Shadow Man (Paragons of Queer Speculative Fiction)

by Scott, Melissa

  Tatian grunted something, said, more clearly, "I could make life extremely difficult for NAPD. They'll have other contracts, you know, and not just with Stiller."

  "We've--discussed--this before," Warreven said. Though not so openly--what in all hells is he up to? "The Big Six make all their contracts this way, favors done here and there, and they wouldn't thank you for throwing their usual methods into question."

  "So you bring the whole question of trade into the courts," Temelathe said, "and you and your partners can posture to your hearts' content, and all the while we--my people, your people, the odd-bodied are my responsibility, too--lose their one decent source of income."

  "Decent?" Warreven laughed.

  "Are you ashamed of what you did, my son?" Temelathe asked.

  His voice was deceptively mild, and he was not, Warreven thought, as drunk as he'd appeared. "No," he said, "of course not."

  Temelathe tilted his head in unspoken question, and Warreven shook his head, managed a smile that was genuinely amused. "No, you won't bait me, my father. I didn't particularly enjoy it--I wasn't even particularly good at it--but, no, I'm not ashamed."

  "Then why do you want to close down the trade? It's a safe space--this is a delicate balance, my son, the Six and I and IDCA and the Watch Council and now Tendlathe and his people. If trade ends, your kind will have no place left to go, and if you and Haliday keep pushing, I'm going to have to give you an answer, and there aren't any good ones. If I say yes, we'll follow the Concord, follow their laws, then IDCA will step in to regulate prostitution, and people like you, my son, will be whores all their lives. The mesnies will drop you from the rolls, the clans will pretend you don't exist, and you certainly would be neither seraaliste nor advocate. If I say no, we stand by our laws and custom, then Tendlathe wins. I have to close the dance houses and the wrangwys bars and he and his have an excuse to go hunting you out. If I ignore the whole issue--if you and Haliday and the rest of you let me ignore it--then you all stay safe."

  Warreven stared at him, knowing that everything he said was true, and not nearly enough of the truth. "The fact is, the odd-bodied exist. Sooner or later, my father, we--you, the Watch Council, the mesnies, even Tendlathe--are going to have to admit it. Better now, when you're running things, than when Ten takes over. We need names of our own."

  "If you meant that, my son," Temelathe said, "you'd call yourself a herm, 3e, 3im--like Haliday."

  That stung, especially since Tatian had said very nearly the same thing. Warreven said, "I call myself a man because you only allow two choices, and this was the closest fit. I call myself a man because I'm better at that than at being a woman--and certainly better at that than being Ten's wife." He stopped abruptly, tipped his head to one side in sudden question. "I've played by your rules, my father. I made my choice, I lived with it, but it won't ever be good enough, will it? I'm only a man as long as it's convenient for you."

  Temelathe smiled, but said nothing.

  "And if the bars are safe," Warreven went on, "how did Lammasin die, my father?" He touched the mark on his forehead. "I came from his memore."

  Temelathe's smile vanished. "That was none of my doing, Warreven, I give you my word on that." Warreven said nothing, and the older man sighed. "The trouble with you, my son, is that you've always been able to figure out just about anything, but you've never had a grain of common sense with it. I've no use for those people myself. I wanted Lammasin out of work for a few months, not dead. Not a martyr. But now that they've tasted blood, it's going to be harder to keep them in line."

  "In Bonemarche, they say that someone in the White Stane House paid off the mosstaas not to find the killers," Warreven said. Which leaves Tendlathe, if it isn't you. He left the words unsaid--he didn't need to say them; Temelathe would know as well as he what was meant--and Temelathe leaned back in his chair.

  "Tendlathe and his friends are frightened. They don't like change, my son."

  Which was as close to an admission as he was likely to get. Warreven took a deep breath, inhaling the smoke from the brazier, and felt the first familiar touch of the drug's lassitude. Donnetoil had been a good choice, better than feelgood or dreamsafe; it relaxed without offering visions, made one less cautious, and less argumentative, too. He thought Temelathe was telling the truth, at least about Lammasin's death, stared at the glowing embers in the center of the stove. He said at last, "I know what I should say, that I'm not afraid of the ghost ranas, but I'm not that stupid. And I know Tendlathe's temper hasn't gotten any better. But people are angry. Lammasin was a good man."

  "I know that," Temelathe answered, and visibly bit back something more. After a moment, he said, "I'm not happy with this contract, my son. Not at the price you're getting for it. I can't afford it. I'm not going to make it easy for you."

  "I didn't expect you would," Warreven said. "With your permission, my father?"

  Temelathe waved a hand. "Put another scoop on the fire, my son, as a favor, and you're free to go."

  Warreven did as the older man asked, ladling out another measure of the donnetoil and pouring it carefully onto the embers. Smoke billowed out more vigorously this time; he left Temelathe sitting in its cloud and made his way back out into the hallway.

  It was quiet, quieter than he'd expected, no noises, none of the household faitous anywhere in sight, and he hesitated, startled by the silence. The air smelled of the night breeze, sea and salt and the night-blooming starshade; he looked around for the open window and instead saw the curtains that hid the garden doors moving in the fragrant air.

  "Raven?" Tendlathe pushed the curtain aside, stood framed in the doorway. "Aldess said you were here. I'm glad I caught you."

  Warreven hesitated again, searching hastily for an excuse--he was hardly in the mood for a conversation with Tendlathe--and the other managed a rueful smile.

  "Look, I'm sorry about last time. I got carried away--it's something I feel strongly about."

  "So do I," Warreven said. "I--feel strongly--about a lot of things, too."

  "I know." Tendlathe glanced over his shoulder. "I got your message, and--look, we can't talk here. Come out in the garden with me?"

  "Ten--" Warreven broke off, shaking his head. I don't want to talk to you because I think you caused a man's death, and I've just come from his memore: it was not a tactful comment, and at the best of times Tendlathe wasn't likely to respond well. And this was hardly the best of times.

  "It's important," Tendlathe said. "Please?"

  Warreven sighed. If Tendlathe was in a conciliatory mood-- and he had to be, or he wouldn't bother being polite--it was worth swallowing his own anger to meet him halfway. "All right," he said aloud, and Tendlathe held aside the curtain. Warreven stopped under the hanging fabric, the silk gauze just brushing his head, and only then thought to wonder at the gesture. It was courtesy, certainly, but from a man to a woman, not between two men. He was being oversensitive--not surprising, after the events of the evening, but hardly useful. He shook himself, walked on down the path that curved away from the house. The light dimmed a little as Tendlathe came to join him, letting the curtain fall back into place. The low hedge that separated the upper terrace from the flower walk below was wound with starshade, the white flowers, large as a man's hand, almost luminous in the darkness. Their scent was heavy in the air, the honeyed sweetness almost drowning the smell of the sea.

  "I know what you're thinking, Raven," Tendlathe said, "but I didn't do it."

  Warreven glanced back at him, eyebrows rising in unspoken question, and Tendlathe made a face.

  "I didn't kill Lammasin. I swear to you by the Captain, by the Watch and the clan, I didn't do it."

  "I never thought you did it," Warreven said, after a moment, and saw something, relief, maybe, or possibly contempt, start to cross the other's face. "I never thought you stabbed him, or knocked him over the head, we don't know which yet, and then set the fire. Not personally. But I do think you know who did it, and I think you're responsi
ble."

  "That's not fair."

  "Isn't it?" The light from the house was falling across Tendlathe's face, throwing half of it into shadow, striking a fugitive spark from the pin, anchor and flames, that closed his plain collar. Warreven watched him, an odd, clinical anger filling him. It was the same anger that sometimes consumed him in the courts, giving passion to his arguments, and he welcomed it, welcomed the power, the strength it brought him. "And would you swear to that, by the Captain, on Watch and clan, that you had no idea this would happen?"

  Tendlathe opened his mouth, closed it again, and said at last, "Someone overstepped himself."

  "What'd you have in mind, just beat him up, teach him a lesson?"

  "Not exactly." Tendlathe glared at him. "But people are angry, Raven, angry and scared, and you might've known some- thing like this would happen if you kept pushing things."

  "Me?"

  "You, Haliday, the rest of the Modernists."

  Warreven laughed.

  "God and the spirits!" Tendlathe reached out blindly, snatched a flower and a spray of leaves from the hedge, let them fall, crumpled, to the stones of the terrace.

  "Oh, that's very helpful," Warreven said. He didn't think to be afraid until he saw Tendlathe's fist rise. He ducked, the reflexes honed in a dozen bar fights taking over, caught the other's wrist, forcing his hand down. He could feel the bones shift under his fingers, saw Tendlathe flinch, rage vanishing as quickly as it had appeared, didn't release his grasp until he felt the tension disappear from the other's arm. Tendlathe jerked himself free, swearing, and they stood facing each other in the dark, each a mirror image of the other. They had fought like this once before, years ago, over the marriage. Warreven remembered with painful, physical clarity how it had ended, himself finally astride Tendlathe, pinning him down, one hand in the tangle of his hair. They had lain there for a long instant, anger warring with unexpected, unwelcome desire, and then Warreven had pulled free and stalked away. He had thought he had won, until he felt the next morning's bruises and started to face the consequences of his decision.

  He could see the same memory in Tendlathe's face, the color high on his cheeks, visible even in the dim light. Warreven took a deep breath, not wanting this to end the same way, and said flatly, "So what did you want, Tendlathe?"

  Tendlathe blinked, head lifting, a little movement, but it was as if he'd been slapped. Something, regret, shame, anger, was briefly visible in his face, and then it was gone, his expression con- trolled again, shuttered, all emotion suppressed. "I was going to offer you a deal. Drop this case--I don't want Father to bring in the off-worlders, let them get their hands in our government-- drop this case, and I'll see that those women of yours are left alone."

  "Women?" For a moment, Warreven didn't understand, then remembered the marketwomen outside the Blue Watch House. If the ghost ranas or even the mosstaas turned on them, they would have no way of defending themselves. Even if Folhare and Haliday had managed to talk their ranas, the Modernist ranas, into offering protection, it might not be enough, not against the ghost ranas-- And then they would have to wait for another case, another chance, to question Hara's laws, to bring them into line with the Concord--with reality--never mind what it would do to Destany and 'Aukai. "You bastard," he said, almost conversationally, and turned, and walked back up the path toward the house.

  "You'll regret this, Raven. I promise you."

  Warreven lifted a hand, jerked it upward, an ageless, universal gesture, but kept walking. He might have won--though, like the last time, he'd have to wait until morning to be sure--but he didn't like the potential cost.

  Wrangwys: (Hara) literally, "wrong way," generally used to refer to herms, mems, and fems, and anyone whose sexual preferences don't match the male/ female model; has been adopted by that group as a self-referential term, and is not insulting within the group.

  9

  Warreven

  The housekeeper was able to find a rover for hire--and a good thing, too, Warreven thought; he had no desire to see anything more of the Stanes--and he waited on the steps while the driver maneuvered the awkward vehicle up the long drive. The driver was stocky and good-looking, with a beardless face and a line like a scar at the corner of his mouth that deepened when he smiled. He held the door politely as Warreven climbed into the passenger compartment, then returned to his place behind the steering bar. He wasn't too proud to take the tip the housekeeper discreetly offered, palming the assignats with the ease of long practice. Or maybe e was a mem, Warreven thought suddenly, looking at the other's body, the straight, blocky lines, a solid cylinder from shoulders to hips. Certainly he was dressed as a man--almost aggressively so, if he was passing, trousers and tunic cut on exaggerated lines. But then, the odd-bodied had to pass, no matter what Temelathe said. Even Haliday passed at times, either as man or woman.

  The driver edged the rover through the compound gates, past the mosstaas--a different foursome--lounging against the columns. The driver kept his head down as they slid past, eyes fixed on the road; Warreven nodded and smiled, enjoying the play of status. Then the rover had turned down the first main street, and Warreven saw the driver's shoulders relax a little.

  "Where to now, mir?"

  Warreven sighed. Under other circumstances, he would head for Harborside, but tonight it seemed wiser to avoid the district. "Blind Point," he said. "Just north of the light--I'll direct you when we get there."

  The driver nodded. "No problem, mir."

  The rover turned again, onto the winding street that led down from Ferryhead to the edge of the Harbor. It was well lit, and lights showed in the upper windows and in the courtyard en- trances; there were people visible as well through those openings, men and women silhouetted against the lights. Things looked almost normal--but of course they would, in Ferryhead, Warreven thought. Ferryhead was where the Stanes--the White Stanes--and their allies lived, and all the rest of the clan officers who made their very good livings dealing with the off-worlders. Of course things would look--would be--normal: they paid the mosstaas very well to make sure it was true. Despite the almost reflexive bitterness of the thought, he was relaxing, the tension easing from his back and shoulders. There would be things he could do to counter Tendlathe, or, if he couldn't, Haliday or Folhare would know who could.

  Harborside itself seemed busier than ever, lights blazing on the docks, and on the bars and dance houses rising up the side of the hill. From this angle, the burned-out bars on Dock Row were invisible; there were just the lights, vivid and inviting. Even through the rover's filters, the air smelled hot, heavy with feelgood and a dozen other compounds, and the sound of drums came with them. Warreven sighed, and saw the driver glance up into his mirror. "Sure you don't want to stop, mir?"

  Warreven smiled, meeting the dark eyes. "All my--friends--are at sea. I'd hate to be alone."

  The driver shrugged, one-shouldered, still looking in the mirror. "That could be fixed pretty easily."

  "I appreciate that," Warreven said, and matched the faint, rueful smile he could see reflected. "But it was a hard meeting, I doubt I'd be good for much of anything."

  The driver shrugged again, both shoulders this time. "Blind Point, then, mir."

  They turned onto Tredhard Street, the rover's engine groaning as it matched the incline. Warreven looked back, to see the ranas still drumming on their makeshift stage. The listening crowd seemed larger, too, and the mosstaas were nowhere to be seen.

  "They've been at it all night," the driver volunteered.

  Warreven nodded again, settling himself against the padded seat. They had reached the intersection of Dock Row, and for a moment he imagined he could smell the ashes, the remains of the fire. The street's power hadn't been fully restored, either; there were gaps in the lines of light, and a number of the signs flickered and fizzed, throwing erratic shadows. The driver turned down the next street, heading north toward Blind Point, and Warreven was suddenly aware of gaps in the line of houselights, of glass
shattered in front of every other house.

  "What the hell--?" he began, and the shadows seemed abruptly thicker, shapes moving against the motion of the rover.

  "Shit," the driver said, and slammed the throttle forward. The engine snarled in protest, choking as the system tried to handle the rush of fuel, and then the ranas were all around them, tattered black robes dull in the uncertain light. One of them held a drum hoop--white as bone, white as fire, empty--while another held the white-painted frame for a ceramic gong. They stood frozen, a ring of white-faced, white-handed ghosts surrounding the rover, and then the drummer lifted a white-painted stick and began to mime a steady beat. One of the others swooped close and peered in the window by the driver's face. The one carrying the gong frame gestured as though to strike it, and the ranas froze again.

  A couple of them carried clubs held loose at their sides; at least two more carried the jointed lengths of ironwood that trail walkers used against unfriendly mountain spiders. They were blocking the street ahead of the rover; Warreven didn't dare move to look back, but guessed that there would be as many behind the car. Then the one carrying the gong frame struck again, and the drummer took up the beat. The rana closest to the rover leaned toward the passenger compartment, and Warreven met the white-masked stare. The eyeholes were covered with tinted glass; he caught only the faintest sense of movement, of the shift of human eyes behind the dark lenses.

  "Drive," he said, and leaned forward to punch the driver's shoulder.

  The driver shot him a frightened glance--there were ranas in front of the rover, and behind it, no place to go without running them over--and the rana pushed himself back from the rover's side, reaching for something he'd held concealed in his ragged robe. Warreven caught a single glimpse of the length of chain--metal chain, stolen surely from the starport, five eight-centimeter-long links of polished metal--and punched the driver's shoulder again.