Fever Season Page 10

  The wound looked bad, red and swollen, but it was sealing shut and Raj knew by the look that it wasn't infected yet.

  "That's a knife-wound." Mondragon was staring at the wounded hand, surprised and shocked alert.

  "It is. Tom—I know you think I'm a kid, and you're right sometimes—but you're not right all the time. I had to go into the swamp for that stuff—May was the only place short of a real doctor where I was going to find what you needed. A man tried to stop me—"

  Now Mondragon looked alarmed and wary, and Raj could have kicked himself for not thinking. Of course, Mondragon would suspect those enemies of his of trying to follow Raj—

  "No, no," he hastened to assure him. "Nothing to do with you, he was a crazy. I had to fight him to get through. That's where I got this, and lost my own knife." "Was?"

  "Was. And don't you ever tell Denny I killed a man. He wasn't the first—but I don't want Denny to know about that."

  "You have a reason?" Mondragon was staying focused, which rather surprised Raj, given the amount of whiskey and wiregrass he had in him, not to mention the fever.

  "Because—" Raj looked up from his hand, and he knew his eyes and mouth were bitter. "He'll think he has to be like me. Next thing you know, he'll go out looking; he'll either get himself killed—or he'll kill somebody, and for all the wrong reasons. And that would be worse than him getting killed. I remember more than just you from home—I remember what some of the younger Swords were like when they were my age, and Denny's. They started like that—first each one trying to out-risk the other—then it got worse. I don't think he'd ever turn out like them—but I'm not taking any chances on it."

  Mondragon nodded, slowly; relaxing and letting himself give way to the drugs and the alcohol. "I think maybe I have been underestimating you."

  "Only sometimes. You getting sleepy yet?"

  He coughed hard again, then got it under control. "Getting there—and feeling a great deal less like death would be welcome."

  "That's the whole idea—Tom—" An idea occurred to him, and he decided he wanted to broach it while Mondragon was in a generous—and intoxicated—mood. "Could you do me a favor? When you feel more like talking?"

  "Maybe," Mondragon replied wearily, obviously wishing Raj would leave him alone, as Jones came in behind Raj with clean bandage, salve and tape. "What's the favor?"

  Raj felt his face flame with embarrassment. He hated to ask in front of Jones, but this might be his only chance. "Could you—could you tell me some time—how to—how to get a girl—to—to like you?" And what to do with her after you do—, he thought, but did not say.

  "Oh, mercy—" Mondragon shut his eyes and leaned his head back on his pillow, his mouth twitching. Raj had the uncomfortable suspicion that he was trying to keep from laughing.

  "If you'd rather not—"

  "Later, Raj. We'll see about it later." Mondragon opened one eye, and gave him a not-unsympathetic wink, then coughed again, harder this time, and lost his amusement as a shudder of chill shook him. "Surely it can wait?"

  "Sure—sure—" Raj hastily backed out of the bedroom, taking the bandages from Jones as he passed her. By the time she joined him, he was sitting on the couch, trying to rebandage his wound one-handed.

  "Here, ye fool, let me do that." She took the things away from him and undid his clumsy work. He leaned back into the soft upholstery and allowed her to do what she wanted. "How much of this stuff of yours he gonna need?"

  "Just what's in the canister."

  "Ye brung back a lot more'n that—"

  "I know. I could catch it again, or Denny, or you. There's likely to be a use for it before a cold snap kills the fever. May says I can come trade her for more, anyway."

  "Ye know—this could be worth somethin'."

  "The thought crossed my mind—but I was mostly doing it for Tom."

  "I owe ye one, Raj," she said softly, earnestly.

  He relaxed and shut his eyes, feeling tired and bruised muscles go slack. "Don't go talking karma at me, you renegade Adventist."

  "Damnfool hightowner," she jeered back.

  "Not any more. Just one of Gallandry's clerks." Fatigue made irrelevant thoughts swim past, and one of them caught what little was left of his attention. A thought and a memory of a couple days past.

  What the hell. "Jones—it's 'aren't' when you're talking about 'you' or more than one person, and 'isn't' all the rest of the time. Exept when you're talking about yourself, then it's 'am not.' Got it? Think that'll help?"

  He cracked an eyelid open to see her staring open-mouthed at him. "How did ye—"

  "Noticed you fishing for it the other day, figured nobody'd ever given you the rule. Hard to figure things out if nobody tells you the rules. Rat could help you better'n I could. She was an actress for a while, and she knows all the tricks. She could make—" (yawn) "—Kalugin sound like a canalsider, or a canalsider sound like—" (yawn) "—Kalugin." His lids sagged, and he battled to stay awake.

  "Ain't nobody put it quite that way before—" she said thoughtfully, while Raj stifled another yawn and a giggle. "Huh. Damn, this's a bad 'un. Looks like it hurts like hell. What'd ye do here, ram yer hand down on the point?"

  "Had to, he outweighed me by about twice; was the only way I could think to get it away from him." He ran his right hand up to check the knots on the back of his head and encountered his not-too-nice hair. And remembered—

  "Oh, hell!"

  "What's the matter? I hurt ye?" Jones looked up, startled.

  "There's no food in the house, I need a bath worse than I ever did in my life, all the clothes are filthy and have to be washed and I don't have a copperbit for any of it! I spent every last coin I had on trade-goods for May! Oh, hell!" He squeezed his eyes shut to stop their burning, but a few, shameful tears born of exhaustion and frustration escaped to embarrass him. To have gone through this whole night only to have run up against this—

  "Ne—not to get aslant—" Jones still had his hand, and he managed to get enough control of himself to crack open his eyes to look at her. She was smiling broadly, and pointedly not looking at his tears. "I reckon Tom owes ye a good bit—we got food here, we got hot water an' soap. Ye want, I can pole ye back to Fife when Denny wakes up, get yer things, bring it all back here. Given that hand, I reckon I could help ye with the clothes, even. Ye just be damn sure not to waste nothin'. That suit?"

  Relief turned his muscles to slush and he sagged back. "More than suits—"

  "Ye got that thinking look again."

  "You get most of your work at night, right?"

  She looked more than a little uncomfortable, but nodded.

  "We work days. So—if you wanted, we could stay here just long enough for him to get better. Or—hell, half the town's sick; you could take a note to Gallandry saying we are, and we could even spell you in the daytime that way. Ancestors! The way I feel right now it wouldn't even be a lie! I figure he should be getting better in four, five days, a week, tops. We watch for trouble while you're out, whenever. We can feed him too, make sure he takes the medicine; keep him from going out when he isn't ready to."

  "And you get?"

  "Food and hot baths. I know damnsure Tom can afford to eat better than we can." He grinned; wearily, his bruised facial muscles aching. "You'll have to talk him into covering the pay we'd lose, though. Hell, Jones, you know we can't afford losing pay any more than you can."

  "I know he trusts you." She looked back to the hand she held, and finished taping it up carefully. "I 'spect after tonight ye've proved it out. We got weapons enough, 'tween the two of us. An' if I don't show up for too long, it's gonna look funny. We don't dare let anybody guess he ain't okay. All right; ye do that." She sniffed, her mouth quirking a little contemptuously. "Hell, the way he throws his money around he'll cover ye if I say."

  "We'll cook and clean up after ourselves."

  "Ye damn sure better, 'cause I ain't gonna—" She looked up from her bandaging to see he'd fallen completely asleep, wed
ged into the corner of the couch. His head was sagging against the couch cushions, and he'd gone as limp as a loaf of watersoaked bread. She chuckled, and went to find him a blanket.

  Rif glanced around at the crowd in Hoh's. It was pretty satisfactory for a weeknight. Tomorrow the place should be packed. She grinned at her partner, and Rat grinned back, throwing in an unexpected descant harmony.

  Damn! Been practicin' that on th' sly! Rif grinned harder in appreciation. Sounds right fine— She glanced around the bar to see how the customers were taking it.

  Well, "Fever Season" was a weirdling enough tune, and with that lost-soul wailing added to it—the marks were shivering, pretending it wasn't getting to 'em, and gulping down their beer like it was last chance before Retribution. Hoh was gonna love it. Probably ask 'em to do it every set from here on in. And Rat would nod and say something hightown and noncommittal, and they'd sing what they damned well pleased, same as always.

  Then over Rat's shoulder, she saw Hoh's boy, Mischa, standing in the hallway and signaling frantically. Cut it short— trouble, and it's got your name on it.

  She nodded understanding, and passed the signal on to Rat with a quirk of the eyebrows and a jerk of her chin.

  They wrapped it up; packed up their instruments and headed for the back hall, Mischa uncharacteristically silent.

  "What—" Rat began, then saw.

  Just inside the back door stood Black Cal, all six-odd feet of him—wheezing and nearly bent over with coughing, and glaring like he was ready to bite Rif in two.

  '' I thought you said you'd taken care of this!''

  FEVER SEASON (REPRISED)

  CJ. Cherryh

  Jones waited, that was the only thing to do, perched herself on a straight chair in the corner and shut her eyes, half-sleeping, the way she would on canalside, waiting on a fare… only it was on toward dawn and Del and Min, who would have come in after her to tie-up last night, would be casting off to go about their business in an hour or so and leaving her skip to whatever came along—couldn't expect a thing else. Had to get moving soon.

  But whenever she looked at Mondragon in the lamp-light, whenever he waked her with one of his coughing fits, she liked the look of it less and less.

  The last one he got choked on, and when she handed him a cup of water, he was too far gone to manage it himself, slopped it all over and got the sheets wet when she tried to help him and he broke out coughing in the middle of a drink.

  "Damn," he had tried to say, but it had come out half-strangled. And after that he just sort of fell back and was gone again.

  And the boys went on sleeping, Raj done in with his hand and Denny sleeping like a lump, whatever. Could've damn well choked, she thought in panic. And then thought back to a rime she had had the coughs and managed, that was all; a body just managed. If it got no worse it was all right, and Raj had him drugged, that was why he couldn't fend for himself, damn heavy dose and all that whiskey. "No," he murmured then. "No."

  And broke up in coughing, deep, painful-sounding coughs that were doing no good. It hurt all the way to her gut.

  But it stopped after a moment. He lay there with his eyes half-open, made a weak movement of his hand. Let it fall.

  "You need something?" Jones asked.

  "Home?" he asked.

  "Yey, you're home. Right." Her heart sped in panic. She got up and carefully, because Mondragon could knock her right across the room, put her hand on his forehead. "Oh, damn, you're burning."

  "What day?"

  "What day is it? Wensday. No, Thursday. Why's it matter?" He grimaced strangely as if he was facing into the sun. Coughed and muffled it. "You want a drink?"

  He shut his eyes. There had gotten to be a rattle in his breathing. She brushed back the hair that was stringing down into his face. Patted him helplessly and went and sat down again, hands clenched between her knees.

  Her own nose ran. She wiped it on her sleeve. But that was what a body got from being a damn fool, out in the harbor, an ache like fire across her shoulders and up her arm where she had worked the fuel pump, and bruises about the armpit where the tiller had battered her and down her leg where she had had her foot braced against the strain. Ordinary aches. What had got its claws into Mondragon was what Raj said, the hard stuff.

  Her mama had died of fever. Retribution Jones, that nothing else could stop, not weather, not the harbor waves, not any no-good in the dark ways… had choked her life out in her arms. And there had been no cure. No blueangel, not a thing else she had tried, a scared kid and caught between her mama's order not to leave the skip and the knowledge that her mama was dying, in a place where the two-legged scavengers might not wait till a body was dead before moving in. She had known the danger to her mama if she left her. She had known that for sure. And made the wrong choice, followed her mama's orders and ended up trying to keep her mama breathing all one long, long night. And lost.

  Leave her skip down there with no one to watch it, that was asking to get it pilfered. Lose the gun… that was damn near as bad as all the rest of it put together.

  Stay here with her skip below—that was saying to everyone on the canals that Mondragon was here, that something was odd. And gossip got sold, by them as had no scruples.

  Have her skip tailed off with Del Suleiman— Possible, but the same problem: every one of Mondragon's enemies who knew they were linked would start wondering and asking.

  Safest thing for him, dammit, was her on the canals, every day and dark, same schedule, close as she could make it.

  But if the fever got worse, if he went off his head— If he went crazy like in the nightmares—

  The boys might not be able to handle him. She might not. Her mama had split her lip for her, and loosened a tooth, and never known it. Retribution had had a good right hand. But mama was nothing to what Tom Mondragon knew how to do if he woke up not knowing where he was.

  She wiped her mouth with a sleeve that smelled of oil and harbor, and stared at Mondragon with a despair that did not want to reckon of the worse possibility—that the situation was more than they could handle.

  She went over to him again and knelt down by him and shook at him. "Mondragon," she said. "You was with Kalugin. You was on that boat. What did Kalugin say t' ye? What was ye doing, that ye didn't come home?"

  Because there was Kalugin in the middle of it somehow. It was from Kalugin's hands that her partner had come back like this, desperate and fevered, having sent a message, Raj had told her, to them and not to her.

  It was not the first time she had asked him those same questions. But Mondragon had sworn there was no problem. Between trying to cough his lungs up. It had been an errand he wanted Raj to do.

  After he had damned well been missing through the night and most of the day.

  "Mondragon? Ye going to tell me?"

  "No," he said, but not like he was talking to her. His arm came up, hard, and she flung herself aside and down below the rim of the mattress for a second, till the arm fell and he twisted aside, making havoc of the sheet and blankets. She grabbed them on the retreat and pulled them back again, him with them, and tucked the edges under. Which caught one arm, if not the other. "No," he said.

  "You shut up!" she snapped at him. "Damn ye, lie still, ye damn fool, ye damn near hit me!"

  "Jones?" he mumbled, as if he knew where he was again. "Jones?" And the coughing bent him double again on his side.

  "What'd Kalugin want, damn ye? Where you been, ye come home like this?"

  More coughing. He could not get it stopped. Jones reached after the cup and held it for him and held his head up, heart pounding in fear.

  He managed to drink. The spasm eased, and he lay still when she let his head down, all curled up and quiet. She wanted the answer, dammit, but talking made him cough and the spasms put her all too much in mind of how her mother had died.

  " 'S all right," he managed to whisper finally, staring off past her, eyes half-closed. " 'S all right, no trouble."

  "Ye
're a damn liar! Are ye safe here? Is anyone looking for ye?"

  That jolted him into thinking. She saw the rapid flicker of his eyes in the lamplight, glassy as they were. "Be all right," he whispered. "Be all right, Jones."

  "You want me to go ask Kalugin?"

  "No!" That came out harsh, out loud, and he coughed again. "Oh, damn, let me die."

  Joke, that was. She was sure. She sat back down in her chair and clenched her hands till they ached.

  WAR OF THE UNSEEN WORLDS

  Leslie Fish

  It was coming on night as Jones tied up outside Moghi's, fingers fumbling in the chill shadows that fell early this time of the year. Cold, and due to get colder, and after steaming hot all day. The sky threatened rain for the night, probably another steam-bath fog tomorrow. Rotten weather, rotten season, rotten Merovingen anyway.

  A familiar whistle tickled quietly at the edge of hearing.

  Jones lifted her head and looked around slowly. Aw, not again. Not now.

  It was.

  Long dark hair held back with a kerchief-headband, big dark eyes, sharp features, hungry-hawk look and all. Rif leaned against a wall, half fading into it in her dark hair and cloak, points of metal twinkling faintly at her belt and boot-tops. She looked as if she'd put in a hard day or two, but she was smiling. Damn that smile.

  "Go 'way," Jones snapped. "Don' want none o' yer business t'night."

  "Ain't for tonight," Rif promised, gliding away from the wall. Her voice was shaped to that quiet, carrying pitch— aimed at Jones' ears only. "I wanta take you up on that offer from Festival. Take me an' my harp an' some… little things… around town tomorrow."

  Jones hitched her shoulders higher, remembering that little trip last Festival, and her too-reckless promise afterward. "Sure, an' how many holes 'm I gonna get shot in my boat this time? No thanks. Go 'way." Besides the risks—and with Rif, who could tell what those were—the work might take all day. When would she sleep, or keep watch on Mondragon?

  "Hey, I paid all right, didn' I?" Rif crouched beside the skip, her cloak making a pool of darker shadow on the wharf. Her trained singer's voice coaxed so sweetly, it was hard to see the hidden hooks in the words. "It ended up right, after all. Why'd ye change yer mind?"