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  “WARE!”

  Mondragon heard the kid's voice, shout

  close, and muscles jumped, dropped him into a deep crouch and had his hands going for his sword as a cloaked figure rushed him, up the arch of the bridge, sword glittering.

  He came up on guard, met the attack, flung his cloak out of the way, attacked and parried, pushing the cloaked man back and back. Attack and parry and attack, a scratch on his opponent, a second scratch, a third, and the man backing and backing.

  But the kid was screaming murder, there was something else, someone else—

  Diversion cost him a scratch of his own, blade slipping past the quillon and the half-guard, and he came back in quarte, back again and back again with a triple disengage and a plain feint to terce, then attack, straight in past the too-extreme reaction, hardly a shock as the point went in and his opponent ran up on him, still trying to defend himself when Mondragon spun and freed his blade and kicked his opponent off the bank into the raging Grand.

  —facing a second swordsman and a third, holding Denny Takahashi with a gun to his head....

  C.J. CHERRYH invites you to enter the world of MEROVINGEN NIGHTS!

  ANGEL WITH THE SWORD by C.J. Cherryh

  A Merovingen Nights Novel

  FESTIVAL MOON edited by C.J. Cherryh

  (stories by C.J. Cherryh, Leslie Fish, Robert Lynn Asprin, Nancy Asire, Mercedes Lackey, Janet and Chris Morris, Lynn Abbey)

  FEVER SEASON edited by C.J. Cherryh

  (stories by C.J. Cherryh, Chris Morris, Mercedes Lackey, Leslie Fish, Nancy Asire, Lynn Abbey, Janet Morris)

  TROUBLED WATERS edited by C.J. Cherryh

  (stories by C.J. Cherryh, Mercedes Lackey, Nancy Asire, Janet Morris, Lynn Abbey, Chris Morris, Roberta Rogow, Leslie Fish)

  SMUGGLER'S GOLD edited by C.J. Cherryh

  (stories by Mercedes Lackey, Roberta Rogow, Nancy Asire, Robert Lynn Asprin, Chris and Janet Morris, C.J. Cherryh, Lynn Abbey, Leslie Fish)

  Title

  DAW BOOKS, INC.

  DONALD A. WOLLHEIM, PUBLISHER

  1633 Broadway, New York, NY 10019

  SMUGGLER'S GOLD © 1988 by C.J. Cherryh.

  All Rights Reserved.

  Cover art by Tim Hildebrandt.

  Maps by Pat Tobin.

  "More Than Meets the Eye" Copyright © 1988 by Mercedes Lackey.

  "Paper Chase" Copyright © 1988 by Roberta Rogow.

  "A Fish Story" Copyright © 1988 by Nancy Asire.

  "A Harmless Excursion" Copyright © 1988 by Robert Lynn Asprin.

  "Mystery" Copyright © 1988 by Chris and Janet Morris.

  "Smuggler's Gold" Copyright © 1988 by CJ. Cherryh.

  "A Day in the Life" Copyright © 1988 by Lynn Abbey.

  "Fair Game" Copyright © 1988 by Leslie Fish.

  Merovingian Songs: "Golden Rule", "The Cats of Jane", "Ladies of the Hightown", "Dark Lover", "Falken Lover", music by Leslie Fish; "Canalers' Love Song," © 1987 by Off Centaur, Inc., lyrics by Mercedes Lackey, music by Heather Alexander, all Copyright © 1987, by Off Centaur, Inc. lyrics by Mercedes Lackey

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious.

  Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

  "Merovingen Nights", "Merovin", "The Signeury", "The Det", "Moghi's Tavern" are registered trademarks belonging to C.J. Cherryh.

  DAW Book Collectors No. 759.

  First Printing, October 1988

  123456789

  PRINTED IN THE 0. S. A.

  Maps

  MORE THAN MEETS THE EYE

  by Mercedes Lackey

  It was dark, and it was dangerous, and Denny was so happy he could hardly stand himself. If it hadn't been too risky to chance any sound, he'd have been singing. Or humming, anyway.

  He was upside-down, suspended by his knees from one of the dozens of timbers supporting Megary's leaky, half-rotten roof—the kind of position he'd held enough times in the past that he was almost as comfortable upside-down as he was on his feet. Hidden by the darkness, two stories beneath him, the canal-water lapped quietly against the foundations of Megary, but there was not much else in the way of sound. There wasn't even so much as a breeze to make the timbers of the building sway and creak, which made it ail the more imperative that he keep silent.

  And what he was doing up here—oh, Lord and Ancestors, what a glorious stunt! If only he could tell somebody besides Rat and Rif and Tom Mondragon! This was even better than the Boregy's window!

  He was sawing most of the way through the bolts that held the metal grilles and bars protecting Megary's second-story windows. Most of the way, not all; just enough so that somebody who was determined on a break-in had only to give a good hard pull to break the grilles free—but from inside or outside, to everything but a close inspection, all was secure.

  He grinned to himself, working the cable-saw carefully, slowly, back and forth on the bolt currently under his fingers. Rat had threatened his life if he lost that very expensive little saw—but had been quite willing to loan Denny the tiny high-tech thief s tool when she heard whose place it was going to be used on. Little more than a bit of wire with two handles, it would cut through damn near any metal, and was making short work of Megary's soft iron bolts.

  It was as black as the inside of a cat tonight, no Moon, no Dogs, nary a star showing through the clouds of a warm, overcast spring night. No matter; Denny hadn't ever needed to see to know what he was about on second-story work. Rat and Rif had taught him to work blind; it was best working blind in some ways, the darkest nights were a thief s best friends.

  One: case the place till you know it like the inside of your mouth. Two: take it slow. Three: go by feel and know by feel.

  Those were Rat's rules for nightwork. She might have added the one Denny was abiding by tonight.

  Four: have you a lookout.

  And Lord and Ancestors—what a lookout!

  Down there somewhere on the canal below him, hidden in the darkest shadows and straining eyes and ears against the thick blackness, was no less a personage than Altair Jones—and a more unlikely pairing than himself and Jones was hard to imagine.

  The greater wonder was that Jones had come to him to ask for his help.

  Runners had lunch after the rest of Merovingen; not the least because runners were often sent to fetch lunches and drink for their employers. It made for a long morning and a grumbly stomach, but Denny had gotten used to it. Besides, it meant the afternoon was that much shorter.

  And you could pick up some nice bits at half price from vendors anxious to unload what was left now that the noontime crowd was fed. So this afternoon Denny had been pleasing his palate with spiced fish rolls that were only slightly soggy, his hide with warm spring sunshine, and his feet with the fact that his behind was firmly planted on a Gallandry walkway. He had a good view of the canal below from here, and no one hassled a kid in Gallandry-runner colors so long as he kept his butt near enough to the edge of the walk that he didn't impede traffic.

  He had been dangling his feet over the edge, and had both arms draped over the lower bar of the guard rail, watching the traffic pass in the half-light below him. He was rather pleased that he knew a good many of those passing by name—even if those good folks would hardly appreciate the "honor." He watched, feeling his back and shoulders ache in sympathy, as Del and Tommy labored against the current, poling what looked to be a nice little cargo of barrels of some kind up the canal. He noted one of the younger Bruders go by, riding in one of the family boats, and old man Fife in a hire-boat going the opposite direction. And he saw a double-handful of canalers he recognized besides Del Suleiman, and rather wished he had his brother's incredible memory. There might be valuable information there if only he could remembe
r who he saw going where.

  He was halfway through his lunch when he saw Jones tie up down below. So far as he knew she had no business on Gallandry today, so he wasn't much surprised when she strolled along the walkway and planted herself beside him; feet dangling, like his, over the edge, the rest of her hugging the bottom railing.

  "Bite?" he said, offering her a roll to be sociable. It didn't pay to be less than polite to Jones at any time— but most especially Denny walked softly these days. What with her being short-fused, Tom Mondragon short of cash, and Denny's brother more than half the cause of both—

  "Ney," she said shortly. "Et."

  He shrugged. She'd say her say when she was ready; he wasn't about to push her.

  He kept a watch on her out of the corner of his eye all the same. After living these many weeks with Tom Mondragon, Denny knew Altair Jones about as well as he knew anybody—and the storm-warnings were definitely out. The sleeves of her dark blue sweater were pushed up over her elbows, which she only did when nervy; her battered canaler's cap was pulled down low on her forehead, like she was trying to keep her eyes from being read. But Denny was close enough for a good view, and he could see that her square jaw was tensed, the dark eyes gone darker with brooding, the broad shoulders hunched, the fists clenching and unclenching—storm warnings for fair. Could be things hadn't been going her way of late....

  "Ye got the sneak's ways, Deneb Takahashi," she said at last, softly, so softly her voice hardly carried to Denny.

  Denny tensed up himself; in all of Merovingen only Theta Gallandry, Altair Jones and Tom Mondragon knew his real name, his and Raj's. Only they knew that Raj Tai and Denny Diaz were really brothers; were Rigel and Deneb of the Nev Hettek merchant clan Takahashi. Only those three knew that the boys had fled from assassins who had killed their mother, and were still very probably under death sentence from the Sword of God for the things their dead mother Angela might have told them and the names and faces they knew.

  For Altair Jones to be using his real name—this was serious.

  "I ain't no sneak," he said shortly. " 'Less Tom wants it. It don't pay, 'cept t' buy a piece 'f rope. 'Less ye're real good." He thought of Rat, of Rif, their skills and bravado, with raw envy. "I'm good; I ain't that good."

  "What if I wanted ye to turn sneak for a bit?" came the unexpected question.

  "Huh?" he responded, turning to stare at her, jaw slack with surprise.

  She moved her head slowly to meet his astonished gaze. "Megarys," she said tersely. .

  He nodded, understanding her then. Somebody— Sword, likely—had kidnapped the redoubtable Altair Jones; had kidnapped her, and truly, truly, frightened her, something Denny had never thought possible. She said that nothing else had happened; Denny believed her, mostly because she hadn't burned Megary's^—which was where she'd been held—to the wa-terline. If she'd been molested (as half of those who plied the canals still thought might have happened) that's what Denny reckoned she would have done, and damn the consequences and the cost.

  Instead she was pursuing a quiet little one-woman vendetta against the slavers, a vendetta that up until now had been confined to vandalism and dirty tricks. In this she was being aided and abetted by most of her canaler friends who didn't have much love for the Megarys at the best of times, and were determined to teach them a lesson about crossing the line and messing with canal-folk.

  Now, though, it seemed like she might be thinking of branching that vendetta out a little, to broaden the way she was hitting them. To—second-story work? Could fit; and not a bad thought, either. It was possible some of her friends were getting tired and dropping out of the feud; that might account for the suppressed ill-temper she was showing. Besides, to really hurt the slavers you would have to hit them where it counted most—the pocket. That meant break-outs, or break-ins, or both.

  "Yey," Denny replied slowly. "Yey, Jones, ye got me. You say, how and when."

  The hunched shoulders relaxed a bit; she favored him with a ghost of a smile. "Knew ye wasn't all bad," she said, grabbing the railing and pulling herself to her feet.

  Denny wasn't all fool, either; he knew where his primary loyalty lay—with the man he'd privately chosen as his model and mentor, Tom Mondragon. So when Denny had found Mondragon alone that afternoon in the sitting room of his apartment on Petrescu that all four of them now called home, with no sign of Jones or Raj being back yet, he had felt no qualms about interrupting the man's reading with a terse report of Jones' attempt to recruit him.

  The warm, comfortable sitting room seemed to turn cold as Mondragon's expression chilled. Mondragon's hands tightened a little on the sheaf of papers he was holding; the green eyes went cloudy. Denny knew him now, too—knew by those slight signs that Mondragon was not happy with this little piece of news.

  Denny clasped his hands in front of him and tried to look older than his thirteen-nearly-fourteen years; and capable; capable enough to run with Jones. Maybe even to run a bit of control on Jones.

  "M'ser," he offered, then, before Mondragon could speak to forbid him to help, "ye know I ain't bad at roof-walkin'. Ye seen me; ye set me jobs yerself. Ye know if I tell 'er 'no' she's just gonna go it alone. Lemme help, yey? Happen I c'n keep 'er outa real bad trouble. Happen if she's got me 'long, she maybe won't go lookin' fer bad trouble so damn hard, figurin' she's gotta keep me outa it."

  A good hit, that last; Jones was likely to feel at least a little bit responsible for Denny, if only because she was four, five years older. That was the line Rif had taken when he was along on one of her jobs, and she was one of the least responsible people Denny knew. Mondragon tilted his head to the side and looked thoughtful when Denny finished, then put the papers down on the couch to one side of him, crossing his arms over his chest and tapping his lips with one long, aristocratic finger. "How if I tell you to keep her out of trouble?" he asked finally.

  Denny winced. That was nothing less than an impossibility, as Mondragon should very well know. "Ask me t' fly. I got a better chance."

  Mondragon managed a quirk of the right corner of his mouth. "I'm afraid you're probably right. I should know better than to ask you to do something no one else can." He stared at Denny, then stared through him; thinking, and thinking hard. "All right; go ahead and give her a hand. See if you can't keep her from being totally suicidal."

  Denny grinned and shrugged; so far as he could see, both he and Jones had won. He'd told Tom—and he hadn't been forbidden to help or ordered to hinder. What little conscience he had was clear, and he was free to indulge in the kind of hell-raising he adored with Mondragon's tacit approval—

  He prepared to turn and scoot down the hall to vanish into the downstairs bedroom he shared with Raj, when Mondragon stopped him with a lifted finger.

  "But—" he said, with the tone that told Denny that disobedience would cost more than Denny would ever want to pay, "I expect you to keep me informed. Completely informed. Chapter and verse on what she's doing, and when, and how. And I want it in advance; and well in advance."

  Denny stifled a sigh of disappointment.

  "Yey, m'ser," he agreed, hoping his reluctance didn't show too much. Because he knew what that meant. Maybe he wasn't going to have to try to stop Jones— but now he was honor-bound to keep her from trying to do the kinds of things he'd like to pull. And what that meant, mostly, was keeping things quiet. Damn. "Quiet" wasn't half the fun.

  Hey, this 'un didn't work out too bad, Denny thought, inching along the rough beam to the opposite corner of the grille (ignoring the splinters he was getting in his hands) and attacking the next bolt. Quiet—an' nothin't' connect me 'r Jones t' the mess when th' hell breaks out. Tom was happy 'nough 'bout that. An' we bin doin' good t'night; this's two more windows than I'd figured likely t' cut when we planned this.

  He had gotten this bolt nearly sawed through when the hoop-woo of a marsh-strider sounded down on the invisible canal below him; somewhere to his right, which meant upstream.

  Jones—and she'd
spotted possible trouble.

  Denny coiled the cable-saw up and stowed it safely away in the buttoned pocket of his pants, making damn sure the button was fastened and the saw in there. Then he inched, still hanging upside down, back along the support beam until he met the cross-brace. He switched to it, using both hands and legs, taking it slow and careful to avoid making the wood creak, until he reached the end that met the roof, where the gutter was. The drainpipes and gutterwork on Megary Isle were sound, even if most of the rest of the building wasn't; Megary got most of its potable water from rain.

  Might ask Raj if there's somethin' we c'd drop inta the roof-tank, give 'em all th' heaves an' trots. Denny grinned again in the darkness—he had a fair notion Jones would like that idea real well. It was another quiet one—which would please Tom. And it was an idea that would cost Megary money, real hard cash-money—cash for the doctors, for clean water when they figured out what the cause was, and for somebody to come clean and purge the system. That pleased Denny—and there was always a chance that the fear of plague or sickness in Megary would flush some of the Sword agents out of their safe-house and maybe into the hands of the blacklegs. Hmm—another thought; if they had any human cargo in there, they might have to find another place for the captives. And that would give the slaves a chance at escape. That pleased Denny even more; he didn't have much in the way of moral scruples, but he was flat against slaving. Rifs mighty cozy with Black Cal—if I pull this 'un, maybe I get her word about it, she gets word t' him—

  He continued to think about this new plan as he grabbed the edge of the gutter and hauled himself up onto the roof with its aid. The metal groaned a little, and he froze, but nothing further untoward happened. He continued easing himself up over the edge. He crawled from that point along the roof edge, feeling his way and moving slowly to avoid any more noise, until he found the outside corner of the roof and the place where the gutter met a drainpipe. He stopped, taking stock with his ears, and nodded after a bit. The echoes from the water lapping against the building were right for where he thought he was; and he thought he could make out the sable pit of the old frozen Marsh Gate, blacker blot in the night-shadows ahead of him. He should be right on the point of Megary where the building fronted Tidewater Canal—and Jones should be right below him, holding her skip steady against the pull of the current.