Melissa Scott - Shadow Man

“There’s two of us, and it’s a nasty night. Even the ghost ranas have to take a night off sometime.”

“You hope,” Warreven said sourly, and jammed his hands into the pockets of his trousers. It was cold—he was cold, and the fog was seeping through the fabric of his tunic, damp on his skin.

Haliday made a sound that was almost laughter and started up the hill. Warreven followed, hunching his shoulders against the chill. “At least the meeting went well,” he said.

Haliday nodded. “We should have a couple of good presance s worked up, and then the ranas—our ranas—can start playing them.”

“If that’s enough,” Warreven said. He shook his head, trying to shake away the memory of Tendlathe in the Harbor Market, denying that the off-worlders were human.

“It will be,” Haliday said, and smiled, the expression wry. “It has to be. Temelathe hasn’t left us any other way.”

Warreven shook his head again. They reached the top of the hill and started down the other side, the fog rising to meet them, damp on their faces and necks. The streetlights seemed to make the mist more opaque than ever, so that for a moment he could barely make out the buildings on the other side of the street. Haliday’s face, little more than an arm’s length, was blurred, as though seen through smoke. Haliday glanced at him again.

“Pity the poor sailor,” 3e said, and the words were half a prayer.

Warreven nodded, thinking of the seascape tonight: no wind, calm seas, all the familiar sea- and landmarks flattened, just the lights and mostly the bells and horns to mark the coast’s worst hazards. He’d been at sea once in a similar fog, coming down from Ambreslight with Chauntclere, and Clere had made no pretense of bravado. They had dropped anchor, set all the lights blazing and rigged the boat-horns to sound steadily, and had been very glad of the dawn. He tilted his head, wondering if he could hear any of the ships that must be caught offshore, but heard only the familiar tri-toned howl from Ferryhead. It was followed a few seconds later by the louder double note of Blind Point, and then the Sail Harbor buoy.

“Do you think the off-worlders will support us?” Haliday asked.

Warreven shrugged. “Some of them, maybe. Tatian will—they, NAPD, are already sticking their necks out for us, with Reiss’s statement.”

“He’s getting enough for it,” Haliday said. “And remember, Raven, by all accounts he’s so-abed.”

“That’s not the point,” Warreven answered, all the more sharply because he’d heard the same rumors. “And this could do a lot for us. What was it Astfer said, all we need is one clear case?”

Haliday nodded. “But this isn’t going to be it, that I’m sure of. Destany’s hardly the perfect candidate.”

“Neither’s ’Aukai,” Warreven muttered.

“Temelathe is being smart,” Haliday said. “He’s letting Tendlathe do all the dirty work, and then he goes out to the mesnie s and wonders aloud if the pharmaceuticals will go on dealing with us if he can’t keep the peace.”

“There’s not much the mesnie s can do about Bonemarche,” Warreven said.

“You hope,” Haliday said, with another crooked smile.

The fog had thinned a little, was drifting in patches across the roadway. The buildings to either side were changing, becoming older, residential, tall narrow buildings jammed close to the street to leave room for gardens and spider pens at the back of the property. There were no streetlights here; instead, each household was responsible for a light above the main door, so that the street was lit by a line of orange globes, each a little above head height. In the fog, they looked like strands of night-pearls, the glowing spheres stretching the length of the street. They reminded Warreven vaguely of holidays, of dancing on the Irenfot beaches when the shedi were spawning and the strings of phosphorescent egg cases washed ashore with every wave. The last time he’d seen night-pearls had been three years ago, after the kittereen races, the year he’d met Reiss.

A shape loomed out of the fog bank ahead of them, the low-set lights throwing its shadow back across solid-looking mist. Warreven stepped sideways into the middle of the street, looking around for a police light, and slipped his hands out of his pockets again. Two more shapes joined the first, instantly and silently, familiar shapes in the loose black robes and hoods and the white, doll-faced masks. Warreven looked over his shoulder, ready to run. Five more ranas blocked the street behind them, three in the lead, two shadowy in the fog behind. He turned back to the first group, heard Haliday swear under 3er breath beside him. The ranas moved toward them, not hurrying, and instinctively he shifted so that he could see both groups. Haliday matched him, so that they stood back-to-back in the middle of the open road. On any other night, there would have been traffic, some chance that a rover or shay would come by, disrupt the line, give them a chance to run, but they hadn’t seen a vehicle all night. He glanced quickly at the windows on the upper floors, saw a few still with lights behind them, and raised his voice to shout.

“Hey! What do you want with us? Leave us alone, or there’ll be trouble.”

He had pitched his voice as low as he could, but it still came out contralto, more woman than man. One of the ranas pointed and mimed laughter, arms crossed over its belly. Warreven felt himself flush.

“Let us past,” Haliday said, in the same tone 3e would have used to a dream-drunk sailor.

The ranas ignored 3im, circling to surround them. There were at least a dozen of them, most of them carrying the clubs and spider-sticks Warreven had seen before. There was no drummer, this time, no bell carrier, and he tasted fear, sour at the back of his mouth.

“What have we here?” The whispering voice came from the nearest of the ranas, one of the three who carried a spider-stick. A man’s voice, Warreven thought, but the mask seemed to have an electronic distortion unit built into it, hiding his identity completely. “A pair of titticocks—and one of them pretty, too.”

Again, several of the ranas mimed laughter. Warreven could feel himself shaking, looked up at the windows, hoping someone would see what was going on, would help. Instead, the windows that had been lit were suddenly darkened: the neighborhood had made its decision. The rana leader lifted his stick, shook it so that the joints snapped suddenly into place, three sharp clicks like breaking bones, turning it into a rigid bar of ironwood.

“You, jillamie .” He pointed the stick at Haliday. “You got a pretty face, but the body’s a mess. What the hell are you?” The circle moved closer, closing in.

Warreven looked up at the darkened windows, unable quite to believe they’d been abandoned to the ranas. Haliday took a step toward him, so that they were almost touching, close enough that Warreven could feel the faint warmth of 3er body against his back.

“And how about you?” The stick cracked again, bending all along its length, snapped rigid pointing at Warreven’s chest. “Dressed like a boy, yells like a girl. So which are you, swetemetes ?”

Warreven took a deep breath and played the only card he had. “I’m Warreven. The Stiller seraaliste .” To his relief, his voice sounded almost normal, deep enough to pass for male.

“Warreven. We know Warreven.” Even through the distortion box, the leader’s voice was rich with satisfaction. He gestured with his stick, and the nearest of the ranas lunged like a dancer, flourishing a docker’s hook in his left hand. Warreven dodged by reflex, but the hook caught his tunic, ripped down and away, the sharp tip scoring a painful line across his chest and side. He spun away, too afraid to cry out, turning his shoulder to catch the next blow that never came.