Something moved in the darkness beyond the shays, and a heavy caleche slid past them into the light. The crowd parted for it, reluctant but wary, closed in again as it ground to a stop just beyond the bonfire. The passenger door opened, and Temelathe stepped out. A mosstaas followed, pellet gun at the ready, and then Tendlathe, slim in the firelight. He looked over his shoulder at the shays, but made no gesture. He started to follow his father, the trooper instantly at his shoulder, but Temelathe waved them back, and they stopped a meter or so from the caleche. Temelathe looked almost incongruously ordinary as he crossed the open space between the two groups, a bulky, gray-haired, gray-bearded man in plain trousers and an old-fashioned vest over a new-style shirt, his hair still knotted at the nape of his neck. Warreven felt old loyalties tugging at 3er heart, looked deliberately past him to Tendlathe, standing a little ahead of the mosstaas now, both hands deep in the pockets of his trousers.
“Miri, mirrimi,” Temelathe said, and though he didn’t seem to raise his voice, it was pitched to carry easily through the crowd, and along the line of people in front of the barricade. “This is outside of enough. I understand your complaints, and I agree, this lawlessness, these ghost ranas, have to be stopped, but this is no way to get anything done. Disperse now, and we can meet properly in the morning.”
There was a murmur, half angry, half uncertain, and Dismars shook his head. His voice wasn’t as clear as Temelathe’s, but it would carry to at least the nearer of the crowd. “Tomorrow isn’t soon enough, mir. We need to talk now.”
“I agree that we need to talk,” Temelathe said, “but not like this.” He gestured, the broad sweep of his hand taking in the bonfire and the ranas as well as the barricade and its guardians. “There’s a lot that needs to be said, to be discussed, but not like this. We need to sit down together, without any lives at stake. This, this is an illegal gathering, and I can’t permit it to go on. Disperse now, peacefully, and we can talk tomorrow.”
“This is legal,” Losson said.
Dismars said, “Mir, yesterday’s rana was dispersed, when it was well within the bounds of law and custom. And we got nothing for that, an act in good faith, except that the ghost ranas attacked two more people. I can’t in conscience ask people to disperse under those circumstances.”
Tendlathe sighed, jammed his hands into his pockets. It was an act Warreven had seen before—the bluff, good-hearted man from the Stanelands, a little confused by the modern world, but willing to learn—and 3e took a step back, away from the others. Ȝe wouldn’t, couldn’t, let 3imself be taken in this time.
“Yesterday was an error, miri, that I admit. An overzealous officer, holding too fast to the letter of the law.”
“Under the circumstances,” Dismars repeated, “our people will be most upset if they have to disperse again. Especially with nothing to show for it.”
“We can talk tonight, if you insist,” Temelathe said. “Though I’d’ve expected a little more consideration for an old man.”
“Mir, I wouldn’t insult you,” Dismars answered, and Temelathe showed teeth in a quick grin. Warreven looked past him to see Tendlathe still standing frozen, hands still in his pockets. The firelight threw the planes of his face into harsh relief, the expressionless stare and the moving eyes.
“But if I must, I must,” Temelathe said. “I’m willing to talk all night, if that’s what it takes to get this settled.”
“We would ask for a preliminary undertaking first,” Dismars said.
Temelathe spread his hands. “I’m prepared to talk.”
“There are issues that have to be discussed more generally,” Dismars said. “At the Meeting.”
“The Meeting’s out of my control,” Temelathe said, but the protest was only perfunctory. “That’s a matter for the Watch Council.”
“And we know how influential you are, mir,” Dismars answered. “But these things need to be discussed, and the Meeting’s the only forum where all of us have a voice.”
“What issues?” Temelathe faced the younger man squarely, his spread-legged stance—the Captain’s stand—apparently relaxed, only the rigidity of his shoulders to betray any hint of nervousness. Behind him, Tendlathe took a single step forward, then seemed to think better of it.
“A round dozen,” Dismars said. “To name a few, there’s the question of how contracts are awarded to the pharmaceuticals, there’s the whole question of trade—most of all, there’s whether or not we should join the Concord. All those need to be dealt with, mir.”
“Not everyone agrees with you,” Temelathe said.
Dismars looked over his shoulder, the glance as good as a gesture. “All these people are with me. They’re not just Bonemarche, mir, we’re from all over, mesnies as well as the city.”
“I could ask the Council to schedule you to speak at the Meeting,” Temelathe said. He smiled thinly. “That’s your right, after all. But I can’t make promises regarding individual issues. The contracts, for example, or trade, those are clan issues, or city issues, those don’t belong in the Meeting.”
“They affect everyone,” Dismars said.
Temelathe shook his head. “I can’t make promises for your clans. You’re a Maychilder, he’s a Trencevent, the lady there I know is Black Stane—you’ll have to take this up with your own clans. But I can offer you the chance to speak.”
Dismars took a deep breath, and nodded. “And we talk tonight.”
“Very well.” Temelathe nodded back, the gesture of a man concluding a good bargain. Behind him, Tendlathe smiled.
“Temelathe,” Warreven said. Ȝe didn’t raise 3er voice, didn’t need to in the sudden silence as 3e stepped out from the group of Modernists. Ȝe felt the eyes on 3im, the waiting mosstaas behind the line of the crowd, the crowd itself, not just the people on the barricade and the people who had followed 3im, but the ones still waiting by the rana platform and the shanty folk beyond them. Ȝe realized 3e was still holding the sweetrum bottle, and tipped it to 3er lips, completing Agede’s image.
“Warreven,” Temelathe said softly. His eyes flickered, taking in both the clothes and the crowd’s reaction, the hum of agreement from the odd-bodied to his right. “I hadn’t thought of that. The Doorkeeper is a herm.”
“I am,” Warreven answered, deliberately ambiguous, and touched the bandage over his eye. “And I, and people like me, are suffering for it. That has to stop, and you, Temelathe, are the one who can do it.”
Temelathe looked at him, a long, level stare. “So what exactly do you want, Warreven?”
“First, the ghost ranas have to be stopped,” Warreven answered. “Hunted down and punished would be best, my father, but stopped will do. And then—I exist, people like me exist, and we’re not wrangwys, not anymore. We are people, and we want a proper name, in law.”