Merovingen - Fever Season Part 10

"Well, that's one more thing to keep quiet from . . . hightown." Raj smiled a too-old, cynic grin. "s.n.a.t.c.hing up a few fish, right under Kalugin's wing."

"s.h.i.+t," Jones whispered, seeing what the boy had guessed 116.

ie fish 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 Kaiugin 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. "1 cain't stay. Got a job this momin', 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."

d.a.m.n 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 / just a fool?

Altogether, Jones was in a sour mood as she came poling through the dawn-pearled mist to Fife comer. 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 middJing-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 WAR OF THE UNSEEN WORLDS.

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Rif helped the older woman into the skip. "Thought the deal was f'r just one pa.s.senger."

"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 s.h.i.+p," 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 farmers on the long river island north of the city. She hadn't thought any pa.s.senger boats put in there.

She remembered that the last s.h.i.+p 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 rumbled in her bag, raising a tw.a.n.g 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 pa.s.senger. M'sera Johanssen shrugged, reached into her small bag and took out a nearly-finished sweater, a ball of coa.r.s.e brown yarn and a 118.

Leslie Fish 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. d.a.m.n. 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 ca.n.a.ls 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 ca.n.a.l-stinks. Maybe the weather would hold all day.

Between the good wind, good time and heavy effort, Jones felt her foul mood sliding off. h.e.l.l, Rif wasn't so bad. Paid well, anyway. A quick trip upriver and a leisurely voyage back, no weight but two pa.s.sengers 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 comer. A man, carrying a sheaf of papers, well-dressed, waving urgently.

Oh, h.e.l.l, what now?

Rif snapped her head up, looked, frowned briefly, then shrugged. "d.a.m.n. 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. Johanssen 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 b.u.mped 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.

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But the well-dressed man made no threatening moves, only pa.s.sionate 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' p.i.s.s-poor at it. No bora ca.n.a.ler, that's fr sure."

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

"Hmrnm, 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.

"House Hannon," she said. "They got word this is the rat what killed that Hannon girl last Festival. They're offerin' a big reward for his head."

"s.h.i.+t! Trouble!" Jones stabbed her pole hard into the water. Smuggling, thieving, politics-and now you want to get into a.s.sa.s.sination, too? "Leave me out o' that! Th'old Hannon-Gregori feud's pure poison, an1 everyone knows it."

"It's good money," Rif wheedled. "Five big ones. I'm 120.

Leslie f isJi not askin' ye to do anything; just keep yer eyes open. You see 'im, you tell me. I'll cut y'in fer a good share."

"No chance! I'd as soon be caught in Kalugin House with them Swords runnin'- Too much! Jones bit off the last word, scrambled to cover it. "Uh, no way," she finished lamely. d.a.m.n, short on sleep. Stupid.

Rif hadn't missed it. "Swords?" she asked, very quietly, not looking away.

Johanssen, in the bow, kept her head down and crocheted at a furious pace-for all appearances oblivious to the world.

"Altair," Rif almost whispered, "If there're Swords rooted in at Kalugin House, then you an' me an' all our ... connections are nose-deep in bilge-water. We all better know when, where an1 how to jump."

Jones said nothing,, gritted her teeth, and sped the skip forward with hard, angry thrusts.

"Fer G.o.ddess' sake," Rif insisted, "Don't keep me in the dark! 1 don't wanta get hit from behind."

Jones flinched at that, remembering all the times she'd said as much to Mondragon. The not knowing was the worst. The not knowing could get you killed.

And Rif, with her connections, was an escape-way for Mondragon, herself, and maybe Raj too if Anastasi Kalugin went under or turned on them.

Snapping a short curse, Jones pulled in the pole, went to the hidey, brought out the jerry-can and started the engine. The motor coughed, belched a clot of smoke, caught and rumbled to work. The skip began to pick up speed.

Jones crouched at the tiller, glaring at Rif as she slid close and sat down.

". . . The new fuel seems t'agree with'er," Rif offered, glancing back at the engine.

"Yey," Jones admitted. "Runs cleaner." That too was RiFs-and the Janes'-gift. Fuel-alcohol did run cleaner than petro-fuel, smooth and strong and loud in the old engine. Loud enough to cover quiet conversation, anyway. "The Nev Hettekers ..." Jones sighed. "The ones what got invited to that bombed-out Festival party uptown. A friend of mine WAR OF THE UNSKN WORLDS.

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spotted 'em, recognized 'em from back when, knew they was Swords."

"Raj?" Rif whispered, wide-eyed.

Jones ducked her head and shrugged again. Let Rif think it was the kid who saw, not guess it was Tom. "1 ain't sayin' who, an' don't ye go askin'. Point is, one of 'em's got in real cozy with Tatiana Kalugin ..."

The islands of Fishmarket, Calfiste and Foundry swept by as Jones told the whole Festival story, alt she knew, had seen, had learned from Mondragon and elsewhere. Rif listened carefully, prodded little, took it aft in, and ended gnawing her lip.

"That's bad. Real bad," she muttered. "Hightown rotten with Swords, Ne> Hettek behind 'em . . . h.e.l.l, this time next year, Nev Hettek could be runnin' the town without a shot fired."

Jones shrugged again, but s.h.i.+vered. Maybe Anastasi Kalugin could stop it, maybe not. A year ago she wouldn't have cared who ruled in Hightown; it made no difference to Merovingen-under, nothing to change life on the ca.n.a.ls. But now there was Tom Mondragon. Nev Hettek rule meant Swords high and low, and they knew Mondragon was here. He'd have to run to Lord-knew-where, someplace where she couldn't follow or wouldn't know how to live-if he didn't wind up floating in the ca.n.a.ls first. Politics mattered now.

"C'n yer friends stop it?" she asked, desperate enough to ask.

"Dunno. C'n find out, maybe." Rif glanced again at the chortling engine. "I'll pay ye back for the fuel." She got up and went back to her former place in the bow, and sat down beside the crocheting old woman.

Jones couldn't tell, over the engine noise, if they were talking or not. Maybe just as well. Just watch the water, mind the traffic-thickening now, out here on the Grand. Mostly skips and haulers, making morning deliveries. Mostly known faces, no danger anywhere-not yet, anyway.

They were almost under the Wex-Spellman Bridge when something hit the bow.

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Leslie Fish Jones instinctively snapped off the engine, grabbed her pole and slopped the skip, then turned to look.

On the bow sat a small stone. Not heavy enough to do damage, just enough to make noise. Rif and the old woman were staring up at the bridge ahead, not that Jones needed to see them to guess where the stone had come from.

Up on the bridge stood Black Cal, peering down at them.

Johanssen turned her gaze back to her crocheting. Rif kept watching, gone noticeably pale. Jones didn't move.

Black Cal pointed calmly at Rif, then jerked a thumb skyward. 'Come up,' clear as day.

"Why couldn't he just send a note?" Rif muttered. "h.e.l.l, pull over."

Jones did, carefully keeping her head down. n.o.body wanted Black Cal for an enemy, but she didn't care for his friendly attention, either. Tie up, let Rif out-note that she didn't take her bag with her--squat on the half-deck and wait, trying to be as calm as that old woman with her crocheting. Wait, and try not to sweat in the rising morning heat.

Rif pattered up the bridge as if she were walking on eggs, hoping to high heaven that Black Cal was in a better mood than when she'd seen him last. "h.e.l.lo," she chirped, trying to sound cheerful. "I see you're walkin' around again."

"Not much." Black Cal raked her over with eyes as cold as green gemstones. He sounded hoa.r.s.e, still looked a bit pale, but he wasn't coughing.

"I told ye it wasn't the Plague," Rif grinned nervously, "Just the Crud. Told'ja you'd be up an' around in a couple of days, didn't I?"

"Mhm." His noncommittal gaze held her for several long heartbeats, then turned to the skip below. "Where's your doctor going with all that baggage?"

"Leaving town," said Rif, s.h.i.+vering in the sunlight. "It's gettin' a bit hot for her these days."

"Not from me," Black Cal said quietly, leaving her with the implications. Maybe he was fis.h.i.+ng for news, and maybe not.

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In any case he didn't sound happy, and that was bad news.

"Uh, I got a little something for ye," Rif offered, pulling out the paper. She unrolled it and handed it to him. "That's a slicer named Chud. He's the one killed that Hannon girl last Festival. Now he's back in town, House Hannon's offering big money for "im."

Black Cal nodded absently, studying the picture. Then he snagged on a thought and turned a chill green stare on Rif. "I don't do extra-work," he said.

"1 wasn't saying that!" Rif backpedaled fast. 'Tm just tellin' ye what's afloat. You get 'im first, you do what ye want. You find 'im in the ca.n.a.l, you'll know why."

"Mm." Black Cal rolled up the paper, trapped it in the palm of his other hand. "No witnesses to the killing, no solid evidence." He frowned, eyes narrowing.

"Aw, cheer up" Rif offered. "Maybe y'can prod him into takin' a shot at you, and then y'can blow him away."

Black Cal rolled his eyes and snorted, not mollified by that, either.

"d.a.m.n," Rif muttered, playing her last card. What the h.e.l.l, maybe just as well now as later. "I heard somethin' else interesting that y'could maybe use. Did you know that yer boss' new sweetheart is a big Sword of G.o.d agent from Nev Hettek?"

The old woman had very nearly finished the sleeve by the time Rif came back to the skip.

"Took ye long enough," Jones complained as Rif scrambled in. "Gonna have t'run the engine full-throttle t'reach yer s.h.i.+p in good time"

"Do it," said Rif. "I'm paying."

Jones restarted the engine, casting another quick glance up at the bridge. Black Cal hadn't moved. "He plannin' t'stay there all day?" she asked, ducking her head away from his gaze.

"So he says." Rif pulled her cloak around her and huddled in the bow. "He's gettin' over the Crud, and Vs bad-tempered. Keep away from 'im if y'can."