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."