Divine Right, Page 2

  "What will it take?"

  Willa bit her lip, looked up under a brow and said, with a small smile, knowing the reaction she would get, "College action, not Council. A religious edict, no resort to the legislative. It's after all our province."

  "No," Eber said. "We can't support that. If distilling process goes under Anathema—"

  "Not refining."

  "It could be extended in principle. No. Absolutely we would oppose that."

  "We can exempt anyone under our sanction," Willa said, "which of course we would do in your case."

  "And could equally refuse it! No, Cardinal. We will not accept that. Let's not waste our time."

  "A counterproposal," Cromwell said after a breath. "No ban on distillation apparatus. But a simple legislative ban on engine use."

  "Excepting," Eber-White said, "the major arteries, yes. Our transports—"

  "Port, Grand, West, and Archangel," Basargin said.

  "That still leaves us," Eber said, "with those damned—excuse me, Cardinal—the whole question of the stills. They're a fire hazard. They don't meet the storage codes. . . ."

  "Then get them for that," Willa said. "You already have the law. Or don't you think it's enforceable? I tell you, m'seri, it isn't. Religious ban, yes, the canalers in general will respect that. I tell you there are suspect influences in this which are our business, and that's precisely the question here."

  "Tss. But practically speaking," Cromwell said, "the College can issue an Edict, that in principle private distilling is suspect; and it can equally well pass a Resolution, in the form of a bill to Council—to ban engines except in harbor. Both our objectives, you see, very simple. No boarding of canaler boats. And quite, quite satisfactory in both issues, a clear statement of College authority and a legal solution to the immediate problem."

  Willa looked at Cromwell in the uncomfortable suspicion of a sandbagging—but it was workable. No blackleg had to board a boat to detect an engine operating. It satisfied the merchants. It meant there would be no strings pulled in the College, where Reformers and Loyalists were precariously balanced.

  Still, the Lord knew what kind of provisions Council might add once it got to legislating.

  Need to get the aides moving, advise the Family, head off the kind of shenanigans Tatiana, the Reform Party, or, God save them, Anastasi Kalugin's radical supporters might try with a bill like that in their laps.

  "I'll support that solution," she said, pursing her lips, "if the Governor or the Astronomer will agree to issue the ban as an immediate Executive Order."

  In which case it went into effect as law until the Council could shape its own bill or veto it, —in which case, as an already operating order, it was a damned sight less likely to suffer sea-change in the Council's conniving hands.

  It gave the governor power, in that case: if he should reissue it after veto, that dance could go on for another three months, during which there was certainly time to shape a bill Exeter could live with.

  And which, of course, maintained karmic balance. The Lord's will be done.

  Eber-White said, then, with a little cough, "We do have to consider the fancy-boats—"

  God. The launches. The yachts. The powered craft of the Families—historic privilege—

  "Charge a license fee," Cromwell said. "Say, —thirty sols gold, annual. To go into the city maintenance fund."

  Negligible to a House. Prohibitive to a canaler. "The Governor's staff can work out these details," Willa said. "We only need a statement of policy out of this committee."

  At which the others looked somewhat disquieted— Exeter standing high in the Loyalist party, of which, of course, the governor was head.

  Out of which Exeter's own interests might derive some benefit, who knew?

  RUN SILENT, RUN CHEAP

  Leslie Fish

  Raven glanced around him at the crowd above Pogy Gate, feeling slightly unreal. The merry canalers on the lower seats, down near the water, looked believable enough: loud, rough-handed, barefoot, dressed in their dark and often ragged canvas and reed-linen, swapping expert comments on the condition and handling of the approaching boats. The little merchants and canalside tradesmen of the higher tiers seemed reasonable enough; with the bets flying free, not to mention an available crowd to measure and peddle at, it was sensible that they'd be here watching the Midsummer Open Poleboat Race come to its finish by the gate. The presence of better-house servants wasn't surprising either; given the chance and the good weather, they'd naturally come out to watch the boat race, make bets and a few purchases, gossip, pursue their petty plots, try for a bit of dalliance—and their fancy high-house liveries wouldn't be at all out of place in the crowd.

  But the obviously hightown lady, sitting in the folding chair near the top of the gate, peering our at the Grand Canal as eagerly as any of them—that was unreal. Hightowners never paid public attention to the Midsummer Open, almost never joined it—not even the wilder hotheads of the fast, young set—despite the promise that it was indeed Open to all and any. Everyone knew that canalers always won, and no high-towner wanted to be seen watching other hightowners trounced thoroughly by the lowest-of-Merovingen's-low.

  Nonetheless, the m'sera was here—publicly watching, publicly interested. That was as jarring as the presence of the tangle-lilies everywhere, their golden flowers and pesky foliage floating gracefully all along the sides and slips of the canal. That wasn't part of the Merovingen he remembered. How could a few years' time have changed the city that much?

  No, any moment now the vision would shred apart, leaving him sick and feverish and almost likely retching his guts out while May held him steady, back in the swamp. These past few weeks of change had all been part of the dream, this swamp-water vision. Reality was never this lovely, kind, or innocent.

  A hand quietly gripped his arm, shook gently, pulled back his wandering thoughts. Raven glanced up and met Yarrow's smile. Yes, he remembered, studying that seamed, kindly, rock-strong face. Yarrow's here, I'm back in town, and I've finally made my contact with the local Janes—only ten years late.

  He sat up a little straighter, reminding himself that Nature's time was not the same as Humanity's. Those years in the swamp, struggling to regain his lost memories, mattered nothing—save for the useful information he'd found there. He'd made his way back into town, caught up to Raj, gone from Raj to his brother Denny, from Denny to Rif—

  Raven glanced quickly at the hawk-faced, black-haired musician sitting at his other side. Yes, who better than a street-singer to know all of the odd byways of town? Who better, as contact, informant, agent for Mother Jane? She frightened him, though; a city-wise Jane, especially in Merovingen, seemed an impossible contradiction in terms. Well, no matter. She was exceptionally competent, intensely loyal, and that was all that counted. Especially in Merovingen.

  —and from Rif to Yarrow, and the Jane enclave down here in the Tidewater. After all those wasted years, he'd finally come home. And now there was work to do.

  Rif nudged him with an elbow and raised her chin toward the hightown woman at the top of the gate. "That's 'er," she murmured. "That's Ariadne Dela-ney. Our doorway inter hightown. And 'er husband's polin' in this race. Mark 'em well."

  Raven nodded and peered at the woman, then down at the water. Aye, mark them well, and think well. Farren Delaney: hightowner but without the usual aristocratic bigotries, bored with his dead-end job in the Harbormaster's office, no young hothead but still willing to join the Midsummer Open Poleboat Race—and with some expectation of winning. Ariadne Delaney: likewise minor aristocracy without prejudice, busily charitable without condescension, ambitious for her husband and sympathetic to the Janes. A hightown couple with ties to the Signeury, moving freely and comfortably down here in the Tidewater: bizarre, anomalous—and the best chance the Janes had found in all their years here.

  And desperately needed, now that Crazy Cassie was pouring oil on the fire in hightown, now that the rich and powerful were turning on
the poor and numerous with unexpected and undeserved bullying.

  "The guilty flee when no man pursueth ..."

  A shout drew Raven's attention to the far end of the canal. Yes, there was the telltale flurry of foaming water, then the first boat prows coming into view. The race was coming down to its end, and fast.

  The crowd roared and surged to its collective feet, Raven and the two women obliged to rise with it. Raven strained to see over and between the bobbing heads in front of him.

  Yes, here they came: two plain boats far in the lead, the rest trailing, all the funny-boats and fancy-boats having dropped out long before. It was a duel, neck and neck—no, one boat nosing slowly but steadily ahead. The two boatmen bent to their poles, shoved, straightened, bent again, in a fast and smooth rhythm that bespoke years of practice: experts both, closely matched in strength and skill. The crowd howled appreciation.

  "That's 'im, in the second boat," Rif almost had to shout in Raven's ear to be heard. "That's Farren Delaney. Mark 'im!"

  The man poling the second boat was dressed like a common canaler: rough calf-length breeches, bare feet, short-sleeved reed-linen shirt—no different from the wiry young man furiously poling the leading boat.

  Only a closer look showed the subtle differences: the smooth and even tan that revealed deliberate care in its acquisition, the balanced development of round and rolling muscles that likewise showed the effects of care rather than need, the trained athletic grace of motion learned by study as much as experience, the absence of scars on the bared arms. Farren Delaney was tall, fair and stocky, deliberately athletic, notably handsome. Raven could hear the man's labored breathing as the boat passed him. This race was not a game to him, not a side issue of some political intrigue; the man really was trying to win the race for its own sake.

  The leading boat passed under the suspended ribbon, half a length in front of Delaney's boat, to the roars of the crowd.

  Delaney looked up, fatigue and disappointment plain on his face—quickly followed by resignation, then a rueful smile. He shrugged, pulled his boat over behind the winner, and calmly tied on to the nearest ring.

  Raven looked up to the top of the gate and saw Ariadne Delaney on her feet, peering down at her husband's boat, wearing the same disappointed/resigned smile. Farren waved to her, then plodded through the crowd to help congratulate the winner.

  "Let's go," whispered Yarrow, tugging Raven's hand. "Time to work."

  He followed obediently as the women worked through the crowd toward the winner and runner-up, trying to record detail and see patterns, working his rusty Janist observation training. He knew the women would provide the stimuli this time; all he need do was observe, practice observing, learn and relearn by working, and the work was valuable. Raven concentrated his attention on his ears and eyes.

  Note: flushed and happy faces, gestures lively with leftover adrenaline but not focused with any anger, only a few drooping tones/expressions/gestures of disappointment—usually as lost bet money was handed over. Note: regretful comments on technique, how this or that contender had failed, no growls of resentment or comments about unfairness. Note how often Dela-ney's name was mentioned, and with what respect, and how rarely that respect was grudging.

  And note: Farren Delaney shaking the winner's hand, slapping him on the back, saying: "—knew I was in trouble when you got inside me on that last turn."

  Praising technique: very good.

  Note the winner's brief surprise, then gap-toothed smile of appreciation, the affectionate return slap on the shoulder, the easy respect of his reply: " 'Ey, even so, ye made me sweat for 'er, all th' way down ter th' ribbon. Bloody good race, Delaney. Almost fit ter take the trade, ye are!"

  Farren Delaney grinned from ear to ear, offered to buy the man a drink, and gestured to the nearest beer-peddler.

  Good. Very good. Perhaps he's only doing this from a devotion to sportsmanship, but very good nonetheless.

  Note Klickett up in the seats, leading a small delegation of her friends and neighbors and clients to offer hands, condolences, and promises of next-year's-race to Ariadne Delaney. Note Ariadne's surprised pleasure in the recognition, and how quickly she adapted to it.

  And there were Rif and Yarrow working quietly through the crowd, prodding for comments on Delaney, and the rumored coming ban on fuel-alcohol. Note the comments carefully.

  " 'Ey, it's the rich wants the ban, an' not fer our good. They wants us ter keep buyin' high-price petro from them. Screw 'em, I says."

  "Not jes' them. It's the landlords, too. They don' like all the backwash from fast boats sweepin' hard on the Isles. She washes out their underpinnin's, and they don' wanter have ter do repairs."

  "Their underpinnin's'd wash away all the same, an' ye bet yer butt the rich won' give up engines on their fancy-boats. Let the damned landlords fix their build-in's, I says. An' let the canalers keep usin' chugger."

  "Sure, an' with all th' engine wash throwin' water aroun'? Ye heard what happened ter ol' man Cruse!"

  "Hell, if fools ain't got the sense ter cut engines when they pass, it's their own damn fault. Get the Trade Council ter stomp on 'em fer their bad manners, but don' bring hightown inter it."

  "But what about the damn boat wash throwin' water everywhere? Throwin' that damn tangle-lily crap up on the walkways, splashin' the water high—"

  "That's 'cause o' them cruddy ol' engines most folks use," Rif's voice slid into the argument. "The wash'd be less if ye had shrouded propellers, vortex kind o' engines. An' I jes' happen ter know a place—"

  "Ta hell with that! The big boats can make as much speed under power as us little uns, an' they carry more cargo, so they got th'advantage. If they can't use chug-ger, we got a fair chance again."

  "Says you, Jones," one of the Deiter boys cut in. "Y'think they won't keep their stills an' engines under cover? Won't use 'em at night when the blacklegs ain't watchin'? An' don't tell me ye won't do the same. I ain't' seen you throwin' yer still an' engine inter Dead Harbor."

  "Piss on 'er, I might as well. More use means more wear on th' engine. When she wears out, where'm I goin' ter get another?"

  "Hell, I can answer that." Rif elbowed her way into the knot of arguing canalers, handing out small cards from a pack that appeared neatly in her hand. "Looky here. Can ye read 'er?"

  "I can read enough." Jones, glowering under her low-pulled cap, grabbed the proffered card and glared at it. "She's ... a map showing the way ter, hmm, a shop right near here." She turned the card over. "An' here it says . . . Yossarian's Repair Shop. So what's that, hey?"

  "Oh, nothin' much." Rif tossed a wide, knowing, conspiratorial grin at the knot of interested canalers. "That's jes' a place what happens ter be sellin' cheap, simple engines. Simple turbine-vortex jobs. Real quiet, real simple. They don' make hardly any noise, they don' hardly ever break down er wear out, an' they don't raise near as much wake as yer old clunker. That's what. Y'interested?"

  "I sure am!" The Deiter man grabbed one of the cards.

  Jones threw Rif a poisonous look, but she didn't hand back her card.

  "New engines?" Another canaler took a step back. "New tech?"

  "Ney, same old tech," Rif laughed. "Jes' new-made. Yossarian wants ter unload 'em fast. He's even willin' ter trade-in. Bring 'im yer old clunker, he'll give ye a good bit off—maybe even trade one-fer-one— on a new one."

  Other canalers shouldered closer, some of them reaching for the cards.

  "Ye seen these engines?" Jones asked, suspicion radiating off her like a halo. "Ye know what they're like?"

  "Yey, I seen 'em." Rif smiled back, meeting her eyes. "Real nice. All sizes. Good performance. Simple ter operate, burns any kind o' liquid fuel, and . . . they're real easy ter hide on even a small boat."

  "All sizes?" The nervous canaler took a step forward, and shyly took a card. "Easy ter hide?"

  "Sure. Jes' depends on how well ye want 'er hidden." Rif shrugged eloquently. "Do ye want ter keep 'er real discreet, might be
ye could put one behind a false bulkhead in yer hidey. More work, more time in the shop—ye make yer own choice. But do ye put 'er in with a couple hours' work, ye got somethin' the blacklegs wouldn' find, do they come lookin'. An' the price is good."

  Jones turned away, stuffing the card in her breeches. Other canalers crowded around Rif, snatching at the remaining cards. The pile shrank quickly.

  "Tell ye, though," Rif added, just loud enough for the immediate crowd to hear, "I'd get 'em quick before the ban passes—an' before blacklegs come in-spectin' yer boats ter confiscate visible engines."

  "Ye don' think they'd ..." a boatman gasped, going noticeably pale. He snatched two cards, fast.

  "Why not?" Rif curled her lip. "Mebbe 'nother reason fer the ban is, the hightowners don' want us canal-rats ter have fast boats. Mebbe they wants ter be sure we can't get away from 'em, whatever they're plannin' fer us. Ye've heard how Crazy Cassie's turn-in' 'em on us. Who knows what they got in mind?"

  The worried muttering spread through the adjacent crowd. Canalers with cards began hurrying away. Others came to take their place and grab cards.

  Raven smiled and shook his head in appreciation. So that was how they did it. So fast, so efficient: the word would be all over lowtown by nightfall. So would the address of Yossarian's Repairs. The shop would have to move soon, before the word leaked up to high-town and the College, but the rush had started.

  A hand touched his arm, and he turned to see Yarrow smiling at him.

  "Shall we go?" she said. "Dinner waits."

  And more plotting and scheming. Raven smiled. "I do believe I've worked up an appetite," he said, stepping into place at her side.

  "Those cards will be all over lowtown by nightfall," said Yarrow, nibbling delicately at her slice of grilled yellowtail. "By tomorrow, Yossarian will be selling the new engines hand over fist."

  "If the College ain't there first, screamin' 'Anathema!' " Rif commented, past a mouthful of fillet. "Won' take long fer the word ter get ter 'em."