There was a little murmur behind him, and then a louder one, as people realized what 3e’d said. Tendlathe made a soft noise, not quite protest, more surprise and anger, and Temelathe glanced over his shoulder, putting out his hand. Tendlathe was still again, and the Most Important Man looked back at 3im.
“I can’t promise that, Warreven. You know that.”
Warreven took a deep breath. “One man has died, I nearly died last night, I don’t want any deaths tonight. But there will be more if you don’t take action.”
Temelathe looked at him, mouth drawn into a tight line. From behind him, Tendlathe said, fiercely, “Do you stand with him, Dismars? Are you that stupid?”
Temelathe waved him to silence, looked at Dismars himself. “It’s a fair question, though. Are you willing to throw everything away, for him? Because I can’t meet with you under these terms.”
There was a long silence, only the sound of the fire and the breathing of the massed crowd, and then Dismars shook his head. “I’ll stick to what we agreed, mir.” He looked once over his shoulder, lifted his voice to carry to the crowd. “It’s not that we don’t recognize that the wrangwys have problems, but there are other ways to deal with them.”
There was a murmur, almost a moan, from the listening crowd, and someone whistled, a shrill note of disapproval.
“That’s not good enough,” Warreven said. Ȝe pitched 3er voice to carry to the entire line this time. “I want those two things—two simple things, Temelathe, to keep the peace and to admit I, we, exist—and I want it now.”
Temelathe looked from 3im to Dismars, then back along the line of dockers behind 3im. “Be reasonable—”
“I am reasonable,” Warreven said. “There’s nothing unreasonable about wanting to exist, my father.”
“It’s not my business, it’s clan business,” Temelathe said. He spread his hands, taking in the line at the barricade, the people around him, the platform beyond the bonfire where the ranas stood. “I don’t have that kind of authority—and you know as well as I do, not everyone agrees with you. The majority of people are satisfied with things as they are.”
“They’re still wrong,” Warreven said bitterly. “You’ve worn the Captain’s shape for a long time, Temelathe, it’s time you acted for him. This is simple justice, a simple matter of reality.”
“Is it?” Temelathe sounded almost sad.
Behind him, Tendlathe stirred, fixed 3im with a cold stare. “God and the spirits, that’s enough. Quit while you’re ahead, Warreven.”
“And let you pretend I—we—don’t exist?” Warreven looked over 3er shoulder again, down the long line of people guarding the barricade. Ȝe pointed, picking out the first herm 3e saw, then to the person next to 3im, who might have been a fem. “You, and you—” Ȝe swung around, pointing again to individuals, mostly wrangwys, a few faces 3e thought 3e recognized from the bars and dance houses, people who’d done trade, who slept wry-abed, as well as the odd-bodied. “—all of you, can we let him say we don’t exist?”
Ȝe got an answering shout, angriest from 3er left, but loud enough from the rest, and 3e smiled equally at father and son, knowing it was more of a snarl. “You hear us. Don’t tell me you can’t, I know what your power is. You can write us into law. Give us that.”
“I can’t,” Temelathe answered.
“You will.” Warreven took a deep breath, feeling the power in 3im, riding the will of the crowd, harnessing it to 3er own desire.
“And if I don’t?” Temelathe sounded incredulous. “Are you threatening me, Warreven?”
“I’m opening the door,” Warreven said, and was 3imself answered by another cheer. “It’s up to you which one.”
Temelathe stared at him for another minute. Behind him, Tendlathe took a slow step forward, and then another, moving closer across the cobbles, until he stood almost at Temelathe’s shoulder. His expression was no longer stony, but openly furious, his stare divided between his father and Warreven. The Most Important Man shook his head. “No, not this time,” he said. “Not even for you—”
A flat snap cut him off. Warreven blinked, unable for an instant to recognize it, and Temelathe grunted, hands flying to his chest. In the firelight, the blood was already dark on his shirt, spilling over his fingers. He started to say something, mouth opening soundlessly, and then pitched forward onto the worn cobbles of the Market.
“My father—?” Warreven began, and in the same instant saw the flash of metal in Tendlathe’s hand. Tendlathe met 3er stare across Temelathe’s body, defiant and triumphant and afraid, and behind him the mosstaas tilted his pellet gun toward the sky, fired two quick shots. The sound was drowned in the roar of the crowd, but the muzzle flash lit the night, an obvious signal. The caleche’s engine whined as it pulled out, slewing to face the way it had come, and one wing struck the edge of the bonfire, scattering sparks and a chunk of burning wood that shattered as it struck the stones.
“Murderer!” Warreven said, and stepped forward over Temelathe’s body. Ȝe lifted 3er cane, swung its heavy length at Tendlathe’s head, aiming the weight of it at his temples. Tendlathe ducked, bringing his arms up in automatic defense, and the little gun—a palmgun, small but deadly enough at close range—went skittering across the cobbles. Warreven lifted the cane again, and the trooper shouted, leveling his own gun.
“Get in the car, mir—and you, whatever you are, get back!”
Warreven froze, staring at the muzzle of the rifle. The trooper couldn’t miss, not at this range, and 3e braced 3imself for the bullet. Then the caleche slid to a stop behind them, passenger door opening, and Tendlathe half-fell into it, one hand to his head. The crowd surged forward, one man throwing himself against the engine cowling, and the mosstaas fired at last. Warreven flinched, and the sweetrum bottle kicked in 3er hand, the glass exploding, spilling a great fan of liquid. Some of it landed on the embers from the bonfire and flamed blue, an eerie, alien light, consumed as quickly as it had appeared. The rest of the mosstaas were pouring down from the Embankment, and Dismars and someone in dockers’ clothes were trying to form the crowd into a line to meet them, but half the crowd didn’t seem to realize what had happened and still stood in confusion. And then there were more shots, and people began to run, some toward the side streets, some back toward the Gran’quai. Dismars shouted, his words inaudible at this distance, and someone threw a bottle after the caleche. It missed, broke on the stones, spreading a pool of flames.
Warreven looked back at Temelathe, the body still contorted on the ground, ignored. An ember had landed on one sleeve, and the cloth was smoldering; hardly knowing what 3e was doing, 3e reached out with the tip of the cane and ground out the flame. Ȝe realized then what 3e must look like, Agede considering 3er latest conquest, couldn’t bring 3imself to care. Ȝe had never meant for this to happen, never wanted Temelathe dead, not when it left Tendlathe in control—
“Raven!” Tatian caught 3er shoulders, swung 3im bodily toward the platform and the stair street behind it. “We’ve got to get out of here.”
“But—” Warreven shook 3imself, trying to get 3er mind to work. The last of the drummers was jumping down from the improvised stage, drum clutched to his body; the flute player stood frozen against the lights, staring toward the Embankment. There was another crackle of gunfire, and she fell or jumped into the crowd below.
“Come on,” Tatian said, and shoved 3im toward the platform.
“Warreven!” someone shouted, and another voice answered, “Stop him!”
Tatian swore under his breath. “Leave the cane,” he said, and Warreven dropped it. “Look at me.”