Shadow Man (Paragons of Queer Speculative Fiction)

by Scott, Melissa

  Warreven scanned the screen without answering. It was less than a week to the two-day Midsummer holiday, and most mesnies and clans and the five overarching Watches that governed them held their elections then, but what that had to do with him...?

  And then, in the center of the screen, he saw his own name, set opposite the post of Stiller seraaliste. He stared at it for a moment, feeling remarkably stupid, and Malemayn said behind him, "I wonder who put your name in."

  "You're telling me you didn't," Haliday said to Warreven, but 3er voice had lost some of its anger.

  "Yes," Warreven said, still staring at the screen. There was only one other candidate, the minimum required by clan law, and the name was all too familiar. Daithef Stiller was a perennial candidate, and more than a little mad; he had never yet been elected to anything. "I mean, yes, I didn't do it," he said, and wondered if he sounded as foolish as he felt.

  "Who sponsored him?" Malemayn said.

  "The nominating officer was Waterson, who's speaker for the Haefeld mesnie." Haliday made a face. "That's over on the sunset coast. Seconding was someone called Tortisen, of Luccem. I don't know either of them, and I can't find a directory listing, electronic or paper, for either one."

  "Well, there's a simple solution," Warreven said, and reached for the ancient monophone that stood beside the computer. Parts of the system had come to Hara on the settlement ship five hundred years before--and it had been seventy years out of date on the day of landing--but it was still the only system that was certain to reach all the outlying mesnies. Down in the Equatoriale and along the sunset coasts, there were still small mesnies, mostly household size, that had evaded Temelathe's order to accept a network terminal; a larger number of others had simply refused to assign anyone to answer the system's mail. He punched code numbers from memory, lifted the headset, and waited until the tinkle of routing codes was finally replaced by a human voice.

  "Black Watch House," the voice--a man's--said in franca, and then repeated the words in creole.

  "Who's the Stiller electing officer?" Warreven asked. "There seems to have been an error in the list."

  There was a little silence, and then the voice answered, "That's Brunwyf, out of the Luccem mesnie--it's a woman's post this year. She's away up north now, though. Can I take a message?"

  "Is she on the system?" Warreven asked, without much hope. "Or the phone?"

  "I'm sorry, mir. I don't know if the line's been patched yet. Can I take a message?"

  And if Luccem is as traditional as I remember, Warreven thought, there's no point in even trying the network. "Yes," he said aloud. "You can tell her Warreven called, of the Ambreslight mesnie. Someone's put my name on the list by mistake, and I'm not a candidate."

  "Warreven," the voice repeated, and there was another little silence. "I'll give her that message, mir."

  "Thank you," Warreven said, but the connection was already broken. He set the headset back in its place, an unpleasant suspicion forming. Brunwyf was a nobody, just as Luccem was one of the minor mesnies, but it was matrilineal, and her father and husband were both Maychilders, part of the string of Maychilder marriages that Temelathe had sponsored over the last thirty years. Which meant--or could well mean--that Brunwyf was part of the faction that was aligned with the Most Important Man. "What do you know about Brunwyf, of Luccem?"

  Malemayn shook his head. "Absolutely nothing."

  "Isn't she married to a Maychilder?" Haliday asked. "That's one of the matrimesnies, anyway, and they're Traditionalists, that do know."

  "And Traditionalists in Haefeld," Warreven agreed. "So why in all hells would they nominate me?"

  "You're hardly a Traditional candidate," Malemayn said, with a grin.

  "So they must've been doing someone a favor," Haliday said. "Your would-be father-in-law, Raven?"

  Warreven gave 3im a sour look. "It's possible. In fact, I can't think of anyone else who'd bother. But I can't think why."

  "Nor can I," Haliday said.

  "Well, it's hardly important," Malemayn said. "They can't make you run if you don't want to, Raven--not even Temelathe can manage that without it looking really bad. So as soon as what's-her-name gets back from Luccem, you can pull your name off the list."

  "Do you really want to bet against Temelathe?" Warreven asked, and Malemayn shook his head.

  "Not iron, no. But this would be hard even for him."

  "I can think of three ways he could force it," Haliday said, 3er voice gone suddenly cold. "But the simplest--well, look who the other candidate is. If Temelathe really wants you to be seraaliste, Raven, all he'd have to do is rule that we can't add late candidates. He's head of the Watch Council, he can do it. And then we get Daithef as our seraaliste." Ȝe smiled, not pleasantly. "I think you'd run, Raven, don't you?"

  "I'm not going to run for anything," Warreven said.

  Malemayn said, "Still, the idea of Daithef as seraaliste is enough to give me chills. I hope they're still able to nominate someone else."

  "They'd better," Warreven said. "Besides, why would Temelathe want to see me Stiller's seraaliste? We've been butting heads with the White Stanes since we opened the office. He knows we don't agree with his policies."

  "You've done him favors before," Haliday said.

  "Not like this," Warreven answered.

  "It doesn't make a lot of sense," Malemayn said.

  Warreven shook his head. "It doesn't make any sense at all."

  The monophone chimed twice, then twice again. Malemayn made a face and reached for it, flipping the switch to accept the connection. "Malemayn Stiller." His eyebrows rose, and he touched the mute button at the base of the junction box. He held out the handset to Warreven. "It's for you. The Most Important Man."

  Warreven reached for it automatically, then shook his head. "Patch it to my console, will you? I think I need to sit down for this one."

  Malemayn gave a snort of laughter, and Warreven slipped past him into the cramped cubicle that served him in lieu of a private office. The work surfaces were drifted with papers and the shell-disks that their ancient computers used; more disks had accumulated on top of the main drive box and on the primary display as well. He moved a pile away from the monophone and reached for the handset cautiously, as if it would bite. Malemayn was watching over the low wall, and Warreven nodded.

  "Putting you through," Malemayn said, and the next instant, Warreven heard the faint static of an open line.

  "Warreven Stiller."

  "Raven." There was no mistaking Temelathe's voice, low and mellow as tempered chocolate. "How are you these days?"

  "Well, thank you, mir," Warreven answered, and added, knowing it would be expected, "I trust you're the same?"

  "Well enough, my son."

  Warreven made a face at the old endearment. It was traditional, meaningless, but it also held echoes of Temelathe's comment at Aldess's reinstatement--and was that what he wanted, introducing me to what's-his-name, Kolbjorn, from Kerendach? Warreven wondered suddenly. And referring to me as his might-have-been daughter-in-law would be just one more way of re-minding me of old obligations. Of course, if it hadn't been me who would become the wife, I might've been tempted, and Temelathe won't have forgotten that, either. Temelathe never forgot anything, to the smallest detail, and Warreven was uneasily aware of memories, the child, the adolescent he had been, waiting to be invoked.

  "But I'll get to the point," Temelathe went on, "and I do apologize for the haste of it. I'm told you want to withdraw your name from the election list."

  "I didn't even know I was on it," Warreven said, but Temelathe was still speaking, riding over his words.

  "I know it's not strictly speaking my affair, but with Brunwyf away in Luccem for the holiday, I thought I might be able to clear up the problem before it officially became one."

  "That's kind of you, my father," Warreven murmured, without the pretense of conviction.

  "I'm not in fact clear what the problem is." Temelathe's tone sharpened su
ddenly, and Warreven imagined the full force of his glare directed at the monophone. "Your clan has seen fit to nominate you; it's your obligation to serve."

  "I'm not qualified to be the seraaliste," Warreven said, with perfect truth. The clan seraaliste handled the sale of all harvested and gathered crops to the off-world brokers, and a man who notoriously couldn't bargain in the markets was hardly an ideal candidate for the job. "Besides, there's another nominee."

  "Æ, Raven, Daithef hardly counts as a candidate. Though I admit he'd suit me better than you in some ways."

  That was true enough: Daithef could be relied on to make a bad bargain, if only out of spite. "So why, my father, are you trying to talk me into running?"

  There was a chuckle at the other end of the line. "Because what's good for Stane isn't necessarily good for Hara. And there's money enough in the off-worlders that we can all share the profits."

  "True," Warreven said dubiously; this was not the usual White Stane attitude. "But I'm still not qualified to be the seraaliste."

  "I think you're underestimating your talents," Temelathe said. "Ah, Raven, this is no way to talk, not through some machine. Come to the house tonight--we're having a small dinner, nothing fancy. We can talk there."

  It was not really a request, and they both knew it. Warreven sighed--there had never been an easy way to refuse Temelathe Stane; once was more than most men managed--and said, "I'm honored, my father." His tone was flat, contradicting the conventional words, and Temelathe chuckled again.

  "It will be worth your while, Raven, I promise you."

  "But will it be worth yours, my father?" Warreven asked. "As you said, I'm not your ideal candidate."

  "Nor is Daithef," Temelathe answered, voice suddenly sharpening. And then the anger was gone, smothered, and Temelathe was himself again. "I'll expect you at seven--no, six-thirty. That will give us time to talk a little."

  "I'll be there, my father," Warreven said, and broke the connection. He looked up to see the others watching him over the wall of the cubicle and spread his hands in answer.

  "You're going to dinner," Malemayn said.

  "Of course." Warreven looked at Haliday. "I didn't want or plan this. You do believe me, Hal?"

  There was a little pause, Haliday's fierce green eyes fixed on him, and then, slowly, 3e nodded. "Even for you, Raven, this would be--baroque."

  Warreven smiled, reassured, and reached across to light his workstation. "Is there anything that absolutely has to be done by tomorrow?"

  "Only the usual," Haliday answered, and turned back to 3er own cubicle. "I'll flip it to you. What happened with Chattan's case?"

  Malemayn stretched, the metal bracelets clattering down his arms. "Flip me copies, too, will you, Hal? We got Chattan his fees back, but the lead-judge continued the case. Wakelevedy said he'd send the voucher first thing in the morning."

  "And the minute Chattan gets the money, 3e'll be off home," Haliday said, bitterly. "I don't suppose there's any way we could hold onto the money until the next hearing."

  "No," Warreven said, and sighed as a list of files filled his screen.

  "This isn't the case, Hal," Malemayn said, not ungently.

  "This is a case we could've won." Haliday glared at the screen. "Who was the lead-judge? Archer Stane?"

  Malemayn nodded.

  "Damn the Stanes, singly and collectively, to all seven hells in succession," Haliday said. Ȝe ran a hand through 3er short hair. "Even Archer would've had to give us this one. It was perfect, damn it, poor hard-working, modest-living halving from the Equatoriale gets tricked into whoring in Bonemarche, and by a reputable brokerage, no less--we couldn't lose. And it would have called the whole structure of the trade into question, let everybody know that the White Stanes are backing it. So of course Archer continued it."

  "We won't win this kind of case until we get somebody from Bonemarche to complain," Malemayn said.

  "And we won't win this kind of case if it's a Bonemarche whore complaining," Haliday retorted.

  It was an old argument, and Warreven looked back to his screen, jabbed halfheartedly at the list of files to open one at random. Over the last two calendar-years, the partnership seemed to have been spending more and more of its time dealing with the fallout of the off-world sex trade, with the full-time prostitutes and the part-time marijaks and marianjs who worked the harborside, and with the off-worlders and wry-abed indigenes who patronized them. Temelathe preferred to turn a blind eye to the business--as long as he got his discreet share of the bar and dance-house profits, he didn't care who went there, or for what--but at the same time he had to stay on good terms with the Colonial Committee and the Interstellar Disease Control Agency, who existed to regulate trade. At the same time, most of the pharmaceutical companies, from the Big Six down to the smallest pony-shows, turned a blind eye to their employees' thriving sideline in the residence and travel permits that were the other side of trade. And Hara was dependent on the pharmaceuticals for all of its hard-cash income. It was not, Warreven admitted silently, an easy situation for Temelathe, but it was a lot harder on the wry-abed.

  Malemayn and Haliday were still arguing, voices low enough to ignore, and Warreven fixed his attention on the open file on the screen in front of him. It was an application-to-emigrate for someone named Destany Casnot, herm passing for male--a Black Casnot rather than a Blue, which made him distant kin; Casnot, like most of the large clans, was split between two Watches--and he paged quickly through the file, looking for the inevitable problems. The partnership didn't get the easy cases; if this had been a straightforward emigration case, it would have gone to ColCom without the need for legal backing. Sure enough, the person sponsoring the application was listed as Sera Timban 'Aukai, who called herself Destany's common-law wife. He knew 'Aukai, all right: all of the wry-abed did. She had for years managed an import service just off the Soushill Road, where indigenes looking for trade could sell or pawn traditional goods and find safe introductions. And now she was ready to leave Hara and wanted to take a current lover with her.

  "Who took this emigration case?" he said, cutting through the others' continuing argument.

  "Æ?" That was Malemayn.

  Haliday leaned over the cubicle wall. "It's not what you think, Raven."

  "Oh?"

  "I know you never liked 'Aukai, but she's all right. Destany hasn't done trade for ages, they've been living together for the last seven calendar-years. ColCom's kicking her out--they caught heron a technicality, selling foodstuffs, for which she isn't licensed. She's appealing that, too, but she and Destany want to stay together."

  Warreven sighed, some of the irritation fading. 'Aukai had told him, years ago, when he'd first come to Bonemarche, that he wasn't suited for trade--which had turned out to be true, but it hadn't been much help at the time. Trade was the quickest way for the odd-bodied to earn a decent living in Bonemarche; the wrangwys bars and dance houses where trade was played were also the places where the wry-abed found each other. He had lived on the fringes of that world, a marijak and occasional marianj rather than a proper whore, for almost two years before he'd agreed to become a clan advocate. And it still pained him to admit that 'Aukai had been right. "Do we have any other support?"

  "Mostly Destany's kin," Haliday answered. "But your friend Shan Reiss has offered us an affirmation. He says he'll swear Destany and 'Aukai have been monogamous for the last five years at least."

  "That's something," Warreven said, and Malemayn's voice rose from the depths of his cubicle. "Isn't Reiss some sort of Casnot himself?"

  "He's still an off-worlders," Haliday said. Ȝe looked at Warreven. "I wanted to ask you to pull the precedents."

  Warreven sighed again, and nodded. He looked down the list of files and saw another familiar name. "All right. But I want Ironroad then."

  "It's all yours," Haliday answered. "If I have to see Astrede's smug face again, I'll rearrange it for him."

  Ȝe turned away, and Warreven looked back at his
screen, mousing quickly through the linked files. Stiller had built the iron road, the railroad that ran from just south of Luccem town down to Bonemarche, and then from Ostferry to Irenfot and on up the coast to Gedesrede, and despite the impossible cost--a price Stiller was still paying--Harans of every clan remembered it with respect. The Ironroad Brokerage was a Stiller company, and was evoking a Stiller triumph, which made this a matter of pride as well as law, if the complaint was true. And it probably was: Astrede Stiller held the Red and Green Watch Traditionalists who applied to the brokerage in genial contempt and tolerated no deviations from his decisions. If he said they were to go to the plants that processed the harvest for the off-world pharmaceuticals, to the processing plants they went, regardless of personal preference or any objections they might raise. The ones who didn't cooperate found themselves locked out of any job Astrede controlled. Warreven scowled at the letters on the screen, caught in a mesh of symbols, and flicked the on-screen toggle to clear the overlay. Cooperate was hardly the word he would have chosen; obey seemed closer to the truth. He flipped back to the previous file, noting the complainants' names: Farenbarne Trencevent and Catness Ferane, both of the Red Watch, both giving their occupation as diver. Chauntclere might know the Ferane, he thought. In any case, it was as good an excuse as any to see him.

  He reached for the monophone again, touched the keys to call the dockyards where Chauntclere kept a mailbox when he was ashore. As he'd expected, there was no human response, only the familiar too-sweet mechanical voice announcing the box number and the box-holder's name, and then silence for the message.

  "Clere, it's Raven," he said, into the recorder's faint hiss. "I need to talk to you informally about a case we've got going. Can you give me some time when you're back?" There was no need to leave codes: Chauntclere, of all people, knew where to find him. He touched the break key and heard someone pass the cubicle's doorway. He turned to see Haliday looking at him again over the wall.