Melissa Scott - Shadow Man

It was a bottle, nearly full, and 3e managed not to drop it, seeing a woman sailor backing away, lifting two fingers to her lips before she turned back to the barricade. The cork was off, and 3e could smell sweetrum. Ȝe sipped it, not knowing what else would be mixed in it, and tasted starfire bitter beneath the sweet. Ȝe took a deeper swallow then, grateful for the drugs to numb the rising pain behind his eye, and saw the leaders of the Modernists gathered beneath one of the working lights, a noteboard propped up on a bollard.

“I’ll wait here,” Tatian said, and stopped just outside the range of the light.

Warreven nodded, and stepped forward. “I’m here.”

Ȝe saw one of them—a younger man, someone 3e didn’t know—touch his lips, saw Folhare’s sudden grin and Losson’s angry stare. Dismars said, “Warreven.” He, too, had pitched his voice to carry beyond the little group, to identify 3im, take away the mask of the spirit. Which isn’t possible, Warreven thought, not tonight, not this time, you called me, and here I am, not what you expected and not what you can use. Ȝe spread 3er hands, and smiled.

“Is Temelathe really coming, then?”

“He’s on his way,” Dismars said, grimly, and Losson broke in.

“And we need to be sure we’re all after the same things.”

“You wanted me here,” Warreven said. “Here I am.”

Ȝe saw Dismars and Losson exchange quick glances, and then Dismars said, “And we’re glad of it. I appreciate your help, Warreven.”

Wait until it’s over, Warreven thought. Ȝe said nothing, however, just waited, and Dismars looked back at the noteboard.

“All right,” he said. “We’ve made a list of our demands—you’re welcome to take a look, Warreven—but the main thing is, we want to speak at the Meeting.”

Warreven accepted the noteboard that Folhare held out to 3im, worked the controls to glance quickly down the list. Gender law—described as “trade and related questions"—was there all right, but looking at the faces surrounding 3im, 3e couldn’t muster much confidence in their willingness to press the question.

“Without that,” Dismars went on, his eyes fixed on Warreven’s face, “without that, we can’t hope to achieve anything.”

“And we can’t get anything if there’s a riot,” Losson growled.

“We can’t stand up to the mosstaas ,” a younger man corrected, frowning.

“And we lose any hope of getting support from the mesnie s,” Losson said.

“All right,” Dismars said sharply. “Are you willing to talk to Temelathe with us, Warreven?”

“I’ll talk to him,” Warreven said.

Dismars opened his mouth to say something more, but a woman’s voice from the barricade interrupted him.

“Æ, miri, the Most Important’s here.”

“How many?” Dismars called back.

“One caleche,” the woman answered. “And three, no, four big shays. All mosstaas .” Behind her, the band’s steady beat faltered, and then the leaders had it under control again. “They’re stopping at the Embankment, though.”

“Right.” Dismars took a deep breath, looked around the circle of faces, including even Warreven in his intent stare. “Let’s go.”

He led the way out through the opening in the barricade, the rainbow-dressed line parting to let them through. Warreven, following at the back of the group, was aware of Tatian behind 3im, sliding through the barricade unchallenged. In the Market, the crowd was silent, no one dancing now, despite the continued music of the rana band on the platform; there was a smaller crowd—the people who had followed 3im to the barricade, Warreven realized, with a sudden thrill—to the left of the bonfire, mostly the odd-bodied, their attention swiveling between the barricade and the approaching mosstaas . The shays had stopped at the edge of the Market, and mosstaas , dozens of them, armed with riot guns and cast-ceramic breastplates, spilled from the open bodies, formed up neatly on the worn stones. Warreven looked toward the platform, toward the stairway that led back up to the ware- house street where the rover was waiting, saw yet another group, not part of the rana, not yet, but from the shanty, watching just outside the market lights. A few of the people who had been dancing slipped away as 3e watched, but the shanty dwellers remained.

Something moved in the darkness beyond the shays, and a heavy caleche slid past them into the light. The crowd parted for it, reluctant but wary, closed in again as it ground to a stop just beyond the bonfire. The passenger door opened, and Temelathe stepped out. A mosstaas followed, pellet gun at the ready, and then Tendlathe, slim in the firelight. He looked over his shoulder at the shays, but made no gesture. He started to follow his father, the trooper instantly at his shoulder, but Temelathe waved them back, and they stopped a meter or so from the caleche. Temelathe looked almost incongruously ordinary as he crossed the open space between the two groups, a bulky, gray-haired, gray-bearded man in plain trousers and an old-fashioned vest over a new-style shirt, his hair still knotted at the nape of his neck. Warreven felt old loyalties tugging at 3er heart, looked deliberately past him to Tendlathe, standing a little ahead of the mosstaas now, both hands deep in the pockets of his trousers.

“Miri, mirrimi,” Temelathe said, and though he didn’t seem to raise his voice, it was pitched to carry easily through the crowd, and along the line of people in front of the barricade. “This is outside of enough. I understand your complaints, and I agree, this lawlessness, these ghost ranas, have to be stopped, but this is no way to get anything done. Disperse now, and we can meet properly in the morning.”

There was a murmur, half angry, half uncertain, and Dismars shook his head. His voice wasn’t as clear as Temelathe’s, but it would carry to at least the nearer of the crowd. “Tomorrow isn’t soon enough, mir. We need to talk now.”

“I agree that we need to talk,” Temelathe said, “but not like this.” He gestured, the broad sweep of his hand taking in the bonfire and the ranas as well as the barricade and its guardians. “There’s a lot that needs to be said, to be discussed, but not like this. We need to sit down together, without any lives at stake. This, this is an illegal gathering, and I can’t permit it to go on. Disperse now, peacefully, and we can talk tomorrow.”

“This is legal,” Losson said.

Dismars said, “Mir, yesterday’s rana was dispersed, when it was well within the bounds of law and custom. And we got nothing for that, an act in good faith, except that the ghost ranas attacked two more people. I can’t in conscience ask people to disperse under those circumstances.”

Tendlathe sighed, jammed his hands into his pockets. It was an act Warreven had seen before—the bluff, good-hearted man from the Stanelands, a little confused by the modern world, but willing to learn—and 3e took a step back, away from the others. Ȝe wouldn’t, couldn’t, let 3imself be taken in this time.

“Yesterday was an error, miri, that I admit. An overzealous officer, holding too fast to the letter of the law.”

“Under the circumstances,” Dismars repeated, “our people will be most upset if they have to disperse again. Especially with nothing to show for it.”

“We can talk tonight, if you insist,” Temelathe said. “Though I’d’ve expected a little more consideration for an old man.”

“Mir, I wouldn’t insult you,” Dismars answered, and Temelathe showed teeth in a quick grin. Warreven looked past him to see Tendlathe still standing frozen, hands still in his pockets. The firelight threw the planes of his face into harsh relief, the expressionless stare and the moving eyes.