Shadow Man

The fire on Dock Row made the narrowcast news on both the port and the local channels. Tatian set the system to search-store-and-replay and watched the stories as he dressed, but there was no mention of the black-robed figures. The local channels displayed vivid pictures of silver-suited firefighters, bright against the flames, but said little about damage or causes, noting only that two bars had burned and no one had been reported killed. The port system named the bars—Tatian didn’t recognize either of the names—and estimated that the damage would force them out of business. The newsreader, a plump, pretty woman with an expressive voice, carefully controlled, added that the mosstaas was looking into the cause of the fire. Which means, Tatian thought, that it was arson. He saw again the figures in the back of the shay, the white hands and the white drum, and wondered if they’d had anything to do with it. They had certainly looked menacing enough, but on Hara, who could tell?

He rode the EHB shuttle into Bonemarche and got off at the Estrange with perhaps a dozen other people who worked for the companies there. The largest group, junior botanists and lab techs from NuGen, were talking loudly about some new plant they were working on—which couldn’t be that promising, Tatian thought, or they’d be keeping it more of a secret—while a couple of hard-muscled secretaries were discussing the ranking system for the Nest’s full-contact mattata tournament. Tatian had dated one of them, briefly, smiled as he drew even with her, and received a pleasant smile in response. It seemed suddenly strange that no one was talking about the destruction of the bars, and he said, on impulse, “Did you see the fire on the news this morning?”

“Fire?” The woman looked blank, shook her head.

“Oh, I saw that,” the other secretary said. “The one by the harbor, right? It’s a good thing it wasn’t by the warehouses.” He looked at the first woman. “Some bars burned down, on Dock Row. If it’d been a little farther north, it would’ve taken out the Starsys warehouse.”

“That would have been bad,” the woman said, and stopped at the entrance to the arcade, where a gray-haired indigene in off-world clothes sold bread and local honey from a folding cart. “We were lucky.”

The bar owners weren’t, Tatian thought, but their attention was already on the breads spread out for sale. Or the people who went there. He remembered the crowd at Shinbone: not what he’d expected, less trade, or less obviously trade, than what the indigenes called odd-bodied and the wry-abed, mems, fems, and herms, and anyone whose sexual tastes didn’t match the indigenes’ simple male/female model. It had been one of the few places on Hara not run by off-worlders where he’d felt things were—almost—normal, and he wondered suddenly if that was what the indigenes were looking for when they did trade. And the money was good, too, he reminded himself, striving for his usual detachment, and went through the arcade into Drapdevel Court.

For once, Reiss was there before him, perched on the edge of the secretarial desk in the outer office, a chunk of spicebread in one hand and a stylus in the other. He looked up as Tatian entered and hastily blanked his screen. Tatian sighed, wondering what he was doing this time—probably more work on his jet cars, using our design systems—but said only, “I need to talk to you, Reiss. When you’ve got a minute.”

“Any time,” Reiss said, and used the stylus to flick virtual switches. “Now?”

“That would be good,” Tatian said, and the younger man followed him into the office.

Tatian touched his wrist, then winced, hit the override a fraction of a second too late to stop the cascade of static. He touched the shadowscreen instead, lighting the desktop, and glanced quickly at the update screen. It showed nothing of immediate importance, and he looked back at Reiss. He hated having to reverse himself, the more so because he had known he was wrong, and said, “It’s about that case you were involved in, Destany Casnot’s.”

“So Raven came through,” Reiss said.

“You knew about this,” Tatian said, and controlled his anger with an effort. “You work for NAPD, Reiss, whatever your clan affiliations are. I can’t afford divided loyalties, especially right now.”

“No, it’s not like that.” Reiss shook his head. “I had to tell them, tell Raven and Haliday, and Destany, for that matter, and when we met to talk it over, Raven said something about offering part of the surplus. I didn’t know if 3e could, much less whether it’d be worth it. That’s all I knew.”

Tatian stared at him for a moment. It was plausible enough—if nothing else, Reiss wasn’t the sort of person one trusted with a complicated plan—and he nodded slowly. “All right—”

“One thing,” Reiss said. “Okay, maybe I should’ve told you, even if I didn’t know what Raven was going to be able to do, but what you were asking wasn’t right. I owe Destany—more than that, 3e’s got rights, even if 3e is an indigene.”

Tatian took a deep breath, biting back an instinctive, angry answer. Reiss was right, and more than that, he knew that NAPD was wrong. “You’ve lived on Hara all your life,” he said, after a moment. “You know who has power—you know how much power the IDCA has, particularly if they can connect a company to trade. To fight that, you need solid backing, and for the Old Dame to give us that, well, we need a solid reason, something the Board and the shareholders can appreciate. Yeah, maybe I should’ve told you—like you maybe should have told me—when I got the offer. In retrospect, I’m sorry I didn’t. But right now, we have Masani’s support—you have Masani’s support, to make this statement. Let’s go from there.”

“Would you have done it without the—offer?” Reiss asked.

I don’t know. Tatian said, “I couldn’t have. It’s that simple, Reiss.”

There was a little silence, and then Reiss looked away. “All right,” he said, almost inaudibly, then shook himself, “I’ll talk to Haliday—Destany will be pleased.”

Tatian nodded and looked back at the blinking desktop as the door closed behind the other. Would I have done this without Warreven’s offer, without the lure, the bribe, of the surplus? Well, I told the truth when I said I couldn’t ’t have risked it, couldn’t have taken the chance of getting the IDC A down on us—but it’s also the truth that it wouldn’t have occurred to me to take the chance without Warreven. He sighed, and reached for the shadowscreen, trailing his fingers through the virtual controls until he could call up the communications system. The mail screen was almost empty, only a few general circulars, and nothing from Prane Am or the port. He swore under his breath at that and switched to the general monophone system, punched in the numbers Warreven had left on file. At least he could let Warreven know that they were prepared to do business.

The communications screen stayed empty for several seconds, then flashed a single word—forwarding—and a second string of codes. Tatian raised an eyebrow at that, raised both eyebrows as the connect notice appeared followed by the message video n/a.

“Æ?” a voice said, from the wall speaker.

“I’m looking for Warreven,” Tatian said, in franca. There was a little silence, and Tatian made a face at the blank screen, anticipating another routing error.

“I’ll see if he’s available,” the voice said, and was replaced by the hiss of a holding signal.

Tatian sighed again, and settled himself to wait, reaching for the shadowscreen to call up another set of files. To his surprise, however, the holding signal vanished within a minute, and Warreven’s voice spoke from the wall.

“Yes?”

“Mhyre Tatian here. I wondered if we could meet.”

“Ah.” There was another little silence, live silence this time, and Tatian could imagine Warreven’s brows drawn together in thought. He missed the video image, wondered where Warreven was that lacked such basic capacity….

“I assume you have good news,” Warreven said, and Tatian dragged his attention back to the matter at hand.

“Yes. At least, we’re prepared to talk.”

“That is good,” Warreven said. “I’m—I have some business to finish here, I’m at the Harbor, Barbedor’s club on the Embankment. Can you meet me here, say, at noon?”

Tatian nodded, then remembered the missing video. “All right. Does this club have an address?”

There was a pause, and Warreven’s voice, when it came, sounded grimly amused. “No. But you can’t miss it. It’s the one on the south side of the missing buildings.”

“I’ll be there,” Tatian said, and flattened his hand against the shadowscreen.

A new file had appeared in the working window: Derebought had arrived and was passing on the latest assessment of the Stiller surplus. Tatian paged through it quickly, noting where she had been able to confirm the prices, then filed back to the beginning and began to go through it item by item. He wasn’t quite finished by noon, but saved it and his rough notes for her, and headed for the Harbor Market.

It wasn’t a long walk, across to Tredhard Street and then straight down the long hill, and for once the sea breeze was relatively cool. He looked to the horizon, flecked with sails, but there was no sign of the usual afternoon storms. The year had turned already, he thought, and saw, all around him, indigenes wrapped in shaals and jackets against the cooler air. The wind brought the sour smell of cold ash as well, and he saw a few flakes of soot the size of a man’s hand blown against the corners of the buildings. More ash was streaked in the gutter, carried by the overnight rain.

The mosstaas had set up a blockade at the end of Dock Row, bright orange wooden barriers pulled haphazardly across the traffic way. A four-up was parked beside it, but only a couple of troopers were in sight, leaning bored against the nearest barrier. Tatian approached them cautiously, aware of their holstered pellet guns and the heavy fibreplast paneling along the four-up’s sides and lining the driver’s cab. He was aware, too, of the weight of metal in his pocket, good for bribes, but they paid no particular attention to him. Or to anyone else, for that matter, Tatian thought. Pedestrians were moving freely along the length of the street. The smell of smoke was stronger here, and as he got closer, he could see the gap in the roofline, and the charred beams that spanned it, all that remained of the clubs. There were more mosstaas on duty there and more bright-orange barriers; he looked for the investigators the news reports had mentioned, but saw only the black-clad troopers standing in twos and threes.

As Warreven had promised, Barbedor’s was hard to miss. It stood next to the remains of its neighbor, little more than fire- scarred brick walls and the shattered remains of the roof tumbled in on itself. The same flames had seared Barbedor’s bricks, turning them from ochre to red streaked with black. The fire had knocked out the sign lights as well; Barbedor’s name was a ghost of empty tubing over the doorway, and one side of the stylized tree that labeled it as a bar had cracked in the flames’ heat, spilling chemicals down the brick facing. The main door was open, though, and he could hear voices from inside, and the low, insistent beat of a drum.

He stepped through the open doorway, paused for a moment to get his bearings, wrinkling his nose at the sudden stench of smoke. The band platform was empty, as were most of the tables; the drumming came from the speakers that hung above the dance floor. He looked around, not seeing anyone he recognized in the shadows, and the bartender called from the bar, in accented Creole, “Sorry, ser, we’re not serving.”

“It’s all right.” Warreven’s voice came from the side of the room, where a door had suddenly opened, spilling yellow light into the bar. “He’s with me.”

A big man, hair and beard bleached a startling orange, followed 3im out, scowling, and Warreven said, to him, “I told you I had another appointment, Barbe. Hal or Malemayn will get back to you.”

“Like it’ll do any good,” the big man growled, and turned back into his inner room.

Warreven looked at Tatian. “I’m glad you could meet me here. Have you eaten? I’m starving—my day started a little earlier than I’d planned.”

“I can eat,” Tatian said, with less than perfect truth. There were too many foods on Hara that no off-worlder dared eat.

Warreven smiled. “There’s a place on the Embankment that serves off-world food. We can go there, if you’d like.”

“It suits me,” Tatian answered, and followed the herm out of Barbedor’s. Warreven turned left, just skirting the barricades and the watching mosstaas; following 3im, Tatian could feel heat still radiating from the ruins, like the warmth from an oven.

“I’m amazed nobody was killed,” he said aloud, looking at the charred beams, the fallen walls, and Warreven snorted.

“Nobody was killed because the fires started small, there was plenty of time to get out. It’s just the firefighters didn’t show up for an hour or two, and by that time, it was too late.”

Ȝe hadn’t spoken loudly, but 3e hadn’t lowered 3er voice, either, and Tatian saw the nearest mosstaas give them a hard stare. The noise of an engine came from behind him, and he glanced over his shoulder, grateful for the interruption, to see a big shay, its ironwood body painted in the firefighters’ yellow and silver, edging past the mosstaas’ barricade. Warreven looked, too, and made another face.

“So the promised investigators finally make their appearance.”

Tatian looked back, saw that they were out of earshot of the nearest mosstaas. “Aren’t they a little late?”

“Only if they actually want to catch who did it,” Warreven answered. Ȝe shook 3er head. “I’m sorry, I’m not fit company. I’ve been up since about four when Barbedor called. He’s an old friend.”

“I take it your group is representing him?” Tatian asked, and they turned onto one of the short stair streets that led down to the Embankment.

Warreven nodded. “He wants us to, anyway. Just in case there’s something he can do. He had a part interest in the Starlik, that was the smaller club.”

The Embankment was crowded in the good weather, indigenes and a fair number of off-worlders alike enjoying the cool breeze. Warreven led him to a cookstall on the Harbor side of the Embankment—it was little more than a three-sided shack with a row of grills along the back, and Tatian hesitated until he saw the empty boxes labeled Surya’s Samosaas stacked along the wall by the power hookup. That was an off-world brand, and safe; he bought two of the heavy pastries and waited while Warreven picked out a thick yellow stew served in a hollowed-out melon. They found a place in the sun along the broad wall and sat, shielding their food from the wind. From this angle, looking back up the hill, the burned-out buildings were very visible, a break in the neat line of the street fronts. He could see the marks of the fire on the building to the north, as well as on the front and side of Barbedor’s, and a scorched patch on the roof of the building next to it, could see, too, three figures in silver protective suits poking idly in the wreckage.

Warreven saw the direction of his gaze and smiled, jabbing a wooden spoon savagely into the stew. “From this distance, you might almost think they wanted to catch the bastards who did it.”

Tatian looked at 3im, wondering what was in the stew that smelled of woodsmoke, and then realized that the scent was clinging to Warreven’s hair and clothes. “Then it’s true the fire was set,” he said aloud.

“I’m sure of it,” Warreven answered. “Not that it’ll ever be proved, of course. But it started in the back, where the alley doors are—were—and those are the two houses where most of the radicals hung out. They did some trade, sure, but they were mostly for the wry-abed. If it wasn’t set, well, you’d have to think the spirits took a personal hand.”

“I worked late last night,” Tatian said, balancing the hot, crumbling pastry in the palm of his hand. “As I was going home, I saw the fire, and then I nearly got run down by a shay that was full of—well, I don’t know what they were. They were wearing masks, white masks, no paint, not much feature, and then white gloves and bulky black—like a cape, I guess, or a really full tunic.” He could see them in his imagination, the silent drummer and his followers, started to say more, but stopped, not wanting to reveal how much they had disturbed him.

“Ghost ranas,” Warreven said, and shivered. “God and the spirits.”

“What are they?” Tatian asked, after a moment.

“Nothing good,” Warreven answered grimly. “They—you know what ranas are, right?”

“Sanctioned protesters, I thought? They have something to do with your spirits.”

Warreven nodded. “They’re under Genevoe’s—the Trickster’s—protection, they can say anything as long as they stay within the form.” Ȝe grinned suddenly. “You saw the presance at our baanket, that’s the sort of thing the ranas do. And as long as it stays a dance, a mime, a song, even Temelathe has to put up with it, by custom and by law.” The smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared. “But the ghost ranas... They don’t just protest, they’ll take action. They say they’re enforcing tradition, custom, whatever, but they’ll hurt you if you don’t agree with them. They killed a man eight years ago; that was the last time they were active here in the city. There are more of them in the mesnies, especially down in the Equatoriale.” Ȝe turned sideways then on the broad, sun-warmed stones of the wall, fixed Tatian with a sudden fierce glare. “And you say you saw them last night, near the fire?”

“I saw a shay full of them, maybe twelve, fifteen of them, driving up one of those side streets onto Soushill Road,” Tatian answered. “One of them had an empty drum frame, was pretending to play it.” He imitated the movement, half embarrassed, and swore when the gesture dislodged a piece of pastry. “They turned up another street—they were going uphill, away from the fire— and that was all I saw.”

“What time was it?” Warreven demanded.

“I could see firefighters already there,” Tatian answered. “If you’re thinking they started it, I don’t know. All I could say was that I saw them. My driver might be able to tell you more—”

“Not if it means speaking against the ghost ranas,” Warreven said. The eagerness had vanished from 3er voice again. “It could well have been them, but we’ll never get anyone to testify.”

Tatian stooped to pick up the broken bit of pastry and tossed it into the nearest trash can. Hara had no scavengers, none of the usual city birds that swooped and fought for crumbs; anything that spilled would lie where it fell until it rotted. “I have to say, if they started it, and if it took the firefighters that long to get to the bars, they waited a long time to run away. And they were in a hurry.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Warreven said. “I—” Ȝe broke off, staring up the hill. Tatian followed the direction of 3er gaze, saw a sudden bustle of activity around the fire site. There were more firefighters now, not all of them in silver suits, and more mosstaas, and a crowd had gathered on the street to either side, pushed back by the black-suited troopers. As he watched, a white-painted ambulance turned onto the street, began making its way slowly through the crowd.

“Oh, Christ,” he said, a sick certainty settling over him, and Warreven stood up quickly, leaving 3er stew on the wall beside 3im.

“Come on.”

Tatian followed 3er toward the nearest stair. Other people on the Embankment had seen the same thing, the gathering audience and the ambulance, and were heading for the stairs themselves. The two moved along with the steady stream of people. Halfway up the stairs, Tatian looked up and saw Barbedor fighting his way down toward them, the orange hair and beard conspicuous in the mostly Haran crowd.

“Warreven! Raven, wait.”

“What is it?” Warreven asked, and stopped, bracing 3imself against the rail. Tatian stopped, too, and grunted as someone elbowed him; then the people behind him sorted themselves out and flowed past up the stairs.

“Raven, it’s Lammasin, I saw him—” Barbedor broke off on an intake of breath that was almost a sob.

“Lammasin’s dead,” Warreven said, and took a deep breath.

Tatian, pressed close to 3im by the crowd, felt the breath catch in 3er chest, then steady again with an effort.

Barbedor nodded. “They found the body under the wall, I knew him by the chain he wears, the metal one.”

“How did he die?” Warreven’s voice was still unnaturally calm.

“In the fire, they say, but I’d stake my life he wasn’t at the club, either one of them, last night.” Barbedor’s face twisted. “Lammasin is—was arrogant, but he wasn’t stupid, he knew he was in trouble.”

Another elbow caught Tatian in the ribs, and he felt a brief, unfriendly pressure at the small of his back. “Warreven,” he said. “Let’s move.”

Warreven shook 3imself, nodded, and took a single step. Barbedor struggled for a moment to turn around, and then they were all moving with the crowd back up the stairs to Dock Row. There were too many people in the street to see what was happening in the fire site; an ambulance attendant stood by the closed rear compartment of þis machine, bored, mask hanging loose around þis neck, but that was all.

“God and the spirits,” Warreven said quietly. “You’re sure it was Lammasin?”

“The necklace,” Barbedor began, and broke off, nodding. “I’m sure.”

“Right.” Warreven looked at Tatian, managed a small, apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, Tatian, we won’t be able to discuss our business after all. I’m going to be needed here, I think.”

“All I needed was to confirm our interest in your offer,” Tatian said. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“I appreciate that,” Warreven said, and looked toward the burned-out buildings. “I don’t know what—wait, that woman the other night, your friend—”

“Chavvin Annek,” Tatian said. Oh, my God, he thought, she was a friend of Lammasin’s. Somebody should tell her—I should tell her, warn her what’s happened—

“Was she close to Lammasin?” Warreven went on.

“I don’t know,” Tatian said. “I think—she knew him well enough to go looking for him after the baanket.” He took a deep breath, conscious again of the heavy smell of cold ash. “I can tell her, if you’d like.”

“He had a wife and kids,” Barbedor said.

Tatian frowned, annoyed by the assumption of trade, and Warreven said, “Let me find out for certain what’s happened, then I’ll let you know. And, yes, if you’d tell her that would be help. I don’t know who his off-world friends would have been.”

“I can talk to her,” Tatian said again. “Warreven, I—I’m sorry.”

“Thanks.” Warreven took another deep breath, and turned toward the ambulance. “I’ll let you know what’s happened,” 3e said, over 3er shoulder, and disappeared into the crowd, Barbedor at 3er heels. Tatian stood for a moment, staring after them, then turned his back on the crowd, on the burned shells of the buildings, heading back toward Tredhard Street and the familiar confines of the Estrange.

~

Vieuvant: (Hara) an “old soul,” a man or woman who is recognized as a reliable and accurate conduit for the will of one or more of the spirits; some vieuvants speak only for one spirit, others for more than one.

Warreven

The memore for Lammasin was held in Haliday’s flat, nearly forty people crowded into the four rooms and the open porch. The air was thick with the smoke of feelgood and powdered sundew and the sweat of too many people in too small a space. Warreven struggled into the main room to pay his respects, stopped in front of the memorial tablet to draw Agede’s mark on his forehead with the ash that lay in the dish in front of the freshly painted tablet. Given the way Lammasin had died, the ash was a gruesome re- minder, and he wasn’t surprised to see that the widow was sitting well away from the tablet, white mourning shaal—probably her bride-clothes reused—drawn over her head to shadow her face. Another woman stood at her side, one hand resting lightly, protectively, on her shoulder, while a child, also in white, sat cross-legged at her feet. He—she? the clothes and the thick chin-length hair could have belonged to either—sat hunched over, scowling as though daring anyone to comment on his reddened eyes. Warreven nodded to the guardian, but came no closer: he hadn’t known Lammasin well, he was here more as Haliday’s partner.

It was hot in the flat, despite the cooling system pushed to its highest setting, and voices rose and fell in argument in the back room. Warreven made a face, and worked his way back out onto the balcony. To his surprise, Mhyre Tatian was leaning against the corner railing, as far from the brazier and its smoldering braid of feelgood as he could get. Warreven glanced over his shoulder, looking for the off-world woman who had been Lammasin’s friend, and, when he didn’t see her, pushed through the crowd to join the off-worlder.

Tatian nodded a greeting, both hands braced lightly against the wood of the rail. Despite the breeze, he was sweating; Warreven could see the lights of the spinny yard beyond him, their output almost tangible in the heavy air.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” he said.

“I came with Annek,” Tatian answered, and for an instant, Warreven thought he heard impatience in the other man’s voice. Then it was gone, and the off-worlder went on, “She didn’t want to come alone, given the trouble recently.”

“The ghost ranas won’t touch off-worlders,” Warreven answered, and then sighed. “Or at least they haven’t yet. She’s probably smart, at that.”

“How are things?” Tatian asked. “Have they got any leads?”

Warreven glanced over his shoulder again, making sure none of the dead man’s kin were in earshot. “They don’t even know for sure how he died. The mosstaas say he was caught in the fire, but no one who was at either club says they saw him there. It’s a mess.”

Tatian nodded. “A lot of our people—off-worlders in general, I mean, not NAPD—are worried. Having protests at the harbor every day hasn’t helped.”

Warreven leaned on the balcony beside him, looking down into the spinny yard. The land-spiders hopped and scuttled in the lamp-light, casting a web of shadows; on the wall above the pens, newly reeled silk hung to dry, heavy and unmoving in the light wind. A door banged, and one of the boys from the spinny came down the steps into the yard, began dividing them by size and weight into the appropriate feeding pens. His soft voice blended with their trilling purrs as he cooed and called them by their names, oblivious to the people on the balcony next door. Warreven took a deep breath as the breeze surrounded him with smoke, tasting its musk on the back of his tongue, and looked out over the harbor. The light at the tip of the market mole flashed twice and was echoed by the South Harbor Light on the horizon; he knew that the Blind Point Light would follow, a short flash and then a long beam sweeping across the seaward horizon, but that light was behind them. He heard Tatian cough and shift, moving out of the smoke that was already drifting away again, and turned back to face him.

“Like I said, those ranas aren’t supposed to do more than make fun, and the ghost ranas have never attacked off-worlders. You should be all right.”

“Mm.” Tatian did not sound particularly convinced, and Warreven had to admit that he could understand the other man’s uncertainty. Tendlathe’s supporters had been increasingly vocal over the last few days—he had seen one of their ranas near the Souk, red and white ribbons weighted with the Captain’s anchor, singing against the odd-bodied. Another had gone through the market by the Blue Watch House, overturning the women’s makeshift stalls, and the mosstaas had done nothing. Folhare said their own ranas would dance there, try to protect them, but their presence wouldn’t do much for sales.

“I don’t suppose the mosstaas will make any effort to suppress them.”

“The Most Important Man didn’t like Lammasin’s performance, did he?” Warreven answered. “I can’t imagine he’s grieving much—or going to put his weight behind any investigation. And of course Tendlathe has a lot of influence with the mosstaas.”

“That’s a really stupid statement,” Haliday said. “And I’d appreciate you not making it in my house.”

Warreven looked over his shoulder to see Haliday standing against the nearest pillar. Ȝe was scowling, and Warreven sighed. “Sorry, Hal, you’re right.”

“Show some sense for once,” Haliday went on, and jammed 3er hands into the pockets of 3er trousers. “Anyway, you’re wanted, coy. The Most Important Man would like to talk to you—nicely phrased, he just wants to talk, but he took the trouble to track you down here.”

“Who was it who called?” Warreven asked. If it was one of Temelathe’s functionaries, he might be able to get out of the meeting, arrange to do it later—

Haliday shook 3er head, as though 3e’d read the thought. “Not one of the secretaries. A woman, I think, might have been Aldess, but I couldn’t be sure.” Ȝe paused. “It probably wasn’t Aldess, I think she’d still speak to me. If she recognized my voice, of course.”

Warreven nodded, already wondering if he could get a rover. With the ghost ranas active again, he would rather not walk to and from the trolley stations. Haliday smiled again.

“And I called the service. No cars available tonight.”

“Damn.” Warreven looked back toward the harbor. The light was fading fast now, the rising moon barely more than a hazy patch of silver, its shape diffused and distorted by the layers of cloud. The streetlights beyond the next line of houses seemed unusually dim, muted by the weight of the evening air.

“I can give you a ride there,” Tatian offered. “You’ll have to find your own way back, though.”

“Thanks,” Warreven said. Temelathe would probably offer him a ride home, or, at worst, he should be able to find a rover.

He followed Tatian down the long stairs to the street, passing still more people coming to pay their respects, and was glad to see that the jigg waiting under the streetlight did not have pharmaceutical markings.

“The security’s on,” Tatian said, and Warreven froze without touching the fibreplast body. He could feel the field’s edge only a few centimeters away, lifting the hairs on his arms. “Okay, you’re clear.”

The field vanished in the same instant, and Warreven gingerly opened the passenger door. He settled himself in the passenger seat and watched in fascination as displays sprang to life along the edge of the windscreen. Tatian glanced at them casually and kicked the engine to life.

“What’s the best way to get there?”

“The easiest way is along Harborside,” Warreven began, and Tatian laughed.

“Under the circumstances, maybe there’s another way?”

Warreven paused, considering. He rarely had to find his way around in Bonemarche, relied always on the network of hired rovers and coupelets or on the trolleys and his own feet…. “Take a right at the end of the street,” he said at last, “and follow that around onto Crossey.”

Tatian nodded, and put the jigg into gear. He was a good driver, Warreven realized, with some surprise—he had thought that was Reiss’s job, to ferry the company’s important people from place to place—and managed the narrow streets with ease. Even the pack of children playing in the circle of a houselight didn’t seem to bother him. He sounded the whistle, but softly, more a warning than a demand, and kept the jigg moving at a steady, inexorable pace, so that even the oldest boys thought twice about playing chicken. Only when they were past did he look into the mirror, face thoughtful, and Warreven cocked his head to one side, watching him curiously.

“Problem?” he said, after a moment, and Tatian shook himself.

“No, not at all, just something I hadn’t realized. There aren’t that many kids in the Nest—the housing block where I live.”

It didn’t seem that strange, and Warreven shrugged. “I wouldn’t think you’d want to uproot your family for, what’s the norm, a four-year contract?”

“Maybe not,” Tatian answered, and didn’t sound convinced.

“Usually there are more, that’s all. At least there were on all the other planets.”

They crossed Tredhard Street just above Soushill Road—Warreven was careful to keep them away from that street, just in case the ghost ranas were active again—and the sound of drums was suddenly loud. Warreven looked toward the Harbor, felt his own pulse quicken, seeing Tatian’s sudden frown, relaxed as he saw the people gathered in the circle of lights just inside the Market square. “It’s all right,” he said aloud, “it’s just a regular rana.”

Tatian allowed himself a sigh of relief, and eased the jigg across the traffic. “How can one tell?”

Warreven looked back, seeing the drummers facing each other, lifted above the group around them by a makeshift platform, a sheet of fibreplast balanced on fuel cells, and the dancers with their clusters and knots of multicolored ribbon. “Ranas—real ranas—will always have drums or a singer, that’s what makes them legitimate, not political.”

“Not political?” Tatian said, in spite of himself, and Warreven grinned.

“Political according to the law, anyway. The way things have always been done, political gatherings can be suppressed—that’s supposed to be reserved to the mesnies—but political gets defined as ‘getting together to talk about issues.’ If you dance and sing— particularly if you’re clever—it can’t be politics.”

“Oh, right,” Tatian said. “Like having dinner regularly with the Most Important Man is neither politics nor business.”

Warreven laughed. “Exactly like. Turn left here.”

Tatian swung the jigg onto the broad street that ran parallel to Harborside. “I bet it works, though,” he said, after a moment. “If you can’t say anything directly, but have to make it a song—no, you make it a symbol, don’t you? you have to talk in symbols—then you can’t ever move from opposition into the system. At least not without losing the power you had before.”

Warreven looked sideways at him, not liking what he’d heard. The ranas had real power, effective power—the very existence of the ghost ranas proved that; they wouldn’t take on the distorted image of true ranas if true ranas weren’t real—But it was true that it was hard to go from protest to holding office in the clans and Watches: the Modernists had been trying for years and still didn’t win the elections. Still, you won elections through compromise, through consensus, not debate, and the ranas, true ranas, were a powerful tool there. “You can tell real ranas by the ribbons, too,” he said. “Ranas are supposed to wear lots of colors—all the colors of the spectrum, supposedly, it’s to prove they’re not political—and they usually use ribbons. These days, nobody wears black, either.”

“I’ll remember that,” Tatian said. “I can’t say it was hard to recognize the ghost ranas when I saw them.” He paused. “None of this is making me feel any too happy with our agreement, Warreven. Tendlathe’s people are looking a lot more powerful than I thought.”

Warreven hesitated, debating a lie, then made a face. “More powerful than I’d thought, too. He’s got more support among the mosstaas than I’d realized.”

“Not good.”

That was, Warreven admitted, an understatement. He slanted another glance at the off-worlder, the strong planes of his face briefly highlighted as they passed a door lamp. “Killing Lammasin—that’s got to be too much, even for his people. And I—I don’t intend to be driven off, yet.”

Tatian nodded. “I figured. This is personal, right?”

Warreven blinked, startled, then shrugged. “In a way, certainly. But I’m not like Haliday. I—I’m sure you’ve heard the story, I could’ve married Tendlathe—”

“Lucky you,” Tatian said, under his breath, and Warreven grinned.

“—but I didn’t want to change gender. I’m perfectly happy as a man.”

“But—” Tatian broke off, shaking his head.

But you’re not a man. The words seemed to hang between them, and Warreven sighed. He had forgotten, for a moment, that he was talking to an off-worlder, who couldn’t see beyond the physical body. “Legally and by choice, I am. That’s what matters.”

“I know.” Tatian took his eyes off the road long enough to offer an apologetic grimace. “I do know. I’m sorry.”

Warreven nodded. “But you’re right, the situation’s more complicated than I thought. I’ll be very interested in what Temelathe has to say to me.”

“So would I be,” Tatian said. “If you can tell me.”

“I’ll do what I can,” Warreven answered.

They reached the Stane compound at last, and without being asked Tatian pulled up well outside the light from the gate. “I doubt it would do you any good to be seen with me, just at the moment,” he said, and Warreven nodded.

“Probably not. I appreciate the ride, very much.”

“Not a problem,” Tatian said, and shrugged. “I’m sorry I can’t stay. Do you want me to try to come back for you?”

Warreven shook his head, but he was obscurely pleased by the offer. “No, but thanks. I can get a ride from here.” He climbed out of the jigg before he could change his mind and stood for a moment leaning in the open door. “Be careful.”

Tatian nodded. “You, too.”

Warreven straightened, letting the door fall closed again be- hind him, and started toward the compound gate. He heard the whine of the engine as the jigg pulled away, but did not look back. There were four mosstaas guarding the gate, not the usual two—at least one of them armed, pellet gun and ironwood truncheon— and Warreven was careful to move slowly as he came into the light.

“I’m here to see Mir Temelathe,” he said. “My name’s Warreven.”

The leader of the mosstaas looked less than pleased, and Warreven resigned himself to the tedious ritual of identifying himself to their satisfaction. They let him through after a dozen questions and two calls to the house while he stood under the lights for the imported security cameras, and Warreven walked up the long curve of the drive, deliberately slow to give himself time to control his temper.

The housekeeper, the same woman Warreven had seen the last time, was waiting again on the steps, but this time Aldess Donavie was waiting with her. She looked completely recovered, very elegant in the off-world style that was just becoming fashionable in the Stanelands mesnies, narrow trousers and vest under a heavily beaded shaal-cont. It looked like one of Folhare’s designs, Warreven thought, irrelevantly, and the housekeeper stepped back to hold the door open. Aldess came to meet him, holding out both hands. She knew her status—Tendlathe’s wife, Temelathe’s daughter-in-law, and blood daughter of Bradfot Donavie, the richest man on the Westland—and knew, too, that it would be acknowledged.

“Raven. It was good to see you at the reinstatement. I appreciated your coming.”

Warreven took her hands, aware of metal rings, a broad metal bracelet, bigger and heavier than his own, and they mimed a kiss. “Not at all. I was sorry to hear of your loss.”

Aldess waved that away. “I wish we’d seen you the other night. I know Tendlathe was disappointed.”

I bet, Warreven thought. In the hallway lights, her coat glowed the deep blood scarlet of ruby melons, its subtle woven floral outlined in glittering flecks of red glass. Not Folhare’s work—she was never so restrained in her designs, and besides, Aldess would never buy from her—but probably much more expensive. He said, “I was on business, and I didn’t want to interrupt the party.”

“You should have done,” Aldess said. “We would have been glad to see you, and I know Tendlathe would like to congratulate you on becoming seraaliste. You must be very proud.”

“I’m—enjoying the work,” Warreven said, with perfect truth. He didn’t trust Aldess, anymore than he trusted any Stane, and he was doubly wary when she was sent to meet him, doing what was properly a servant’s job. Temelathe wanted something badly, to offer such an acknowledgment of status.

Aldess smiled, showing perfect teeth. Once, Warreven remembered, the front teeth had had a fractional gap between them; it had vanished within a year of her marriage. She tapped gently on the door of Temelathe’s study, pushed it open without waiting for a response. “Warreven, father,” she said, and Warreven walked past her into the little room.

Temelathe was sitting in his chair beside the stove, feet resting on a low stool of carved ironwood. The designs were worn away in places, the rounded shapes blurred, and Warreven wondered just how old the piece was. Ironwood was almost as hard as its namesake; it would have taken generations of use to blunt its glossy finish. The air smelled of donnetoil, and looking closer, he could see the rough-cast bowl resting in the chamber of the stove, piled embers showing gray and orange. There was a wheel of milkcheese on the table, the hard brick-brown sailors’ version, and a basket of flat sailors’ bread, too: all the trappings of a casual visit, Warreven thought, but none of the reality.

“My father,” he said, and knew he sounded as wary as he felt.

Temelathe waved toward the guest’s chair. “Sit. No, wait, throw some more donnetoil on the fire. This is almost gone.”

The basket was sitting on top of the stove. Warreven filled the shallow scoop with the coarse, red-black grains—they were about the size of sea salt, the freshly dried kind that the old people preferred, before the mills had crushed it—then opened the stove door and sprinkled them cautiously over the embers. The first few flashed like lightning as they hit the coals, and then the rest stabilized, sending a fresh cloud of smoke into the room. Warreven inhaled its fragrance—sharp and almost oily, the various seeds and leaves that went into the compound blending into a bitter, complicated smoke, dominated by the chimetree resin—and turned back to the guest chair without taking any more. Temelathe watched him morosely, and Warreven could see that the smoke subtly reddened his eyes. How long have you been sitting here, my father, with only the stove for company? he wondered, but that was not the sort of question one could ask Temelathe. He said, “You asked to see me, and I’m here.”

Temelathe nodded. “Which is something, I suppose. You’re making my life very difficult, my son, I hope you know that.”

Warreven said nothing. This was not what he’d expected when he’d received this summons, and he didn’t know how to handle Temelathe in this mood.

“You’re very good,” Temelathe said, after a moment. “I’m almost sorry I ever encouraged you to take up the law.”

He had used the Creole term, not the traditional word that meant both Haran statute law and the web of custom that gave it context. Warreven said, “Yes, I’m good at it. I warned you, my father.”

Tatian grunted something, said, more clearly, “I could make life extremely difficult for NAPD. They’ll have other contracts, you know, and not just with Stiller.”

“We’ve—discussed—this before,” Warreven said. Though not so openly—what in all hells is he up to? “The Big Six make all their contracts this way, favors done here and there, and they wouldn’t thank you for throwing their usual methods into question.”

“So you bring the whole question of trade into the courts,” Temelathe said, “and you and your partners can posture to your hearts’ content, and all the while we—my people, your people, the odd-bodied are my responsibility, too—lose their one decent source of income.”

“Decent?” Warreven laughed.

“Are you ashamed of what you did, my son?” Temelathe asked.

His voice was deceptively mild, and he was not, Warreven thought, as drunk as he’d appeared. “No,” he said, “of course not.”

Temelathe tilted his head in unspoken question, and Warreven shook his head, managed a smile that was genuinely amused. “No, you won’t bait me, my father. I didn’t particularly enjoy it—I wasn’t even particularly good at it—but, no, I’m not ashamed.”

“Then why do you want to close down the trade? It’s a safe space—this is a delicate balance, my son, the Six and I and IDCA and the Watch Council and now Tendlathe and his people. If trade ends, your kind will have no place left to go, and if you and Haliday keep pushing, I’m going to have to give you an answer, and there aren’t any good ones. If I say yes, we’ll follow the Concord, follow their laws, then IDCA will step in to regulate prostitution, and people like you, my son, will be whores all their lives. The mesnies will drop you from the rolls, the clans will pretend you don’t exist, and you certainly would be neither seraaliste nor advocate. If I say no, we stand by our laws and custom, then Tendlathe wins. I have to close the dance houses and the wrangwys bars and he and his have an excuse to go hunting you out. If I ignore the whole issue—if you and Haliday and the rest of you let me ignore it—then you all stay safe.”

Warreven stared at him, knowing that everything he said was true, and not nearly enough of the truth. “The fact is, the odd-bodied exist. Sooner or later, my father, we—you, the Watch Council, the mesnies, even Tendlathe—are going to have to admit it. Better now, when you’re running things, than when Ten takes over. We need names of our own.”

“If you meant that, my son,” Temelathe said, “you’d call yourself a herm, 3e, 3im—like Haliday.”

That stung, especially since Tatian had said very nearly the same thing. Warreven said, “I call myself a man because you only allow two choices, and this was the closest fit. I call myself a man because I’m better at that than at being a woman—and certainly better at that than being Ten’s wife.” He stopped abruptly, tipped his head to one side in sudden question. “I’ve played by your rules, my father. I made my choice, I lived with it, but it won’t ever be good enough, will it? I’m only a man as long as it’s convenient for you.”

Temelathe smiled, but said nothing.

“And if the bars are safe,” Warreven went on, “how did Lammasin die, my father?” He touched the mark on his forehead. “I came from his memore.”

Temelathe’s smile vanished. “That was none of my doing, Warreven, I give you my word on that.” Warreven said nothing, and the older man sighed. “The trouble with you, my son, is that you’ve always been able to figure out just about anything, but you’ve never had a grain of common sense with it. I’ve no use for those people myself. I wanted Lammasin out of work for a few months, not dead. Not a martyr. But now that they’ve tasted blood, it’s going to be harder to keep them in line.”

“In Bonemarche, they say that someone in the White Stane House paid off the mosstaas not to find the killers,” Warreven said. Which leaves Tendlathe, if it isn’t you. He left the words unsaid—he didn’t need to say them; Temelathe would know as well as he what was meant—and Temelathe leaned back in his chair.

“Tendlathe and his friends are frightened. They don’t like change, my son.”

Which was as close to an admission as he was likely to get. Warreven took a deep breath, inhaling the smoke from the brazier, and felt the first familiar touch of the drug’s lassitude. Donnetoil had been a good choice, better than feelgood or dreamsafe; it relaxed without offering visions, made one less cautious, and less argumentative, too. He thought Temelathe was telling the truth, at least about Lammasin’s death, stared at the glowing embers in the center of the stove. He said at last, “I know what I should say, that I’m not afraid of the ghost ranas, but I’m not that stupid. And I know Tendlathe’s temper hasn’t gotten any better. But people are angry. Lammasin was a good man.”

“I know that,” Temelathe answered, and visibly bit back something more. After a moment, he said, “I’m not happy with this contract, my son. Not at the price you’re getting for it. I can’t afford it. I’m not going to make it easy for you.”

“I didn’t expect you would,” Warreven said. “With your permission, my father?”

Temelathe waved a hand. “Put another scoop on the fire, my son, as a favor, and you’re free to go.”

Warreven did as the older man asked, ladling out another measure of the donnetoil and pouring it carefully onto the embers. Smoke billowed out more vigorously this time; he left Temelathe sitting in its cloud and made his way back out into the hallway.

It was quiet, quieter than he’d expected, no noises, none of the household faitous anywhere in sight, and he hesitated, startled by the silence. The air smelled of the night breeze, sea and salt and the night-blooming starshade; he looked around for the open window and instead saw the curtains that hid the garden doors moving in the fragrant air.

“Raven?” Tendlathe pushed the curtain aside, stood framed in the doorway. “Aldess said you were here. I’m glad I caught you.”

Warreven hesitated again, searching hastily for an excuse—he was hardly in the mood for a conversation with Tendlathe—and the other managed a rueful smile.

“Look, I’m sorry about last time. I got carried away—it’s something I feel strongly about.”

“So do I,” Warreven said. “I—feel strongly—about a lot of things, too.”

“I know.” Tendlathe glanced over his shoulder. “I got your message, and—look, we can’t talk here. Come out in the garden with me?”

“Ten—” Warreven broke off, shaking his head. I don’t want to talk to you because I think you caused a man’s death, and I’ve just come from his memore: it was not a tactful comment, and at the best of times Tendlathe wasn’t likely to respond well. And this was hardly the best of times.

“It’s important,” Tendlathe said. “Please?”

Warreven sighed. If Tendlathe was in a conciliatory mood— and he had to be, or he wouldn’t bother being polite—it was worth swallowing his own anger to meet him halfway. “All right,” he said aloud, and Tendlathe held aside the curtain. Warreven stopped under the hanging fabric, the silk gauze just brushing his head, and only then thought to wonder at the gesture. It was courtesy, certainly, but from a man to a woman, not between two men. He was being oversensitive—not surprising, after the events of the evening, but hardly useful. He shook himself, walked on down the path that curved away from the house. The light dimmed a little as Tendlathe came to join him, letting the curtain fall back into place. The low hedge that separated the upper terrace from the flower walk below was wound with starshade, the white flowers, large as a man’s hand, almost luminous in the darkness. Their scent was heavy in the air, the honeyed sweetness almost drowning the smell of the sea.

“I know what you’re thinking, Raven,” Tendlathe said, “but I didn’t do it.”

Warreven glanced back at him, eyebrows rising in unspoken question, and Tendlathe made a face.

“I didn’t kill Lammasin. I swear to you by the Captain, by the Watch and the clan, I didn’t do it.”

“I never thought you did it,” Warreven said, after a moment, and saw something, relief, maybe, or possibly contempt, start to cross the other’s face. “I never thought you stabbed him, or knocked him over the head, we don’t know which yet, and then set the fire. Not personally. But I do think you know who did it, and I think you’re responsible.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” The light from the house was falling across Tendlathe’s face, throwing half of it into shadow, striking a fugitive spark from the pin, anchor and flames, that closed his plain collar. Warreven watched him, an odd, clinical anger filling him. It was the same anger that sometimes consumed him in the courts, giving passion to his arguments, and he welcomed it, welcomed the power, the strength it brought him. “And would you swear to that, by the Captain, on Watch and clan, that you had no idea this would happen?”

Tendlathe opened his mouth, closed it again, and said at last, “Someone overstepped himself.”

“What’d you have in mind, just beat him up, teach him a lesson?”

“Not exactly.” Tendlathe glared at him. “But people are angry, Raven, angry and scared, and you might’ve known some- thing like this would happen if you kept pushing things.”

“Me?”

“You, Haliday, the rest of the Modernists.”

Warreven laughed.

“God and the spirits!” Tendlathe reached out blindly, snatched a flower and a spray of leaves from the hedge, let them fall, crumpled, to the stones of the terrace.

“Oh, that’s very helpful,” Warreven said. He didn’t think to be afraid until he saw Tendlathe’s fist rise. He ducked, the reflexes honed in a dozen bar fights taking over, caught the other’s wrist, forcing his hand down. He could feel the bones shift under his fingers, saw Tendlathe flinch, rage vanishing as quickly as it had appeared, didn’t release his grasp until he felt the tension disappear from the other’s arm. Tendlathe jerked himself free, swearing, and they stood facing each other in the dark, each a mirror image of the other. They had fought like this once before, years ago, over the marriage. Warreven remembered with painful, physical clarity how it had ended, himself finally astride Tendlathe, pinning him down, one hand in the tangle of his hair. They had lain there for a long instant, anger warring with unexpected, unwelcome desire, and then Warreven had pulled free and stalked away. He had thought he had won, until he felt the next morning’s bruises and started to face the consequences of his decision.

He could see the same memory in Tendlathe’s face, the color high on his cheeks, visible even in the dim light. Warreven took a deep breath, not wanting this to end the same way, and said flatly, “So what did you want, Tendlathe?”

Tendlathe blinked, head lifting, a little movement, but it was as if he’d been slapped. Something, regret, shame, anger, was briefly visible in his face, and then it was gone, his expression con- trolled again, shuttered, all emotion suppressed. “I was going to offer you a deal. Drop this case—I don’t want Father to bring in the off-worlders, let them get their hands in our government— drop this case, and I’ll see that those women of yours are left alone.”

“Women?” For a moment, Warreven didn’t understand, then remembered the marketwomen outside the Blue Watch House. If the ghost ranas or even the mosstaas turned on them, they would have no way of defending themselves. Even if Folhare and Haliday had managed to talk their ranas, the Modernist ranas, into offering protection, it might not be enough, not against the ghost ranas— And then they would have to wait for another case, another chance, to question Hara’s laws, to bring them into line with the Concord—with reality—never mind what it would do to Destany and ’Aukai. “You bastard,” he said, almost conversationally, and turned, and walked back up the path toward the house.

“You’ll regret this, Raven. I promise you.”

Warreven lifted a hand, jerked it upward, an ageless, universal gesture, but kept walking. He might have won—though, like the last time, he’d have to wait until morning to be sure—but he didn’t like the potential cost.

~

Wrangwys: (Hara) literally, “wrong way,” generally used to refer to herms, mems, and fems, and anyone whose sexual preferences don’t match the male/ female model; has been adopted by that group as a self-referential term, and is not insulting within the group.