"You see," Temelathe said. "They are good, aren't they?"
"They seem--talented," Tatian answered, and handed back the glasses, wondering what he should have said. The Old Dame would have known, but %e was on New Antioch, and he was responsible for %er business here.
Temelathe laughed, throwing his head back, and a few of the other Stanes managed to laugh with him. Tendlathe lifted both eyebrows in disbelieving disdain. His color was coming back a little, but his mouth was still set in that faint, unreal smile.
"They are talented," Temelathe said, still grinning hugely. "Clever and talented, that's Stiller for you. No sense, but clever as monkeys. Of course, good mimics don't make good actors, do they, ser Mhyre? And Lammasin Stiller's a really talented mimic."
"I wouldn't know," Tatian said, stiff-lipped. He felt a chill run through the room.
Tendlathe said, "The mosstaas should clear the market."
Temelathe shook his head. "Nonsense. Let Stiller--let the Modernists, it's not even all of Stiller, though it will be if I turned the mosstaas on them--let them have their day. It won't matter."
"This is what happens when you let people like Warreven have their say. Yes, it matters," Tendlathe said, and his father took him firmly by the arm. Tatian saw the younger man flinch before he had himself under control again.
"It doesn't, and it won't," Temelathe said firmly. "Let it be." He looked around the room, visibly gathering his people. "Come, come, the first remove must be ready. Time and past for us to be fed."
Most of the Stanes trailed obediently after him. Tatian waited in the doorway until the people on the balcony had filed past him and followed more slowly.
"Christ." The voice and the curse were off-world, and Tatian turned to find Chavvin Annek at his elbow. She was the head of operations at the port, one of the most important off-worlders on Hara, someone whom even Temelathe would not want wantonly to offend; even so, Tatian wished she would keep her voice down.
"That's a nasty thing to do to Lammasin," she went on. "That was meant to travel, that little verdict. He'll have a hard time finding work now. Or worse."
Tatian stared at her, unable quite for an instant to believe what she was saying. But this was Hara, and Temelathe did have that kind of power--and there was nothing at all that he or Annek could do about it.
He touched her arm gently, turned her toward the dining room. "Dinner, Annek."
"He's a friend. Lammasin, I mean. Oh, damn it, I've got to get word to him."
"He's bound to hear soon enough," Tatian said.
"Not necessarily." Annek shook her head. "This could mean real trouble for him."
"I take it he's not on the net?"
"No." Annek lowered her voice. "Tatian, I need to ask a favor. I'll owe you for it, I promise."
Tatian looked warily at her. Having the port's head of operations owe him a favor could be a very useful thing, certainly, but he'd already been warned away from Haran politics. "If I can, I will," he said, and hoped it would be something reasonable.
"When we're done here, and it can't be soon enough, I've got to find Lammasin, warn him, before that bastard Tendlathe sets the mosstaas on him," Annek said. "I don't want to run the Dock Row bars alone. Will you come with me?"
Tatian hesitated. He could escort her safely enough--and it wouldn't do him any harm to be seen to be a friend of Chavvin Annek's this time of year, a voice whispered at the back of his mind. "All right," he said. "Now, dinner. Before someone wonders where we are."
Annek sighed, forced a smile. "You're right, and thank you. But I can't say I'm very hungry."
"Nor am I," Tatian answered, and they went on together into the brightly lit dining room.
Herm. (Concord) human being possessing testes and ovaries and some aspects of male and female genitalia; 3e, 3er, 3im, 3imself.
Warreven
For once, the sky had stayed clear for most of the baanket. As he and Folhare crested the hill above the Harbor Market, he could look across the lights of the harbor and see the brightest stars vivid against the seaward horizon. Only a few wisps of night haze obscured the familiar patterns; the moon was almost down, its thin crescent blurred by a thicker streak of cloud.
"A gorgeous night," he said, and Folhare grinned.
"In more ways than one."
Warreven smiled in response, and the land breeze strengthened, bringing with it the sound of drumming from the Glassmarket. A whistle shrieked, shrill and raucous, but then the wind eased, and the drums faded again. "Do you think the presance did any good?"
"It certainly got people's attention," Folhare said lightly.
"Seriously, Folhare."
She didn't answer for a moment, the only noise the click of her shoes against the paving. They were still a hundred meters above the Embankment, where the bars and dance houses stayed open all night, farther still from Dockside and the Gran'quai, where ships loaded and off-loaded cargo without regard to the clock. Warreven was suddenly aware of the empty street, the dark side alleys, and glanced reflexively behind him--but the night of the baanket was usually fairly quiet. Even so, he wasn't sorry to see the blue glow of a police light on the side of a building a few meters farther along, marking an emergency summons box. Not that the mosstaas would be much help--it was always anyone's guess if they would actually respond to a call, though the better districts paid a service fee to make sure of it--but the automatic alarm would wake anyone sleeping in the apartments above the shops and warehouses, and people were usually quick to keep the peace in their own neighborhoods.
"I hope so," Folhare said at last. "I do think so. It made the issue pretty clear--and if nothing else, it got them laughing at Temelathe. That's something, anyway."
Warreven nodded. That had been impressive, the crowd's gasps and the startled, not-quite-approving murmurs as people realized who the presance's central figure was meant to represent, and then the spreading laughter, shock giving way to titillated amusement when the absurdity of the presentation struck home. Not everyone would believe it, of course, but for a few minutes, the Most Important Man had been reduced to a bumbling pimp. "He's going to be furious. Your people had better keep their heads down for a while. Was that Lammasin who was doing Temelathe?"
"Yes." Folhare gave a rueful smile. "He was supposed to be better masked than that. Oh, well, he's scheduled to do some work in Irenfot after the holiday, so that ought to keep him out of trouble."
"I hope so," Warreven said. They had reached the Embankment then, and he turned right onto the broad walkway. The streetlights were brighter, more closely spaced, and most of the buildings were also lit, lights around a doorway or tracing a stylized, three-armed tree to indicate an open bar. Drumming and voices spilled out into the street as a door opened, were cut off again, and two mems left arm in arm, the same shaal thrown defiantly around their shoulders. Warreven watched them go, idly curious, and was not surprised to see them draw apart before they'd reached the first streetlight, the taller mem wrapping the shaal around his head to pass for male.
"Shall we try Shinbone?" Folhare asked, and Warreven nodded. That was his favorite among the dance houses; they hired decent drummers and kept the peace among the mix of clients.
Its doorway was brighter lit than most, surrounded by a double band of light, gold and green, and there were two trees outlined in lights to either side of the entrance. As usual, a slumped figure, so wrapped in layers of shaals and tunics as to be little more than a dark lump, sat just outside the pool of light, and extended a bowl marked with the Cripple's crutch as they passed: Aldinogh, who owned Shinbone and three other houses along Harborside, was careful to propitiate the spirits, and anyone living who might be jealous of his prosperity. Warreven reached into his pocket, came up with a handful of small change, and dropped it into the bowl, saying, "From the lady, too." He jerked his head toward Folhare.
The lurking figure didn't answer, but Folhare gave him a grateful glance. Warreven hid a twisted smile. She might claim to be fully
assimilated, a true Modernist, but she, none of them, could quite free themselves of the teachings of childhood. Oh, it was easy to explain why the customs had developed the way they did--Hara's population was relatively small, but there were always people who ended up outside the mesnie system, either by choice or accident, and the tradition that said you could not safely refuse anyone who asked help in Caritan the Cripple's name had obviously grown up to protect that minority--but, even knowing that, it was almost impossible to break those old habits.
The hulking doorkeeper nodded to them as they passed--from him, a major concession--and they went on into the single long room. Like every other dance house in the city, Shinbone had mechanical bars in each of the four corners, and a band platform at the far end of the hall, but at least here the tables surrounding the dance floor weren't strictly divided between trade and the wry-abed. The groups crowding the tables were fairly well mixed--or at least, Warreven amended, the ones in the light were mixed. There was no way to know if the people groping in the dark at the edges of the room had stuck to the more usual divisions. "Do you want a drink?" he said, to Folhare, but she was looking past him into the shadows by the closest bar.
"I--there's someone I need to see first, thanks."
Warreven glanced sideways, to see a group sitting around one of the larger tables. A tiny luciole glowed on the center of the table, between bottles of sweetrum and a smoking pot, but it had been turned low, so that its light barely reached the faces. Even so, he recognized one of them--Lammasin, without the makeup and the padding that had made him look so much like Temelathe--and that meant that the rest of the group would be the other actors from the presance. "Do you think it's smart?"
"Æ?"
"Do you want to be seen talking to them right now, for your sake or theirs?"
"It's a wrangwys house," Folhare said, impatiently. "Who's going to talk to the mosstaas?"
That was sheer bravado, and they both knew it: the mosstaas had a network of informers that ran throughout the Dockside houses. But there was no arguing with her in her present mood, Warreven thought. He looked back at the table, ignoring the sound of the drums calling the next dance, and saw a stranger, a woman in the full skirt and shaped, peplumed jacket marked with the silver rings of the port administration, leaning over Lammasin's shoulder. She said something, her face shielded by the fall of her chin-length hair; Lammasin waved her words away, then, changing his mind, beckoned for her to sit beside him.
"If it'll be a problem for you, of course," Folhare said, and made the words a dare.
Warreven barely heard her, seeing a second figure emerge from the shadowed corner where the bar stood. Mhyre Tatian, his blond hair and beard unmistakable, handed the off-world woman a bottle of something Warreven didn't recognize, then stopped behind her chair. He looked almost protective of her, as though he were guarding her, Warreven thought, though she hardly seemed aware of his presence as she leaned toward Lammasin, her bottle already pushed aside. He realized that Folhare was looking curiously at him, and said, "No, not a problem."
Folhare's eyebrows rose in patent disbelief, but Warreven ignored her, heading for the table.
"Mir Tatian, I didn't expect to see you here."
Tatian looked at him over the neck of his bottle, one corner of his mouth curving up into a sardonic half smile. "Mir Warreven. Congratulations on the election."
He hadn't spoken loudly, but a couple of the people at Lammasin's table heard and looked up. Warreven took a step away, deeper into the shadows--no need to be overheard as well as seen--and saw Folhare touch Lammasin's shoulder, whisper something in his ear. "Thank you. I think we have some unfinished business, you and I."
"If you mean Shan Reiss's statement," Tatian answered, "it's finished business. Sorry."
Warreven blinked, startled by the refusal even to discuss it, and said, "Feeling that way about trade, I'm surprised to find you here." He waved his hand toward the dance floor, and the mix of off-worlders and indigenes watching from the side tables.
Tatian made a face. "I came with Annek." He looked at the table, where the off-world woman was still talking earnestly. Lammasin hardly seemed to be listening; seemed more intent on the smoke now rising from the pot in front of him. "Is that guy, what's-his-name, Lammasin, a friend of yours?"
"A friend of a friend," Warreven answered cautiously.
"We, Annek and I, were at the Stane party at the White Watch House tonight," Tatian said. "Mir Temelathe was not at all happy with that parody your friends put on. He threatened to keep him from working, and Annek thinks he can do it."
"Of course he can," Warreven said. "He recognized Lammasin, then?"
"Yes."
"Damn." Warreven looked back at the table, at Folhare still hovering, an expression of faint disgust shadowing her face as she watched Annek talking to Lammasin. If Temelathe had recognized the actor, then Lammasin would indeed need to lie low for awhile--it wouldn't be a bad time to visit his home mesnie, wherever that was, as long as it was out of Bonemarche. Irenfot wouldn't be far enough away, was too much under the influence of the Stanes, like all the cities on the Westaern, to be truly safe. And besides, he added silently, the job that was supposed to take him to Irenfot would almost certainly vanish, if the Most Important Man was angry.
"Tendlathe was very upset, too," Tatian said. "You might also tell your friends he wanted to set the mosstaas on them."
"So what else is new," Warreven said sourly. He remembered Tendlathe in the library at White Stane House, hand clenched on the arm of his chair. "He doesn't like off-worlders, he doesn't like Modernists, he doesn't like trade, and most of all he doesn't like being reminded that there really are five sexes. Facts like that confuse him. But I appreciate the warning."
"It was Annek's idea. I can't take credit. But if you can convince him it's serious--"
"Maybe Folhare can," Warreven answered, and knew he sounded dubious.
At the table, Annek shook her head, and pushed herself up out of the chair, leaving her drink untouched on the table. "Let's go, Tatian. I'm not doing any good here."
Tatian nodded, looking around for a place to leave his own drink, and Warreven said, "Wait." Tatian set the bottle on an unoccupied table and looked back at him.
"I do have other business with you," Warreven said, "in my new job. I'd like to discuss the surplus with you."
Even in the uncertain light, he saw the flicker of interest cross Tatian's face, quickly muted. "Our office is in the Estrange, Drapdevel Court. You're welcome to come by."
"I will," Warreven answered, and the off-worlder nodded and turned away. Warreven watched them go, Tatian looming over the smaller woman, a protective presence at her side, and wondered if they were lovers. He didn't think they were, but couldn't give a real reason--something in Tatian's voice when he'd said it had been Annek's idea to come to Shinbone, maybe, or just something in his stance, too casual, almost automatic, to be more than courtesy. And those reasons were nothing more than wishful thinking; they were hardly relevant to the job at hand.
Ser, serrem, serray, serram, sera: (Concord) honorifics placed before the surname to indicate the gender of the person (man, mem, herm, fem, woman), considered in Concord usage to be part of the person's full name; the generic plural is sersi.
7
Mhyre Tatian
The bad connection in his wrist was getting worse. Tatian tried to ignore it, to concentrate on the desktop display, on the patterns of rough and smooth on the shadowscreen, instead, but the sensation was too irritating. He rubbed his wrist gently, barely touching the protective plate, and winced at the sudden rush of pain. The pressure set off a feedback loop--as he had known it would, as it had done every time he had touched his arm--and the stinging, pins-and-needles sensation shot up his arm and across his chest like the precursor of a heart attack. He swore under his breath and grabbed the edge of the desktop with his good hand, squeezing his fingers into the wood until the pain and tingling had eased again.
/> He took a careful breath and touched the main control switch, turning off the implanted system. The itching, like the fizz of bubbles under his skin, stopped instantly, and the figures for the newly drafted contract vanished from in front of his eyes. He muttered another curse and worked the shadowscreen, projecting the same numbers onto a secondary screen. It was hard, slow, and clumsy, working without the implants, but the system was getting bad enough that he couldn't afford to work with them, either. If Am would just hurry up and confirm that she'd bought the box--his eyes strayed to the message screen, obstinately dark despite the golem he'd set to forward him any incoming messages from the port--then he could get the surgery done and get back to normal. If Am was still angry--
He shoved that thought away and touched the shadowscreen to transfer the new numbers from the secondary to the main screen, filling in the blanks in the draft of the new contract with the Liassan mesnie. The numbers looked good, and he'd only had to deviate from NAPD's preferred standard contract in a couple of places. Even with those changes, and even factoring in the worst possible weather and harvest conditions, the company should show an acceptable profit. And if the weather followed the predicted patterns . . . He ran his hand over the shadowscreen again, fingers pressing hot and cold spots that changed and shifted under his touch. If the weather stayed within the meteorologists' predicted limits, NAPD would increase its revenue by a little under seventeen percent. That wasn't just Liassan, of course, and it didn't account for fee increases from the various Stane offices--and there would be increases, once Temelathe's people realized that NAPD's profits were up--but there wasn't anything he could do about that. Temelathe's share was like an act of God: one paid and was grateful it was no worse.
Shadow Man (Paragons of Queer Speculative Fiction) Page 16
