Shadow Man (Paragons of Queer Speculative Fiction)

by Scott, Melissa

  "Would you have done it without the--offer?" Reiss asked.

  I don't know. Tatian said, "I couldn't have. It's that simple, Reiss."

  There was a little silence, and then Reiss looked away. "All right," he said, almost inaudibly, then shook himself, "I'll talk to Haliday--Destany will be pleased."

  Tatian nodded and looked back at the blinking desktop as the door closed behind the other. Would I have done this without Warreven 's offer, without the lure, the bribe, of the surplus? Well, I told the truth when I said I couldn't 't have risked it, couldn't have taken the chance of getting the IDC A down on us--but it's also the truth that it wouldn't have occurred to me to take the chance without Warreven. He sighed, and reached for the shadowscreen, trailing his fingers through the virtual controls until he could call up the communications system. The mail screen was almost empty, only a few general circulars, and nothing from Prane Am or the port. He swore under his breath at that and switched to the general monophone system, punched in the numbers Warreven had left on file. At least he could let Warreven know that they were prepared to do business.

  The communications screen stayed empty for several seconds, then flashed a single word--forwarding--and a second string of codes. Tatian raised an eyebrow at that, raised both eyebrows as the connect notice appeared followed by the message video n/a.

  "Æ?" a voice said, from the wall speaker.

  "I'm looking for Warreven," Tatian said, in franca. There was a little silence, and Tatian made a face at the blank screen, anticipating another routing error.

  "I'll see if he's available," the voice said, and was replaced by the hiss of a holding signal.

  Tatian sighed again, and settled himself to wait, reaching for the shadowscreen to call up another set of files. To his surprise, however, the holding signal vanished within a minute, and Warreven's voice spoke from the wall.

  "Yes?"

  "Mhyre Tatian here. I wondered if we could meet."

  "Ah." There was another little silence, live silence this time, and Tatian could imagine Warreven's brows drawn together in thought. He missed the video image, wondered where Warreven was that lacked such basic capacity....

  "I assume you have good news," Warreven said, and Tatian dragged his attention back to the matter at hand.

  "Yes. At least, we're prepared to talk."

  "That is good," Warreven said. "I'm--I have some business to finish here, I'm at the Harbor, Barbedor's club on the Embankment. Can you meet me here, say, at noon?"

  Tatian nodded, then remembered the missing video. "All right. Does this club have an address?"

  There was a pause, and Warreven's voice, when it came, sounded grimly amused. "No. But you can't miss it. It's the one on the south side of the missing buildings."

  "I'll be there," Tatian said, and flattened his hand against the shadowscreen.

  A new file had appeared in the working window: Derebought had arrived and was passing on the latest assessment of the Stiller surplus. Tatian paged through it quickly, noting where she had been able to confirm the prices, then filed back to the beginning and began to go through it item by item. He wasn't quite finished by noon, but saved it and his rough notes for her, and headed for the Harbor Market.

  It wasn't a long walk, across to Tredhard Street and then straight down the long hill, and for once the sea breeze was relatively cool. He looked to the horizon, flecked with sails, but there was no sign of the usual afternoon storms. The year had turned already, he thought, and saw, all around him, indigenes wrapped in shaals and jackets against the cooler air. The wind brought the sour smell of cold ash as well, and he saw a few flakes of soot the size of a man's hand blown against the corners of the buildings. More ash was streaked in the gutter, carried by the overnight rain.

  The mosstaas had set up a blockade at the end of Dock Row, bright orange wooden barriers pulled haphazardly across the traffic way. A four-up was parked beside it, but only a couple of troopers were in sight, leaning bored against the nearest barrier. Tatian approached them cautiously, aware of their holstered pellet guns and the heavy fibreplast paneling along the four-up's sides and lining the driver's cab. He was aware, too, of the weight of metal in his pocket, good for bribes, but they paid no particular attention to him. Or to anyone else, for that matter, Tatian thought. Pedestrians were moving freely along the length of the street. The smell of smoke was stronger here, and as he got closer, he could see the gap in the roofline, and the charred beams that spanned it, all that remained of the clubs. There were more mosstaas on duty there and more bright-orange barriers; he looked for the investigators the news reports had mentioned, but saw only the black-clad troopers standing in twos and threes.

  As Warreven had promised, Barbedor's was hard to miss. It stood next to the remains of its neighbor, little more than fire- scarred brick walls and the shattered remains of the roof tumbled in on itself. The same flames had seared Barbedor's bricks, turning them from ochre to red streaked with black. The fire had knocked out the sign lights as well; Barbedor's name was a ghost of empty tubing over the doorway, and one side of the stylized tree that labeled it as a bar had cracked in the flames' heat, spilling chemicals down the brick facing. The main door was open, though, and he could hear voices from inside, and the low, insistent beat of a drum.

  He stepped through the open doorway, paused for a moment to get his bearings, wrinkling his nose at the sudden stench of smoke. The band platform was empty, as were most of the tables; the drumming came from the speakers that hung above the dance floor. He looked around, not seeing anyone he recognized in the shadows, and the bartender called from the bar, in accented Creole, "Sorry, ser, we're not serving."

  "It's all right." Warreven's voice came from the side of the room, where a door had suddenly opened, spilling yellow light into the bar. "He's with me."

  A big man, hair and beard bleached a startling orange, followed 3im out, scowling, and Warreven said, to him, "I told you I had another appointment, Barbe. Hal or Malemayn will get back to you."

  "Like it'll do any good," the big man growled, and turned back into his inner room.

  Warreven looked at Tatian. "I'm glad you could meet me here. Have you eaten? I'm starving--my day started a little earlier than I'd planned."

  "I can eat," Tatian said, with less than perfect truth. There were too many foods on Hara that no off-worlder dared eat.

  Warreven smiled. "There's a place on the Embankment that serves off-world food. We can go there, if you'd like."

  "It suits me," Tatian answered, and followed the herm out of Barbedor's. Warreven turned left, just skirting the barricades and the watching mosstaas; following 3im, Tatian could feel heat still radiating from the ruins, like the warmth from an oven.

  "I'm amazed nobody was killed," he said aloud, looking at the charred beams, the fallen walls, and Warreven snorted.

  "Nobody was killed because the fires started small, there was plenty of time to get out. It's just the firefighters didn't show up for an hour or two, and by that time, it was too late."

  Ȝe hadn't spoken loudly, but 3e hadn't lowered 3er voice, either, and Tatian saw the nearest mosstaas give them a hard stare. The noise of an engine came from behind him, and he glanced over his shoulder, grateful for the interruption, to see a big shay, its ironwood body painted in the firefighters' yellow and silver, edging past the mosstaas' barricade. Warreven looked, too, and made another face.

  "So the promised investigators finally make their appearance."

  Tatian looked back, saw that they were out of earshot of the nearest mosstaas. "Aren't they a little late?"

  "Only if they actually want to catch who did it," Warreven answered. Ȝe shook 3er head. "I'm sorry, I'm not fit company. I've been up since about four when Barbedor called. He's an old friend."

  "I take it your group is representing him?" Tatian asked, and they turned onto one of the short stair streets that led down to the Embankment.

  Warreven nodded. "He wants us to, anyway. Just in c
ase there's something he can do. He had a part interest in the Starlik, that was the smaller club."

  The Embankment was crowded in the good weather, indigenes and a fair number of off-worlders alike enjoying the cool breeze. Warreven led him to a cookstall on the Harbor side of the Embankment--it was little more than a three-sided shack with a row of grills along the back, and Tatian hesitated until he saw the empty boxes labeled Surya's Samosaas stacked along the wall by the power hookup. That was an off-world brand, and safe; he bought two of the heavy pastries and waited while Warreven picked out a thick yellow stew served in a hollowed-out melon. They found a place in the sun along the broad wall and sat, shielding their food from the wind. From this angle, looking back up the hill, the burned-out buildings were very visible, a break in the neat line of the street fronts. He could see the marks of the fire on the building to the north, as well as on the front and side of Barbedor's, and a scorched patch on the roof of the building next to it, could see, too, three figures in silver protective suits poking idly in the wreckage.

  Warreven saw the direction of his gaze and smiled, jabbing a wooden spoon savagely into the stew. "From this distance, you might almost think they wanted to catch the bastards who did it."

  Tatian looked at 3im, wondering what was in the stew that smelled of woodsmoke, and then realized that the scent was clinging to Warreven's hair and clothes. "Then it's true the fire was set," he said aloud.

  "I'm sure of it," Warreven answered. "Not that it'll ever be proved, of course. But it started in the back, where the alley doors are--were--and those are the two houses where most of the radicals hung out. They did some trade, sure, but they were mostly for the wry-abed. If it wasn't set, well, you'd have to think the spirits took a personal hand."

  "I worked late last night," Tatian said, balancing the hot, crumbling pastry in the palm of his hand. "As I was going home, I saw the fire, and then I nearly got run down by a shay that was full of--well, I don't know what they were. They were wearing masks, white masks, no paint, not much feature, and then white gloves and bulky black--like a cape, I guess, or a really full tunic." He could see them in his imagination, the silent drummer and his followers, started to say more, but stopped, not wanting to reveal how much they had disturbed him.

  "Ghost ranas," Warreven said, and shivered. "God and the spirits."

  "What are they?" Tatian asked, after a moment.

  "Nothing good," Warreven answered grimly. "They--you know what ranas are, right?"

  "Sanctioned protesters, I thought? They have something to do with your spirits."

  Warreven nodded. "They're under Genevoe's--the Trickster's--protection, they can say anything as long as they stay within the form." Ȝe grinned suddenly. "You saw the presance at our baanket, that's the sort of thing the ranas do. And as long as it stays a dance, a mime, a song, even Temelathe has to put up with it, by custom and by law." The smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared. "But the ghost ranas.. . They don't just protest, they'll take action. They say they're enforcing tradition, custom, whatever, but they'll hurt you if you don't agree with them. They killed a man eight years ago; that was the last time they were active here in the city. There are more of them in the mesnies, especially down in the Equatoriale." Ȝe turned sideways then on the broad, sun-warmed stones of the wall, fixed Tatian with a sudden fierce glare. "And you say you saw them last night, near the fire?"

  "I saw a shay full of them, maybe twelve, fifteen of them, driving up one of those side streets onto Soushill Road," Tatian answered. "One of them had an empty drum frame, was pretending to play it." He imitated the movement, half embarrassed, and swore when the gesture dislodged a piece of pastry. "They turned up another street--they were going uphill, away from the fire-- and that was all I saw."

  "What time was it?" Warreven demanded.

  "I could see firefighters already there," Tatian answered. "If you're thinking they started it, I don't know. All I could say was that I saw them. My driver might be able to tell you more--"

  "Not if it means speaking against the ghost ranas," Warreven said. The eagerness had vanished from 3er voice again. "It could well have been them, but we'll never get anyone to testify."

  Tatian stooped to pick up the broken bit of pastry and tossed it into the nearest trash can. Hara had no scavengers, none of the usual city birds that swooped and fought for crumbs; anything that spilled would lie where it fell until it rotted. "I have to say, if they started it, and if it took the firefighters that long to get to the bars, they waited a long time to run away. And they were in a hurry."

  "I suppose you're right," Warreven said. "I--" Ȝe broke off, staring up the hill. Tatian followed the direction of 3er gaze, saw a sudden bustle of activity around the fire site. There were more firefighters now, not all of them in silver suits, and more mosstaas, and a crowd had gathered on the street to either side, pushed back by the black-suited troopers. As he watched, a white-painted ambulance turned onto the street, began making its way slowly through the crowd.

  "Oh, Christ," he said, a sick certainty settling over him, and Warreven stood up quickly, leaving 3er stew on the wall beside 3im.

  "Come on."

  Tatian followed 3er toward the nearest stair. Other people on the Embankment had seen the same thing, the gathering audience and the ambulance, and were heading for the stairs themselves. The two moved along with the steady stream of people. Halfway up the stairs, Tatian looked up and saw Barbedor fighting his way down toward them, the orange hair and beard conspicuous in the mostly Haran crowd.

  "Warreven! Raven, wait."

  "What is it?" Warreven asked, and stopped, bracing 3imself against the rail. Tatian stopped, too, and grunted as someone elbowed him; then the people behind him sorted themselves out and flowed past up the stairs.

  "Raven, it's Lammasin, I saw him--" Barbedor broke off on an intake of breath that was almost a sob.

  "Lammasin's dead," Warreven said, and took a deep breath.

  Tatian, pressed close to 3im by the crowd, felt the breath catch in 3er chest, then steady again with an effort.

  Barbedor nodded. "They found the body under the wall, I knew him by the chain he wears, the metal one."

  "How did he die?" Warreven's voice was still unnaturally calm.

  "In the fire, they say, but I'd stake my life he wasn't at the club, either one of them, last night." Barbedor's face twisted. "Lammasin is--was arrogant, but he wasn't stupid, he knew he was in trouble."

  Another elbow caught Tatian in the ribs, and he felt a brief, unfriendly pressure at the small of his back. "Warreven," he said. "Let's move."

  Warreven shook 3imself, nodded, and took a single step. Barbedor struggled for a moment to turn around, and then they were all moving with the crowd back up the stairs to Dock Row. There were too many people in the street to see what was happening in the fire site; an ambulance attendant stood by the closed rear compartment of þis machine, bored, mask hanging loose around þis neck, but that was all.

  "God and the spirits," Warreven said quietly. "You're sure it was Lammasin?"

  "The necklace," Barbedor began, and broke off, nodding. "I'm sure."

  "Right." Warreven looked at Tatian, managed a small, apologetic smile. "I'm sorry, Tatian, we won't be able to discuss our business after all. I'm going to be needed here, I think."

  "All I needed was to confirm our interest in your offer," Tatian said. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

  "I appreciate that," Warreven said, and looked toward the burned-out buildings. "I don't know what--wait, that woman the other night, your friend--"

  "Chavvin Annek," Tatian said. Oh, my God, he thought, she was a friend of Lammasin's. Somebody should tell her--I should tell her, warn her what's happened--

  "Was she close to Lammasin?" Warreven went on.

  "I don't know," Tatian said. "I think--she knew him well enough to go looking for him after the baanket." He took a deep breath, conscious again of the heavy smell of cold ash. "I can tell her, if you'd li
ke."

  "He had a wife and kids," Barbedor said.

  Tatian frowned, annoyed by the assumption of trade, and Warreven said, "Let me find out for certain what's happened, then I'll let you know. And, yes, if you'd tell her that would be help. I don't know who his off-world friends would have been."

  "I can talk to her," Tatian said again. "Warreven, I--I'm sorry."

  "Thanks." Warreven took another deep breath, and turned toward the ambulance. "I'll let you know what's happened," 3e said, over 3er shoulder, and disappeared into the crowd, Barbedor at 3er heels. Tatian stood for a moment, staring after them, then turned his back on the crowd, on the burned shells of the buildings, heading back toward Tredhard Street and the familiar confines of the Estrange.

  Vieuvant: (Hara) an "old soul," a man or woman who is recognized as a reliable and accurate conduit for the will of one or more of the spirits; some vieuvants speak only for one spirit, others for more than one.

  Warreven

  The memore for Lammasin was held in Haliday's flat, nearly forty people crowded into the four rooms and the open porch. The air was thick with the smoke of feelgood and powdered sundew and the sweat of too many people in too small a space. Warreven struggled into the main room to pay his respects, stopped in front of the memorial tablet to draw Agede's mark on his forehead with the ash that lay in the dish in front of the freshly painted tablet. Given the way Lammasin had died, the ash was a gruesome re- minder, and he wasn't surprised to see that the widow was sitting well away from the tablet, white mourning shaal--probably her bride-clothes reused--drawn over her head to shadow her face. Another woman stood at her side, one hand resting lightly, protectively, on her shoulder, while a child, also in white, sat cross-legged at her feet. He--she? the clothes and the thick chin-length hair could have belonged to either--sat hunched over, scowling as though daring anyone to comment on his reddened eyes. Warreven nodded to the guardian, but came no closer: he hadn't known Lammasin well, he was here more as Haliday's partner.