Shadow Man (Paragons of Queer Speculative Fiction) (31 page)

The driver edged the
rover through the compound gates, past the
mosstaas
--a
different foursome--lounging against the columns. The driver kept
his head down as they slid past, eyes fixed on the road; Warreven
nodded and smiled, enjoying the play of status. Then the rover had
turned down the first main street, and Warreven saw the driver's
shoulders relax a little.

"Where to now, mir?"

Warreven sighed. Under
other circumstances, he would head for Harborside, but tonight it
seemed wiser to avoid the district. "Blind Point," he said. "Just
north of the light--I'll direct you when we get there."

The driver nodded. "No
problem, mir."

The rover turned again,
onto the winding street that led down from Ferryhead to the edge of
the Harbor. It was well lit, and lights showed in the upper windows
and in the courtyard en- trances; there were people visible as well
through those openings, men and women silhouetted against the lights.
Things looked almost normal--but of course they would, in Ferryhead,
Warreven thought. Ferryhead was where the Stanes--the White
Stanes--and their allies lived, and all the rest of the clan
officers who made their very good livings dealing with the
off-worlders. Of course things would look--would be--normal: they
paid the
mosstaas
very well to make sure it was true. Despite the almost reflexive
bitterness of the thought, he was relaxing, the tension easing from
his back and shoulders. There would be things he could do to counter
Tendlathe, or, if he couldn't, Haliday or Folhare would know who
could.

Harborside itself
seemed busier than ever, lights blazing on the docks, and on the bars
and dance houses rising up the side of the hill. From this angle, the
burned-out bars on Dock Row were invisible; there were just the
lights, vivid and inviting. Even through the rover's filters, the
air smelled hot, heavy with feelgood and a dozen other compounds, and
the sound of drums came with them. Warreven sighed, and saw the
driver glance up into his mirror. "Sure you don't want to stop,
mir?"

Warreven smiled,
meeting the dark eyes. "All my--friends--are at sea. I'd hate
to be alone."

The driver shrugged,
one-shouldered, still looking in the mirror. "That could be fixed
pretty easily."

"I appreciate that,"
Warreven said, and matched the faint, rueful smile he could see
reflected. "But it was a hard meeting, I doubt I'd be good for
much of anything."

The driver shrugged
again, both shoulders this time. "Blind Point, then, mir."

They turned onto
Tredhard Street, the rover's engine groaning as it matched the
incline. Warreven looked back, to see the ranas still drumming on
their makeshift stage. The listening crowd seemed larger, too, and
the
mosstaas
were nowhere to be seen.

"They've been at it
all night," the driver volunteered.

Warreven nodded again,
settling himself against the padded seat. They had reached the
intersection of Dock Row, and for a moment he imagined he could smell
the ashes, the remains of the fire. The street's power hadn't
been fully restored, either; there were gaps in the lines of light,
and a number of the signs flickered and fizzed, throwing erratic
shadows. The driver turned down the next street, heading north toward
Blind Point, and Warreven was suddenly aware of gaps in the line of
houselights, of glass shattered in front of every other house.

"What the hell--?"
he began, and the shadows seemed abruptly thicker, shapes moving
against the motion of the rover.

"Shit," the driver
said, and slammed the throttle forward. The engine snarled in
protest, choking as the system tried to handle the rush of fuel, and
then the ranas were all around them, tattered black robes dull in the
uncertain light. One of them held a drum hoop--white as bone, white
as fire, empty--while another held the white-painted frame for a
ceramic gong. They stood frozen, a ring of white-faced, white-handed
ghosts surrounding the rover, and then the drummer lifted a
white-painted stick and began to mime a steady beat. One of the
others swooped close and peered in the window by the driver's face.
The one carrying the gong frame gestured as though to strike it, and
the ranas froze again.

A couple of them
carried clubs held loose at their sides; at least two more carried
the jointed lengths of ironwood that trail walkers used against
unfriendly mountain spiders. They were blocking the street ahead of
the rover; Warreven didn't dare move to look back, but guessed that
there would be as many behind the car. Then the one carrying the gong
frame struck again, and the drummer took up the beat. The rana
closest to the rover leaned toward the passenger compartment, and
Warreven met the white-masked stare. The eyeholes were covered with
tinted glass; he caught only the faintest sense of movement, of the
shift of human eyes behind the dark lenses.

"Drive," he said,
and leaned forward to punch the driver's shoulder.

The driver shot him a
frightened glance--there were ranas in front of the rover, and
behind it, no place to go without running them over--and the rana
pushed himself back from the rover's side, reaching for something
he'd held concealed in his ragged robe. Warreven caught a single
glimpse of the length of chain--metal chain, stolen surely from the
starport, five eight-centimeter-long links of polished metal--and
punched the driver's shoulder again.

"Drive, damn it!"

The driver hit the
throttle again, and the rover lurched forward. In the same moment,
the length of chain swept down, shattering the long side window.
Warreven ducked away from the rain of glass, saw the driver duck,
too, but the rover kept moving forward, picking up speed. The ranas
dodged back, scattering in confusion, and the driver swayed upright
again, sent the rover skidding down the narrow street. Warreven
looked back, ready to duck again, and saw the ghost ranas standing in
the roadway, miming laughter. Then the rover had turned the first
corner, heading back toward the relative safety of Dock Row, and he
straightened cautiously. He was shaking--he'd been lucky, the
glass had missed him, but it had been close, too close--and leaned
forward to touch the driver's shoulder.

"Are you all right?"

"Yeah, no," the
driver said, his voice shaken. "Maybe--I will be."

Warreven looked into
the mirror, saw the driver's face reflected, marked with a line of
blood. The rover swung around the next corner and turned onto Dock
Row, into the flickering lights of the dance houses. "Pull over,
let me see."

The driver eased the
rover into the curb, into the relatively steady light of a houselamp.
Rather than risk the shattered glass that covered half the passenger
seat, Warreven climbed out through the street-side door and came
around the rover's nose to peer in the driver's half of what had
been the window. Behind him, a few of the people who had been waiting
in the doors of the bars and the dance houses moved a few steps
closer, not knowing whether or not they would need to intervene.
Warreven ignored them, stooped to lean into the empty window. "Let
me see," he said again.

The driver turned to
face him. The breaking glass had scored a long cut from cheekbone to
jawline, and the blood was still welling sluggishly from it; there
was more blood on his shoulder, staining the pale fabric of his
shirt. "It's not so bad," he said, and fumbled for something in
one of the storage compartments. "I'll be all right."

Warreven eyed him
uncertainly, and a voice said, behind him, "Is everything all
right?"

He turned to face a big
man, the sort of ex-docker the rowdier
wrangwys
houses hired to keep the peace. He was staring at the rover with a
kind of detached curiosity, as though he were wondering if they were
going to bleed on his employer's property, or if they could safely
be sent elsewhere. Warreven took a deep breath, wondering how to
explain, and the driver leaned past him, putting his head out the
smashed window.

"Belbarb. Thank the
spirits it's you."

"Trouble?" the big
man asked, looking at Warreven, and his hand went to the docker's
hook stuffed into his belt beneath the loose fabric of his vest.

The driver nodded.
"Yeah, but not with him. We ran into a ghost rana, the
bastards--they smashed the window into me." He started to say
more, winced, and pressed his shirt fabric against the cut. "Bastards."

Belbarb nodded, looked
from him to Warreven. "Are you all right, mir?"

"Fine," Warreven
answered, and shook his head, looking at the driver's face in the
light from the houselamp. "That looks like it could use a weld."

The driver started to
shake his head, but Belbarb said, "He's right, Fisk, that does
need some work. I think Marrin's upstairs-- you can leave the
rover here, I'll square the
mosstaas
."

Warreven took a step
back as the driver opened his door, wondering what to do. He wanted
to get home, he had work to do in the morning, but he had no desire
to brave the ranas again, at least not yet-- Fisk stumbled, and
Warreven caught his arm, steadying him. "Are you sure you don't
want to go to a clinic?"

"Marrin's all
right," Fisk said, and Belbarb nodded.

"He's an
off-worlder, a medic, he--rents here. He knows what he's doing."
His eyes swept over Warreven, across his chest and hips, came to rest
on the metal bracelets. "You'll be wanting a drink, mir."

Warreven nodded.
"Thanks. I'm Warreven. Stiller, of the Ambreslight
mesnie
."

"Belbarb Stiller."
The big man nodded again, this time with approval, and stooped to
take half of Fisk's weight. "Come on, Fiskie, let's get you
inside. Illewedyr, go get Marrin, will you?"

Warreven followed them
into the unexpected quiet of the bar. The music had stopped, drummers
and a flute player standing idle beside the little dance floor, and
the rest of the customers had gathered in fours and fives, muttering
angrily. They were a mix of off-worlders and indigenes: another trade
bar, Warreven thought, and leaned heavily against the bar. A thin,
pale man with sun-darkened hands and face--Marrin, certainly--shoved
his way through the groups to drop a medikit on one of the tables.
The flute player did something with a control board, and one of the
spotlights turned and tilted, catching the table in its light. Fisk
sank into the waiting chair, and Marrin bent over him, muttering to
himself. The noise rose in the bar again, angry voices tumbling over
each other, and the bartender moved toward Warreven, her eyes still
sliding to the table where the medic worked.

"What can I get you?"
she asked, and seemed to catch some message from Belbarb. "It's
on the house."

"Thanks," Warreven
answered. "Bingo, if you have it."

Bingo was the strongest
of the Haran liquors. The woman nodded and came back in a few seconds
with a narrow glass half filled with the faintly cloudy liquid.
Warreven drank half of it in a gulp, the stuff searing his throat,
and took another, more cautious sip. "I suppose the
mosstaas
should be called."

"Oh, æ," Belbarb
said, and lowered his bulk onto the stool beside Warreven. "We can
call, but if they'll come--or if they'd do anything once they
got here--well, that's the question, isn't it? Fisk's a
dandi
,
and wry-abed to boot. Do you think they'll work on this one? Would
you pay for it, mir?"

Warreven flicked a
glance at him. So Fisk was a mem, and even the protection of the
bars, the safety Temelathe had been preaching, didn't extend to
calling in the law. But of course Belbarb was right, too: it was
unlikely the
mosstaas
would do much for þim. "I will. I doubt it'll do any good, but I
will. And put my name to the complaint, if that'll help."

"I doubt it,"
Belbarb said. "No offense, mir, but you're one of us."

Warreven sighed. "I
agree, I doubt it'll help. But I think you ought to get it on
record."

Belbarb glanced at the
clock above the door, its round display showing the moon almost down,
and the time floating above the star pattern. It was less than an
hour to legal closing. "Let's wait until Marrin's finished, æ?
Better all around."

"All right,"
Warreven said. The bar would be closing by the time the medic had
finished welding the cut closed, and Fisk had had a drink or two to
kill the pain and settle his nerves. Belbarb couldn't risk calling
the
mosstaas
without driving off the off-worlders who didn't want to be known as
players. Nothing would be gained by calling them earlier, anyway: if
the rumors were true--and after tonight, he had no doubt that they
were--Tend- lathe was protecting the ghost ranas, and the
mosstaas
wouldn't argue with him. I wonder if he's doing more than
protecting them? he thought suddenly. Ten could have set this up, set
me up.... It wasn't a pleasant thought, and he was glad to push it
away. The timing was wrong, and he couldn't have known the rover's
route. He and Fisk had just been unlucky, and there was enough of
that in Bonemarche to go around.

Clan-cousin: (Hara)
technically, a man or woman within one's own age cohort in the
shared clan who is not otherwise related; in common usage, a man or
woman of one's clan to whom one feels some tie or obligation, but
to whom one is not more closely related; the use of the term
generally expresses a sense of affection and kinship between the
people concerned.

Mhyre Tatian

Warreven was late that
afternoon, arriving with the end of the early rain, an insulated jug
in one hand, disks and link-board in the other. Ȝe
was still dressed in the clothes 3e
had worn at the
memore
,
a dull bronze silk tunic with a faint, geometric pattern woven into
its surface, and 3er usual
loose trousers. Ȝer hair
was pulled back in an untidy braid, and Tatian wondered--not without
some envy--where 3e had
spent the night. Warreven smiled as though 3e'd
read the thought and set the jug on Tatian's desk.