Melissa Scott - Shadow Man

The housekeeper was able to find a rover for hire—and a good thing, too, Warreven thought; he had no desire to see anything more of the Stanes—and he waited on the steps while the driver maneuvered the awkward vehicle up the long drive. The driver was stocky and good-looking, with a beardless face and a line like a scar at the corner of his mouth that deepened when he smiled. He held the door politely as Warreven climbed into the passenger compartment, then returned to his place behind the steering bar. He wasn’t too proud to take the tip the housekeeper discreetly offered, palming the assignats with the ease of long practice. Or maybe ρe was a mem, Warreven thought suddenly, looking at the other’s body, the straight, blocky lines, a solid cylinder from shoulders to hips. Certainly he was dressed as a man—almost aggressively so, if he was passing, trousers and tunic cut on exaggerated lines. But then, the odd-bodied had to pass, no matter what Temelathe said. Even Haliday passed at times, either as man or woman.

The driver edged the rover through the compound gates, past the mosstaas —a different foursome—lounging against the columns. The driver kept his head down as they slid past, eyes fixed on the road; Warreven nodded and smiled, enjoying the play of status. Then the rover had turned down the first main street, and Warreven saw the driver’s shoulders relax a little.

“Where to now, mir?”

Warreven sighed. Under other circumstances, he would head for Harborside, but tonight it seemed wiser to avoid the district. “Blind Point,” he said. “Just north of the light—I’ll direct you when we get there.”

The driver nodded. “No problem, mir.”

The rover turned again, onto the winding street that led down from Ferryhead to the edge of the Harbor. It was well lit, and lights showed in the upper windows and in the courtyard en- trances; there were people visible as well through those openings, men and women silhouetted against the lights. Things looked almost normal—but of course they would, in Ferryhead, Warreven thought. Ferryhead was where the Stanes—the White Stanes—and their allies lived, and all the rest of the clan officers who made their very good livings dealing with the off-worlders. Of course things would look—would be—normal: they paid the mosstaas very well to make sure it was true. Despite the almost reflexive bitterness of the thought, he was relaxing, the tension easing from his back and shoulders. There would be things he could do to counter Tendlathe, or, if he couldn’t, Haliday or Folhare would know who could.

Harborside itself seemed busier than ever, lights blazing on the docks, and on the bars and dance houses rising up the side of the hill. From this angle, the burned-out bars on Dock Row were invisible; there were just the lights, vivid and inviting. Even through the rover’s filters, the air smelled hot, heavy with feelgood and a dozen other compounds, and the sound of drums came with them. Warreven sighed, and saw the driver glance up into his mirror. “Sure you don’t want to stop, mir?”

Warreven smiled, meeting the dark eyes. “All my—friends—are at sea. I’d hate to be alone.”

The driver shrugged, one-shouldered, still looking in the mirror. “That could be fixed pretty easily.”

“I appreciate that,” Warreven said, and matched the faint, rueful smile he could see reflected. “But it was a hard meeting, I doubt I’d be good for much of anything.”

The driver shrugged again, both shoulders this time. “Blind Point, then, mir.”

They turned onto Tredhard Street, the rover’s engine groaning as it matched the incline. Warreven looked back, to see the ranas still drumming on their makeshift stage. The listening crowd seemed larger, too, and the mosstaas were nowhere to be seen.

“They’ve been at it all night,” the driver volunteered.

Warreven nodded again, settling himself against the padded seat. They had reached the intersection of Dock Row, and for a moment he imagined he could smell the ashes, the remains of the fire. The street’s power hadn’t been fully restored, either; there were gaps in the lines of light, and a number of the signs flickered and fizzed, throwing erratic shadows. The driver turned down the next street, heading north toward Blind Point, and Warreven was suddenly aware of gaps in the line of houselights, of glass shattered in front of every other house.

“What the hell—?” he began, and the shadows seemed abruptly thicker, shapes moving against the motion of the rover.

“Shit,” the driver said, and slammed the throttle forward. The engine snarled in protest, choking as the system tried to handle the rush of fuel, and then the ranas were all around them, tattered black robes dull in the uncertain light. One of them held a drum hoop—white as bone, white as fire, empty—while another held the white-painted frame for a ceramic gong. They stood frozen, a ring of white-faced, white-handed ghosts surrounding the rover, and then the drummer lifted a white-painted stick and began to mime a steady beat. One of the others swooped close and peered in the window by the driver’s face. The one carrying the gong frame gestured as though to strike it, and the ranas froze again.

A couple of them carried clubs held loose at their sides; at least two more carried the jointed lengths of ironwood that trail walkers used against unfriendly mountain spiders. They were blocking the street ahead of the rover; Warreven didn’t dare move to look back, but guessed that there would be as many behind the car. Then the one carrying the gong frame struck again, and the drummer took up the beat. The rana closest to the rover leaned toward the passenger compartment, and Warreven met the white-masked stare. The eyeholes were covered with tinted glass; he caught only the faintest sense of movement, of the shift of human eyes behind the dark lenses.

“Drive,” he said, and leaned forward to punch the driver’s shoulder.

The driver shot him a frightened glance—there were ranas in front of the rover, and behind it, no place to go without running them over—and the rana pushed himself back from the rover’s side, reaching for something he’d held concealed in his ragged robe. Warreven caught a single glimpse of the length of chain—metal chain, stolen surely from the starport, five eight-centimeter-long links of polished metal—and punched the driver’s shoulder again.

“Drive, damn it!”

The driver hit the throttle again, and the rover lurched forward. In the same moment, the length of chain swept down, shattering the long side window. Warreven ducked away from the rain of glass, saw the driver duck, too, but the rover kept moving forward, picking up speed. The ranas dodged back, scattering in confusion, and the driver swayed upright again, sent the rover skidding down the narrow street. Warreven looked back, ready to duck again, and saw the ghost ranas standing in the roadway, miming laughter. Then the rover had turned the first corner, heading back toward the relative safety of Dock Row, and he straightened cautiously. He was shaking—he’d been lucky, the glass had missed him, but it had been close, too close—and leaned forward to touch the driver’s shoulder.

“Are you all right?”

“Yeah, no,” the driver said, his voice shaken. “Maybe—I will be.”

Warreven looked into the mirror, saw the driver’s face reflected, marked with a line of blood. The rover swung around the next corner and turned onto Dock Row, into the flickering lights of the dance houses. “Pull over, let me see.”

The driver eased the rover into the curb, into the relatively steady light of a houselamp. Rather than risk the shattered glass that covered half the passenger seat, Warreven climbed out through the street-side door and came around the rover’s nose to peer in the driver’s half of what had been the window. Behind him, a few of the people who had been waiting in the doors of the bars and the dance houses moved a few steps closer, not knowing whether or not they would need to intervene. Warreven ignored them, stooped to lean into the empty window. “Let me see,” he said again.