Melissa Scott - Shadow Man

The media screen came back into focus as the light faded, and he worked the remote to bring the voices up again. The Harbor Market filled the picture, empty now, the stones soot-marked from the bonfire, the remains of the barricade piled to one side of the Gran’quai. A drag engine was hauling away the last balks of wood under the watchful eyes of armed mosstaas , while in the background silver-suited firefighters prodded at the remains of a large storage shed. That was the only thing that had burned on the Gran’quai itself; Tatian was glad to see that the docked ships and the factors’ offices seemed untouched except for the occasional broken window.

“—order was restored,” the newsreader was saying. “A few ranas remain active, but the Most Important Man has vowed that they will be closed down by noon. We have been asked to remind our viewers that all political activity has been suspended until the crisis is over, and that rana bands of any type have been explicitly prohibited until that time.”

“Bastard,” Warreven said, from the bedroom doorway. Ȝer voice was a little slurred, more from the swelling than the aftereffects of either the sweetrum or the doutfire. “How bad is it?”

“I haven’t heard yet,” Tatian answered. “Last night, they were saying thirty confirmed dead at the Market, and another dozen around the city. Plus Temelathe, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Tendlathe moves fast,” Tatian said. It was probably better to get the worst news over with. “Everyone’s already calling him the Most Important Man, and he’s formally taking over tonight. There’s an emergency session of the Watch Council then.”

“Bastard,” Warreven said again. “Not that I should be surprised.” Ȝe put 3er hand to 3er bandaged eye. “I don’t suppose you have any doutfire, do you?”

Tatian shook his head, not for the first time envious of the indigenes’ tolerance for their extensive pharmacopeia. “The doctor left some pills. Ȝe said you could take up to four at a time. They’re in the kitchen.”

“Thanks,” Warreven said, and disappeared through the door.

Tatian watched 3im go, wondering what to do now. He would be recalled, unless Tendlathe expelled him first—someone at the Harbor was bound to have recognized him, and Masani would have to recall him, if %e wanted to go on doing business with the Harans. However, he wasn’t looking forward to explaining this to %er, no matter how sympathetic %e had been to the odd-bodied. As for Warreven… He shook his head. Tendlathe was blaming 3im for his father’s death, and he doubted Warreven had enough support left among the Modernists to have much chance of surviving arrest and trial, no matter how many times 3e swore 3e’d seen Tendlathe shoot his father. Could the other odd-bodied, the wrangwys , protect 3im? he wondered. They didn’t seem organized enough to offer much help, either political support or physical protection, and he had a strong feeling that the latter would be necessary. Tendlathe needed a scapegoat, and Warreven was the obvious one. That left off-world, but there his imagination failed him. He couldn’t picture Warreven on any of the Concord Worlds, part of Concord society: 3e was too much of Hara. Maybe 3e could head for the Stiller mesnie s north of Bonemarche, he thought. Anti-Stane feeling might outweigh everything else….

The communications system sounded then, and he touched the remote, accepted the call without thinking, expecting Isabon or Derebought. Codes flowed across the screen—official codes, the codes for the White Watch House, and he barely stopped himself from canceling the call. He had already accepted it, already betrayed his presence in the flat; to refuse the call would only cause more trouble. At least the Harans had no direct power within the EHB compound, he thought, and braced himself to pretend innocence. The screen lit at last, and Tendlathe’s neatly bearded face looked back at him, a narrow bandage running across his forehead. At least Warreven marked him, Tatian thought, and looked down. The reciprocal transmission was already established: too late to do anything except brazen it out.

“Mir Tatian.” Tendlathe’s voice was cold and very precise.

“Mir Tendlathe,” Tatian answered. “What can I do for you?”

“You can stop playing games,” Tendlathe answered. “I want Warreven, and I have every reason to think you have him. If you give him up, I’m prepared to overlook your part in last night’s fiasco.”

“I don’t have 3im,” Tatian said. He heard a faint noise from the kitchen, suppressed the desire to look, to wave Warreven back out of sight.

“I don’t have time for this,” Tendlathe said. “You helped Warreven get away, you were seen—you were filmed—doing it.”

“Films can be altered,” Tatian said. “They’re hardly evidence.”

“They’re evidence here,” Tendlathe answered. “And if it comes to that, I’ll bring NAPD down with you—I’ll be sure they’re implicated, as well as you, in conspiracy and murder.”

“Anything I did was on my own authority. It has nothing to do with the company,” Tatian said, and Tendlathe gave a thin smile.

“I’m sure, but I can make it look otherwise. And I will, if I have to. I told you, I want Warreven very badly.”

Tatian looked down at the control bar, glyphs flickering at the edge of the screen. He had no doubt that Tendlathe meant exactly what he said—and I should have realized it, he thought, expected it—and he couldn’t risk NAPD’s position on Hara. He had no right to jeopardize not only everything Lolya Masani had worked to build, but Derebought and Mats and Reiss, but at the same time, he couldn’t give Warreven up. Not now, he thought, and not to these people.

“Tendlathe.”

Warreven stepped out of the kitchen doorway, came slowly forward into the camera’s range. Tatian opened his mouth to say something, anything, to wave 3im back, but one look at 3er face silenced him. He stepped back against the window, feeling the heat radiating from the shutters, wondering what Warreven thought 3e could gain from this.

“Warreven,” Tendlathe said, and there was a kind of grim satisfaction on his face. “I knew you’d be there.”

Warreven shrugged. “It doesn’t matter where I am, does it? You and I have a lot to talk about—what’s it like, Ten, being the Most Important Man?”

“It feels good, thank you,” Tendlathe answered. “It feels good to be able to deal with you as you deserve.”

“No matter how you got there?” Warreven asked. “I didn’t want him dead, and you’ll never convince anyone I did, not when it means you taking over. Besides, I saw him die—I saw you shoot him, Ten.”

Tendlathe’s expression didn’t change. “No one’s going to believe your lies—”

“And I can’t be the only one,” Warreven went on.

“The only thing that matters now,” Tendlathe said, “is where and how you surrender to me.”

Warreven managed a sound that was almost a laugh, and Tatian could see the ghost of 3er usual humor in 3er bruised face. “The last thing you want is for me to turn myself in. That would bring everything into the courts, including how and why Temelathe died. Do you really want to open that door?” Ȝe laughed aloud this time, sounding genuinely, incredulously, amused. “God and the spirits, maybe I should. It might be worth it, to see how you explain that.”

“I can make very sure you don’t get a chance to talk,” Tendlathe said.

“That’s not much incentive to surrender,” Warreven answered, and there was a little silence. Tatian looked from one to the other, from Warreven to the bearded face in the screen, but couldn’t read anything in their expressions. Tendlathe’s face was taut, muscles standing out at the corners of his mouth; Warreven was still smiling faintly, hiding behind 3er laughter.