Tatian made a small, mirthless noise. “Funny. There’re people in the Nest—other off-worlders—who think the same about Harans.”
Warreven smiled in spite of himself. “God and the spirits, I’d like to see Ten’s face if you told him that.” This was hardly to the point, and he forced his mind back to Haliday. On the screen, the dancers were twisting themselves into a long spiral, a country dance that wound into a tight knot and then usually dissolved into laughter and cheerful chaos before it could unwind again. The dockers on the barricade were watching, but distantly, their attention on the roads that led down from the Embankment. “You may be right about moving Hal,” he said, and reached for the remote. “I’m assuming the port is defended?”
“Of course.” Tatian looked back at him steadily, defying him to be insulted. “Nobody spends this much money on a backward planet without making sure they can protect the investment.”
“Under the circumstances,” Warreven said, “I find that reassuring.” Under other circumstances, it would be less so, but he put that thought aside for later consideration. He touched the keypad, recalling the codes Malemayn had left.
“I’m relieved,” Tatian said. He paused. “What’s Tendlathe’s problem with herms anyway? I—well, I was at the baanket, remember. The presance really bothered him.”
Warreven shrugged, watching codes shift on the communications screen. “I don’t know,” he began, then shook his head, ignoring the faint thrust of pain. He owed Tatian more than that, after all the off-worlder had done for him. “That’s not strictly true. We’re built a lot alike, look alike—you’ve seen him—and everybody knew I was a herm, so he got teased a lot. And then the marriage didn’t help.” Because he did want me, at least a little, Warreven realized suddenly, but it wasn’t something he could say, sounded too conceited, too much like a cheap romance.
Tatian was nodding thoughtfully. “There was always a lot of gossip in the Nest about him. A lot of people think he’s a herm.”
“I’m glad he doesn’t know that—” Warreven broke off as the screen changed, displaying Malemayn’s image. “Mal, I’m glad I caught you before you left.”
“So am I,” Malemayn answered. “I was going to call you.”
“Is—” Warreven broke off, suddenly afraid, and Malemayn shook his head.
“No, Hal’s fine. But Dr. Jaans says things are strange in the city; she wants to move 3im tonight.”
“Trust Oddyny to have her finger on the pulse,” Tatian muttered.
Warreven said, “That’s what I was calling you about, actually. I—we’ve been watching the news channel, and I thought Hal might be better off at the port if anything goes wrong.”
Malemayn nodded. “That’s what Oddyny said. I wanted to tell you first, though, see what you thought.”
Warreven shivered. “I think too many people are saying it’s the right thing for us not to do it.”
“I’ve seen some of it,” Malemayn said. “Everybody’s watching it here, too. Have the mosstaas moved in at all?”
“I haven’t seen them,” Warreven answered, and glanced at Tatian.
“The last I heard, Temelathe was supposed to be holding them off.”
“Well, that would be the first good news in all of this,” Malemayn said sourly. “I’ll tell Oddyny we agree.”
Warreven nodded. “Thanks.”
“Not a problem,” Malemayn said, and the screen went blank.
Warreven sighed, touched the keypad to shut down the communications system. “Are you hungry?” he asked, and was surprised to find that he himself was.
They ate in near silence, just the occasional words from the media center to break the stillness, watching the light fade over the Harbor Market and outside the flat’s windows. Warreven listened for a while to the newsreaders’ chatter—nothing new, still no word from Temelathe or Tendlathe or the mosstaas, though the Big Six were rumored to have asked for a meeting with Temelathe the next morning—and then pushed himself up off the couch and went out onto his porch, taking the bottle of sweetrum with him. It was almost empty, and he could feel it slurring his movements, but at least the pain had receded. He leaned against the railing, the land breeze eddying past, warm against his shoulders, looked through the deepening twilight toward the Harbor Market. In the pens next door, the land-spiders trilled and purred, disjointed bits of sound, but no one came to comfort them. That was unusual—the spinners were always very conscientious—but then, this night was hardly ordinary.
It was still hard to believe that Tendlathe was doing this—that Tendlathe, whom he’d known, man and boy, for almost twenty-five years, had put him and Haliday and everyone like them, firmly outside the human race. But that was the problem, of course: he himself had never been boy nor man, except perhaps in law, and that had meant that Tendlathe had always had forbidden possibilities—impossibilities, by his definition—dangling before his eyes. And it hadn’t helped, Warreven admitted silently, that he’d enjoyed teasing Tendlathe, had made no secret of the fact that he would sleep with him, as long as no change of gender, of identity, had been required. And I would have done it, too, and cheerfully, up until a week ago.
He heard the chime of an incoming call from the media center, but didn’t turn his head. Something wasn’t right, something more than the restless spiders next door. The air was damp and heavy, a haze of light hanging over the Gran’quai, but that was nothing unusual. He tilted his head carefully to one side, listening, and then realized what it was. The streets were silent, none of the usual murmur of traffic on the ring roads or down by the harbor. It was as if Bonemarche was waiting, everyone either already at the harbor, with the ranas, or hiding in the safety of their houses—
“Warreven?” Tatian was standing in the doorway, hair and beard turned brighter gold by the lights behind him. “There’s a call.”
Warreven made a face, pushed himself away from the rail. His bruises had stiffened while he stood there, and he had to catch himself against the door frame. Tatian stood watchful, not offering help, but within reach, and Warreven had to admit it was gracefully done. “Who is it?”
Tatian shrugged, and Warreven looked at the screen. Chauntclere Ferane looked back at him, broad face and salt-stained beard framed by the darkness of a dockside office. The windows were closed behind him, light glinting from the narrow panes, but the noise of the drums was still loud, doubling the sound from the news channel.
“Raven, it’s me.”
Warreven looked around for the remote, and Tatian handed it to him. Warreven nodded his thanks and hit the button that activated his own camera. An icon lit, warning him that the transmission was now reciprocal, and Chauntclere flinched visibly.
“God and the spirits, you look a mess.”
“I’m getting tired of hearing that,” Warreven said, and immediately wished he hadn’t. “I’m all right. It looks worse than it is.”
“It looks bad enough,” Chauntclere said. The sun-carved lines at the corners of his eyes and between his eyebrows were suddenly prominent. “I thought—they said the ghost ranas had nearly killed you, but I didn’t believe it.”
Believe it, Warreven thought. And a lot worse for Haliday. He said, “I’m—I will be all right. Hal was hurt a lot worse than me.”
“I’m sorry. Is she—?” Chauntclere stopped, as though he didn’t know how to ask.
“Ȝe’s going to be all right,” Warreven said. He saw Chauntclere’s eyes flicker at the creole word and used it again deliberately. “That’s why they attacked us, Clere, because 3e and I are herms.”
“And because of who you are,” Chauntclere said automatically. “I mean, you’re the seraaliste, and everybody knows Haliday—”