“What’s this all about?” Tatian demanded, but quietly, his voice pitched to carry only to Warreven’s ears.
Warreven glanced back at him, couldn’t restrain a sudden wild smile. “They see Agede—the Doorkeeper, one of the spirits, one of the powerful spirits—not just me, and they see Agede is a herm, I’m a herm, and that, Tatian, is how I’m going to win.”
“Oh, my God,” the off-worlder muttered, and the words were more than half a prayer.
“Something like that,” Warreven agreed, and started toward the bonfire. Ȝe could feel people watching, more and more of them turning to watch their progress through the glare of the lights; 3e could see, quite clearly, how the crowd parted for them.
The sound of the band was louder than ever by the bonfire, more than one drum calling the various lines of the song, flute soaring above to carry the melody. People, men and women and the wrangwys, were dancing in the firelight, maybe half-following the orderly patterns of a traditional dance, the rest improvising in the confined space. Warreven smiled again, feeling the drums in 3er bones, feet automatically picking up the pattern, and a boy swung toward 3im, hands out to invite the dance. He was young, maybe fifteen or sixteen, thin and hungry-looking, dark hair cut close to his skull. Seeing Warreven, his steps faltered, and Warreven held out 3er hands in answer, took the boy’s cold fingers, and twirled him gently away. Ȝe caught a quick glimpse of the boy’s face, open-mouthed, blank with shocked surprise, realized that he, too, was a herm. Ȝe smiled, and held out the almost- empty sweetrum bottle, tossed it toward 3er erstwhile partner. The boy—herm—caught it awkwardly, two-handed, and Warreven turned away, skirting the bonfire.
Ahead, the firelight rose and fell on the faces of the people who blocked access to the Gran’quai, reddening the colors of their ribbons, gleaming from the metal of the chains and the pry bars in their hands. At the center of the line, blocking the single opening in the barricade, was a group all in single colors, red and purple and orange and yellow and green and blue, all the colors of the spectrum; their hair was bound up under turbans of the same color, lips and eyes painted to match, hands gloved. Warreven suppressed a shudder at that reminder, but they were clearly the leaders of this part of the protest, and 3e made 3imself walk steadily toward them.
“Don’t look back,” Tatian said, “but you’ve acquired a following.”
Warreven felt 3er shoulders twitch, painfully, but managed not to turn. “I’m here to see Dismars,” 3e said, to the rana dressed in orange, and saw the woman shiver.
The man next to her, all in green, said, “It’s Warreven. He’s expected.”
He spoke loudly enough to be heard over the sound of the drums, but Warreven, glancing down, saw the orange woman’s free hand curved in a propitiating sign. She stepped aside, letting through the line, but the green man said, “Wait. The off-worlder—”
“You’re not closing doors to me?” Warreven asked, gently, and the green man fell silent. Ȝe stepped through the line, and Tatian followed.
Behind the barricade, on the Gran’quai itself, everything was different. The drums were softer, muffled by the stacked crates, and there were no dancers. Instead, a gang of dockers was busy with haul bars and an antigrav, adding a final load of crates and balks of ballast wood to the barricade. A devil, one of the portable engines that powered the cranes, chugged softly to itself in the background, throttled down, but ready. They were willing to keep things peacefuclass="underline" that was the message of the band, the bonfire and the dancers, the carnival in the Market, but they were equally prepared to fight. Warreven wondered how many more guns were hidden on the dock, how many tool lasers had already been dragged up out of workshops and ships’ holds, and started as someone shoved something into 3er hand.
It was a bottle, nearly full, and 3e managed not to drop it, seeing a woman sailor backing away, lifting two fingers to her lips before she turned back to the barricade. The cork was off, and 3e could smell sweetrum. Ȝe sipped it, not knowing what else would be mixed in it, and tasted starfire bitter beneath the sweet. Ȝe took a deeper swallow then, grateful for the drugs to numb the rising pain behind his eye, and saw the leaders of the Modernists gathered beneath one of the working lights, a noteboard propped up on a bollard.
“I’ll wait here,” Tatian said, and stopped just outside the range of the light.
Warreven nodded, and stepped forward. “I’m here.”
Ȝe saw one of them—a younger man, someone 3e didn’t know—touch his lips, saw Folhare’s sudden grin and Losson’s angry stare. Dismars said, “Warreven.” He, too, had pitched his voice to carry beyond the little group, to identify 3im, take away the mask of the spirit. Which isn’t possible, Warreven thought, not tonight, not this time, you called me, and here I am, not what you expected and not what you can use. Ȝe spread 3er hands, and smiled.
“Is Temelathe really coming, then?”
“He’s on his way,” Dismars said, grimly, and Losson broke in.
“And we need to be sure we’re all after the same things.”
“You wanted me here,” Warreven said. “Here I am.”
Ȝe saw Dismars and Losson exchange quick glances, and then Dismars said, “And we’re glad of it. I appreciate your help, Warreven.”
Wait until it’s over, Warreven thought. Ȝe said nothing, however, just waited, and Dismars looked back at the noteboard.
“All right,” he said. “We’ve made a list of our demands—you’re welcome to take a look, Warreven—but the main thing is, we want to speak at the Meeting.”
Warreven accepted the noteboard that Folhare held out to 3im, worked the controls to glance quickly down the list. Gender law—described as “trade and related questions"—was there all right, but looking at the faces surrounding 3im, 3e couldn’t muster much confidence in their willingness to press the question.
“Without that,” Dismars went on, his eyes fixed on Warreven’s face, “without that, we can’t hope to achieve anything.”
“And we can’t get anything if there’s a riot,” Losson growled.
“We can’t stand up to the mosstaas,” a younger man corrected, frowning.
“And we lose any hope of getting support from the mesnies,” Losson said.
“All right,” Dismars said sharply. “Are you willing to talk to Temelathe with us, Warreven?”
“I’ll talk to him,” Warreven said.
Dismars opened his mouth to say something more, but a woman’s voice from the barricade interrupted him.
“Æ, miri, the Most Important’s here.”
“How many?” Dismars called back.
“One caleche,” the woman answered. “And three, no, four big shays. All mosstaas.” Behind her, the band’s steady beat faltered, and then the leaders had it under control again. “They’re stopping at the Embankment, though.”
“Right.” Dismars took a deep breath, looked around the circle of faces, including even Warreven in his intent stare. “Let’s go.”
He led the way out through the opening in the barricade, the rainbow-dressed line parting to let them through. Warreven, following at the back of the group, was aware of Tatian behind 3im, sliding through the barricade unchallenged. In the Market, the crowd was silent, no one dancing now, despite the continued music of the rana band on the platform; there was a smaller crowd—the people who had followed 3im to the barricade, Warreven realized, with a sudden thrill—to the left of the bonfire, mostly the odd-bodied, their attention swiveling between the barricade and the approaching mosstaas. The shays had stopped at the edge of the Market, and mosstaas, dozens of them, armed with riot guns and cast-ceramic breastplates, spilled from the open bodies, formed up neatly on the worn stones. Warreven looked toward the platform, toward the stairway that led back up to the ware- house street where the rover was waiting, saw yet another group, not part of the rana, not yet, but from the shanty, watching just outside the market lights. A few of the people who had been dancing slipped away as 3e watched, but the shanty dwellers remained.