Divine Right, Page 3

  "Long enough, with the misleading rumors our people have spread up there already." Yarrow smiled reassurance. "Besides, you don't think we put the real supplies and machine shop at that address, do you?"

  "Ney, but then how do the customers—"

  "They'll be led by the hand to where the installation is really done. The shop is just the, um, filtering plant that combs out the undesirables from the customers.

  If the College howlers show up, all they'll find is a perfectly respectable repair shop—and maybe one or two engines clearly made from parts of old ones. 'Much cry and little wool,' as the Falkenaers say."

  "An' if Yossarian gets hauled in?"

  "Then he does as Master Milton did, when the College hauled him in over that fireworks display. You remember how well that worked out."

  "Oh, yey!" Rif rolled her eyes and put on a burlesque stupid-sincere expression. " 'But it's a common trick down in the Chattalen. Everybody's got it there. They're way ahead of Merovingen on all that stuff. They could run rings around us.' Hee-hee!"

  "Yes, nothing like appealing to civic vanity—and paranoia. Deflect their attention elsewhere; always deflect."

  "Do you think Yossarian will have enough supply for the demand?" Raven spoke up. "There are lots of canalers, and almost every canalside lander has some sort of boat."

  "He has over a hundred sitting in storage, waiting to go," said Yarrow. "Actually, I'm more worried about lack of demand. A lot of the more religious types may stay away from fear of tech, the College, karmic debt or whatever."

  "I made a big point o' sayin' it was same ol' tech, just newer-built," Rif noted. "An' ever since the College's been backin' Crazy Cassie, lots o' lowtown folks've turned sour on the priesthood."

  "Let's hope enough are interested to sway the rest."

  "Hell, they will. One thing folks want less'n a new engine is an old un that don' work, an' chugger use has put lots o' wear on them old engines. There's plenty o' folks jus' got ter get new ones."

  "New engines for old," Yarrow grinned. "I hope you're right. I hope by next week Yossarian has a warehouse full of old engines and engine parts, ripe for recasting—though, of course, they won't be doing that in town."

  "I won't even ask," Raven murmured, "about the size of your smuggling operation."

  "All I can tell you is that it was the first thing we set up in Merovingen—right after the observation teams."

  "Which I was supposed to help with." Raven looked down at his half-emptied plate.

  "Don't worry." Yarrow patted his arm. "The information you brought us from the swamp is invaluable. We sent the samples north on the first ship out, and by now our labs are no doubt studying them down to their molecules."

  Rif and Klickett looked at each other, and shrugged.

  "Oh, that reminds me." Raven lifted his head. "The ecology of the swamp—those water-weeds of ours, 'tangle-lilies' the boatmen call them—a lot of the native life of the swamp lives off the sewage of Merovingen. Clean up the canals, and how will it survive?''

  "No problem," Yarrow reassured him. "We examined the flow of the water table there; most of the swamp's water comes from the Greve Fork, not the canals. It actually gets very little of Merovingen's sewage, and that only from the westernmost Isles, filtered through the lagoon. Cleaning the water won't affect it."

  "The lagoon's full o' tangle-lilies now," Rif considered. "Baby deathangel feed off'n 'em. Bad business, them fish."

  "No doubt, but we have to study the creatures. We'd like to get some full-fledged adults, but the local waters are nearly fished out, thanks to the new fad for them." Yarrow sighed. "If we can't spare a boat to go out in deep waters, we'll just have to catch someyoung ones from the lagoon and ship them out for study. That will take time ..."

  "But damn, what if the tangle-lilies get into the swamp?" Raven insisted. "Won't they upset the balance there?"

  "No, they can't compete with what's already there. Those swamp plants of yours won't give them a millimeter of foothold. Besides—" Yarrow flicked a glance toward Klickett. "What the young deathangel don't eat, the, uh, skits make short work of. No, those weeds of ours can't do very well outside the city." .

  "They're growin' well enough in-city." Rif frowned. "Canalers complain 'cause they tangle up the water so much. Folks're already out cuttin' an' brewin'an' burnin' 'em, but they're still clutterin' up the water."

  "Better'n ye hoped," Klickett added. "By next spring, I reckon, they'll be growin' as far north as The Rock 'imself. No way ter root 'em out o' Merovingen now."

  "An' a whole lot o' folks got free fuel an' real cheap firewood," Rif added. "But there's still grumblin' over the stuff."

  "I suppose we can hurry the next phase," Yarrow considered.

  "Ey? What's, that?"

  "We introduce a . . . sort of water flea that eats the dead and rotted weed—and then we bring in some nice, very edible crabs that eat the water fleas. We did want to wait until we were sure the water was clean, but if the weeds are becoming a plague ..."

  "Ney, let 'er wait 'til next year," Rif decided. "Already there's folks gettin' good work rakin' an' haulin' the stuff fer the Carswells—an' ye heard how well the Carswells're doin' sellin' the dried stuff. Let 'ex ride, Yarrow. Let canalsiders get the idea o' copy in' Carswell—cut, dry, bale an' sell the stuff, or keep it fer themselves. Let's not rush the plan."

  "I can just see all the roofs of the Tidewater spread with drying weed," Yarrow smiled. "Imagine the bribes paid to the people on the upper stories."

  "Imagine the smell," Raven considered.

  "Better'n the canals used ter," Rif countered. "Folks're beginnin' ter notice that when ye fall in the water nowadays, ye don' necessarily get sick an' die."

  "Back ter them engines," said Klickett, digging into her buttered roots. "That's the next big step, ain't she? Ye can call 'er 'old tech' an' swear it makes no difference t'yer karma, but ye know folks'll be wary."

  "An' greedy," Rif reminded her. "Ye know other boat shops'll be on 'em like flies: buy one, take 'er down, figure how ter make 'em themselves. They're real easy ter figure, real simple after all. That was the whole point now, wasn'it?"

  "Of course," said Yarrow. "We already dropped a word in the right ears at Foundry. Long before flood-tide, the knowledge of making and repairing those simple 'same-old-tech-just-new-built' engines should be all over the city. There's no guessing how many of the poor will take the idea and run with it, but the knowledge will be available to them."

  "Mhm,'' said Klickett, reaching into her bag for her ever-present knitting. "And how's these engines ter be sold without the College's stamp of approval on each one, hey? Enough of a step, buyin' a new engine—even if the tech's supposed t'be old stuff-without seein' she's illegal, too."

  "No problem," Yarrow waved away a fly. "Yossarian has a lovely collection of College stamps—exactly like the real thing—just waiting to be plastered on any engine that isn't, hmm, discreetly placed. They all have beautifully forged signatures of various College clerks—all of them in Cardinal Boregy's division, I might add. If the old snake ever takes a notion to inspect boat engines and examine the stamps, he'll end by suspecting—perhaps purging—a good fraction of his own staff."

  "Nice," Raven approved, over the others' laughter. "Is there a chance the College will actually try to ban engines, old or new?"

  " 'Cept fer themselves, o' course—an' their high-town friends," Rif chuckled.

  "Unlikely, but let them," Yarrow smiled cruelly. "The best way to make a new technology widespread and underground is to make it popular—and then ban it."

  "That'll sure make folks go fer 'discreet' engines," Klickett considered. "An' what the blacklegs can't see, the sharrh surely won't. But what I want ter know 'bout is the metal."

  "Eh?"

  "Metal—fer parts, fer engines, fer stills an' all that. Ye know how much the stuff costs down here. Where's it ter come from? Fer that matter, where'd Yossarian's new engines come from in th' first place?"<
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  "No problem," Yarrow said again, reaching for the beer. "This really isn't a metal-poor world, you know. If it were, everyone would have died of anemia generations ago. The problem with metal is knowing where to find it—and the Friends of Jane preserved and regained enough knowledge of geology to know where to look. Among other things, I can tell you, our folk found a good iron deposit in an old volcanic crater, some years back. No one else knows of it, and it's far enough out in the wilderness that no one's likely to stumble on it. We mine, process, and sell the metal . . . discreetly. Lately we've been selling a good amount of it here in town. Where did you think a lot of our funds came from?"

  Rif yelped with laughter. Klickett smiled, and hurried through three more stitches. Raven looked thoughtful.

  "I hope we're not selling any in Nev Hettek," he said. "You know what they'll make with it."

  "They'd make weapons anyway," Yarrow shrugged. "We have sold metal in Nev Hettek, I'll admit, but we've taken care to drive prices up, not down. Besides . . ." Her smile turned grim. "The news from Nev Hettek is, they're having some sort of plague problem—striking in high places, too. Gossip says it came from trade with Merovingen, which tends to discourage interest in further contact with the city. It's begun to make serious inroads into Karl Fon's troops— and bureaucracy, too. It's enough to keep him too busy to use any weapons he may have bought."

  Rif nodded thoughtfully. Klickett shrugged and looked away. Raven chose not to ask for details, but applied himself to his beer.

  "I hear from elsewhere," Yarrow went on, "That certain midtown families have gone into heavy use and production of chugger. We're busy dropping word to them that the tangle-lilies are very good for brewing the stuff. Naturally they don't care for the coming ban. The counterfeiters are getting ready to mass-produce special permits—complete with Boregy's signature-as soon as the ban's in force."

  " 'Law after law breeds a multitude of thieves,' " Raven dredged up from his slowly-clearing memory. "Might add, 'counterfeiters,' too."

  "Amen," said Klickett. "But what's yer uptown cell say 'bout the backwash from engines hurtin' the underpinnin's o' the Isles? How's the landlords takin' ter that, hey?"

  "They don't like it, but general opinion is that the buildings would need repair anyway, and might as well do it now as later. The lower walkways can use some backwash-curbs, too, especially with flood-tide coming on. Also ..." She grinned. "One of the local building-repair families just got a shipment of a new ... but not called that, of course—brand of cement that sets underwater. Of course, they also got contacts for more—and so did their smaller rivals."

  "What, we've got a cement maker's too?" Rif marveled. "Where— Ney, I shouldn' ask. But how d'ye hide an operation that big?"

  "By putting it underground, of course—like everything else we do. Mine, lime-kiln, everything—all underground, complete with smoke traps. Nobody knows where that is, either."

  " 'Dig Down Deep,' " Rif quoted, raising her cup in salute.

  " 'Unseen Is Unfettered,' " Raven echoed, finishing his beer.

  "And 'Look to Life Itself,' " Yarrow finished. "I swear, it's a crime against science that humans have lived six centuries on Merovin and learned so little about its ecology. By Jane's will, we'll remedy that."

  "Well, the Scourin' didn' help much," Klickett reminded her. "Folks scramblin' just ter stay alive don' have much time fer studyin' the wildlife."

  "That might excuse the first surviving generation, even the second." Yarrow's seamed face tightened. "But ... for six hundred years? Sweet Jane, but I sometimes think the old Union first colonized this world with a crop of idiots. Who else would place their major city and spaceport right over an active earthquake fault? There are stories, from the old records, that they bred men in laboratories—cloned them in job lots, trained them on nothing but tapes, carefully taught them not to think for themselves but only do what they were taught. Jane knows what kind of gene pool we started with, and how brain-dead a culture."

  "Some was smart enough—an' feisty enough—ter hide out from the sharrh themselves," Rif reminded her. "We're the descend'nts o' wily survivors, r'mem-ber. The good obedient types left with the ships."

  "True, true," Yarrow admitted. "They just didn't leave us with a culture that encouraged study or progress. Hmm, and speaking of that, we have another problem."

  The others shoved their dishes aside as Yarrow fumbled in her pockets for some notes.

  "Here we are. Yes. The ban forced us to speed up our schedule on those engines. This means the workshop school needs to train up lots of mechanics to work them. So far, no problem; the word is already out that Brecht's—no visible connection with Yossarian, of course—is hiring. No need to mention that it's also training. The problem is school space; he has to expand fast. We've got to find a safe, cheap, large enough place to put the school and still make it look like nothing but a crude tool shop—and not possibly big enough to compete with Foundry. Workspace is hard to come by in this city. Does anyone have any suggestions?"

  There was a long thoughtful silence around the table. A mouse took the opportunity to skitter across the floor. Rif aimed a halfhearted kick at it, then smiled suddenly.

  "DeGrasse's barge," she said.

  "Barge?" Yarrow sat up, mind already working on possibilities. "Out on the water?"

  "She's been sittin' at East Dike fer almos' two years now, doin' nothin'. Harbormaster can't sell nor rent 'er, seein' she's too big fer the canals an' not fit fer sea, an' 'e's not ready ter cut 'er up fer firewood jes' yet. She's got roof stakes, an' it wouldn' take much ter fix 'er up fit fer a tool shop—or a schoolroom."

  "Aye, and I've heard that Farren Delaney's bored ter tears with 'is job in the Harbormaster's office," Klickett put in. "Y'know 'e's got a likin' fer. us canalsiders an' water-folk. I daresay, 'e'd like a chance ter do somethin' charitable."

  "Hmm, yes," Yarrow purred thoughtfully. "And . . . I've heard that Farren is to be kicked upstairs soon, given a Prefecture of his own—Waterways, I believe it is. If he helps us before that happens, he may take the promotion as an omen that he's on the right track, helping the poor ..."

  "Ariadne'll love it," Rif beamed. "Put the word in 'er ear, Klickett, an' she'll put 'er in his. 'E gets our job done, then 'e gets promoted, an' we boost 'is name aroun' canalside. 'E gets a faction an' a promotion, we get our school an' a better foothold in hightown."

  "Aye, I'll do 'er," Klickett beamed back. "Ariadne's droppin' by my shop t'morrer, not that she needs any new sweaters. She likes the way yer book's sellin', too, Rif. Don'tcher think it's time ye gave 'er some better way ter contact ye than jes' my shop?"

  "Already done," Rif grinned. "I asked Rattail. She knows sqme good addresses near the College, an' we picked un fer a mail drop."

  "One o' the student taverns, 'ey?"

  "Now, how'd ye guess?"

  "Uhm, isn't that a problem?" Raven spoke up. "I mean, if you're traveling in hightown circles, isn't it dangerous to . . . well, spread rumors and address cards and so on, down in lowtown, the way, er, we were doing today?"

  "Ney, no worry," Rif laughed. "Klickett here can tell ye, Ariadne Delaney an' her hightown friends've never seen me the way I really look, nor Rat neither." She shifted her position and . . . changed: voice, expression, enunciation, gestures, posture, everything.

  "Aye, m'dears," she said, her accent not quite high-town, only suggesting a beguiling hint of The Lower Depths, "I assure you, neither Ariadne Delaney nor her most charming friends have ever seen me as I truly am."

  On the instant, she dropped back into the same-old-canal-rat-Rif, and grinned broadly. "She's even better with the clothes, hairdo, an' makeup," she said. "Takes us more'n an hour ter put 'er all on, me an' Rat both. But when we're done, when we go out there ter play fer Ariadne's crowd an' knock 'em dead, I swear, ye wouldn' reco'nize us. An' when we leave, we make damn sure nobody follers us back t' the Tidewater."

  "But if anyone really bothers to make the connection ..."
Raven worried.

  "What'll they find, 'ey? That me an' Rat sometimes -sing in lowtown dives, an' there's rumors we've picked a pocket er two in our time." Her eyes slitted in hard thought. "Ain't but two people outside o' here know I'm a Friend o' Jane, an' won't neither o' them talk."

  "You're sure?"

  "Yey. Jones won't 'cause she knows I could tell 'bout her—an' drag in her man as well. B— The other won't 'cause . . . well, he's a sympathizer, an' I got 'im in on that Master Milton deal, 'mong other things."

  "Well, make damned sure of him, Rif." "Aye, I got 'im . . . clinched." Rif smiled into her beer.

  "You'll need more links in middle- and hightown," Yarrow went on. "Ariadne's little arts program can help there, not to mention helping your career a bit. I daresay even Old Iosef will remember you, with Ariadne's help. You may need such links soon."

  "They say the governor's sick," Raven worried. "He can't last forever, and the next governor—Jane knows who that will finally be—certainly won't be as favorable to you."

  "I'll work those links," Rif promised. "But don' worry 'bout the Old Man's health. He always gets some kind o' sick when there's a contr'versial bill comin' up that he don' want ter say yey or ney ter—like the College's chugger ban."

  "Still," Yarrow considered, "Soon as we can, we'd best tie in with one of the heirs."

  "Not Tatty!" Rif snorted. "Sooner bed a skit than that Sword-lovin', blackleg-shovin' bitch!"

  "Certainly not Tatiana," Yarrow agreed. "Other cells are arguing the merits of Anastasi and Mikhail, but the majority argument swings with Mischa the Tinkerer."

  "Mischa?" Klickett shook her head. "He's 'is daddy's darlin', right enough, but he hasn't the brains of a yellowtail. Hightown loves 'im, 'cause they figure they can shove 'im. Besides, he's gone mushbrained over Crazy Cassie. What good'd 'e be t'us? He can't do nothin' but play with 'is little machines ..."

  Klickett stopped right there, catching the implications of what she'd just said.

  "Right," Yarrow smiled. "Of all the heirs, he's the one most likely to favor tech. And ... he badly needs friends. Particularly, he needs a friend who can steer him fairly through the wilds of city politics."