Melissa Scott - Shadow Man

A flat snap cut him off. Warreven blinked, unable for an instant to recognize it, and Temelathe grunted, hands flying to his chest. In the firelight, the blood was already dark on his shirt, spilling over his fingers. He started to say something, mouth opening soundlessly, and then pitched forward onto the worn cobbles of the Market.

“My father—?” Warreven began, and in the same instant saw the flash of metal in Tendlathe’s hand. Tendlathe met 3er stare across Temelathe’s body, defiant and triumphant and afraid, and behind him the mosstaas tilted his pellet gun toward the sky, fired two quick shots. The sound was drowned in the roar of the crowd, but the muzzle flash lit the night, an obvious signal. The caleche’s engine whined as it pulled out, slewing to face the way it had come, and one wing struck the edge of the bonfire, scattering sparks and a chunk of burning wood that shattered as it struck the stones.

“Murderer!” Warreven said, and stepped forward over Temelathe’s body. Ȝe lifted 3er cane, swung its heavy length at Tendlathe’s head, aiming the weight of it at his temples. Tendlathe ducked, bringing his arms up in automatic defense, and the little gun—a palmgun, small but deadly enough at close range—went skittering across the cobbles. Warreven lifted the cane again, and the trooper shouted, leveling his own gun.

“Get in the car, mir—and you, whatever you are, get back!”

Warreven froze, staring at the muzzle of the rifle. The trooper couldn’t miss, not at this range, and 3e braced 3imself for the bullet. Then the caleche slid to a stop behind them, passenger door opening, and Tendlathe half-fell into it, one hand to his head. The crowd surged forward, one man throwing himself against the engine cowling, and the mosstaas fired at last. Warreven flinched, and the sweetrum bottle kicked in 3er hand, the glass exploding, spilling a great fan of liquid. Some of it landed on the embers from the bonfire and flamed blue, an eerie, alien light, consumed as quickly as it had appeared. The rest of the mosstaas were pouring down from the Embankment, and Dismars and someone in dockers’ clothes were trying to form the crowd into a line to meet them, but half the crowd didn’t seem to realize what had happened and still stood in confusion. And then there were more shots, and people began to run, some toward the side streets, some back toward the Gran’quai. Dismars shouted, his words inaudible at this distance, and someone threw a bottle after the caleche. It missed, broke on the stones, spreading a pool of flames.

Warreven looked back at Temelathe, the body still contorted on the ground, ignored. An ember had landed on one sleeve, and the cloth was smoldering; hardly knowing what 3e was doing, 3e reached out with the tip of the cane and ground out the flame. Ȝe realized then what 3e must look like, Agede considering 3er latest conquest, couldn’t bring 3imself to care. Ȝe had never meant for this to happen, never wanted Temelathe dead, not when it left Tendlathe in control—

“Raven!” Tatian caught 3er shoulders, swung 3im bodily toward the platform and the stair street behind it. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

“But—” Warreven shook 3imself, trying to get 3er mind to work. The last of the drummers was jumping down from the improvised stage, drum clutched to his body; the flute player stood frozen against the lights, staring toward the Embankment. There was another crackle of gunfire, and she fell or jumped into the crowd below.

“Come on,” Tatian said, and shoved 3im toward the platform.

“Warreven!” someone shouted, and another voice answered, “Stop him!”

Tatian swore under his breath. “Leave the cane,” he said, and Warreven dropped it. “Look at me.”

Ȝe turned, shaking now, the sight of Temelathe falling, the body fallen, and Tendlathe standing over it, caught in the firelight, still filling 3er mind, and Tatian caught 3er chin. The pain of his fingers on the bruises shocked 3im back to a semblance of awareness, and 3e started to pull away.

“The bandage,” Tatian said. “It’s too obvious. It’s got to go.” Warreven started to nod, but Tatian’s hand was already on the corner of the plastiskin, jerking it free. The medipack came with it, spilling what was left of its contents down the side of 3er face and neck, warm and faintly salty on 3er lips. The firelight seared 3er eyes; 3e winced, but turned on 3er own toward the stairs. Other people, dozens of them, were running with them, first in twos and threes, and then in larger groups. Warreven stumbled on the uneven stones, vision blurring, caught the off-worlder’s arm for support. As they reached the shantytown, gunfire sounded again, and 3e looked back to see the bonfire scattered, a drift of glowing coals, and dark figures, a neat line and a ragged one, shifting back and forth across it. More people were running toward them, heading for the stairs—heading for all the stair streets and alleys that led away from the Market, and Warreven turned back, climbed blind and aching toward the temporary safety of the rover.

Advocate: (Hara) man or woman trained in written and customary law, and certified by his or her clan as someone who has the right to speak for others before the clan and Watch courts.

Tatian sprinted up the last few steps to the warehouse street, shoving Warreven ahead of him. The indigene was moving awkwardly, without coordination, but Tatian pushed 3im on, not daring to stop. He glanced back once, saw more people heading for this stairway—the mosstaas had cut off access to most of the others—and gave Warreven a final shove in the direction of the rover. Its security field was flashing, warning that the system was primed and active, and Tatian stopped, swearing, and reached for his wrist pad to deactivate it. The pulse kicked back across his chest, and he held his breath for an instant, fighting the pain and the fear that the interface box would finally fail completely at this moment. The field stayed clear for a heartbeat, two, and then faded. He took a deep breath, not daring to admit the depth of his relief, and said, “Get in, quick.”

Warreven moved to obey, and Tatian swung himself into the driver’s pod, triggering the main systems. He kicked the quick start lever, heard the engine cough and die. He kicked it again, then made himself take the time to adjust the settings. This time the engine caught, and he glanced sideways to make sure Warreven was safely in place. The indigene was leaning back against the cushions, 3er left eye, the only one visible, swollen closed, a trail of liquid, tears or discharge or the remains of the medipack, running down 3er cheek. Ȝe looked bad, but there was no time to do anything for 3im. Ȝer door was closed, and the lock indicator glowed red; he would worry about the rest later. He slammed the rover into gear and edged out into the street. The hard tires crunched on something, and Tatian saw that the shay parked beside them had lost its side windows already.

He touched the throttle, sent the rover surging forward, and had to swerve to avoid the running figures that loomed out of the shadows. One of them grabbed for the passenger door, but the locks held. Tatian caught a glimpse of a terrified face—maybe a clean-shaven man’s, maybe a woman’s, too distorted by fear and effort for him to be sure—but knew better than to stop. He touched the throttle again, increasing power, and the face fell away. In the mirrors, he could see more people emerging from the stairway, could hear, even over the noise of the rover’s engines, shouts and the wail of sirens in the distance.

“Where to?” he asked, and swung the rover right at the end of the street, turning away from the Harbor.