Melissa Scott - Shadow Man

“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 mesnie s, 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.

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.