Ȝe turned, shaking now, the sight of Temelathe falling, the body fallen, and Tendlathe standing over it, caught in the firelight, still filling 3er mind, and Tatian caught 3er chin. The pain of his fingers on the bruises shocked 3im back to a semblance of awareness, and 3e started to pull away.
“The bandage,” Tatian said. “It’s too obvious. It’s got to go.” Warreven started to nod, but Tatian’s hand was already on the corner of the plastiskin, jerking it free. The medipack came with it, spilling what was left of its contents down the side of 3er face and neck, warm and faintly salty on 3er lips. The firelight seared 3er eyes; 3e winced, but turned on 3er own toward the stairs. Other people, dozens of them, were running with them, first in twos and threes, and then in larger groups. Warreven stumbled on the uneven stones, vision blurring, caught the off-worlder’s arm for support. As they reached the shantytown, gunfire sounded again, and 3e looked back to see the bonfire scattered, a drift of glowing coals, and dark figures, a neat line and a ragged one, shifting back and forth across it. More people were running toward them, heading for the stairs—heading for all the stair streets and alleys that led away from the Market, and Warreven turned back, climbed blind and aching toward the temporary safety of the rover.
~
Advocate: (Hara) man or woman trained in written and customary law, and certified by his or her clan as someone who has the right to speak for others before the clan and Watch courts.
12
Mhyre Tatian
Tatian sprinted up the last few steps to the warehouse street, shoving Warreven ahead of him. The indigene was moving awkwardly, without coordination, but Tatian pushed 3im on, not daring to stop. He glanced back once, saw more people heading for this stairway—the mosstaas had cut off access to most of the others—and gave Warreven a final shove in the direction of the rover. Its security field was flashing, warning that the system was primed and active, and Tatian stopped, swearing, and reached for his wrist pad to deactivate it. The pulse kicked back across his chest, and he held his breath for an instant, fighting the pain and the fear that the interface box would finally fail completely at this moment. The field stayed clear for a heartbeat, two, and then faded. He took a deep breath, not daring to admit the depth of his relief, and said, “Get in, quick.”
Warreven moved to obey, and Tatian swung himself into the driver’s pod, triggering the main systems. He kicked the quick start lever, heard the engine cough and die. He kicked it again, then made himself take the time to adjust the settings. This time the engine caught, and he glanced sideways to make sure Warreven was safely in place. The indigene was leaning back against the cushions, 3er left eye, the only one visible, swollen closed, a trail of liquid, tears or discharge or the remains of the medipack, running down 3er cheek. Ȝe looked bad, but there was no time to do anything for 3im. Ȝer door was closed, and the lock indicator glowed red; he would worry about the rest later. He slammed the rover into gear and edged out into the street. The hard tires crunched on something, and Tatian saw that the shay parked beside them had lost its side windows already.
He touched the throttle, sent the rover surging forward, and had to swerve to avoid the running figures that loomed out of the shadows. One of them grabbed for the passenger door, but the locks held. Tatian caught a glimpse of a terrified face—maybe a clean-shaven man’s, maybe a woman’s, too distorted by fear and effort for him to be sure—but knew better than to stop. He touched the throttle again, increasing power, and the face fell away. In the mirrors, he could see more people emerging from the stairway, could hear, even over the noise of the rover’s engines, shouts and the wail of sirens in the distance.
“Where to?” he asked, and swung the rover right at the end of the street, turning away from the Harbor.
Warreven didn’t answer for a long moment, and Tatian risked a quick look at 3im, then had to swerve again to avoid a running group. Ȝe was still motionless, slumped against the cushions, but then 3e turned to look at him, 3er good eye open and afraid. “I don’t know. God and the spirits, I didn’t—” Ȝe broke off, shook 3er head hard. “Not to my place, anyway.”
“No.” Tatian took his hand from the steering bar to input a query, searching for the city’s traffic system. It was unreliable at the best of times, and he wasn’t surprised to see the familiar system down message flicker along the bottom of the windscreen. “The port, then, maybe,” he said. If we can get there. “If not, the Nest.”
“The Nest?” Warreven was trying to sound more alert.
“EHB—the Expatriate Housing Blocks.” Tatian reached for his input pad again, tried to call up a city map. The system fizzed under his skin, produced a cloud of static, hazing the windscreen, and then cleared. He studied the map for a moment, then turned again, heading for the ring roads that would feed into the main road to the starport. There was only one that led to the port complex, and he opened the throttle further, set the rover careening through the narrow streets. The first main street was less crowded than he’d expected; he turned onto it, slowed down behind a shay with company markings. He heard sirens again, glanced nervously into the mirror, and then keyed the surroundings display. Red lights flared on the map, showing the mosstaas’ reported positions, but the nearest was four streets away. The shay turned off ahead of him, onto a side street that the map seemed to show would be a shortcut to the ring road. Tatian started to follow, then hesitated, looking at the narrow lanes, and kept to the route he knew.
The rover topped the first of the hills, and the road opened out into one of Bonemarche’s many little squares. Light flared, streetlights and firelight, and Tatian saw that the central square was filled with bodies. Most of them wore the multicolored ribbons of the Modernist rana, and one held a drum, its sides glossy in the firelight. The nearest—a fem, tunic pulled tight and knotted to reveal every nuance of %er body’s curves—pointed and yelled, the words indistinct, muffled by the rover’s systems. Tatian hauled on the steering bar, sent the rover skidding around the corner of the square, and saw something shatter in the street behind them. Warreven twisted in 3er seat, staring back at them.
“They were on my side,” 3e said, after a moment, and settled back into 3er place.
“I didn’t think you had a side anymore,” Tatian said. Warreven looked up sharply, face setting into an angry mask, but then, before Tatian could say anything, apology or mitigation, 3er glare faltered.
“Apparently not.”
“I’m sorry.” Tatian fixed his eyes on the dark street ahead, very aware of the locked and barred doors to either side.
“I—” Warreven shook 3er head. “I’m not. I was right—I’m still right about the laws, and I’m right that Ternelathe could have done something. But, God and the spirits, I didn’t mean for him to die. I didn’t think Tendlathe would do that.”
“Tendlathe?”
“Didn’t you see?” Warreven asked. “Ten shot him, the bastard, he had one of those little guns. In his pocket, I guess.”
Tatian took a breath, let it out slowly. He hadn’t seen that, had seen only the three of them, Tendlathe, Temelathe, and Warreven, weirdly lit by the bonfire. He had heard the shot—a small sound, he thought, it could have been a palmgun—and seen Temelathe fall. Fall forward, he thought, which I think means the shot came from behind. Tendlathe was behind him; so was a good part of the crowd, but they hadn’t seemed that angry yet. And Warreven said 3e’d seen Tendlathe do it. “Do you think anyone else saw him?”