Melissa Scott - Shadow Man

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?”