Melissa Scott - Shadow Man

“Did you get anything from the hospital for it?”

“No.” Warreven moved 3er shoulders experimentally, grimaced, and stopped. “I have deepdream, and doutfire; one of those’ll be fine.”

“Where are they, in the kitchen?”

“Yes.” Warreven roused 3imself with an effort. “The blue cabinet.”

“Go to bed,” Tatian said. “I’ll get them.”

“What about you?” The towel slipped; Warreven started to reach for it and let it slide back down to 3er waist, held it there. “You’re welcome to stay.”

“If you don’t mind,” Tatian said, “I’d be glad of a bed. It’s almost morning, and I’d like some sleep.”

Warreven started to nod, checked 3imself instantly. “There are quilts in the chest—the one under the media center—and the couch isn’t too bad. I’ll—”

“I’ll find them,” Tatian said, startled by the rush of protectiveness—more of the broom, he thought. “Go to bed, Warreven.”

Ȝe gave him a wincing smile and turned away, dropping the towel on the floor behind 3im. Tatian picked it up, folded it automatically, and set it back on the rack, then went into the kitchen to find the drugs.

There were several boxes and canisters, jumbled into the cabinet with pottery dishes and half-empty boxes of food, and he pried open lids until he found a jar with dried doutfire. He shook out four of the thin cylinders of bark—paper-thin, fragile in his clumsy fingers—and brought them into the bedroom. Warreven was already in bed, the top quilt drawn up to 3er shoulders, but 3e roused 3imself enough to chew and swallow the doutfire. Tatian hesitated, wanting to do more, not knowing what more he could do, then switched out the light and went back into the main room.

The sky was pale beyond the windows, and he studied the controls of the media center for a moment before he found the time display. If there was a remote, it was nowhere in sight; he fiddled with the rudimentary keypad instead until he’d located the local communications system. The smaller screen lit, offering him options, and he scrolled through the unfamiliar menus until he found the way into the secondary system that most off-worlders used. Then he punched in Derebought’s codes—audio only, no visual at this hour—and waited while the call went through. The screen flashed white, and Mats’ voice said, “Yeah?”

He sounded both sleepy and annoyed; Tatian allowed himself a smile, knowing the cameras were off, and said, “It’s Mhyre Tatian. Sorry to wake you, but it’s important.”

“Hang on,” Mats said, but he already sounded more awake. “All right. What’s up?”

“I’m not going to be in today at all, and maybe not tomorrow,” Tatian said. “Warreven’s been attacked by the ghost ranas, and I’m at 3er place—3e called me from the hospital, asked me to get an off-world doctor for 3im and the herm 3e was with.”

“God and the spirits.” That was Derebought’s voice, quickly smothered.

Mats said, “Derry’s right, boss, we’ve already been warned off local politics.”

“I know.” Tatian bit back his own annoyance. “That’s why I’m calling you. I’m on leave, as of yesterday. Fix it in the records, will you? I don’t have access from here. You don’t know where I am, or what my plans were. You don’t know anything about me playing politics, or anything about me and Warreven.”

“All right,” Mats said, and Derebought broke in.

“Do you want me to let Serram Masani know what’s happened?”

Tatian hesitated, then nodded, forgetting for an instant that the screen was blank both ways. “Yes,” he said, “but as discreetly as you can. Don’t use the port lines unless you have to.”

“All right.” He heard Derebought’s intake of breath as she considered her next words. “Are you sure this is…” Her voice trailed off again as she failed to find suitably diplomatic phrasing.

Tatian finished it for her. “Smart? No. That’s why I’m clearing out of day-to-day business for now. I want NAPD to have deniability.”

“You think it’s that bad?” Derebought asked, and he could almost hear the shake of her head. “Sorry, you wouldn’t be doing this if you didn’t.”

“No.” Tatian took a deep breath.

“How can we contact you?” Mats asked. “This number?”

“Try it,” Tatian said. “This is Warreven’s residence, so I don’t know how long I’ll be here. But I’ll keep in touch myself. Go ahead and get as much of the surplus in from the mesnie s as you can—you can handle payments, Derry—and by the time you’re ready to ship, this should have blown over.”

“All right,” Derebought said. “Be careful.”

“I will be,” Tatian answered, and cut the connection. He stood for a moment, staring at the screen without really seeing the shut-down codes. This wasn’t smart, that he did know; he was getting much too deeply involved in Hara’s politics, and if he had any sense at all, he’d leave Warreven asleep, tell Jaans Oddyny he wouldn’t take care of any more payments, and pull himself and NAPD well clear of the whole situation. He had the contracts in hand, signed and sealed, and Stiller was bound to honor them. That should be enough for anyone. He shook his head then, turned away from the now-dark center—just the time display glowing green in the upper corner of the multiple displays. It was too late for that now, he was already committed—and besides, he admitted silently, he didn’t want to abandon Warreven. Ȝe was the only reasonable person—reasonable indigene, anyway—he’d met on this unreasonable planet. He owed 3im what support he could give.

Agede, the Doorkeeper: (Hara) one of the seven spirits who mediates between God and Man; Agede’s domain is change, death, birth, and healing.

When he woke again, it was afternoon, the light that filtered in through the shutters cool and indirect. He lay still for a few minutes, hoping that if he didn’t move he could drop back into sleep, but the pain in his neck and down his chest and ribs was too much to be ignored. He had a headache, too, radiating from the bruised eye and socket to stab both temples and down to the point of his jaw. Turning his head to check the chronometer sent weird streaks of light across his vision, pain flaring with them, and he rolled instead onto his side—setting off more aches, but not as sharply painful—so that he faced the glowing box. It read eighteen-ten; he swore, thinking of Haliday, and crawled out of bed.

He was able to dress himself, barely, struggled into loose trousers and a tunic that opened from neck to hem, but his hair defeated him. It still hurt too much to raise his arms above his head, hurt even worse when he tried to twist the long strands into a braid, and in the end he left the mass of it loose and stumbled toward the kitchen to get more doutfire. Tatian had left the box open on the counter, and Warreven carefully extracted four more of the fragile rolls. Two shattered under his touch; he sighed and licked his finger, dabbed up the shards, letting the thin, bitter fragments dissolve on his tongue.

“How are you feeling?” Tatian was standing in the doorway, arms braced against the walls to either side.

“Like somebody hit me,” Warreven answered, and was rewarded by one of Tatian’s quick grins.

“I wonder why?”

Warreven smiled back, cautiously, newly aware of bruises, and reached into another cabinet for a bottle of sweetrum. He uncorked it, drank, flinching as the liquor hit the cuts on his lip. The raw sugar taste of it seemed to cling to his back teeth, but it took away the bitterness of the doutfire. “Maybe because somebody did. Has Malemayn called, have you heard anything about Hal?”