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.
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 mesnies," 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.
"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, mesnies 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 t
he 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--"
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.
Shadow Man (Paragons of Queer Speculative Fiction) Page 30