Free Stations of the Tide by Michael Swanwick Page B

counterfeiters?”
    “I’m counting on it.”
    “Hah?”
    Chu took out a cheroot, lit it. “You think the nationals are going to arrest anybody over this? With the jubilee tides so close? A petty little counterfeiting ring that’s probably not even cheating Mirandans? Face it, these things are being sold to offplanet tourists. Hereabouts that amounts to a victimless crime. The briefcase might have been a bigger noise, but it’s dead. Anyway, the hot rumor is that the Stone House is going to announce a general amnesty on crimes committed in the Tidewater, a few days before the tides. To make things easier for the evacuation authority. So the national police aren’t going to be very excited about this. I figure there’s only two things we can do. The first is to throw this crap in the river, so they can’t make any more profit off it.”
    “And the second?”
    “That’s to make so much noise hauling it out that anyone involved will know we’re on to them. They don’t know about the amnesty. I figure that barkeep must be a mile away by now, and running fast. Wait here, and I’ll go requisition a wheelbarrow.”
    *   *   *
     
    When they came back from the river, the bar was empty and the bartender gone. He had left without even turning off the television. Chu went behind the bar, found a bottle of remscela and poured them both a shot. “To crime,” she said.
    “I still hate to see them get away.”
    “Enforcement is a dirty business, sonny,” Chu said scornfully. “And there’s a lot more dirt down here than you have up in Cloud-wonderland. Buck up, and enjoy your drink like a grown-up.”
    On the television a man was arguing with old Ahab about the man’s twin brother, long ago lost at sea. Murderer ! Ahab shouted. He was your twin, and your responsibility!
    Since when am I my brother’s keeper ?
    Unseen by either, a mermaid peered in at them through a window, her face open with wonder, and with pain.

5
    Dogs Among the Roses
    The strings of waxflowers were all lit now, red-blue-yellow-white fuzzglobes of light swaying overhead, and the music was hot and urgent, a magnetic field in which the revelers swirled and eddied, caught in its invisible lines of force and sent spinning away in a rush of laughter. Among the fantasias were lesser costumes, representational rather than interpretive, angels with carnal smiles, clowns, and sentimental devils with goatees and pitchforks. A satyr stumbled drunkenly by on short stilts, hairy and near-naked, waving panpipes to keep from falling.
    The bureaucrat found Chu behind the bandstand, hustling a red-faced young roisterer. She leaned against him, one palm casually resting on his rump, and teased a paper cup from his hand. “No, you don’t need any more of that,” she said patiently. “We can find better uses for—” The bureaucrat backed away unnoticed.
    He let the crowds sweep him down the main street of a transformed Rose Hall, past dance stands, rides, and peepshows. Pushing through a cluster of surrogates—kept to the fringes since they weren’t physically present—he watched the fantasia presentations for a time, shoved up against the stage with a rowdy group of soldiers with central evac armbands who hooted, whistled, and cheered on their favorites. The event was too esoteric for his offworld tastes, and he drifted on, through the odors of roast boar, fermented cider, and a dozen fairy foods.
    Children materialized underfoot and, laughing, were gone.
    Somebody hailed him by name, and the bureaucrat turned to face Death. Flickering blue light showed through the sockets of the skull mask, and the bureaucrat could see between metal ribs through to the cape. Death handed him a cup of beer.
    “And who are you?” he said, smiling.
    Death took his elbow, strolled him away from the bright center of the celebration. “Oh, do let me have my mysteries. It’s jubilee, after all.” The tattered black cape Death wore smelled musty; the costumier had taken