Shadow Man

When he woke again, it was afternoon, the light that filtered in through the shutters cool and indirect. He lay still for a few minutes, hoping that if he didn’t move he could drop back into sleep, but the pain in his neck and down his chest and ribs was too much to be ignored. He had a headache, too, radiating from the bruised eye and socket to stab both temples and down to the point of his jaw. Turning his head to check the chronometer sent weird streaks of light across his vision, pain flaring with them, and he rolled instead onto his side—setting off more aches, but not as sharply painful—so that he faced the glowing box. It read eighteen-ten; he swore, thinking of Haliday, and crawled out of bed.

He was able to dress himself, barely, struggled into loose trousers and a tunic that opened from neck to hem, but his hair defeated him. It still hurt too much to raise his arms above his head, hurt even worse when he tried to twist the long strands into a braid, and in the end he left the mass of it loose and stumbled toward the kitchen to get more doutfire. Tatian had left the box open on the counter, and Warreven carefully extracted four more of the fragile rolls. Two shattered under his touch; he sighed and licked his finger, dabbed up the shards, letting the thin, bitter fragments dissolve on his tongue.

“How are you feeling?” Tatian was standing in the doorway, arms braced against the walls to either side.

“Like somebody hit me,” Warreven answered, and was rewarded by one of Tatian’s quick grins.

“I wonder why?”

Warreven smiled back, cautiously, newly aware of bruises, and reached into another cabinet for a bottle of sweetrum. He uncorked it, drank, flinching as the liquor hit the cuts on his lip. The raw sugar taste of it seemed to cling to his back teeth, but it took away the bitterness of the doutfire. “Maybe because somebody did. Has Malemayn called, have you heard anything about Hal?”

“He called around noon,” Tatian answered. “Oddyny’d been over to look at 3im. He said there hadn’t been any change, that he’d call if there was. He left a number at the hospital, though, if you want to try that.”

Warreven took another swallow of the sweetrum, started to nod, and felt the muscles of his neck tighten painfully. “Yes—it’s not that I don’t trust you, I just want to talk to him myself.”

“I figured,” Tatian said, and stepped back out of the doorway.

Warreven slipped past him, still carrying the bottle of sweetrum, vaguely surprised that the off-worlder’s presence was so reassuring. Maybe it was the very matter-of-fact way that he’d stepped in, the ordinary, reasonable common sense of it all—which hardly seemed to be common anymore. The media center was lit, both screens turned to news channels, and Tatian cleared his throat.

“You seem to have made the narrowcasts.”

“Me?” Warreven looked at the screens. Both showed the Harbor Market, crowded not with merchants but with the same sort of crowd that had been dispersed the day before. Even the rana band was back, half a dozen drummers now, and a pair of flute players, perched on a platform that looked higher and less stable than die previous day’s stage. People were dancing—any time there was drumming, people would dance—but beyond them crates and spent fuel cells and all the other debris that collected on the docks had been dragged into a crude barricade. Tough-looking dockers—and not just dockers, Warreven realized, but men and women in ordinary clothes, with only the multicolored rana ribbons to mark them as something different—leaned against it, blocking all access to the Gran’quai.

“Officially,” Tatian said, “they’re continuing yesterday’s protest against the ghost ranas. But the main thrust of what they’re saving is, if you and Haliday aren’t safe, no one is.”

“Wonderful,” Warreven said, and took another swallow of the sweetrum. The pain was starting to ease, even the headache, and the lights were beginning to show faint, rainbowed haloes. It was going to be difficult to balance comfort and sobriety.

“The code’s there,” Tatian said, and pointed to the table beside the media center. He had found the remote as well, Warreven saw, and stopped to collect it, then turned to the couch, shoving aside the quilts Tatian had left neatly piled there. He sat down, setting the bottle beside him, and ran stiff fingers over the remote’s control surfaces, bringing up the main screen and then the new codes. The menus flickered past, a montage of text and symbol, bringing him first into the hospital’s main system, and then into a secondary paging system. He entered the last segment of Malemayn’s codes, and waited. The communications screen went blank, except for a time display; in the screen beside it, the drummers moved in frantic rhythm, following a chanter’s gestures. His shadow fell across the heads of the dancing crowd, stretched to the edge of the empty Market. As he turned, jeering, to the camera, Warreven could see the Trickster’s mark vivid on his cheek.

“Raven?” The communications screen cleared with the word, and Malemayn’s face appeared at its center. Warreven could see white walls behind him, and the occasional out-of-focus figure of a nurse or doctor, elongated shapes in pale green: still calling from a public cubicle, he thought, which meant Haliday wasn’t well enough to have a private room. Malemayn sounded worn out, and the stubble was dark on his cheeks. Warreven touched his own face, feeling the coarse hairs starting, and wondered if he would be able to shave himself in a few days, once the swelling went down.

“How’s Hal?” he asked.

“Stable,” Malemayn answered. “No change from what I told Tatian. That off-world doctor, Oddyny, she was here again, and she says he, 3e should be moved over to the Starport as soon as 3e’s able, which should be in a day or two. Ȝe’s still unconscious, but Oddyny says not to worry. They’re keeping 3im under to let the treatments work.”

Warreven allowed himself a long sigh of relief. He hadn’t realized, until that instant, just how frightened he had been. “So 3e’ll be all right?”

Malemayn nodded. “Oddyny says it’s going to take a month or so, but 3e’ll be fine. How are you?”

“Sore,” Warreven said, and Malemayn laughed.

“You look like death. No, you look like the Doorkeeper.”

Warreven looked sideways, found his reflection in the glass of the nearest window. With the black bandage covering one eye, he did look a little like the popular drawings of Agede the Doorkeeper, the spirit of death and birth and change. “Thanks,” he said sourly, and did not reach for the sweetrum. Agede was always drawn with a cane and a bottle; there was no need to complete the resemblance.

“The tech said you should be sure and reschedule your appointment, have your eye looked at sometime tomorrow.”

“Reschedule?” Warreven scowled at the invisible camera.

“They wanted to see you this afternoon,” Malemayn said. “I mentioned it to Tatian, but he thought—we both thought—it was better to let you sleep. The tech said you should be sure and come in tomorrow, though.”

Warreven nodded, not looking at the off-worlder. He wasn’t entirely sure he liked Tatian’s looking after him, wasn’t sure he entirely disliked it, either. But then, it had been Malemayn’s decision, too.

“I’m going to stay for another hour or so,” Malemayn went on. “Oddyny said she’d be back to take another look at Hal, and she said she’d have time to give me an update then. And then I’m going home and get some sleep.”

“What about Hal?” Warreven asked, a little too sharply. The old fears rose in his mind: Haliday left alone, unconscious, the doctors deciding to castrate, or simply not to save, 3er ambiguous body, all because there was no one there to protest—

“Relax,” Malemayn said. “I made it very clear, and Dr. Jaans was with me, that Hal’s to be treated like they’d treat an off- worlder. I left a couple hundred megs with the ward nurse, too.”

Warreven nodded, appeased. “That ought to be enough.”

“I’ll pay more if I have to,” Malemayn said.

“Let me know what I can put into the pot,” Warreven said.

Malemayn shook his head. “We’ll adjust this through the partnership. Once this is all over. Æ, Raven, I don’t know how we’re going to keep working, with Hal in the hospital and you supposed to be being seraaliste—”

He broke off, shaking his head again, this time in apology, and Warreven looked away, embarrassed. “I know, Mal, I’m sorry. For what it’s worth, it wasn’t my idea.”

“And this wasn’t Haliday’s either,” Malemayn said. “I know.” He sighed, looked down at something beneath the camera’s line of sight. “Look, I’ve got to go. I’ll call you if there’s any change, any news at all, but if you don’t hear from me, everything’s fine.”

Warreven nodded again. “Give Hal my love,” he said, softly, even though he knew Haliday couldn’t hear the message yet. Malemayn nodded, and broke the connection.

“I hope you don’t mind my not waking you,” Tatian said, after a moment. “I went in and looked, but you were pretty well out of it.”

In the main screen, a shay filled with mosstaas pulled into the Market, and Warreven caught his breath before he realized it was a clip from the day before. “It’s all right,” he said, still watching the screen. “I think sleep was probably the best thing for me.”

“That’s what I thought,” Tatian agreed.

The image in the screen changed again, returning to the live feed. Warreven frowned, trying to figure out where the cameras were stationed—on the Embankment, maybe, or on the Customs House balcony—and the off-worlder cleared his throat.

“Look, it’s maybe none of my business, but you might want to think of moving Haliday now. If 3e’s well enough, of course.”

“Æ.” Warreven tipped his head to one side, felt the muscles tighten, but the pain was distant now, deadened by the sweetrum and the doutfire.

“You know your planet better than I do,” Tatian said, his voice abruptly formal. “I’m not presuming to tell you your business. But this doesn’t look good to me.” He gestured to the screen.

Warreven looked again, seeing the line of dockers and ranas mixed together, the crude barricade—and also the drums and dancers, a pair of flute players now leading the performance. “It’s still a rana, still within the law,” he began, and broke off, hearing the absurdity of his own words.

“So was yesterday,” Tatian muttered.

“I know.” Warreven stared at the screen, seeing not these dancers but Faireigh, hearing her voice soaring easily above the other voices. Go down, you snow-white roses, she had sung, and Tendlathe would never forget that, any more than he had forgotten Lammasin’s insult. Or Warreven’s own, the insult of his existence. Warreven suppressed a shiver, looked away from the screen. “What have they been saying, what’s the Most Important Man doing about this?”

“Staying clear,” Tatian answered. “Oh, they said about an hour ago that he’s meeting with the harbormasters and the head of the mosstaas, supposed to be deciding if this is interfering with trade, but as best I can tell, he’s waiting for it to die down on its own.”

“That’s smart.”

“Not necessarily.” Tatian glared at the screen, and the image shifted to a pan along the length of the Gran’quai and the boats tied up there. “See there? It is interfering with commerce, and the pharmaceuticals aren’t going to put up with that for long.”

Warreven frowned, for a moment not seeing anything different, and then realized that the usual traffic of dockers’ drags and devils was completely absent. No one was off-loading; the ships’ crews were idle, or with the dockers at the barricades. “It’s only been one day,” he said. “Does that make enough of a difference?”

“Not one day,” Tatian said, grimly. “But if this isn’t settled—well, I already spoke to my people. They said the Big Six are starting to get a little nervous. They’re shipping a good million a day right now, and they can’t risk losing the harvest.”

Neither could the mesnies, Warreven thought. They would be putting pressure on Temelathe to end this, too, especially the conservative mesnies of the Equatoriale—and with the pharmaceuticals and Tendlathe also pushing to close down the protest, Temelathe would have a hard time balancing all those demands. And if there was more trouble—if Temelathe tried to send the mosstaas in again, tried to disperse a legitimate raria after they’d singularly failed to stop the ghost ranas and their violence…. The people at the Harbor wouldn’t stand for it two days in a row. They would fight, and then Temelathe would have no choice but to turn the mosstaas loose on them. And that would give Tendlathe the excuse he needed to act.

“What about Tendlathe?” he said aloud. “Where’s he supposed to be?”

“With his father, I guess.” Tatian looked at him, his expression very serious. “Look, did you mean what you said—God, was it only the day before yesterday? That Tendlathe was behind the ghost ranas, and Lammasin’s murder?”

Warreven laughed. “Despite what Hal thinks, I don’t say things like that lightly. Yes, I think he’s responsible—and I told him so to his face—which didn’t exactly endear me to him, I suppose. But we’ll never prove it.”

“So he’s responsible for this, too?” Tatian waved his free hand, the gesture taking in the bandaged eye, the second bandage hidden under Warreven’s tunic. “Beating up you and Haliday?”

“Probably,” Warreven answered. It hurt more than he’d expected, admitting that, acknowledging that the man he’d grown up with had almost certainly arranged the attack, was the person who’d planned not just the beating but the ritual humiliation. “He—Tendlathe thinks that we—the wrangwys, and you off-worlders, too—aren’t really human anymore.”

Tatian made a small, mirthless noise. “Funny. There’re people in the Nest—other off-worlders—who think the same about Harans.”

Warreven smiled in spite of himself. “God and the spirits, I’d like to see Ten’s face if you told him that.” This was hardly to the point, and he forced his mind back to Haliday. On the screen, the dancers were twisting themselves into a long spiral, a country dance that wound into a tight knot and then usually dissolved into laughter and cheerful chaos before it could unwind again. The dockers on the barricade were watching, but distantly, their attention on the roads that led down from the Embankment. “You may be right about moving Hal,” he said, and reached for the remote. “I’m assuming the port is defended?”

“Of course.” Tatian looked back at him steadily, defying him to be insulted. “Nobody spends this much money on a backward planet without making sure they can protect the investment.”

“Under the circumstances,” Warreven said, “I find that reassuring.” Under other circumstances, it would be less so, but he put that thought aside for later consideration. He touched the keypad, recalling the codes Malemayn had left.

“I’m relieved,” Tatian said. He paused. “What’s Tendlathe’s problem with herms anyway? I—well, I was at the baanket, remember. The presance really bothered him.”

Warreven shrugged, watching codes shift on the communications screen. “I don’t know,” he began, then shook his head, ignoring the faint thrust of pain. He owed Tatian more than that, after all the off-worlder had done for him. “That’s not strictly true. We’re built a lot alike, look alike—you’ve seen him—and everybody knew I was a herm, so he got teased a lot. And then the marriage didn’t help.” Because he did want me, at least a little, Warreven realized suddenly, but it wasn’t something he could say, sounded too conceited, too much like a cheap romance.

Tatian was nodding thoughtfully. “There was always a lot of gossip in the Nest about him. A lot of people think he’s a herm.”

“I’m glad he doesn’t know that—” Warreven broke off as the screen changed, displaying Malemayn’s image. “Mal, I’m glad I caught you before you left.”

“So am I,” Malemayn answered. “I was going to call you.”

“Is—” Warreven broke off, suddenly afraid, and Malemayn shook his head.

“No, Hal’s fine. But Dr. Jaans says things are strange in the city; she wants to move 3im tonight.”

“Trust Oddyny to have her finger on the pulse,” Tatian muttered.

Warreven said, “That’s what I was calling you about, actually. I—we’ve been watching the news channel, and I thought Hal might be better off at the port if anything goes wrong.”

Malemayn nodded. “That’s what Oddyny said. I wanted to tell you first, though, see what you thought.”

Warreven shivered. “I think too many people are saying it’s the right thing for us not to do it.”

“I’ve seen some of it,” Malemayn said. “Everybody’s watching it here, too. Have the mosstaas moved in at all?”

“I haven’t seen them,” Warreven answered, and glanced at Tatian.

“The last I heard, Temelathe was supposed to be holding them off.”

“Well, that would be the first good news in all of this,” Malemayn said sourly. “I’ll tell Oddyny we agree.”

Warreven nodded. “Thanks.”

“Not a problem,” Malemayn said, and the screen went blank.

Warreven sighed, touched the keypad to shut down the communications system. “Are you hungry?” he asked, and was surprised to find that he himself was.

They ate in near silence, just the occasional words from the media center to break the stillness, watching the light fade over the Harbor Market and outside the flat’s windows. Warreven listened for a while to the newsreaders’ chatter—nothing new, still no word from Temelathe or Tendlathe or the mosstaas, though the Big Six were rumored to have asked for a meeting with Temelathe the next morning—and then pushed himself up off the couch and went out onto his porch, taking the bottle of sweetrum with him. It was almost empty, and he could feel it slurring his movements, but at least the pain had receded. He leaned against the railing, the land breeze eddying past, warm against his shoulders, looked through the deepening twilight toward the Harbor Market. In the pens next door, the land-spiders trilled and purred, disjointed bits of sound, but no one came to comfort them. That was unusual—the spinners were always very conscientious—but then, this night was hardly ordinary.

It was still hard to believe that Tendlathe was doing this—that Tendlathe, whom he’d known, man and boy, for almost twenty-five years, had put him and Haliday and everyone like them, firmly outside the human race. But that was the problem, of course: he himself had never been boy nor man, except perhaps in law, and that had meant that Tendlathe had always had forbidden possibilities—impossibilities, by his definition—dangling before his eyes. And it hadn’t helped, Warreven admitted silently, that he’d enjoyed teasing Tendlathe, had made no secret of the fact that he would sleep with him, as long as no change of gender, of identity, had been required. And I would have done it, too, and cheerfully, up until a week ago.

He heard the chime of an incoming call from the media center, but didn’t turn his head. Something wasn’t right, something more than the restless spiders next door. The air was damp and heavy, a haze of light hanging over the Gran’quai, but that was nothing unusual. He tilted his head carefully to one side, listening, and then realized what it was. The streets were silent, none of the usual murmur of traffic on the ring roads or down by the harbor. It was as if Bonemarche was waiting, everyone either already at the harbor, with the ranas, or hiding in the safety of their houses—

“Warreven?” Tatian was standing in the doorway, hair and beard turned brighter gold by the lights behind him. “There’s a call.”

Warreven made a face, pushed himself away from the rail. His bruises had stiffened while he stood there, and he had to catch himself against the door frame. Tatian stood watchful, not offering help, but within reach, and Warreven had to admit it was gracefully done. “Who is it?”

Tatian shrugged, and Warreven looked at the screen. Chauntclere Ferane looked back at him, broad face and salt-stained beard framed by the darkness of a dockside office. The windows were closed behind him, light glinting from the narrow panes, but the noise of the drums was still loud, doubling the sound from the news channel.

“Raven, it’s me.”

Warreven looked around for the remote, and Tatian handed it to him. Warreven nodded his thanks and hit the button that activated his own camera. An icon lit, warning him that the transmission was now reciprocal, and Chauntclere flinched visibly.

“God and the spirits, you look a mess.”

“I’m getting tired of hearing that,” Warreven said, and immediately wished he hadn’t. “I’m all right. It looks worse than it is.”

“It looks bad enough,” Chauntclere said. The sun-carved lines at the corners of his eyes and between his eyebrows were suddenly prominent. “I thought—they said the ghost ranas had nearly killed you, but I didn’t believe it.”

Believe it, Warreven thought. And a lot worse for Haliday. He said, “I’m—I will be all right. Hal was hurt a lot worse than me.”

“I’m sorry. Is she—?” Chauntclere stopped, as though he didn’t know how to ask.

“Ȝe’s going to be all right,” Warreven said. He saw Chauntclere’s eyes flicker at the creole word and used it again deliberately. “That’s why they attacked us, Clere, because 3e and I are herms.”

“And because of who you are,” Chauntclere said automatically. “I mean, you’re the seraaliste, and everybody knows Haliday—”

“Everybody knows Haliday because 3e went to the Council to get the legal right to call 3imself a herm,” Warreven said. “And they know me because I handle trade cases. The other herm who works with Haliday.” Out of the corner of his good eye, he saw Tatian shift as though he were uncomfortable and made a face. “I’m sorry, Clere, it’s been a bitch of a day.”

“Yeah.” Chauntclere gave a slight, embarrassed shrug, one shoulder moving under the faded cloth of his working vest. “But Hal is going to be all right, isn’t she—zhe?”

Warreven nodded, and Chauntclere sighed with what looked like genuine relief.

“I’m glad.”

And to be fair, Warreven thought, he probably was. There was nothing mean about Clere. He said, “Are you at the Harbor? What’s going on down there?”

Chauntclere glanced over his shoulder, turned back to the camera. “Oh, yes, I’m still on the ’quai. I can’t get off, the ranas won’t let me past—won’t let any of us past, they say they won’t let us off-load cargo until Temelathe agrees to the mosstaas hunting the ghost ranas. I heard about an hour ago that Temelathe was supposed to come down here himself to talk to the leaders, but I don’t know if it’s true.”

“Wonderful,” Warreven muttered. Still, it might do some good: Temelathe knew how to balance the various factions; he had been doing it better than anyone else for almost thirty years.

Chauntclere looked over his shoulder again and shook his head. “I’ve got to go, this is the only working line on the ’quai, and I can’t hog it. But I’m glad you’re all right.”

“I will be,” Warreven said. “I’m glad you called, Clere—” The screen went dark before he could be sure the other had heard. He let himself sink back onto the couch, wondering how he’d fallen into the middle of all of this. Part of him wanted to be at the Harbor—he had earned that much, to see this through—but another part cringed at the thought of facing the darkened streets again. The memory of the ghost ranas returned, black robes and white faces, so that for an instant he could almost taste the fog and the shame and the fear. He made a face, as though that could erase the memory, and saw Tatian looking at him curiously. “I half-wish I was down there,” he said defiantly, and Tatian gave a lopsided smile.

“I bet. I think I’d rather watch the narrowcast, myself.”

“The other half is perfectly happy to,” Warreven said. He looked at the screen again. “I wonder if Temelathe is going to try to negotiate with them?”

“He’d be smart to, I think,” Tatian said, pushing himself away from the wall and coming to collect the dishes that remained on the table. “Do you want anything?”

Warreven started to shake his head, said instead, “No, thanks.”

Tatian nodded vaguely, and started for the kitchen. Warreven leaned back against the cushions, grateful for their softness, and watched the rainbows gather around the lights. The doutfire would be wearing off soon; he thought about asking Tatian to bring him some, but couldn’t muster the energy.

The media center buzzed again, startling him fully awake. He touched keys automatically, accepting the call, and frowned as a string of codes flashed across the base of the screen. The forming image split, dividing in half and then in thirds, and steadied. Three faces looked out of the screen, slightly elongated despite the system’s attempt to keep the pictures proportional. Folhare he recognized at once; the other two, both men, were less familiar. He frowned, and then recognized the darker of the two. Losson Trencevent was one of the Modernists’ regular speakers, one of the people who were usually seen on the narrowcasts and quoted in the broadsheets. He had never much liked Losson and didn’t bother to hide his annoyance.

“Folhare? What is it?”

“Trouble,” Folhare answered. At least, Warreven thought, she didn’t start by telling him how bad he looked. “I—we need your help.”

Warreven looked from her to the others. Losson was looking at something out of sight, while the second man—Dismars Maychilder, he remembered suddenly, the Modernists’ nominal leader, and their perennial candidate—was frowning impatiently. “What for?”

“You know Losson—” Folhare began, looking sideways, and Dismars cut her off.

“Temelathe is willing to negotiate. You—he likes you, and you’re one of the Important Men. We need your voice as well, if we’re going to get concessions on the Meeting.”

Warreven stared at the screen, looking past him at pale green walls with a delicate stenciled tracery of flowering vines. “I’m not exactly an Important Man,” he said, and stressed the final word. “Does this include the wrangwys?”

Losson drew an angry breath, and Dismars said quickly, “We’ve got a chance to get concessions on a lot of things, Warreven. There’s no one issue. We should be able to get the big things through, that’s the important thing.”

Which doesn’t include me, Warreven thought. I should have guessed—should have known. “Folhare?”

“What?” Her head lifted warily.

“You’re a fem, coy, as wrangwys as me. What do you say to me?”

In the other two screens, he saw Losson start to roll his eyes, and as quickly suppress the movement. Dismars, more controlled, looked sideways as though he wanted to dictate Folhare’s answer. And that, Warreven thought, was the real problem. If you weren’t a man, you were a woman, and neither of the roles fit a herm. Neither role fit 3im—Haliday had known that for years, that was why 3e had gone before the Council. “Well, Folhare?” 3e said, and didn’t bother to hide the cold anger that filled 3im.

“I—” Folhare stopped, made a face. “No, I’m not completely happy, Raven. But this is the only chance we’re going to get.”

And that was true, Warreven acknowledged, but it wasn’t good enough. Ȝe tilted 3er head to the side, ignoring the streak of yellow light that shot across his vision, fixed his good eye on the split screen. “All right,” 3e said. “I’ll come down with you. I’ll talk to Temelathe with you—not for you, you’ve been warned, but I will talk to him.”

“We need to present a united front,” Losson said, and Dismars waved a hand at him.

“I understand what you’re saying. And I’m not ignoring your concerns, I promise. But Folhare’s right, this is our best, maybe our only chance, to get to speak at the Meeting.”

“I’m on my way,” Warreven said, and jammed 3er thumb down on the remote, switching off the machine. Ȝe pushed 3imself to 3er feet, still furious, and saw Tatian standing in the door- way, frowning. “Don’t tell me I shouldn’t do this—”

The off-worlder shook his head. “Do you want me to drive you? I’ve still got the rover.”

Warreven took a deep breath, silenced in the middle of 3er anger, and opened 3er mouth to say one thing, then shook 3er head, said simply, “Why?” Tatian blinked, looked almost hurt, and Warreven made a face, felt the anger rising again. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, it’s just—I’m not sure I understand. And I’ll be damned if I’ll accept it if it’s pity, or you presuming to take care of me—”

Tatian shook his head. “You’re right. It’s not that simple. The Concord went through this I don’t know how long ago, and we’ve forgotten what it was like. But those people, they’ve missed what’s really wrong here, and you’re the only person I’ve met who does see it—well, you and Haliday. So I want to help.” He shrugged, looked almost embarrassed by the sentiment. “And I doubt you could get a car tonight, even if you paid metal.”

Warreven nodded, appeased. It had never occurred to 3im that the Concord Worlds must have once faced the same issues, the same questions, what was and wasn’t human, but it was reassuring to hear it said and to know what their decision had been. “Thanks. Yes, I’d like—I’d be grateful if you’d drive me. I just have to get some things.”

Ȝe pushed past Tatian into the hall and went into the kitchen to get more doutfire. Ȝer hands were clumsy on the lid, and it took 3im several seconds to shake loose another curl of the bark. Ȝe pocketed the rest of the box and turned back toward the door. The bathroom door was open, and 3e caught a glimpse of 3imself in the mirror above the tub: a thin person—herm—in black, one eye hidden by the black bandage. It was Agede’s image, Agede the Doorkeeper, and 3e lifted a fresh bottle of sweetrum in salute. Agede looked back at 3im, Agede with his bottle and his cane, and Warreven smiled fiercely, knowing what 3e was going to do. Ȝe collected a walking stick from the bedroom—red, not black, but it would do—and went back to the main room, lifted 3er bottle to 3er reflection as 3e passed. Tatian, blond hair and beard golden in the light from the media center, looked at 3im uncertainly, and Warreven grinned.

“I’m ready when you are.”

Tatian steered the rover through the darkened streets, empty except for the occasional—very occasional—hurrying figure. They ducked into doorways or side streets as the rover passed, and Tatian shook his head.

“I don’t like this. Are you sure—” He broke off then, shook away whatever else he would have said, but Warreven gave a rueful smile.

“Am I sure it’s smart, or am I sure I know what I’m doing?”

“Either.” Tatian negotiated the turn onto a narrow street, easing the rover around a shay drawn up to shield someone’s main doorway.

“I know what I’m doing,” Warreven answered, and hoped it was true. At least, he thought, I know what I’m planning.

Tatian nodded. “I don’t want to try to get too close to the Harbor Market. Is there someplace we can stash the rover— someplace we can get to, and get away from, fast, if we have to?”

Warreven frowned, then nodded. “Take the next left.”

Tatian turned obediently, and the rover slid down a suddenly brightly lit street between rows of brick-fronted warehouses. The heavy doors—ironwood, rather than true steel, but strong enough to keep out all but the most determined looters—were barred, security lights flickering their warning above the lock plates. At the end of the street, however, a space opened abruptly, shallow, but wide enough to keep the rover off the main traffic way. A pair of shays, one with company marks, the other without, were already parked there, and Warreven nodded to them.

“Good enough?” 3e asked.

“How far are we from the Market?” Tatian asked; but he was already easing the rover into the space between the shays.

“There’s a stair-street right there,” Warreven answered. “It leads down directly to the Market, comes out behind the auction platform—where the stage is now. Now a lot of people use it.”

Tatian nodded again. “All right. If we get separated, or if there’s trouble, we get away and meet back here. With any luck, everybody will take other streets.” He popped the rover’s doors and levered himself out of the compartment.

“You sound like you’ve done this before,” Warreven said, and followed.

Tatian sighed. “I got caught in a riot on Hermione when I was just starting out. It’s not something I particularly want to repeat.”

“Who does?” Warreven said, pleased with the lightness of 3er voice, and led the way down the half-lit stairway.

There was a shantytown at its foot, a cluster of maybe half a dozen shacks built with the cast-off wood of shipping crates and the occasional bright-blue sheet of plastic, tucked into the dubious shelter of a disused factory outbuilding. Warreven hesitated, but there was no easier way—and no time to turn back, 3e told 3imself, not if 3e wanted to get to the Market in time to deal with Temelathe. Behind 3im, 3e heard Tatian mutter a curse and ignored him, kept walking, setting an easy pace, down the last steps and out onto the paving.

A low fire was burning on the patch of bare ground between two of the huts. The sound of the drums came clearly from the Market, and someone, no more than a slim shape behind the fire, was tapping out a counterpoint on a hand drum. Another figure—male, or maybe mem—stood silhouetted against the flames, bottle in hand. Warreven ignored them and kept walking, aware of Tatian at 3er back, all the muscles in 3er back and sides protesting the sudden knotted tension. Ȝe was expecting catcalls, or worse, but heard nothing except the stutter of the drum, and then even that fell away, so that 3e was moving in step to the drums at the Market alone. At the edge of the Market, 3e could stand it no longer and looked back, to see the shanty folk standing silent, the man and the drummer joined now by a woman, child on hip, and then another and another, gender blurred by the shadows. Not knowing certainly why 3e did it, Warreven lifted 3er bottle in salute and turned back to the Market. The murmur of a name followed, not his own, and 3e heard Tatian swear again.

The Harbor Market was bright and abruptly crowded, light and shadow jagged against a sky black and emptied of stars. The crowd in front of the band platform was mixed, looked like a holiday crowd more than a protest, sailors and dockers in rough work trousers, wrap-shirts thrown on against the cool night air, dancing with ordinary people in rough-spun silks and shads. There were people from the wrangwys houses in a mix of ordinary and off-world clothes, and even a few genuine off-worlders, caught between curiosity and fear. Maybe a third of them—and every one of the odd-bodied, Warreven realized with a thrill of pleasure—wore the ranas’ multicolored ribbons, every color, any shade of every color, but not black or white. The air was thick with smoke, smelled of charcoal and feelgood and spilled liquertie; at the foot of the Gran’quai, in front of the barricade, a bonfire was lit. The smoke of it rolled off toward Ferryhead, carried by the fitful wind, almost white against the dark sky.

The band was drumming on the makeshift stage, playing a cheerful rhythm, a song 3e had danced to in the wrangwys houses. It still sounded festive, more of a celebration, Midsummer or Springtide rather than a rana protest, but then 3e saw the line of people between the bonfire and the barricade. They stood shoulder to shoulder across the end of the Gran’quai, and even at this distance 3e could see the firelight reflecting from metal—more metal than he had imagined the docks might possess, metal in chains, in bars, maybe even in the barrels of guns. The dull sheen reminded 3im of the ghost ranas, emphasized the defiant solidity of their stance, and 3e shivered, suddenly afraid again.

“Are you all right?” Tatian asked quietly, and Warreven nodded.

“Give me a minute,” 3e said, and sank down on the nearest of the fused-stone bollards that marked the first ring of stalls. Ȝer eye was aching again, streaks of light searing 3er sight; 3er neck throbbed, a dull pain that promised worse to come, and the cut was burning where 3er clothes had rubbed the bandage. Ȝe grimaced, tugging at the waist of 3er trousers, and lifted the sweetrum bottle to 3er lips. It was almost empty already, and 3e caught a crazed glimpse of the sky, a single pinpoint of light—a pharmaceutical satellite, almost certainly, not a star—blazing in a rainbow halo before 3e lowered the bottle. There was a flower lying at 3er feet.

Ȝe looked at it, startled, and looked up to see a woman standing a meter or so away, two fingers to her lips in conventional acknowledgment of the spirits. For an instant, the gesture was shocking—3e had meant it, had courted that identification, but it had been a long time, a decade, maybe two since 3e had worn the mask of any spirit—and then training reasserted itself. Ȝe lifted the bottle in salute, and another flower, this one blue with a gold heart, landed beside the first. Ȝe nodded to that giver as well—a pot-bellied, well-dressed man in company badges, who should probably have known better—and pushed 3imself to 3er feet.

“What’s this all about?” Tatian demanded, but quietly, his voice pitched to carry only to Warreven’s ears.

Warreven glanced back at him, couldn’t restrain a sudden wild smile. “They see Agede—the Doorkeeper, one of the spirits, one of the powerful spirits—not just me, and they see Agede is a herm, I’m a herm, and that, Tatian, is how I’m going to win.”

“Oh, my God,” the off-worlder muttered, and the words were more than half a prayer.

“Something like that,” Warreven agreed, and started toward the bonfire. Ȝe could feel people watching, more and more of them turning to watch their progress through the glare of the lights; 3e could see, quite clearly, how the crowd parted for them.

The sound of the band was louder than ever by the bonfire, more than one drum calling the various lines of the song, flute soaring above to carry the melody. People, men and women and the wrangwys, were dancing in the firelight, maybe half-following the orderly patterns of a traditional dance, the rest improvising in the confined space. Warreven smiled again, feeling the drums in 3er bones, feet automatically picking up the pattern, and a boy swung toward 3im, hands out to invite the dance. He was young, maybe fifteen or sixteen, thin and hungry-looking, dark hair cut close to his skull. Seeing Warreven, his steps faltered, and Warreven held out 3er hands in answer, took the boy’s cold fingers, and twirled him gently away. Ȝe caught a quick glimpse of the boy’s face, open-mouthed, blank with shocked surprise, realized that he, too, was a herm. Ȝe smiled, and held out the almost- empty sweetrum bottle, tossed it toward 3er erstwhile partner. The boy—herm—caught it awkwardly, two-handed, and Warreven turned away, skirting the bonfire.

Ahead, the firelight rose and fell on the faces of the people who blocked access to the Gran’quai, reddening the colors of their ribbons, gleaming from the metal of the chains and the pry bars in their hands. At the center of the line, blocking the single opening in the barricade, was a group all in single colors, red and purple and orange and yellow and green and blue, all the colors of the spectrum; their hair was bound up under turbans of the same color, lips and eyes painted to match, hands gloved. Warreven suppressed a shudder at that reminder, but they were clearly the leaders of this part of the protest, and 3e made 3imself walk steadily toward them.

“Don’t look back,” Tatian said, “but you’ve acquired a following.”

Warreven felt 3er shoulders twitch, painfully, but managed not to turn. “I’m here to see Dismars,” 3e said, to the rana dressed in orange, and saw the woman shiver.

The man next to her, all in green, said, “It’s Warreven. He’s expected.”

He spoke loudly enough to be heard over the sound of the drums, but Warreven, glancing down, saw the orange woman’s free hand curved in a propitiating sign. She stepped aside, letting through the line, but the green man said, “Wait. The off-worlder—”

“You’re not closing doors to me?” Warreven asked, gently, and the green man fell silent. Ȝe stepped through the line, and Tatian followed.

Behind the barricade, on the Gran’quai itself, everything was different. The drums were softer, muffled by the stacked crates, and there were no dancers. Instead, a gang of dockers was busy with haul bars and an antigrav, adding a final load of crates and balks of ballast wood to the barricade. A devil, one of the portable engines that powered the cranes, chugged softly to itself in the background, throttled down, but ready. They were willing to keep things peaceful: that was the message of the band, the bonfire and the dancers, the carnival in the Market, but they were equally prepared to fight. Warreven wondered how many more guns were hidden on the dock, how many tool lasers had already been dragged up out of workshops and ships’ holds, and started as someone shoved something into 3er hand.

It was a bottle, nearly full, and 3e managed not to drop it, seeing a woman sailor backing away, lifting two fingers to her lips before she turned back to the barricade. The cork was off, and 3e could smell sweetrum. Ȝe sipped it, not knowing what else would be mixed in it, and tasted starfire bitter beneath the sweet. Ȝe took a deeper swallow then, grateful for the drugs to numb the rising pain behind his eye, and saw the leaders of the Modernists gathered beneath one of the working lights, a noteboard propped up on a bollard.

“I’ll wait here,” Tatian said, and stopped just outside the range of the light.

Warreven nodded, and stepped forward. “I’m here.”

Ȝe saw one of them—a younger man, someone 3e didn’t know—touch his lips, saw Folhare’s sudden grin and Losson’s angry stare. Dismars said, “Warreven.” He, too, had pitched his voice to carry beyond the little group, to identify 3im, take away the mask of the spirit. Which isn’t possible, Warreven thought, not tonight, not this time, you called me, and here I am, not what you expected and not what you can use. Ȝe spread 3er hands, and smiled.

“Is Temelathe really coming, then?”

“He’s on his way,” Dismars said, grimly, and Losson broke in.

“And we need to be sure we’re all after the same things.”

“You wanted me here,” Warreven said. “Here I am.”

Ȝe saw Dismars and Losson exchange quick glances, and then Dismars said, “And we’re glad of it. I appreciate your help, Warreven.”

Wait until it’s over, Warreven thought. Ȝe said nothing, however, just waited, and Dismars looked back at the noteboard.

“All right,” he said. “We’ve made a list of our demands—you’re welcome to take a look, Warreven—but the main thing is, we want to speak at the Meeting.”

Warreven accepted the noteboard that Folhare held out to 3im, worked the controls to glance quickly down the list. Gender law—described as “trade and related questions"—was there all right, but looking at the faces surrounding 3im, 3e couldn’t muster much confidence in their willingness to press the question.

“Without that,” Dismars went on, his eyes fixed on Warreven’s face, “without that, we can’t hope to achieve anything.”

“And we can’t get anything if there’s a riot,” Losson growled.

“We can’t stand up to the mosstaas,” a younger man corrected, frowning.

“And we lose any hope of getting support from the mesnies,” Losson said.

“All right,” Dismars said sharply. “Are you willing to talk to Temelathe with us, Warreven?”

“I’ll talk to him,” Warreven said.

Dismars opened his mouth to say something more, but a woman’s voice from the barricade interrupted him.

“Æ, miri, the Most Important’s here.”

“How many?” Dismars called back.

“One caleche,” the woman answered. “And three, no, four big shays. All mosstaas.” Behind her, the band’s steady beat faltered, and then the leaders had it under control again. “They’re stopping at the Embankment, though.”

“Right.” Dismars took a deep breath, looked around the circle of faces, including even Warreven in his intent stare. “Let’s go.”

He led the way out through the opening in the barricade, the rainbow-dressed line parting to let them through. Warreven, following at the back of the group, was aware of Tatian behind 3im, sliding through the barricade unchallenged. In the Market, the crowd was silent, no one dancing now, despite the continued music of the rana band on the platform; there was a smaller crowd—the people who had followed 3im to the barricade, Warreven realized, with a sudden thrill—to the left of the bonfire, mostly the odd-bodied, their attention swiveling between the barricade and the approaching mosstaas. The shays had stopped at the edge of the Market, and mosstaas, dozens of them, armed with riot guns and cast-ceramic breastplates, spilled from the open bodies, formed up neatly on the worn stones. Warreven looked toward the platform, toward the stairway that led back up to the ware- house street where the rover was waiting, saw yet another group, not part of the rana, not yet, but from the shanty, watching just outside the market lights. A few of the people who had been dancing slipped away as 3e watched, but the shanty dwellers remained.

Something moved in the darkness beyond the shays, and a heavy caleche slid past them into the light. The crowd parted for it, reluctant but wary, closed in again as it ground to a stop just beyond the bonfire. The passenger door opened, and Temelathe stepped out. A mosstaas followed, pellet gun at the ready, and then Tendlathe, slim in the firelight. He looked over his shoulder at the shays, but made no gesture. He started to follow his father, the trooper instantly at his shoulder, but Temelathe waved them back, and they stopped a meter or so from the caleche. Temelathe looked almost incongruously ordinary as he crossed the open space between the two groups, a bulky, gray-haired, gray-bearded man in plain trousers and an old-fashioned vest over a new-style shirt, his hair still knotted at the nape of his neck. Warreven felt old loyalties tugging at 3er heart, looked deliberately past him to Tendlathe, standing a little ahead of the mosstaas now, both hands deep in the pockets of his trousers.

“Miri, mirrimi,” Temelathe said, and though he didn’t seem to raise his voice, it was pitched to carry easily through the crowd, and along the line of people in front of the barricade. “This is outside of enough. I understand your complaints, and I agree, this lawlessness, these ghost ranas, have to be stopped, but this is no way to get anything done. Disperse now, and we can meet properly in the morning.”

There was a murmur, half angry, half uncertain, and Dismars shook his head. His voice wasn’t as clear as Temelathe’s, but it would carry to at least the nearer of the crowd. “Tomorrow isn’t soon enough, mir. We need to talk now.”

“I agree that we need to talk,” Temelathe said, “but not like this.” He gestured, the broad sweep of his hand taking in the bonfire and the ranas as well as the barricade and its guardians. “There’s a lot that needs to be said, to be discussed, but not like this. We need to sit down together, without any lives at stake. This, this is an illegal gathering, and I can’t permit it to go on. Disperse now, peacefully, and we can talk tomorrow.”

“This is legal,” Losson said.

Dismars said, “Mir, yesterday’s rana was dispersed, when it was well within the bounds of law and custom. And we got nothing for that, an act in good faith, except that the ghost ranas attacked two more people. I can’t in conscience ask people to disperse under those circumstances.”

Tendlathe sighed, jammed his hands into his pockets. It was an act Warreven had seen before—the bluff, good-hearted man from the Stanelands, a little confused by the modern world, but willing to learn—and 3e took a step back, away from the others. Ȝe wouldn’t, couldn’t, let 3imself be taken in this time.

“Yesterday was an error, miri, that I admit. An overzealous officer, holding too fast to the letter of the law.”

“Under the circumstances,” Dismars repeated, “our people will be most upset if they have to disperse again. Especially with nothing to show for it.”

“We can talk tonight, if you insist,” Temelathe said. “Though I’d’ve expected a little more consideration for an old man.”

“Mir, I wouldn’t insult you,” Dismars answered, and Temelathe showed teeth in a quick grin. Warreven looked past him to see Tendlathe still standing frozen, hands still in his pockets. The firelight threw the planes of his face into harsh relief, the expressionless stare and the moving eyes.

“But if I must, I must,” Temelathe said. “I’m willing to talk all night, if that’s what it takes to get this settled.”

“We would ask for a preliminary undertaking first,” Dismars said.

Temelathe spread his hands. “I’m prepared to talk.”

“There are issues that have to be discussed more generally,” Dismars said. “At the Meeting.”

“The Meeting’s out of my control,” Temelathe said, but the protest was only perfunctory. “That’s a matter for the Watch Council.”

“And we know how influential you are, mir,” Dismars answered. “But these things need to be discussed, and the Meeting’s the only forum where all of us have a voice.”

“What issues?” Temelathe faced the younger man squarely, his spread-legged stance—the Captain’s stand—apparently relaxed, only the rigidity of his shoulders to betray any hint of nervousness. Behind him, Tendlathe took a single step forward, then seemed to think better of it.

“A round dozen,” Dismars said. “To name a few, there’s the question of how contracts are awarded to the pharmaceuticals, there’s the whole question of trade—most of all, there’s whether or not we should join the Concord. All those need to be dealt with, mir.”

“Not everyone agrees with you,” Temelathe said.

Dismars looked over his shoulder, the glance as good as a gesture. “All these people are with me. They’re not just Bonemarche, mir, we’re from all over, mesnies as well as the city.”

“I could ask the Council to schedule you to speak at the Meeting,” Temelathe said. He smiled thinly. “That’s your right, after all. But I can’t make promises regarding individual issues. The contracts, for example, or trade, those are clan issues, or city issues, those don’t belong in the Meeting.”

“They affect everyone,” Dismars said.

Temelathe shook his head. “I can’t make promises for your clans. You’re a Maychilder, he’s a Trencevent, the lady there I know is Black Stane—you’ll have to take this up with your own clans. But I can offer you the chance to speak.”

Dismars took a deep breath, and nodded. “And we talk tonight.”

“Very well.” Temelathe nodded back, the gesture of a man concluding a good bargain. Behind him, Tendlathe smiled.

“Temelathe,” Warreven said. Ȝe didn’t raise 3er voice, didn’t need to in the sudden silence as 3e stepped out from the group of Modernists. Ȝe felt the eyes on 3im, the waiting mosstaas behind the line of the crowd, the crowd itself, not just the people on the barricade and the people who had followed 3im, but the ones still waiting by the rana platform and the shanty folk beyond them. Ȝe realized 3e was still holding the sweetrum bottle, and tipped it to 3er lips, completing Agede’s image.

“Warreven,” Temelathe said softly. His eyes flickered, taking in both the clothes and the crowd’s reaction, the hum of agreement from the odd-bodied to his right. “I hadn’t thought of that. The Doorkeeper is a herm.”

“I am,” Warreven answered, deliberately ambiguous, and touched the bandage over his eye. “And I, and people like me, are suffering for it. That has to stop, and you, Temelathe, are the one who can do it.”

Temelathe looked at him, a long, level stare. “So what exactly do you want, Warreven?”

“First, the ghost ranas have to be stopped,” Warreven answered. “Hunted down and punished would be best, my father, but stopped will do. And then—I exist, people like me exist, and we’re not wrangwys, not anymore. We are people, and we want a proper name, in law.”

There was a little murmur behind him, and then a louder one, as people realized what 3e’d said. Tendlathe made a soft noise, not quite protest, more surprise and anger, and Temelathe glanced over his shoulder, putting out his hand. Tendlathe was still again, and the Most Important Man looked back at 3im.

“I can’t promise that, Warreven. You know that.”

Warreven took a deep breath. “One man has died, I nearly died last night, I don’t want any deaths tonight. But there will be more if you don’t take action.”

Temelathe looked at him, mouth drawn into a tight line. From behind him, Tendlathe said, fiercely, “Do you stand with him, Dismars? Are you that stupid?”

Temelathe waved him to silence, looked at Dismars himself. “It’s a fair question, though. Are you willing to throw everything away, for him? Because I can’t meet with you under these terms.”

There was a long silence, only the sound of the fire and the breathing of the massed crowd, and then Dismars shook his head. “I’ll stick to what we agreed, mir.” He looked once over his shoulder, lifted his voice to carry to the crowd. “It’s not that we don’t recognize that the wrangwys have problems, but there are other ways to deal with them.”

There was a murmur, almost a moan, from the listening crowd, and someone whistled, a shrill note of disapproval.

“That’s not good enough,” Warreven said. Ȝe pitched 3er voice to carry to the entire line this time. “I want those two things—two simple things, Temelathe, to keep the peace and to admit I, we, exist—and I want it now.”

Temelathe looked from 3im to Dismars, then back along the line of dockers behind 3im. “Be reasonable—”

“I am reasonable,” Warreven said. “There’s nothing unreasonable about wanting to exist, my father.”

“It’s not my business, it’s clan business,” Temelathe said. He spread his hands, taking in the line at the barricade, the people around him, the platform beyond the bonfire where the ranas stood. “I don’t have that kind of authority—and you know as well as I do, not everyone agrees with you. The majority of people are satisfied with things as they are.”

“They’re still wrong,” Warreven said bitterly. “You’ve worn the Captain’s shape for a long time, Temelathe, it’s time you acted for him. This is simple justice, a simple matter of reality.”

“Is it?” Temelathe sounded almost sad.

Behind him, Tendlathe stirred, fixed 3im with a cold stare. “God and the spirits, that’s enough. Quit while you’re ahead, Warreven.”

“And let you pretend I—we—don’t exist?” Warreven looked over 3er shoulder again, down the long line of people guarding the barricade. Ȝe pointed, picking out the first herm 3e saw, then to the person next to 3im, who might have been a fem. “You, and you—” Ȝe swung around, pointing again to individuals, mostly wrangwys, a few faces 3e thought 3e recognized from the bars and dance houses, people who’d done trade, who slept wry-abed, as well as the odd-bodied. “—all of you, can we let him say we don’t exist?”

Ȝe got an answering shout, angriest from 3er left, but loud enough from the rest, and 3e smiled equally at father and son, knowing it was more of a snarl. “You hear us. Don’t tell me you can’t, I know what your power is. You can write us into law. Give us that.”

“I can’t,” Temelathe answered.

“You will.” Warreven took a deep breath, feeling the power in 3im, riding the will of the crowd, harnessing it to 3er own desire.

“And if I don’t?” Temelathe sounded incredulous. “Are you threatening me, Warreven?”

“I’m opening the door,” Warreven said, and was 3imself answered by another cheer. “It’s up to you which one.”

Temelathe stared at him for another minute. Behind him, Tendlathe took a slow step forward, and then another, moving closer across the cobbles, until he stood almost at Temelathe’s shoulder. His expression was no longer stony, but openly furious, his stare divided between his father and Warreven. The Most Important Man shook his head. “No, not this time,” he said. “Not even for you—”

A flat snap cut him off. Warreven blinked, unable for an instant to recognize it, and Temelathe grunted, hands flying to his chest. In the firelight, the blood was already dark on his shirt, spilling over his fingers. He started to say something, mouth opening soundlessly, and then pitched forward onto the worn cobbles of the Market.

“My father—?” Warreven began, and in the same instant saw the flash of metal in Tendlathe’s hand. Tendlathe met 3er stare across Temelathe’s body, defiant and triumphant and afraid, and behind him the mosstaas tilted his pellet gun toward the sky, fired two quick shots. The sound was drowned in the roar of the crowd, but the muzzle flash lit the night, an obvious signal. The caleche’s engine whined as it pulled out, slewing to face the way it had come, and one wing struck the edge of the bonfire, scattering sparks and a chunk of burning wood that shattered as it struck the stones.

“Murderer!” Warreven said, and stepped forward over Temelathe’s body. Ȝe lifted 3er cane, swung its heavy length at Tendlathe’s head, aiming the weight of it at his temples. Tendlathe ducked, bringing his arms up in automatic defense, and the little gun—a palmgun, small but deadly enough at close range—went skittering across the cobbles. Warreven lifted the cane again, and the trooper shouted, leveling his own gun.

“Get in the car, mir—and you, whatever you are, get back!”

Warreven froze, staring at the muzzle of the rifle. The trooper couldn’t miss, not at this range, and 3e braced 3imself for the bullet. Then the caleche slid to a stop behind them, passenger door opening, and Tendlathe half-fell into it, one hand to his head. The crowd surged forward, one man throwing himself against the engine cowling, and the mosstaas fired at last. Warreven flinched, and the sweetrum bottle kicked in 3er hand, the glass exploding, spilling a great fan of liquid. Some of it landed on the embers from the bonfire and flamed blue, an eerie, alien light, consumed as quickly as it had appeared. The rest of the mosstaas were pouring down from the Embankment, and Dismars and someone in dockers’ clothes were trying to form the crowd into a line to meet them, but half the crowd didn’t seem to realize what had happened and still stood in confusion. And then there were more shots, and people began to run, some toward the side streets, some back toward the Gran’quai. Dismars shouted, his words inaudible at this distance, and someone threw a bottle after the caleche. It missed, broke on the stones, spreading a pool of flames.

Warreven looked back at Temelathe, the body still contorted on the ground, ignored. An ember had landed on one sleeve, and the cloth was smoldering; hardly knowing what 3e was doing, 3e reached out with the tip of the cane and ground out the flame. Ȝe realized then what 3e must look like, Agede considering 3er latest conquest, couldn’t bring 3imself to care. Ȝe had never meant for this to happen, never wanted Temelathe dead, not when it left Tendlathe in control—

“Raven!” Tatian caught 3er shoulders, swung 3im bodily toward the platform and the stair street behind it. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

“But—” Warreven shook 3imself, trying to get 3er mind to work. The last of the drummers was jumping down from the improvised stage, drum clutched to his body; the flute player stood frozen against the lights, staring toward the Embankment. There was another crackle of gunfire, and she fell or jumped into the crowd below.

“Come on,” Tatian said, and shoved 3im toward the platform.

“Warreven!” someone shouted, and another voice answered, “Stop him!”

Tatian swore under his breath. “Leave the cane,” he said, and Warreven dropped it. “Look at me.”

Ȝe turned, shaking now, the sight of Temelathe falling, the body fallen, and Tendlathe standing over it, caught in the firelight, still filling 3er mind, and Tatian caught 3er chin. The pain of his fingers on the bruises shocked 3im back to a semblance of awareness, and 3e started to pull away.

“The bandage,” Tatian said. “It’s too obvious. It’s got to go.” Warreven started to nod, but Tatian’s hand was already on the corner of the plastiskin, jerking it free. The medipack came with it, spilling what was left of its contents down the side of 3er face and neck, warm and faintly salty on 3er lips. The firelight seared 3er eyes; 3e winced, but turned on 3er own toward the stairs. Other people, dozens of them, were running with them, first in twos and threes, and then in larger groups. Warreven stumbled on the uneven stones, vision blurring, caught the off-worlder’s arm for support. As they reached the shantytown, gunfire sounded again, and 3e looked back to see the bonfire scattered, a drift of glowing coals, and dark figures, a neat line and a ragged one, shifting back and forth across it. More people were running toward them, heading for the stairs—heading for all the stair streets and alleys that led away from the Market, and Warreven turned back, climbed blind and aching toward the temporary safety of the rover.

~

Advocate: (Hara) man or woman trained in written and customary law, and certified by his or her clan as someone who has the right to speak for others before the clan and Watch courts.