She shivered. Clenched her hands and drew a deep breath. O God. Alive. Out of this place alive. Mondragon, what's truth? What's a lie, from the devil?
"I don't need to wait till the rain stops, m'ser."
"What, not stay and enjoy Mondragon's I'm sure very entertaining company for the while?"
"You said you were letting him go!"
"Oh, but after he's told me all I want to hear. After he's sat with me and gone over my maps and helped me make my lists, m'sera."
"We're back to the beginning," Mondragon said. "You letting her go. Me here—not knowing what your word is worth."
"Oh, but she could stay. And you'd still wonder whether you'd leave alive. You have to trust me. In that little thing."
Mondragon reached for the brandy and drank it down to nothing. Set the empty glass down. "Compromise. She'll leave a message daily. At Moghi's, on Ventani. Your agents will deliver one from me."
"Elaborate. Wasteful."
"It gets her out of here."
"It gives her a chance to go to hiding if you slip her a suspicion of bad faith. Of course it does. I don't doubt you'll think of other little nuisances. Like telling her everything."
"I'm glad it was you who said that. I don't want you to think I have."
Kalugin sat expressionless a moment, then once and sharply an eyebrow twitched. "Very reckless, Mondragon."
"I'm quite serious."
"I'm sure you are. I also doubt you could have told her everything. I'm sure m'sera's expertise in statecraft has its limits; and her ability with maps probably greater limits. No, m'sera. Is your boat in running order?"
"Tank's holed; got a hole in her bottom, too. It's how you damn well caught us."
"Jones."
"I believe m'sera. A hole in the tank and a hole in the bottom. I don't think that should present much of a problem. Some of my staff will go down with you. I'm sure Rimmon is adequate to a repair of that size. You did say you had no need to wait on the weather."
"I changed my mind. I c'n wait. I c'n wait here a whole week. Two weeks."
"You'd not want to complicate matters. No, m'sera. I'm very anxious to have our friend's undivided attention. Your engine running. Supplies as you need them. Money if you require it. You are in my employ."
The hell I am. The hell I am if you lay a hand to him. I'll have your guts on a hook, Kalugin.
"M'sera, do you understand the arrangement? Each morning without fail, you'll leave a note with the Ventani tavern. Each morning a man will take that away. You do write, m'sera?"
"I write. I ain't got nothing to write on."
"Supplies. It's very simple. All that sort of thing is very simple. My staff takes care of details. All you have to do is ask. But you have to go now, m'sera, I very much regret, without any private word between you. This man would do something devious, I'm well sure, and I don't want you to bear that burden. Just say a public goodbye and go gather your belongings."
She looked at Mondragon. He nodded, with a private motion of the eyes. Truth, then. Go. Get out. Her eyes suddenly stung and threatened to spill over. She shoved herself to her feet.
Can't damn well walk. I can't walk, my legs'll go.
Mondragon reached his hand out. Took hers and squeezed it. She found life for her fingers and squeezed back till he let go. Fingers trailed apart.
She walked a few steps, looked back at Mondragon's back and Kalugin's white face above that ruby collar and black shirt—set her left hand on her hip, brushing her sweater aside, and cast what she pulled up.
The glass blade hit the carpet well to the side of Kalugin's chair and broke in half as guns came out of holsters all around the edge of the room. Mondragon started from his chair, stopped motionless as everyone else.
"That," she said, with heat all over where the cold had been, "that was in case."
She turned and walked out. "Sit down," she heard Kalugin say behind her. She heard guns go back into holsters and several men walk after her.
Can't hurt me. Yet. They got to have them letters, don't they?"
Moghi had a down look this morning, Moghi behind the bar himself this breakfast-time, his sullen jowls all set in a tuck of his chin as he polished away at glasses. Ali stopped his sweeping—Ali with the last traces of his black eye; and started it up again when Altair looked his way.
She went up to the bar with tomorrow's letter, all done up with yarn-tie, and there seemed an uncommon quiet about the tavern's morning patrons too, poleboatmen and Ventani regulars, mostly, having their breakfasts. They knew her. Everyone in Merovingen-below knew Altair Jones and knew mysterious letters passed between her and an uptowner-man who came to Moghi's every morning.
"It ain't here," Moghi said, and polished away at a glass too scratched to be helped, "Ain't come yet."
"What time is it?"
"Dunno, 'bout time."
She stood there a moment. Put the letter on the counter. Her hand shook when she did it. "Well, put that with my other. Man can take 'em both. Just late, that's all."
"Right," Moghi said. "Have an egg. On the house."
Generosity. From Moghi. Moghi thought it was bad.
"Thanks. Thanks." She walked back through the rear door to the kitchen, "Tea and egg," she said, and Jep gave her a look. "No," she said, "it ain't come."
"Unh." Jep got a gray-speckled egg from the tray, looked it over and got a second one. Broke them both onto the grill and added a slice of bread.
She slouched over and got the plate when the food came off. Took that and a cup of tea back to the main room and sat down to eat it.
Late. That's all it is, just late, they got some kind of tangle-up, some damned hire-on taking his damn time.
Eat your breakfast, Jones, damnfool, it don't cost you nothing.
She pushed the egg around on the plate, ate it in too-large bites and got the bread and tea down.
She waited. The boy came and tilled up her tea again and she drank that.
Damnfools, staring at me.
She shoved the chair back finally, a scrape on the wooden floor. Walked over by the bar and had Moghi's attention before she got there. "Going for a walk," she said. "I'll be back in a while."
"Huh," Moghi said, and went on arranging his glasses.
She walked out the door into the full daylight, pulled her cap tightly down and stared out over the morning-gray waters of the Grand, between Fishmarket's towering span and the plainer gray wood of Hanging Bridge. Skips were gathered there, gathered at Fishmarket's far side; a couple of poleboatmen came out of Moghi's at her back and headed down the ladder to the boats moored at Moghi's porch, a gathering like so many black fish with her own bigger boat moored beyond.
"Hey," she yelled from the porch, "you back out all right, you want me back my skip?"
"Ney, we got room."
It was tight. The poleboats began to move out, one and the other. More boatmen came out from Moghi's, talking the day's business.
Damn. Never figured to be tied up that long.
"I move 'er," she muttered, and climbed down the ladder, walked across half a dozen tightly-packed poleboats and the length of one, stepped into her own bow and slipped the jury-tie. Boats backed, taking their own time about it. She kept the skip still with the pole, worked into a developing gap at the porch edge and racked the pole, moved fast to grab the bow-rope and tied on in the last ebb of poleboatmen outward bound and the retreating clogs-onboard thunder of shoresiders on their way to their shops.
She retreated to the stern and sat down on the halfdeck-rim, got the bluestone out of its storage by her foot, took out her thin-bladed knife and set to sharpening it since yesterday's use on a bit of line.