Shadow Man (Paragons of Queer Speculative Fiction) (28 page)

Warreven saw the
direction of his gaze and smiled, jabbing a wooden spoon savagely
into the stew. "From this distance, you might almost think they
wanted to catch the bastards who did it."

Tatian looked at 3im,
wondering what was in the stew that smelled of woodsmoke, and then
realized that the scent was clinging to Warreven's hair and
clothes. "Then it's true the fire was set," he said aloud.

"I'm sure of it,"
Warreven answered. "Not that it'll ever be proved, of course. But
it started in the back, where the alley doors are--were--and those
are the two houses where most of the radicals hung out. They did some
trade, sure, but they were mostly for the wry-abed. If it wasn't
set, well, you'd have to think the spirits took a personal hand."

"I worked late last
night," Tatian said, balancing the hot, crumbling pastry in the
palm of his hand. "As I was going home, I saw the fire, and then I
nearly got run down by a shay that was full of--well, I don't know
what they were. They were wearing masks, white masks, no paint, not
much feature, and then white gloves and bulky black--like a cape, I
guess, or a really full tunic." He could see them in his
imagination, the silent drummer and his followers, started to say
more, but stopped, not wanting to reveal how much they had disturbed
him.

"Ghost ranas,"
Warreven said, and shivered. "God and the spirits."

"What are they?"
Tatian asked, after a moment.

"Nothing good,"
Warreven answered grimly. "They--you know what ranas are, right?"

"Sanctioned
protesters, I thought? They have something to do with your spirits."

Warreven nodded.
"They're under Genevoe's--the Trickster's--protection, they
can say anything as long as they stay within the form." Ȝe
grinned suddenly. "You saw the
presance
at our
baanket
,
that's the sort of thing the ranas do. And as long as it stays a
dance, a mime, a song, even Temelathe has to put up with it, by
custom and by law." The smile vanished as quickly as it had
appeared. "But the ghost ranas.. . They don't just protest,
they'll take action. They say they're enforcing tradition,
custom, whatever, but they'll hurt you if you don't agree with
them. They killed a man eight years ago; that was the last time they
were active here in the city. There are more of them in the
mesnie
s,
especially down in the Equatoriale." Ȝe
turned sideways then on the broad, sun-warmed stones of the wall,
fixed Tatian with a sudden fierce glare. "And you say you saw them
last night, near the fire?"

"I saw a shay full of
them, maybe twelve, fifteen of them, driving up one of those side
streets onto Soushill Road," Tatian answered. "One of them had an
empty drum frame, was pretending to play it." He imitated the
movement, half embarrassed, and swore when the gesture dislodged a
piece of pastry. "They turned up another street--they were going
uphill, away from the fire-- and that was all I saw."

"What time was it?"
Warreven demanded.

"I could see
firefighters already there," Tatian answered. "If you're
thinking they started it, I don't know. All I could say was that I
saw them. My driver might be able to tell you more--"

"Not if it means
speaking against the ghost ranas," Warreven said. The eagerness had
vanished from 3er voice
again. "It could well have been them, but we'll never get anyone
to testify."

Tatian stooped to pick
up the broken bit of pastry and tossed it into the nearest trash can.
Hara had no scavengers, none of the usual city birds that swooped and
fought for crumbs; anything that spilled would lie where it fell
until it rotted. "I have to say, if they started it, and if it took
the firefighters that long to get to the bars, they waited a long
time to run away. And they were in a hurry."

"I suppose you're
right," Warreven said. "I--" Ȝe
broke off, staring up the hill. Tatian followed the direction of 3er
gaze, saw a sudden bustle of activity around the fire site. There
were more firefighters now, not all of them in silver suits, and more
mosstaas
, and a
crowd had gathered on the street to either side, pushed back by the
black-suited troopers. As he watched, a white-painted ambulance
turned onto the street, began making its way slowly through the
crowd.

"Oh, Christ," he
said, a sick certainty settling over him, and Warreven stood up
quickly, leaving 3er stew
on the wall beside 3im.

"Come on."

Tatian followed 3er
toward the nearest stair. Other people on the Embankment had seen the
same thing, the gathering audience and the ambulance, and were
heading for the stairs themselves. The two moved along with the
steady stream of people. Halfway up the stairs, Tatian looked up and
saw Barbedor fighting his way down toward them, the orange hair and
beard conspicuous in the mostly Haran crowd.

"Warreven! Raven,
wait."

"What is it?"
Warreven asked, and stopped, bracing 3imself
against the rail. Tatian stopped, too, and grunted as someone elbowed
him; then the people behind him sorted themselves out and flowed past
up the stairs.

"Raven, it's
Lammasin, I saw him--" Barbedor broke off on an intake of breath
that was almost a sob.

"Lammasin's dead,"
Warreven said, and took a deep breath.

Tatian, pressed close
to 3im by the crowd, felt
the breath catch in 3er
chest, then steady again with an effort.

Barbedor nodded. "They
found the body under the wall, I knew him by the chain he wears, the
metal one."

"How did he die?"
Warreven's voice was still unnaturally calm.

"In the fire, they
say, but I'd stake my life he wasn't at the club, either one of
them, last night." Barbedor's face twisted. "Lammasin is--was
arrogant, but he wasn't stupid, he knew he was in trouble."

Another elbow caught
Tatian in the ribs, and he felt a brief, unfriendly pressure at the
small of his back. "Warreven," he said. "Let's move."

Warreven shook 3imself,
nodded, and took a single step. Barbedor struggled for a moment to
turn around, and then they were all moving with the crowd back up the
stairs to Dock Row. There were too many people in the street to see
what was happening in the fire site; an ambulance attendant stood by
the closed rear compartment of þis machine, bored, mask hanging
loose around þis neck, but that was all.

"God and the
spirits," Warreven said quietly. "You're sure it was Lammasin?"

"The necklace,"
Barbedor began, and broke off, nodding. "I'm sure."

"Right." Warreven
looked at Tatian, managed a small, apologetic smile. "I'm sorry,
Tatian, we won't be able to discuss our business after all. I'm
going to be needed here, I think."

"All I needed was to
confirm our interest in your offer," Tatian said. "Is there
anything I can do to help?"

"I appreciate that,"
Warreven said, and looked toward the burned-out buildings. "I don't
know what--wait, that woman the other night, your friend--"

"Chavvin Annek,"
Tatian said.
Oh, my God
,
he thought,
she was a
friend of Lammasin's. Somebody should tell her--I should tell her,
warn her what's happened
--

"Was she close to
Lammasin?" Warreven went on.

"I don't know,"
Tatian said. "I think--she knew him well enough to go looking for
him after the
baanket
."
He took a deep breath, conscious again of the heavy smell of cold
ash. "I can tell her, if you'd like."

"He had a wife and
kids," Barbedor said.

Tatian frowned, annoyed
by the assumption of trade, and Warreven said, "Let me find out for
certain what's happened, then I'll let you know. And, yes, if
you'd tell her that would be help. I don't know who his off-world
friends would have been."

"I can talk to her,"
Tatian said again. "Warreven, I--I'm sorry."

"Thanks." Warreven
took another deep breath, and turned toward the ambulance. "I'll
let you know what's happened," 3e
said, over 3er shoulder,
and disappeared into the crowd, Barbedor at 3er
heels. Tatian stood for a moment, staring after them, then turned his
back on the crowd, on the burned shells of the buildings, heading
back toward Tredhard Street and the familiar confines of the
Estrange.

Vieuvant
:
(Hara) an "old soul," a man or woman who is recognized as a
reliable and accurate conduit for the will of one or more of the
spirits; some vieuvants speak only for one spirit, others for more
than one.

Warreven

The
memore
for Lammasin was held in Haliday's flat, nearly forty people
crowded into the four rooms and the open porch. The air was thick
with the smoke of feelgood and powdered sundew and the sweat of too
many people in too small a space. Warreven struggled into the main
room to pay his respects, stopped in front of the memorial tablet to
draw Agede's mark on his forehead with the ash that lay in the dish
in front of the freshly painted tablet. Given the way Lammasin had
died, the ash was a gruesome re- minder, and he wasn't surprised to
see that the widow was sitting well away from the tablet, white
mourning
shaal
--probably
her bride-clothes reused--drawn over her head to shadow her face.
Another woman stood at her side, one hand resting lightly,
protectively, on her shoulder, while a child, also in white, sat
cross-legged at her feet. He--she? the clothes and the thick
chin-length hair could have belonged to either--sat hunched over,
scowling as though daring anyone to comment on his reddened eyes.
Warreven nodded to the guardian, but came no closer: he hadn't
known Lammasin well, he was here more as Haliday's partner.

It was hot in the flat,
despite the cooling system pushed to its highest setting, and voices
rose and fell in argument in the back room. Warreven made a face, and
worked his way back out onto the balcony. To his surprise, Mhyre
Tatian was leaning against the corner railing, as far from the
brazier and its smoldering braid of feelgood as he could get.
Warreven glanced over his shoulder, looking for the off-world woman
who had been Lammasin's friend, and, when he didn't see her,
pushed through the crowd to join the off-worlder.

Tatian nodded a
greeting, both hands braced lightly against the wood of the rail.
Despite the breeze, he was sweating; Warreven could see the lights of
the spinny yard beyond him, their output almost tangible in the heavy
air.

"I didn't expect to
see you here," he said.

"I came with Annek,"
Tatian answered, and for an instant, Warreven thought he heard
impatience in the other man's voice. Then it was gone, and the
off-worlder went on, "She didn't want to come alone, given the
trouble recently."

"The ghost ranas
won't touch off-worlders," Warreven answered, and then sighed. "Or at
least they haven't yet. She's probably smart, at that."

"How are things?"
Tatian asked. "Have they got any leads?"

Warreven glanced over
his shoulder again, making sure none of the dead man's kin were in
earshot. "They don't even know for sure how he died. The
mosstaas
say he was caught in the fire, but no one who was at either club says
they saw him there. It's a mess."

Tatian nodded. "A lot
of our people--off-worlders in general, I mean, not NAPD--are
worried. Having protests at the harbor every day hasn't helped."

Warreven leaned on the
balcony beside him, looking down into the spinny yard. The
land-spiders hopped and scuttled in the lamp-light, casting a web of
shadows; on the wall above the pens, newly reeled silk hung to dry,
heavy and unmoving in the light wind. A door banged, and one of the
boys from the spinny came down the steps into the yard, began
dividing them by size and weight into the appropriate feeding pens.
His soft voice blended with their trilling purrs as he cooed and
called them by their names, oblivious to the people on the balcony
next door. Warreven took a deep breath as the breeze surrounded him
with smoke, tasting its musk on the back of his tongue, and looked
out over the harbor. The light at the tip of the market mole flashed
twice and was echoed by the South Harbor Light on the horizon; he
knew that the Blind Point Light would follow, a short flash and then
a long beam sweeping across the seaward horizon, but that light was
behind them. He heard Tatian cough and shift, moving out of the smoke
that was already drifting away again, and turned back to face him.

"Like I said, those
ranas aren't supposed to do more than make fun, and the ghost ranas
have never attacked off-worlders. You should be all right."

"Mm." Tatian did
not sound particularly convinced, and Warreven had to admit that he
could understand the other man's uncertainty. Tendlathe's
supporters had been increasingly vocal over the last few days--he
had seen one of their ranas near the Souk, red and white ribbons
weighted with the Captain's anchor, singing against the odd-bodied.
Another had gone through the market by the Blue Watch House,
overturning the women's makeshift stalls, and the
mosstaas
had done nothing. Folhare said their own ranas would dance there, try
to protect them, but their presence wouldn't do much for sales.

"I don't suppose
the
mosstaas
will make any effort to suppress them."

"The Most Important
Man didn't like Lammasin's performance, did he?" Warreven
answered. "I can't imagine he's grieving much--or going to put
his weight behind any investigation. And of course Tendlathe has a
lot of influence with the
mosstaas
."

"That's a really
stupid statement," Haliday said. "And I'd appreciate you not
making it in my house."

Warreven looked over
his shoulder to see Haliday standing against the nearest pillar. Ȝe
was scowling, and Warreven sighed. "Sorry, Hal, you're right."