A Call to Darkness - Michael Jan Friedman [71]
That seemed to suffice. Grinning, the man withdrew into the crowd that surrounded the bar.
It was only a moment later that he saw his father. Apparently, the conspirators’ meeting had broken up for the night.
Trien’nor had been the first to emerge from the hallway. Behind him was Ma’alor-Dan’nor would never forget the dark hair, the unrelenting scowl behind the knife.
The younger Tir’dainia rose to catch his father’s eye. He felt a faint apprehension that the others in the group might disapprove of his being there. But if Trien’nor had invited him to join their movement, it had surely been with the group’s approval. They would not condemn him out of hand.
And in any case, this was a public place. The conspirators couldn’t risk a show of violence here, not even before a largely sympathetic crowd. It would only draw attention to them.
Sure enough, Trien’nor and Ma’alor noticed him at the same time. And neither of them looked all that surprised to see him there.
Still and all, Dan’nor did not leave his place. He sat down again and waited for his father to join him.
The elder Tir’dainia exchanged a couple of words with Ma’alor. Then he started to thread his way among the tables, as his compatriots headed for the door or the crowd at the bar.
Before Trien’nor had gotten halfway to Dan’nor, however, the tavern door burst open. And a flood of blue uniforms came pouring in.
The Civil Service, he realized. Here. To get Trien’nor and the others-for what they’d done. Somehow, they had been identified. Traced here.
Dan’nor was transfixed for a long, painful moment. But his father was not. Without hesitation, Trien’nor flipped a table out of his way and met the rush of Civil Service agents head on-entangling himself with them, slowing down their progress into the tavern.
There was a blow to the older man’s head, another to his stomach. Dan’nor felt his insides clench. He moved to help, to come to his father’s rescue-but someone grabbed him from behind.
He managed to twist around a bit, to see who was holding him. He knew the face-it was one of the men in the back room circle, one whose name he had never learned. Dan’nor struggled to free himself, but the man was immensely strong. And his eyes carried a message-which, after a frantic second or two, began to sink in.
I’m not to intervene, Dan’nor interpreted. I’m to stand by and let my father be dealt with as the Civil Service sees fit.
He was not unfamiliar with the tactic; he’d learned about it in the course of his Military training. Cut your losses-live to fight another day.
But it wasn’t so easy when it was one’s father. Dan’nor twisted around again, saw that Trien’nor had gone down. He was doubled over, firmly in the grasp of a half dozen agents. But his efforts hadn’t been for nothing, it seemed.
Ma’alor and some of the others were streaming back down the corridor, headed in the direction of the back room. The crowd, galvanized by Trien’nor’s act of courage-and even more sympathetic than Dan’nor had guessed-was doing its best to get in the way of the uniformed invaders. There were shouts of defiance, bottles smashed. For every citizen who got a blaster-butt in the face, another managed to fill the breach.
As the confusion mounted-and the promise of a full-blown riot became more and more a reality-some agents stepped aside and Dan’nor’s father was revealed to him. Trien’nor’s face was mottled and bruised; there was a thin trickle of blood oozing from the corner of his mouth. Their eyes met across the room, and Dan’nor felt something he hadn’t felt since he was very small. There was a thickness in his throat that he couldn’t swallow away.
Suddenly, there was a greater commotion coming from the back of the tavern-the place to which Trien’nor’s comrades had retreated. More blue uniforms came shooting out from the corridor, pushing a couple of the conspirators before it. One of them was Zanc’cov-Dan’nor knew him by his smallish stature, his sharp-featured face.
But Ma’alor wasn’t with him. Nor were many of the others.