a pack of crazies not so many hours back, a reed raft bristling with boathooks.

  And she'd only the faintest notion what she was looking for, poling along in silence on the rim, no notion what manner of structure, or where found, except the word was, a place where marsh and Rim meet, and she'd tried the seaward side, on which she would have bet, on a chance word of Rif's. So it was the harborward side—where the crazies were thick. Nobody went this deep into the crook of the rim and the marsh—and maybe, she told herself, maybe that made it the reasonable answer.

  Mama said, keeping her company, Altair, what'd I ever tell ye about this place? Ye never let the crazies get atween you an' open water. 'Ware how the shore curves there.

  She said between her teeth, on harsh breaths, "Yey, Mama, I'm watchin' 'at, best I can, Mama."

  Glad of Mama's company, she was, in this place of ghosts and crazies, and she could only think, I can't get lost out here, I can't get kill't, and leave Mondragon with no help. . . .

  Something stuck up out of the dark, some dark hump, and she let the boat glide a moment, in doubt. It looked like the kind of hidey crazies put together out of reeds. Could be a raft with a hidey in the middle of it. But it didn't move.

  Shallow around here. Skip was floating only a couple of hands above the silty bottom. Place stank of rotten weed.

  Couple of those humps. Big one yonder. You didn't like to make noise out here. Racket of an engine or a gunshot'd draw crazies quicker than a lamp drew bugs, but she was powerfully tempted to let fly with a shot and see what stirred.

  Wasn't the only choice, though. She thumped the hull with the pole and stood ready to chuck it in the well, start the engine, and let fire with Mama's pistol, that she had stuck in her waistband.

  Nothing happened. Which made a body think about some crazy who might have heard her coming and who might just about now be lurking just off the side of the boat, ready to grab the pole, next time she put it in—

  She drifted, she hardly breathed. And she drifted close enough to reach out with the pole and give the reed hummock a thump.

  It didn't rock. It was solid.

  Second thump.

  "Weird 'un, Mama."

  Third thump. A try at lifting it with the pole. The skip rocked, but the reed shelter resisted. Solid as stone.

  She fetched it a solid whack with the pole.

  Nothing. The pole bounced. She shoved the skip closer, and stern about, so she could lean off the half-deck and poke a knife into it.

  The point hit stone. Or something like. Just under the reed covering.

  The boat rocked of a sudden. She caught her balance and jumped up as there was an arm over the rim of the well and there was a dripping-wet man crawling over the side.

  And a batch more about to try.

  She pulled the gun in a fright and let fire. Did for that one. But the boat rocked to the other side. She let that one go and punched the starter on the engine. It whined and wanted priming.

  Man was aboard, a gangling shadow headed for her down the slats of the well. She flipped the choke and punched the button again.

  He was still coming and she grabbed the throttle lever as the engine caught. Shoved it hard.

  The crazy went flat in the well, waving arms and legs and yelling.

  And white light showed across the water. Blinded her. Sent the crazies howling.

  She looked at the edges of it, most she dared. One shot came back. Booml across the water. And the crazy in her well scrambled lizard-fashion for the side and crawled over it, splash! into the swamp.

  The light was dead on her, whitening the deck and the well, fast as the skip was traveling, and she was blind. She thought, They got me pinned, whoever. And she swung about again and throttled down, heart thumping.

  Mama wasn't anywhere about to give advice. Mama didn't take to bright lights and shots flying. Mama's memory just said,

  Here's a fool. . . .

  Man's voice said, Who's there?

  And she called out, over the beat of the idling engine: "Jones, Altair Jones! Is Rif about?"

  The skip was tied upside of the big hummock. Inside—

  Inside it was a seeping stone well, the sides all black and oozing with water, and wooden steps black and treacherous—she could see that in the electric hand-light the man behind her had—had her gun, too, and gave her no promises except the man topside was going to be sure the crazies kept away from her boat.

  Could be a nest of sharrists for all she knew. Damn, she didn't like this pit—it was worse than roofs. There was a thumping sound that had to be a pump deep in its guts, and her knees shaking made her have to hold tight to the slimy rail, because her feet weren't at all reliable on the dripping steps. Break a body's neck, yey, Mama. Don't like this, no way.

  Down in the dark something creaked like the gates of hell, and another light showed through black, dripping stairs and blinded her.

  "I can't see the steps!" she yelled at whoever it was. But she kept going, because the man behind her was coming down and she was scared of a fracas on the slick steps, in which she was apt to break her neck. She was feeling her way when she got down into the blinding light, and the man behind her caught up with her and caught her arm.

  "Blindfold," the second one said. And she didn't like that at all, but it meant them wanting her not to see things, which meant it mattered. Which meant she might get out of here. So she stood still while the one set his electric light on a step and pulled out a scarf and tied it.

  "You leave that," he said, and she said, "Yey, you just watch it I don't break my neck."

  "I got you," he said, and took her arm while she tried not to be shaking like a fool. Her teeth wanted to chatter so she clamped her jaw and thought how Mondragon was in a worse place than this. Not as scary, maybe. But damn-all worse.

  The door groaned open again—right close this time. The man pushed her head down, said, "Duck," and she ducked, and went where he guided her, onto fo
oting that echoed worse—metal, God, metal that boomed and shook and echoed deep down in this place. Cold, damp air and rusty metal smell. "Step," the man said. "Rail an' your right."

  "Got 'er," she whispered. Her teeth were chattering, she couldn't help it; and the man's grip was bruising her arm. But she held with the other hand, she felt her way down, and he didn't hurry her, didn't get rough. That was encouraging.

  Encouraging when she got to the bottom and Rif s voice said: "Well, well. Here's a fool."

  BOOKWORMS

  by Nancy Asire

  "You really should tell the boy," Stella said. "You really should. What if he were to find out from someone else? How do you think he'd feel?"

  Alfonso Rhajmurti sighed quietly and looked up at the dimly lit ceiling as if he might find the answer to her question there. "I know ... I know. It's been hard not to tell him, sometimes. In fact—"

  "You're making excuses again, Alfonso." Stella's green eyes, so like her son's, caught the last gleam of afternoon light that penetrated the second-level shops on Lindsey. "Way things are going here in town, who knows what might happen? Lord! The whole thing could turn topsy-turvy on you and you might never have the chance. And he might never have the chance to know who his father really was."

  "You're not telling me anything I don't know," Rhajmurti said. "It's . . . let's put it this way, Stella— much as you're aware things are a bit unsettled in Merovingen, you don't know the half of it."

  "And by that, you mean. . . ?"

  "By that I mean things are worse than you thought." Rhajmurti looked across the shop, out the opened door which let in the barest hint of a summer breeze. Few people were on the walkways now, most headed home from work or whatever endeavors kept body and soul together. He gestured and Stella joined him at the counter. One eye on the doorway to guard against a possible intruder, Rhajmurti lowered his voice to a half-whisper. "There are eyes and ears everywhere, mostly where you'd least expect them. Exeter isn't letting anything get by her these days."