Melissa Scott - Shadow Man

“I don’t see the mosstaas ,” he said aloud, and Warreven glanced back at him. A few strands of hair had worked free of 3er braid and clung damply to 3er forehead.

“Over there,” 3e said, and pointed. “By the Customs House.”

Tatian looked again and saw three people—all men, by the look of them—standing in the arched doorway. They didn’t seem to be doing anything, but people were giving them a wide berth, and then, there was the empty Market. “Trouble?” he asked, and Warreven shrugged.

“I don’t think so. Come on.”

Ȝe led the way down a narrow street—no stairs this time, but the pitch was still steep enough that Tatian wished there had been steps. They crossed the open Market, the drumming, a steady, even beat that kept the dancers moving in easy patterns, loud enough to drown conversation. Tatian felt the looks as they passed, the shifts of expression that registered an off-world presence, and for the first time, he was aware of the weight of the ironwood dockers’ hooks that hung at people’s belts. More people carried the tall sticks, ordinary wood rather than the fire-tempered ironwood, wound with multicolored ribbons: Not as deadly as the hooks , Tatian thought, but effective enough in a brawl . They seemed peaceful enough, however, mostly caught up in the rhythm of the drums, but he was still glad when they crossed the wide stone ledge that marked the edge of the Market and came out onto the wood of the Gran’quai.

The dock was crowded, the usual mix of sailors and dockers and factors, but not as busy, most of the dockers standing idle, clustered around their machines or beside the heaps of cargo. Halfway down the dock, hot air shimmered over a crane’s engine compartment, and a little further half a dozen men and women wrestled a gangplank into place while the ship’s captain watched from the stern rail, dividing her attention between the dockers and the ranas in the Market.

“We’re down here,” Warreven said. “Berth seven.”

Tatian nodded, squinted through the sun along the row of ships. In the strong light, the colors bled together; it was hard to tell where one ship ended and the next began. He shaded his eyes with one hand, picked out a shore barge, broader beamed than the rest, riding high and so nearly empty, and then a snub-nosed coaster, its wheelhouse painted with a crowing cock. The image was startling, on Hara, and then he remembered that one of the Captain’s symbols was the rooster.

Suddenly, someone shouted behind them, a high, wordless cry of anger, and Tatian swung to see a fibreplast-walled cargo shay turning into the open space of the Market. A second shay followed, pulling to a stop a dozen meters from the first. Their cargo spaces were filled with dark-helmeted mosstaas , maybe twenty men in each; the sun glinted dully from their fibreplast riot shields. Tatian caught his breath—there weren’t enough of them to take on that crowd, not easily; people were going to get hurt— and then a single man, shoulders badged with the five-feathers badge of a commander, swung himself down out of the lead shay. He started for the makeshift stage, striding without haste across the Market, and the crowd made way for him, sullen, conscious of the other mosstaas waiting in the shays behind him.

“God and the spirits,” Warreven said. “He’s brave enough.”

“Stupid,” Tatian said, and heard his voice tight and frightened. They were trapped on the Gran’quai; if the mosstaas charged the crowd, they would have nowhere to run, except back onto the quay itself. He heard engines behind him, glanced over his shoulder, and saw smoke belching from the engine compartment of the nearest coaster. Clearly, its captain had come to the same conclusion, and was ready to cut and run. Another engine burped to life, and then a third.

The mosstaas commander had reached the platform and swung himself up easily. The drummers stopped, their song petering out into a last ragged flurry of notes. The flute player stepped back a meter, giving him room, but made no other move.

“You’re in violation of the laws governing political assemblies.” The mosstaas commander’s voice carried clearly: either the platform was miked, Tatian thought, or he had brought his own loudhailer.

“We’re not political.” That was the flute player, her voice as clear as the commander’s. “We’re a rana, nothing more.”

“I know her,” Warreven said. “That’s Faireigh—she’s a chanter, one of the important ones.”

The mosstaas commander shook his head. “I don’t see a singer. This is no rana, people, either you go home quietly, or we’ll disperse you ourselves.”

There were shouts from the crowd, quickly quelled, the first instinct for defiance hushed by more sensible neighbors. Faireigh glared at the mosstaas , hands on hips, a big gesture, nicely calculated. Then, slowly, she turned back to the microphone. “You hear the man, we’re not a rana—we’re violating the assembly laws.” There was a shout of protest at that, and she lifted her hands, quieting the crowd with a gesture. “I won’t say you don’t have a point, but we’re not the violent ones here. We don’t want to see the innocent hurt, or even threatened. We’re willing to go—but since the man wants a song, I’ll sing us out, this time.” She took a deep breath, began before the mosstaas commander could protest, her clear voice cutting easily through the confused noise.

“ Our boots and shoes are all in pawn— ”

The crowd caught up the next line, a ragged, angry chorus. “ Go down, you blood-red roses, go down .”

Tatian caught his breath. He had heard the song before—it was a long-haul chant, something the sailors used raising anchor or hauling lighters along the coastal canals—but he’d never heard that note of snarling fury before. Warreven threw back 3er head and laughed aloud, the long braid dancing across 3er back. “Oh, she’s good, Faireigh is, there’s nothing they can to do stop her.”

“You hope,” Tatian said.

“Not a thing,” Warreven said, and bared teeth in a suddenly feral grin. “It’s an old song, old as Earth, everybody knows it doesn’t have anything to do with politics.”

“ The foreman says, before I’m through ,” Faireigh sang, and the crowd answered instantly.

“ Go down, you blood-red roses, go down .”

“ You’ll hate your mother for having you .”

Behind her on the platform, the mosstaas commander stood with his arms crossed, trying to look as though he was in control of the situation. Warreven opened 3er mouth and added 3er clear contralto, slightly off-key, to the chorus.

“ Oh, you pinks and posies .

Go down, you blood-red roses, go down .”

Tatian glanced warily at 3im, then back at the stage as Faireigh lifted her hands to encompass the singers.

“ It’s growl you may but go you must.

Go down, you snow-white roses, go down .”

The crowd staggered in its echo as people realized belatedly what she’d said, and Faireigh swept on.

“ If you growl too loud, your head they’ll bust .”

This time, the chorus came clear, all the pent-up anger displaced into the changed words. “ Go down, you snow-white roses, go down .”

“ Oh, how stones are roses ,” Faireigh sang—as if anyone needed it made any clearer, Tatian thought, and glanced quickly sideways. The mosstaas still stood unmoving, penned in their shays.

The chorus was a savage affirmation. “ Go down, you snow-white roses, go down .”

Faireigh waited for the last voice to die away, then bowed to the mosstaas commander—the irony was visible even from Tatian’s distance—and climbed down off the platform. The drummers followed her, instruments tucked awkwardly under arms, and the crowd made way for them as though they were royalty. Already, the people on the fringes, on the Market side and by the makeshift stage, were starting to edge away; the crowd was dispersing, as ordered, but on its own terms. Tatian shook his head.