Merovingen - Fever Season Part 11

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124.

Leslie Fish **I try, I try." Jones set the throttle, and the skip chugged rapidly up the Grand. "Funny how 1 only run into 'im when ye're aboard."

Johanssen raised her head, smiling sweetly. "Maybe he likes you," she said, eyeing Rif.

"G.o.ddess forbid!" Rif shook her head so fast that her hair flopped into her eyes. "It'd ruin my reputation!"

Another twenty minutes' wide-open running took them up the Greve fork to the farms depot and along by the piers where riverboats tied up. The place looked surprisingly busy, but then, this was shipping time for the North Flat harvest. Big ships put in here: grain-barges and steamers from up-Det, and little craft, some of which might not care for the public notice and the harbor-master's close attention, not so able to bribe inspectors as some.

It was not hard to tell which category Rif s ship fell into: a huge steamer with.the high sides of a heavy cargo-hauler, pa.s.senger-decks above. Its smokestacks could have topped some of the lower islands in the city. Cargo- mostly farm supplies and bulk rice-was coming off and going on, pur poseful crowds busy. n.o.body took parti-cular notice of Jones' skip pulling in at stairs-side.

Rif got out First, carrying the large bundle, and helped m'sera Johanssen onto the landing. "Wait here a bit, Jones," she said, sounding her old cheerful self. "Keep an eye on my stuff 'til I get back." She strolled away arm-in-arm with the older woman, looking like a harmless visitor seeing her mother off on a journey. The two of them disappeared quickly in the crowd.

Jones took the opportunity to check on the potful of slurry-mash yeasting quietly in the hidey. Maybe tomorrow she could brew off some more fuel, but it wouldn't be ready by tonight. Maybe just as well. Carrying a fare all day, real public, she wouldn't have to work late tonight, could spend the night at Tom's place, keeping watch on him, catching up WAR OF THE UNSEEN WORLDS.

125.

on sleep. It wouldn't hurt to take a nap right now, in fact, with the day getting wanner and all. She set the pole and hook close, spread out a blanket and curled up in the hidey, and shut her eyes.

It seemed only five minutes later that someone shoved her, not too hard, in the ribs. Jones came awake blinking and gulping, reaching automatically for the barrel hook.

"Haw! 'T's only me," Rif laughed. "Wake up, lazy. We got work t'do. Oh, an' I got something for you." She planked down two sloshing jerry-cans on the deck, and sat back grinning.

Jones blinked at them, sniffed, recognized the smell. "Is that alkie-fuel? Here?"

"Yey, cheap as water." Rif beamed. "Word's got around, and the yeast too. Plenty of vegetable-trash t'grow it on up here. Folks're just a little more open about sellin' it, this far outta sight of the College." She snickered. "If yer own yeast dies out on you, the best price in-city's at Mantovan-north slot, under. Buy raw slurry-mash, cheap, do yer own distillin' and get the yeast too. Neat, hey?"

"C'n we get out o' here, ne?" Jones took the side-tie loose and skipped up on the half-deck. "Time's pa.s.sin'."

"Right, right." Rif thought a moment. "Get into the Grand, then west at the Signeury. No point wasting this stuff north'a Spellbridge."

"No point usin' fuel up there, either." Jones cranked the engine over and eased the skip out into the current.

After all the buildup, the work was easy. Jones poled the skip into the lazy backwaters of Yesudian, Torrence and Eick, heading for Capone. Rif, her coin-catching basket set out on the bow played her flat-harp and sang sweetly under the windows and bridges, chirping at pa.s.sers-by and collecting coins while anyone watched. She sang requests if asked, but generally came back to one particular song.

"There's a wheel tumin' on muddy ground, Gains an inch every time it goes around.

126Leslie Fish Come on, let's make another revolution. Turn, turn, turn . . ."

For all its vaguely-subversive words, the tune was slow, meandering and hypnotic.

"There are wheels that turn through all of our lives And we sometimes see them clear.

When the night comes down, when the first snow falls. We can mark the day or the year . . ."

Snow. First frost. End of fever season? Jones fixed her mind on the words, needing to concentrate on something, or the sleepiness would catch up to her. Do ail Rifs songs have secret messages in 'em?

"The circle's end we can tell too easy; The beginning is hard to see. And the wheel whose seasons no one knows Is the turn of the tide that can make us free."

Tide? Free? That had to have some meaning, but what? And to whose ears? Did Rif have friends this far uptown who might be listening in, picking up signals?

Occasional small coins pattered down, sometimes. .h.i.tting the basket, sometimes dropping into the well. Rif duly picked them up between verses, not missing a beat.

"There are wheels that turn in the natural world And there's some in the heart of man. Your will moves them, your hand proves them, So turn them the best you can . .

Back east now, past Deva, Novgorod and Bent, stopping once under an outdoor restaurant to play for a handful of diners until a complaining wine-steward shooed them away. Then on under Ka.s.s Bridge, still singing.

WAR OF THE UNSEEN WORLDS127.

"When you see your wheel you can add your shoulder- Or wait 'til it's rolling high. You can slow it down or speed it around, But you can't make it stop-even when you die."

Between songs, between ends and beginnings of that same sleepy-strange traveling song, whenever n.o.body was looking, Rif quietly licked her fingers, dipped them into the open bag beside her, pulled out fingertips darkened with clinging seeds and trailed them in the water. No one who wasn't specially watching for the gesture would have noticed it.

"There's a wheel that's moving fast through our time And we've seen the track it made. 1 believe you know where it has to go, And the way that the game is played . . ."

After a time Jones saw the pattern of the scattering: always done in backwater corners, places where the current was slow. The seeds could sink there, root and grow undisturbed. A few mixed weeds grew already in such out-of-the-way corners; newer ones would scarcely be noticed, surely not cared about.

"So night's come down and the turn is hidden, But it never stops rolling 'round. So lay on your hand, 'cause we're coming to land, just another strong pull, and we're on hard ground."

Jones decided she was getting tired to death of that song. Talk to Rif, then. Quick, before it started up again.

"What'll they look like?" she asked, poling slowly between Bent and Ka.s.s. "They gotta break surface sometime."

"Thick flat leaves and pretty yellow flowers," Rif smiled, trailing her laden fingers in the water. "Cl.u.s.ters of flowers on one stalk, even smell nice. n.o.body'11 mind, not unless they spread so thick as to block the ca.n.a.ls. That ain't likely, not with the steady traffic."

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Leslie Fish "They good fr anythin' besides cleanin' garbage out o' the water?"

"Oh, sure. The leaves'll feed yer yeast, good as any other weeds. Dry 'em, if ye can, an' 1 suppose they'll burn too. I don'l know if the flowers're good for much, besides being pretty, smelling nice-an' spreading the seeds. They'll drift downstream, wind up in Dead Harbor probably, after everywhere else." Rif dipped and trailed her fingers again. "Might even make this town smell downright good . . . Hey, what do I see?"

Rif sat up and peered ahead at a Figure running madly along the Ka.s.s-Borg Bridge. He was tall, skinny, dressed in the rusty blue-black colors of a College art student-and running with a flapping, wobbling, exhausted desperation. The sight was laughable, but Rif only wore a faint, intrigued, calculating smile.

"I know him," she said. "Pull over there, and let's catch 'im."

Jones sighed, and poled over. The customer was always right, sure. But when the customer was Rif, anything could happen. She didn't trust that calculating smile.

Rif, following the running student with her eyes, hopped out of the skip and scurried up the stairs toward bridge-end to intercept him. The chase pa.s.sed out of Jones' sight. She jury-tied aft and sat down to wait.

More of Rif s d.a.m.n games. Can't she do anything simple?

The sun was approaching zenith, the wind had died and the day was heating up considerably. Jones yawned in the seductive warmth and studied the water, noted that wisps of mist were rising again. d.a.m.n, if the sun kept up like this, the fog would be blanket-thick by sundown. Cautious poling through that, even in the slower-trafficked side ca.n.a.ls.

Then again, in a thick fog n.o.body could see them, either- nor see what Rif was doing. They could just pole around, scattering the seeds, not have to play-act at singing for pennies under the windows. Maybe Rif would prefer that, and maybe not. Gain cover, lose the extra money. Then again, somebody was paying Rif well for this work . . .

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Footsteps came rattling back: Rif, with the tall skinny student in tow. They hurried onto the skip, and Rif shoved him back into the hidey, out of sight. Without a word, Jones cast off and poled southeast, toward French Once they were well clear of Borg, the student began talking, babbling thanks at Rif. "-can't thank you enough, m'sera. That Krish, he remembers he owes me when he's sober, but when he's drunk he resents it. I swear, I thought he'd run me through if he caught me. He's that drunk."

"Krishna, hmm?" Rif purred, smiling thoughtfully. "Yey, I remember him, all right. You too, from those gigs around the College. When I pa.s.sed the basket, you put a good bit in. Him, he took somethin' out."

"I'm really sorry," the student panted.

"Hey, don't be." Rif smiled, smiled. "Ye don't have to be a Retributionist t'believe injustice."

"It's Justus!" the young man insisted, sounding anxious. "And I've converted."

"Shh, don't worry." Rif craned her neck back and called up to Jones. "Hey, pull up under Porfirio-Wex Bridge, can ye? I've a friend there can put up Justus here for awhile."

"Lord and Ancestors, another game." Jones sighed and looked heavenward, but poled duly east around Gantry.

"Now go up to the fourth floor," Rif explained to the panting Justus, "And ask for Scarritt's studio. He's a portrait artist, has lots'a work, needs help preparing canvases, he says. For a few hours' work he'll give ye some good money, also show ye some tricks'a the trade. Good as any College lesson, 1 guarantee. You keep outa sight 'til Krishna's cooled, and won't miss any learning from yer cla.s.ses. Right?"

"Oh, yes. M'sera, if there's any way I can thank you . . ."

"Yey, sure. Talk me up at the better-paying places around College, see if y'can get me some work there."

Jones almost whooped at that, held it back to a barely audible snickering. Trust Rif to twist money out of this, profit out of anything. Had to admire a mind like that, devious or no.

They let Justus off on the Wex side, nestling in between HO.

Leslie Pish two poleboats, and he scampered away toward the stairs. Rif smiled again, watching him go.

"Did ye notice," she purred, "How much he resembles Black Cal, seen from the back?"

"No more d.a.m.n games!" Jones snapped. "Not now, not on my skip! Let's get done with business, cain't ye?"

"Right." Rif looked back to port, eyes half-closed, calculating smile turned subtly ruthless. "Go back up past Borg. We didn't seed there yet."

The customer's always . . . What the h.e.l.l is she up to? Jones wondered, poling back out into the water. Well, whatever it was now, it hadn't threatened her skip or her hide yet.

Back under Borg, through the rising mist. Rif dropped seeds with a casual, practiced hand and studied the p'a.s.sing island. Between polings Jones watched too, wondering what Rif was looking for. Nothing but hightowners, walking to and fro, some in College dress.

"Hah, there!" Rif sat up sharply. "Pull under."

"What, again?"

"Pull under an' wait. Won't take long."

"All right, but this better be the last d.a.m.n stop . . ." Jones tied up under Borg-French Bridge and watched while Rif hopped out. This time she could follow the woman's progress up the stairs, up onto first level. There: she was hurrying after someone, some swaggering student with a sword clanking at his side. He looked more than a little heavy with drink. Jones held quiet and strained to catch the words, couldn't make them out but could watch.

There came Rif, shoulders hunched and head bent, looking amazingly like a hightowner's doting footman, plucking at the drunk student's sleeve. He tured his flushed face toward her, half-eager, half-wary. Rif said something fawning and held out one hand, clearly begging for a coin. The sword-wearing student frowned, but dug into a pocket and came out with a silverbit. He dropped it, with a contemptuous flourish, into her hand. She clutched it, bowed quickly, and said something close to his ear. Then she pointed southward, WAR OF THE UNSEEN WORLDSHi downstream. A distinctly nasty smile spread across the youth's face, and he hurried off southward, pushing past her.

_Watching him go, Rif straightened up-no longer looking like anyone's servant. She tossed the coin in her palm, stuffed it into her purse, and trotted quietly back down the stairs to the skip.

"That anythin' important?" Jones grumbled, poling back toward Bent and Ciro.

"Worthwhile, anyway." Rif smiled, reaching for more seeds. "He was looking for Justus. Well, he'll find Justice, right enough. Heh! 'Specially if this fog thickens a little more. Oh, that he will!"

Jones didn't ask anything more, not until they'd gone past the West Ca.n.a.l and under Bruder-Hendricks Bridge. The smell of swamp-gra.s.s from beyond Bruder and Golden reminded her of Raj.

"Tell me one thing," she prodded. "This doctor-school you told Raj about: what's it goin' t'cost 'im?"

Rif didn't so much as twitch. "Oh, very little. Probably nothing, if he'd good enough." She glanced up, smiled reasuringly. "Seems the boy's got talent. The school prizes that. They'll want him much's he wants what they got."

"That ain't the cost I mean! What do they really want 'im fer, after?"

"Healing. No more, no less." Rif tossed another finger-full of seeds into the water. "Ye may's well go all the way down to Racawski before turning back north. Be sure to get Hendricks' slot."

"d.a.m.n it, don't you hold out on me, Rif! They'll want 'im to turn Janist, won't they? Do their work?"

"Maybe turn Janist, if he's willing. If not, then just heal an' bless in the name'a Jane, spread the word around that Janes make good doctors for poor folk. Where's the harm in that?"

"He's only a kid! Thirteen, maybe fourteen- That's a little young f r these games."

"He'll be a good bit older before he finishes school." Rif 132.

Leslie Fish looked up, catching Jones' eyes. "How old were you when y'first took to working this skip alone'.'1'

Jones ground her teeth. Twelve. Maybe less. "All I had ter worry 'bout was runnin' my skip, keepin' alive. This is big trouble yer into. Ye know that."

"Jones, that boy was raised the son of a Sword agent, and a stupid agent at that. He's spent the last few years hidin' out in the swamp, surviving there. You think he can't handle this?"

There was no easy answer. Jones poled her way silently around Racawski Island and back up toward Hendricks, watching as Rif flicked doses of seed into the waiting, quiet water.

". . . Besides," Rif added, "It's what he wants. Where else's he gonna get that schooling? The College?"

"s.h.i.t," Jones sighed, seeing the sense of it. "Just take care o' that boy. Don't run 'im into deep trouble. That's all I'm askin'."

"No worry, Jones. I know that kid, an' I like 'im. I wouldn't drag 'im into something'd really hurt him."

"All right."

They steered back up into the West Ca.n.a.l, toward Bolado. The fog was thickening steadily.

By the time Krishna reached the foot of the Wex-Spellman Bridge, the fog was so thick it was hard to see more than two body-lengths ahead of him. d.a.m.n weather, anyway. d.a.m.n Justus for running like a coward, making him work the euphoria off of a good booze-buzz. d.a.m.n that woman and her informant-what was his name:-Chud?-if this turned out to be an empty chase.

Puffing with exertion, Krishna started up the bridge. The few pedestrians coming down it took one look at his tight-gripped sword and suffused face, and quickly got out of his way.

Ah, there, just at midbridge: tall lean body, dark suit, dark hair, generally slumped and weary look about him, gazing down into the ca.n.a.l, back conveniently turned. Oh, it was Justus all right.

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