C. J. Cherryh - Fever Season

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Cover art by Tim Hildebrandi.

Maps by Pal Tabin.

by Leslie Fish.

"Fever Season" lyrics by Mercedes Lackey, music by C.J. Cherryh, Copyrighi ©

1987. , "Mist-Thoughts (A Waltz With a Limp) lyrics by Mercedes Lackey,

All characters and events in this book arc fictitious.

Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is

strictly coincidental.

'Merovingen Nights", "Merovin", "The Signeury", "The Del", "Moghi's Tavern"

are registered trademarks belonging to C.J. Cherryh.

DAW Book Collectors No^ 722. First Printing, October 1987 123456789

PRINTED IN THE U. S. A.

CONTENTS

Fever Season, C.J. Cherryh

Hearts and Minds. Chris Morris

Fever Season (reprised). C.J. Cherryh

A Plague on Your Houses, Mercedes Lackey

Fever Season (reprised). C.J. Cherryh

War of the Unseen Worlds, Leslie Fish

Fever Season (reprised). C.J. Cherryh

Night Ride. Nancy Asire

Fever Season (reprised). CJ. Cherryh

Life Assurance. Lynn Abbey

Fever Season (final reprise). CJ. Cherryh

Instant Karma. Janet Morris

APPENDIX

Merovingian Songs

Index to City Maps

Merovingian City Maps

Merovan Ecology

Merovan Sea Floor and Hemispheric Maps

105

109

139

149

179

193

231

241

269

271

277

280

285

298

fEVER

MEROVINGEN

Cur re tit Directu>n — BRIDGES

DIKES

O SOLID GROUND O ISLES AND BUILDINGS

FEVER SEASON

CJ. Cherryk

It was fall in Merovingen, nasty fall, when old Det approached his winter ebb:

snows fell to the far north, up far above Nev Hettek, and the river that

reached Detmouth, at Merovingen, was a sullen,1 quiet river. The bog up on the

Greve widened, the water lay in stinking pools up there and on the north side

of the lagoon, where river-weed rotted and small fish that had thrived there

in the early stages dried out and fattened the bugs and the vermin. Merovingen

of the Thousand Bridges, poised on its pilings and shored up precariously

above the waters, smelled it when the breeze came off the mudflats, a stink

predictable and faithful as sunrise. The skips and poleboats moored a little

lower, that was all, at pilings that showed water-stain a handspan up, and had

a little, less current to fight in the winding Gut, and up on Archangel.

Then Merovingen began to think toward winter, from the uppermost levels of the

wooden city, where the hightown wealthy lived in splendor, to the middle tiers

where merchants began to haul winter goods out of warehouses, to the lowest

levels where the canalsiders and the skip-freighters and the bargemen began to

think in much more basic terms— like bartering for socks and sweaters, or a

paper of blueangel,

1J C.J. Cherryk

to fight the fever and ease winter aches in the cold nights ahead.

Fall, when the days varied between balmy warmth and treacherous chill, and fog

wrapped the town about at night, hazing the lights that shone, making the

lightless world of the canals beneath the bridges dark indeed.

That was the rhythm of things. It always had been. And Altair Jones, sixteen

and on her own since she had been barely able to handle the skip pole on her

own, found herself strangely out of step. She smelled the change in the air,

and blood and bone, she felt the sense of take-hold and take-cover in her gut:

time to store and hoard and time to think what little of all she owned in the

world she could possibly trade— time to work hard and save the tiniest

coppers, and think protective.

But for the first time in her life she was comfortable, for the first time in

her life she had not one extra sweater, but three, had shoes, and two changes

of socks, had a full tank of fuel, the skip's ancient motor in prime

condition, the hull painted, had a couple bottles of good whiskey in the

number one drop bin, and full store of food, besides a candle and cookstove

and all. For the first time in her life she had everything she could think of

to have. And the feeling bothered her, a kind of karmic something-wrong that

would not let her alone even in broad daylight and got worse by dark.

She brooded on it—brooded on it increasingly as the nights grew colder and the

putting-away started . . . canaling was her life, dammit, even after she had

pulled one Thomas Mondragon out of a canal and got herself tangled in

hightowner affairs. Out of which she stayed as much as possible.

Except she tied up at Petrescu most every night now, left her skip to the

watching of old Mintaka and Del Suleiman and Mira and Tommy, who had tie-up

rights there nowadays ... all friends, all folk she would trust with her life

(and had) so that she knew that there was nothing going to go missing off her

boat, and nobody going to mess with it or come up Tom Mondragon's stairs past

that hour that honest canalers took to their hideys and slept.

FEVER SEASON 15

She climbed up the stairs to the second level and Mondragon's door, gave the

knock and waited for him.

The lamp was lit in the front room. Which was his way of saying it was all

right, he had no visitors, he was waiting for her.

She heard him inside, heard his whispered: "Jones?"

"Yey,"

She would not answer that if she had trouble with her. He took a quick peek by

the tiny garde-porte and then opened up the door, let her in; and she stepped

quickly into the light and the warmth, pulled off her battered river-runner's

cap while he was locking the front door again.

A handsome man, pretty as the Angel Himself, as Retribution, who guarded the

town from His post on Hanging Bridge. Mondragon never let on to folk where he

was really from: Falkenaer was his ordinary story, a Falkenaer offspring of

the Boregys . . . and maybe that was true, somewhere back of it all, there

being nowhere else on Merovingen that hair came that blond, or skin that fair—

Jones' own short, straight hair was black as was the rule in Merovin, her skin

dusky, her eyes dark as canalwater. But Mondragon's real home was Nev Hettek,

up river, where Adventists were the rule and Revenantists were the exception.

His real connections were less with the Boregys he pretended to be related to

than with Anastasi Kalugin the governor's son. His skills as a spy were

another thing he did not let on about, and he was always nervous about opening

doors.

Why he kept opening his to her she wondered about every time she saw him like

this, handsome and gold as the Angel Himself, and fine, fine in all his

manners. She would have understood if he had sort of drifted away and come

less and less to the lowtown; she would have understood if he had found some

hightown woman to take up with—she would have wanted to gut that woman, but

she would have understood it was natural: Lord, he was what he was, and she

had herself all braced for it, just—someday—he was going to find somebody

else.

But he more than took up with her on his get-abouts on the

CJ. Gterryk

canals, where he needed someone with brains, someone who could watch his back,

someone who would keep her mouth shut: he said it was safer she should come

sleep at his place and tie up down below—he would let her know if things got

unsafe, as they well could. But meanwhile there was a soft bed to be had and

breakfast in the mornings: his hours were like hers, late.

The bed in question had him in it. And there was no other woman: Jones had

kept an eye on that the way she kept an eye on his place and his whereabouts—

for his safety's sake. Not that she would have stopped it. But she would have

been madder than hell.

He tipped her chin up and kissed her, gave her a hug before he went and blew

out the light in the sitting-room. "Good day?"

"Fair," she said. Which was what she generally said.

She shared a bedtime snack with him in the little brick kitchen, backstairs,

while water heated, and she had her bath (Lord and the Ancestors, she was

getting so she smelted the canal-stink she had never smelled before, and she

took her clothes to laundry right along with Mondragon's, every Satterday).

She wrapped up like him in a robe he lent her before they headed up the front-

hall stairs to his upstairs bedroom and the brass bed with the fine smooth

sheets.

Then he made love to her the way he had from the first, fine and gentle, and

worked the aches out of her bones and the canal cold out of her gut before he

fell to sleep the way he usually did, on his face, one leg tangled with hers

and one hand on her shoulder, which she liked, except sometimes he got heavy

and sometimes he had bad dreams arid scared hell out of her—

Karl! he had yelled once in her ear. And rolled over and fought to get clear

of the bedclothes while she scrambled to get clear of him.

Another time he had yelled No! and shoved her right out of bed, thump! Which

had waked him up. Jones, he had said then, Jonesl And put his head over the

side of the bed, asking anxiously whether she was all right.

FEVER SEASON 1?

Sure, she had said, from flat on her back, why noft

He never told her what he dreamed about, but she had developed a certain

consequent wariness when he took to mumbling in his sleep.

As he did this night, waking her from a sound sleep. "Stop it," he murmured

into her ear, and: "No. O God, no more—"

She tried just to unwind her leg, but he jerked away, he rolled aside, and

went, thump! over the side.

"Mondragon," she exclaimed. "Mondragon!" But she was not going to put her head

over the edge of the bed looking for him. She got up on her knees to look, in

the light of the always-burning night-lamp. "Ye all right?"

"God," she heard, softly uttered. And saw him lift his head. He levered

himself up on the mattress rim and hung there on his arms with a terrible

bemazement in his eyes.

"I didn't push ye," she said, afraid he would think that way.

"God." He lowered his head against the mattress and crossed his arms over his

neck; but then he got up and helped her straighten the covers and got back

into bed.

Lay down by himself then, face up and staring at the ceiling. So she edged

over and put her arm over him. He patted her. And shivered. She felt it go all

through him.

"Sorry," he said. "I'm sorry."

"What was that "un?" she asked. And when he said nothing: "Dammit, Mondragon,

ye could say, ye know?"

"It's just a dream. I'm sorry. I'm really sorry, Jones. You don't have to put

up with this. I'll go sleep on the couch."

"You don't. Ye ain't going anywhere. Ye want t' make love t' me?"

"God, Jones, what do you think I am?" He shivered again and drew a long

breath. "Damn."

"Want I should make love t* you?"

"Couldn't hurt," he said after a moment. "But it won't do you much good."

"Hell if it don't." She edged on over a little and started massaging tight

muscles, "You c'n go on to sleep, I don't mind." She gave him a kiss at the

pit of the throat, which

CJ. Oterryk

FEVER SEASON

usually made him react. It did. His arms came up around her, he pulled her

down, and for a long time just held her like that, skin against skin, so

tightly it all but hurt.

"You ain't going to sleep," she said.

"No," he said.

And did nothing for a moment. Just held her. Then: "Jones," he said. "I don't

want to hurt you. I don't want to hurt you."

"Well, that ain't real likely. You want to go to sleep or you want to do

something or you want to tell me what that all was?"

He rolled her over. He was halfway rough, and all too quick, and she sighed

and put up with him collapsing on her: she hugged him, and wound her fingers

into his hair and tugged at it gently.

"Mondragon, ye want to teli me? Ye want to say what that's about?"

"No," he said, and moved his hand on her stomach, gently, sleepily as a child

with a doll. Then: "Prison," he said. "Sometimes I dream about prison, Jones.

You don't want to know about that. Sometimes I'm there, that's all."

Nev Hettek's prison was bad. She knew that much. They said things about that

place she never would ask him about and he would never want to tell.

"That's past," she said. "You ain't never going back. You're here. Ain't no

way you're going back."

"No way," he murmured.

But after a little while he said: "You can't ever get too safe, Jones, you

can't ever get too safe. Don't take chances. I wish you'd get off the water.

At least after dark."

"My best trade is after dark." Now it was her heart beating hard and fast and

her muscles going tight. Damn, mama, you told me, didn't you? Damn man gets me

into his bed and here it comes. Off the water, he says. Off the water!

"You're running too late," he said.

"Takes a while. Just takes a while. I had a barrel pickup. I told ye."

"Down there in Megary territory. Dammit, Jones—let Moghi

hire somebody else for those runs. You don't need to do that kind of work any

more."

"The hell!"

"You don't. You can work the evenings, if—"

"You can swim next time. Hear?"

"All right, all right." He rubbed her shoulder. "Forget it. You were late; 1

worried; is that any wonder?"

She thought about it. Decided not. She heaved a sigh and rested on his chest,

fingers winding in his hair, which was longer than hers, and curly and fine.

And sighed again, dredging up the bad news she had saved for going out the

door in the morning. "Well, I got a late 'un tomorrow. One of Moghi's.

Mondragon,—" She felt him draw a breath and stopped him with a hand on his

mouth. "Right down the Grand and back, ain't no problem. I just got this load

to get—"

"Moghi's load," he said, and took her by the arm. "Dammit, it's Harbor, isn't

it? Isn't it?"

"Listen, friend, I been getting along right fine before you come into my

life."

"Jones, let's not be so damn touchy. Let's use a little sense. For God's sake,

you're not just any damn canaler, you're tangled up in my business, and what

am I going to do if somebody grabs you some night and gives me a choice I

haven't got? 1 just haven't got too many ways to turn, you understand me? And

you're putting me at risk, you ever think of that?"

She did not like that kind of reckoning. It backed her against the wall, and

took away her choices. And left her nowhere, because there was nothing else to

be but Jones, and a canaler, and a skip-freighter with her own boat; there was

nothing else she ever wanted to be, because nothing else made any sense.

Nothing else was worth anything. She had had her days of sitting at tie-up

because of Mondragon's business; and waiting for bad news or worse news, with

her gut in a knot. And watching canalers pass who were a hell of a lot

happier, with a boatload of crates or barrels and a partner or so to help, not

CJ. Cfcmyfc

FEVER SEASON

to be off about uptown in a lace-cuffed shirt and fancy boots and risking his

damn neck for Anastasi damn-him Kalugin.

She had done one cross-town race when a hightowner body turned up floating;

she had been mortally sure it was Mondragon. And she had never forgotten that

feeling in her gut that morning.

Talk about 'held hostage.' mama, lookit this man. Lookit what he does to me.

She saw Retribution Jones sitting—Lord, right over there in Mondragon's chair,

hat pushed back on her head, her bare foot swinging the other side of the

chair arm. See, her mother said. Told you so.

She scrambled off Mondragon, rested her elbows together under her, and stared

at the chair, but her mother was not there to argue with.

Only the feeling in her gut was.

And the other feeling, that was Mondragon's hand stroking her shoulder,

Mondragon leaning on his elbow by her and trying to have his way by confusing

hell out of her.

"Sorry," she said. "Some things 1 ain't going to trade."

"I'm not asking you to give up the boat. I'm asking you to give up those damn

smuggling runs! I'm asking you to use your head, dammit! and not put us in

trouble."

"Not put us in trouble! Who was doing ail right before some fool man got

himself throwed in the canal in front of her boat, and then she gets him safe

and he gets himself caught again—"

He stopped what he was doing. Then he rolled onto his back and was very quiet.

Damn.

Damn the man. Hurt his feelings, she had. And he hurt her gut.

She slumped down on her arms, bowed her head against the tangled sheets and

bit her lip till it hurt as much as she hurt inside.

My, -we're touchy, Mondragon.

She had said worse to him. But when people got too close they hurt each other,

that was the way of it.

"I can't change," she said. "Mondragon, you been prison. Where ye trying to

put me?"

Sifence. a long time. Damn, that was really the wrong thing to have said. It

hurt loo much. They could not help it with each other.

"Jones," he said quietly, then, "1 only want you to be safe."

"Locked up. Same as walls."

Another long silence. Finally he snaked his arm under her stomach and turned

over against her, holding her tight. "Jones," he said, "Jones, Jones, Jones.

Just be careful."

"Ye been in here too long yourself. You been sitting in these walls and

messing 'round with that damn Anastasi and that Boregy. Time you got the feel

of a boat again, time you worked up some callus on your hands, work up a

sweat, feel old Del move under your feet—''

"1 wish, I really wish I could."

"Run with me tomorrow night. We got a Falkenaer ship in. We just go out there

and make a little deal, Moghi's got 'er all set. Ain't no way there's going to

be trouble. Ye want people t' believe that ye're Falkenaer, right? Ye got

business ye don't want people t' know. So ye smuggle. Ever'body knows a

smuggler's got secrets he don't want people messing into. Answers all their

questions. Smart, right?"

More long silence. She felt him sigh, and his hands caught hers. "Jones, I've

got business tomorrow. I will have. For a few days."

"What d'ye mean business? You been sitting on your rump in this place for a

month, ye—"

His hands squeezed hard. "Tomorrow I won't be. I've got to go uptown.

Tomorrow. Maybe late. Maybe more than tomorrow. 1 don't know. I haven't got a

choice. Understand?"

*'Ye wasn't going to tell me!"

"I was going to tell you in the morning. 1 swear."

"Oh, sure."

"I'm not lying. I swear."

"What's he want?"

"I don't know. See him. That's all the message I got."

CJ. Cherryh

FEVER SEASON

"Anastasi?"

"Yes."

"Damn him."

"I don't want you running late. I don't want to worry about where you are. I'd

like you to go to Moghi's, rent the Room,—"

"Well, I can't do that, can I? I got a run to make," He frightened her. He was

good at that. So was Anastasi Kalugin, the governor's son, who had them both

any time he wanted to take them. And so, equally well, the Sword of God

frightened her. It was in town again. Maybe it had never left at all. It aimed

at upsetting everything. It aimed, Mondragon had said, at whatever would cause

the most trouble and give it the most power. Mondragon should know: he had

been one of them. Which was his value to Anastasi Kalugin, who hoped to

outlive his brother and his sister and be governor of Merovingen someday.

Of course Anastasi's sister Tatiana had other thoughts. Maybe so did Josef

Kalugin, who was not through being governor.

There were a lot of people she and Mondragon had reason to worry about. There

were a lot who had reason to worry about them. And who might, some dark of the

Moon, try to do something about it.

"Forget the run," he said.

"1 can't do that!"

"Moghi'll understand. He can find somebody else. You give him enough money,

he'I! understand well enough how it is."

"Oh, sure, I back out on him this time and I make him go use some other skip

and then what do I get next time? What's he going to do next time he wants a

load carried? Call me? Hell, I might be busy. / might have some reason to hide

out. He might just find himself another skip that don't come with problems,

mightn't he? And the word might just get around Jones ain't real reliable,

Jones don't need the work that bad—"

"Moghi will understand!"

"Moghi's who we got to go with if we got to have help. You want 1 make 'im mad

at me? You want I go back on a promise with 'im? I dunno how you do business

uptown, Mondragon, but canalside, ye don't back out on a thing and then come

asking favors. You could've told me—"

"I didn't know it, dammit."

"Well, now it's too late, ain't it?"

"It's not too late. Tell him you have a friend in trouble, tell him it's life

and death, hell, wouldn't you, if you had to? How's he to know the

difference?"

"Because I ain't never give my word an' lied, that's how! Because if you was

in trouble uptown I'd come, but you ain't asking me to come with ye, ye ain't

got any intention of it, and /'// have my skip tied up here about while Moghi

gets the idea I might need help an' sends somebody to follow me— How'd that

look, huh? I got no choice. I go with you, or I make that run."

"You can't go with me. It's uptown. I'd have to leave you at a tie-up at

Boregy and it's not safe—"

"Well, ye got it, then, don't ye? I make the run. I'll tell Moghi he better

keep an eye to you. An' he'll do 'er. Won't make no noise, either."

"Not a bad idea," Mondragon allowed. "Not really a bad idea."

"Ye want Del to take you up?"

"No. I'll pick up a poleboat. I don't want Del mixed up with this." She

sighed. And thought that she knew now why he had asked her here every night.

It hurt, even if it was good of him. Trying to keep her safe, that was all.

Keeping her inside walls as much as he could.

Her gut hurt when she reckoned that.

So, damn, you didn't think it was your looks, did you?

Shut up, mama. He ain't no fool. Never was. But he was looking out for me,

wasn't he? We're friends. An' he don't mind making love to me.

"Fine," she mumbled aloud, to what he had said. "Fine."

"Is it fine, Jones?"

"Yey." She turned over in the circle of his arms and faced

22 CJ. Oterryh

him, nose lo nose. "Hey, I'll be careful. I'll slip out there and back, I got

the fuel, ain't no way I'll make a mistake, I'll watch real sharp and I'll use

the engine, all right?"

"Don't get caught. For God's sake don't get caught. It could get political

real fast and I'm out of trade-goods.

Hear?"

"1 hear ye. I hear ye real good. If you get in trouble, ye hail any boat,

hear, any boat in the Trade. Ye tell 'em Moghi's. Ye know thai."

"I know."

"Deal, then." She snuggled closer. Wrapped her arms around him and shut her

eyes. She was still worried, but sleep when it came, came fast and deep, on

the exhaustion of a heavy cargo and a long run—honest work, well, mostly. In

her dreams the water moved, the bed had the motion of the waves, the pilings

glided Hke black ghosts. Like all her life on the water. It was stable ground

that was the dream.

Tea in the morning, biscuits—Mondragon could cook, if he had a whole kitchen

to do it in, and pans enough to outfit any three boats. Eggs. Sugar for the

tea.

Then it was dress and get ready: the canals woke up early as they went to

sleep late—canalers dozed during the day as they got the chance; and there was

no way she could ask old Min or Del to watch her skip for her while trade

slipped away. She pulled on her pants, pulled on the faded red sweater and put

a blue one over it, figuring what the morning was going to be out there, and

made up her mind to be thoroughly cheerful in the parting at the door. So he

was going to risk his neck.

So he would be Fine, he always was, he had a cat's luck and an eel's ways when

trouble was on him.

He gave her a hug at the door, and a kiss on the mouth— He don't need to do

that, now. does he, mama?

She kissed him back, feeling the fool, her, in her canaler's rough clothes and

him still in his robe. Lazy man. Going back to sleep after he had seen her

off.

Sleep until he had to keep his own appointments.

FEVER SEASON 23

"Damn." he said, "wear socks. It's cold out there."

"Working feet is warm. Wet socks is damn cold, lander. My feet'll be fine once

I get to poling."

"Makes me cold to think about it. Here." He fished a small heavy purse out of

his pocket and pressed it into her hand. "For Moghi, for whatever you might

have to do."

"Lord an' my Ancestors, Mondragon, I got money. I got all I need—"

"Take it. Hear?"

"Won't." She shoved it back at him, shoved it back so hard, and him not taking

it, the purse dropped and hit the floor, scattering bright gold bits.

Cold, by the Ancestors. AH of it gold.

"Lord, Mondragon, what're ye trying t' do?"

"You can take it, is what." He bent down and picked it up and slapped it hard

into her hand. "You can damned well take it and put it on account with Moghi—"

Get off the water. You don't have to work. You don't have to take the late

runs.

"I ain't doing no such thing!" she yelled. And tried to give it back. Dropped

it again when he would not take it. "MoBdragon, ye don't buy me off! I ain't

taking any more money."

"You damn well take it!"

"Won't!"

"I'll stop over at Moghi's and leave it, if I have to. It'll just cost me a

stop. Waste my time. Put me late."

"Ye're always giving me money, Mondragon, and I ain't earned it! Ain't no way

I earned it, I damn sure ain't earning it in no bed, and you can take it an'—"

"Jones—"

" "Day." She jerked the door open and walked out into the fog and the chill,

across the second-level walk, down the stairs where the ghosts of slips

waited, with friends.

Damn man.

What c'n I do with 'im?

Damn weather. Ain't much moving till noon, that's sure.

CJ. Cherryh

But fine weather if we got fog again tonight, running out to that ship in

Harbor.

Down to the canalside, bare feet sure on the slick boards.

The fog was lifting by the time Mondragon set foot out his door—quietly

dressed, in dark blue trousers, black sweater, a heavy jacket and a navy knit

cap pulled down low. He locked the door and set the small trip—he varied it:

this time it was a sliver of wood that an opening of that door would crack

without police. He had taken similar precautions with doors inside, that were

always set a certain way, with trips that were not standard Sword teaching. He

had learned certain things in prison. Some of the inmates of Nev Hettek's

notorious hellhole had been professional thieves, waiting execution.

He turned up his collar against the chill and took a second good look around

with a single glance. No weapon on him at the moment but a riverman's knife.

He had left the uptown clothes at Boregy. He came and went into that house by

the servants' entry. Like any good riverman with business with the highest

banking interests in Merovingen.

God knew why. Boregy wanted it that way, that was all. Layers upon layers of

duplicity: give out that he was a relative pretending not to be, but showing

uptown, which let people think that he was in fact a Boregy with foreign

connections. Boregy wanted folk, to perceive his coming and going by the

servants* entry as elaborate subterfuge designed to fool the town authorities,

and his coming and going in society and in Merovingen-below alike as the

actions of a Boregy spy (possibly really a cousin) living frugally in mid-town

because that was where the Boregys wanted him, but socializing uptown because

he was Boregy and thought no one knew about his other life. All of which mess

was his cover: he was a Kalugin spy, which had nothing at all to do with

banking, and a great deal to do with Boregys, in a very non-commercial way.

Which Boregys of course knew, the Sword presence in Merovingen knew, and he

was sure Tatiana

FEVER SEASON

Kalugin knew, and probably losef the governor as well, which meant that anyone

who had a motive to kill him knew.

The only ones in town who did not know what he was and who he worked for were

the ordinary folk he met on the walkways, the merchants and tradesmen and

canalfolk and craftsmen that were Merovingen. Which was the way it had to be—

because Merovingen would never tolerate the things its leaders and would-be

leaders were up to. Merovingen was upset enough about the Nev Hettek trade

mission. There was muttering in the bars and taverns waterside, that it would

be no wonder if some foreigners turned up floating some morning.

There were the beginnings of whisperings about Tatiana Kalugin: he had seen to

that. It was too good to let pass, the intimation that the governor's second

heir had been sleeping with a Nev Hettek trade minister. Tell old Mintaka a

romantic secret and it was end to end of Merovingen by nightfall for sure.

But people gave Tatiana benefit of the doubt: That Nev Hetteker better count

his change, was one way they put it. Meaning Tatiana did nothing that did not

involve profit to herself, and the very fact she had done something so blatant

meant she was after something. It puzzled people. It puzzled them enough they

had rather gossip about it for a while. Which was where things stood.

Till the news got down to the canals about the census that old losef had

requested—still a rumor, nothing had gotten to the lowest tiers yet. But there

was assuredly a point-past-which-not with the rank and file in Merovingen . .

. something the Kalugins instinctively knew; and which maybe the Sword, for

all its fine calculations, did not entirely figure into its plans.

It was even possible that old losef had thrown out the census for a bait, to

get the town stirred up. Which made it a more difficult atmosphere for the

Sword, in some senses.

Far belter to be a Falkenaer in public eyes, than Nev Hetteker. Hanging Bridge

had seen more than one lynching, so accounts ran.

Better, he thought, as he rounded the corner of Foundry

26 CJ. Cherryh

onto Grand, and had one of the widest views in Merovingen, the whole Grand

Canal spread out in front of him from Veniani to Ventura, all the skips, the

barges, the busy main artery of Merovingen—better if he could do what Jones

wanted: throw over everything, take to the water, live his whole life on one

of those skips. Free.

But that was not a choice he had.

It never would be.

He had no idea what Anastasi wanted of him. But he knew the way things were

tending. He knew that there were too many sides to this, and too much danger,

and too many enemies.

There were several enemies he would as soon eliminate— had offered to; but

Anastasi said no. He thought about arranging an accident to Magruder and

Chamoun on his own, something Anastasi could not readily trace. But that had

hazards as grievous as letting these people go. And if he had a hope in the

world it was that Anastasi would live to be governor, and find him for some

reason . . . still useful, and not an embarrassment. God knew he had no hope

with Tatiana and none at all with her new friends.

He had helped one man into a governorship: Karl Fon, up in Nev Hettek. He had

been Karl Fon's close friend and comrade in arms—until Karl Fon found it

necessary to bury his affiliations with the Sword of God and become a staunch

and conservative Adventist moderate. So Karl used him for a scapegoat;

murdered his own father and Mondragon's whole family, and framed his boyhood

friend for all of it.

Karl Fon was horrified to learn of his friend's true character. Of course.

Damn him to deepest hell.

Mondragon sneezed, suddenly and violently. Morning chill. He realized an ache

in his bones, which he attributed to the cold and to, God help him, falling

out of bed like a fool. Prison and old wounds made him hate the winters. He

felt a violent chill when the same morning wind that began to blow the mist

away got under his coat and up his sleeves. He had half decided to walk over

to Boregy, but that turn of the

FEVER SEASON 27

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FEVERSEASON©1987byC.J.Cherryh.AllRightsReserved.CoverartbyTimHildebrandi.MapsbyPalTabin."FeverSeason"Copyright©1987byC.J.Cherryh."HeartsandMinds"Copyright©1987byChrisMorris."APlagueonYourHouses"Copyright©1987byMercedesLackey."WaroftheUnseenWorlds"Copyright©1987byLeslieFish."NightRide"Copyright©1987b...

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