“Tatian! I was hearing all sorts of things.”
“Some of them are probably true,” Tatian answered. “I need your help, Isa. It could get you in trouble, though.”
“Then you were involved in all this.” Isabon gestured to where %er secondary screen would be.
“Yes. I was with Warreven.” Tatian waited, knowing he had to give %er the chance to back out, dreading that %e might. “Ȝe needs a medic.”
“God.” Isabon took a deep breath. “I saw what 3e tried to do—why the hell didn’t 3e keep 3er people under control, it might’ve worked out if 3e had.”
Tatian heard Warreven laugh softly behind him. “Ȝe tried. It wasn’t a planned thing, Isa—it was worse than you’d think, believe me. But I—3e needs a medic.”
“I know someone who’ll come,” Isabon answered. “Leave it to me.”
The medic arrived within half an hour, Isabon at 3er heels. Ȝe was quiet, competent, and quick to agree to Tatian’s suggestion that 3e hadn’t seen or treated anyone. Ȝe rebandaged Warreven’s eye, shaking 3er head, then helped get the indigene into Tatian’s bed. They left 3im there, already half asleep, as much from emotional exhaustion as the drugs the medic had given 3im, and the medic left, muttering anathemas on local politics. Tatian went back into the main room with the others and switched on the media center. The camera was still showing the Harbor Market, but the fires seemed to be under control, and there was no sign of angry ranas. He shook his head at the screen, at the newsreader’s head in the corner of the display, muted the voice that listed the dead and injured and asked people to stay indoors until the crisis was past. He settled himself on the couch, too tired to stay awake, still too keyed up to sleep, dimmed the lights until the media center was the brightest thing in the room. In the screen, the picture changed, became another open space, a square—not the one they had gone through, Tatian thought; this one was bigger, had a fountain and a stand of trees. More people, a trio of herms in the lead, all sporting the rainbow rana ribbons, faced a line of mosstaas; someone threw a rock, and then a bottle, something that shattered in front of the advancing line. The mosstaas kept coming, and Tatian fingered the remote, changing channels before the two lines met.
There was news on every narrowcast channel, though not the same pictures. He looked away, feeling vaguely guilty, as though there was something he could have done. And that, he knew, was stupid. Whatever he had done, Warreven would have gone to the Market, would have made 3er stand—and 3e had been right, was still right about the laws. Nothing he could have done would have changed that. Even so, he sat staring at the media center, riot and fire filling the screen, until he finally fell asleep from sheer exhaustion.
He woke to bright sunlight coming in through the imperfectly shuttered window. He winced, feeling the sweat on his skin, and pushed himself to his feet to close the shutters, flicking the cooling system to full power as he passed the control box. Outside the window, the broad wedge of lawn between the buildings of the Nest was filled with vehicles and people, indigenes in an even mix of traditional dress and off-world clothes. Some would be company employees, of course, taking shelter with their families, but it was obvious even at this distance that a number of them were herms, fems, and mems. There were children, too, lots of them, and someone—one of the companies, or maybe one of the housing committees—had set up a table to feed them. Tatian shook his head, and pushed the shutters closed.
The media screen came back into focus as the light faded, and he worked the remote to bring the voices up again. The Harbor Market filled the picture, empty now, the stones soot-marked from the bonfire, the remains of the barricade piled to one side of the Gran’quai. A drag engine was hauling away the last balks of wood under the watchful eyes of armed mosstaas, while in the background silver-suited firefighters prodded at the remains of a large storage shed. That was the only thing that had burned on the Gran’quai itself; Tatian was glad to see that the docked ships and the factors’ offices seemed untouched except for the occasional broken window.
“—order was restored,” the newsreader was saying. “A few ranas remain active, but the Most Important Man has vowed that they will be closed down by noon. We have been asked to remind our viewers that all political activity has been suspended until the crisis is over, and that rana bands of any type have been explicitly prohibited until that time.”
“Bastard,” Warreven said, from the bedroom doorway. Ȝer voice was a little slurred, more from the swelling than the aftereffects of either the sweetrum or the doutfire. “How bad is it?”
“I haven’t heard yet,” Tatian answered. “Last night, they were saying thirty confirmed dead at the Market, and another dozen around the city. Plus Temelathe, of course.”
“Of course.”
“Tendlathe moves fast,” Tatian said. It was probably better to get the worst news over with. “Everyone’s already calling him the Most Important Man, and he’s formally taking over tonight. There’s an emergency session of the Watch Council then.”
“Bastard,” Warreven said again. “Not that I should be surprised.” Ȝe put 3er hand to 3er bandaged eye. “I don’t suppose you have any doutfire, do you?”
Tatian shook his head, not for the first time envious of the indigenes’ tolerance for their extensive pharmacopeia. “The doctor left some pills. Ȝe said you could take up to four at a time. They’re in the kitchen.”
“Thanks,” Warreven said, and disappeared through the door.
Tatian watched 3im go, wondering what to do now. He would be recalled, unless Tendlathe expelled him first—someone at the Harbor was bound to have recognized him, and Masani would have to recall him, if %e wanted to go on doing business with the Harans. However, he wasn’t looking forward to explaining this to %er, no matter how sympathetic %e had been to the odd-bodied. As for Warreven… He shook his head. Tendlathe was blaming 3im for his father’s death, and he doubted Warreven had enough support left among the Modernists to have much chance of surviving arrest and trial, no matter how many times 3e swore 3e’d seen Tendlathe shoot his father. Could the other odd-bodied, the wrangwys, protect 3im? he wondered. They didn’t seem organized enough to offer much help, either political support or physical protection, and he had a strong feeling that the latter would be necessary. Tendlathe needed a scapegoat, and Warreven was the obvious one. That left off-world, but there his imagination failed him. He couldn’t picture Warreven on any of the Concord Worlds, part of Concord society: 3e was too much of Hara. Maybe 3e could head for the Stiller mesnies north of Bonemarche, he thought. Anti-Stane feeling might outweigh everything else….
The communications system sounded then, and he touched the remote, accepted the call without thinking, expecting Isabon or Derebought. Codes flowed across the screen—official codes, the codes for the White Watch House, and he barely stopped himself from canceling the call. He had already accepted it, already betrayed his presence in the flat; to refuse the call would only cause more trouble. At least the Harans had no direct power within the EHB compound, he thought, and braced himself to pretend innocence. The screen lit at last, and Tendlathe’s neatly bearded face looked back at him, a narrow bandage running across his forehead. At least Warreven marked him, Tatian thought, and looked down. The reciprocal transmission was already established: too late to do anything except brazen it out.