Melissa Scott - Shadow Man

“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 shaal s 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.