Angel with The Sword

Chapter 4

NOW it was a real fool went racing across that bridge. And one following after him, barefoot on the sun-warmed planks, a canaler among the hightowners—the folk in plain chambrys and leather, the tradesfolk and the hightown shopfolk; and Signeury guards and sober Collegians and the highest of the hightowners, uptown folk all decked in lace and fine fabrics and dainty heeled shoes that rat-tat-tatted on the boards like a holiday drummer. A sweet-seller bawled her wares at bridgehead, beneath the ominous, thoughtful face of the Angel, whose gilt hand was on his sword. Altair strode past and imagined the sword regretfully shoved an immeasurable fraction back into its sheath: a fool's act put off the Retribution. Daughter, the Angel would say, his grave beautiful face very like Mondragon's, just why are you doing this?

And she would stand and stammer and say: Retribution (the Angel had her mother's name), I dunno, but excuse me now (hasty mental curtsy), there's the other fool and he's off down the walk, I daren't run—Let me keep up with him, Angel, I'll mind my business tomorrow, I will—

She pattered off the bridge and along the side of Ventani Isle, on its balconies, with its higher-level bridges in still more layers above, that shadowed Margrave Canal and Coffin Bridge and sent a few bright stripes on sunlight right down onto the walk. A merchant had set a potted plant in one broad stripe, possessor of a bit of sun, precious commodity on this level. An old man dozed in another patch of light.

Ahead in the crowd, Mondragon walked more slowly now; so she did, keeping that black scarf and blue sweater in sight. A canaler moved quite freely on this level, nothing at all remarkable. Someone on an errand. Someone taking an order. Moghi's Tavern was on the waterfront down below, at the Ventani's opposite comer, that which supported Fishmarket Bridge; but Mondragon, if he was going to Fishmarket, was certainly taking a roundabout route.

No. He took the short span over to Princeton, where it was much harder to track him without being seen. She reached Princeton Bridge and lounged there against the post for a moment until she saw her quarry take out to the right, down Princeton Walk.

She hurried then, walked along with a canaler's habitually rolling gait.

See the fool up there. Dressed like a canalrat, he is, and walks like a landsman for all to see. Landsman might not notice. But a canaler would notice something wrong, and look twice at him, and that twice might be trouble for him, might for sure—

Right across to Calliste Isle. Headed uptown. She strolled along with ease, took her time and faded back against the shopfronts and the posts among the passers-by when he would stop and take a look around him.

—So he's worried. He thinks about who might see him. He's trying to act natural and he daren't take to the high bridges, no, got to keep to the low, got to creep about down here with us canalers and the rats, he does.

Thank ye, Angel. He's being real easy. And if he goes back for Fishmarket round the Calliste I'll know he's a proper fool.

No, It was on north again, over the bridge to Van Isle and never a hint of stopping. A canaler passed him and stopped against Van Bridge rail and stared at his back; it was halfblind Ness. And Ness was still doing that when Altair walked past trying her best to look nonchalant.

"Hey," Ness said. " 'lo."

"Hey," Altair said, not to make a scene; and Mondragon was plainly in sight and had to be as long as he was on that bridge. A man hailed you politely, you hailed back. "I got a 'pointment, Ness. How you doing?"

"Oh, fair. Hey, you do be in some hurry—"

Altair simply left him, for Mondragon took an unexpected turn south. She hurried across the bridge, and took out on the same tack.

Round the band of Yan then, round and on round, and onto the short bridge and across to Williams and the Salazar, which fronted on Port Canal.

I could have ferried him here easy as not. Not that much further. What's he into? Why's he afraid of me letting him out at Port? Afraid of who could see him? Not wanting me to see?

Why?

Her heart thumped. Mondragon had slipped aside into a galleria that pierced Salazar's second level. She headed after him at greater speed, closing the gap in this darker place, this wooden cavern teeming with marketers and crowded with leather goods and shoemakers. Merchants bawled after shoppers. Merchants shouted at leather-dealers. The whole place smelled of leathers and oils above the prevalent canal-smell. And sunlight pierced it all by portsoleils and at the end, throwing figures into silhouette where the galleria turned out onto Port Canal, making everyone alike and without detail. She kept going, having lost her quarry for a moment, blinked when she came out into the sunlight and then caught sight of him on the bridge that led over north, to Mars.

Lord, the man's trying to kill me. No. He had rested the entire trip up from the harbor, that was how he moved so quick. Her side hurt again. Her feet felt stripped of calluses. He kept going round the side of Mars and over the bridge to Gallandry and around the corner.

And he vanished, before she could round the side of Gallandry. She took a running step, plastered herself to the stone side of Gallandry and took a quick look down the cut that led most of the way through Gallandry Isle, roofed with a solid next floor overhead, but not below, where an iron-failed balcony overlooked the water: narrow dark little nook of Gallandry business, the Gallandrys being shippers, factors, importers who sent their big motor-barges up and down the Port and the Grand.

Down that brick-floored balcony Mondragon knocked at a door. And talked with someone and got in.

So. Altair slumped against the wall, disheartened.

Gallandry. Gallandry was hardly interesting. Importers. Freighters. Traders. Certainly not among the uptown families.

Well, how could anything that came to her be more wonderful than that? How could he be more than that, some upriver merchant's son in difficulty in a canalside dive. Offend one of the Families, insult someone like the Mantovans or even some canalside riffraff, and get dumped in to feed the fishes. Easy as that.

So he went to his Merovingian factor to get money and clothes on his papa's name, and maybe to hire revenge. Simple. Simple done. Then to the Det and the boat before it left, probably on one of the Gallandry barges, probably hiding till they could spirit him out of town, safe and proper.

She gave a great sigh. It ached all the way to the bottom of her heart and she nursed an aching side and sore feet. It was nothing she could pursue further. It was nothing she had any more claim on—unless she walked up and rapped on the door and said Mondragon, give me my domes back.

He might talk the Gallandrys into giving her a reward. And wish to his Ancestors she was not there in front of his business partners.

If she was not a fool she would embarrass him right proper, get all the money she could. Maybe hold out for doing light freight for the Gallandrys. That favor was worth a damnsight more than any coin. Canalers would respect her then, by the Ancestors.

She slid down to squat on her heels, pushed her cap back and ran a hand through her hair.

Fool. Triple fool. I'm sorry, Angel. I'll be sane tomorrow; but hanged if I'll beg, damn him. Could have said right out Jones, take me to Port Canal, take me to Gallandry. I could have done 'er, easy as spit.

Come up with me, he could have said, come on, Jones, want you to meet these folk.

He could have given me my damn clothes back.

Could have said goodbye proper at the Gallandry landing, he could. 'Bye, Jones. Been nice. Don't'spect I'll see you again, but good luck to ye.

She gnawed a hangnail, spat, cast a look back down the stone wall to the door, invisible from her angle.

Why didn't he have me take him here?

What's he up to?

The pain stopped. There began to be prickling up her back.

What's the fool up to? What's he doing in there?

Is he all right in there?

Damn, no, it ain't all on the table. Skulk over here, dive in a door in this damn gallery, disappear like that—Whoever he's meeting here is somebody he knows, somebody maybe a friend, but he ain't wanting to be seen, ain't wanting me to know—

—Stay out of my business, Jones.

Damnfool. Trust the Gallandrys. Maybe. Maybe about as far as you can trust any of the breed. They'll cut your throat, Mondragon, fool.

Or maybe you're a meaner fellow than they want to take on.

Not if they didn't push you so's you knew it, maybe. Not if you didn't see it coming, and, Lord and Ancestors, you didn't see that coming that near cracked your skull for you, now, did you? And you don't damn well know Merovingen, had to ask me things a man ought to know if he knew Merovingen, didn't you, Mondragon?

She reset her cap on her head, jammed it down and finally got up—walked quietly down the deserted dark gallery and stopped at the door. She took a further chance and set her ear against it.

There were voices. None of them were raised. The words were all a mumble.

She padded back where she had come from. Over the iron rail beside her, the gallery ended in a black watt and a watery bottom, a cut where a big barge could moor safely for loading. Green-black water, beyond all direct touch of sun. She went back into the sunlight on her end, where she could pretend to be about some honest business—but traffic was sparse here. A few passers-by. She sat herself down on the brick balcony with her feet adangle under the iron rail that overlooked wide Port Canal, just sat, elbows on the bottom rail, feet swinging, like any idle canaler waiting on a bit of business in a Gallandry office. And meanwhile she had that door under the tail of her eye and not a way in the world he could get out on this level without her knowing.

On this level. That was what gnawed at her. There were inside stairs in such buildings. There were ways to come and go. He could go in here and come out up above, on some upper level, clear across the building. Bridges laced back and forth to Gallandry on still another level, going back across the Port, over the West Canal to Mars or diNero and places north. Near a dozen bridges, most of them blind from where she sat. It was hopeless, if that was what he did. Unless—

She suddenly realized another fixture of the area, a man sitting the same as she was, over on the balcony of Arden Isle, next level up.

She did not look quick, but after a moment she glanced up again and scanned the area as if she were surveying the bridges.

Watcher on the West Arden bridge, too, on her level, just sitting.

Her heart beat faster. Gallandry folk? They might be. There were a lot of things they might be. She got up slowly, dusted herself off and leaned her elbows on the rail, looking down Port Canal, watching the traffic go, watching a slow barge and a flotilla of skips and poleboats. Shifted her eye back to Arden again. The watcher up there had moved, sat with one leg over the balcony rim; his hands made motions like whittling.

Damn. Damn. Real nervous sorts.

They got him under their eye.

They got me, too.

Fool, Jones, you got no protection.

Hope he walks right out that door with a dozen Gallandrys.

No, damn, I hope he don't. Him and all the Gallandrys'd walk right into it. Lord knows—they could be law watching the place. What if they're the law. What's Mondragon into?

If they're blacklegs, they can sweep me up right with the Gallandrys and all. Sweep me up to talk to even if they can't get him, if they're close enough to see me clear.

They might not be law either.

Oh, Jones, what have you got yourself into?

How'd they pick him up? Waiting ail up and down the Grand? On the Ventani? No, dammit, there're too many, they'd have to get word out—They were watching Gallandry already. Either they're Gallandry or blacklegs or maybe some gang, and what's my chances of walking out of here by any bridge, huh, Jones?

Mondragon goes his way and some damn Gallandry knifes me on a bridge, he does, just precautionary. What's a dead water-rat, come floating down the Port tomorrow morning with the garbage?

She drew in a slow breath, shifted her eye toward the barge-gallery and worked her fingers together.

Law could have been watching Gallandry all this time. Anybody could. Mondragon, you walked into a trap, you're in it up to your ears, Mondragon.

She rose and dusted off her breeches again, shoved her cap back and scratched her head. Put her hands in her hip pockets and strolled a dozen paces down the balcony toward Mars. Then back again. Stop. Take the pose of a canaler tired of waiting. She stood on one foot, brought the other up to her knee and examined the calluses, pretended to pick a splinter. Then she took a stroll down the shadowed gallery again, hands in pockets, the very image of a boatman gone impatient over a wait.

She knocked at the door. Knocked again.

It opened. A man in work-clothes towered in the doorway. "Hey," she said, "is my partner through in here yet?"

The man had a heavy face; big gut. He filled the door way but around the edges of him there was sight of windows on the canalside that let in light; there was the expected lot of desks and clutter; another man, the same sort, standing back alongside a lot of boxes. The heavy-faced man looked disturbed and confused. Then: "Come on in." He moved his bulk aside and Altair stepped up on the sill and got through that little space he left into the room.

Boxes and desk and papers and more boxes. Two windows. A door that made this room only half the space available on this floor. No Mondragon. And Man Two was moving up like a fish on bait, while Man One shoved the door shut at her side and set his bulk ominously in front of it.

"What's this about a partner?" Man Two asked.

Altair swallowed hard. Her heart was trying to come up her windpipe. She hooked a thumb toward Port Canal in general.''What you got out there, ser, is eyes all over this place. I got two watchers in sight meself, and they don't look friendly. I figure they got all the bridges off Gallandry blocked. So if you'd kindly tell my partner, I think I'd like to talk to him."

"What partner?" Man Two asked.

Oh, here it is. Body sinks real good, Jones, with a couple of rocks. Right to the bottom of Gallandry-dock and nobody the wiser.

She set hands on hips. "Him as I delivered to your door."

"Did you now?" Man One hitched up his belt and a good weight of belly. "You got a good imagination, girl."

Jones, that's Jones, damn great fool. Altair bristled and choked it down. Mondragon said forget his name in town; won't be a bigger fool and give them mine. "What I got," she said equably, "is a partner I brought here. You don't want to talk to me you can talk to the law that's all round this place."

Uh-uh. The eyes went opaque in a way that said wrong guess.

"So it ain't the law out there, then. That means Gallandry folk. Or it means Gallandry's got troubles." She folded her arms and planted her bare feet on their floor. "You got a damnsight more if you don't fetch up my partner.**

"I think," said Man Two, "you'd better go upstairs with us."

"I ain't going nowhere. You bring 'im here—hey!" The man reached and she moved, one jerk at her belt and the barrelhook was in her hand, meaning business. "Don't you try it, man. You get him down here or I'll carve up your partner here—hook him good, I will. You get up those stairs and you get my partner down here."

It was standoff. Man One, by the door, showed no enthusiasm to be the one hooked. Man Two backed out of range.

"Get him." Altair said. "Get him down here."

"What's it matter?" Man One said. His voice was high with panic.

"This is ridiculous," Man Two said, made an advance and snatched his hand out of range in a hurry.

"I ain't particular which, really," Altair said, and backed and kept her eye on both of them. "Now, you Gallan-drys—I'm guessing you're Gallandrys—you ain't of the Trade, but you ain't hightown either; maybe you seen up close what one of these things can do. I can hook up a barrel full to the brim and put 'er where I want—just where you hook it and how you sling. Want to see? One of you might weigh about the same."

Man Two walked over the desk, walked further still, taking himself out of her line of sight. She drew her knife left-handed, right hand to jerk a man into range and left hand to slice or stab.

"On the other hand," she said, "you go and split up like that, I'm going to have to stick him so's I can watch you."

"Hale," Man One said earnestly, against the door. "Hale, get up those damn stairs and get him down here. We don't want to get somebody hurt. He might have hired some boatman. Let him answer it."

There was a profound silence. Altair kept both of them in sight; but Man Two, the one he called Hale, had stopped his stalking.

4'Let's be sensible," Hale said. "You put that sticker and that hook away and you can come upstairs."

*'Let's be better than that. Let's you get him down here. He'll come, right ready. Friend of mine. If he won't I'll know you done him some harm, won't I?"

"Get him," Man One said. "Dammit, Hale, get up there."

Hale thought about it. "All right, " he said. "All right. Jon, you stay in front of that door."

Jon thought about that one too. And there was a fine sweat on his face.

"That's all right," Altair said as Hale opened the door and headed up a stairwell, "Jonny-lad, I got no hurry. You just don't move and I'll wait on my partner."

And how much else, Jones? That Hale, he'll either get Mondragon or he'll get a great lot of men and them with swords, and what do you do then, Jones? You're going to die here, Mondragon's going to be real sorry, but this is business, and a tumble and a night out on Dead Harbor don't mean a thing in the world's scales. Way the world runs, Jones. Sorry, Jones. You're about to die here, make part of Gallandry's foundations, you will, or you'll just wash right on down to the boneheap in the bottom of the harbor. Feed the fishes. Real stupid, Jones. What are you doing here? Why ain't you back at your boat?

Mama, I'm sorry. You got any suggestions?

Don't be here.

I wish I wasn't.

Her heart hammered against her ribs now that the imminent threat was abated. Steps creaked across the floor above. Her knees felt like water. She could maybe scare this man out of the way and get that door open before he came at her back—

But there were the bridges to pass. There were either Gallandrys or some other kind of watchers out there and it was the devil's own choice.

She grinned at Jonny-lad, her most engaging let's-be-friends kind of grin. The man looked nervous. "Hey," she said, "you think your partner's got any ideas about bringing back a whole mess of people? I sure hope not."

"Who are you?"

"Ask my partner. Really, I ain't the sort that goes breaking into places. But those fellows out there on the bridges don't look real inviting. You want me to fall into their hands with all I know?"

Jonny looked worried at that thought.

"Uhhh. They ain't Gallandry, are they? Who? Who would they be?"

Jonny kept his mouth shut.

"Well, I'll bet you could guess," Altair said. She held the knife up and studied it, and carefully put it away into its sheath, at which Jonny-lad looked at first worried and then a great deal easier. The sweat stood in beads on his brow. And someone was walking upstairs again, a heavier squeaking of beams. The walking reached the landing and headed down at speed. More than one set of footsteps, like half a dozen, down the last steps to the door and the light.

Hale came out that door and something russet came behind him down the steps, ahead of others—Lord, Mondragon, all in velvet breeches and a red cost and his pale hair all damp—

—Another of his damned baths.

Beside her, Jonny moved, abandoning defense of the door to the men with drawn swords that poured out of the stairwell behind Mondragon and into the room and around the edges of it. Altair stared, not at them, but at Mondragon, at that lordly creature he had become; at the sight she had imagined suddenly standing there in front of her. Men poured all about her, swords to deal with one canaler and her hook and her knife—it was altogether too much. She stood still, not wanting to be skewered, and one of the long swords came up and batted her hook-hand aside— stand still, that meant plainly. She stood, while Jonny in a fit of bravery came up, grabbed the hook and took it away from her. Fool. If she had decided to die right then Jonny-lad would have gone on his own men's blades and with her foot where it hurt. She stared straight at Mondragon, never quit staring, though one of the Gallandrys came up and grabbed her by the arm, and a second did, hard, so it cut off the blood.

"I want my clothes back," she said. "Hear me, partner?"

His eyes met hers. He stood there staring.

"They going to break my arm?" she asked. And never used his name. "I tell you you got a lot of—" —people outside this place—she started to say; and then went cold inside.

Lord, maybe they're his! Maybe I just spilled something that puts him in a lot of trouble.

"Let her go," Mondragon said sternly. "Jones, you keep your hands from that knife. Hear me?"

He held out his hand, expecting to be obeyed. The men holding her arms let go and the swords angled away.

"Damn nonsense," she said, and advanced on Jonny-lad. "Give me that. Give me that here."

"Give it to her,'* Mondragon said, and she put out a hand for her barrelhook. To her humiliation that hand was shaking. Badly.

"Give it here, damn you." She held the hand steady as she could. "Or some night I'll hang your guts over the—*'

"Jones!" Mondragon said. "Gallandry, give it to her. She's not going to use it."

The big man held it out. She took it and stuck it in her belt, point down in the split place made for it; and dusted herself off and walked over toward Mondragon, who turned his back and walked off through the door and up the stairs.

She trod after him. Behind her Hale was saying something about bolting the door; and armed men followed them up.

Canal-bottom, Altair thought glumly, climbing the old board stairs at Mondragon's back. Bone-pile down at Det-mouth. Ancestor-fools, I've done it, I've done it good, old Del and his wife're going to have my boat and the Det's going to have me before all's said and done.

O Lord, Mondragon, what are you?

There was a door at the top of the stairs. The Gallandry man in the lead, one of the swordsmen, opened it ahead of Mondragon, walked in and put himself by it as Mondragon and the rest of them came in.

Altair walked out into the room—it was a large room with too little furniture to fill it, a few tables, most small, one huge one, a handful of spindly chairs, a yellowed map hung on the wall. And windows, window after window, each tall as three men, panes clouded with neglect. Sparse. Rich men could afford to waste so much room. She had never imagined it. She turned and put her hands in her waist and looked at Mondragon, who stood there with the Gallandry men at his back.

She walked as far as the window and looked out the cloudy glass. The Port Canal was outside. The balcony over on third-level Arden was empty except for a casual stroller. She could not see the second-level bridge. Blue sky showed over Arden's wooden spires. She glanced back at Mondragon. "Cozy. You can see everything from up here."

Give me a cue, Mondragon.

"What are you doing here?"

"Hey, I told you. You owe me."

He stood very still. Finally he walked over to one of the side tables, unstopped a fine crystal holder and tipped a bit of amber liquid into one glass and another. He brought them back and gave her one.

"This poison?" she asked, with him up close and able to pass her hints with his eyes. Dammit, I'm scared, Mondragon. Where are the sides in this?

"I thought your taste was whiskey."

She sipped. It went down like water and hit like fire. The pleasantry went down even better, a little warmth after the coldness downstairs. He walked away from her as footsteps sounded on the board stairs and Hale came puffing into the room. "My transportation," Mondragon said to them. He took a sip of his own glass, held it outward in a warding-gesture to the others. "I owe her money."

Damn you, Mondragon.

"And a few other things," Mondragon said. He took another sip, came back and handed the glass to her. "Here, finish it, Jones. Hale, I want to talk with you."

He walked out behind Hale and three of the others. Closed the door. Altair stood there with two half-glasses of whiskey in her hands and a slow fit of rage heating up her face. Three of the man had stayed. One propped himself, arms folded, by the door. Two stood grim as death and the governor's tax.

She slowly poured one glass into the other, held the result up to the light of the tall window, and walked over to the nearest chair with a sidetable. She sat down, curling her bare toes under, and set the empty glass on the frail little table; leaned back and pushed her cap back to a precarious tilt and sipped at the whiskey in full sight of the Gallandrys, keeping diem under a heavy-lidded scrutiny.

Owe her money. Damn your black heart, Mondragon.

She smiled at the guards. Her right arm had fingermarks, she knew that it did; it ached up and down.

Rip your guts out, Gallandry. I'll remember your face. You'll never see mine, some dark night.

Mama said.

I killed a dozen people, mama. Even if they were crazies. Did it right, I did, one bullet left.

What'd you do now—besides not be here?

The doorlatch moved. Mondragon came back in, with Hale and the others.

"Jones. Where's that boat of yours?"

She held the whiskey glass and regarded him with a suspicious eye. "Real nice of you to use my name."

"Jones, it's all right." He walked closer, him in his fine clothes. "Who was watching the bridges? Anyone you know?"

She shook her head. "No. I just saw 'em. They saw me hanging about. Right then I had it figured it wasn't going to be real smart to walk past 'em So I walked up and knocked."

"Where did you leave the boat?"

"That's my business, ain't it?"

"Jones." He beckoned with a finger. Get up. Come on. She sat there and stared at him. "Come on, Jones." This time it was the outheld hand.

She tossed off the whiskey, got up and coldly put the glass in his hand.

His face was as cold. Then slowly his mouth curved into a smile. He took the glass aside with a flourish of a lace-cuffed wrist and set it down. "This way, Jones—" With a gesture toward the far end of the room, and another door.

She was out of choices. She walked where he told her to walk, and only Hale went with them. Hale opened the door onto a place with windows like the other room, but with real furniture: overstuffed chairs; wall-hangings, carpets, papers. There was a stair there, wood polished as sin with red carpet going up it. Mondragon put his hand on the newel and motioned her up those steps.

So. She was taking orders for the moment. She climbed the stairs and Mondragon went closely behind her.

At the top, beyond the first landing, was a second flight of steps, and an open door beside. She hesitated. Mondragon's hand caught her elbow and propelled her through the door into an oiled-wood splendor of stuffed flowered chairs, a flounced poster-bed, and fancy carpet.

She turned about when he let her go. He shut the door and set his back against it, just the two of them.

"Dammit, Jones. What are you up to?" "Up to? Lord, I thought a poor fool was going to get hisself thrown into the canal again. I walked along behind, nice-like, just in case, see—and those skulkers out there—" She waved a hand at the windows and the rooftops and towers of Arden beyond. "They cut me off."

He leaned there against the door, and there was still the flush of sunburn on his face. Or of anger. "You didn't need to get involved in this."

That was heartening. It was a better tone than she had heard out of him since setting eyes on him in Gallandry. Relief turned her joints shivery. "So what do you want? I got my boat. I know the canals. I spotted them out there—" She jerked a thumb toward the windows. "—when you let 'em get at your back."

"Not saying what else you did, hanging around outside and attracting attention."

"Well, you weren't doing a real fine job of watching yourself! Else how'd I track you, huh?"

He said nothing to that.

"They—ain't yours, are they?"

"No." He drew a great breath and walked over to a nearby chair. He unbuckled his sword and hung it over the chair finial, reached up and unbuttoned his lace-front collar. "They're not. I think I know whose they are. But now a quiet pact's been broken. Maybe to the better." He turned and looked at her again. "Jones. Jones. You didn't need this kind of trouble."

"Well, I got 'er, don't I?" She walked over and flung herself down in one of the spindly chairs, caught the cap before it fell off her head backward, and reset it. "Damn fool near broke my arm. Try to help a man. Try to see he gets through the town all right—"

"—try to see where he's going."

"Well, how'm I to see he gets there if I don't see where he's going?"

"Are you being a fool, Jones?" with that soft gentle voice. "Jones, you are a fool."

"Lot of trouble, huh?"

He walked away to the window and stared out toward the canal.

"They out there again?"

"I think they'll be quieter about it."

"Who were they?"

He turned back again. "Jones." In a sad tone. "There's no going anywhere till dark. You want something to eat?"

"I'm not starving."

"Call it favor for favor. I owe you a meal or so. I ordered something, it ought to be here soon." He gestured to a side door. "There's a bath in there, the water's not cold yet, you didn't give it time. Take the aches out."

Heat leaped to her face. She sat there very still, then got up and took off her cap and dusted it across her leg. "Sure. Fine. Take the aches out." She walked across the room and flung her cap into a chair. Unfastened her trousers. "Mondragon, you're going to wash yourself away to nothing. No wonder you're so damn white."

She walked onto white tiles and stood in front of a great brass tub—Brass! Lord and my Ancestors. The whole damn tub. Shining brass.

Smells like a drugshop.

She pulled the sweater off, dropped the pants and stuck a hand into the water. Warm as sunshine. She suddenly remembered the view Mondragon probably had and looked back to kick the door shut.

That for his intentions.

Damn well know what he's up to.

She climbed gingerly over the rim, let herself down into warm water, up to the chin in the perfumed bath.

She had dreamed of things like this, without knowing what to dream of. She had caught the smell of perfume from uptowners and wondered what it was made them smell so clean underneath it.

It was bathing four or five times a day, that was what; it was brass tubs and perfume and soap and water full of oil.

She turned up her right foot and took a brush that floated in the tub and scrubbed the black off the sole, did the same for the other. She took the soap from the tray at the foot and scrubbed her hair and ducked and came up again with perfume in her nose and eyes and sweet-bitter oil in her mouth.

O Lord and Ancestors, the stuff tasted like it smelled.

The light was an oil-light, all gold, with a brass plate to reflect it. There was a water closet across the room and it of brass, with all the accoutrements she had seen in a shop window in hightown.

What's that? she had asked her mother. And Retribution Jones had explained how rich people were. How she had learned this, she did not say. But it was true, and there it was, with its outlet right down to the canals, where it gave old Det what everyone did, rich and poor alike.

She tried the taps on the tub. They were like the public water taps from the fill-up tanks, that cost you a penny a can, only this was private, people owned these tanks. She sat a heartbeat or two watching it run, then turned it off and got out of the tub to go inspect the watercloset, this supreme elegance. There was paper, perfumed paper, to use and throw away, by the Ancestors; rich people wasted everything. She used the thing and it worked. She pulled the chain a second time in pure fascination to see the water go down and the bowl fill.

Lord and my Ancestors. And this not even hightown.

She went back to her bath and sank down again over her head and came up for the sheer pleasure of it. Soaped and ducked again, and lay there a lazy while with her chin underwater.

The door opened. Mondragon came in coatless, and had a wineglass in his lace-cuffed hand. "Dinner's come," he said, and handed it to her as she slid up as far as her armpits.

"Man, you're trying to get me drunk."

"Of course I am." He settled on the curved rim of the brass tub heedless of water on his fine trousers. "I hope you'll oblige. We've got the whole evening."

She sipped the wine. It was not at all sour like Moghi's. It found whole new flavors after a mouthful went down. She took a second sip and looked up at him. "You figure it's easier to drop me in the canal if I'm drunk."

"Jones." He managed to sound offended.

And a bit of panic took her.

Whole evening—till what?

Del Suleiman was out there with her boat tied up to his; and adding up what she owed by the hour. That rate would go up considerably when he wanted to move on and had a boat in tow. Old Mira could pole her boat on her own behind Del, puffing and swearing all the way: they would move right on up to Hightown Bridge where they always tied up. And begin thinking thoughts like—

—like Jones might not come back. Like something could happen to Jones and they would be rich. Honest as they were, it was a thing to think of.

She drank another sip of the wine. "You going to drop me in the canal or hire me?"

"Here's a robe." He held up the glittery garment. "Want me to help you into it?"

"You're real clever, ain't you?"

He stood up and held it up for her. She stood up and climbed out and slipped one arm through, traded hands on the wineglass and stuck the other through. He wrapped it about her from behind, his touch light and at no time anywhere but her waist. She looked down, outright stared in shock at the shining stuff, all black and gold on her body and dragging about her feet, and her brown hand holding it, callused from the pole and the ropes and barrels. It was crazy. Crazy as all the rest of it. She clutched it up in a careful left fist and followed him out the door, trying not to trip and spill the wine on it. Her hair dripped, soaking her shoulders.

Lord, ain't rich folk careful o' nothing? Don't he care?

There was a heaping tray of food on the little table by the door—Lord, there was fruit and there was upriver cheese and there was bread and two pitchers of wine, red and white, and things she could not even identify, like Nev Hettek sausages, only fancy, with dark and light checks and stripes; there was red meat, by the Ancestors, red meat the like of which canalers saw in shop windows uptown and she had never had a taste of in her life.

"Sit down," Mondragon said.

She gathered the silky-stiff fabric around her and settled reverently into one of the fragile-looking chairs in front of this monument. He motioned at her and she let go the robe and snagged a thin slice of meat. It was peppery on the outside and strange on the inside and made as many flavors as the wine she washed it down with.

She tried the sausages each, and the cheeses, and had a real bit of fruit that squished in her mouth with impossible green-stuff flavors—Mondragon composed himself a sandwich, seated opposite, and took his time about it; but she settled on the red meat and the fruit and used her fingers, one slice and a berry, one thin slice and a berry, because other things were rare, but nothing so rare as that.

She hiccupped. And blinked in mortification.

"Have another glass," Mondragon said with calculation.

She took it gravely and stopped the hiccups. There was at the far side of the room that broad real bed, all draped in lacy frills, which was another thing she had never known in her whole life. She drank the wine and looked at that and smelled perfume everywhere. A sudden warm and panicked feeling ran from her head to her toes and down again.

She held the stem of the wineglass in her fingers and looked Mondragon right in the eyes. "I got a boat to get to," she said. "Am I going to get back to it?"

He reached for the wineglass and took it out of her hand, held on to the hand as he set it aside. He looked very close into her eyes. "Jones. They know your face. They know you're with me. I don't know what to do with you, but I'm trying to keep you out of the canal, you understand me? I don't want you hurt. Tonight there's a barge going out of here. You and I are going to be on it. A Gallandry barge, the same as barges come and go all the time—"

"To get past them?"

"If we're lucky."

"Lucky? I got my boat, I got to get back, they'll be watching every boat and barge comes in and out of Gallandry, won't they? Mondragon, that's the damn dumbest thing you could do—call the law in, f'Lord's sake—"

"I don't want to do that."

She looked at him. Maybe she was too many drinks along. She found herself staring.

Other side of the law, huh? Gallandrys too?

"Where's this barge going?"

"Out to the Grand. Let you off at your boat." He lifted her hand and held it. "Anywhere you like."

"Tell you what, you come with me, I'll make a proper canaler out of you."

He said nothing to that. Only thoughts went on behind his eyes, in that pretty face. "Jones. How drunk do I have to get you?"

"To do what? That bed? Or get in that damn barge with you?"

He took up the glass and put it back in her hand. "Finish that."

She gulped the remaining third down in two swallows. Set the glass down. "I finished."

"Dammit, Jones." He stood up and took her face be tween his hands, tilted it painfully up and looked at her so closely her eyes wanted to cross. "How old are you?"

She flinched back and failed to escape. "What difference does that make?"

"A lot." His hands held hard. "A damnable lot of difference. Jones, Jones, I know—I know. I come into your life, first man ever. I shouldn't have done it, I knew you'd set more on it than I would—than I can, Jones, you're not young but once; and here you toss all that good sense of yours away and go following after me for no good reason, no good reason at all. You don't even know what you want, except you aren't ready to turn loose of that first time and be like the rest of the world. If you want me to make love to you, I will. Or you can sleep it off in that bed over there. In either case I'm going to get you back where you belong."

She listened; and her face went unbearably hot and then cold. Her eyes were going to water right there in front of him, and then she shoved the pain away and laid down the lid on it and sat on it the way she had learned to do. Snuffling don't win a thing, Jones. Real world don't give a thing; who said it did? He's being nice, damn him anyhow.

She reached up and laid her hands on his arms ever so tenderly and soberly. "Mondragon, you sure got an opinion of yourself, don't you?"

He backed up a bit. He dropped his hands. Maybe there was a bit of flush in his face.

"Now," she said, seizing on that little shred of power, "what you got, Mondragon, is me in a terrible mess, with those skulkers out there knowing my face and all. And you having handed my name out so nice to the Gallandrys. Thanks a lot."

"They won't hurt you."

"If you think that you're younger'n I am."

"They're not interested in you."

"Well, they are now. I embarrassed Jenny-boy and Hale real bad."

"Then why did you walk into it, dammit?"

"I told you. No, you could've introduced me nice. Could've said, hey, this is Jones, she's a good'un, you want a job done, call Jones. You wouldn't do that. Now I got trouble with them."

"Well, you bought it. I told you stay out of my business."

"Well, what would you do? Let a fellow walk off with his head all cracked and him in a strange town and his belly full of my breakfast, I might add!"

He took her by both arms and pulled her right off her chair, right up to her feet and shook her.

"Jones, this isn't a game."

"I been trying to tell you that."

"Jones, for God's sake."

She was shivering. She did not know why but a tremor got started in her muscles. Maybe it was his hand hurting the bruise on her arm which went all the way to the bone.

"What am I going to do with you?"

"I dunno. You could start by not breaking my arm."

He let go and pushed up her sleeve and looked at it. The bruise showed already, distinct fingermarks. "Lord. I'm sorry."

"Hey, that's fine." She reached up and patted his face. "That's fine." The wine and the double whiskey hit all at once, a slight fuzziness about everything. She wobbled and blinked at him. Her eyes might be crossing for sure this time. "I don't mind."

He gathered her up and picked her up. She let out a yell, not convinced anyone could pick her up without dropping her, and grabbed his neck so that he did go off his balance: it was a panic passage across the floor until she did fall; and landed on the bed; and he came down with his hands on either side of her.

"Dammit, Jones!"

She lay there with the alcohol spinning round and round and blinked at him. He recovered himself and pulled the robe off her and threw the covers back. "Under."

She got under. He threw the covers over her and walked off.

"Where you going?" She was honestly confused.

"I'm going," he said, "to get similarly drunk."

"Oh," she said. Oh. While it was sinking in. Then it lay at her gut and hurt so that she turned over on her side and hugged the overstuffed pillow. She watched him forlornly, while he poured himself another glass of wine, took the bottle with him, and sat down in the overstuffed chair. When the one glass was gone he poured another.

His face had no more sunny lightness. With the fancy clothes, with this place, it had gone all somber, full of thoughts. He was not the man she had known out there, the man who laughed and whose eyes danced. He was someone the Gallandrys were afraid of, that was what. He was someone a lot of people might be afraid of. He had that way about him.

He came to bed finally. She felt the mattress give and woke up, for one dizzy moment trying to remember where she was and why she was lying on something soft and steady with dim daylight coming through tall windows. Then her mind caught up and she looked over at Mondragon; but he lay there on his back with his eyes shut and she sensed he wanted to be let alone.

She lay there with hers open for a while, and looked back across the room where a pitcher of wine stood all but empty on the table.

He trusts the Gallandrys, she thought, adding it up: parts of her mind went on even when it was hazed. He's trying to rest. Maybe he hurts. He's talking about a barge and tonight and he's trying to rest up while he can.

Make love. He ain't any kid. He's got his mind full of something, that's what, he'd do that to keep me quiet, but he don't want to, he don't want me, he don't need any kid tagging after him, don't need anybody crazy to come in and do God knows what at the wrong time—You got him shouting, Jones; this ain't a man who yells, and here he is drinking hisself numb and blind.

You got him worried, Jones.

What've you got, huh? Man scared of the law. Man with nasty friends and nastier enemies.

She shut her eyes and drifted again in a vague, heart-aching nowhere.

Woke in the dark in a tangle of his limbs and hers, with someone banging at the door. "I hear you, I hear you," Mondragon bellowed back coming up on his arms and leaning over her. "Give me time, dammit!" And put a hand in the middle of her by accident. He felt his way to her face and patted it. "Sony. Sorry."

She groped dazedly at his arm. "'S all right. I'm all right."

His hand wandered to her shoulder, than patted her cheek again. Like love. Distractedly. "Damn. Got to get up. Get moving. Come on."

He got out of bed, leaving a draft. It was hard to move. Every muscle she had protested, not major aches, but little ones; and her back and her bruised arm felt afire. She put her feet out and walked a few paces, feeling her way past unfamiliar furniture. There was a dim wick burning in the bath, there was starlight from the tall windows, and Mondragon cracked the hall door open, sending another dim light into the room as he snagged something off the floor outside. He closed it and came to her where she clung dazedly to the back of an armchair. "We've got to dress in the dark," he said, "we don't want to show any more lights in the house than normal. Here. Sweater and pants. Ought to fit. I'm not sure about the shoes. They guessed."

Shoes. Lord! Socks. And clothes clean as never-worn. She held them to her nose and smelled them, and it was new-smell. She had never had new. She smelled the leather-smell of the shoes that was heady as a cobbler's shop. The whole business set her heart to pounding and sent prickles up her back: new clothes, the dark, the stealth that was no game at all; no. She imagined blackrobed skulkers down on the bridges, lurking down by the barge-dock of Gallandry—we're after getting killed and he's worried about new clothes, him and his baths and baths and baths, probably thinks I smell bad as old Muggin. Her mouth tasted awful. She saw him head for the bath, a shadow against the nightlight, and went over to the table to wash her mouth out with the wine while he took care of business there. Water rushed and gurgled. She pulled on the pants and they fit; pulled on her sweater and the socks, and shoved her feet into the shoes. They were snug and they pinched, but they did all right. She stood up and stamped one foot and the other, then went after Mondragon, to that glimmer of light that came out the bathroom door: her shoes showed, when she looked down, shiny-new with a fancy buckle on each, and fine black socks under blue cord knee-britches. Lord, fine as a kept poleboatman's, the whole outfit was.

"Uhhn." Mondragon splashed water, got his eyes clear and offered her his toothbrush.

Toothbrushes, shoes with buckles, and them trying to kill us! It all took on a dreamlike unreality, her face lamplit in the hanging mirror as Mondragon made room for her. She dipped a toothbrush in soda, scrubbed and spat—''Water drinkable?" she asked prudently, same as one had to know which public tap was which. "Safe," he said; and she turned the tap and washed out her mouth. Mondragon lent her his towel and went off and out the door.

Am I clean? Did I do everything he'd do? Does he think I'm dirty?

She scrubbed a second time with soap, and started to dose herself with a perfumy lotion she found in the bottle on the lavatory, but a prudent thought came to her: Damn, those bullyboys'll get wind of us that way sure.

She scrubbed her hand off, shivering suddenly as if it had become deep winter. Her teeth wanted to chatter. She used the watercloset and hurried out again, fearful of being left. Mondragon had put on a dark shirt: his face stood out pale in the starlight, disappeared and reappeared as he pulled a sweater on. The light winked coldly off the hilt of the rapier as he picked it up and belted it on. The trousers were dark as the rest.

"If you want not to be seen," she said through chatter* ing teeth, "get something over that head of yours."

"I've got it." A shadow fluttered across his hands, became a scarf; he tied it at his nape and it was only his face that stood out. "Your knife and your hook are on that table with your belt."

She gathered her knife-belt up and buckled it on. Looked back and saw him like a stranger in the starlight.

"Lord, you're grim as death." And then wished she hadn't said that. She tugged her sweater down in back and snatched a lump of cheese off last night's plate as Mondragon headed for the door.

Leaving this place. This luxury. This safe haven. This last place she might ever see him if things went wrong down there on that loading dock. The dim light of the hall shafted through the opened door. "Come on," Mondragon said. She came, hurrying, and pocketed the cheese.

And made one dive back in the dark, to the chair where she had thrown her cap and the bathroom floor where she had left her old clothes. She wound them into a bundle under her arm, pulled her cap on and set it firm even while she rushed for the door; and out then into the light with Mondragon beside her. He caught her arm and headed down the steps.