Merovingen - Fever Season Part 4

In the blue room, when the servant opened the door for him with a flourish, announcing him as if he were a stranger because there were non-family members within, was a sight that nearly drained the joy from Chamoun's soul.

Sitting around an inlaid card table were his lovely wife Ca.s.sie, all peaches and cream in a low-cut blouse; Rita Nikolaev, the woman whose body called to Chamoun in a way Ca.s.sie's never could-a woman forbidden by every law of Sword and common sense; and the pale duelist known as Mondragon, traitor, ex-Sword, master spy.t "What are you doing here?" Chamoun blurted before he could stop himself. And then held his ground. He was a Boregy man, master of this house more than Mondragon. He had a right to know.

Ca.s.sie said, "Michael?" and pushed back her chair, a flush rising in her cheeks. "We're having a game of cards, please join us."

Cover the lapse, she would. Decorum was all to these people. Somehow, he found himself sitting at that table, one of his knees brushing Rita Nikolaev's, her dark hair rinsed with something that made it glow red as a beating heart. Somehow he found himself making small talk and picking up his cards and then, finally Ca.s.sie asked him, in front of both the guests, "Is something wrong, Michael? You look . . . pale."

"Not as pale as our friend Mondragon," Chamoun snapped. But it was true. Mondragon's handsome head seemed greasy; his skin was waxen; his eyes were red-rimmed.

"Not feeling my best tonight, Chamoun-you're observant. But then, we knew that."

We. Mondragon and Ca.s.sie's father, Vega Boregy, were thick as thieves; together, they'd compromised Chamoun and tried to use him against Magruder. Chamoun didn't need to be reminded of that. At that instant, Rita Nikolaev shifted and more of her thigh touched Michael Chamoun's than could have, by accident.

So he said, to answer his wife's question and put Mondragon in his place and impress Rita, whose every breath was a wonder and a miracle, even under a high-necked blouse of the sort Chamoun's wife should be wearing, "Nothing's wrong, Ca.s.sie-not wrong at all. I was going to wait until we were alone to tell you, but . , ." He looked to his right, at Rita; then to his left, at Mondragon. Then at his wife again.

"Oh, come on, Michael. We're among friends. Tell us. We've been bored to tears all night, playing this stupid game-and losing all our allowance to Thomas." Ca.s.sie Boregy's sweet young face turned pouty. "Tell us."

And he was glad to, by then, because he saw the smirk dancing at the comers of Mondragon's lips and he wanted to wipe it away at any cost. "Tatiana Kalugin personally chose me to head a team of four people who'll be preparing the citizens of Merovingen-below to register for the census."

Thomas Mondragon's face went even paler. His eyes, opaque, stared steadily at his hands. Ca.s.sie beamed with delight, gave a squeal of joy, and came rushing around the card table to embrace him. Rita Nikolaev said in her throaty voice, "We're coming up in Merovingen society at a rapid rate; your karma must be excellent, m'ser Michael."

"Oh, please, Rita-Michael's family," Ca.s.sie insisted, her arms still around his neck. "We don't need to be so formal."

"But we do need," interjected Mondragon, "to get Rita home before the hour grows later. Tell your father, Ca.s.sie, that I'll drop by again. And thank you for a pleasant evening."

There was an interval of coat-getting and leave-taking and all the while Chamoun measured the stiffness in Mondragon's spine with satisfaction. Got the b.a.s.t.a.r.d, that time. Scared the snot out of him. Chamoun knew he might pay for this moment of pleasure later, if he were called to Vega's office, Giro Morris HEARTS AND MINDS.

57.where the scheming of the house was usually done. But now, it was sweet to see Mondragon so pale, as if he'd taken ill.

If Chamoun found out that Mondragon had put a hand on Rita Nikolaev, he'd be worse than ill. Sword cover or no Sword cover. And then Chamoun remembered that he'd finally been able to warn Magruder of what was afoot in Boregy House, and the glow of well-being that had followed him ever since his lesson at the College suffused him once again.

He was even able to say farewell to Mondragon and Rita as if he meant it. He was bold and brazen; he kissed Rita Nikolaev's hand.

Which irked Ca.s.sie, but not for long. Up in their aqua and peach bedroom, with its high bed and its deep quilts, he waited until she was brushing her hair before he began casually, "Ca.s.sie, you'll never guess who 1 was in a previous life "Don't tease me, Michael," she said with a sad little frown he could see clearly in the mirror. "I know you're just converting for me ... that you don't believe any-"

"But 1 do. Ito put me in a trance so that I could experience a previous life, and I was this warrior in a s.p.a.ce battle against the sharrh. It was so real. 1 was there. It was glorious. And I died-"

"What?" Ca.s.sie tossed her brush to the vanity and came to stand before the bed. "You what? Ito what?"

"Don't act like you've never heard of a regression before. Surely-"

"But I haven't." Lines appeared on her forehead, and then smoothed. "You'd better tell me everything, Michael, from the beginning."

And when he was done, she was lying in the crook of his arm with tears streaming down her face. At first he didn't understand her tears, but she said, "Ito was trying to do something terrible to you, Michael, but he did something wonderful instead. Instant karma of the best sort. You were meant to be my husband and bring this wonderful news to me. Oh, Michael, you remember a past life. How I wish 1 did."

"You can."

"No, I can't."

"1 remember how to do it. I remember what to say. Just get some deathangel, and we'll do it together."

She sprang up and straddled him. "You will? You promise? Oh, it's so wonderful. Wait till I tell-"

"You'd better not tell anyone, at least not your father or his friends. Not now. Or they won't let me help you find your past lives. Promise."

"I promise."

"Good," said Chamoun. "If it's so important to you, we'll do it tomorrow if we can get the deathangel."

"It's not as important to me as you are, husband and lover-Officer of the Census," whispered Ca.s.sie as she brought her lips down to cover his.

And the pleasure of that was so intense that it almostly completely blocked out the phantom he kept remembering, the vision he'd seen as he shook Mondragon's hand in farewell: Romanov's ghost, hovering over Mondragon's shoulder, in the stairwell that led to the Watergate.

There were some who'd never be counted in the Merovingen census-some who never should be. And Michael Chamoun had just chosen his side publicly in whatever was coming. It was the side of Tatiana Boregy, by default. By Magruder's ultimatum. And, if Ca.s.sie and the rest of the Revenantists were right, by karmic debt.

Whatever the truth of it, Chamoun had a feeling Ca.s.sie's father was going to be about as pleased as Mondragon had been to hear his news. But he didn't have to sleep with Ca.s.sie's father.

And he didn't have to go out into the mist tonight, as pale Mondragon had just done, with Romanov's paler shade following close behind.

So he took his warm wife in his arms and closed his eyes and pretended that she was Rita Nikolaev, the forbidden nymph of his dreams, while about him Merovingians went on their secretive missions through the dark, cold night.

FEVER SEASON (REPRISED).

CJ. Cherryh

The wind was blowing a steady mist as the Boregy launch approached Nikolaev's slip on Rimmon Isle, a mist that spattered on the windshield and fractured the harbor lights beyond the shadow-shapes of Boregy crewman. Rita Nikolaev Shattered steadily about the weather and the winter, and asked Mondragon whether he was used to weather like this.

Of course. Because he was Faikenaer, to the Nikolaevs as to most everyone. Mondragon dragged his eyes back from the dark beyond the side-windows of the launch, his mind having wandered toward a certain Faikenaer ship and a small skip that might be out there on this unfriendly water, that bucked and pitched the powered launch and rattled cold mist on the canvas weather-canopy. A very small skip and a woman working solo tonight in the wide waters of the harbor, because she was d.a.m.ned stubborn and a d.a.m.ned fool.

"Very much so, m'sera. The Isles have very little to stop the wind."

So he had heard. He had little more notion than she did, what the Falken Isles were like.

"Why do people live in such a place?"

"M'sera, because people are born there." He did not intend to be rude. He was aware of her sitting closer than the 59.60.C.J. Cherryh FEVER SEASON (REPRISED).

61.cabin s.p.a.ce demanded, was aware of her trying to draw him out, perhaps for her own reasons, for Nikolaev's, who knew? Perhaps she was even Anastasi's, testing him, or being perverse, or trying to snare him romantically.

Who knew that either? He was exhausted. A day of back-and-forth between Boregy and Nikolaev had had him out in the weather more than he had planned: and the cold and the damp had gotten into his bones.

He still did not know what reception he had waiting at Nikolaev. He had thought he was through-lake a briefing from Vega Boregy, do an errand, see the Nikolaev daughter home, deliver the packet that he had tucked under his cloak, which contained, not coincidentally, a mortgage that Honesty Rajwade had yet to discover had been sold to Boregy and thus to Anastasi Kalugin; a minor thing, the purchase of a soul-Anastasi traded in things like that. Mostly he had spent his day trying delicately to make contact with a very nervous younger cousin of Rosenblum, who had gambling debts; and who was willing to do anything to evade the wrath of his creditors.

Foul and filthy business. But it led into the Justiciary offices where Constancy Rosenbtum held a post. And ultimately to Rosenblum's willingness to work after hours making copies of doc.u.ments, securing a flow of information that Rosenblum thought was going to an agent of Tatiana Kaiugin, and the blacklegs.

Let him commit himself. Then what Rosenblum found out he was into would be only one more lever against him. G.o.d help the poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Mondragon sneezed again, heard Rita Nikolaev chide him about night air, and wrapped his cloak about him as the launch nosed its way into the Nikolaev slip.

Beside a T>lack hull that cast back the light in faint glistening, and towered over them.

" 'Stasi's still here," Rita said, clutching his arm for steadiness as they got up. "Won't you come up to the house, Tom, have a little brandy?"

"Thanks, no, I have to get back."

He saw her ash.o.r.e. He stood there wrapped in his cloak while Nikolaev servants with lanterns came and retrieved m'sera and wended their way in a snake of lights up the steps that led to the Nikolaev mansion, on the edge of Rimmon Isle. He turned then and slipped into the shadow under the bow of the black yacht, and walked around the slip to the gangway, while the launch throttled up and backed, on its way back to Boregy without him.

He came up onto the high deck of the yacht and met challenge from the watch, instantly. But he had the right pa.s.s, a face and a voice they knew; and their orders let him below very quickly, into the companionway and into the warmth of Anastasi Kalugin's own shipboard quarters.

It was all red cushions and blue carpet and fine wood inside. Electrics burned, powered from the ship's generators. The man who owned it all was hardly more than thirty-five, pale-skinned, with a black, close beard. He did not resemble his auburn-haired sister Tatiana in the least; was probably not like his elder brother Michael either; losef Kalugin had had no wives, just offspring. Two too many of them. Anastasi wore a loose-sleeved tunic, black, with rubies at the collar; plain black trousers and boots; red embroidery on the belt, but minimal, everything a shade under flamboyant. It was his style in Kalugin. Or here. Or wherever he held court with his own adherents.

Anastasi had one servant, his doctor, losef-same name as his father. Which probably gave him a certain pleasure. And losef stayed during all interviews, a shadow in the peripheries: Mondragon had ceased to be anxious about him, only knew that he was there.

"Do you have it?" Anastasi asked.

f "I brought everything," Mondragon said, and carefully took the packet from under his cloak, knowing that losef s hand was momentarily out of sight. He handed the papers over. "The Rajwade papers. The others. I finally made contact with Rosenblum. I'll get to him again Monday next. He says he'll have something by then. He's a very nervous man. He thinks he's working for your sister."

62.CJ. Cherryh Anastasi laughed, shortly. "Sit down, losef, Mondragon would like a brandy."

Anastasi never asked. He a.s.sumed. Mondragon sank into the nearest chair and studied the far wall, the floor, answering Anastasi's questions. He took the brandy when it arrived, felt the ache of last night's fall in his back and his neck and wished to h.e.l.l he was home in his own bed.

Which he would gel to only when Anastasi was satisfied. // Anastasi was satisfied. He mumbled answers and thought of Jones and the weather out there, that was the main thing gnawing at him. It was a d.a.m.ned small boat. The engine had always been chancy. He drank and he felt the brandy sting his throat like fire. "Yes, ser," he said to one question. "No, ser," to another.

When he was away from Anastasi he had his doubts whether this man would survive. The odds were high against him. When he was in the same room with him he had no doubt that Anastasi would survive. Anastasi's stare and his questions were alike, razor-edged, quick, his presence full of a force more than ordinary. Anastasi affected him in a way that he had at first not understood, until he realized it was an old feeling Anastasi roused in him, the same projection of a.s.surance and cold sane efficiency that Karl Fon had projected. The same game. The same promises.

Mondragon's skin crawled.

The wind came down across Rimmon Isle and the bay was white-capped, the skip pitching like a living thing as Jones came up on the dark bulk of the Falkenaer ship. No standing up on deck in this blow: she used the engine and managed the tiller sitting down, the tiller bar tucked under her arm, the other hand gripping the deck-rim, while the rain soaked her to the skin and she wished she did have socks on.

Filthy weather. But it was dead sure there were no blacklegs out here tonight on patrol. Good as fog for her business.

The Falkenaer ship loomed up like a wooden wall-a ship of sail, like all its kind, lean and sleek and full of foreign FEVER SEASON (REPRISED)63.

mysteries, come in from the high seas and ail around the Chattalen.

But it was a bolt of Merovingian lace and two bolts of Kamat's best in the oilskin packet in the bow, a few kegs of Hafiz' whiskey, and a sizable keg of salted fish-Lord knew what kind and Jones asked no questions, if the painted lords of the Chattalen or wherever else wanted to sample a dangerous delicacy like deathangel and risk the hereafter: rich folk took d.a.m.n strange chances for their amus.e.m.e.nt, and she took hers for credit with Moghi-monetary and otherwise. It was brandy and Chattalen silk supposed to come back again, duty free. And everybody was happy. Even the lords of the Chattalen, who would pay plenty for a taste of Merovingian fish and a moment of life-risking bliss.

She let go the deck-rim and pulled a whistle up to her mouth, blew once loud and shrill, reckoning on the wind to carry it to the ship and no one out here to hear it except those that should.

And sure enough a light showed on the Faikenaer's deck, toward the stem, where they were tied up at the deepwater wharf. Thank the Lord and the Ancestors, no crossed signals, no need to do more than snug in among the pilings and wait for the Falkenaer to send a few men down to the dockside: 6asier for them to do than for her to try to steady the skip enough to offload and take on cargo from a sling.

She eased the skip around the stem, close, but not too close, and gave it all the room it needed as she came around toward the pilings in the dark, where the big ship heaved and groaned at its moorings.

Then it was fast work-cut the engine, scramble down into the well while the boat pitched in the chop, run out the boathook and snag herself a hold on the rope-buffered pilings. d.a.m.n! Bang into a piling hard enough to rattle her teeth, and a wave over the side that sloshed about under the deck-slats.

She got the hold all the same, wrenched the heavy boat closer and closer and snagged the buffer-ropes with the barrel-hook in her left hand until she could lay down the pole with 64.CJ. Otenyk the right and get a special line snubbed about the barrel-hook handle. d.a.m.n sloppy tie-up, but it was hard enough to get anything close to the waterside steps with the surge coming in like that and carrying her head up dangerously close to the underside of the dock.

She heard a whistle sound faintly. She answered it, and in a little while heard a still fainter hail from the direction of the stairs that gave the deep-sea sailors access to Merovingen's water-transport. Or the use of their own dinghy on Merovingen's waterways, if they had a mind to.

Now came the serious dealing. She took a good bight about the piling with a main-tie, then stood up and kept track of the up and down pitch with a hand on one of the support beams overhead, seeing men on the stairs, faintest shadows in the deeper shadow of the big ship's hull.

This was the dangerous part. There was always the chance of someone trying to take advantage and claim the goods defective or outright steal them. Or her. There were slaVers, mostly rivermen, never Falkenaers. Moghi generally made the deals himself, and he had this time.

"You Moghi's?" the query reached her across the water.

"That 1 am," she answered back.

It was a d.a.m.ned long fussy business, them getting their goods overside, down the stairs, her working in close: the waves and the water depth made the pole useless and it was a matter of hooking along the overhead without cracking one's skull or cracking the skip's seams on the pilings. She was warm enough when she finished, sweating and drawing the dank air in huge gasps.

"Ye're alane on that 'ere boat?" a sailor hailed her.

"Hey, she's just a little run. You want I help ye with them barrels?" Bravado. She ached right down to her gut; but she made fast in good order. "I got ever'thing in the list, got 'er writ fair."

"Cold night," a sailor said. "F' a gel alane."

"Shut up," said another, female. "He an't been th' same sin' we et th' wooly." General laughter. "Ye offload, we onlade. Yey?"

FEVER SEASON (REPRISED)65.

"Fair deal."

"Ne, ne," a young man said, and skipped aboard, landing on the bow and making the skip rock and Jones reach for the barrel-hook at her belt. But he kept his distance, held up a harfd. "Shulz's me name. 'At's Finn, wi' th1 mouth. She ain't bad. But the wooly wa' better." He picked up a barrel and pa.s.sed it off the bow. More general laughter.

"She don' talk much," someone said. "Hey, ca.n.a.ler, ye got a tongue?"

"h.e.l.l, no, I'm just letting this man unload my boat while I catch my breath."

"Got a bottle for a cozy."

"No, thanks. I'm sure ye're right fine, but I ain't buying t'night. I got a long way back and Moghi don't hold with it. Sorry."

"h.e.l.l, Finny-gel, we're stuck wi' ye." More laughter. And, thank the Lord and the Ancestors, they started loading on their own barrels. Jones drew a quieter breath.

"Aft, aft, some of that, ye deepwater sailors, leave me a walk: I got to push this skip in the ca.n.a.ls, and I got to have free walk for'ard."

"Gotta be Finn's own sister," one complained. "b.i.t.c.h, b.i.t.c.h, b.i.t.c.h."

d.a.m.n, it was a heavy load. She felt the skip riding lower than before, fussed with the trim, ordered a shift in the barrels. And the Falken sailors shifted them.

"1 don' like how she's riding either," one said. "h.e.l.l, gel, gi' up a few barrel."

"d.a.m.n Moghi can't count," she muttered. But there was that big boat up there, that big fine ship that could glide like a seabird in the wind, and she felt a twinge of envy. It was no small amount of pride that made her say: "h.e.l.l, I'll make 'er, no worry."

"That's all I know," Mondragon said, "all Vega knows. Chamoun announced it tonight. It wasn't a situation where we could ask questions-his wife was there. And Rita Nikolaev. I'd suggest you ask Ito Boregy what went on. I'd suggest a 6*C.I ttenylf real caution with Chamoun. And Vega should keep a night.w.a.tch on him . . . before he wakes up with his throat cut some night. / think Magruder is trying to lever Vega away from you. He's putting pressure on me."