Shadow Man (Paragons of Queer Speculative Fiction)

by Scott, Melissa

Folhare was waiting in the opening of what had been the loading bay, tall and elegant in a tight bodice and a tiered skirt, the traditional clothes and the profusion of cheap dower jewels--ear-rings, necklaces, a dozen glass bracelets--incongruous coupled with her close-cut hair. An old woman sat at the other side of the open bay, dividing her attention between the street and the cone of silk and the netting hook in her lap. Children were playing somewhere back in the shadows, their voices clear and distinct as Malemayn opened the coupelet's door, but the sunlit forebay was empty except for the old woman. Folhare gathered her skirts around her and stepped carefully down the stairs to the street. Warreven, leaning past Haliday to greet her, saw the old woman frowning, her hands for once still on the hook.

  "Who's she?" he asked.

  Folhare lifted her skirts to mid-thigh, freeing her legs to climb into the coupelet's crowded compartment. "A sort-of cousin, or maybe an aunt. Her name's Sawil, she wants to be mother to us all."

  "And she doesn't approve of Stiller?" Warreven asked, and edged over to make room for her.

  "She doesn't approve of me," Folhare answered. "Celebrating Stiller's baanket is about the least of my sins."

  There was no need for introductions: Bonemarche's active Modernists were still a small enough group that most people who were involved in politics had met all the others at one point or another. Warreven leaned back against the padded seat as the driver kicked the coupelet into motion, and Malemayn touched his shoulder.

  "Want some?" He held out a bright green paper cone filled with a mix of poppinberries and creeping stars and the hot red seeds of the vinegar tree.

  "Thanks," Warreven said, and took a handful of the roasted berries, crunching them one by one to release the drop of painfully sweet dew concentrated at the center. Folhare waved away the cone, but Lyliwane took a larger helping, began eating them in order, berries first, then the seeds, and finally the creeping stars.

  "As if we're not going to get enough at the baanket," Haliday said, but 3e, too, took a few of the berries.

  As they got closer to the Glassmarket, the streets became more crowded, and normal traffic, shays and three-ups and draisines, vanished, leaving only jiggs and the occasional coupelet to compete with the pedestrians. Nearly everyone was heading in toward the marketplace; Warreven saw a single shay, marked with the glyph of one of the lesser pharmaceuticals, stranded at a corner, trapped by the pressure of bodies and the steady movement. The driver, an indigene, leaned forward to rest both arms on the steering bar, obviously prepared to wait it out. His passenger's face was in shadow, almost invisible, but a hand tapped impatiently against the shay's body. Their own coupelet slowed, gears grating, and Malemayn winced.

  "Maybe we should walk from here."

  "Whatever." Warreven looked at the others, and Haliday shrugged. Lyliwane extended one tiny foot to reveal high-soled summer clogs.

  "Believe it or not, I can walk in these."

  "Let's," Malemayn said, and hit the intercom button without waiting for an answer. "You can let us out here, the traffic's getting too bad. After that--enjoy the baanket, we won't be needing you to get home."

  "Thank you, mir. At your pleasure, miri." The driver's voice crackled back through the tinny intercom, and a moment later, the coupelet ground to a halt. He didn't bother pulling to the side of the road; there were no other vehicles to worry about, and the crowd flowed past it like water around a rock. Malemayn popped the side door, levering himself out into the crowd, and turned with forgetful courtesy to offer his hand to Haliday. Ȝe ignored him, but both Folhare and Lyliwane accepted the help in struggling out of the low compartment. Warreven followed them, slamming the door behind him. The taste of the creeping stars was strong on his tongue, bitter and sweet, like burned sugars. The afterimage was there, too, a faint haze of color around the stores' lights, and he watched his feet for a minute, until he was sure he'd adjusted to its effects.

  They left the coupelet behind them quickly, walking with the flow of the crowd toward the Glassmarket's open hexagonal plaza. Six blocks away, Warreven could hear the beat of the drums and the shrill two-toned call of flat-whistles; as they got closer, it was all he could do to keep from dancing with them. Ahead of him, a woman--no, he thought, a fem--in tunic and trousers broke into a quick skipping step, and the men with her laughed and applauded. She bowed, too deeply, and her shaal slipped, so that she had to snatch it up from the dust, and nearly overbalanced in the process. One of the men caught her, still laughing, and as she spun in his arms, Warreven saw her eyes white and staring, and the mark of Genevoe on her face. She was already flying, high on hungry-jack or sundew, the Trickster's own drugs, and Warreven glanced curiously at Folhare, wondering if this was part of the planned presance.

  Folhare saw the look and leaned close, her words all but drowned in the genial noise of the people around them. "No, she's not, and I don't thank you for thinking it. Ours is to be done stone sober, or--certain people--will know why."

  Easier said than done, Warreven thought, but they had reached the edge of the Glassmarket, and he caught his breath in startled delight. Even expecting it, even having seen it before, the sight of the Glassmarket filled with Stillers--all his kin, in some way, all somehow family--was enough to make him momentarily glad of his allegiance, and for an instant he could almost look forward to his time as seraaliste. Normally, the sunken floor of the market was filled with vendee, market folk who had held their spots for generations. Some still sold glass, though not as many as before, and on a clear day the center of the market glittered like flame, sunlight sparking from finished goods and the rods and spheres of raw glass sold to other craftsmen. The Madansa, the spirit of the markets, painted on the wall of the warehouses overlooking the marketplace carried spheres of glass in each hand and wore a glass crown on her braided hair. There had been a field of glass under her feet, but sun and hands, touching the images for luck, had worn away the paint.

  The character of the market had changed, anyway. The lesser vendee--the majority, now--sold fabrics, clothes, and quilted coverlets to a mix of indigenes and off-worlders. A few, the upstarts who held spaces along the perimeter, sold off-world goods, but most of that trade was confined to the Harbor Market and the Souk. Tonight, however, and for the next two days, the stalls and carts had been hauled away, and the plaza was filled with people instead. Their silks glowed under the massive lights, haloed and refracted by the creeping star's effects; the same light glittered from glass and shell jewelry, and gleamed from the ribbons that tied the wreaths of flowers. Beyond the crowd stood the platform where the Important Men and Women, clan officers and heads-of-mesnie, would stand for the announcements, and below them, mostly hidden by the mass of people, were the tables of the baanket itself. The cooks and tenders--there would easily be a hundred of them, probably more--were invisible, too, but the smell of the food proved their presence. The weigh platform, where bulk goods were sold under the eyes of city and clan officials, had been covered over by a temporary staging, and the first of the bands was playing, their music lost except for the drumbeat and the occasional shrilling of the whistles.

  "Here," Malemayn said, and Warreven turned, startled, to seethe other holding out a wreath of catseyes. Lyliwane, laughing at his side, wore two great sprays of the flowers tucked into her crown of braids.

  "Æ?"

  "For you," Malemayn said, and set it precariously on Warreven's head.

  "I don't need flowers," Warreven said, adjusting it anyway. Looking around, he could see half a dozen other couples wearing them, all officially, passing for men and women, though he thought he saw at least one other herm, and maybe a plump mem, among the group. He scowled, reaching for the wreath, and Malemayn shook his head.

  "You're our seraaliste now, Raven, our very own Important Man. You should be wearing." He turned to Folhare. "And for you, mirrim."

  Folhare took the wreath he held out to her, slung the bright blue flowers like a necklace across her shoulders. "Where'd you get it
? It's lovely."

  "There was a boy selling them," Malemayn said, and gestured vaguely toward the crowd behind him. Warreven looked and saw a thin herm holding a basket piled high with greenery. Boy, indeed, he thought, and the flower seller winked at him. He smiled back, temper somewhat restored, and looked away again.

  "You're taking this a little seriously," Haliday said, but 3e was smiling. Ȝe, too, wore a crown of catseyes, the vivid yellow bright against 3er black hair. "And, speaking of Important Men, you, Raven, should be getting to the platform, I think."

  Warreven made a face, but had to admit 3e was right. The platform was filling up with dignitaries; it was time, he supposed, to take his place with them. He looked to his right, over the heads of the crowd, and saw the windows and narrow balconies of the White Watch House crammed with bright-clad figures: Stanes and their Maychilder kin-by-marriage and the occasional Landeriche or Delacoste, come to watch the Stiller display from an appropriate distance and to judge its probable cost and the clan's generosity. There were a few duller figures, too, drab among the locals: off-worlders, almost certainly pharmaceuticals, who were Temelathe's guests. Tendlathe would be there, too. "I hope they enjoy the show," he said, and held out his hand to Folhare, less as a courtesy than to keep from getting separated in the crowd.

  Folhare took it, her fingers cool in his, leaned close again as they started toward the platform. "I guarantee they'll be--impressed."

  Woman: (Concord) human being possessing ovaries, XX chromosomes, and some aspects of female genitalia; she, her, her, herself.

  Mhyre Tatian

  Tatian stood on one of the narrow balconies of the White Watch House, his shoulder jammed painfully against the coarse brick of the building shell, and wondered if carved ironwood was really strong enough to hold the seven adults who filled its platform. The single child, no older than sixty-nine or seventy kilohours, hardly seemed large enough to count. He pressed himself harder against the bricks as the child wriggled past, disappearing back into the main room, and waved away a faitou offering a tray of feelgood wrapped for stick smoking. The other people crowding the window greeted her gladly, and he winced at the acrid cloud that cloaked the balcony for an instant before the wind carried it away.

  "So, Mir Tatian," a familiar voice said, and Tatian turned awkwardly to face Wiidfare Stane, a glass beaker of liquertie in his hand. "I'm glad you could make it this year."

  "My pleasure," Tatian answered, and hoped the Licensing Officer couldn't hear the insincerity in his voice. Wiidfare had invited him every year before, as he invited all the off-world heads-of-station, and every year Tatian had refused--until now. And I wouldn't be here this time if Reiss hadn't managed to piss off Stane and involve me in it. The party was a blatant display of Stane's power--Stanes and off-worlders standing together to lookdown on the celebration of a lesser clan--and Tatian, who did a great deal of business with Stiller mesnies, had never felt it was entirely wise to attend.

  "But you're not drinking," Wiidfare said. "Let me get you something."

  From most other Harans, Tatian thought, regarding the other man with detached dislike that would be mere forgetfulness, an inappropriate courtesy that he wouldn't mind declining. But from Wiidfare, it was always a challenge. "I'm fine, thanks," he said, and met Wiidfare's ill-concealed sneer with a bland smile.

  "Surely a little sweetrum-and-water won't hurt."

  The voice was unfamiliar, but the face was not. Tatian nodded warily to Temelathe's son, said, "Mir Tendlathe."

  Tendlathe lifted a hand, summoning one of the hovering faitous. He was a slender man, willowy where his father was solid, and Tatian had to make an effort not to glance down, looking for a herm's breasts and hips. In any case, Tendlathe wore a narrow, neatly trimmed beard and moustache: it wasn't an infallible indicator, but it was a sure guarantee of legal gender. A bonne-faitou came scurrying, ironwood tray held at waist height, and Tendlathe gestured expansively. "Do try some, ser Mhyre, I think you'll find it to your liking."

  "Since you insist," Tatian said, in his most colorless voice, and lifted the jug that stood in the center of the tray. He sniffed it--odorless, and probably just water, though one could never be entirely sure on Hara--and then added it to one of the glasses, cutting the sweetrum even more. He set the jug back, murmuring his thanks to the bonne, and smiled at Tendlathe. "Your health, mir."

  The Haran tipped his head in graceful acknowledgment. Tatian sipped carefully, barely letting the liquor past his lips, and was glad to see that Tendlathe, at least, had told the truth. With the additional water, the sweetrum was tolerable even to an off-world metabolism.

  He looked away from Tendlathe and Wiidfare, back out over the crowds filling the Glassmarket. He had been unable to pick out Warreven among the candidates presented; there had been several people, all passable men, who wore their hair loose and ragged as Warreven had done, and it had been impossible to recognize anyone's face at this distance. The speeches--which had been inaudible, anyway--seemed to be over now, and the action was divided between the tables where the food was served and the side platform where the band was playing. Just the drums were audible, their rhythm vying with the inchoate noise of a thousand voices.

  "Impressive, isn't it, mir?" Tendlathe said.

  Tatian made a noncommittal noise, a Haran proverb dancing in his brain: never praise Stane to Stiller, or Stiller to Stane.

  "It's nothing to Gedesrede, of course," Wiidfare said, "but it's nice enough."

  "I've heard quite a lot about the Gedesrede baanket," Tatian said. He judged it was time to establish some sort of common ground. "Our--NAPD's--chief botanist is a Stane."

  "I assume she's on her way home now, then," Wiidfare said.

  Tendlathe said, as if he hadn't spoken, "Which mesnie?"

  "Riversedge," Tatian answered. "And yes, Mir Wiidfare, she and Mats are heading up there in the next few days."

  Wiidfare started to sneer, but Tendlathe silenced him with a quick look. "That makes us kin," he said, and grinned at Tatian's quickly suppressed look of disbelief. "Closer than just Stane and Stane, I mean. My mother was from Riversedge, and I was practically fostered there. What's her name? I'll have to look for her."

  "Derebought Stane." There was no point in using her compound name, Stane-Lanhos; Harans didn't recognize the form--one more thing they didn't admit to--and the reminder of her off-world marriage might undo all the good this conversation had done.

  "Derebought," Tendlathe repeated. "I'll certainly look for her."

  Tatian nodded, not knowing quite what to say, not sure why Tendlathe was going out of his way to speak to him, and glanced out over the Glassmarket again. Something was moving on the fringes of the crowd, by the band platforms. He frowned, trying to make out what was happening, and saw movement among the drummers on the platform. Someone--the figure was totally indistinct at this distance--climbed or was lifted up to join them. There was a moment of confusion, and then the newcomer lifted a bright white-and-yellow disk drum over his or her head, began beating out a new, insistent rhythm. A banner rose at the back of the platform, nearly toppling a drummer, and unfolded on multiple supports to reveal painted shapes maybe twice life size. Tatian squinted at them, trying to read their elliptical message--they looked like yet more representations of the ubiquitous spirits, the interpreters to humans of Hara's distant God--and heard Wiidfare mutter something.

  "--fucking Modernists."

  Tatian glanced over his shoulder, startled by the vehemence of his tone, and saw Tendlathe's hand close on the other indigene's arm. His expression didn't change, handsome face still smiling faintly, but Wiidfare winced, and Tatian saw Tendlathe's knuckles pale as his grip tightened further.

  "This is Bonemarche," he said, and his voice sounded strangely tight, only a ghost of its earlier ease remaining. "Things are different in the mesnies. They wouldn't stand for this there."

  Tatian looked back toward the banner, now fully opened, five figures--not the spirits after all, he thou
ght, but more like caricatures of the five sexes, a Concord motif given a new, uniquely Haran shape--stood hand-in-hand against a stylized background of sea and sky. More figures, most in traditional dress, a couple in dull gray that might have been meant to stand for off-worlders, posed in front of the banner, but he was too far away to understand their mime. Uniformed mosstaas started to shove their way into the crowd, but the Stillers blocked their way: the protesters had chosen their moment well. He heard a laugh behind him, hearty, and sounding genuinely amused.

  "They've got heart, the Stillers," Temelathe said, "and brains. Not a milligram of common sense in the entire clan, but kilograms of brains." He edged out on the balcony, distance glasses in hand, and the other Stanes scrambled to give him room. Tatian found himself pushed back against the doorway, the edge of the bricks digging painfully into his spine.

  "It shouldn't be allowed, my father," Tendlathe said. He was still smiling, as though he'd forgotten to let his lips move; the expression looked ghastly against his sudden pallor, brown skin drained of blood. "It's disrespectful to you, and to Stane. The mosstaas--"

  Temelathe laughed again, as though his son had never spoken. "God and the spirits, that's clever. And the one doing me's very good." He lowered the glasses, looked behind him, shrewd eyes--eyes that weren't laughing at all, Tatian noticed--sweeping across the mixed crowd of Stanes and Maychilders and off-worlders. "Take a look, ser Mhyre, it's almost a shame you're missing the performance. Not that we aren't delighted to have you here, of course."

  He thrust the glasses almost into Tatian's face, and the younger man took them mechanically. He couldn't refuse; it was less an offer than an order, and he thumbed the tuning wheel, buying the seconds he needed to get his own expression under control. Any pharmaceutical, any off-worlder, would have done anything for this display of Temelathe's magnanimity, he thought. Why the hell did it have to be me? He raised the glasses, focusing the double lenses on the banner, and the scene beneath it leaped into sharp focus. A group dressed as men and women, though their bodies very obviously didn't match their clothes, clustered in the center, watched by the two "off-worlders." A man in overdone jewelry--and he was obviously meant to be Temelathe, from the padded shoulders and chest and coarse black and gray wig to the tricks of stance and gesture--was sorting the people in traditional clothes into pairs, matching "male" to "female" regardless of real gender or the mimed wishes of the people. Before he'd finished sorting, however, one of the "off-worlders" tapped him on the shoulder, pointed to a "man" who had been padded to resemble a herm. "Temelathe" shook his head, and the "off-worlder" offered something that looked like a purse. "Temelathe" took it, nodding vigorously, and shoved the "herm" toward the "off-worlder." It was the most blatant representation of trade, and Temelathe's connections to trade, that Tatian had ever seen on Hara.