Shadow Man (Paragons of Queer Speculative Fiction) (42 page)

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 the 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.

"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.

12

Mhyre Tatian

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.

Warreven didn't
answer for a long moment, and Tatian risked a quick look at 3im,
then had to swerve again to avoid a running group. Ȝe
was still motionless, slumped against the cushions, but then 3e
turned to look at him, 3er
good eye open and afraid. "I don't know. God and the spirits, I
didn't--" Ȝe broke
off, shook 3er head hard. "Not to my place, anyway."