Endgame

by C. J. Cherryh

  Close enough. Out the window again, a fit that would have been better on Denny Takahashi; and a quick snub of the rope around the timbers.

  Straight, easy climb, then, thank God the rope held—a fast descent past second tier to canalside and a cat-footed, careful passage as shots echoed and rattled off Kass and Spellbridge.

  He made himself part of the building for a while, in Min's cloak. He moved. He waited. He looked up and out at the shell-lit smoke that canopied Archangel, and saw what he'd thought, militia on the bridges, including the one he needed; and that was a problem. But not an insurmountable one.

  He slipped the cloak and left it on the canalside walk; he slipped the scarf and pulled off Min's dark sweater.

  Bright as a candle he was, then, blond hair and lace collar and cuffs, velvet and leather, and the wink of a sword-hilt. And he still got close enough to the soldiers on Spellbridge corner, in the cover and shadow of that black yacht, that he could say, "Courier for 'Stasi," and still scare hell out of the kids in the blackleg uniforms.

  Weapons pointed straight at him, click of hammers. Cheap numbers, those. 'Stasi's gunsmiths had the College censors to deal with. Poor 'Stasi. He had time to think about that while the boys were deciding not to fire on a man with both lace-cuffed hands in sight; and if he'd had help, they'd have been on their faces dead or out cold.

  As it was, they said, "Let's see a pass," and he showed a ring, that was 'Stasi's, with the Kalugin crest. Chance had let him keep that. Exeter's interrogators had let him keep it—incrimination stored with the evidence; they'd wanted it on his finger, if they brought him visitors. And the visitor they'd brought had been Chance, with a release to Nev Hettek custody.

  And maybe he could have talked his way past without it, he had his story ready if they didn't so much as recognize it; but they made up their minds then to do the soldierly thing and ask the sergeant.

  Meanwhile he was to face the wall and put his hands on it in plain sight.

  M'ser.

  "Ye get out here," Jones said. Spooky, it was, the Grand with no traffic. And Kamat bristling with guns.

  But there was traffic behind her. Kat Bolado was coming up, slow as she was moving, using just the pole, like the first wave of canalers that might be venturing back into the city, just a little early—just a little suspiciously early, Kamat evidently thought: shots banged, hit the water just shy of her gunpowder-laden bow; and Raj yelled up:

  "It's Raj Takahashi, ye fool! Hold your fire! Where's Richard?"

  "Sorry," someone said sheepishly. "Sorry, m'ser Raj."

  Jones let go a breath she'd been holding, said, shakily, "Luck t' ye, Raj," and shoved off while Raj was still trying to say something. Just poled right along the Grand, with Moghi's astern. Wasn't any likelihood Moghi'd agree to this 'un, she thought. No use askin'.

  Only fools big enough was behind her in that fancy-boat. Rat'd showed. With a pretty Falkenaer lad in tow, who didn't know what he was getting into—hard enough to get past the accent. Maybe he hadn't understood Rat was going to hell. Maybe he hadn't understood words like blown up and shooting and Kalugin, but maybe again he and Rat had, they said, slept right through the quake and the shooting. And maybe they'd had reason. And maybe a lost, left Falken lad who'd experienced that, was just keeping himself in staring distance of Rat—

  She could figure it. She'd stared a lot at Mondragon when she'd first seen him by daylight. Just looked and looked till she knew she'd never see anyone else the same.

  The hook's in, boy. Ye got no chance in hell, you start lookin' at anybody that way.

  Yey, mama, ye didn't tell me that. Can't look away, can't turn away, if he's up there I'll find 'im. If he ain't, 'Stasi Kalugin won't see th' dawn.

  Lot of shootin' up there, mama.

  Damn, that Kamat fool. Give me th' shakes, them bullets. . . .

  I got t' get there first. Got t' get this load through that gunfire. Ye got any suggestions, mama?

  Mondragon knew the drill. Strip-search reminded him of prison and 'Stasi had to know it; they got the knife, they got the sword, most obviously, they let him dress again, which he did at his own pace, while the cannon shook the yacht's frame. Tatiana's forces didn't have a heavy gun on the rooftops; didn't yet, but he'd lay whatever he had on it, that heavy piece he'd heard last evening had either blown up (not an unheard of thing with Merovingian cannon, last century, and it might well be an antique) or they were moving it, remounting it in the best position they had—couldn't get it to the College roof. Stasi's forces still had canalside. So she had to get papa's permission, one could guess, to fire it from Signeury, or she'd lost the College roof today—one or the other. He guessed it was in transit somewhere. Maybe even to something south of Kass. They could boat-freight it to the Grand and around.

  But if it ever opened up from a rooftop, with a clear trajectory to Archangel, Anastasi could be in deep trouble. They had to get that gun. And if Anastasi did—then kiss Tatiana good-bye, or quick passage to Nev Hettek.

  Leisured adjustment of the lace. He was thinking again. He'd shaken like a leaf a moment ago, embarrassing that it was, but he was that much on edge. Min's skip hadn't had much food aboard, hadn't much of anything. And he felt cold. Constantly cold, as if he'd never be warm again.

  "M'ser," the sergeant said, and showed him to the guard who showed him down the tight companionway to Anastasi's cabin—two before, two behind; and he might have taken them, on a better day, taken them, and maybe Anastasi, in his cabin, and maybe found Jones if she was aboard, but his timing was off, he felt it right now—they were hair-triggered, the whole atmosphere was tense enough a stray shot might get Anastasi or him, and he was still feeling that chill the search had made, still thinking, dammit, when it might have been time to move, take the chance, take the shot and die for it. They'd taken his sword, but there were guns he could have all around him, and he was walking down this passageway, he was letting them open doors for him and show him in.

  Anastasi, in blood-red silken shirt, in jeweled collar and cuffs, was pouring brandy. Anastasi offered him a glass.

  And a chair. He said, "I'll stand. I'll skip the drink, if you don't mind. I've a message for you from Chance."

  "None from Tatiana?" Mikhail had been the awkward one. Tatiana was some fair-haired mother's daughter. 'Stasi was dark, with eyes like a skit's, always looking for prey—handsome skit, 'Stasi was that. But still a skit.

  "I don't come from Tatiana. Chance sends his regards. There's some likelihood they'll be important. That Chance Magruder will be running Nev Hettek."

  He'd hoped to shake Anastasi. He hoped. And Anastasi let it hang there a long, long reactionless time. The cannon thumped. He kept thinking away the connections between his face and his brain. No nerves. Nothing.

  Anastasi said, to the guards, "Stay here." Those guards had just gotten promoted. Or might meet with accident tonight. And to him: "Have the brandy, Tom."

  'Stasi offered it. 'Stasi's hand didn't shake. His did. He let it. He let his breathing give him the air he needed, light-headed as he was. 'Stasi liked fear. 'Stasi liked people wondering what he'd do.

  He took a sip of the brandy, wondering was it poisoned, or drugged. It left no suspicious aftertaste. But one could be surprised.

  'Stasi said, still standing, "So Magruder's confident of this?"

  "Say I held back on you. Say there were things I know that he knows now. They weren't significant before. They are to Magruder. Now that Magruder knows what I know—Karl's in danger. And Magruder knows Karl will know."

  "Held back on me."

  A shrug. A nervous one. "Details that didn't mean anything—to someone who wasn't in Fon's close circle. You couldn't have used them. Might not have appreciated them. Your agents could have botched something and let it out and Karl'd have had a cover by sundown, one Magruder couldn't breach. I'm still acting in your interests."

  "Maybe I prefer Fon to my sister's lover at the helm!"

  Anastasi's anger slipped. The ma
sk did. Mondragon said quietly, "Not her lover now. There's Dani Lambert." "Who?"

  "Dr. Dani Lambert. The Nev Hettek doctor, in Boregy. I'd move, if I were you. Get Lambert, if she hasn't flown."

  "See about that," 'Stasi said sharply, and one guard left. Mondragon ticked that down.

  "On the other hand," Mondragon said, "your sister isn't one to lose gracefully. I know."

  "What do you mean you know? Been sleeping with my sister?"

  "No. But I've heard Chance talk."

  "Chance, is it?"

  "Say we've gotten closer acquainted. Say Chance doesn't think your sister's going to be that pleased—

  Chance upriver, with Lambert, Tatiana down here, in charge of policy ... old lovers can be the devil. Not clear thinking. Chance is making an offer, through me. And I'm making one."

  A long, long stare. "What do you have to offer?"

  "Same thing I always did. I want to talk to Jones."

  'Stasi's pupils dilated and contracted. That was all the sign he gave. But maybe 'Stasi realized that eye to eye with him he couldn't lie. 'Stasi said,

  "Hard item to deliver." Which didn't tell him enough, dammit. Dead, could be hard to deliver.

  "I've never changed my price. Where is she?"

  'Stasi said, "Ask me in the morning."

  "You haven't got her."

  'Stasi said, "I know who has."

  Lying, he thought desperately. Tatiana couldn't. Tatiana wouldn't know.

  Would she?

  Anastasi said, "Put him in safe-keeping. See he's secure."

  Guard behind him had a gun and a sword. He turned slowly, caught sight of his target and struck fast, blocked the gun up and grabbed the sword hilt. Smashed it into the guard's chin on the way up and whipped the guard around.

  'Stasi's shot got the guard. And he had the pistol— his got Anastasi, blew him backward as he heard militia thunder down the companionway—

  He shot through the door—and there was chaos outside, men yelling. He gave it another round, and somebody got the door open. A dead man, that sprawled inside, and a deserted companionway.

  You didn't walk off from a job half-finished. He turned toward Anastasi, where he was lying—but 'Stasi wasn't, 'Stasi shot back and the bullet burned past him, or hit, he couldn't tell—he fired, but 'Stasi was behind a solid buffet, and chairs, and he wasn't: he whipped back for the little cover the doorframe offered, in the companionway, and fired again.

  Get clear, his brain was telling him, get hidden, there's going to be militia behind any second.

  There were. He stayed tight against the wall, slim profile as a fencer, and fired straight on, heavy gun kicking at his wrist, while shots missed him on either side from both directions, best he could hear. And 'Stasi's that went past his ear might have got a militiaman or two.

  He had a breath to think, decided 'Stasi might chase a running man, if he could. Or get curious. He grabbed up another spring-clip pistol, made a quick move over bodies to halfway along the wall, plastered himself there and felt the sting in his arm when he did that. Close one, there. He waited, catching breaths, waited for another rush of militia down that companionway at his right or for Anastasi to come out of cover on his left to find out where he was. One shot left in the clip on this one. That meant one in the chamber.

  Shot went down the corridor past him. The woodwork was a mess. Men on the floor were in worse shape. He blinked sweat, shoved the clip back in. Heard running on the deck, people yelling.

  The whole ship rocked, violently, to water-motion. He caught his balance, had a shot go past him as the motion flung him from the wall, and fired back.

  Saw 'Stasi duck. And waited, with the pistol in both hands and his back naked to the corridor behind.

  'Stasi couldn't stand a challenge. Couldn't let well enough alone. Curiosity killed the cat, 'Stasi. Bang!

  Cannonball churned the water up and Jones fought the tiller, throttled up and powered through—couldn't believe what she was doing, couldn't believe what she was seeing, but there was calm water ahead, as she'd come in on Spellbridge West and come around the corner—the flash of fire off the roofs, all hell breaking about 'Stasi's black yacht, and she just went on as she could, put that boat right up against 'Stasi's stern— she'd've preferred to go midships to be sure, but Cal swore Spellbridge Low was too tight, and once she'd got to thinking on that—

  Splash! Rocked the whole canal, that one did. Put her heart in her throat. Get right up there, little boat, ever'body taking cover—

  Yey, mama, won't see us, maybe, with all the lights bein' out—

  Right up again' 'Stasi Kalugin's hull an' then tell 'im I got to talk to 'im. Fast-fuse and the slow match was one thing, but there was this transmitter Rif had rigged, to a detonator in those barrels, and scary as it was, needing only the flip of a little switch and the press of a button, that was what she had in her pocket and that was what she was counting on if she could get ashore at all.

  Rif and Rat and Cal in that boat of theirs, they were coming up Spellbridge. Cal with that hand-cannon of his. Rif with her pistol. Rat had said she'd steer, but her Falkenaer lad had said, Ne, he'd do 'er—probably in fear of his life. . . .

  Give Mondragon half a chance if he was there, make a little noise, if their little noise was hear-able over the banging and the thumping of two militias.

  Water splashed on her. Wave rocked her against Spellbridge North buffers as she eased up in the dark and scrambled out to make the bow tie, tucked low—

  Shot hit the boards by her. Another hit the bow. She yelled, "Ye damn fools!" and went overside, slipped along the edge in Det's dark water until she was at that dangerous point where the yacht rocked and bumped against the buffers and the pilings. But a skinny somebody could just fit into the nooks between the pilings, if she kept moving, if she timed her advances along that line just so that the hull was swinging outward when she was moving and she was tucked in tight between the pilings when it hit.

  Tight fit, there, mama, yey—

  Rattle of guns. People looking up and down in the shadows, not sure whether she'd been hit back there. Touch that toggle now and five or six were going to the rebirth.

  Thump of tons of boat against her back. Enough to make breath tight a moment. But she was crossing Spellbridge now, duck down and swim, gun was wrapped in wax-seal; so was the detonator battery. Rest was all right. She came up on Kass-corner pilings, wondering where in hell was Rif, was peeling the wax covers off from where she was in the water, when of a sudden you could see the flashes of guns off Spellbridge Low, and guns flashing on the water, and hear that fancyboat roar. Big burst of rifle fire then, Lord hope it didn't hit the tanks. . . .

  Lord, it was still coming!

  She made the shadow of the gangway, as Kass bridge went up in a blinding flare—the tanks, she thought, with a thump of her heart, God, they were gone—she didn't have any help—

  So she scrambled up ashore while the gangway guards were taking cover from raining debris—ran up the gangplank and onto the deck, tucked low, about the time fire broke out down on canalside and she was sure an army was coming up the gangplank after her.

  There was, but one was Rif and one was Cal, and Rat and the blond Falken lad. She cried, "Get low, ye fools!" because shots started coming every way, some slamming into the railing over her head. "Haul th' gangway up!" the Falken lad cried, and that was smart: she dropped the pistol and the detonator and hauled on this side, on her knees, while the Falken lad hauled on his, and Cal and Rif and Rat blazed away covering them.

  But of a sudden shots were coming from out of the doorway to the cabins and it wasn't militia, the shots were hitting militiamen, and militia was running for the water-side. Some made it and jumped, some didn't, and she heard a hoarse voice call out:

  "Jones? Jones, is that you?"

  "Mondragon?" God, she was going to sit down where she was and faint. It was him in the doorway. Was him coming across the deck—blond hair loose in the wind.

&n
bsp; Movement in the doorway. She didn't even think. She had the pistol up and between her knees sitting as she was and she let fire.

  Mondragon hit the deck and looked back, as a whole handful of shots from their side went that way. But whatever it was back there she hoped to hell it wasn't friendly, because it was gone.

  Cannonball hit. Close. Rocked the boat.

  "Jones!" Mondragon yelled from where he was, flat on the deck, next to the unstepped mast. "Jones, cut the ties! We're under fire from the roof, let the current carry us out of here!"

  "Yey!" she said, but Rat and the Falken lad were already moving for the cables: she had better than drift in mind, and crawled toward the bridge.

  As shots knocked splinters off the deck and she thought about that boat out there.