A Call to Darkness - Michael Jan Friedman [70]
But an inner tranquillity that could find a man even in mild-mannered Trien’nor… that was something he had to know more about. Despite the danger.
After work on the third day, Dan’nor made his way back to the tavern. Somehow, it seemed larger this time, easier to distinguish from the shops around it. The wooden door seemed larger, too-heavier, more portentous.
This night, there were just as many people as that other night, but they were distributed around the place differently. The crowd about the videoscreen was smaller; more people clustered around the bar.
Dan’nor took a table not far from the screen, simply because it was available. He pretended to watch the Conflicts, but his real attention was focused on the corridor that led to the back room.
His plan-one he hadn’t realized he’d had until just a few moments ago-was to sit here and wait for his father. Of course, he couldn’t be certain that Trien’nor was back there-but he had a feeling. And if he was wrong, he could always return another night.
He wouldn’t break in on the conspirators’ meeting. And fear wasn’t the reason, he told himself. It was because setting foot in that room again would mean he’d joined them-and he wasn’t ready to do that. Not by a long shot.
He just wanted to talk to Trien’nor. Needed to talk to Trien’nor. For now, that would be enough.
Before long, he saw one of the serving women take a tray into the back. At least, he noted, some of the conspirators were here. It was a good sign.
Nor did anyone approach him to ask if he wanted a drink. He caught sight of the serving maid who had taken his order the first time he was here; but she was working behind the bar, too busy to wait on tables. Dan’nor wondered what had made the customers so thirsty all of a sudden.
Then a mug of foamy, dark liquid slammed down on his table, startling him. He looked up into the face of someone he’d never seen before. Someone who had drunk more than he should have.
“There,” said the man, as Lower Caste a specimen as Dan’nor had ever seen. “No one goes without a drink the day the video works blew up.”
Dan’nor took a moment to make sense of that. “The video works?” he repeated dumbly.
The man nodded, leaning a little closer. His eyes were bleary, his chin wet and shiny in the glare from the screen. And his breath smelled worse than the river.
“That’s right,” he said. “You mean you haven’t heard?” He barked out a laugh. “They blew the thing up into little pieces-just before morning.” Straightening, he lifted his drink in a clumsy salute. “Here’s to them. No work for me today, Brother, and I thank them heartily for it.”
Dan’nor didn’t have to ask who they were.
The man couldn’t have known that the saboteurs to whom he drank were quite likely in this very tavern-but that didn’t seem to dampen the kinship he felt with them. For the first time, Dan’nor realized that his father’s movement was more than just a small group of activists. Somewhere along the line, it had captured the imagination of the people-or at least some of them.
It somehow put matters in a different light. Gave the conspirators’ efforts a kind of legitimacy.
He recalled what he’d heard on his last visit here: the argument between the ones called Ma’alor and Zanc’cov, about the capacity of the masses to rise up against the authorities. Perhaps that capacity was starting to assert itself after all.
Dan’nor himself had yet to see the captured saboteur-Ralak’kai, wasn’t it? -on the videoscreen. But that didn’t mean that Ralak’kai hadn’t appeared at one time or another; Dan’nor hardly watched the Conflicts as much-or as closely-as he had before.
Had Ralak’kai’s presence on the battlefields roused the anger of the people, as Zanc’cov had expected? Or did the incidents of sabotage have more to do with it?
No matter. In either case, something was happening. Something huge, something frightening.
The man was still looming over him, holding his mug aloft-as if he wanted some kind of response from Dan’nor. Dan’nor gave him one.
“To them,” he