Melissa Scott - Shadow Man

“But if I must, I must,” Temelathe said. “I’m willing to talk all night, if that’s what it takes to get this settled.”

“We would ask for a preliminary undertaking first,” Dismars said.

Temelathe spread his hands. “I’m prepared to talk.”

“There are issues that have to be discussed more generally,” Dismars said. “At the Meeting.”

“The Meeting’s out of my control,” Temelathe said, but the protest was only perfunctory. “That’s a matter for the Watch Council.”

“And we know how influential you are, mir,” Dismars answered. “But these things need to be discussed, and the Meeting’s the only forum where all of us have a voice.”

“What issues?” Temelathe faced the younger man squarely, his spread-legged stance—the Captain’s stand—apparently relaxed, only the rigidity of his shoulders to betray any hint of nervousness. Behind him, Tendlathe took a single step forward, then seemed to think better of it.

“A round dozen,” Dismars said. “To name a few, there’s the question of how contracts are awarded to the pharmaceuticals, there’s the whole question of trade—most of all, there’s whether or not we should join the Concord. All those need to be dealt with, mir.”

“Not everyone agrees with you,” Temelathe said.

Dismars looked over his shoulder, the glance as good as a gesture. “All these people are with me. They’re not just Bonemarche, mir, we’re from all over, mesnie s as well as the city.”

“I could ask the Council to schedule you to speak at the Meeting,” Temelathe said. He smiled thinly. “That’s your right, after all. But I can’t make promises regarding individual issues. The contracts, for example, or trade, those are clan issues, or city issues, those don’t belong in the Meeting.”

“They affect everyone,” Dismars said.

Temelathe shook his head. “I can’t make promises for your clans. You’re a Maychilder, he’s a Trencevent, the lady there I know is Black Stane—you’ll have to take this up with your own clans. But I can offer you the chance to speak.”

Dismars took a deep breath, and nodded. “And we talk tonight.”

“Very well.” Temelathe nodded back, the gesture of a man concluding a good bargain. Behind him, Tendlathe smiled.

“Temelathe,” Warreven said. Ȝe didn’t raise 3er voice, didn’t need to in the sudden silence as 3e stepped out from the group of Modernists. Ȝe felt the eyes on 3im, the waiting mosstaas behind the line of the crowd, the crowd itself, not just the people on the barricade and the people who had followed 3im, but the ones still waiting by the rana platform and the shanty folk beyond them. Ȝe realized 3e was still holding the sweetrum bottle, and tipped it to 3er lips, completing Agede’s image.

“Warreven,” Temelathe said softly. His eyes flickered, taking in both the clothes and the crowd’s reaction, the hum of agreement from the odd-bodied to his right. “I hadn’t thought of that. The Doorkeeper is a herm.”

“I am,” Warreven answered, deliberately ambiguous, and touched the bandage over his eye. “And I, and people like me, are suffering for it. That has to stop, and you, Temelathe, are the one who can do it.”

Temelathe looked at him, a long, level stare. “So what exactly do you want, Warreven?”

“First, the ghost ranas have to be stopped,” Warreven answered. “Hunted down and punished would be best, my father, but stopped will do. And then—I exist, people like me exist, and we’re not wrangwys , not anymore. We are people, and we want a proper name, in law.”

There was a little murmur behind him, and then a louder one, as people realized what 3e’d said. Tendlathe made a soft noise, not quite protest, more surprise and anger, and Temelathe glanced over his shoulder, putting out his hand. Tendlathe was still again, and the Most Important Man looked back at 3im.

“I can’t promise that, Warreven. You know that.”

Warreven took a deep breath. “One man has died, I nearly died last night, I don’t want any deaths tonight. But there will be more if you don’t take action.”

Temelathe looked at him, mouth drawn into a tight line. From behind him, Tendlathe said, fiercely, “Do you stand with him, Dismars? Are you that stupid?”

Temelathe waved him to silence, looked at Dismars himself. “It’s a fair question, though. Are you willing to throw everything away, for him? Because I can’t meet with you under these terms.”

There was a long silence, only the sound of the fire and the breathing of the massed crowd, and then Dismars shook his head. “I’ll stick to what we agreed, mir.” He looked once over his shoulder, lifted his voice to carry to the crowd. “It’s not that we don’t recognize that the wrangwys have problems, but there are other ways to deal with them.”

There was a murmur, almost a moan, from the listening crowd, and someone whistled, a shrill note of disapproval.

“That’s not good enough,” Warreven said. Ȝe pitched 3er voice to carry to the entire line this time. “I want those two things—two simple things, Temelathe, to keep the peace and to admit I, we, exist—and I want it now.”

Temelathe looked from 3im to Dismars, then back along the line of dockers behind 3im. “Be reasonable—”

“I am reasonable,” Warreven said. “There’s nothing unreasonable about wanting to exist, my father.”

“It’s not my business, it’s clan business,” Temelathe said. He spread his hands, taking in the line at the barricade, the people around him, the platform beyond the bonfire where the ranas stood. “I don’t have that kind of authority—and you know as well as I do, not everyone agrees with you. The majority of people are satisfied with things as they are.”

“They’re still wrong,” Warreven said bitterly. “You’ve worn the Captain’s shape for a long time, Temelathe, it’s time you acted for him. This is simple justice, a simple matter of reality.”

“Is it?” Temelathe sounded almost sad.

Behind him, Tendlathe stirred, fixed 3im with a cold stare. “God and the spirits, that’s enough. Quit while you’re ahead, Warreven.”

“And let you pretend I—we—don’t exist?” Warreven looked over 3er shoulder again, down the long line of people guarding the barricade. Ȝe pointed, picking out the first herm 3e saw, then to the person next to 3im, who might have been a fem. “You, and you—” Ȝe swung around, pointing again to individuals, mostly wrangwys , a few faces 3e thought 3e recognized from the bars and dance houses, people who’d done trade, who slept wry-abed, as well as the odd-bodied. “—all of you, can we let him say we don’t exist?”

Ȝe got an answering shout, angriest from 3er left, but loud enough from the rest, and 3e smiled equally at father and son, knowing it was more of a snarl. “You hear us. Don’t tell me you can’t, I know what your power is. You can write us into law. Give us that.”

“I can’t,” Temelathe answered.

“You will.” Warreven took a deep breath, feeling the power in 3im, riding the will of the crowd, harnessing it to 3er own desire.

“And if I don’t?” Temelathe sounded incredulous. “Are you threatening me, Warreven?”

“I’m opening the door,” Warreven said, and was 3imself answered by another cheer. “It’s up to you which one.”

Temelathe stared at him for another minute. Behind him, Tendlathe took a slow step forward, and then another, moving closer across the cobbles, until he stood almost at Temelathe’s shoulder. His expression was no longer stony, but openly furious, his stare divided between his father and Warreven. The Most Important Man shook his head. “No, not this time,” he said. “Not even for you—”