Melissa Scott - Shadow Man

A low fire was burning on the patch of bare ground between two of the huts. The sound of the drums came clearly from the Market, and someone, no more than a slim shape behind the fire, was tapping out a counterpoint on a hand drum. Another figure—male, or maybe mem—stood silhouetted against the flames, bottle in hand. Warreven ignored them and kept walking, aware of Tatian at 3er back, all the muscles in 3er back and sides protesting the sudden knotted tension. Ȝe was expecting catcalls, or worse, but heard nothing except the stutter of the drum, and then even that fell away, so that 3e was moving in step to the drums at the Market alone. At the edge of the Market, 3e could stand it no longer and looked back, to see the shanty folk standing silent, the man and the drummer joined now by a woman, child on hip, and then another and another, gender blurred by the shadows. Not knowing certainly why 3e did it, Warreven lifted 3er bottle in salute and turned back to the Market. The murmur of a name followed, not his own, and 3e heard Tatian swear again.

The Harbor Market was bright and abruptly crowded, light and shadow jagged against a sky black and emptied of stars. The crowd in front of the band platform was mixed, looked like a holiday crowd more than a protest, sailors and dockers in rough work trousers, wrap-shirts thrown on against the cool night air, dancing with ordinary people in rough-spun silks and shads. There were people from the wrangwys houses in a mix of ordinary and off-world clothes, and even a few genuine off-worlders, caught between curiosity and fear. Maybe a third of them—and every one of the odd-bodied, Warreven realized with a thrill of pleasure—wore the ranas’ multicolored ribbons, every color, any shade of every color, but not black or white. The air was thick with smoke, smelled of charcoal and feelgood and spilled liquertie ; at the foot of the Gran’quai, in front of the barricade, a bonfire was lit. The smoke of it rolled off toward Ferryhead, carried by the fitful wind, almost white against the dark sky.

The band was drumming on the makeshift stage, playing a cheerful rhythm, a song 3e had danced to in the wrangwys houses. It still sounded festive, more of a celebration, Midsummer or Springtide rather than a rana protest, but then 3e saw the line of people between the bonfire and the barricade. They stood shoulder to shoulder across the end of the Gran’quai, and even at this distance 3e could see the firelight reflecting from metal—more metal than he had imagined the docks might possess, metal in chains, in bars, maybe even in the barrels of guns. The dull sheen reminded 3im of the ghost ranas, emphasized the defiant solidity of their stance, and 3e shivered, suddenly afraid again.

“Are you all right?” Tatian asked quietly, and Warreven nodded.

“Give me a minute,” 3e said, and sank down on the nearest of the fused-stone bollards that marked the first ring of stalls. Ȝer eye was aching again, streaks of light searing 3er sight; 3er neck throbbed, a dull pain that promised worse to come, and the cut was burning where 3er clothes had rubbed the bandage. Ȝe grimaced, tugging at the waist of 3er trousers, and lifted the sweetrum bottle to 3er lips. It was almost empty already, and 3e caught a crazed glimpse of the sky, a single pinpoint of light—a pharmaceutical satellite, almost certainly, not a star—blazing in a rainbow halo before 3e lowered the bottle. There was a flower lying at 3er feet.

Ȝe looked at it, startled, and looked up to see a woman standing a meter or so away, two fingers to her lips in conventional acknowledgment of the spirits. For an instant, the gesture was shocking—3e had meant it, had courted that identification, but it had been a long time, a decade, maybe two since 3e had worn the mask of any spirit—and then training reasserted itself. Ȝe lifted the bottle in salute, and another flower, this one blue with a gold heart, landed beside the first. Ȝe nodded to that giver as well—a pot-bellied, well-dressed man in company badges, who should probably have known better—and pushed 3imself to 3er feet.

“What’s this all about?” Tatian demanded, but quietly, his voice pitched to carry only to Warreven’s ears.

Warreven glanced back at him, couldn’t restrain a sudden wild smile. “They see Agede—the Doorkeeper, one of the spirits, one of the powerful spirits—not just me, and they see Agede is a herm, I’m a herm, and that, Tatian, is how I’m going to win.”

“Oh, my God,” the off-worlder muttered, and the words were more than half a prayer.

“Something like that,” Warreven agreed, and started toward the bonfire. Ȝe could feel people watching, more and more of them turning to watch their progress through the glare of the lights; 3e could see, quite clearly, how the crowd parted for them.

The sound of the band was louder than ever by the bonfire, more than one drum calling the various lines of the song, flute soaring above to carry the melody. People, men and women and the wrangwys , were dancing in the firelight, maybe half-following the orderly patterns of a traditional dance, the rest improvising in the confined space. Warreven smiled again, feeling the drums in 3er bones, feet automatically picking up the pattern, and a boy swung toward 3im, hands out to invite the dance. He was young, maybe fifteen or sixteen, thin and hungry-looking, dark hair cut close to his skull. Seeing Warreven, his steps faltered, and Warreven held out 3er hands in answer, took the boy’s cold fingers, and twirled him gently away. Ȝe caught a quick glimpse of the boy’s face, open-mouthed, blank with shocked surprise, realized that he, too, was a herm. Ȝe smiled, and held out the almost- empty sweetrum bottle, tossed it toward 3er erstwhile partner. The boy—herm—caught it awkwardly, two-handed, and Warreven turned away, skirting the bonfire.

Ahead, the firelight rose and fell on the faces of the people who blocked access to the Gran’quai, reddening the colors of their ribbons, gleaming from the metal of the chains and the pry bars in their hands. At the center of the line, blocking the single opening in the barricade, was a group all in single colors, red and purple and orange and yellow and green and blue, all the colors of the spectrum; their hair was bound up under turbans of the same color, lips and eyes painted to match, hands gloved. Warreven suppressed a shudder at that reminder, but they were clearly the leaders of this part of the protest, and 3e made 3imself walk steadily toward them.

“Don’t look back,” Tatian said, “but you’ve acquired a following.”

Warreven felt 3er shoulders twitch, painfully, but managed not to turn. “I’m here to see Dismars,” 3e said, to the rana dressed in orange, and saw the woman shiver.

The man next to her, all in green, said, “It’s Warreven. He’s expected.”

He spoke loudly enough to be heard over the sound of the drums, but Warreven, glancing down, saw the orange woman’s free hand curved in a propitiating sign. She stepped aside, letting through the line, but the green man said, “Wait. The off-worlder—”

“You’re not closing doors to me?” Warreven asked, gently, and the green man fell silent. Ȝe stepped through the line, and Tatian followed.

Behind the barricade, on the Gran’quai itself, everything was different. The drums were softer, muffled by the stacked crates, and there were no dancers. Instead, a gang of dockers was busy with haul bars and an antigrav, adding a final load of crates and balks of ballast wood to the barricade. A devil, one of the portable engines that powered the cranes, chugged softly to itself in the background, throttled down, but ready. They were willing to keep things peaceful: that was the message of the band, the bonfire and the dancers, the carnival in the Market, but they were equally prepared to fight. Warreven wondered how many more guns were hidden on the dock, how many tool lasers had already been dragged up out of workshops and ships’ holds, and started as someone shoved something into 3er hand.