“You’ll hate your mother for having you.”
Behind her on the platform, the mosstaas commander stood with his arms crossed, trying to look as though he was in control of the situation. Warreven opened 3er mouth and added 3er clear contralto, slightly off-key, to the chorus.
“Oh, you pinks and posies.
Go down, you blood-red roses, go down.”
Tatian glanced warily at 3im, then back at the stage as Faireigh lifted her hands to encompass the singers.
“It’s growl you may but go you must.
Go down, you snow-white roses, go down.”
The crowd staggered in its echo as people realized belatedly what she’d said, and Faireigh swept on.
“If you growl too loud, your head they’ll bust.”
This time, the chorus came clear, all the pent-up anger displaced into the changed words. “Go down, you snow-white roses, go down.”
“Oh, how stones are roses,” Faireigh sang—as if anyone needed it made any clearer, Tatian thought, and glanced quickly sideways. The mosstaas still stood unmoving, penned in their shays.
The chorus was a savage affirmation. “Go down, you snow-white roses, go down.”
Faireigh waited for the last voice to die away, then bowed to the mosstaas commander—the irony was visible even from Tatian’s distance—and climbed down off the platform. The drummers followed her, instruments tucked awkwardly under arms, and the crowd made way for them as though they were royalty. Already, the people on the fringes, on the Market side and by the makeshift stage, were starting to edge away; the crowd was dispersing, as ordered, but on its own terms. Tatian shook his head.
“There’s going to be hell to pay for this one,” he said.
Warreven looked at him, still smiling. “Maybe. Probably, even. But it’s been a long time coming.” Ȝe took a deep breath, looking back at the people moving away from the stage.
“Warreven!”
“Haliday?” Warreven tilted 3er head to one side. “I might’ve known you’d be here.”
The herm grinned back at 3im. “How could I miss this? Damn, Faireigh’s good.”
“She is,” Warreven agreed, and glanced at Tatian. “I don’t think you’ve met my partner, Haliday. Mhyre Tatian.”
“Not properly,” Tatian agreed.
“I saw you at the memore,” Haliday said, and held out 3er hand. Tatian took it, studying the newcomer. Ȝe was rather ordinary, for the herm who had challenged Hara’s gender laws in the planet’s courts, a stocky, brown-skinned person with close-cut dark hair and wide, prominent cheekbones. Not as handsome as Warreven, Tatian thought, and was startled by his own response. Haliday released his hand, looked back to Warreven.
“Raven, I need to talk to you.”
“Can it wait?” Warreven tilted 3er head toward the off- worlder. “We were here to look at the surplus samples.”
“It’s important,” Haliday said. “I wouldn’t interrupt if it weren’t.”
Warreven sighed. “I’m sorry, Tatian. The captain—Aylese, his name is—knows to expect you, he’ll show you what you need.”
Tatian stared back at 3im, wanting to protest, recognizing the futility of it. He would do well enough with the ship’s captain, anyway, in some ways better without Warreven to explain away discrepancies between the labeling and the actual product. It was just—it was dangerous to stand up against the mosstaas right now, when trade was coming into question. There was too much at stake to risk everything in the streets, too much chance of losing…. He saw Warreven smile again, saw the same glee reflected in Haliday’s plain face, and couldn’t find the words that would convince either of them. “Be careful,” he said at last, and wasn’t surprised when Warreven looked blankly at him. “Just—be careful.”
~
Jackamie: (Hara) literally “boyfriend"; always a very casual term that can easily become an insult.
Warreven
He watched Tatian walk away down the length of the Gran’quai, golden hair vivid in the sunlight, looked back at Haliday with a frown. “I should be going with him. This better be important, Hal.”
“It is.” Haliday took his elbow, turned him toward the Market. “There’s going to be a meeting of all of the Modernist groups, and all of us wrangwys. The way the mosstaas dispersed the crowd, God and the spirits, we’ve got our chance. That was too blatant, even for them, stopping a perfectly ordinary rana when they haven’t made an attempt to track down the ghost ranas. This is something everyone can rally behind.”
Warreven nodded, feeling the excitement rising in his chest. Haliday was right, this might be the thing they needed to bring the people who weren’t interested in the odd-bodied’s problems, who pretended trade didn’t exist because it made them uncomfortable to think too much about it, onto their side. The mosstaas had overstepped: Faireigh’s rana had been well within the limits of custom, if not strictly of law, and they had been silenced—but these ghost ranas were outside both law and custom and were allowed to act. “It could work,” he said, and knew his tone belied the cautious words.
“It will work,” Haliday said, fiercely. “The meeting’s tonight at the twentieth, at Bon’Ador.”
“Then why—” Warreven began, and Haliday waved the complaint away.
“We—you and me and Folhare and Lunebri and Illewedyr and anybody else we can find—need to start putting together some ideas for proper ranas. Something we can show them, give them something to start off with.”
Warreven nodded. “You want me to find Folhare?” It was a good guess; everyone knew they were old friends.
“If you could, that would be great.”
Warreven nodded. “I’ll try. She’ll be working—at the workshop, I mean, not trade.”
“She’s more likely to listen to you,” Haliday said. “I don’t think she likes me much—” Ȝe broke off then, eyes fixing on something, someone on the far side of the Market. Warreven followed the direction of 3er gaze and swore under his breath. The man standing between two empty stalls, just where the shadow of the Customs House touched the foot of the Embankment stairs, was unmistakable, and, as unmistakably, he had seen and recognized them, and started across the empty Market to meet them.
“What the hell is Tendlathe doing here?” he said, and Haliday spat on the stones at 3er feet.
“I can’t talk to him, I can’t even be civil to that bastard.”
“Fine,” Warreven said. “I’ll talk to him. You go on, get everybody together, and I’ll meet you—where?”
“My place,” Haliday answered, already walking away. “Or Bon’Ador, if it gets late.”
“I’ll be there,” Warreven said, and advanced to meet Temelathe’s son.
“Warreven.” Tendlathe stopped a meter from him, lifting a hand to shade his eyes. “Was that Haliday?”
“Yes.” Warreven kept the sun behind him, grateful for even that petty advantage. Tendlathe looked tired, heavy shadows under his eyes, and his beard looked as though it hadn’t been trimmed in days. Warreven allowed himself a moment of satisfaction—after the night before, Tendlathe had no right to look less than tired—then brought his emotions under control. He had been stupid to let Tendlathe bait him; he wouldn’t let it happen again. “What brings you to the Market, Ten?”