Troubled Waters Read online

  All of which meant nervous times, times in which odd meant dangerous and everybody was looking for strangers to lynch, while the blacklegs were fingering their sticks and looking for heads to break, and the gullible were flocking to the priests to pay their silverbit and be told how the world was safe for them to go on being the fools they were.

  I seen fools all my life, Retribution said, fading now, in a stray bit of sun. Ye can't change the world, Altair. Just watch out for it, that's all, and don't owe nobody.

  Mondragon ain't askin' nothin', mama. He ain't never. He ain't never done the things you say, I mean, sure, he worries, keep off the water, he says, wants me to come up to his fancy apartment and live. Ha. An' I tol' 'im no, and he took 'er at that, just my sayin' so. See? Ye just tell 'im an' he ain't pushin'. * Retribution stood up and flickered with passing bridge-shadow, a frown on her face. Listen to ye. I talked about fools. Ye start talkin' about Mondragon. Who's the fool on this boat? Ain't me, daughter. —Ye keep that gun loaded?

  Damn sure, mama. Right back there in the drop-box.

  I kept to smuggling, Retribution said. Ain't never mixed myself in politics. Whiskey don't talk and ye know what a barrel's worth. Ye be careful, Altair. Ye be damn careful. Ye don't trust Old Det, he's mean and he's quick and he'll drink ye down for nothin', but ye know his ways and his currents. I ain't so sure about the waters ye been runnin' lately. I ain't so sure at all.

  Mama left. She always did when she had the last word, just faded right out in the sunlight, and Jones shook her head and thought—because mama nagged her—that maybe she ought to take the chance, Moghi was talking about hiring a man for the night runs—

  I dunno, Jones, Moghi had said. I used t' say . . . Jones can handle it, ain't no need to hire anybody else, Jones is always there. But I suppose that's the way of it, some feller comes along and a little money comes along an' maybe you ain't so hungry anymore.

  So what am I goin't' do, huh? My barrels don't wait on no whim, Jones.

  See? Retribution's voice echoed in her skull. Told ye.

  Shut up, mama. But it was true all the same. Changes happened. Not all of them were what she wanted.

  And she had no idea in the world how to hang onto Mondragon and onto the Trade at the same time. That was what worried her. It was like she was in two pieces. It was like she was riding two currents at once, and she couldn't see beyond a few weeks anymore.

  CHAPTER II

  A TANGLED WEB WE WEAVE

  by Mercedes Lackey

  Lies. That's what his whole life had been, lately. Lies and evasions and dirty little twistings of what scraps of truth he had told—

  Raj's gut ached like someone had punched him, hard. It had ached like that for the last couple of weeks. His throat was so choked most of the time he could hardly swallow. And his heart—if it wasn't broken, it was doing a damned good imitation of being broken.

  Rigel Takahashi—who called himself Raj Tai these days, and had good reasons not to own to the Nev Hettek merchant clan he'd been born into, reasons that involved the Sword of God and long-buried secrets—felt like he surely must be one of the most pitiable sixteen-year-olds in all of Merovingen. He was sad enough looking that Denny's friend Rif had commented on it; she'd told him to his face that he was drooping like an unwatered plant, and had wanted to know the reason. Which he hadn't dared tell her; he hadn't dared tell anyone.

  Although he really didn't intend or want to be that way, his disposition wavered between sullen and scared-shitless. He spent most of his time moping around like a moon-sick idiot. His brother Denny had given up on him in disgust; Altair Jones and Tom Mondragon only knew he was pining over a girl and being unusually peculiar about it.

  Tom was being more-than-patient, but condescending, and Raj was overly sensitive to that sort of thing just now. Altair, having failed to jolly him out of it, had taken to snapping at him, frequently. They repeated the same scene at least twice a day. It usually started with him glooming about in her path, and her stumbling around him, until she finally lost her temper—

  Then she'd explode, canaler's cap shoved back on short dark hair, strong hands on hips, dark eyes narrowed with annoyed frustration—

  Dammit Raj, can't you get the hell outa my way?

  Even the memory made him wince.

  She snapped, he sulked, they both got resentful, and Tom sighed.

  The problem was, they didn't know the half of what he'd gotten into.

  Raj, who was just "home" from work at Gallandry's, where Mondragon had gotten him a clerking job, huddled in a soft, plush-covered chair in Mondragon's living-room. He'd lit one lamp, right side of the sofa tonight—that was to tell Jones all was well—but had left the rest of the room in gray gloom. He was curled around the knot of anguish that seemed to have settled into his gut for good. Every time he looked up, the very room seemed to breathe reproach at him.

  There was frost on the window—bitter cold it was out there. Here he was, warm and dry and eating good—he could have been out in the swamp, freezing his butt off, but he wasn't, thanks to Tom Mondragon. He could have been shivering in Denny's airshaft, or in their little, barren apartment on Fife—hell, he could have been dead, but he wasn't, again thanks to Mondragon.

  Tom had taken him and Denny under his protection, who had damned little to spare for himself—had taken them in, and then taken them into his own home. He'd been feeding them and housing them, and keeping them safe because the town was in turmoil and that was the only way he could be certain they were safe. And now Raj had gone and compromised the whole damned setup and compromised Tom himself.

  Jones was right. He was an ingrate.

  He was more miserable than he'd ever been in his life; more miserable than the five years he'd hidden out in the swamp, because that had only been physical misery—more miserable than when his mother had been killed, because that was a clean-cut loss. This— this tangle of lies and half-truths he'd woven into a trap binding him and Mondragon—this mess had him so turned inside-out it was a wonder he even remembered what day it was.

  Oh, Marina— he thought mournfully, —if only I'd never seen you.

  It had seemed so innocent, sending that love-poem to Marina Kamat; she wouldn't know who had sent it, so what harm could possibly come of it? But Marina had assumed it had come from Mondragon, because she was in love with Tom. Not surprising, that; Tom Mondragon was a man, not a lovesick boy. Thomas Mondragon was urbane and sophisticated, and to top it off, tall, golden-haired (in a city full of short, dark folk) and handsome as the Angel on Hanging Bridge. No girl would think twice about Raj with Tom in the same city. Raj didn't blame Marina—and truth to tell, he really hadn't expected her to respond to the poems so strongly.

  But she had; and come to her own conclusions about them. She'd caught Raj delivering a second love-poem, and she'd got him so twisted around with the way she'd acted toward him that all he could think of was that she'd guessed about his own passion and she was being hightowner and coy. He'd been so dazed that he hadn't left her until long after dark—

  Tom (and him still sick) and Altair and Denny had all been in a fine case over him then, worrying he'd been caught by the Sword or Tatiana's blacklegs or Anastasi's bullyboys, caught and maybe been tortured or killed.

  And he was so full of Marina and how she'd guessed at the identity of the author of the poems and sought him out that all he could feel was resentment that they were hovering over him so much.

  Only after he'd read her note, then reread it and reread it—then he'd begun to realize that she'd guessed wrong. She'd figured the author for Tom, and himself for his errand-boy. And she'd set him such a tempting little trap too—offered to have Kamat sponsor and fund him into the College, and make his dream of becoming a doctor come true, so he could be conveniently close to deliver more such messages. So tempting; he could at least see and talk to her, any time he wanted—he could have his other dream—all he needed to do was to keep up the lie, to keep writing those poems and p
retending Tom was sending them. That was all. Just as simple as Original Sin, and just as seductive.

  And now he was afraid to tell Tom, because he'd been a fool, and worse, got them tangled up with a romantical hightown Family girl, one with power and connections. He was afraid to tell Jones because— because she was Jones; she was capable and clever, and she'd laugh him into a little puddle of mortification and then she'd kill him, if Tom didn't beat her to it. And he couldn't tell Denny. Denny was put out enough over the notion of his brother taking a sudden interest in girls—"going stupid on him" was what Denny had said.

  Hell, he'd gone stupid all right. So stupid he couldn't see his way straight anymore. And that was dangerous for him, for all of them, with the town in a dither over Papa Kalugin's damn census. And as if that weren't enough trouble, most of the towners were scared to death of the fireworks somebody had set off over Dead Harbor—fireworks that the low-tech Revenantist majority of Merovingen thought were a sharrh visitation at worst, and a sharrist plot at best.

  That was Sword work, sure as death and taxes; and Tom was ex-Sword and knew too damned many Sword secrets. For that matter, so did Raj. The Sword was moving again. That was bad. There were certain bullyboys who might or might not be blacklegs that knew Raj's face, and Denny's. That was worse. Complications were not what they needed right now.

  But complications were what he'd gotten into, and here he was not able to tell the truth, because the truth hurt so damn much, and he couldn't force it past the lump in his throat and the ache in his gut.

  But he had to tell somebody; had to get some good advice before what was already worse got into disastrous, he could reason out that much. Somebody older, but not too much older; somebody with experience with Hightowners. Somebody who knew how Girls thought, romantical Hightowners in particular.

  And somehow a face swam into his mind, surrounded with a faint shimmer of hope, almost like a halo.

  Justice—Justice might help him think straight again. Justice Lee—he was a student; he was, Lord, smarter than Raj was by a long shot, and a little older, more experienced. He dealt with hightown Family all the time in the form of his fellow students. And he was old enough to know how to handle Girls. Maybe even how to handle angry Girls. He was Adventist— converted, but still Adventist at the core. He and Raj had struck a kindred note from each other from the first words they'd exchanged; he'd be willing to give advice.

  Raj made up his mind to go find Justice right then and there, before he got faint-hearted again. Justice should be findable at Hilda's. Best bring a sweetener, though. He'd asked Justice to do more than was fair the last time he'd seen him. Lord and Ancestors—a lot more than fair.

  Raj shuddered, remembering that night; it had been nearly as bad as the night he'd run from Mama's murderers. Justice had hidden him from killers; then taken some very dangerous papers back here to Tom when Raj couldn't get them to Boregy. Raj wondered if Justice had really known, really, down deep, how much danger he'd put himself in by doing that.

  He jumped up out of the chair and padded across the soft carpet to the bottom of the stairway—listening carefully at the foot of the stair for the faint sounds of Mondragon dozing in his bedroom above. Tom had been sleeping a lot the past couple of weeks, which wasn't surprising given that the Crud had almost killed him. Just now Boregy and Kalugin seemed to be giving him a chance to rest and recover; and Tom, being no fool, was taking it.

  Don't want their pet ex-Sword croaking on them while he's still useful, Raj thought bitterly.

  Poor Tom; damn near everyone's hand against him—or would be, if they knew what he was—and now one of the kids he'd taken in had gone and messed up his life even more, and he didn't even guess the danger that kid had put him in. Raj felt like a total traitor.

  Denny was in the spare bedroom downstairs, sprawled on his back, half-draped across the foot of the bed and upside-down, trying to puzzle his way through one of Mondragon's books, and making heavy work of it. This one had pictures, though, which was probably what was keeping Denny's attention.

  He writhed around at Raj's soft footfall.

  "Den—I gotta go out; an hour, maybe. I'll be back by dark, okay?"

  "Why?" Denny's dark face looked sullen; rebellious. Not only was he mad about Raj getting mixed up with girls, but Raj had had it out with him over obeying Tom and treating him with respect. Denny'd been smart-mouthed, and Raj had finally backed the kid up against the wall and threatened honest-to-God serious mayhem if Denny didn't shape up. Denny was still smoldering with resentment, and Raj still wasn't sure the lecture had taken.

  "I gotta see Justice. I need to take some of May's Crud-weeds to him; I promised him some and I never brought them. And after what he's done for both of us—" Raj let the sentence dangle.

  Denny's expression cleared; he nodded, and his brown eyes got friendly again, because it wasn't a girl that was taking Raj out, and it wasn't one of Mondragon's errands. "Yey. Reckon he c'n make somethin' off 'em?"

  "Probably, what with half the College sniffling. He isn't much better off than we are, you know? He deserves a break."

  "Just you best be back by dark," Denny admonished, shaking a tangle of brown hair out of his eyes only to have it fall back in again. "Or Jones'll have the skin off ye."

  Talk about pot calling kettle! Raj bit back a retort. He dug a dozen packets of herbs out from under the bed, noting wryly that Denny was far more respectful of Jones than of Mondragon, even yet, after all Raj had told him. One of these days Denny was going to push Tom too far, and his awakening would be abrupt and rude. And probably involving any number of bruises.

  "I'll be back," he promised, shoving the packets into his pack, huddling on his coat and shrugging the strap over his shoulder. "And probably before Jones is."

  He slipped into the dark hallway, walking quietly out of habit, and eased the door open and shut so as not to wake Tom. The last rays of the evening sun were not quite able to penetrate the clouds, and Merovingen of the Thousand Bridges looked bleak, shabby, and ill-used. There was snow coming; Raj could smell it in the air, and shivered inside his two sweaters and canvas coat. The grayed-out gloomy bleakness suited Raj down to his toenails, and there was just dark enough that if he kept his head down and muffled in his scarf if was unlikely he'd be recognized. Foot traffic was light; what with the bitter wind blowing, anybody with cash was hiring pole boats even this early in the evening. That suited him too.

  He'd almost made it down the water-stairs when somebody called his name. Recognizing the voice, he swore to himself, but stopped on the steps above the landing. Poling to his night-tie was Del Suleiman— clinging to Del's halfdeck was a kid.

  Raj sighed and padded down the last three stairs to wait for Del to toss him a cold, stiff line.

  " 'Lo, Del," he greeted the canaler, once he'd gotten the skip tied. "Got another one for me?"

  Del nodded, face a comical mixture of relief and reluctance. "Papa sez 'er ear hurts—she's been cryin' since yesterday an' 'e can't get 'er t' stop. 'Er name's Kera."

  No last name. Not that Raj was surprised. He rather much doubted that Del was even telling the parents exactly who he was taking their sick kids to. Bad enough to owe karma—to owe it to one of Altair Jones' pet bridge-boys—who were probably Adventist and were definitely going to come to no good end— would have shocked them senseless.

  The ragged little girl huddled on Del's halfdeck was still crying; the kind of monotonous half-exhausted sobbing that tore what was left of Raj's heart right out of his chest. He eased down onto the bucking skip in the over-cautious fashion of one not very used to being on a small boat, then slid along the worn boards and crouched down beside her so that his face was even with hers.

  "C'mere, baby—" he held out one hand coaxingly. "It's okay, Kera. I'm gonna help you—"

  She stopped crying, stared at him for a minute, then sidled over to him, and didn't resist when he gathered her into his arms, trying to warm that thin little body with his own.
r />   He murmured nonsense at her while he felt gently along the line of her jaw, and checked for fever. Gratitude and relief washed over him when he found neither a swollen gland nor a temperature elevated beyond what you could expect in a kid who'd been crying in pain for a day or more. With every kid brought to him, he expected to find one too sick for his knowledge or experience to help. Then what would he do?

  Ah, he knew what he'd do. Tell Del the kid needed real help—and if the parents couldn't afford it, tell him about Rif and her Janist doctor. And let the parents decide whether it was worth the risk of having Janist strings attached to their kid's karma.

  Or maybe kidnap the kid and take it there himself, and take the damned karma on his own life—figuring that was the way such things worked.

  This one—like all the others so far, thank God— was an easy one. He used a few drops of Del's cooking oil poured into a spoon, and heated it to just-bearable over Del's candle, shielded carefully from the wind by both of them. Poured into Kera's ear, the warm oil made the hurt go away so quickly it must have seemed like magic to the child. A bit of clean lint stuffed in the ear to keep the oil in and the wind out completed the "cure."

  He could see it in her face—the sheer wonder of the moment when the pain went away. Looking at him like he was the Angel. He blushed, and his heart melted a little more.

  "Now—" he said softly (and mock-sternly), "—you have to promise me something. When the wind blows and it's cold, you keep your scarf tied around your ears, good and tight, you hear? Otherwise your ear'll start t' hurt again."

  The tiny girl gazed at him from eyes so big they seemed to take up half of her tear-streaked face. "Don't got no scarf," she protested.

  He sighed again, and reached under his coat collar to pull yet another of Denny's "souvenirs" off his own neck. That was the fourth one so far—two gone for bandages and one as a sling. Denny must surely think he was eating the damned things. It was a good thing they weren't the silk ones Denny liked to sport; the kid would strangle him in his sleep for giving them away.