10
Warreven
The fog had come in while they were in Bon’Ador, filling the streets that led up from Harborside. From the doorway of the club, Warreven could see the lighthouse tower at Blind Point rising above the heavy layers of vapor, the beam of light cutting a golden wedge through the dank air. To his left, the empty street ran straight to the Glassmarket, drowned in cloud. The sunken center held the fog like a basin, only the poles of the streetlights rising out of the mass: even if it hadn’t been well after hours, the merchants would have had to close. A single figure was moving on the larger sales platform—a cleaner, or maybe a late-closing merchant, shaal-hooded against the damp. He or she was knee-deep in fog, and more wisps curled and eddied, fine as smoke, around her/his shoulders, clearly visible in the market lights. Warreven caught his breath, admiring the image, and the door opened behind him.
“Any luck?”
Haliday stepped up beside him, shaking 3er head. “There’s not a car or rover to be had, for love or money. The service said, maybe in an hour, but Reinier wants us out of here.”
“He could let us wait,” Warreven said, irritated, and Haliday shrugged.
“He’s got his license to think of. He said the mosstaas and the Service Board have been breathing down his neck.”
“He could close the damn bar,” Warreven said, and sighed, looking back toward Blind Point. There was no one else in sight—not surprising on a night like this—and the street seemed to vanish before it reached the top of the hill, obscured by a drift of fog. “I don’t suppose we could get a trolley.”
“It’s a fifteen-minute walk to Harborside, or thirty to Terminus, and we’d never make that before they shut down,” Haliday said. “We could make it home in that.”
Warreven hesitated. He didn’t want to walk, not tonight, not with the ghost ranas still loose, but he especially didn’t want to have to cross the streets above Dock Row where they’d been most active to get to the trolley station at Harborside. “I guess we walk,” he said, and Haliday nodded.
“There’s two of us, and it’s a nasty night. Even the ghost ranas have to take a night off sometime.”
“You hope,” Warreven said sourly, and jammed his hands into the pockets of his trousers. It was cold—he was cold, and the fog was seeping through the fabric of his tunic, damp on his skin.
Haliday made a sound that was almost laughter and started up the hill. Warreven followed, hunching his shoulders against the chill. “At least the meeting went well,” he said.
Haliday nodded. “We should have a couple of good presances worked up, and then the ranas—our ranas—can start playing them.”
“If that’s enough,” Warreven said. He shook his head, trying to shake away the memory of Tendlathe in the Harbor Market, denying that the off-worlders were human.
“It will be,” Haliday said, and smiled, the expression wry. “It has to be. Temelathe hasn’t left us any other way.”
Warreven shook his head again. They reached the top of the hill and started down the other side, the fog rising to meet them, damp on their faces and necks. The streetlights seemed to make the mist more opaque than ever, so that for a moment he could barely make out the buildings on the other side of the street. Haliday’s face, little more than an arm’s length, was blurred, as though seen through smoke. Haliday glanced at him again.
“Pity the poor sailor,” 3e said, and the words were half a prayer.
Warreven nodded, thinking of the seascape tonight: no wind, calm seas, all the familiar sea- and landmarks flattened, just the lights and mostly the bells and horns to mark the coast’s worst hazards. He’d been at sea once in a similar fog, coming down from Ambreslight with Chauntclere, and Clere had made no pretense of bravado. They had dropped anchor, set all the lights blazing and rigged the boat-horns to sound steadily, and had been very glad of the dawn. He tilted his head, wondering if he could hear any of the ships that must be caught offshore, but heard only the familiar tri-toned howl from Ferryhead. It was followed a few seconds later by the louder double note of Blind Point, and then the Sail Harbor buoy.
“Do you think the off-worlders will support us?” Haliday asked.
Warreven shrugged. “Some of them, maybe. Tatian will—they, NAPD, are already sticking their necks out for us, with Reiss’s statement.”
“He’s getting enough for it,” Haliday said. “And remember, Raven, by all accounts he’s so-abed.”
“That’s not the point,” Warreven answered, all the more sharply because he’d heard the same rumors. “And this could do a lot for us. What was it Astfer said, all we need is one clear case?”
Haliday nodded. “But this isn’t going to be it, that I’m sure of. Destany’s hardly the perfect candidate.”
“Neither’s ’Aukai,” Warreven muttered.
“Temelathe is being smart,” Haliday said. “He’s letting Tendlathe do all the dirty work, and then he goes out to the mesnies and wonders aloud if the pharmaceuticals will go on dealing with us if he can’t keep the peace.”
“There’s not much the mesnies can do about Bonemarche,” Warreven said.
“You hope,” Haliday said, with another crooked smile.
The fog had thinned a little, was drifting in patches across the roadway. The buildings to either side were changing, becoming older, residential, tall narrow buildings jammed close to the street to leave room for gardens and spider pens at the back of the property. There were no streetlights here; instead, each household was responsible for a light above the main door, so that the street was lit by a line of orange globes, each a little above head height. In the fog, they looked like strands of night-pearls, the glowing spheres stretching the length of the street. They reminded Warreven vaguely of holidays, of dancing on the Irenfot beaches when the shedi were spawning and the strings of phosphorescent egg cases washed ashore with every wave. The last time he’d seen night-pearls had been three years ago, after the kittereen races, the year he’d met Reiss.
A shape loomed out of the fog bank ahead of them, the low-set lights throwing its shadow back across solid-looking mist. Warreven stepped sideways into the middle of the street, looking around for a police light, and slipped his hands out of his pockets again. Two more shapes joined the first, instantly and silently, familiar shapes in the loose black robes and hoods and the white, doll-faced masks. Warreven looked over his shoulder, ready to run. Five more ranas blocked the street behind them, three in the lead, two shadowy in the fog behind. He turned back to the first group, heard Haliday swear under 3er breath beside him. The ranas moved toward them, not hurrying, and instinctively he shifted so that he could see both groups. Haliday matched him, so that they stood back-to-back in the middle of the open road. On any other night, there would have been traffic, some chance that a rover or shay would come by, disrupt the line, give them a chance to run, but they hadn’t seen a vehicle all night. He glanced quickly at the windows on the upper floors, saw a few still with lights behind them, and raised his voice to shout.
“Hey! What do you want with us? Leave us alone, or there’ll be trouble.”
He had pitched his voice as low as he could, but it still came out contralto, more woman than man. One of the ranas pointed and mimed laughter, arms crossed over its belly. Warreven felt himself flush.
“Let us past,” Haliday said, in the same tone 3e would have used to a dream-drunk sailor.
The ranas ignored 3im, circling to surround them. There were at least a dozen of them, most of them carrying the clubs and spider-sticks Warreven had seen before. There was no drummer, this time, no bell carrier, and he tasted fear, sour at the back of his mouth.