Troubled Waters Page 8

  But the boys weren't doing well; they'd accounted for one of the crazies (now floating face-down within arm's reach of Wolfling), but the others were going to overpower them in a few minutes. Rigel had an ugly slash across his ribs that was bleeding freely and soaking into a long red stain along the front of his mud-spotted tan sweater. And even as Wolfling moved to grab a piece of driftwood to use as a weapon, one of the crazies started to bring down a boathook, aimed at the younger boy's head.

  "Denny!"

  Wolfling saw the horror in Rigel's eyes as the boy saw it coming, and before Denny could turn, the older boy shoved him out of the way and took the blow himself.

  The deadly hook missed, but the boy took the full force of the pole on his unprotected head. The pole broke—the boy went to his knees—

  And Wolfling waded into the fray from behind, roaring in a kind of berserker rage, wielding his driftwood club like the sword of an avenging angel. He connected with at least two skulls with enough force to cave them in; got enough purchase in the treacherous mud to kick in a few ribs as well. Then the rest, panicked by the unexpected attack from the rear, faded into swamp, leaving behind three floating bodies and a sudden, absolute silence.

  The younger boy had flung himself at his brother when Rigel had gone down, and was holding him somewhat erect—he looked around with wild eyes when the sudden quietude registered with him. He fastened on Wolfling, paled—

  And put himself as a frail bulwark of protection between the Janist and his semi-conscious brother.

  Wolfling was struck dumb by a thought that approached revelation.

  Those two—they'd die for each other. Rack might've killed for me—but he wouldn't have been willing to die for me—

  It was hardly to be believed, that kind of attachment —but there it was, and unmistakable. Those two boys would willingly die for each other.

  He held himself absolutely still, not wanting to frighten the younger kid further.

  They might have remained that way forever, except for Rigel. The boy began struggling to his feet, distracting his brother, so that Wolfling was able to transfer the crude club he held to his left hand and take a step or two closer. At that, Deneb jerked around, knife at the ready, but the older boy forstalled him, putting a restraining hand on his shoulder.

  Wolfling met the disconcertingly direct eyes of the older boy with what he hoped was an expression of good-will.

  "N-no, 'sokay, Den—"

  The words were slurred, but there was sense in the black eyes that met his.

  "—'f he meant us trouble, he wouldn't 'a' waded in t' help us."

  Rigel used his younger brother's shoulder to hold himself upright, and held out his right hand. "D-dunno who you are, but—thanks."

  Wolfling looked from the outstretched, muddy hand, to the candid, honest face, with its expression of simple, pure gratitude.

  No one, in all his life, had ever told him "thanks." No one had ever been grateful to him for anything.

  He stretched out his own hand almost timidly to take the boy's, finding himself moved to the point of having an unfamiliar lump in his throat.

  This boy—was good. That was the only way Wolfling could put it. Honest, and good. Small wonder Jane wanted him watched over. Wolfling had never known anyone he could have called good—

  And—so Wolfling had often been told—the good die young.

  Not this one, he swore angrily. Dammit, not this one!

  Rigel swayed in sudden dizziness, and Wolfling sloshed through the churned-up mud to take his other arm and help keep him steady; Deneb tensed, then relaxed again when he realized that Wolfling was going to help, not hurt.

  "Which way from here?" the Hand of Jane asked.

  Raj fought down dizziness as he grayed-out a little; heard the battered, bandaged stranger ask, "Which way from here?"

  "We gotta get 'im outa here—back t' town," Denny replied, hesitantly. "There's prob'ly people lookin' fer 'im by now—an 'e ain't in no shape t' stay out here, anyway."

  Raj gave in to the inevitable, too sick and dizzy and in too much pain to argue. "Th' path's—through those two hummocks," he said, nodding his head in the right direction, and setting off a skull-filling ache by doing so. The three of them stumbled off down the rim-path, making slow work of it—especially since they had to stop twice to let him throw up what little there was in his stomach. He concentrated on getting one foot set in front of the other; that was just about all he was up to at this point, that, and keeping from passing out altogether.

  But he was survival-oriented enough to be aware that now that they were in the clear, they were attracting the attention of the rafters—some of whom were more dangerous than the Razorfins. He tried to warn the other two, but his tongue seemed to have swollen up, and it was hard to talk. Some of the rafts began coming closer—

  But South Dike was on their left side now, crumbling and water-logged brick-and-wood, looming up over their heads. And Marsh Gate was in view.

  There was a shout from up ahead; shooting through Marsh Gate like a miracle incarnate was a small boat. An errant beam of sun glinted off blond hair in the bow, and there was another, darker figure waving at them frantically from the stern.

  And there was ominous splashing growing nearer behind them.

  The stranger on Raj's left suddenly dropped his arm, and Raj and Denny staggered as Raj overbalanced.

  Then things got very blurred and very confusing.

  The stranger bellowed behind them, and there was the sound of blows, and cries of anger and pain; Denny began hauling him along as fast as they could stumble through the weed and muck. Then he was in waist-deep water, with the sides of a skip under his hands, and he was simultaneously scrambling and being pulled aboard; Altair Jones was cursing under her breath beside his head.

  And then a gun went off practically in his ear.

  He got aboard somehow, just tumbled onto the bottom slats and lay there, frozen, and wet, and hurting; shivering so hard he could hardly think, with shouting going on over his head, and another shot, and the motor roaring up. Then they were into shadow, under the arch of Marsh Gate, then deeper shadow as they passed into the canals themselves.

  It was over.

  Jones shut the motor off, letting the skip coast, while Denny got a blanket around him and helped him to sit up. It was a good thing Denny was supporting him; he was shivering so hard now that he couldn't sit on his own.

  "He all right?"

  There was worry in Jones' voice; that surprised him. "He need help? Lord—he's bleeding, ain't he! Tom—"

  Mondragon was down on the slats beside him, without Raj seeing how he got there. He shut his eyes as much to hide his shame as to fight the waves of dizziness. Amazingly gentle hands probed his hurts.

  "Cut along the ribs, looks worse than it is. But this crack on the skull—"

  Raj swayed and nearly lost his grip on consciousness and his stomach when those hands touched the place where the boathook pole had broken over his head. The pain was incredible; it was followed by a combined wave of nausea and disorientation. The hands steadied him, then tilted his chin up.

  "Open your eyes."

  He didn't dare to disobey; felt himself flush, then pale. The green eyes that bored into his weren't the dangerous, cold eyes he'd seen before, but they were not happy eyes.

  "Concussion, I'd judge."

  "So what's that mean?" Altair asked, harshly.

  "Mostly that it's his turn to be put to bed, and he isn't going to be moving from there for a while. You—"

  Tom was speaking to him now, and Raj wanted to die at the gentle tone of his voice.

  "—have caused us a good deal of trouble, young man."

  "I—I didn't mean to—I just—I just wanted—" He felt and fought down a lump of shamed tears. No, no, he would not cry! "—I made such a mess out of things, I figured you was better off if I went away somewhere. I didn't mean to bring you more trouble! I tried t' find some way I c'd get you out 'f it,
and get out from under your feet, and when that didn't work I just tried to do what was right."

  "If I had thought differently," Mondragon said, slowly, deliberately, "you'd be out there entertaining the crazies right now. There are more than a few things I want to have out with you, but it's nothing that can't wait."

  Then he got up, and took a second pole to help Jones, ignoring Raj's presence on the bottom slats.

  But that wasn't the end of his humiliation. Every few feet along the canals, it seemed, they were hailed, either from other boats or from canalside.

  "Yey, he's okay," Jones called back, cheerfully, "Yey, we got 'im."

  Apparently everybody in town knew what a fool he'd made of himself. There were calls of "Hoooo—so that's the loverboy? Eh, throw 'im back, Jones, 'e's just a piddly 'un!" With every passing minute, Raj felt worse. Finally he just shut his eyes and huddled in the blanket, ignoring the catcalls and concentrating on his aching head.

  Because, as if the humiliation wasn't enough, there were more than a few of those on canalside who didn't shout, shadowy figures who Mondragon simply nodded to in a peculiar way. And Raj recognized one or two as being Moghi's.

  Moghi—that meant money—

  A damned lot of money. Out of Mondragon's pocket.

  Raj wanted to die.

  The ribald and rude comments were coming thick and fast now, as they headed into the Grand. Jones was beginning to enjoy herself, from the sound of her voice. Mondragon, however, remained ominously silent. Raj opened his eyes once or twice, but couldn't bear the sunlight—or the sight of that marble-still profile. The third time he looked up (still hoping for some slight sign of forgiveness), his eyes met something altogether unexpected.

  Mondragon had shifted forward, and instead of his benefactor, Raj found himself staring across the water at another skip.

  There was a girl in that skip, helping to pole it; curly brown hair, a generous mouth, a tip-tilted nose—merry eyes, wonderful hazel eyes—

  Oh, she wasn't beautiful, like Marina Kamat, but those eyes held a quick intelligence worth more and promising more than mere beauty.

  Those eyes met his across the Grand, and the grin on that face softened to a smile of genuine sympathy, and then into a look of utter dumbfounded amazement. Which was maybe not surprising, if she felt the shock of recognition that Raj was feeling; because even if he'd never seen her before, he knew her, knew how the corners of her eyes would crinkle when she laughed, knew how she'd twist a lock of hair around one finger when she was thinking hard, knew how her hand would feel, warm and strong, and callused with work, in his.

  In that moment he forgot Marina Kamat, forgot his aching head, forgot his humiliation. He stretched out his hand without realizing he'd done so—saw she was doing the same, like an image in a mirror.

  And then he grayed-out again; when his eyes cleared, she was gone, and there was no sign she'd ever even been there. And he was left staring at the crowded canal, not even knowing who she could be.

  Before he could gather his wits, they were pulling up to the tie-up at Petrescu. He managed to crawl under his own power onto the landing, but when he stood up, he didn't gray-out, he blacked-out for a minute.

  When he came to, he had Jones on one side of him, and Mondragon on the other, with Denny scrambling up the stairs ahead of them. They got him up the stairs; Lord and Ancestors, that was a job)—he was so dizzy he could hardly help them at all. Mondragon had to all but carry him the last few feet. Then he vanished, while Raj leaned against the wall in the hallway and panted with pain.

  Jones, it was, who got him into the bathroom; ignoring his feeble attempts to stop her she stripped him down to his pants with complete disregard for his embarrassment. She cleaned the ugly slash along his ribs, medicated it with something that burned and brought tears to his eyes, and bandaged him up; then cleaned the swamp-muck off of him as best she could without getting him into the bathtub. Then she handed him a pair of clean britches and waited with her back turned and her arms crossed for him to strip off the dirty ones, and finally bundled him up into bed, stopping his protests with a glass of water and a couple of asprin.

  He was so cold, so cold all the way through, that he couldn't even shiver anymore. And his thoughts kept going around like skits in a cage. Only one stayed any length of time—

  "Jones—" he said, trying to get her attention more than once, "Jones—"

  Until finally she gave an exasperated sigh and answered, "What now?"

  "Jones—" he groped after words, not certain he hadn't hallucinated the whole thing. "On the Grand— there was this girl, in a boat—a skip. Jones, please, I gotta find out who she is!"

  She stared at him then, stared, and then started a grin that looked fit to break her face in half. "A girl. In a boat." She started to laugh, like she'd never stop. "A girl. In a boat. Lord an' Ancestors—I may go Revenantist! Instant karma! Oh, Ancestors! Damn, it's almost worth the mess ye got us in!"

  She leaned on the doorframe, tears coming to her eyes, she was laughing so hard.

  Then she left him, without an answer.

  Left him to turn over and stare at the wall, and hurt, inside and out. Left him to the cold, to lie freezing in a cold, cold bed, as cold as his broken heart, as cold as Mondragon's face.

  Left him to think about how he'd lost everything that really meant anything—especially Mondragon's respect. About how the whole town knew what a fool he was. About how he'd never live that down. And think about how everything he'd meant to turn out right had gone so profoundly wrong; how he owed Mondragon more than ever. Left him to brood and try to figure a way out of this mire of debt, until his head went around in circles.

  He was going shocky, he knew that somewhere down deep, but he didn't much care anymore. He wouldn't ask for any more help, not if he died of it. Maybe if he died, if they found him quiet and cold in a couple of hours, and not going to be a trouble to anybody ever again, maybe they'd all forgive him then.

  He entertained the bleak fantasy of their reaction to his demise for a few more minutes before he dropped off to sleep.

  Denny hadn't missed one of those subtle little signals Mondragon was passing to those shadow-lurkers canalside. Denny knew those shadows, knew them for Moghi's. Knew how much they cost. Was totaling up that cost in his head, and coming to a sum that scared the socks off of him.

  All that—for Raj?

  Oh, hell.

  He had begun doing some very hard thinking along about the time they hit the Grand. He'd made up his mind by the time they reached Petrescu.

  Mondragon had helped get Raj as far as the bathroom, then let Jones take over while he headed for the sitting-room. He stood looking out the window in the dim sunlight, arms crossed over his chest, handsome face brooding and worried. Denny made himself a silent shadow following him.

  "M'ser—" he said quietly, as soon as they were alone.

  Mondragon started—barely visible; controlling an automatic reaction of defense. Denny's quick eyes caught it all, and his evaluation of Mondragon rose considerably above the already high marks he'd given the man.

  Damn—he's good. If he can pull his reaction after all this—he's damned good. Better'n anybody I've seen.

  "What?" the man said shortly; obviously not in the mood for any nonsense.

  "M'ser," he said soberly, as Mondragon regarded him over one shoulder. "I—I'm sorry about the—" he gestured, flushing, "—where I hit ye."

  "You're sorry?" Mondragon was actually speechless.

  "M'ser—lissen a minute, hey? I didn' know what t' think. Thought maybe ye might ha'—well—Raj might be worth a bit, t' the right people."

  "Thought I might have turned my coat again, is that it?" Mondragon looked very odd; bitter, a little amused, and maybe a little understanding.

  "M'ser, I don' blame ye. I was thinkin' maybe somebody's been leanin' on ye. If I was you, reckon I'd swap a kid fer Jones, if I had to—hard choice, but— that's th' way I'd be doin' it." Denny kept his eyes
on Mondragon, and thought he saw a little less of the bitterness and a little more of the understanding come into those eyes.

  "So—hey, I thought, ye didn' have Raj, ye might use me t' get Raj. So I let you have it where it c'd count, so's I could scat."

  "I'm afraid, boy," Mondragon said quietly, "that this once you were wrong."

  Denny preferred not to think about what that peculiarly phrased sentence might mean if he examined it too closely.

  "Look, m'ser, I tol' ye—ye got a hard choice t' make, ye make the best one ye can. Happen I was wrong this time, but I'm sorry, hey? Now—" Denny got down to business. "I think m'brother cost ye more'n ye could afford, ne? I got eyes—an' I know what Moghi's rates are—"

  Mondragon's own eyes narrowed speculatively, but he said nothing.

  "M'ser Tom, I use t' figger there was one person worth spendin' anything t' keep alive, an' that's Raj. Now I figger there's two."

  He felt, more than heard, Jones come in behind him. That was all right; nothing he was going to say now that he didn't want Jones to hear. "Well, maybe three, 'cept Jones back there c'n take care a' herself, I reckon. But t'other one's you."

  Mondragon turned to face him fully, a small hint of surprise showing in the depths of his eyes, as he shifted his weight to one foot. "So?"

  "It's this, m'ser—Raj, he's good, ye know? Ye maybe know Raj, he got a message from Granther. Well, I got one too. 'Cept mine was a hair different. I ain't good—Granther knows it. 'You take care a' Rigel,' he said. 'The good 'uns need us bad 'uns t' keep 'em safe.' "

  Mondragon's right eyebrow rose markedly.

  "I'm guessin' you got somethin' like that notion, ne? M'ser, I—" he waved his hands helplessly, "—I guess what I wanta say is this. You got inta somethin' deeper'n ye like fer us—fer him. I'm guessin'. I figger ye need a mite a' help. Well, from now on, you say, and I'll do. Whatever. However. Fer as long as ye like. An' there's some things I ain't too shabby at."

  The eyebrow stayed up. Mondragon made no pretense that he didn't understand what Denny was talking about. "And if I say—no noise?"