Melissa Scott - Shadow Man

“Folhare? What is it?”

“Trouble,” Folhare answered. At least, Warreven thought, she didn’t start by telling him how bad he looked. “I—we need your help.”

Warreven looked from her to the others. Losson was looking at something out of sight, while the second man—Dismars Maychilder, he remembered suddenly, the Modernists’ nominal leader, and their perennial candidate—was frowning impatiently. “What for?”

“You know Losson—” Folhare began, looking sideways, and Dismars cut her off.

“Temelathe is willing to negotiate. You—he likes you, and you’re one of the Important Men. We need your voice as well, if we’re going to get concessions on the Meeting.”

Warreven stared at the screen, looking past him at pale green walls with a delicate stenciled tracery of flowering vines. “I’m not exactly an Important Man,” he said, and stressed the final word. “Does this include the wrangwys ?”

Losson drew an angry breath, and Dismars said quickly, “We’ve got a chance to get concessions on a lot of things, Warreven. There’s no one issue. We should be able to get the big things through, that’s the important thing.”

Which doesn’t include me, Warreven thought. I should have guessed—should have known. “Folhare?”

“What?” Her head lifted warily.

“You’re a fem, coy , as wrangwys as me. What do you say to me?”

In the other two screens, he saw Losson start to roll his eyes, and as quickly suppress the movement. Dismars, more controlled, looked sideways as though he wanted to dictate Folhare’s answer. And that, Warreven thought, was the real problem. If you weren’t a man, you were a woman, and neither of the roles fit a herm. Neither role fit 3im—Haliday had known that for years, that was why 3e had gone before the Council. “Well, Folhare?” 3e said, and didn’t bother to hide the cold anger that filled 3im.

“I—” Folhare stopped, made a face. “No, I’m not completely happy, Raven. But this is the only chance we’re going to get.”

And that was true, Warreven acknowledged, but it wasn’t good enough. Ȝe tilted 3er head to the side, ignoring the streak of yellow light that shot across his vision, fixed his good eye on the split screen. “All right,” 3e said. “I’ll come down with you. I’ll talk to Temelathe with you—not for you, you’ve been warned, but I will talk to him.”

“We need to present a united front,” Losson said, and Dismars waved a hand at him.

“I understand what you’re saying. And I’m not ignoring your concerns, I promise. But Folhare’s right, this is our best, maybe our only chance, to get to speak at the Meeting.”

“I’m on my way,” Warreven said, and jammed 3er thumb down on the remote, switching off the machine. Ȝe pushed 3imself to 3er feet, still furious, and saw Tatian standing in the door- way, frowning. “Don’t tell me I shouldn’t do this—”

The off-worlder shook his head. “Do you want me to drive you? I’ve still got the rover.”

Warreven took a deep breath, silenced in the middle of 3er anger, and opened 3er mouth to say one thing, then shook 3er head, said simply, “Why?” Tatian blinked, looked almost hurt, and Warreven made a face, felt the anger rising again. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, it’s just—I’m not sure I understand. And I’ll be damned if I’ll accept it if it’s pity, or you presuming to take care of me—”

Tatian shook his head. “You’re right. It’s not that simple. The Concord went through this I don’t know how long ago, and we’ve forgotten what it was like. But those people, they’ve missed what’s really wrong here, and you’re the only person I’ve met who does see it—well, you and Haliday. So I want to help.” He shrugged, looked almost embarrassed by the sentiment. “And I doubt you could get a car tonight, even if you paid metal.”

Warreven nodded, appeased. It had never occurred to 3im that the Concord Worlds must have once faced the same issues, the same questions, what was and wasn’t human, but it was reassuring to hear it said and to know what their decision had been. “Thanks. Yes, I’d like—I’d be grateful if you’d drive me. I just have to get some things.”

Ȝe pushed past Tatian into the hall and went into the kitchen to get more doutfire. Ȝer hands were clumsy on the lid, and it took 3im several seconds to shake loose another curl of the bark. Ȝe pocketed the rest of the box and turned back toward the door. The bathroom door was open, and 3e caught a glimpse of 3imself in the mirror above the tub: a thin person—herm—in black, one eye hidden by the black bandage. It was Agede’s image, Agede the Doorkeeper, and 3e lifted a fresh bottle of sweetrum in salute. Agede looked back at 3im, Agede with his bottle and his cane, and Warreven smiled fiercely, knowing what 3e was going to do. Ȝe collected a walking stick from the bedroom—red, not black, but it would do—and went back to the main room, lifted 3er bottle to 3er reflection as 3e passed. Tatian, blond hair and beard golden in the light from the media center, looked at 3im uncertainly, and Warreven grinned.

“I’m ready when you are.”

Tatian steered the rover through the darkened streets, empty except for the occasional—very occasional—hurrying figure. They ducked into doorways or side streets as the rover passed, and Tatian shook his head.

“I don’t like this. Are you sure—” He broke off then, shook away whatever else he would have said, but Warreven gave a rueful smile.

“Am I sure it’s smart, or am I sure I know what I’m doing?”

“Either.” Tatian negotiated the turn onto a narrow street, easing the rover around a shay drawn up to shield someone’s main doorway.

“I know what I’m doing,” Warreven answered, and hoped it was true. At least, he thought, I know what I’m planning.

Tatian nodded. “I don’t want to try to get too close to the Harbor Market. Is there someplace we can stash the rover— someplace we can get to, and get away from, fast, if we have to?”

Warreven frowned, then nodded. “Take the next left.”

Tatian turned obediently, and the rover slid down a suddenly brightly lit street between rows of brick-fronted warehouses. The heavy doors—ironwood, rather than true steel, but strong enough to keep out all but the most determined looters—were barred, security lights flickering their warning above the lock plates. At the end of the street, however, a space opened abruptly, shallow, but wide enough to keep the rover off the main traffic way. A pair of shays, one with company marks, the other without, were already parked there, and Warreven nodded to them.

“Good enough?” 3e asked.

“How far are we from the Market?” Tatian asked; but he was already easing the rover into the space between the shays.

“There’s a stair-street right there,” Warreven answered. “It leads down directly to the Market, comes out behind the auction platform—where the stage is now. Now a lot of people use it.”

Tatian nodded again. “All right. If we get separated, or if there’s trouble, we get away and meet back here. With any luck, everybody will take other streets.” He popped the rover’s doors and levered himself out of the compartment.

“You sound like you’ve done this before,” Warreven said, and followed.

Tatian sighed. “I got caught in a riot on Hermione when I was just starting out. It’s not something I particularly want to repeat.”

“Who does?” Warreven said, pleased with the lightness of 3er voice, and led the way down the half-lit stairway.

There was a shantytown at its foot, a cluster of maybe half a dozen shacks built with the cast-off wood of shipping crates and the occasional bright-blue sheet of plastic, tucked into the dubious shelter of a disused factory outbuilding. Warreven hesitated, but there was no easier way—and no time to turn back, 3e told 3imself, not if 3e wanted to get to the Market in time to deal with Temelathe. Behind 3im, 3e heard Tatian mutter a curse and ignored him, kept walking, setting an easy pace, down the last steps and out onto the paving.