Brotsge clapped his hands together. The sound, amplified, rang through the hall. Slowly the crowd settled before his obvious anger: a revelate, after all, was a person touched by the gods, an institution they had all been taught to respect. Only Micha stood, defiant, with the presence of the Legion behind her.
“Woman,” the old man said, “why do you persist in this blasphemy?” His use of casual address caused Micha’s face to tighten into a scowl. At Renard’s side, Alex started to rise, and Renard quieted him with a harsh gesture. He didn’t like having to do that—it showed his power over the Legion to a careful observer, and his safety lay in anonymity.
“Is it blasphemy to speak truth, Revelate?” Micha trembled, but she held herself. Renard leaned forward in his seat, ready to interrupt if he had to, but hoping it would not be necessary—it was not his intention to have the lassari anger vented here, in private.
“I speak the truths of She of the Five.” Revelate Brotsge nodded to her. “And I apologize for speaking to you so rudely, m’Dame. I only wanted you to listen.”
Renard sighed in relief. He slouched back.
Micha bowed to the revelate, the deep bow of equals. “Your apology is accepted, Revelate. Vasella was a devout man in his own way, and we of the Legion knew he would want the blessing of She of the Five. But he also believed that She meant for us to be more than chattel, that She didn’t want the lassari to vanish like Her ippicators. The guilded kin would like us to be content with the belief that we will someday be kin ourselves. They hope that will keep us in line, underneath them. And we
will
be kin, Revelate: we of the Hag’s Legion have pledged that. But we won’t receive recognition by being docile and waiting for that eventual reward.”
“My dear child,” Brotsge began—not an insult, but merely the perception of the elderly toward the younger.
Still, it caused Micha to toss her head back. She laughed, loudly, almost joyously.
“We’re not children, Revelate. None of us. We lost our innocence a long time ago, in the blood the Li-Gallant, the Hoorka, and all the kin have taken from us.”
“I know that this man’s death”—Brotsge indicated the bier with a grandiose gesture—“has bereaved you greatly.”
Micha smiled. “You’ll never suspect what his death means to us, Revelate.”
“Let us mourn him, then, m’Dame. Calmly, and without rage, as She of the Five would wish it.”
“His whole life was rage, Revelate,” Micha persisted. “He wanted a revelate’s blessing to take with him to the Hag. That’s all.”
“He has that,” Brotsge growled. He gripped the flask of holy water tightly, then seemed to realize for the first time that he was still holding it. He placed it back on the acolyte’s tray. “I’ve given him that blessing.”
“Then,” Micha said, “we will take him.”
At her signal, the Hag’s Legion stood and came forward, ignoring Brotsge’s protests. They took hold of the bier, lifting it to their shoulders. Petals of flowers littered the floor in a slow, bright rain. Brotsge, shouting, grasped at Alex’s arm, next to Renard. Alex grinned at the revelate as if amused and, with a shrugging motion, flung Brotsge aside. The acolyte, with a cry, abandoned his tray and clutched at the falling revelate’s robes. He did little good. Brotsge struck the floor hard, his head thudding against tile. The boy shrieked in fear; Brotsge—echoed by the sound system—howled in pain. “You can’t do this,” he screamed, holding his head. Bright, thick blood welled between his fingers. “You make a mockery of my church.”
Renard, adjusting the weight of the bier on his shoulder, glanced down at the man, at the boy holding him and attempting to stanch the flow of blood with his surplice. “You’re exactly right, Revelate Brotsge.” With his free hand, he placed the hood over his head. His voice muffled, he continued. “And we’ll continue to do so as long as the churches serve the guilded kin and not those who need comfort the most.” Renard’s eyes, cold and unsympathetic, stared from the ragged holes in the hood. “You’ve given Urbana his blessing. That was all we required of you.”
The bier lurched forward, Renard moving with it, his attention leaving the plight of the old man. Moving slowly, they stepped down into the main aisle and were immediately surrounded. The church was noisy and chaotic now; shouting faces, sweat-slick brows, raised hands. A rock arced over Renard’s head and the bier; behind him, he heard a crack as the missile struck the animo of She of the Five, then the bright clatter of shattered glass striking the floor. Around him, people cheered, jostling him. He grinned, the dangerous excitement of the crowd filling him with energy. A man near him shouted: “Down with kin!” Renard shouted back in kind, gleeful. The bier seemed very light; those nearest were reaching out to aid the Legion bearers. Above Renard, the bier rode like a raft on an uneasy, living sea. Someone ahead of them thrust open the doors to the church—they slammed back against their supports, askew; behind, to the side, there were more sounds of destruction, glass breaking, wood splintering. Renard could feel the chill touch of outside air.
Clamorous, moving; the crowd spilled from the church, down the wide steps to the street. As they came out into the night, into the soft illumination of the hoverlamps, Renard could see the squad of guards, still watching from across the way. They looked worried. Their hands stayed close to the handles of their crowd-prods, and one fidgeted nervously with a relay button on his lapel. The bier tilted dangerously as they came down the steps, and Renard had to give all his attention to the unseen footing beneath him. When he could look up again, he could see very little above the bobbing, restless sea of heads on every side of him. It didn’t matter. Events had, so for, gone the way he’d planned. He knew what would happen, knew what
must
happen.
He waited for the first sounds of chaos.
• • •
Afterward, descriptions of the events (and, of course, the official assignment of the blame for the incident) would vary according to the sources consulted. The Hag’s Legion would hold that one of Vingi’s guards struck the actual first blow. The Li-Gallant’s Domoraj, before the interrogators of the Neweden press, would just as vehemently contend that it was a vile lassari who first made the confrontation a physical one.
Neither side would deny that what precipitated the fray was a photodot. One of the guards raised a camera to record the scene—all agreed on that point. Certainly the lassari were quite sensitive toward Vingi’s interest in Vasella and the Hag’s Legion, and especially the mysterious figure of their leader, Renard, who was rumored to have attended the funeral. Certainly (as well), the lassari were in a foul, bitter, and angry mood, especially concerning full kin. And (certainly) they felt the security of numbers, the pressure of their peers, no matter how well-armed the guards. There were a few hundred of the lassari mob, only twenty of the guards: ten-to-one odds tend to make even the most cowardly people brave.
Whatever.
Within a few moments of the photodot being taken, a melee had begun between the guards and the mourners around the bier. The guards reacted with the ingrained ferocity of guilded kin toward the social canaille: they fought viciously, with all the power at their command, and without restraint. That only incited the lassari further, fueling their anger.
The first sound Renard heard was the cough of a sting at close range, followed by a mass wailing as the crowd-creature of lassari shouted alarm and pain. People bucked back against the Legion members, the bier tossing alarmingly. Renard screamed at them to back away. “Put the bier down! Gently, gently—and get the hoods off. They only mark you now.”
Micha was shoved up against him. He grabbed at her sleeve, and she twisted to hug him quickly, her face a mixture of fear and pleasure. “It’s going as you said it would.” Someone ran past them, yelling wordlessly, blundering into the bier. Alex, cursing, pulled the man free.
“We have to get ourselves out now,” Renard answered Micha. He could not keep a quick smile from his face. The night was loud around them, alive with pain and fright. “Tell the others to leave. Go separately, then stay in hiding for the next few days. I’m going to stay here for a few minutes, then go myself. Move!”
“Not without a kiss.”
“If this excites you, m’Dame, then you’re a disgusting creature.” But he smiled again as he said it.
“I’m disgusting.”
He kissed her, quickly, roughly, then thrust her away. “Now, get moving.”
“I’m gone.” She laughed back at him, her eyes crinkling in delight. “I hope Vasella doesn’t mind being left here.”
“He’s being comforted by the Hag. He doesn’t care. Now, will you
go.
”
She left him without another word, slipping her way through the pushing, milling throngs. Vasella’s flowers were being trampled underneath; the shroud had slipped to reveal the face of the corpse, shining with the funeral oils for the cremation. Renard nodded to Vasella’s body and moved away, back to the steps of the church where he could survey the scene.
The fighting had spread, the nucleus of the conflict still in the streets. At least two of the guards were down, dozens of lassari lay still on the pavement. It was no longer simply lassari against kin—it was riot. On the opposite side of the street, Renard could see a knot of people around a storefront. The holo-display had been shattered, looters moved through the wreckage. A sting spat once, then again—screams came from around a corner of the church. Renard ducked behind a pillar. A group of lassari came running up the steps toward him. They flung some noisome, pungent liquid in a bottle at the broken doors of the church. Glass splintered, the liquid splashed. Renard, suddenly frightened, ran, as a crude torch, flame guttering, was tossed into the spreading pool. The front of the building exploded with light and heat, bright searing flame. Smoke roiled up, billowing, hiding the moons. Over the roofs of the nearest houses, Renard could see the flashing strobes of approaching cruisers. Reinforcements had been summoned.
Renard wiped at his pants—some of the oil had splashed onto him. He no longer wanted to stay: this mess would continue just as well without him. He made his way around the church and into the warren of dark streets.
The mob howled at his back. Sirens shrilled in answer.
• • •
“Damn
you, Santos, I can’t believe you just sat here and watched this without waking me.”
D’Embry was furious, and fury made her weak. The symbiote wriggled on her back, restless, no doubt pumping sympathetic chemicals into her to leech that rage, and she wanted none of the parasite’s solace. Not now, not when the screen of the com-unit showed her Dasta Burrough in flames, not when she could look out her office window and see the smudge of smoke in the sky and the distant smear of erratic light.
McClannan was at the window now, gazing out. He turned to face d’Embry, who sat in her usual floater. “Regent,” he said far too calmly, “I contacted the Li-Gallant’s office. No one there wanted our assistance in any way, not even our fire-fighting apparatus. That ties our hands—we aren’t allowed to interfere in local affairs without the Li-Gallant’s explicit permission. We didn’t have it, so I saw no reason to rouse you from a comfortable bed.”
He seemed eminently logical. He looked handsomely innocent. He even smiled, an offer of reconciliation. She despised his easy manner. “I don’t believe this,” she said again. Yellow fire spat at the viewscreen, and glowing sparks coiled heavenward. “Death and destruction on this scale hasn’t been seen here since that typhoon six standards ago. There’s a small-scale battle being fought between lassari and kin, and
you
didn’t think it warranted awakening me.” She let sarcastic amusement lash at him, a bitter marveling at his stupidity. “McClannan, my dear Seneschal, what
would
impel you to get me out of bed? Does Diplo Center have to burn first? And wherever did you get the idea that you were competent to make
any
kind of decision?”
McClannan’s face took on a pained expression. It still looked like a regal mask. “I’m sorry you feel that way, Regent. Believe me, I only had your comfort and well-being in mind.”
“I don’t want comfort!”
She shouted the words, and the effort reminded her that, indeed, she was still tired and that it was early in the morning. She sagged back in her seat, mindful of the hump of the symbiote on her shoulders. She put her hand on her forehead, her elbows on the padded arms of the chair. She closed her eyes and concentrated on breathing.
“Get me the Li-Gallant,” she said wearily. “Not his office, not some damn underling, but Vingi himself.”
“Regent—”
“Do it.” She didn’t have the strength to do more than whisper the words.
Come on, parasite. Do your job and give me some help.
She could feel its faint movements, could—somewhere under the surface of her consciousness—feel its presence, tandem with her own. A soothing coolness spread through her chest; she could breathe without pain. She kept her eyes closed. In the background, she could hear McClannan fidgeting with her com-unit, then his low, too-pleasant voice speaking. Someone replied, he spoke again. D’Embry stopped listening, her attention on her body, on her breathing, on all the small pains that added up to a nagging uneasiness.
“Regent?”
Maybe it is getting to be time. Maybe this next visit, Aris wouldn’t be just a pleasurable prison but a home.
“Regent?”
She started. The hands came slowly down to rest on her desk; she opened her eyes. “Yes?”
McClannan was staring at her quizzically. “The Li-Gallant will be on in a moment.”
“How do I look, Santos?”
“Perhaps you’d want me to talk with him,” he ventured softly. “You
do
look as if you’ve been awakened in a rush.”
“Good. I’m ready, then, Seneschal.”
The Li-Gallant looked almost jolly. He nodded at the screen and pursed thick lips at d’Embry. “You look tired, Regent. Surely a small problem such as a fire in Dasta hasn’t kept you up? It’s a task for the local government, neh?”