Shadow Man (Paragons of Queer Speculative Fiction)

by Scott, Melissa

  It was hot in the flat, despite the cooling system pushed to its highest setting, and voices rose and fell in argument in the back room. Warreven made a face, and worked his way back out onto the balcony. To his surprise, Mhyre Tatian was leaning against the corner railing, as far from the brazier and its smoldering braid of feelgood as he could get. Warreven glanced over his shoulder, looking for the off-world woman who had been Lammasin's friend, and, when he didn't see her, pushed through the crowd to join the off-worlder.

  Tatian nodded a greeting, both hands braced lightly against the wood of the rail. Despite the breeze, he was sweating; Warreven could see the lights of the spinny yard beyond him, their output almost tangible in the heavy air.

  "I didn't expect to see you here," he said.

  "I came with Annek," Tatian answered, and for an instant, Warreven thought he heard impatience in the other man's voice. Then it was gone, and the off-worlder went on, "She didn't want to come alone, given the trouble recently."

  "The ghost ranas won't touch off-worlders," Warreven answered, and then sighed. "Or at least they haven't yet. She's probably smart, at that."

  "How are things?" Tatian asked. "Have they got any leads?"

  Warreven glanced over his shoulder again, making sure none of the dead man's kin were in earshot. "They don't even know for sure how he died. The mosstaas say he was caught in the fire, but no one who was at either club says they saw him there. It's a mess."

  Tatian nodded. "A lot of our people--off-worlders in general, I mean, not NAPD--are worried. Having protests at the harbor every day hasn't helped."

  Warreven leaned on the balcony beside him, looking down into the spinny yard. The land-spiders hopped and scuttled in the lamp-light, casting a web of shadows; on the wall above the pens, newly reeled silk hung to dry, heavy and unmoving in the light wind. A door banged, and one of the boys from the spinny came down the steps into the yard, began dividing them by size and weight into the appropriate feeding pens. His soft voice blended with their trilling purrs as he cooed and called them by their names, oblivious to the people on the balcony next door. Warreven took a deep breath as the breeze surrounded him with smoke, tasting its musk on the back of his tongue, and looked out over the harbor. The light at the tip of the market mole flashed twice and was echoed by the South Harbor Light on the horizon; he knew that the Blind Point Light would follow, a short flash and then a long beam sweeping across the seaward horizon, but that light was behind them. He heard Tatian cough and shift, moving out of the smoke that was already drifting away again, and turned back to face him.

  "Like I said, those ranas aren't supposed to do more than make fun, and the ghost ranas have never attacked off-worlders. You should be all right."

  "Mm." Tatian did not sound particularly convinced, and Warreven had to admit that he could understand the other man's uncertainty. Tendlathe's supporters had been increasingly vocal over the last few days--he had seen one of their ranas near the Souk, red and white ribbons weighted with the Captain's anchor, singing against the odd-bodied. Another had gone through the market by the Blue Watch House, overturning the women's makeshift stalls, and the mosstaas had done nothing. Folhare said their own ranas would dance there, try to protect them, but their presence wouldn't do much for sales.

  "I don't suppose the mosstaas will make any effort to suppress them."

  "The Most Important Man didn't like Lammasin's performance, did he?" Warreven answered. "I can't imagine he's grieving much--or going to put his weight behind any investigation. And of course Tendlathe has a lot of influence with the mosstaas."

  "That's a really stupid statement," Haliday said. "And I'd appreciate you not making it in my house."

  Warreven looked over his shoulder to see Haliday standing against the nearest pillar. Ȝe was scowling, and Warreven sighed. "Sorry, Hal, you're right."

  "Show some sense for once," Haliday went on, and jammed 3er hands into the pockets of 3er trousers. "Anyway, you're wanted, coy. The Most Important Man would like to talk to you--nicely phrased, he just wants to talk, but he took the trouble to track you down here."

  "Who was it who called?" Warreven asked. If it was one of Temelathe's functionaries, he might be able to get out of the meeting, arrange to do it later--

  Haliday shook 3er head, as though 3e'd read the thought. "Not one of the secretaries. A woman, I think, might have been Aldess, but I couldn't be sure." Ȝe paused. "It probably wasn't Aldess, I think she'd still speak to me. If she recognized my voice, of course."

  Warreven nodded, already wondering if he could get a rover. With the ghost ranas active again, he would rather not walk to and from the trolley stations. Haliday smiled again.

  "And I called the service. No cars available tonight."

  "Damn." Warreven looked back toward the harbor. The light was fading fast now, the rising moon barely more than a hazy patch of silver, its shape diffused and distorted by the layers of cloud. The streetlights beyond the next line of houses seemed unusually dim, muted by the weight of the evening air.

  "I can give you a ride there," Tatian offered. "You'll have to find your own way back, though."

  "Thanks," Warreven said. Temelathe would probably offer him a ride home, or, at worst, he should be able to find a rover.

  He followed Tatian down the long stairs to the street, passing still more people coming to pay their respects, and was glad to see that the jigg waiting under the streetlight did not have pharmaceutical markings.

  "The security's on," Tatian said, and Warreven froze without touching the fibreplast body. He could feel the field's edge only a few centimeters away, lifting the hairs on his arms. "Okay, you're clear."

  The field vanished in the same instant, and Warreven gingerly opened the passenger door. He settled himself in the passenger seat and watched in fascination as displays sprang to life along the edge of the windscreen. Tatian glanced at them casually and kicked the engine to life.

  "What's the best way to get there?"

  "The easiest way is along Harborside," Warreven began, and Tatian laughed.

  "Under the circumstances, maybe there's another way?"

  Warreven paused, considering. He rarely had to find his way around in Bonemarche, relied always on the network of hired rovers and coupelets or on the trolleys and his own feet.... "Take a right at the end of the street," he said at last, "and follow that around onto Crossey."

  Tatian nodded, and put the jigg into gear. He was a good driver, Warreven realized, with some surprise--he had thought that was Reiss's job, to ferry the company's important people from place to place--and managed the narrow streets with ease. Even the pack of children playing in the circle of a houselight didn't seem to bother him. He sounded the whistle, but softly, more a warning than a demand, and kept the jigg moving at a steady, inexorable pace, so that even the oldest boys thought twice about playing chicken. Only when they were past did he look into the mirror, face thoughtful, and Warreven cocked his head to one side, watching him curiously.

  "Problem?" he said, after a moment, and Tatian shook himself.

  "No, not at all, just something I hadn't realized. There aren't that many kids in the Nest--the housing block where I live."

  It didn't seem that strange, and Warreven shrugged. "I wouldn't think you'd want to uproot your family for, what's the norm, a four-year contract?"

  "Maybe not," Tatian answered, and didn't sound convinced.

  "Usually there are more, that's all. At least there were on all the other planets."

  They crossed Tredhard Street just above Soushill Road--Warreven was careful to keep them away from that street, just in case the ghost ranas were active again--and the sound of drums was suddenly loud. Warreven looked toward the Harbor, felt his own pulse quicken, seeing Tatian's sudden frown, relaxed as he saw the people gathered in the circle of lights just inside the Market square. "It's all right," he said aloud, "it's just a regular rana."

  Tatian allowed himself a sigh of relief, and eased the jigg acr
oss the traffic. "How can one tell?"

  Warreven looked back, seeing the drummers facing each other, lifted above the group around them by a makeshift platform, a sheet of fibreplast balanced on fuel cells, and the dancers with their clusters and knots of multicolored ribbon. "Ranas--real ranas--will always have drums or a singer, that's what makes them legitimate, not political."

  "Not political?" Tatian said, in spite of himself, and Warreven grinned.

  "Political according to the law, anyway. The way things have always been done, political gatherings can be suppressed--that's supposed to be reserved to the mesnies--but political gets defined as 'getting together to talk about issues.' If you dance and sing-- particularly if you're clever--it can't be politics."

  "Oh, right," Tatian said. "Like having dinner regularly with the Most Important Man is neither politics nor business."

  Warreven laughed. "Exactly like. Turn left here."

  Tatian swung the jigg onto the broad street that ran parallel to Harborside. "I bet it works, though," he said, after a moment. "If you can't say anything directly, but have to make it a song--no, you make it a symbol, don't you? you have to talk in symbols--then you can't ever move from opposition into the system. At least not without losing the power you had before."

  Warreven looked sideways at him, not liking what he'd heard. The ranas had real power, effective power--the very existence of the ghost ranas proved that; they wouldn't take on the distorted image of true ranas if true ranas weren't real--But it was true that it was hard to go from protest to holding office in the clans and Watches: the Modernists had been trying for years and still didn't win the elections. Still, you won elections through compromise, through consensus, not debate, and the ranas, true ranas, were a powerful tool there. "You can tell real ranas by the ribbons, too," he said. "Ranas are supposed to wear lots of colors--all the colors of the spectrum, supposedly, it's to prove they're not political--and they usually use ribbons. These days, nobody wears black, either."

  "I'll remember that," Tatian said. "I can't say it was hard to recognize the ghost ranas when I saw them." He paused. "None of this is making me feel any too happy with our agreement, Warreven. Tendlathe's people are looking a lot more powerful than I thought."

  Warreven hesitated, debating a lie, then made a face. "More powerful than I'd thought, too. He's got more support among the mosstaas than I'd realized."

  "Not good."

  That was, Warreven admitted, an understatement. He slanted another glance at the off-worlder, the strong planes of his face briefly highlighted as they passed a door lamp. "Killing Lammasin--that's got to be too much, even for his people. And I--I don't intend to be driven off, yet."

  Tatian nodded. "I figured. This is personal, right?"

  Warreven blinked, startled, then shrugged. "In a way, certainly. But I'm not like Haliday. I--I'm sure you've heard the story, I could've married Tendlathe--"

  "Lucky you," Tatian said, under his breath, and Warreven grinned.

  "--but I didn't want to change gender. I'm perfectly happy as a man."

  "But--" Tatian broke off, shaking his head.

  But you're not a man. The words seemed to hang between them, and Warreven sighed. He had forgotten, for a moment, that he was talking to an off-worlder, who couldn't see beyond the physical body. "Legally and by choice, I am. That's what matters."

  "I know." Tatian took his eyes off the road long enough to offer an apologetic grimace. "I do know. I'm sorry."

  Warreven nodded. "But you're right, the situation's more complicated than I thought. I'll be very interested in what Temelathe has to say to me."

  "So would I be," Tatian said. "If you can tell me."

  "I'll do what I can," Warreven answered.

  They reached the Stane compound at last, and without being asked Tatian pulled up well outside the light from the gate. "I doubt it would do you any good to be seen with me, just at the moment," he said, and Warreven nodded.

  "Probably not. I appreciate the ride, very much."

  "Not a problem," Tatian said, and shrugged. "I'm sorry I can't stay. Do you want me to try to come back for you?"

  Warreven shook his head, but he was obscurely pleased by the offer. "No, but thanks. I can get a ride from here." He climbed out of the jigg before he could change his mind and stood for a moment leaning in the open door. "Be careful."

  Tatian nodded. "You, too."

  Warreven straightened, letting the door fall closed again be- hind him, and started toward the compound gate. He heard the whine of the engine as the jigg pulled away, but did not look back. There were four mosstaas guarding the gate, not the usual two--at least one of them armed, pellet gun and ironwood truncheon-- and Warreven was careful to move slowly as he came into the light.

  "I'm here to see Mir Temelathe," he said. "My name's Warreven."

  The leader of the mosstaas looked less than pleased, and Warreven resigned himself to the tedious ritual of identifying himself to their satisfaction. They let him through after a dozen questions and two calls to the house while he stood under the lights for the imported security cameras, and Warreven walked up the long curve of the drive, deliberately slow to give himself time to control his temper.

  The housekeeper, the same woman Warreven had seen the last time, was waiting again on the steps, but this time Aldess Donavie was waiting with her. She looked completely recovered, very elegant in the off-world style that was just becoming fashionable in the Stanelands mesnies, narrow trousers and vest under a heavily beaded shaal-cont. It looked like one of Folhare's designs, Warreven thought, irrelevantly, and the housekeeper stepped back to hold the door open. Aldess came to meet him, holding out both hands. She knew her status--Tendlathe's wife, Temelathe's daughter-in-law, and blood daughter of Bradfot Donavie, the richest man on the Westland--and knew, too, that it would be acknowledged.

  "Raven. It was good to see you at the reinstatement. I appreciated your coming."

  Warreven took her hands, aware of metal rings, a broad metal bracelet, bigger and heavier than his own, and they mimed a kiss. "Not at all. I was sorry to hear of your loss."

  Aldess waved that away. "I wish we'd seen you the other night. I know Tendlathe was disappointed."

  I bet, Warreven thought. In the hallway lights, her coat glowed the deep blood scarlet of ruby melons, its subtle woven floral outlined in glittering flecks of red glass. Not Folhare's work--she was never so restrained in her designs, and besides, Aldess would never buy from her--but probably much more expensive. He said, "I was on business, and I didn't want to interrupt the party."

  "You should have done," Aldess said. "We would have been glad to see you, and I know Tendlathe would like to congratulate you on becoming seraaliste. You must be very proud."

  "I'm--enjoying the work," Warreven said, with perfect truth. He didn't trust Aldess, anymore than he trusted any Stane, and he was doubly wary when she was sent to meet him, doing what was properly a servant's job. Temelathe wanted something badly, to offer such an acknowledgment of status.

  Aldess smiled, showing perfect teeth. Once, Warreven remembered, the front teeth had had a fractional gap between them; it had vanished within a year of her marriage. She tapped gently on the door of Temelathe's study, pushed it open without waiting for a response. "Warreven, father," she said, and Warreven walked past her into the little room.

  Temelathe was sitting in his chair beside the stove, feet resting on a low stool of carved ironwood. The designs were worn away in places, the rounded shapes blurred, and Warreven wondered just how old the piece was. Ironwood was almost as hard as its namesake; it would have taken generations of use to blunt its glossy finish. The air smelled of donnetoil, and looking closer, he could see the rough-cast bowl resting in the chamber of the stove, piled embers showing gray and orange. There was a wheel of milkcheese on the table, the hard brick-brown sailors' version, and a basket of flat sailors' bread, too: all the trappings of a casual visit, Warreven thought, but none of the reality.


  "My father," he said, and knew he sounded as wary as he felt.

  Temelathe waved toward the guest's chair. "Sit. No, wait, throw some more donnetoil on the fire. This is almost gone."

  The basket was sitting on top of the stove. Warreven filled the shallow scoop with the coarse, red-black grains--they were about the size of sea salt, the freshly dried kind that the old people preferred, before the mills had crushed it--then opened the stove door and sprinkled them cautiously over the embers. The first few flashed like lightning as they hit the coals, and then the rest stabilized, sending a fresh cloud of smoke into the room. Warreven inhaled its fragrance--sharp and almost oily, the various seeds and leaves that went into the compound blending into a bitter, complicated smoke, dominated by the chimetree resin--and turned back to the guest chair without taking any more. Temelathe watched him morosely, and Warreven could see that the smoke subtly reddened his eyes. How long have you been sitting here, my father, with only the stove for company? he wondered, but that was not the sort of question one could ask Temelathe. He said, "You asked to see me, and I'm here."

  Temelathe nodded. "Which is something, I suppose. You're making my life very difficult, my son, I hope you know that."

  Warreven said nothing. This was not what he'd expected when he'd received this summons, and he didn't know how to handle Temelathe in this mood.

  "You're very good," Temelathe said, after a moment. "I'm almost sorry I ever encouraged you to take up the law."

  He had used the Creole term, not the traditional word that meant both Haran statute law and the web of custom that gave it context. Warreven said, "Yes, I'm good at it. I warned you, my father."