“Everybody knows Haliday because 3e went to the Council to get the legal right to call 3imself a herm,” Warreven said. “And they know me because I handle trade cases. The other herm who works with Haliday.” Out of the corner of his good eye, he saw Tatian shift as though he were uncomfortable and made a face. “I’m sorry, Clere, it’s been a bitch of a day.”
“Yeah.” Chauntclere gave a slight, embarrassed shrug, one shoulder moving under the faded cloth of his working vest. “But Hal is going to be all right, isn’t she—zhe?”
Warreven nodded, and Chauntclere sighed with what looked like genuine relief.
“I’m glad.”
And to be fair, Warreven thought, he probably was. There was nothing mean about Clere. He said, “Are you at the Harbor? What’s going on down there?”
Chauntclere glanced over his shoulder, turned back to the camera. “Oh, yes, I’m still on the ’quai. I can’t get off, the ranas won’t let me past—won’t let any of us past, they say they won’t let us off-load cargo until Temelathe agrees to the mosstaas hunting the ghost ranas. I heard about an hour ago that Temelathe was supposed to come down here himself to talk to the leaders, but I don’t know if it’s true.”
“Wonderful,” Warreven muttered. Still, it might do some good: Temelathe knew how to balance the various factions; he had been doing it better than anyone else for almost thirty years.
Chauntclere looked over his shoulder again and shook his head. “I’ve got to go, this is the only working line on the ’quai, and I can’t hog it. But I’m glad you’re all right.”
“I will be,” Warreven said. “I’m glad you called, Clere—” The screen went dark before he could be sure the other had heard. He let himself sink back onto the couch, wondering how he’d fallen into the middle of all of this. Part of him wanted to be at the Harbor—he had earned that much, to see this through—but another part cringed at the thought of facing the darkened streets again. The memory of the ghost ranas returned, black robes and white faces, so that for an instant he could almost taste the fog and the shame and the fear. He made a face, as though that could erase the memory, and saw Tatian looking at him curiously. “I half-wish I was down there,” he said defiantly, and Tatian gave a lopsided smile.
“I bet. I think I’d rather watch the narrowcast, myself.”
“The other half is perfectly happy to,” Warreven said. He looked at the screen again. “I wonder if Temelathe is going to try to negotiate with them?”
“He’d be smart to, I think,” Tatian said, pushing himself away from the wall and coming to collect the dishes that remained on the table. “Do you want anything?”
Warreven started to shake his head, said instead, “No, thanks.”
Tatian nodded vaguely, and started for the kitchen. Warreven leaned back against the cushions, grateful for their softness, and watched the rainbows gather around the lights. The doutfire would be wearing off soon; he thought about asking Tatian to bring him some, but couldn’t muster the energy.
The media center buzzed again, startling him fully awake. He touched keys automatically, accepting the call, and frowned as a string of codes flashed across the base of the screen. The forming image split, dividing in half and then in thirds, and steadied. Three faces looked out of the screen, slightly elongated despite the system’s attempt to keep the pictures proportional. Folhare he recognized at once; the other two, both men, were less familiar. He frowned, and then recognized the darker of the two. Losson Trencevent was one of the Modernists’ regular speakers, one of the people who were usually seen on the narrowcasts and quoted in the broadsheets. He had never much liked Losson and didn’t bother to hide his annoyance.
“Folhare? What is it?”
“Trouble,” Folhare answered. At least, Warreven thought, she didn’t start by telling him how bad he looked. “I—we need your help.”
Warreven looked from her to the others. Losson was looking at something out of sight, while the second man—Dismars Maychilder, he remembered suddenly, the Modernists’ nominal leader, and their perennial candidate—was frowning impatiently. “What for?”
“You know Losson—” Folhare began, looking sideways, and Dismars cut her off.
“Temelathe is willing to negotiate. You—he likes you, and you’re one of the Important Men. We need your voice as well, if we’re going to get concessions on the Meeting.”
Warreven stared at the screen, looking past him at pale green walls with a delicate stenciled tracery of flowering vines. “I’m not exactly an Important Man,” he said, and stressed the final word. “Does this include the wrangwys?”
Losson drew an angry breath, and Dismars said quickly, “We’ve got a chance to get concessions on a lot of things, Warreven. There’s no one issue. We should be able to get the big things through, that’s the important thing.”
Which doesn’t include me, Warreven thought. I should have guessed—should have known. “Folhare?”
“What?” Her head lifted warily.
“You’re a fem, coy, as wrangwys as me. What do you say to me?”
In the other two screens, he saw Losson start to roll his eyes, and as quickly suppress the movement. Dismars, more controlled, looked sideways as though he wanted to dictate Folhare’s answer. And that, Warreven thought, was the real problem. If you weren’t a man, you were a woman, and neither of the roles fit a herm. Neither role fit 3im—Haliday had known that for years, that was why 3e had gone before the Council. “Well, Folhare?” 3e said, and didn’t bother to hide the cold anger that filled 3im.
“I—” Folhare stopped, made a face. “No, I’m not completely happy, Raven. But this is the only chance we’re going to get.”
And that was true, Warreven acknowledged, but it wasn’t good enough. Ȝe tilted 3er head to the side, ignoring the streak of yellow light that shot across his vision, fixed his good eye on the split screen. “All right,” 3e said. “I’ll come down with you. I’ll talk to Temelathe with you—not for you, you’ve been warned, but I will talk to him.”
“We need to present a united front,” Losson said, and Dismars waved a hand at him.
“I understand what you’re saying. And I’m not ignoring your concerns, I promise. But Folhare’s right, this is our best, maybe our only chance, to get to speak at the Meeting.”
“I’m on my way,” Warreven said, and jammed 3er thumb down on the remote, switching off the machine. Ȝe pushed 3imself to 3er feet, still furious, and saw Tatian standing in the door- way, frowning. “Don’t tell me I shouldn’t do this—”
The off-worlder shook his head. “Do you want me to drive you? I’ve still got the rover.”
Warreven took a deep breath, silenced in the middle of 3er anger, and opened 3er mouth to say one thing, then shook 3er head, said simply, “Why?” Tatian blinked, looked almost hurt, and Warreven made a face, felt the anger rising again. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, it’s just—I’m not sure I understand. And I’ll be damned if I’ll accept it if it’s pity, or you presuming to take care of me—”
Tatian shook his head. “You’re right. It’s not that simple. The Concord went through this I don’t know how long ago, and we’ve forgotten what it was like. But those people, they’ve missed what’s really wrong here, and you’re the only person I’ve met who does see it—well, you and Haliday. So I want to help.” He shrugged, looked almost embarrassed by the sentiment. “And I doubt you could get a car tonight, even if you paid metal.”